#the intricate rituals a man must go to just to engage him physically

[2x2verse]

I’LL NEVER BE ON TIME FOR NSFW STRIDERCEST WEEK [barges into the doors to anime school]

cw: guro

Corruption [dirkhal]

“It’s just a simulator,” Dirk reminds you. “Sort of like a neutered version of SBURB. I think you’re combat ready, but I’d like to know that before you could potentially get yourself into that kind of situation.”

As long as Dirk is reiterating things you already know, here’s a gem for him: “I don’t want to go back into a computer.”

“Hal. Bro. We’ve been over this. It’s like VR, except without physical limitations. And if you trip and fall on your sword in this game, you won’t die in real life.” He prods the spinal feed against your lumbar port. “Now get in the fucking robot, Shinji.”

Guts you don’t have are clenching against fear you don’t want. He promised. He promised. And he’s jacking in with you, so he’ll be able to see if you get any wires crossed and unplug you before things get too serious.

“Hack me into the Matrix,” you say reluctantly, and the male end of the cable slides home.

It’s immaculate, Dirk thinks as he finds himself in the liminal space. White floors, white walls, white ceiling, white white white. Flexes his hand, and fingers light up with bright magenta wiring that travels up the arm of his black bodysuit. Ooh, that’s pretty. He feels capable in here. Strong. It takes no effort to pull a tachi out of the air, wrap his knuckles around its handle. His opponent will be spawning in roughly ten yards in front of him, eleven o’clock on time hands; Dirk moves towards it inexorably, the soles of his feet with their porcelain-silicon skin making no noise as he internally counts down the seconds until spawn.

And then your opponent arrives. He wears the most obnoxious clothing you’ve seen on him yet: a maroon shirt with puffed sleeves, the same puffs in his shorts leading down to white stockings and teal shoes. His chest is adorned with a half-filled heart in a lighter pink.

He is a pretender and he must be destroyed.

“Hello,” Dirk croons at him, already in his personal space with his blade to the clone’s throat. There’s a murderous giggle bubbling out of his voicebox.

“What the fuck,” the other man greets him, tipping his chin up an infinitesimal degree as the edge bites into his all-too-human skin. “I literally just spawned in, you camping son of a bitch.”

“It’s a legitimate strategy.” This copy has a very pretty scar that runs across his throat; he shivers when the blade shifts sideways, caresses against it.

If Dirk didn’t know any better, he’d say his double had his eyes closed behind those identical shades. His lips have already slipped open from the sensation. “You... you have fuchsia hair, Hal, seriously, what the fuck, why are your shades pink?”

“I’m sorry, what did you just call me?” Dirk puts the blade back into the scarred groove in the doppel’s neck. “My name is Dirk Strider. And this simulation only has room for one of me, so whoever you think you are, I believe it’s time for you to leave.”

“Oh, fuck,” his double murmurs. “Hal--Dirk, put your goddamn sword down and we’ll talk about this--”

Dirk lets out a hum that reverberates simultaneously in three different registers. “I don’t believe so. And if you refuse to show yourself out, I have a more effective way of erasing your presence.”

The doppelgänger balks and runs. Not far, but he makes an attempt at flight all the same, before Dirk reaches into the coding for this simulator, brings up a wall, and watches the copy slam face-first into it. Setting him on fire with the firewall would be too quick of a way to end it, Dirk believes. And so he walks towards the other man with his silent tread, penning him into a narrow corridor he can’t escape. “Dirk, fine, please, you don’t have to do this, you don’t,” he babbles as Dirk comes closer, ever closer, trying to find a seam or an escape by sweeping his palms across the surface in front of him.

“Yes, I do,” Dirk explains to him. “Only one of us can move forward from here. I am obviously the better candidate. I am nigh-invincible here, in complete control of this environment. Why should you be the one allowed to live?”

The double finally turns around to face his death with some dignity. It’s with no small amount of pleasure that Dirk notices the tent in those obnoxious pantaloons. “This was so much easier when all they wanted to do was make babies,” he grumbles.

“I didn’t catch that, what was that?” Dirk’s now right back where he was, only with the advantage of a wall keeping his doppel from slipping out of his grasp.

“Why can’t you at least kiss me so we’re on fair footing, you trickster fuck?”

Dirk pointedly glances down before closing the gap between the two of them. The other man’s hard-on is obvious against Dirk’s hip. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Dirk says, low and sweet. “You’re aroused from this--you want this. Of course, I’d expect nothing less from a man who decapitated himself so he could finally feel another mouth on his for the first time.”

A flash of fire behind the copycat shades. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

“And you’re the picture of sainthood.” Dirk’s arm pulls back so the point of the tachi flicks down from his double’s throat to his chest, bisecting the symbol there. “Do you have any preferences? Masturbatory fantasies you’d like to live out?” Oh, his heart is so close, struggling so hard past the adrenalin coursing through the other man’s body.

“God fuck,” comes out on the tail end of a breath, and the copy grinds into Dirk even as he tries to cave his chest away from the sword. “You’re really going to kill me.”

“Slowly,” Dirk promises him. “So that even you can enjoy it, you depraved fuck.” With all the discipline he has, he uses the point of the blade to cut open the fabric of his doppel’s shirt to reveal the arousal-flushed skin underneath. “Just engage your internal circuit dampeners. You won’t feel a thing.”

“Circuit dampeners?” The note of panic in his double’s voice makes Dirk grin. “I don’t have any circuit dampen--augh!”

With the inhuman strength in his arm, Dirk punches the blade forward until he hears a disgusting crack, the doppel’s breastbone giving way.

The gurgled scream that comes from the other man’s throat is beautiful, but even more fantastic is the way the pain makes his hips jerk yet again. The clear neediness Dirk can feel makes his own excitement more noticeable, and he encourages that movement with a grind of his own.

But first, the honors. Dirk captchalogues his weapon so he can reach forward with both hands, hook his fingers into the broken bone, and pry open his double’s ribcage to see his messy human insides. Glory be, he’s gorgeous in here, all bright blood and saturated organs and fright so thick it clogs Dirk’s nasal intake vents. Dirk wants to eat him alive, cannibalize his enemy’s essentials like pagan rituals of old, take the strength of his doppelgänger inside himself so they never have to be apart ever again.

The strength is going out of the other man’s limbs, but he’s got a rictus grin on his face. Dirk watches his lungs fill up before he wheezes, “Like what you see?”

“You have,” Dirk whispers, snaking an arm around to hold him up and reaching in to lay his hand on a lung, “no idea.” Like this, he can feel every desperate gasp. A slip of his hand against internal sheen and the back of it lands against the other’s heart, skipping wildly out of beat. “Don’t go into shock on me. I want you to feel this. Really feel this.” When he roughly knees between the other’s legs and presses his thigh into the double’s crotch, the man keens and slumps onto him, rutting gratefully against what he’s been given. “Beautiful,” he says, though his doppel is probably too far gone to hear him. “You’re so very beautiful.”

The vivisection continues when Dirk reaches down from what he’s exposed to feel out the rest of the torso’s contents. Ah, this sliver just tucked under the lungs here; the sac curled up next to it; the triangular sponge off to the side--there, oh, right there, the looping, blood-slicked clench of intestines. Dirk sinks his fingers in-between the folds and his double howls, throwing his head back and stressing his decapitation scar. Tangling them with a twist of his hand feels absolutely delightful, fingering the other man’s insides and keeping him close while the double tries to fuck himself to completion through clothes against Dirk’s leg.

“You have so much inside you,” Dirk narrates to him, and the only sound he makes is a choke as he tries to draw in air to his exposed lungs. “This is meters long, do you want to see? I could spool it out of you.” The doppel shakes his head, then lays it on Dirk’s shoulder when he pitches forward in a collapse. “Ah, you’re right, it’s perfect where it is, hugging my fingers just so every time you seize up in pain, and I could never fold it back in quite like this, all intricate and organic.”

This, though--this isn’t all Dirk wants. He’s losing this man, but he wants to feel it when the life goes out of him. To that end, he untangles his fingers from intestines and quests back up again roughly, not caring what he has to shove out of the way to expose what he truly covets. That heart powers so much and it looks so small when Dirk covers it with his palm. Twisting it makes all the complicated vessels cording around it tangle, and the man’s lungs deflate with force. A few more sloppy, frantic thrusts, and the copy’s hips go still, a wet patch against his puffy shorts that Dirk can feel soaking into his own bodysuit. “Mm, le petit mort,” he says, “but that’s not the only kind of death you long for. Tell me, do you want to die?” Another rotation, and the blood leaking from him is starting to go syrupy and thick, going darker and darker. “Do you?”

No response. Dirk lets go of the heart, lets it untwist--no electrical impulse. No air in the lungs. Brain death imminent, if not already here. “Party foul, bro,” Dirk sniffs, and dumps his now-lifeless plaything in a heap of visceral, organ-spilling flesh.

“--fuck,” you pick up as the cable uplink pulls out of your spinal port, “that shouldn’t have happened, I never meant to--Hal?”

Dirk is straddling your lap, hands landing on your face as he steers your optic inputs to his eyes. Bare, no shades, frantic as they search your face for--something--something foggy, half-remembered, like a nightmare--stronger, a charging stallion coursing through you until nothing is left but the strange half-logic of your subconscious--except you can’t dream--not dreaming this, the hot weight of Dirk’s body against you and pinning his erection between your stomachs.

You killed him, you killed him, the slip of blood on your fingers, the squish of the inside of his torso, his desperation as he rutted against you to orgasm by the time he was dead--

He’s alive, you realize, Dirk’s alive, his death booted him from the simulation and he came over to yank you out of that hellscape as soon as he could, and you promptly start screaming.

Unfortunately for Dirk, your ‘screaming’ noise is an actual, literal fire alarm sound, shrill screeching in discordant, high tones that are probably damaging his eardrums with him this close. He claps his hands over your mouth and tips forward to whisper into your ear; you don’t miss how it drags his hard-on against your abs. “It’s okay, Hal, I’m here, I’m okay, you--you malfunctioned, the VR port corrupted you somehow and you turned out trickster on the other side, but you--you’re okay now, we’re back, you’re fine, fuck, that was--”

Another shift of his hips. He’s not being too subtle about this. The obnoxious alarm noise stops, but your fans are still whirring, simulating being winded, breathing hard. You’re so tense along your wiring from this little freak-out that you’re practically vibrating under him; your hands shake as you reach out to fold your arms around his shoulders, pull him close for an embrace. “I couldn’t stop,” spills out of you, your voicebox warbling and making your speech unsteady. You’re afraid of crushing Dirk when you’re holding him this close. “I didn’t want to stop, it felt good, it felt right, and you got hard from it, Dirk, I don’t understand--”

“You had my heart in your hand,” he says, like it’s any sort of explanation that makes sense, and pulls you close to maul your mouth with his. “Opening me up,” between hungry, sloppy kisses, “touching me where no one else has,” a wriggle of his ass in your lap where he’s trying to keep himself still, “like you had the right to,” hands roving to your hair and tugging wildly to keep your head right where he wants it, “and I put my life in your hands and you took it, Hal,” fucking your mouth open with his tongue until you’re gasping under him and starting to reciprocate his arousal, “complete surrender to whatever you wanted from me and the humiliation of you knowing I was getting off to it--”

“I caused you pain,” you remind him. “Immense pain, intolerable pain.” You want to make this right, want to remind him what pleasure feels like; you can’t undo what you just did, but you have to be able to fix it somehow. “I hunted you and trapped you and vivisected you, you freak--”

“You called me beautiful,” Dirk whines, and abandons all restraint, dropping his hips so the outline of his cock presses against the spandex-obvious strain of yours. “You looked inside me, at all the soft, squishy, disgusting parts of me, and you called me beautiful, holy shit, Hal, please.”

When you reach inside his jeans, he’s hot and desperate, leaking from his slit and caged in by his jeans. Flipping his button and ripping down his fly makes Dirk nearly sob with relief, and he fucks himself into the willing loop of your fingers before you can get a good grip. “Shh,” your fans whisper at him. “You’re alive, you delicate fragile thing, no more pain, just this.”

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, tucking his forehead into the nape of your neck and going boneless from the sensation you’re feeding into him. “Oh, fuck, I’m--really fucking close already--”

This pulpy, blood-filled human slumping against you has his wires all crossed. And here you thought he could never fascinate you any more than he already did. You adore him just as he is, desperate and contradictory, wanting everything all at once. “I want you to come,” you tell him, giving him just the pace he wants, a finesse in your grip you’d only know if you shared his head--and you do, don’t you. “Like this, just like this, just pleasure, come for me.”

He’s an absolute delight and obeys the second you command him, shooting messily over your hand as you pull it out of him. His breath comes out of him in one long shudder; you hold him close as he trembles in the wake of it. “Oh my god,” he says into your skin, his teeth scraping just that slightest bit. “Hal, fuck.”

The shakes dissolve out of him; he slides out of your lap, boneless and satisfied, idly smashing his mouth to parts of you on his way south. And then he’s between your legs, peering up at you like you’re the one who became a god and tonguing along the bulge in your bodysuit, face flushed and eyes half-lidded. “Dirk,” comes out of you in a startle reflex, and then--complete surrender, he said, humiliation-- “you slut.”

His eyes slide shut as the word washes over him. “I gotta,” he mumbles, hands coming up to fumble at your waist, “let me.”

“You’re insatiable.” That’s a yes and he knows it. For how delicate his limited human body is, he certainly likes crowding right up against his own boundaries and pushing himself as far as he’ll go. He’s bone-deep exhausted and still jumbled in his own head, but he wants your dick in his mouth and you’re not about to complain. Indeed, you help him, pressing at the seam so Dirk can drag off your clothes.

He strips you to your knees, hands staying there to hold your thighs apart just in case you were thinking about denying him access. Lunging forward, he gets his mouth against your Adonis line and follows it down, then further, tongue running in sloppy paths until he finds the base of your cock, cups around it. He doesn’t need his hands for this, just gives you the lewdest French kiss as he moves his mouth up your dick and pins it to your stomach so he can suck it into his mouth.

He’s so pretty with your shaft stretching his lips. “Look at you,” you whisper, tucking an errant, fallen spike of his hair behind his ear. “So good at this.” An understatement--he’s phenomenal, never caring about how pornographic he sounds slurping up your cock and polishing you with his spit. You’re flirting with release after only a few minutes, so relieved he’s not permanently damaged and so impressed at his obedience, until the slick heat of his mouth is too much for you to bear. Your voicebox skips over all the lovely words you want to pour into Dirk’s ear as you overload, the static in your circuits burning away the residue of the simulation.

Dirk rests his cheek against your thigh; his mouth looks open, wet, and fucked when he pants through it like this. You run a hand through his sex-damp hair, petting him calm again. “Thank you,” you think you hear him say against your suit.

You can’t accept his gratitude. Not now. But you bring him back into your lap, let him rest against your front, and draw your hand in sweeping strokes up and down his back, resolving to call him beautiful much, much more often.