Work Text:
You’ve been having this problem lately.
Staying up late had never been a big issue until the last week or so. You’re always sitting at your desk when it happens, not noticing the lines of text on your computer going out of focus until you’re already asleep.
It's getting annoying, really, and getting in the way of your work. Sure, lack of sleep is the cause, but the solution’s easier said than done, and–well.
You keep dreaming about him. When you wake up, it feels like his presence is beside you, its gravity pulling you in, before you remember you’re alone. The warmth in the air around your desk still lingers, almost calling you back to your memories. So close to hearing him sigh, disappointed in the position you’ve contorted yourself into, as you spend days at a time in the same chair. His eyes on the back of your neck before you open yours at dawn.
You stop typing, since you realize the words on the screen are now illegible. Maybe tonight will be more forgiving. You can just wait out the exhaustion.
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you just fell asleep at your desk again.
The dreams always start like waking up. It's what tricks you in the mornings, reality’s sunrise mimicking the warm orange that paints the pictures in your mind.
You’re sitting somewhere more comfortable than your chair; it’s supposed to be his house. His living room, maybe? Two kids are on the floor. They’re loud, but making too little noise for you to be worried about what game they could be playing. It’s hard to focus on anything else but the warm hand slipping under the edge of your shirt, making its way up your back. He smells like tobacco. You don’t remember when he left to smoke, but he’s back now, and his weight on the couch is forcing you to slide closer than you meant to be. Not as close as you wanted.
You say nothing.
“You’re always tense,” he sighs, and he’s always right. His hand moves further up, and you try not to flinch. You need it so much, but don’t give that away. Disgustingly obsessed.
This is when your eyes get heavy. You never find the right words to squeeze out in time.
You blink.
This time it’s your house, the rooftop. You offhandedly think about the sun setting early in Houston this time of year, if only to distract yourself from the man you’re watching from across the roof.
He’s sitting on the other side of the railing. You wish he wouldn’t do that.
The breeze blows his dark hair for a few seconds, and he turns against it. Just for a moment, you get to see a cheekbone and the corner of his mouth. You shiver, not from the cold. The appeal of cigarettes has never been clearer.
You watch him reposition on the ledge, stretching out to take up space. You want nothing more than to be between his thighs, and it hurts. You don’t say anything. You wonder when the sun will finish setting.
Then you wonder if he’d consider letting you between his legs. What he would say if you asked.
You realize he’s been talking to you over the sounds of the city and the breeze. You say you weren’t listening, and he scoffs. You realize you’re taking steps across the roof; it’s all quiet compared to the sound of his voice.
You’re about halfway across when you feel heavy, then the ground comes up to meet you.
You blink.
You know this is the last scene for tonight since it’s so much softer than the others.
He’s in bed with you–or maybe you with him–, somewhere.
Your nails dig into his back, pulling your bodies together. His skin is so warm you want to climb inside of it. You can’t, but he holds you close enough that the thought quiets.
He says something about breakfast. You don’t say anything, and he runs a hand through your hair. It’s unusually the dirtiest part of you right now. He doesn’t care. He never does, just keeps asking you sweet questions you won’t answer since you don’t have the words to.
You remember having sex with him. Remember how he cleaned you off after. How the most nerve-racking experience about fucking your obsession was how gently he put you into bed after.
The mattress shifts as he sits up. A “Dirk,” gets mumbled into your skin, paired with another warm hand on your back. You stir slightly as a response.
“Are you feeling hungry yet? You must be.”
The question seems mundane. You are, but not in the way he meant. Either way, you must have responded, since he’s standing to leave. He’s leaving because of something you said.
That hurts, but you don’t give it away. You're tired and ready to let this scene go.
You blink.
You weren’t looking when he leaned over you until he pressed his lips to yours. You’re getting what you wanted.
In your room this time, he guides you down to kneel awkwardly with your back to your desk. He’s sitting in your chair this time. You don’t remember having this dream before, but you’re only half asleep. You don’t want to wake up for once.
You have your hands on his thighs, and he can probably feel you shake because he laughs and looks down at you with those clear blue eyes.
This feels realer than anything. Try to keep your breathing even.
You’re practically huffing his crotch through his black slacks, and you can feel the approval rolling off of him. It’s hard to dull this obsession; it’s easier to both pretend it goes unnoticed.
In exchange, he doesn’t pretend that the way you whine when he pulls your head down by your hair is remotely quiet.
By the end, your shorts are soaked through, and he’s still dressed, well put together, perfect. Try to catch your breath as he forces you up again.
The kiss between you and him is hungry, and you are finally getting what you wanted.
You try not to feel embarrassed when he checks in with you after, since he asked you not to be. He’s talking, probably about sex and feelings you don’t understand. You don’t understand why he gets so emotional sometimes. You’re not listening, again. It feels like you never are.
“Diederick,” and suddenly he has your attention again. “Falling asleep on me?”
You open your eyes.
It’s cold, and this stupid chair hurts your back.
Your cursor blinks at you accusingly.