Wuzzafuzzle's Muse Box

It's been a long time since Jack's woken up with a body curled around him. Longer still that his immediate reaction wasn't to fling their limbs off of him and take his leave, letting his guards handle showing whoever it was the way out. There's nothing like that here, no posh flat, or government functions waiting for him, or bodyguards looming downstairs. It's just Jack, lounged easily in his bunk with the soundproof curtain still pulled, and the slim body of Dirk Strider half overlapping his, head tucked into Jack's shoulder and hand resting limbly across Jack's torso. Jack's arm is slung lazily around his back, just below his shoulder, and he can feel the warm puffs of air drifting across his collar bones as the teenager breathes out.

He remembers with perfect clarity what they'd done just a few hours earlier. It's likely not even 50:00 yet, but with bodies adapted to 24 hour days living in 72 hour days you end up with a lot of naps. Post-coital ones included, and Jack's intimately aware of how bare they are beneath the sheet when Dirk's leg shifts, brushing the inside of Jack's, Dirk's hips shifting against his as he adjusts and drifts soundly off again. It had been good. Incredibly good. Too good, probably, because there's a small ache in his chest now, as he watches Dirk's face, lifts a hand to carefully shift a few stray blond locks. Jack remembers how he'd looked before, face and chest flushed and lips parted, eyes watching him like he was his entire world. He looks worn now, but settled. Peaceful.

Jack's never really... felt a want to be responsible for another person. To protect them, or care for them. Dirk, as self-sufficient as he is and strong, is stll something fragile, torn up by his world, yet still new to so many things. This is a bad idea, Jack's been telling himself. He's so young, and still has a lot of growing to do, mentally and emotionally. He's only just out of his solitary life, only had one boyfriend that hardly went past holding hands. He still has to figure out who he is and what he wants and adjust to the world. Dirk couldn't possibly deal with the kind of baggage Jack carries with him, and he shouldn't have to. He ought to go out, find some cute teenage boy, and fool around like giddy teenagers do. Flirt, have one and off relationships, break hearts, have his heart broken, the whole process of it.

But still, somehow, that irks him. Prods at something that grumbles at the idea of some stupid little teenage shits toying with him to get off, or have their token gay curious experience. It took him so much just to be alright with Jack touching him, what if someone else isn't as careful and damages that?

Maybe part of this wasn't just benevolently introducing Dirk to things he'd need to know, giving him a safe and pleasant experience and working through his apprehensions. You never really forget your first, they stick with you and become the bar that you compare those after to. Maybe he wanted that, selfish and cruel as it is. Not things Jack's unaccustomed to being called.

He doesn't really know what to call it, or how to reason his motivations for it, but Dirk's starting to stir, stretching as he wakes and sliding this bare skin along Jack's as he shifts. For the moment, Jack decides it doesn't really matter, because the urge to tug him close, roll them so he's blanketed firmly and protectively over him, is too strong to entertain thoughts otherwise. So he'll do that, and he'll pepper soft, languid kisses along Dirk's cheeks, temple and jaw. He'll slip his arms under Dirk's shoulders to wrap him up close and nuzzle against his neck, and exhale a sigh. For now, Dirk's a boy waking up to gentle affection and arms holding him tight and secure that won't be going away until he wants them too. And Jack's, for once, learning what it means to allow himself to care.