Chapter Text
As far as your increasingly sexual wrestling matches have gone, this one takes the cake.
Dave has you pinned, wrists above your head, and his human bulge would be obviously erect even if it weren’t pressed up against your crotch. You haven’t actually done anything yet- well, you haven’t done anything yet, you’re pretty sure Dave came in his pants last time but he absconded before you could laugh at him- but your sparring has included less training and more biting of sensitive areas as time’s gone on.
From the way Dave’s moving against you, tonight is the night that you actually pail. You, for one, couldn’t be happier.
He’s not going any further, though. Maybe he needs a sign that you want this?
“You’re going to have to let go of my wrists if you want to get my clothes off, idiot,” you grumble, valiantly ignoring your face’s efforts to flush a hideous red.
He smirks in that way that makes your blood boil. “Don’t worry, kitty-kat. I’ve got a third arm.”
There’s a moment of silence while you try to figure out what the fuck that means, and then he’s talking again. “Wait, shit, that’s a third leg. My dick doesn’t sprout from my torso like the world’s biggest singular chest hair, I promise.”
Your suppressed laughter makes your chest shake, which makes the rest of you shake, which makes your groin rub up against his in a way that kills your laughter pretty much instantly. Your body is politely informing you that yes, you need this shithead in your nook now.
“I’m going to make you scream,” he whispers in your ear in the sleaziest voice he can muster. Then he’s moving down, letting go of your wrists, pulling off your sweatpants in one swift motion, and stopping in his tracks.
“Going commando, huh? Were you planning this?”
“I don’t like layers,” you mutter, after a second to figure out what that means.
Dave’s lip twitches in that way it always does when you do something he finds cute, and you want to bite it off his face. “Fine by me. Just makes this easier.”
Before you can ask what that’s supposed to mean, his lips touch your nook. It’s a soft, barely-there kiss, but you gasp like you’ve been punched.
There’s a strange vibration happening down there, and it feels so good that it takes you a moment to realize he’s laughing.
“Fuck you!” you snap, and attempt to knee him in the face. He catches your leg easily.
“Other way around, sorry,” he says. “Cool guys don’t take dick. Luckily for me, you’re the opposite of cool.”
Then he eats you out.
Okay, you should probably go into a bit more detail. It’s difficult, though, when every sensation is both blending together into a haze of pleasure and so sharp it almost hurts. Every twitch of his tongue feels like a railroad spike of pleasure, and either he’s amazing at this or you’re pathetically easy. Given the fact that neither of you have done this before, you have a feeling it’s the latter.
You’re making noises you honestly didn’t think were possible, but after some indeterminate stretch of time has passed you hear a high-pitched whimpering noise that you wince at in embarrassment before realizing that it didn’t come from you.
Wait.
You gather the strength to lift your head up, set back several times by the instinct to bare your throat whenever Dave bites a bruise on the inside of your thigh. Eventually, you manage to look at Dave.
He’s flushed almost the same red you are, grinding his dick on the floor in a way that can’t be comfortable. He looks- debauched. Out of his mind with pleasure, with desperation. Could he really be that aroused just from this? Maybe it’s a human thing.
“D- Dave,” you manage to choke out, and he glances up to see you looking at him. He smiles, soft and sweet and far too genuine.
He pulls back from your nook, his mouth stained with your red. “Karkat,” he gasps, like he’s the one who’s just been tonguefucked within an inch of his life. “Karkat, please.”
…Something is wrong. You’re fairly certain Dave Strider has never said please in his life, and now he’s begging when you haven’t even done anything to him?
(You’re doing a pretty good job, in your opinion, of focusing on the logical parts of your brain. The instinctual parts- well, the ones that aren’t yelling at you to rip out this alien’s throat- are practically purring, telling you to pin him down and fuck him until he admits he belongs to you. But Dave doesn’t want that, and honestly you’re not even sure you want that. You were kinda hoping he’d take the lead here.)
“Please what?” You ask, and for a moment you see him hesitate, but then words are spilling out of him like incessant jabbering is the key to heaven.
“Please fuck me, I need it, I want to feel your stupid tentadick driving me out out of my mind-”
He keeps talking, but your head is filled with static. He’s not- he’s told you what humans think of men that bottom before, that they’re weak and effeminate and nothing like him. He can’t possibly actually want this.
…But he’s asking.
Your nook still burns with need, but your completely ignored bulge demands more of your attention. As far as it’s concerned, this is a fantastic idea.
“Are you sure?” you ask, interrupting his increasingly creative demands.
He stares at you, jaw slack, and you wish desperately you could see his full expression. “Karkat,” he says in a tone that would be deathly serious if it weren’t half a moan, “I will do literally anything you want as long as it ends with you nailing me six ways to sunday, okay?”
You really wish he hadn’t said that. Now you’re having ideas.
First thing’s first, though. “Take off your shades.”
You don’t expect him to actually do it, and you can tell he doesn’t want to, but he finally cracks and lets out a pathetic little noise as he takes them off. His eyes are watering, which you shouldn’t find nearly as hot as you do (you shouldn’t find it hot at all, he’s in pain, you asshole), and his pupils are blown unbelievably wide.
“Okay,” he says, setting them carefully to the side. “Anything else you want me to take off, hint hint?”
You roll your eyes and pull off your sweater, and he mirrors you. You sit up and reach for his jeans, because it’s not fair that he has pants on and you don’t, and he lifts his hips easily.
“So,” he says as you toss the clothes to the side, “Your dick. It’s slick, it’s tapered, you can just shove it in me and it’ll be fine, right?”
“Absolutely not,” you say, and he whines, a high, reedy sound that goes straight to both your bulge and your concern gland. “I know how wastechute sex works! You have to have prep, especially for humans.”
He doesn’t even make fun of you for practically admitting that you’ve been watching gay human porn. Maybe he’s had some sort of mental break. “Okay, sure, but have you considered: you have claws and if I don’t get some part of you inside me in the next thirty seconds I’ll die.”
“You’d come back,” you scoff. “And trolls can’t come without direct seedflap stimulation.”
He stares at you blankly, and you sigh. “The seedflap is at the end of the nook, moron. If I hadn’t figured out how to get my fingers up there without hurting myself, I’d have died of a gene bladder explosion, and the world would be a better place.”
“Dude, you’re gonna make me cry,” he jokes, but he does actually look like he will. “Okay, sure. Your claws are pretty nubby, it’s fine, the longer I get to have you inside me the better.”
You make a humiliating little eep noise as his words register. The insanity theory is looking more and more likely- no one in their right mind could want you that badly.
He decaptchalogues some lotion and holds it out to you, hand trembling minutely. You take a deep breath, pump some on your hand, and take a second to look at what you’re working with.
You trace a finger down his dick, taking a second to cup his external shameglobes. He shudders when you do, muttering something you can’t quite catch. You massage the stretch of skin between those and his wastechute, and then you’re there. There’s nowhere else to go.
Slowly, carefully, you dip your finger in, feeling his human-soft skin and muscle give way. He already looks stretched around just the one finger, and the image of what he’ll look like around your bulge is so vivid and sudden you gasp.
“Fuck, that’s weird,” Dave says. “I wasn’t expecting it to actually feel good from the start.”
You pause. “Have you not-”
“Of course I’ve never stuck anything up my ass before,” he says, like it’s the dumbest idea in the world. Then his brow furrows in confusion, like he’s just now realizing what you’re doing, like he’s having a moment of lucidity.
In a moment of panic, you shove your finger in as far as it will go, and then needy Dave is back, arching and moaning like a porn star. Maybe you somehow found realistic human porn, and this is what it’s actually like for them?
You slide your finger in and out and he starts shaking, like you’re knocking out the support struts of his body with your finger. You’re… worried, actually. If this is his reaction to a finger, what will your bulge do to him?
You silence your doubts and slowly press in another finger, playing with his rim as you go in. He lets out a keening, stuttering moan that could be your name if you’re feeling generous. You spread your fingers out, searching- there’s supposed to be some sort of pleasure gland in here, right?- and Dave sighs like you’re taking the weight of the world from his shoulders. You push deeper and have half a second to register a change in texture before Dave screams.
You pull your fingers out immediately, terrified you’ve hurt him, but the second they’re gone he chokes on a sob. “No- put them back, do it again, please, please-”
You do, of course, but there’s something other than pleasure churning in your gut. The way he’s acting, like he needs you, really needs you, is- well, it’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you, but it’s also kind of concerning. This isn’t how you imagined Dave acting any of the many, many times you’ve thought about this, even in the then-laughable daydreams where you were in control.
You’re honestly not sure about this anymore, but your bulge is, so you spread your fingers enough to fit a third between them. Dave makes a strange, wet noise, and when you look up at his face you realize that he’s crying.
“Are you okay?” you ask, though you don’t remove your fingers. You learned your lesson the first time.
“It’s so good,” Dave says distantly, voice strained, and you can’t tell if he’s responding to you or just voicing his thoughts. He’s definitely enjoying himself, and you can’t just leave him like this, not when you’ve stumbled upon what you’re suspecting is some sort of mammalian submission response.
Okay. Okay. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to make it as good as possible for him. You use your newfound leverage to press deeply into the gland, whatever it’s called, and rub slow, heavy circles. Dave’s entire lower half starts shaking so hard you almost lose your grip on his leg, and the noises he’s making are the auditory equivalent of powdered sugar, sweet and light and completely devoid of substance or thought.
After a few minutes, you take a breath and steel yourself. This is it. It’s time.
You withdraw your fingers, and Dave is too far gone now even to beg for them back, just makes bereft little noises and looks betrayed.
Luckily for the proceedings and unluckily for your ability to convince yourself you’re not a giant pervert, your bulge is just as excited as it was before you started having doubts. You grasp it, feeling it thrash, and hold it just a little too far away to reach.
“I can’t really control it,” you say quietly. “Once I put it in, it’s going to go all the way in as fast as it can.”
Dave stares at you and whines, uncomprehending. Eventually, he pulls himself together enough to realize you want the go-ahead and nods frantically. You don’t… you don’t really think it means much when he’s in this state, but you can’t resist Dave, never could.
You let go of your bulge and slide into him in one swift motion, gentle as you’re capable of, and something wet hits your stomach. You glance down, wide-eyed and terrified that it’s blood, but it’s just human genetic material.
…It’s human genetic material. Oh, holy shit. The more rational part of your mind is surprised that he didn’t come before now, but most of you is too busy dealing with the dopamine flood that stems from the fact that you just made Dave Strider come. Holy fuck.
“Do you want me to stop?” you ask. You’re pretty sure you’ll die if you have to stop now, but you’re even more sure he’ll want you to keep going.
Dave doesn’t answer.
“Dave?” you ask, voice pitching up dangerously. He lies beneath you, so still and quiet you’d think you were fucking a corpse if it weren’t for the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Okay, that thought is enough to convince you to pull out. He gasps when you do, and more tears leak from his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to put it back. He looks fragile, half-broken, and not in a sexy way. Your bulge makes a half-hearted effort to retract, like it’s ashamed of itself. You’re ashamed of it too.
You pick him up, thanking your miserable species’ brute strength, and carry him to- you can’t just go into his room without permission. You go to yours instead, carefully pull the covers over him, and settle down in your pile. There’s a bone-deep exhaustion filling you, and it isn’t long before you’re slipping into a fitful sleep.
-
When you wake up, the first thing you see is Dave, shades on, sword at the ready. You jolt up, looking around for the threat, but the point of his sword is at your throat before you can stand fully.
In a tone utterly devoid of emotion, he asks, “What the fuck did you do to me?”