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The Hospitality of Salt

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There is probably a point at which things are going to stop being ironic, here. Tavros isn't sure when that will be, exactly, but he suspects that it probably should have been, maybe, a half an hour ago. Or something like that. He's not sure. When things started, that is, being not ironic.

For him, anyway. Dave can probably keep up the irony for a while longer.

Tavros tries not to think about how ironic a human bulge probably is, when said human bulge is Dave's, and it is right in front of Tavros.

Dave, from his position lying back on his couch, looks up, probably at Tavros's face, and says, "Nice to get some vindication that you really were gagging for xeno boysausage, back when."

Tavros swallows. "I didn't, um, really think about it. Until you started rapping at. Flaming me."

"Because you and I are so cool that when a dude tries to get us het up about sick beats we chill the fever with our seriously flamboyant flaming preference for beef-not-cheese. Nice try, Nitram."

"Uh," Tavros says, because he has no reply to that in his thinkpan. "Sorry."

Something changes in Dave's expression and he reaches down, fumbles around to find Tavros's carpal joint, holds him there. "It's okay," he says finally. "And for once, let me just say: if you're not cool, then there is bad heating up going on, and I am not going to stand for anything not-cool continuing. Got it?"

"Yeah," Tavros says, looking down and thinking, I'm not sure I'm ever cool, which there is no better response to than to seize the human by the bulge.

Or, well, sort of touch it, anyway. Tavros is not really used to this, yet. This is the first time he's done more than just listen to, or watch, Dave get off. He knows where all the, the everything is, on humans now, or at least to hear Dave talk about it, male humans. Apparently female humans are more different? Tavros doesn't know.

Dave is warm, soft-skinned. Maybe a little sticky. Tavros drags his fingers down Dave's bulge, to the genetic-material sacs below that, which Tavros thinks are kind of weird, and maybe a little creepy; male trolls' don't swell unless their partner has left genetic material inside their nooks, and the combined genetic material is stored in the sacs. So that humans have them all the time is, is weird. Dave decided to ironically adopt troll quadrants after they all met up in-game, so Tavros who's sort of broken, he thinks maybe, and can only do redrom, is always a little afraid that Dave will – well, not cheat, it's not cheating because they're red and it wouldn't count – get a kismesis and Tavros will have to put up with Dave being ironic and sexy and cool with someone who can actually have sex because they aren't paralyzed.

So. Genetic material sacs. Yeah. Those things, they freak Tavros out a little, because Dave always looks like someone's already had him within the last few days.

Tavros runs one finger, gently, over the smooth flatness that would have been the back edge of Dave's nook, if he had had one, and Dave huffs out a breath and drops one of his ankles over Tavros's left shoulder, the other one hooking onto the back of the couch.

So, that might be, maybe good. That spot. Tavros touches it again, watches Dave's muscles shift at the sensation, and thinks that, just maybe, he'll be okay. At this. Dave never touched himself in this spot when Tavros watched. He wouldn't mind finding something new, and good, to do to Dave.

He moves his hand back to Dave's bulge, wrapping his hand around it, slow. Dave's breathing is really loud, as Tavros strokes him. It doesn't feel like there's a bone in there, which is weird, but not bad, not necessarily. After a few minutes Dave is moving, his coxal joint bones shifting into the rhythm of Tavros's hand, and there's a red blood-shading to his cheeks, fading into his chest.

Tavros wishes, briefly, that he could maybe see Dave's eyes, at some point. Dave even wears the sunglasses at night, which apparently isn't normal for humans, but Tavros thinks it's smart, if Dave is trying to hide his eyes, even from trolls, who have good night vision.

Dave's making noises, now, like gasping, with a little thrum of his voice below it, and it's amazing, it makes Tavros's skin heat, so warm he can sort-of smell his own pheromones, and suddenly he wants to put his mouth to Dave's shoulder, his cephalothoracic joint, his lower frontal thoracic plane right above where his bulge is, to leave spit and scent saying Mine, so he leans forward and bends over Dave and licks, softly, at that place where Dave's front dips into an almost-hole, tongues at it. It's like the opposite of a vestigial grubleg joint, only in the middle, and only one, and it smells of soap and of Dave.

"Oh, wow, okay, I have an idea," Dave says. "You want to put that mouth someplace so awesome that armies of horrorterrors would bow down to its magnificence?"

Tavros blinks, wide-eyed, at the sight of his own foodflap juices on Dave's surface layer, and says, "Are you even, um, sure that horrorterrors have, even, knees?"

"Man, I'm starting to think that the Greeks invented 'pathetic' to refer to you. Foodflap. Raw manbeast sausage in a delicious flesh casing of ironic bestial uncircumcised intactness. I now pronounce you mouth and dick."

Tavros looks at it. It sort of bobs happily at him.

He takes hold of Dave and drags his coxal joint bones up, ignoring Dave's entirely too-not-ironic squeak, and licks at that flat, lovely spot behind his genetic material sacs, feeling the muscles shift under the pressure of his tongue. Does it again, trailing up, to the soft fullness of the sacs, the scent of Dave surrounding him, and then down, to the little bundle of muscles there, pink and trembling, and then Dave grabs the end of one of his horns and Tavros jerks, one foodcutter digging into his own tongue with the painpleasure shock of it.

"Tavros, Tavros," Dave says, "Do you know what that is? That is no-man's-land, ‘taint supposed to play there, that is the sewer of Sodom and wrath of Santorum, and I'm not gonna ask twice: what are you doing?"

"Um, touching you? Is it bad? You seemed not to mind, earlier, so I thought you might, um, like it."

Dave puts a hand over his face, knocking his sunglasses up, and stays there for a second before he says, "Okay, here's the down low because that's where you are. It's the end of the waste chute, from which literally nasty shit of all kinds comes spewing out, usually at unpleasant intervals, a massive neverending river of biohazardous do-not-touch."

"Oh, um," Tavros says, and then looks down, a little grossed out. "But you visited the ablution partition, when you got home, an hour ago. Is it, um, still really gross? Because I think, I mean, I heard that, sometimes, humans do this, because, no nooks, and if you think, it's sort of, I mean, nooklike..."

Dave's hand presses harder into his face. "Protip: comparing human guys to chicks is the turn signal of rightwards lane change from the route to exiting at where Home Run Highway meets Bumfuck Avenue, San Fran, to instead veer off to crash land in the middle of the bowling alley of eternal virginity in the Bible Belt."

"Is that, um, a no?"

Dave is silent for a long moment, then says, "I'm so cool that if I'd been the Sburb Witch of Snow, Narnia would need infinite Pevensies to ever have Christmas again."

Tavros blinks, grins. "Are you talking about the book where it's always daytime, never the night of Twelfth Perigee's Eve, and the Day Witch has stopped the sun in Narnia for a hundred sweeps, and the Pevensie children are evacuated to the lair of an unattached lusus and go into a clothing storage box -"

Dave sits up, puts a hand over Tavros's mouth. "The human version, yeah." His fingers are warm, blunt, calloused from years of handling swords, with old scars from careless sheathing. Tavros darts his tongue out to lick at them, tastes salt and warmth and the curious not-quite-right scent of human, and then lets him go. Dave rolls back down and then digs his heel into Tavros's back. "You asked for it. Go to town. You've already bought the ticket and had it punched; might as well ride because you'll have to buy another one if you want to try again. Hope the journey and the destination please you, and for God's sake don't hit the emergency brake."

Tavros looks at the space between Dave's legs, thinks about backing out, but Dave said it was all right, and he doesn't want to be a coward. So he runs his finger around the edge, which is a little sticky from when he licked it before, leans in, presses the flat of his tongue to it, drags upwards. Does it again.

Dave shifts, reaching down to hold his own bulge, stroking it gently, but the speed isn't anywhere near what Tavros remembers him using, before, which means, maybe, that he's letting Tavros control this, and that – that's amazing, so hot it sparks through him. He licks his lips, leaning back in and tracing the ayembedt against Dave's skin, until Dave is slick with it, the tension of his muscles loosening, until the dot of the letter yoodt slips just-inside him. It's a shock to them both, because Dave moans, faintly, suddenly, and Tavros, surprised by the give of him and then even more by the sound of his voice, jerks away. His mouth is wet, heavy with the taste of Dave's skin, and of sex.

"Don't stop," Dave says, and if it sounds like he's embarrassed to be asking for it, Tavros won't tell. He wants to keep the memory of it close, selfishly, this moment; and more than anything, he wants more like it, so he leans back in again.

Now, Dave is shifting into him, as though trying to get his tongue inside, again, but Tavros resists. He enjoys the soft pathetic noises Dave makes at the so-close-not-yet touches, and holds back until the darting lateral serration of the letter zyr, which he traces inside, and Dave cries out with the sensation, coxal joints shifting. Tavros, mouth open and wet against Dave's skin, withdraws his tongue, slides it back in, somehow manages not to forget himself when Dave grabs his right horn for purchase. The taste of him is, not good, really, but viscerally affecting, satisfying. Tavros tries not to think about the soft span of Dave's boneless lower torsal plane, open to teeth, full of blood, and instead kisses the pink opennness of him.

Tavros licks his own finger, presses it against and then just-into Dave's opening, feeling the easy give, but it doesn't feel right, catching inside, and nooks at least are supposed to be slick, so he asks, "Do you, um, have anything, for..."

"Yeah," Dave gasps, "nightstand, I'll get it," and he shifts his hips, heels thudding down onto the couch before he stands and, naked, weaves his way through the piles of milk crates full of sound cables and vinyls.

Tavros uses the time he's gone to rearrange himself, moving from the edge of the couch to close to the middle.

When Dave returns, he presses the bottle into Tavros's hand and leans over to kiss him, fingers tangling into his hair and pinky finger rubbing against the base of one horn as he crawls into Tavros's lap, and Tavros can't help reaching behind Dave to keep him steady, and then it's just, just easy to lean them both into the back of the seat to hold Dave in place, because Tavros is really, really bad at multitasking, and open the bottle and slick up his fingers. He closes the bottle, somehow, and slips his fingers down, pressing the tip of one against the muscle there, finding it tighter than he left it, but Dave exhales against the soft inner part of his cephalothoracic joint, and says, "Do it," and Tavros does, and it's warm and tight and Dave clutches at his shoulders and rocks down, ever so slightly, to meet him.

Dave starts kissing at the hollow in his shoulder-thorax framing bone, after that, biting lightly at the muscles, and it feels so good, so overwhelmingly wonderful, those blunt teeth promising more than enough sensation to go on but no real pain, and Dave arching and grinding down onto his hand, two fingers now, easy and smooth and sweet, starting to speed up.

Dave reaches down between their bodies, taking hold of himself, and starts jerking, rocking down to meet Tavros and then up into his own grasp, and he breathes heavily against Tavros, sunglasses knocking into Tavros's jaw, until his body clenches around Tavros's fingers, genetic fluid spilling out, messily, between them.

Tavros breathes, feeling swept away, drowned, and leaves his fingers inside Dave, liking the feeling of being held there, as Dave leans forward, breathlessly, and bites, hard, at the side his cephalothoracic joint, closer to the back than the front, hands rising up to stroke at his thoracic plane, his arms. Tavros quivers, close, and then Dave rubs his half-hard bulge against the lower part of his thoracic plane, smearing his own genetic material over Tavros's skin, slick and cooling, and Tavros comes, trembling.

Dave waits until Tavros is mostly back to himself to wiggle off his hand, standing up and shaking his legs to relax them.

Tavros looks up at him, tries to think of something cool to say, and can't. Please can we do that again now is not exactly the epitome of cool. Dave throws some Kleenex at Tavros to wipe his hand on, pulls his own clothes back on and – and lies down on the couch, his head in Tavros's lap and his legs hanging over the armrest of the couch, and says, "You better have the phone number for Fabulous Noodles's delivery line, because I want Chinese and I am way too cool to let you leave this couch tonight."

"I, um, saved it on my phone last time you made me order," Tavros says, trying not to smile too wide. He's not sure he succeeds, but Dave doesn't make fun of him, anyway.