The thing about Karkat Vantas is, he might be a pompous, noisy windbag with an inflated opinion of his own importance, and if he was suddenly struck down by some kind of vicious troll laryngitis the universe's total amount of chill and quiet would suddenly go up three levels...
But turns out he's also a great fuck.
He is so responsive. It's crazy. It's on his face, on his whole body, he tries and he tries to hide it and it only makes it more obvious, how no one's really touched him in any way that felt that good before and how he can't get over how awesome it is, and how much that scares him. (How much the thought of stopping right there scares him more.)
Of course part of this is the inherent Strider mad bedroom skills...
But you've never touched anyone like that either, and you're not shivering like you're going to come apart every time he claws up your back, digs his fingers in -- half like he's a cat and you're the best pillow ever, something velvety and with tassels to bat at and right in the good sunbeam, and half like you're the rollercoaster and if he doesn't hold on with all his might he'll be flung off the ride and the ground is a really long way down.
(You maybe think you might want to shiver like that, you want to gasp like that, only you wouldn't sound so surprised each time, you wouldn't mouth the other guy's neck so desperately. You'd never hover so close to the edge of losing your face) (maybe you envy that a little.)
It's like when Vantas' piehole is busy with moaning, his whole body speaks instead, and it lacks practice at blathering and putting up a front; even as he tries to snarl, it can only say one thing, ohpleasemoredon'tstopdon'tgo. You bite his neck and he mewls, all high-pitched and trembling, and his bones turn to jelly and he leans into you like he'd slump on the floor if you weren't there to hold him up.
It's so desperate you'd be embarrassed for him if his hips weren't welded to yours, pressing and rolling; it's a beat you can feel in your bones, the heavy bass line of every latin song ever, and it has your cock hard enough to drill through approximately seven mountain ranges and maybe a little hill after that.
A Strider does not jizz in his pants, is something your brother never felt the need to tell you, because if there's something more uncool than bombing out you do not want to know what it is, you might lose cool points just from hearing it.
You're the one whose brain hasn't been blown into unrecognizable chunks all over the landscape (yet), so you're the one who pushes away from the wall you were pining him against -- he stumbles into you, growls in protest, bites your jaw even as his body hurries to cross the gap to yours, it's like he's a magnet and you're the North Pole. It's so close to dancing, you've watched people dance at bro's gigs so often but you've never danced yourself but it's so easy to twist-turn, still pressed close, lead him backward, move together.
Hello there, convenient couch to the back of his knees.
He falls with a yelp in a flurry of long, thin limbs. You brace yourself on the back of the couch before you can fall down on him, breaking contact. You're just... teasing him a little, waiting to see how long it takes before that glazed look in his eyes melts a bit and embarrassment comes back, it has nothing to do with the Fourth of July party in your pants trying to set off all those jizz fireworks ahead of schedule.
Karkat Vantas is a scrawny little fuck whose head is a permanent bird's nest; untold herds of combs have been lost in that wilderness, never to see daylight again. Right now Rose's thesaurus seems to have taken residence in your brain because you keep thinking 'slender' and 'tousled' and fuck yeah his hair's tousled, you've had your hands in there -- it's the exact same look in the end but suddenly it's a hundred times more attractive, the sight of tangled dark locks haloed on white cloth like a kick in your guts. You want to slip your fingers in there again and tug. Also slender might be the general visual impression but your touch-memory says 'compact' and 'firm', and he's warm, so warm, the whole front of your body is cold now, he must run at least a couple degrees hotter than you.
He's still staring at you, and it has long since gone through dazed incomprehension into mortified blushing; it's now starting to edge into pissed off.
'Pissed off', with Vantas, seems to border 'hurt' and 'rejected' and he is way too easy to reach, you don't get how someone can live being so easy. You didn't mean to put that look on his face, though, and the prickle of guilt manages to get your pants-party cooled down just enough that you can lean in, rest your hands on his knees. He has drawn them up, so they wouldn't dangle off the edge of the couch you guess, maybe so he could protect his tender underbelly when he started to feel unsure about your lack of interest in tearing a chunk out of it, but he's still flat on his back otherwise. It's so vulnerable you'd almost feel dizzy.
"Strider," he growls. You give his knees a squeeze, and then you nudge them apart, spread him open. He resists all of three seconds, hands clenching on your biceps and brows scrunched in pretend-anger, like maybe if he scowls hard enough you won't notice his eyes are still dazed, lost, begging not to be abandoned.
These pants really need to go.
You run your hands down the top of his thighs, nudging them a little farther apart with each inch. He holds himself still, body so tense it almost quivers from the effort. His knuckles are turning white, like if he doesn't hold onto on the edge of the couch for dear life they'll just go grabbing for you all on their own.
You pause with your hands on his fly. You arch an eyebrow, a little mocking, like a challenge; you know it gets under his skin. "Vantas, if your next words aren't 'I've changed my mind on letting you uncover all the mysteries of my alien junk,' which I guess is every lady's privilege, do us a favor and shut the fuck up."
He hisses in anger, something between a boiling teakettle and an angry housecat, and kicks at your thigh; you go "ouch" so deadpan it sounds like you don't mean it (you do, bastard kicks like a mule), and then you grab his knee and slide your shoulder underneath and lean in, and now he's bent almost double under you with the curve of his jeans-covered ass digging into your crotch and your mouth on his, lips mashed together until he mmphs in protest and starts kissing back.
He's not shy about giving you tongue. His is a little raspy, not quite to sandpaper levels and you think it just might be perfect on your dick but that can wait until later, right now his mouth had better stay where it is. You explore each other and it's all wet and deep and he has about a million teeth in there and not a one of them has drawn blood yet. His hand is kneading the back of your neck, claws prickling almost like an afterthought. You're pressed so close together you can feel the seam on his jeans along your shaft. It's uncomfortable in the best possible way.
It's really fucking aggravating that you haven't figured out how to captchalogue someone's clothes off as they're still wearing them. You've got him right where you want him, if only there wasn't all that stupid denim in the way. You... make a noise next, but it's an annoyed little growl, that's acceptable under the Strider Rules of Cool, (it is, shut up,) and you push up the bottom of his shirt until it's all bunched up at his collarbones and you bite him, because it's his fault he's still dressed and he deserves it. He jerks under you and both his arms come up and wrap around your shoulders and cling, shuddering all over. You bite him again.
You tear yourself out of his arms; he grabs for you out of sheer reflex and you have to grab his wrists and pin them down by his head. You loom over him again, oh god it's torture to be this close and not touch, but since you're not a too-transparent windbag he can't tell you think so, and you can tell he does. He tugs on his wrists, wriggles under you, not even half as hard as he could, no risk to actually dislodge you. As embarrassed as he looks, he likes it, your fingers wrapped tight around his wrists, keeping him pinned down, your gaze roaming all over his bared chest, his flat belly.
Karkat Vantas, you note with just about zero surprise, is a total bottom boy.
When you let his wrists go he doesn't even move his arms, leaves them curled up by his shoulders. He lets you unbutton his jeans too; you run a single finger down his belly and he arches off the couch like he can't help it, like his spine has a mind of its own.
Being a Strider and therefore right next to Smooth in the dictionary (all those other words in the middle in alphabetical order are for pussies and therefore have been evicted from it), you have totally planned this. You yank down his pants just as his ass comes off the cushions, pull them off his legs; his underwear comes with.
(Half the secret of Smooth is the art of pretending every single outcome is exactly the one you planned on, so you only spare yourself some admiration for how conveniently this went in private.)
He's all long-limbed and weirdly graceful even as he pulls his knees back up to hide, bare against the white couch but for the black shirt all bunched up on him, long sleeves covering half up his hands but not even covering where the tender underside of his arms meets his sides, and it makes him look even more naked somehow. He's got scars -- not a lot, but they're all white on sooty skin; it's hard to see anything but. They look like chalk lines.
You follow one down his ribcage with the flat of your hand like it might smudge, down toward the hollow between hipbone and belly. His knee is blocking your view.
He trembles under your hand when you rest your hand there. A hundred one-liners press against your teeth, some mocking because he annoys you and some just because such awesome zingers really deserve to be said and some soothing, almost tender, even though both of you would hate you afterwards. You don't say anything.
You nudge his legs open. He allows it. You both knew it would happen.
It looks alien down there but not too alien; even if the dick is tapered into a point and curves a bit too loosely instead of being tube-shaped and stiff, it's still a dick. It's stained arterial red from where it started out curled back against that flushed, swollen slit underneath, wet and glistening.
He lets you look your fill, though by that point he has thrown an arm across his eyes to hide, like maybe if you can't see him and his burning face you'll think it's someone else's offered body, someone else's open thighs, someone else's alien snatch you're looking at.
It should be funny. It is, it's hilarious. You're on him in a second, wrenching that arm away from his face and mashing your mouth to his. You meant to tease him some more, see how far before he begs for you to do the things you already intend to do, you meant to do so many other things. Instead your cock presses against his pussy -- you don't fucking care what they call it, nook or whatever, it's a pussy to you -- and it stains wet and fever-warm right through the cloth of your own pants and you don't even give a flipping shit right now, not even a single tiny one because he's arching up to meet you and his legs wrap around your hips. His knees squeeze your sides, his arms go around your neck; you'll need a crowbar if you want to stop kissing him anytime soon. (You don't, so all is good.)
You can feel his cock against your belly and in between two hungry kisses you vaguely wonder if he jizzes from there and if he'll manage to stain your shirt too. Your damns stay ungiven.
You could kiss him forever if he kept making all those little needy noises all along. There's purrs in there and moans and strangled whimpers -- surprise, he can communicate even without that vaguely impressive array of gross slurs. Maybe the swearing is why -- meant to hinder, wall up, because otherwise all that would come across would be his need.
(He needs this, needs you. Above the feel of his body and the way he smells and the aesthetic considerations, this is what gets you so hard, what makes kissing him so heady. His desire, his desperation.)
You rock against him, hips taking on that old, old rhythm all on their own, it almost doesn't matter that you still have your pants on; you know from the way he keens when you've got a good angle. You worm a hand between the two of you and curl your fingers around his dick, and it squirms a bit in your hand, thick and pulsing; you grind your cock against his snatch, and he yowls, and his claws leave lines of fire across your back. Cloth tears.
You kiss words right out of his mouth, smother them, but he shakes his head and breaks away. His lips are swollen with kissing and his brow damp with sweat; black locks stick across his face. His eyes are hazy. He's never going to be as gorgeous as he is right this instant. You recapture his lips but he breaks away again.
His thighs are squeezing you in rhythm; it distracts you from the litany of his whimpers at first, makes you thrust up harder against him.
"--ohgod strider bucket, bucket now, can't, please, strider, please--"
He's all flushed and his eyes shiny with unshed tears and need and ... he's already coming and you haven't even put it in, what, seriously?
You wrench yourself free from his grasp somehow (even though he was the one who wanted you off) and decaptchalogue one of those many, many buckets John insisted you keep for some future joke; it clatters down between your feet on the floor. Vantas writhes -- there is no other word -- down to the edge of the couch, and he'd flop off it and kneel there, only you're not budging and so he has to lean on his elbows with the upper half of his body still on the couch and that means his body arches in a way you can't name anything but beautiful. The boy's bendy. He stares up at you all anguished and half-angry, "Strider, damnit--" but you just shake your head.
You crouch before him and you grab his hips (so narrow) so he gets some support, so he can free his arms, but he doesn't right away, just stares up at you in a daze. You lean in, whisper in his ear, "Do it. Let me watch you."
With a strangled whimper he wraps a hand around his own cock, slips fingers right up his snatch. He looks up at you, and you know he can't tell what you're looking at -- his flushed face, his body, his busy hands. You give a sober little nod and he goes off like a firecracker, a blood-red torrent gushing out of him as his whole body clenches.
The red flood is a bit too much like blood for you to find it arousing in itself. The strangled scream he gives, though, the whimpers afterwards, the glazed look in his eyes and the way he slowly goes limp in your hold, reclines against the edge of the cushions at his back...
(How he did it for you, how he came baring everything, came because you--)
A last spasm trickles red down the inside of his thigh even as you shove him back up on the couch; you've made him miss the bucket, the couch will be stained, you don't give a flying fuck, your pants are unzipped and your cock out in the cold air less than a second before you nudge its blunt head against the still quivering slit between his legs.
He whimpers when you push it in, but he's still pliant and unresisting under you (Karkat Vantas is pliant and unresisting under you) and when you start to fuck him he only groans quietly against your ear and wraps his arms around your shoulders, loose and exhausted. A couple of times his legs twitch around yours, little aftershocks of pleasure that make him mewl and make you gasp against his neck, but you're Dave Strider -- even all up in the tightest, hottest hole in the universe you are not losing your cool, your cool stays right here with
you, oh god, vantas, vantas, karkat
(maybe, when you come, maybe you lose your steel grip on your face a little, but it's all pressed up against his neck where he can't see and besides he's still shivering under you, making tiny protesting mewl-moans; not quite like it hurts, but like it feels too good and he can't stand it much longer. He pushes at your shoulders halfheartedly but he doesn't shove you off, and he could, he lets you stay there right on top of him, right inside him where it's all snug and warm, still twitching and clenching with aftershocks all around your cock.)
(He lets you thrust in deep, a last time, two, and go still on top of him as you soften, and there's one of his hands cupping the back of your head and it's petting you.)
In a minute he'll come down and the walls will come back up, ineffective as they are, and then no doubt he'll bitch up a storm about you smothering him (so warm,) coming inside him (you can now tell from empirical evidence trolls don't ejaculate from their cocks, just from their pussies, and so it's a sure bet he won't get it, what do you think I am, a gogdamned bucket?) making him dirty (the asshole ruined your whole outfit, you now look like a she-cat on the rag backed up on your bacon torpedo and then used your back as a scratching post) and who knows what else. Then he'll probably storm off like a stampede of small, compact, angry bulldozers.
Right now he's carding his fingers through your hair and humming so softly in his throat you're not sure he even hears himself.
Just like there's a time limit before buddy hugs fill up with homolust, there's a time limit for being post-coital on the guy you just fucked before it looks like cuddling; your innate sense of cool can feel it coming up, an inescapable apocalypse of 'no, I know it was just a fuck, I promise I don't like you like that!'.
You shift to the side, prop yourself up on an elbow, look down at the line of his body against yours. You love that you're still pretty much dressed and he's very much not. Scrawny little gorgeous bottom boy.
"A-plus," you say, "would fuck again."
He tries to smother you with a pillow.