"I didn't think you were that kind of girl, Karkat," Strider says after you hit the floor, and you fucking lock your leg into place around his back to keep him from slipping away. He thinks he can freak you out by implying that this hatred isn't platonic, does he? Well, two can play at kismessitude chicken, and you are going to be so much fucking better at it than Dave Strider that his brain will explode right out of his auricular sponge clots in shame at his defeat.
"Rgghrrrrrr," you growl from around a mouthful of his stupid red cape (it is official, everyone you've ever known who wears capes is a complete and total asshole, and if you were still the leader you would ban the hell out of capes right this fucking second), and he takes one of his stupid clawless grasping appendages away from yanking out your hair to slap you right across the face.
"Get your shitty teeth off my cape," he says, and you're so shocked that you actually do spit it out. You were not expecting him to get so black so quickly; maybe it's human ignorance. He probably doesn't know that slapping someone— open hand, no fist, no claws— is pretty much exclusively a caliginous move, because if your hate's platonic you go for the serious maiming and damage. He'd better not know, anyway.
"You don't even know what you're doing, you stupid cape-wearing hipster asshole!" You're going for his lip, but he moves at the last second and your teeth sink into his jaw instead. Which is just fine, until he manages to pick up the pen and stab it right into your shoulder. Fuck, that hurts, you are going to get him for that so bad--
"Perhaps you two should stop," Kanaya says, all the menace of her chainsaw in that one neat little sentence.
"No way, it's fucking on now," you snarl, and lick Strider's blood off your teeth.
"Seriously, where were you five minutes ago when he was harassing me with that porn novel? This is a battle to the death now, don't you dare asparagusitude this. Honor's at stake here, and all that shit." He shoves the pen in further, and you stop surreptitiously shredding his stupid cape and reach up to grab his wrist. You yank it back, and his grip on the pen is hard enough you take it right out of your shoulder; that hurts even more than it did going in, and you can't help but yell. He smirks, that asshole, even with blood dripping down his face from the circle of small punctures in the perfect shape of your teeth.
So you dig your claws into his arm until you can feel more blood, and he digs his knee right into the soft part of your belly in revenge. That triggers something deep and primal, a fighting instinct that makes you reach up with a speed you hadn't known you had and catch his lower lip this time. It's the softest part of him that you can see, and your eyeteeth go right in without resistance. You taste even more blood than you did before, and he roars, muffled as it is against your mouth. It's time to press your advantage, while he's still surprised enough that you can get the leverage to roll you both over so you're pinning him down instead of holding him desperately with one leg.
"I didn't mean chew me instead of the cape, are you a dog, do I need to alchemize you a goddamn chew toy to keep those things out of me?" Strider is barely breathing between his words, ideas all shoved together into one long sentence without any break between them. Then his fist hits your jaw as best it can with you on top of him, and even without the full force behind it your teeth knock together; one of them cuts open your tongue, and suddenly your mouth is bleeding just as much as Strider's (and in the same color, which is horrifying enough in and of itself).
Speaking of horrifying, if you aren't completely and totally mistaken about human anatomy (and you admittedly could be, since the breadth of your knowledge is that garbage Strider made you draw two minutes ago, which can't be anatomically correct because it makes no sense) then you can feel Strider's bulge against you.
"I thought you weren't into that," you tell him, and grind down. Kismessitude chicken requires great sacrifice sometimes, and it's not your fault that your own bulge is a prehensile part of your anatomy and not a sentient being who understands the rules and niceties of playing chicken. Which is why it's ignoring those rules and starting to slip out of the sheath; it doesn't know that you're just fucking with Strider and not legitimately making out with your actual kismesis.
"And I thought you weren't, either," Strider says, and reaches up to take hold of your horns. You thrash your head back and forth to try to dislodge them— it's fucking humiliating, that he's holding onto them like he can use them to steer you. And that's exactly what he's fucking using them for, to jerk your head down so he can chew on your mouth with his stupid, dull omnivore teeth. Your face must be as red as his stupid magic pajamas right now, because you're on top of him and he's bleeding way more than you are but he's still the one assuming the dominant position, fuck.
"Let go of mmmmmph!" You can't even get a sentence in edgewise because all of a sudden his tongue is in your mouth and who the fuck are you even kidding, nobody here's playing chicken anymore. You grab both of his arms, but he just grips your horns that much tighter and wraps his leg up over your back in a mirror of how you'd thrown him onto the floor in the first place. He's holding you by the horns like you're some kind of animal and all you can do is hold onto his arms in a completely futile effort to shake him off; his leg is keeping you pinned in place against him, and trying to wriggle away just shoves your bulge against his through your clothes. Oh fuck, your nook is dripping-wet, too; if he doesn't stop it you're going to get off on this, on him holding onto you like he fucking owns you and he can drag you wherever the fuck he pleases.
He's rubbing up against you, too; apparently whatever passes for a human bulge is similar enough that this works for him, too. Still, he's not the one making the fuckawful embarrassing noises from his windtube, and he's the one in control of this and don't think about that, that's making things worse and—
"Bucket," you manage to pull away from his mouth long enough to hiss. "I need a fucking bucket, Stridemmmmph— stop it, just stop and let me get the bucket."
He pulls your head down so that he can bite the cartilaginous shell around your auricular sponge clot.
"Nope," he breathes, and that's it, you're done. You lose it right then and there, inside all your fucking clothes; you grip his arms harder as red soaks through your clothes and all over both of you.
"Did you seriously just get jizz on my cape," Strider says through clenched teeth, and thrusts even harder up against you. His hips are moving almost in a circle, and it's fast and erratic and you're so twitching and oversensitive post-orgasm that you fucking whimper at the feel of it.
Humans are apparently less dramatic than trolls about orgasm; it lasts about as long as yours did, but there's no torrent of genetic material to get all over both of you. You're about to tell him that it's his own culturally insensitive fault that you got genetic material on his cape and if he'd let you get the bucket that wouldn't have happened, but before you manage to say anything he yanks you down hard enough you're going to end up with whiplash.
"If I tell you to step off," he says, "you step the fuck off. Got it?"
You're a soaking mess with your own genetic material, he's got you by the horns, and you're tangled up with him under a table in the communal computer room. You have never been more humiliated in your life.
"Fuck that," you tell him, right from the spade.