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And now you are banging her

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Your name is Dave Strider and this scene is so played. It was played when you were in nursery school; now, you’re 17 years old, a veteran of several cosmic showdowns, and the once and future goddamn Knight of Time, and this is just beyond played.

Fruity asshole rumpus reunion pool parties were played back when the Condesce was a grub stuck on her back, all six legs clawing at the air.

You don’t know why they all need a reunion. You see each other all the goddamn noisy irritating time. But Egbert loves parties only slightly more than Karkat hates them, so here we are.

You smoke half a joint with the clown and listen to his latest conspiracy theory (Halliburton and surveillance of troll highbloods) until you can’t take it any more.

"Mother. Fuck. Er," he says, hand gripping your shoulder painfully. Like the word means way more than your puny human thinkpan can grasp. "Motherfucker"

The sun’s slamming down over the yard, so hot and bright that it’s nearly palpable. You edge around Kanaya and Janey sitting on the edge of the pool, holding hands, their feet dangling in the water. Their heads are tipped together, their whispers urgent. Just more moirail shit you don't need to eavesdrop on.

You’ve pretty much heard it all.

The light glinting off the water, bright yellow ribbons and chlorine-blue lozenges, is enough to make you dizzy. Fuck only knows what shit Gamzee laced the weed with. You’re a little hungry, hella thirsty, and there’s *something* under your sun-hot skin, something bright and tense, making you prowl around all the children and their whispered intrigues.

”David! Honey, you get right over here and don’t you make me ask twice.”

Rose’s mom (who isn’t Rose’s mom (nor yours) but also kind of is) is lounging on a chair in the corner, next to the cabana, half-shaded by ferns. Her cocktail’s tilting in her hand. Her sarong’s gap exposes pretty much all of her thigh, all the way up.

She’s so tanned, she’s teak, her hair a white-blonde swirl of vanilla soft-serve. Her smile is almost as broad and uncomplicated as *Egbert’s*, though John could never rock the MAC blackberry lipstick, glistening like goddamn dew.

"Future Foxy," you say after a moment, blinking slow as a cat. Adds, "Sweet shades. Respect."

They're huge, Jackie-O sunglasses that cover more than half her face. She grins, teeth white as her hair, and holds out one arm for a hug. She doesn't sit up, though, or even forward, so you drop to one knee.

She hugs you one-armed (can’t let that drink go), the embrace fragrant with expensive perfume and even more expensive gin. You grab the highball glass and take a sip. ”Tom Collins? Thought you were a martini girl.”

”Give that back --”

You hold it over your head as she squirms and bitches, making weak little plays, grabbing your shirt, batting your arm.

”Ask nice,” you say and she sits back heavily, folding her arms over her chest (pushing up those magnificent breasts even more) and scowling.

”Fuck you,” she says.

”Nah,” you say, and there’s a smirk in your tone if not on your lips, ”that’s what ectobiology’s for. None of us ever have to fuck again.”

Roxy scowls. ”Makes this officially a dystopia, then.”

”Does Roxy need to get laid?” you ask in your most insincerely sympathetic tone.

”All the fucking time,” she replies and makes another grab for her drink.

”Saw Janey out there,” you say.

She flips you off.

”Sassy,” you say.

”Must run in the family,” she says and reaches for her glass, fingers wiggling. ”C’mon!”

You empty her drink into the bushes and stand, offering her a hand. She grasps it and you yank her to her feet, the chair clattering as she collapses against your side. Mouthful of pale hair, noseful of perfume and girlish sweat, but you steady her without stumbling.

You lead her into the house, down some stairs, into the garish 1970s rec-room/swingers’ lair (it has a full-on conversation pit, for fuck’s sake), and prop her up on a stool at the bar.

She drapes herself against you, sarong fabric bunching in your hand, breasts warm pressure against your skin, and lets out a long sigh.

You’re not sure if you want to know whose memories generated this room in all its avocado-and-teal-and-orange glory. But that bar is fully stocked and Roxy’s not the only one here who could use a pickmeup.

She slumps against the bar, chin pillowed on one arm, watching as you do your mixology thang.

”You look so much like him,” she says dreamily. When you look over, she licks the corner of her mouth.

”Who?” you ask, just to make this more awkward and weird and difficult.

Roxy smirks and sticks her tongue out. ”*Him*. Bro. Dirk.”

You shake the tumbler viciously hard, then crush up some innocent mint leaves, before replying. ”He’s not Bro. He’s my bro, sure. But he sure as hell isn’t Bro.”

Roxy cocks one eyebrow and sips her mojito. ”Picky, picky.”

You take a good long drink and wipe your mouth on the back of your hand. When you touch her cheek, Roxy turns her head and presses a wet, open kiss against your palm.

It’s stupid, but fuck if your dick doesn’t *love* that. Your fingers curl, back into her hair, and she does it again, wetter and fuller this time, looking at you over the tops of her shades.

As you edge around the end of the bar, she swivels to meet you, her mouth never leaving your hand. There is sweat on the back of your neck, at the hairline, and a weird, throttled feeling in your chest pushing up your throat.

Whatever. Feelings can wait. Because now you’ve got an armful of warm, squirming girl, flash-trembling against you, her mouth on your throat now, your hands on her shoulders, her arms, her tits. *Her tits,* jegus god, heavy in your palms, nipples going hard under your thumbs.

One of her hands gets in your hair, tangles up and tugs you closer and down, bossy, insistent, until you’re kissing her and she’s fucking her tongue against yours and whining against your lips.

Her leg locks around the back of your thighs, holds you right there as she tilts and shimmies and works you both until you’re gasping, your knuckles trailing up her thigh.

”Gonna make it good for me?” she asks, teeth grazing your chin.

”Don’t need to ask,” you reply. ”Trust me.”

She slides one hand under your shirt, nails scraping skin, and -- look, you’ve fucked around with a troll or three in your time. Human nails are basically jokes by now. But all the same, her scratches make your skin shiver and tighten, dry out your throat. And your cock’s all but thumping now.

One can be the grandmaster of irony, but there will always be the dick to keep you real. Dicks don’t know shit about irony and cool. They’re the eager puppies, the John Egberts, of an otherwise perfectly aloof and chill body.

”C’mon,” Roxy croons. She works her hand down the flat of your stomach, rubs her thumb against your hip bone, then tugs on your pubes.

And you’re just about begging for it, biting at her mouth, playing one wet fingertip over a nipple as you rock your other hand against her mound.

”Big boy,” she actually says when she gets your dick out and it’s throbbing in her grasp, painting her wrist with precum. She sounds like a shitty 80s porno, and you’re still into it, thrusting a little and spreading your fingers between her legs, reaching for her slick lips.

”Mmm,” she adds and pushes up into your touch, wriggling back to prop herself against the bar. She twists her hand, slicking up your cock, slowly jacking you, and you’re all the way hard now, she’s wet as anything, as you part her labia and roll your finger up and down her slit, then against her clit. She moans, all high and strangled, head tipped back, then looks at you straight on and tightens her grasp on your cock. ”Mommy’s big boy. So handsome.”

You want to laugh. You see yourself, clear as any Wes Anderson shot, pulling free and leaving. Just walking away, out of here, out of this stupid pointless party where there’s nothing to celebrate besides sheer fucking dumbass luck of having survived, down the road, into the dark. Over the horizon.

She isn’t your mom.

You know way too much about non-biological methods of reproduction. You’ve heaved your own corpse, skin cooling but blood still sticky-warm, out of windows.

You've seen more Daves, all of you the same, all of you mortal and fragile and fucking stupid, than you could shake a stick at and get Jade to fetch.

You don’t have a mom.

The only family you ever had is long dead. The Bro is dead, long live the Bro.

So you know better. But you can also see that Roxy’s shades are slipping askew, and her eyes are pink-bloodshot, and her hand is small and hot and knowledgeable on the stupidest, lovingest bit of your anatomy.

”Mommy,” you say, and she giggles and kisses you again. You curl your fingers into her pussy and work her clit with your thumb until she mewls and bites at your throat. You pull a little way back, leaving her arms and legs looped around you, and thrust into her hand. ”Mommy, show me how to fuck?”

Your voice is higher than normal. You can’t catch your breath. This is so fucking stupid.

And then she slides off the stool, pushing your hand free (you bring it to your mouth, lick her juice off, inhale the musky-candy scent, then just stuff your fingers in your mouth so you can’t say anything else).

Roxy is nothing if not a lady of tremendous thirst. She gives head like she’s starving for it, like she can’t get enough, and there’s spit and precum shining on her cheeks, her chin, and you fuck forward, up onto your toes, down her throat.

Her eyes are wide, locked on yours, nothing like Rose’s analytical gaze, even less like Dirk’s hooded avoidance. She’s just Roxy, jacking you now and sucking both your balls into her mouth, and you come in fits and spurts, croaking out her name.

”There,” she says, rising unsteadily, tugging you backwards to the couches. ”Now maybe you can last longer than two minutes.”

You kiss her first, suck on the taste of your own jizz, then let her go when she wriggles free and sinks to her knees on the couch, her back to you.

”Hey,” you say, because what the fuck? ”The fuck?”

”From behind,” she says. She leans forward, hiking her sarong up to her waist, and, okay, she has a fine, fine ass. High and round and fucking *firm*; you lick two fingers and run them down her crack, around the hole, and further back, into her cunt, hot and tight and even wetter than before.

You’re getting hard again, and you’d be pissed at how well she called that, except you’ve got much more pressing concerns. Like how she’s moaning loudly, clutching a cushion, pushing back on your fingers and twitching her hips.

You’re going to go out on a limb here and guess she’s thinking about Dirk, picturing him getting all seme on English’s sweet scrawny ass.

You’re not insulted or anything. Whatever gets a person or troll off is fine by you.

Still, you’d prefer to be acknowledged, even if it’s according to bullshit ideas.

You get one knee between hers on the couch and pull her up against you. Mouth at her neck and enjoy the weight of her breasts before whispering, in that stupid high breathy little voice, ”Mommy? My penis is hard.”

You bite her to keep from laughing.

She pushes against you, dragging her ass against your crotch, and twists around to say, ”Put it in, sweetheart. Fuck Mommy good and hard.”

Can’t argue with the lady. With, like, millennia of (nonexistent) maternal authority. So you line your dick up with her pussy, bending her back over until her chin is against the cushions and her ass is splayed open before you like a broken Valentine heart, the darker skin of her wet cunt shadowing the top of the cleft.

You lick the spot where her neck becomes her shoulder, taste new sweat and older, sharp tang over thicker salt, and grab at one tit with your free hand as you fuck forward, in and down and almost to the hilt.

The long, dirty *grunt* she gives, longer than your thrust, is real and broken and has nothing to do with yaoi’ifying Dirk or playing Mama Bad Touch. It’s just her, guttural, scraping like your dick is working against the clutch and flutter and soul-squeezing *compression* of her pussy. Your balls swing and slap, she switches her hips to and fro, back and forth, and when you pinch her nipple, then hoist her up higher, her moan is higher, long and crystal-sharp.

You find her clit with thumb and index finger, find it swollen way the hell up, and pull her higher until she’s nearly as upright as you, twisting so she can kiss your face, bite your jaw, and you jack her clit just as fast as you fuck her.

”Deeper, fuck, do *it*.” She pushes forward, back on her hands and knees, and you can only pinch and hold her clit this way, but you’ve got way more room to stroke in deep and hold it, stuffing her full.

You want to come - of course you want to - but you also want to stay here, right now, forever, fucking her, thrusting until she gags, until *you* gag, until you’re fucking her so hard it’s like your pushing your entire self into her, dick and spine and limb after limb.

Using the pad of your thumb, you rub the head of her clit as your thrusts jackrabbit, fast and messy, rub her until you know she’s coming. The whole angle inside her shifts, widens even as it pulls your dick in to the root and crushes it.

She’s sobbing and fucking herself back onto you, then forward into your hand, and you’re coming, this long ragged release that empties you brainstem to tippy toes.

And she’s still coming, shaking in your arms, head whipping back and forth, until she grabs your wrist and almost breaks it, pushing it away, touching herself.

”You’re beautiful, Mommy,” you tell her, right in her ear, as you tease her asshole with your wet thumb, stroke her crack and keep pushing your softening dick. ”Wanna be in you forever.”

Her head falls back against your shoulder. You slip out as she shudders and spazzes through one final orgasm. Her mouth has fallen open, black lipstick and red skin, lolling tongue, and she pitches forward, collapsing.

Not before you feel a gush on your hand, hot rapid liquid. As you fall onto the couch next to her, you taste that, too.

”Never been with a girl who could shoot,” you say when her breathing is starting to slow and she’s curling against your side. ”Pretty rad.”

”Liar,” she says, looking up at you. At some point, she lost her shades, and her flushed, sweaty face looks fragile, vulnerable. ”What about Terezi?”

”Point,” you allow. ”Meant human girls, though.”

She feels good, tucked against your side like this, head against your chest, your chin on the crown of her skull, her hair tickling your mouth whenever you speak.

If you ignore the stupid, obscene shit the two of you just pulled, this moment reminds you of nothing more than hours spent hanging with Rose on the asteroid: quiet and content, exhausted and trusting.

Too bad you’re a stupid fucking pervert with a newly awakened Mommy-kink. Kind of hard to enjoy the afterglow - hard, not impossible, that is.

Soon enough, Roxy gets up to make a drink. You tuck your stanky, sticky junk back into your jeans and light the roach you liberated from Gamzee.

”Mom?” you ask. ”Could do with a sandwich over here.”

From behind the bar, Roxy flips you off.

You hold the smoke in your lungs.

Pretty soon, your vision starts to short out.

Only a matter of time.