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Just Like That

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When you’ve got him in your lap like this, your faculties all go fuzzy and turn to static and all you can hear is your pulse throbbing away in your ears.

He’s warm against you, and it feels kind of weird and foreign and kind of really good at the same time.  It’s definitely something you are unaccustomed to, and your brain is racing and dragging along both at the same time, trying to dissect and make sense of these sensations. They aren’t new, that’s for sure, but they aren’t familiar either. When he wiggles just a little bit to get more comfortable, you end up tensing your stomach because wow that felt nice, and it’s so frustrating how he doesn’t even realize what he does to you.

Or if he does, he’s really good at hiding it.

His hands slide up over your shoulders, and they’re rough and a little clumsy, but that’s okay, you know he’s trying, and that has to count for something. You’ve never done this before, and you’re glad that he’s at least bold enough to wordlessly guide you. You mimic his motions and let your hands settle on his chest before you move them up and lace your fingers together behind his neck. He smiles at you and gives you one of the dorkiest giggles you’ve ever heard, and each musical note out of his mouth turns you to mush.

You return his smile hesitantly, and he reels himself into you and kisses you. Hard.

His kisses are a little sloppy and a little awkward, but he’s earnest enough and he makes a soft sound like a moan when you press back into him and that just unravels you even further. You can feel your heart kicking hard and fast against your ribcage and you swear you can hear it, but whatever sound it might be making is drowned out by those glorious little noises you’re getting out of him. It’s nice that he vocalizes; it kind of brings you home and makes you feel a lot less embarrassed when you start involuntarily purring and chirping at him when he moves lower and licks inquisitively at your gills.

You hadn’t expected it, but now that he’s got his mouth hot and wet over the sensitive slits, you’re pretty much beside yourself. Nobody’s ever even touched you there, so this swift shock of sensation is kind of blowing your mind in all the best ways possible. It tingles a little and god, his tongue is so warm against you – you feel like your own body might be heating up to fever and nothing you have experienced in the past has ever felt this nice before. Nothing could even begin to compare.

Your hands drop helplessly from his shoulders and down to his hips, and you hook your thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans as he works you with his mouth, sucking a kiss into the soft patch of flesh just to the side of your gills. It makes you shudder, and you sink your fangs into your lip to try and choke the moan that wants very much to escape. It’s useless though, a futile effort at best. The sound comes wavering from deep within your chest and spills through your teeth, much louder and much more desperate than you were expecting.

Your back arches and the flat of his stomach is pressed up against yours, and you can’t help it – you roll your hips up. You make him grind against you.

He is so ridiculously warm.

Now it’s his turn to let out one of those incredibly lascivious moans, and it surprises you a little because his voice is deeper now. It’s got this low, gravelly quality to it, and he responds readily. He grabs on to your right horn for purchase, and he presses his ass against you one more time. He’s teasing you, and god help you, you’ve never been more okay with being teased in your entire life. The soft palm circled around your horn squeezes rhythmically, and you’re sure that he’s got no idea what that feels like, but Christ on a cracker it’s nice, so you just have to lean into it.

“John—“

You punctuate his name with a long, deep purr as you lift your hips to meet his backside one more time. The friction of his jeans against your slacks is incredibly pleasant, but there’s something thick and writhing beneath your pants that says it’s not enough. The best part is that there’s something similar behind the denim of his jeans that says he agrees.

When you finally manage to disentangle your digits from his belt loops, your fingers immediately fall against the catch of your pants and you struggle with it just long enough that he notices. His mouth stops worshipping your neck, and he lifts himself off of you. You don’t mean for it to happen, but the loss of his warmth and weight drags a pathetic whine out of you, and you realize too late that you probably sound like one of those stupid plush toys that Jade collects.

Before you can open your maw to express regret for that obnoxiously unsexy sound, the carefully worded apology is erased clean from your mind. You look down and push your glasses back up to the bridge of your nose, and find yourself staring at an incredibly flushed, incredibly eager John Egbert who happens to be nestled comfortably between your thighs. He’s staring up at you with those too huge, too blue eyes, sharp white edges of his teeth peeking out from under his grin-curled lip. It is quite possibly one of the most endearing sights you’ve ever beheld, and you just want a moment to take a mental photograph of his face.

He decides that a few seconds is definitely enough time for you to stare at him, and he leans forward and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your pants. When he pulls down and no progress is made, he silently pats your thigh, and you get the message. Your arch your back up and lift your ass off of the couch, and thankfully that’s just enough room for him to begin sliding the striped fabric southwards. When he gets the offending article bunched around your ankles, you sit yourself back down and watch for his reaction through the fingers covering your face.

God, you should have taken time to think about this before you let him rope you into anything.

What if you’re too different?

What if he’s never seen a bulge or a nook before?

What if he gets weirded out or laughs or decides suddenly that he is definitely ‘not a homosexual’ whatever the fuck that means, and what if he –

“Whoa. Cool.

Oh god.

Oh god, no.

He’s smiling at it.

You managed to wrench your face out of your hand for just long enough to gauge his reaction, and it is definitely not what you had been expecting. It isn’t bad, exactly, but ‘whoa, cool’ is not what you were hoping for. You suppose it’s better than ‘Ew, gross’ or ‘I changed my mind, Eridan’, but this obnoxiously innocent, childlike wonderment he apparently has for your bulge is kind of the exact opposite of reassuring, and you try to cover yourself with the hand that isn’t shielding your face.

“Oh, god.” You hate yourself for not thinking this through. “It’s weird, isn’t it? It’s too glubbin’ weird for you. Jesus fuck, we don’t have… you don’t have to do this, John, let me just –“ You try to keep your stutter in check as you speak, but it’s pretty much useless. You’re embarrassed to the point of violet, and the color in your face is tangible, and wow, you really wish you would have at least told him about this or explained it or something before he started crawling into your lap like a desperate mewbeast. Before he started telling you how ready he was.

“No, it’s okay!” His voice is high in his throat and it’s got that very John-esque cheerful lilt to it, and that just makes you flush harder. “It’s okay, it’s just… different, that’s all.” He’s smiling at it again, and at you, and God, you just want him to do something. Do anything. Stop staring at it, please. You feel like you belong in a museum or a zoo, not on a couch with your matesprit wedged between your legs.

“I’ve never seen… you know, this… before.” He brings his fingers up, not close enough to touch, just close enough to tease. Unintentionally, your bulge moves and curls around his digits, and you groan at yourself. You couldn’t have stopped that if you wanted to.

“Whoa,” he says again. His eyes have gone even wider now, and he’s touching you – he’s actually touching you, petting you, feeling you and you are so helplessly useless and stupid. It’s not that what he’s doing feels bad exactly, but it’s more like he’s playing with you than trying to get you off. It’s infuriatingly cute and unsatisfying.

“John, please.” Okay, that sounded a lot needier than you had intended it to, but you get your point across just the same.

He stops torturing you with his feather-light touches, and again that grin cracks across his stupid pink face and you want to scream at him to please fuckin’ take this seriously. You know that screaming and making a scene won’t do any good, though. He has zero fucks to give, and you’ve resigned yourself to that fact a long time ago. Thankfully he listens to you this time, and makes at least somewhat of an effort to be more conscientious of what you really want.

He palms you gently, trying to figure out what it is that you like exactly, and yes, good -- that does feel nice. You sink into the cushions of the couch and another long purr revs up in the back of your throat, and your eyes go half-lidded as you watch him.

It’s with this slow, lazy and unpracticed kind of deliberateness that he presses his hand against your bulge, wraps his fingers around you and squeezes gingerly, trying to figure out what level of pressure gets what kind of noise out of you. He’s so good at being clueless and adorable, and it kills you that this time it’s genuine. Your eyes slip closed and your head falls back against the couch, and you finally manage to unwind yourself enough to maybe enjoy what he’s doing to you.

You’re hovering in this floaty, fuzzy world of not-quite-enough as he rubs his thumb along your length. Again, your fangs find your lip and you give a soft keen when he squeezes you just a little too tightly, but it feels so good because he’s the one doing it, and he’s so interested and dedicated to what he’s doing to you in this moment. You suspect that he’s done this before, maybe-- given the way he’s touching and learning and memorizing you. It might not have been with a troll, but he’s definitely less naïve and inexperienced than he lets on, and his hands don’t shake a bit.

You, however, turn into a quivering mess when you feel his other hand slide up along your thigh, and two of his fingers find your nook and press inside.

“Ohjesusfuck, John—“

“Is this okay?”

He looks up at you and you don’t even notice it, you’re too busy screwing your face into unattractive expressions and wrenching your fingers into the blanket on the couch. Fuck, that feels good, and yes, it’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s A-fuckin’-mazing, and you croon a little as he curls them up and presses them in a little further, filling you up in a way that makes you feel hot and cold all at the same time.

“Yes, yeah. It’s—Good, yes. Oh. Oh god.”

You hear your voice cracking like stereo to mono, and you whimper a little as he moves his fingers around, rubbing at the inside of you, sparking you like a flint. You’re panting now, and you feel your gills fluttering with each breath, and it’s so fucking embarrassing to come apart like this when he doesn’t even really know what he’s doing. He draws his fingers out and plunges them back in and starts up a gentle rhythm of in-out, in-out, and you spread your legs even wider for him without realizing it. That purr you’ve been carrying on with turns into something much louder, almost a growl, and you fight with yourself to keep it in check.

 You fail miserably.

He works you slowly and carefully, and the caution he’s exercising is both torturously wonderful and infuriating and all you want is more, but he’s not giving it to you. Your toes curl into the carpet and your feet lift a little, and you just can’t keep yourself tethered to the couch. You arch up and give him a different angle to work with, but instead of giving you that extra that you need, he does the most obnoxious fucking thing imaginable – he takes his hands off of you completely.

You respond with a groan and again, you hate how needy you sound. He must love it though, because he’s grinning at you and then he’s looking at his violet-slicked hand, studying his fingers like they’re some kind of puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet. He considers them for a few seconds more before he decides that the best course of action would definitely be to lick them.

What’s even more mind-blowing is that he then leans forward and licks you.

Your brain goes all static-noise and haze when you feel his tongue push against you, into you, so unbelievably warm and wet and thick and oh god, you’re moaning again, and he’s echoing your little calls as best he can with his face pressed against your nook. He’s tasting you, lapping you up, and you’re coming apart at every seam when he sucks against you.

You’re left shivering and shaking and right at the brink when he pulls away for a second time, and you flutter your eyes open to stare him down John Wayne style. You don’t just stop in the middle of doing something like that, it’s fuckin’ unconscionable. Not to mention you were so fucking close. John can be such a thoughtless ass sometimes.

Before your vision can focus properly, you realize that he’s standing and the fuzzy blue and pink silhouette of him is moving, and – yep, he’s definitely taking his jeans off. When he comes into focus he’s standing in front of you, buck-naked with a hand wrapped around his own… bulge? What do they even call that thing? He’s stroking himself slowly, and he’s looking down at you, and oh. Okay. So that’s what’s going to happen.

Two and two slowly begin to make four, and you realize that this is really going to go down. Or in. Well, at least he’s going to. He’s going to try to. You think. You hope. You’re so fucking nervous and  now you kind of get why he was staring at you and examining you earlier, because honestly, you’d like a chance to at least see what he’s going to put inside you before he actually does it. You swallow any words you had on your tongue and look up at him, hoping he knows what he’s doing.

“I don’t… really… I mean, is this okay?” His voice is as unsure as you’ve ever heard it, and it’s strange to hear him that way. He usually has this stupid, oblivious confidence about him but now he’s just a little lost, and to be honest, so are you.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Yeah, I… I think.”

You don’t actually know what you think.