Work Text:
To be totally fair, this is not what you expected when going over to Dave fucking Strider's house.
Looking back on it, you really weren't sure what the hell you expected, because he is strange and a fucking pervert and of course he'd do something like this, but you blame your prior lack of knowledge on your general purity. You're not a virgin — far from it, but you have standards. You expected Netflix, chilling, and maybe some Pizza Hut, or some take-out from that really cheap chinese place Egbert was raving about. You expected feet rubs, and maybe some homoerotic making out, and you expected to be treated like glass. You expected every romantic comedy fantasy that was humanly possible, and you wanted it all.
This though?
This?
Totally unexpected. Not that you mind — well, it's fucking weird, but let's take it a few fucking steps back here.
You go over to his hive… human house, knock on his door. He opens it, sets up the TV, brings out some soda for the two of you, even though he literally never drinks it. The man breathes apple juice. It's a little weird, considering it basically tastes like piss. You’d complained about it beforehand, but he’d brought up something about how you had alien taste buds, those of which could never even begin to understand the complexity of apple juice, and you flushed beet red and promptly ended that conversation.
You're in no position to judge.
Cue scene, you're halfway through some movie you’d practically begged you two watch, it's boring as fuck, because you’ve already seen it forty times in a row and you know exactly what the heroine is going to say, but Dave seems somewhat interested. Or maybe he isn't. You can't tell how he's feeling with those stupidly dark shades, but he never takes them off. They're like some security blanket for him.
Point is, you're fidgeting. You know where the bathroom is, and you're halfway through his drink (you already finished yours), but the movie is just starting to get to the rising action of it all and it'd be rude to stand up all suddenly. You can wait.
You’re polite, you have manners, and you take a thoughtful sip as you fight the urge to mouth the heroine’s current speech to redrom interest A, because that’d be a little embarrassing.
So you take another sip, and you fucking wait. Which was... looking back on it, a horrible choice. Really. Past Karkat, you are an idiot.
Time seems to fly quickly enough despite the pressure building in your gut and the fidgeting of your fingers, except somewhere in between the herione riding her horse away from the man that was supposed to be her soulmate, you ended up pinned against the couch, with the fucking shaded and blond, fucking annoying and cocky and coy and ridiculous — you suppress a growl as he presses his knee between your thighs, flush against your sheathe and ghosting over your nook.
Of course, his knee isn’t the only thing pressed to you. His mouth exists, and he’s currently maneuvering his lips against yours to not scrape his own thin lips over your blunt fangs, and you feel a shameful flick of your ears and hips in response. Still, despite your body’s obvious interest in this situation, the pressure and liquid in your gut is pressing against your seedflap, almost adding an invisible weight to your sheathe, and you’re not even sure you’re aroused, or you just have to fucking piss. You usually have manners, and usually you’d huff and fuss over this because it seems all so stupid, but right now — you have no shame. You lift your hips again, softly mewling against his mouth in a raspy tone at the slight press, before nudging his knee away, and moving to press your legs together instead.
Dave Strider may have pinned you down in this God awful position, and he may very well get in your nook tonight, but you won’t offer him the liberty of making you piss your fucking pants.
Point is, you need to go. Bad.
Dave Strider seems to not be so focused on that though, basically fucking your pliable and open mouth with his short, muscular and warm tongue as he lowers a calloused hand, and gently — yet somewhat forcefully, spreads your legs. You give in with a sigh, a relaxed rumbling reminiscent of a purr bubbling in your throat because his weight against your short and stocky build, the alien nature of his gentle skin and the appreciative strain in his neck when he fucking purrs in response… you enjoy it. You more than enjoy it — you love it, and despite the incessant need to fucking pee, you open up happy.
Some — and by some, you mean your moirail, the mutant with double horns and fucking sparks and the ridiculously lisp-ridden laugh — would call you a bottom bitch, and if they saw you like this, you’d concur.
At the very least, you’re happy to be in this position for him only.
And then his hand is back on your waist, and he's grinding the obvious tent in his skinnies against your slickening nook, angling his hips so that the fabric of his jeans ruts against the edge of your bone bulge, and it shouldn't feel so good, but something tells you that pressure in your stomach and seedflap isn't an impending orgasm. It's, hah, far from it.
You can hold it though, right? Just. Relax. This feels fucking great.
So you regrettably pull away from the kiss, squinting at the pink tinted saliva connecting your lips, because that’s absolutely disgusting actually... before lowering your head to his neck. Two can play at that game, and you know he owns not a single turtleneck.
You catch yourself kissing and sucking along the crook of his neck, while bucking your hips against his, and that shouldn't feel so good, God, it should be fucking disgusting and it is, but you continue, and the pressure is just right everywhere and your fucking head feels like it’s floating, the pressure it starting you make you and you give a last nip onto his freckled skin before pulling away, and throwing your head back on the armrest, panting.
"I, uh, hah, fuck, need to go. Use the fucking bathroom. I'll be back. Just, fuck, move."
You sound a bit desperate, usually raspy voice lifted to a pathetic whine and usually you’d simply not speak when you’re reduced to this, but you have now come to the striking realization that holding it will not work, and you would much rather not get all your fucking piss over Dave fucking Strider's couch. That's fucking social suicide, and you’d heard of the time your moirail only lasted 30 seconds. Just fucking, "Oh yeah, that's my matesprit, don't let him sit on the couch though, he likes to fucking piss on them, like some sort of human purrbeast."
Or maybe your thinkpan should fucking shut up.
Point is, you make a move to get up, and give Dave a little nudge — like, come on, you fucking bony alien, this is fucking weird and we can pick this up right after on a concupiscent platform once your bladder is empty like refined and well mannered matesprits do, but he doesn’t budge. He doesn’t move, whatsoever, and you feel every single possible emotion in the emotional handbook; disappointment, misery, blinding anger, you name it, and he tightens his hold on your hips, practically digging his fingernails into the tough skin and it sort of hurts, and lifts his head from your lips to press his lips into the single most shit eating grin he could muster, because he fucking has you trapped. You know that grin, you know it fucking well. It’s the grin you gave the screen when he texted you meaningless threats during that stupid fucking game, because you never took anything he said seriously.
It means war.
"You don't need to use the bathroom, dude."
You could punch him. You could bring your teeth to his throat and tear out his carotid, and you could put some force into a headbutt and gore him. Maybe you will, once your nook isn't as wet, clenching on nothing, and you’ll fucking break his jaw when he moves his knees from your swollen sheathe. You'll punch him so good, you'll — God, fucking hell, who fucking knows anymore. You scrunch your brows at him, about to argue, before just... trying to lift your knees to your chest instead, and close your legs.
You aren't successful.
Instead, that somehow reminds this fucking asshole that he has a job here, and you don't know what he's getting at, but once he starts grinding his dick against your sopping nook again, you let out a choked sob, and close your eyes.
"Dave, fuck, Strider, come on, please. "
You came here with the big guns, you came here with manners and decency and an empty bladder, and now you have resorted to begging. It's fucking embarrassing, and if he fucking tells anyone you’re going to gore him for sure.
And, he ignores you. Instead, he mouths at your neck, and starts going a bit faster, adding bits of pressure where he absolutely shouldn’t and it’s intentional, it has to be because he’s rutting his own bulge right against the root of your swollen sheath, and your bulge isn’t even fucking out yet, and you feel so dizzy and your chest hurts, and you’re panting.
You think you're crying. Your face is hot, your head is spinning and your chest is heaving frantically. You're kind of sweaty, and your bangs are sticking to your forehead, and your stomach hurts, and your legs are shaking.
There is no thought to this, no cohesive sense in your babbled sobs and pants, and you’re not sure if you’re begging him to let you piss, or you’re begging some God. You’re not sure anymore, you’re not sure of anything, and your abdomen feels heavy, and hot, and you’re definitely crying.
This may quite literally be the hottest thing you have ever done.
You almost feel bad, but your head is light, and heavy all at once, so you do the thing that makes the most sense, which is grabbing handfuls of Dave's shirt from his back, careful to not dig your claws into his back and cut his thin, supple human skin, and you hide your face in his neck to drown out your sobbing. This is weird, this is weird and it hurts and you’re not sure why it feels good, and you have to talk to your moirail about it because he’s done this to his own matesprit before and oh my God, they’re friends — Dave and him are fucking friends and this was definitely his fucking idea, and you’re crying into his freckled skin as he ruts faster, and you let out a strangled sob.
Time moves slowly as the pressure builds, and you can’t even separate pleasure from pressure.
After what feels like an eternity, he pulls away from your neck, lips red, and lifts his hips from yours, which gives you a rude reminder of the fact that you need to piss, but your head is spinning and you can barely narrow your eyes to his to so much as look at him properly, let alone speak.
Besides, what are words? You lost those a while back, they are now gone. You can only give him a small frown, a desperate little thing plastered between your red-tinted tears and flushed cheeks, and you see him scrunch his eyebrows, before smiling all coy once more.
"Karks, you... don't have to hold it. I just said you didn't need to go to the bathroom."
You’re allowed a second to gather your thoughts, and one single thing is outstandingly clear. You are going to fucking gore him.
Judging by his reaction — a satisfied laugh — you possibly gave him wide eyes, like he suggested the single most defrauding thing in existence, like he tainted your trollish innocence and absolutely destroyed you. You fight the urge to look down at where you’re currently at, and you ignore the throbbing of your nook and the added weight of your swollen sheath, and the piss you’re trying very hard to keep inside of your trembling body.
On one hand, you’re a troll, and stronger than him. You could push him off you and make a break to the bathroom, and maybe you’d find it quick enough.
On the other hand, he wants this, and his couch is made of leather. It wouldn’t be that horrible, and he’d take up the duty of cleaning it…
You narrow your eyes to the far distance, frowning sharply once you’ve sort of caught your breath, because now you’re agreeing with him. This is desperation, because you fucking have morals, and you are a decent fucking troll.
You’re not sure what else to say. You want to continue your mental monologue about how you have morals, and you have decency, but he presses his knee against your gushing nook and you suppress a whine, and you have no other fucking choice. He has forced you into this, and you’d be fucking lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it.
You raise your hands to wrap them around his neck and pull his face close to yours, and you’re hoping he’s gotten the hint. You’re waving the white fucking flag, you’re going to fucking piss yourself, you’re going to piss all over his damn couch because he asked, but he’d better get his shit together and make you fucking orgasm while it happens.
There's not much left in specifics to drone on endlessly about.
He raises his hands to cup your cheek, angling your head back so he could hover over you properly, before actually giving proper grinds against your nook and sheath, using enough force that you could practically feel your heart practically gushing up and down at the simple movement.
All it takes is five of those, and you fucking piss yourself with a whine as you bring your hands to his shirt, digging nails into the fabric with no qualms, and panting into his mouth at the sound of fabric breaking.
You wish that was the end of it. It’d be easier, if it was, but the second the pressure on your sheath lets up your bulge fucking slides out in one single, fluid movement, and suddenly there’s no pressure in your body anymore and only feel good, floaty warmth and tenderness and he grinds against your nook, and now your bulge, and you cum with a growl that you force back into your throat.
You’re out of it while your body tries to draw it out, nook painfully clenching around nothing as your bulge writhes, but you notice Dave’s thrusts suddenly halt and he gets shaky, and when you get your shit together enough to look up to him, he’s red in the face, and his jeans feel fucking sticky.
Sure, you felt weird about this at first, but all you can do is offer him a breathy exhale, because you’re glad he fucking enjoyed it… and you throw your head back against the armrest of the couch to catch your breath, and think of a proper statement that’ll chew his ass out.
You’re usually better at offending people, but your brain is swirly, and empty right now.
Point is, you have nothing to say right now. You feel good, and when he sits properly on your lap to give you a careful expression you pull him down by his neck, kissing him senseless.
He takes you to the shower, and he takes extra time washing your sweaty body, which you’re thankful for.
And then, while you're sleeping in his bedroom, on his plush, clean, soft bed, he's scrubbing the living fuck out of his couch with a mixture Dirk had recommended.
Life is good.