Chapter Text
You are John Egbert, and as ridiculous as it sounds, you are trying to get pregnant.
No, you are not crazy; you are perfectly aware that you are male and therefore lack the necessary anatomy required for this task. It's your husband who's the crazy one, it's him. Dave Strider is dead set on having children with you, and (much to your chagrin) remains purposefully ignorant of the impossibility. You sigh as you flop onto your bed, preparing for your triweekly attempt at conception.
Dave helps you unbutton your shirt and presses kisses upon every inch of newly-revealed skin. You sigh a little at the warmth of his hands and lips. His hands near the end of your shirt and his lips pause at your waist, whispering a litany of incomprehensible words to your lower midriff. You don't know what good talking to your (nonexistant) uterus is supposed to do, but Dave murmurs to it, only pausing to kiss your belly in a way that sends shivers across your skin.
He doesn't stop, much to your frustration. You are getting kind of horny from the way Dave keeps telling your belly how he's gonna fill it up with his cum, so it'd better get ready to carry his child.
This is getting to be ridiculous. There isn't even anything there, geez! Because you are totally male and definitely don't have a uterus. You slide a hand into his hair and roughly fist it, getting impatient. He ceases his babbling and gives you a look that very clearly says, “what the fuck?”
“Can we please get on with it?” you complain, shifting your hips in discomfort. “Doing that isn't going to help, Dave!”
“Jesus fucking Christ, John, have some patience here,” you feel Dave's smirk against your skin. “I know you can't wait to have some Strider dick in you, but I know what I'm doing. Don't worry about a thing, I'll take care of you soon.”
He punctuates this with another kiss and rubs the part of your stomach right above your ovaries (or where they would be if you had any). You fight the urge to moan in comfort--shut up, everyone loves a good belly rub-- and fail epically. Dave's hands are warm and callused on your bare skin and you are pretty sure your erection is rising up to poke Dave in the face.
His hands still for a minute, giving him ample time to unbutton your pants with his teeth and pull the zipper open, leaving only the thin layer of your boxers between your cock and the vastness of your bedroom. You shudder a little bit from the cooling sensation.
His hands resume their action as he begins to mouth at the front of your boxers, his weight unfortunately holding your hips down (with good reason; you would rather not crash your crotch into his teeth again).
His shades press insistently into your hips and you reach your fingers towards his face to pull them off, as they're pointy and uncomfortable against soft flesh. You lay them by your own on the nightstand before returning your hands to Dave's hair as he pulls down your boxers.
His hands slide off your midriff, and you feel cold for a second before Dave envelops you in the wet heat of his mouth, taking in almost all of your still-rising cock. A perfect distraction for the canola-oil-slicked finger that he tries to sneak up your ass (he still can't pull one over the pranking MASTER).
You'd switched over from regular lube a long time ago, at Dave's insistence. Apparently, some lubricants could actually hinder your attempts to get pregnant. And he couldn't have that. You'd roll your eyes at that thought if your eyes weren't already too busy rolling into the back of your head.
“Oh, yes,” you moan, arching your back into Dave's crooked finger. It's located that spot, the one that makes you see stars. “Oh, Dave, yesssss.”
He flexes the tip of his index against it again before withdrawing and returning, this time with two digits. They flex and stretch your passage, though you're still pretty loose from the day before yesterday.
Dave's eyes close for but a few seconds as he gives your dick a long, hard suck before releasing it from his mouth, a thin line of saliva connecting your fully-sprung erection and his lips. He removes his fingers from your ass, too, and you feel horribly empty as Dave pauses to pull himself out of his sweatpants and slick up his cock.
You watch him with a hungry expression, one of half irritation and half starvation as he lines himself up to your entrance. (He's smirking, that bastard.) You groan in annoyed relief as he finally slides into you, pressing in from a missionary position. Your legs wrap around his lower back, just enough to keep him from suddenly backing out of this to tease you and, as an extra precaution, you swing your arms around his neck. He doesn't move for a while, and you know he's doing it just to piss you off.
“Dammit, Dave, just move already,” you grumble in his general direction. He snickers childishly at you; you stick your tongue out in reply.
You're surprised when he takes your tongue into his mouth, clumsily caressing it with his own. He still kind of tastes like your dick, but also something that's distinctly Dave. His hips begin to gyrate, swirling and pulling back and pressing in and grinding his hips against yours before repeating the whole process over again.
Sometimes he brushes your prostate, sometimes he doesn't-- you try to talk him through it with heavy gasps of, “Ah! Left, hn, no, go back,” almost into Dave's mouth. He (finally) finds it, but he's a huge douche and starts missing it on purpose, now that he's re-familiarized himself with its location.
Some lousy pregnancy website said that simultaneous or nearly-simultaneous orgasm optimized chances for conception, and guess what Dave decided had to happen every time? Not that you're complaining. Just thinking about it actually kind of gets you hot. He brushes it again, just to give you a taste of pleasure, and you arch into him with a quiet groan.
He's getting closer, you can tell, when he grabs your dick and begins jerking you off (in perfect time, as always). You're breathing heavily, but you aren't breathless quite yet-- you're going to make Dave lose control of his aspect first, this time. You swear it to yourself as he picks up the pace for both hand and hips. Your blunt nails anchor you to his back while your buttocks slap back against his balls.
“Shit, fuck, John!” he moans, swiping his thumb over the tip of your cock.
Then he kisses you again, and once more, wins your little competition. You are left winded by his impassioned kiss; he still maintains that sense of rhythm, though he's upped the tempo.
He changes course just a little to aim for your prostate and oh. You bite down on your lip and your back arches as you meet him, thrust for thrust, making muffled noises that sound suspiciously like whimpering. He lifts your hips into his lap, gripping them almost tightly enough to bruise, and goes wild.
The hand on your waist tightens minutely as the one on your dick loses rhythm. His cock presses against your prostate every thrust now, each motion powerful and deep. Your moans rise together in a harmony of “OhgodDavepleasefuckyes” and “ShitfuckJohnI'msofuckingclose” as he slams into you one last time and buries his seed deep in your body, still grinding all the way through. You explode from an overload of pleasure but half a second later, your ass convulsing and milking him of his semen.
You pant heavily, your own cum spewed gracelessly across your chest, as Dave pulls out and rests your sore hips on a pillow, tilting your body so that you can feel his cum sliding deeper into you, an oddly satisfying feeling. He cleans the both of you (thank goodness for Wet Wipes) and finally getting in bed with you to cuddle a bit before going to sleep.
His hand rests on your stomach, and you worry-- if he expects you to have his kid, will he be disappointed when he realizes you can't? You want a kid with Dave, you really do. You just don't want to get your hopes up that you'll conceive; you know it's impossible. You fall asleep, knowing just what Dave will write on that dumb blog of his tomorrow:
Day thirteen; John is still not pregnant.