Work Text:
It's a long fucking time before the concept of home pries its way back into your thinkpan after the Game releases its hold.
The two adjacent respiteblocks you and Dave had settled in back on the meteor had managed to become something like home for the last stretch of the journey to the new session. The rooms were off the beaten path of the facility, kind of annoyingly out of the way actually; you were both apparently incapable of thinking ahead about the basic inconvenience of late night pantry raids for snacks or how long the walk to Vriska’s scenic “War Room” was going to be.
But it was quiet and away from everyone, and the slow discovery of what it was like to cohabitate with someone wasn't something you'd trade for the fucking universe. Glimpses of Dave's habits when he was on his own, the good in the bad, were equally treasured, from his distracted singing echoing off the walls of the abultion block to his habit of dropping his crap randomly around the room instead of in a pile like a sensible, considerate fucking roommate.
Leaving the meteor was hard. Your little collection of secrets and soft moments was put to a fucking stop in the new universe when Dave offered his alternate universe brother-lusus the top floor of your shared can house. It'd been hard not to be upset about that until Dave whispered to you one late night, his face inches from yours, that it was just until Dirk was feeling better and found someone else to live with, he didn't want the guy on his own, dude's brain was like a steel trap of bad thoughts and he shouldn't be alone with ‘em.
Fine. You could understand that.
And Dirk was an unfailingly conscientious roommate, attempted to keep scarce when you and Dave are spending time together, and cleaned up after himself. It was fine.
But jegus you were also relieved when Dirk and Jake finished having a solid week of feeling jams (and about three separate shouting matches). Catching them making out on your sofa was almost a joy because you could feel the eviction on the tip of your tongue.
Next month, your little can house was all yours. Finally.
==>
There's ripple effects of Dirk's presence, but ripples eventually drift away, and leave something quiet and familiar in their wake. Everything shifts into something more honest in the walls of your little cylinder house. Eventually the morning comes when Dave arrives downstairs in just his sleep shirt and boxers, not a thing else, and makes himself comfortable against your back as you make cinnamon toast. You can't even feel his glasses hanging from the neck of his shirt, the place he keeps them when he’s unsure if someone might show up and surprise him.
This is the thing you wanted back. Now, it feels like you've won. You survived pretty much the worst odds imaginable over and over, and your reward is your ridiculous human slung over your back like a beloved, faded torso shield.
And his mouth against your ear without any chance of someone walking in to interrupt. That's the important part, really.
==>
Routine comes creeping back in. Routine, more and more often, looks like Dave careen into your space like an amorous magnet, latching onto whatever limb he can and taking ownership. It feels like his weight solid against yours. It sounds like the way his voice gets when you’re alone, soft and affectionate, just loud enough for you to hear. It’s hands rubbing the sensitive base of your horns as you vent about the trials of running Can Town and how Kanaya still hasn’t picked the perfect cave for the Matriorb. It’s the quick kisses Dave presses to your cheeks periodically through the day, there and gone with no demand for reciprocation. It’s Dave not having to nudge his glasses down his nose to wink at you because he’s left them on the bedside table. It's Dave singing along to whatever human music he's got playing any given day and the stupid way he oversells the sappy love songs, serenading you as obnoxiously as possible just to watch you squirm.
It's also the long lines of his legs when he just forgoes his jeans around the house, just wearing his quadrant-print boxers, the longsleeved undershirt of his god clothes, and a peaceful expression when it's just the two of you and you're not planning on going out.
That feels like winning. You are learning to live with the feeling more and more, like building up a poison resistance.
==>
After a particularly long day of dealing with the apparent queen of Prospit and her adamant insistence that you get your ass in gear and start up a postal service for Can Town—
Can Town isn’t big enough for a postal service! Who the fuck is going to mail a package when everyone is within a fifteen minute walk of each other! It's stupid, but she was once a terrifying demon with the power of the Green Sun fueling her. You’re the leader of the new world, and she’s got a sword built for regicide, and that makes her pretty fucking persuasive—
After that day, you return home and find Dave up in the top floor room that was originally Dirk's. In his absence, the empty space is filling up with Dave's things. The photography stuff came first, just photos suspended on clothesline and twine strung from the ceiling and a blackroom that was a simple sectioned off space behind a dark curtain. But now he's got his turntables set up as well as a lot of... complicated computer shit that you've never seen before.
Dave's laying under the cinder block table. You kick his foot. "What the fuck's all this stuff?"
"Ow," Dave says quietly, and shimmies out from under the table. "Hi, babycakes, how was work?"
"Annoying. Like it is every day. If I didn't have a denizen's will making me do this shit, I'd quit. The Mayor's adorable face is the only thing keeping me sane," you answer by rote, then, with exaggerated patience: "What are you doing?"
"Did you know that the little chess people only listen to one type of music? The dersites have this really oldtimey jazz thing, and that's it, it's Louis Armstrong or bust, and I mean who doesn't a serving of Pops, but that's one fuckin' lopside food pyramid. If the musical FDA were here, they'd be worried about the little guys exceeding their daily requirements for brass," Dave says, taking your hand and letting you pull him upright.
"Okay," you say, completely aware Dave does not need your input to keep on rolling with whatever the fuck he's talking about this time.
"And the other ones, man. Apparently the only tunes that ran through the golden halls of the yellow moon were this fucked up mix of folk-disco. It was constant Saturday Night Fever remixed by way of Willie Nelson, and it's sad."
"Right." You keep your hand around Dave's and lead him along to the door to take him downstairs.
"So Dirk and I are going to start a radio station, because if these little carapacians don't get some of their horizons expanded, we're just damn well gonna die of despair. It's so fuckin' sad. Been working on building the equipment all day. I gotta get Jade to help us set up the tower through. Dirk's gonna ask Roxy to use her weird Void magic to get us some things we need. Luckily Dirk knows, seriously, like everything? About radios? Because I don't even know what FM or AM stand for."
"Uh huh." The sound of his voice is unfairly fucking soothing. It's nice to know what he's up to while you're gone, that he's having fun while you're trying to figure out how to make this new universe function. A microcosm of normalcy is always waiting for you back here, and it helps after the more annoying days.
As you reach the bottom floor, Dave's hand slips from yours. His arms go around your neck, fingers curling around your opposite shoulders. He floats along after you, shoving his nose against your hairline. "Hey. Missed you."
A smile escapes from your custody and crosses your face involuntarily. There's no one around, but you duck your head anyway, cheeks hot. "You too. Glad one of us is having fun."
"What, like you aren't?" His hard laugh stirs through your hair. "You're everyone's boss. A big scary space snake lady held the universe hostage until Kanaya promised you’d be Mr. Leader Guy. This is like the fucking dream for you."
When he's leaning in like this and you know how his flying shit works, it's easy to reach back, hook an arm around his waist and pull him around, drifting in front of you. He rearranges easily, touchy and dragging his mouth against your cheek. His lips are dry and soft, like he's been using that tube of stuff to keep them unchapped. Oh. Some of the irritation leftover from your day dissolves like sugar in water.
Face to face, Dave shoves his glasses up into his hair and leans in to give you a peck on the lips. "Hi."
It's useless and silly, you've been home for ten minutes now, but your whole face heats and you mumble, "Hey," back and tuck your free hand against his hair to kiss him. It's a little odd. He's weightless like this, and when you want to drag him in, pin him between your arms and hold him against your chest, you still with a weird instinctual worry. Like this, he feels fragile, bones hollow like a bird's. So you just let him hold onto you and drag you into a meandering kiss that feels like it's pulling the tension right out of your chest.
Lips shiny, eyes crinkling at the corners, Dave smiles at you after and says, "Hi," again. Fuck, it's cute.
"Yes, I heard you, you said hi." Grabbing a more secure hold of him, you pull him over to the sofa, shaking your head like this is some huge hardship for you. "How are you going to be a disc jockey human when you're such a broken record?"
"Good one," Dave says, snickering.
When you're settled down, Dave does whatever trick it is to stop floating around like a smug lazy prick and sits across your lap, heavy and solid again. Your legs are going to start hurting eventually, but for now it’s fine. Dave mumbles vaguely about his plans for his radio show, how someone needs to figure out cell phones for the carapacians so he can do call in segments or else he knows it'll just be Roxy and John prank calling him all day, how he's got ideas for catchphrases already, how you should totally be a guest and give love advice, all this between kisses.
You keep busy dragging your hands up and down his back and kissing back, feeling like you might never stop. Dave bends under your hands, sometimes letting out little pleased noises as you press in against his spine. "Fuck, do that more," he breathes, eyes shutting. "Ow, yes, there, ow."
"Ow, what the fuck, why ow?"
"Nngh, no, no, don't stop, why," Dave whines as you lower your hands. "I mean, Dirk and I built that whole awesome DJ booth up there, dude. M'back hurts a bit. It's not a big deal, but you should totally lay hands on some more because that feels nice."
You grumble about how long your day was, and how much postal planning sucks and how Jade still hasn't enlarged the cans you need for the lake expansion of Can Town and how being the emperor of the universe is hard, and Dave doesn't understand, but you already know you're going to cave to his whims when he juts out his still-reddened lip at you in a human pout.
It's too fucking awkward with him on your lap, though. Instead, you tell him to strip and lay down on the sofa. He's all too eager to yank off his shirt and kick off his jeans. "Hey, don't you dare," you tell him as his hands tug at his boxers. "You're not going to rub your unsheathed bulge all over the cushions."
"Dude, unfair," Dave says, but leaves the boxers on before pretty much throwing himself onto his front across the sofa. "You didn't make humans with bone bulge sheath things, don't blame me."
You're never going to live down Past You running his mouth about being literal god of the humans. Dave never lets you forget it. Argh.
There's more than one way to shut him up, though, and climbing on to sit astride him is at the top of the list. The excited noise that comes out of his throat when you wriggle into place on his legs, just under his ass, is gratifying. He folds one arm under his head, turning enough to smile back up at you.
"I swear to god, if you say 'hi' one more time," you mutter.
"Hello nurse. Gonna make me all better?" he says instead, and laughs when you lightly slap his shoulder.
A long plane of skin is laid out for you. His posture pole is visible, a long bumped line bisecting all that skin. Everything shifts with each breath Dave takes, and you place your palms down against his ribs.
The next breath hitches, and Dave's eyes shut, lips parted, and wow, okay you're going to do this. He can pay you back later, but right now you drag your palms up to the top of his back, claws light against his shoulders, and pull them slowly down. The points of your nails trace every slight contour of his back. His sigh is deeper, twinged with noise, the beginnings of a groan.
"Mm." Dave makes the phenomenal effort to open one eye just enough to look at you. "Nails. Feel nice."
That's... good to know. You suck in a breath and nod. Lifting your hand, taking as much care as you can, you press your claws just barely against his thin, delicate skin and pull your hand down.
Under you, Dave's legs shift, restless. Four pale, pale pink lines appear on his back in the wake of your claws. You bite your lip.
"I thought you wanted a backrub, you were complain so fucking much," you mumble, doing it again, trying not to delight too much in the little pink lines, the way Dave goes all tense for a second then relaxes further, one arm dangling utterly limp off the sofa.
"I said, like, one thing about my owies, dude, don't exaggerate." His words trail off as you cup his sides and rake your claws with the lightest touch you can manage down over the lines of his ribs and to the tender parts near his stomach. That pulls an actual moan from him, another restless shift under you. "Jus' want you to touch me, don't really care about the how, Karkat."
Thank fuck his eyes are closed. You nearly bite open your lip at the sharp prickle of desire that washes through you, like a dam breaking in your chest. You know this already, he's told you before, he cares and he wants you so desperately he wants to invent new words for it because nothing in his head encompasses the thing in his heart when he looks at you,
but it still feels new every time he reminds you. Still the same molten dripping thing flooding your veins.
You're the only one who gets to see him like this, spread out and trusting. He wants your frankly pretty fucking deadly claws under his armor, wants the feeling of being safe like this. And you eat it up. You want it too, want to come home to this every day, to this Dave who smiles easily and kisses like a perigee's eve gift to unwrap, want someone to leave all their vulnerabilities out in the open for you to press your clawtips to with caution and careful affection.
Not someone. Him.
Before the pink lines intersect too much, before your markings on him are too plentiful to obscure it, you careful drag your name against his skin. You even tell yourself you’re being subtle until you catch Dave hiding his smile.
Because he's careful with you too, he doesn't say anything about it. Just sighs again, rubbing his cheek against the throw pillow under his head, definitely moaning now. His fingers curl, the only sign of movement as you thumb his posture pole, tracing every separate bone, not bothering to keep count. You can count another time.
Dave sighs your name. It's probably the greatest sound the new universe has been graced with, soft and quiet and a little rough from that weird blend of interested drowsiness you know you're pushing into his body.
If you could sink into his body, join him in that place you're building together, you would.
There's the next best thing, though. Given the way Dave keep moving under you, rubbing against your perch on his legs and moaning, you think he won't mind. And he just wants you to touch him, any way you can.
Continuing to pet his back, retracing some of the lightening lines on his back to make him all pink again, you hook two fingers into the waistband of his boxers. Tug down, over the curve of his ass, down as far as you can without dislodging yourself.
Dave gives you an encouraging hum, spreads his legs languidly, as far as he can without falling off the sofa.
Your bulge is already out, just pressing against the front of your underwear and pants. It's not the restless coil you have to wrangle when you and Dave are in bed grinding against each other eagerly or the squirming mess that awaits Dave whenever he wants to use his mouth on you. It's just pressing, it's just a tense pressure as you unzip and shove your clothes as far out of the way as you can. You sigh as you work free, relieved, and feel Dave shiver under your hand. You rake your claws down his back again, enjoy the deeper groan he muffles.
Both hands back on his skin, you lift yourself just a little bit on your knees, shifting closer, your eyes sliding shut as your bulge immediately insinuates itself against Dave's body. He feels so warm, so good, and you lean forward, weight on your hands, pressing the heels of your hands into him.
"Mmmm, K'rkat, yeah," Dave slurs.
Working him open for you is almost unconscious, dreamlike. Well, better than any dreams you've ever had. It'd be ridiculous to admit that Dave's better than anything you'd ever dreamed of, but technically it's true. So you don't say it out loud, just write it into his skin and pretend his writhing under you is him absorbing it deep into his bones.
It takes time to work your bulge into him, and you're in no rush. More and more, Dave seems to be, huffing and going from contented moans to that whining noise he does when he wants more. The language Dave speaks in moments like this, just bits of your name and please and the softest obscenities, is your favorite, and you're becoming fucking fluent in it.
You wait, listening to it as your bulge pushes against him, opening him up by degrees, just barely rocking your hips closer to help it along. Breathy panting cracks into another octave, a breathy whine you definitely know well.
The back of Dave's neck is open and bare for you, so much fucking trust. Your hand fits there nicely, and you squeeze, feel the shocked gasp as Dave sucks in a breath when he feels your claws against his softest skin. Holding on there, putting a little weight forward on your hands, on his neck and shoulderblade, you sink further into him, drenched in heat from your horntips to your toes, his groan shuddering through you like a tuning fork.
Pailing a human isn't like pailing another troll. Or, based on what you're read it's not. You don’t have any personal experience, but your instinct is to just get close, fit your hips to his and letting your bulge twine around his and squeeze until you’re at your limit. But that doesn't work for Dave usually, and when he mumbles your name like he's out of his thinkpan, barely managing half the letters, you translate it into the request it is and brace yourself to move your hips. Slide back, against every instinct you have, to rock back in, making him curse and moan, back out, in again until he's clutching at the sofa, mouth open against the cushion.
It's strange, but he clenches tight around you, making your eyes press shut as you keep going; it's fucking, not pailing, and you're getting pretty good at it, with practice and enthusiastic feedback.
Dave's muscles tense like he wants to push back against you, but his hands don't catch on the sofa, he has no grip, and you keep on, driving his voice into muffled cries.
When Dave clenches hard on you, you can't help cursing and squeezing the back of his neck. That just makes him louder, mouth pressed hard against the sofa, nails dug hard into the fabric.
But when it passes, when he goes still again, he's so utterly wiped out. His eyes flicker softly, mouth open wide as he catches his breath, and not a single tense muscle remaining in his entire body. His arms hang lax, his chest moving deep and steady as he breathes.
It's that, and the hot shock of intimate pride that crashes into you. Your bloodpusher is racing, you have this strange beautiful human at your mercy and your name on his skin, and you love him so fucking much it flares in your blood, like a fever you're learning to live with.
You open your eyes, panting as you bury deep into him, bulge writhing desperate for pressure and friction. You find Dave looking at you, the barest peek of red between his lashes, and it all rolls out of you at once.
It fills him, then drips down the curve of his legs, between you, and fuck you've ruined another fucking sofa, not again but you're too busy to care right now.
Dave grunts when you lay across him. Fitting together is pretty comfortable, and his whole 'boneless lazy prick’ routine has a lot of appeal now. He's soft under you, and you mimic his sprawl eagerly, your arm hanging off the sofa to tangle your fingers with his, your face tucked into the space between the sofa back and his hair, warm and dark and nice.
"Oh my god," Dave groans. "Do not fall asleep, Karkat, dude."
You bite his ear. "Shut up. I just gave you a galactic class pailing and you're already.... way too coherent, just shush."
Dave's laughter always sounds nice, but it feels great under your chest. "Yeah, you're the champion at sex, it's you, your gold medal is in the mail. Or will be once you build a postal system. Don't sleep, dude, you are heavier than you look."
You go to bite again, but Dave squirms around, shifts until he can turn his head the other way and kiss you instead. It's awkward and he can only reach the corner of your mouth and your chin, but he does it anyway. "S'nice."
"Yeah," you agree, shutting your eyes. "Just... five minutes...."
Dave gives you five minutes, then rolls you both off the sofa.