Archive of Our Own ^beta

When you watch your old performances, see your old movies, or listen to your old songs, you ache inside. You ache so deep that you expect your chest to crack open and your heart to fall right out of your chest, it never does though. No, instead you just chug whatever’s left of the nice red you found in the liquor cabinet and turn off the tv.

You were someone once. More than someone, you were a prodigy, a pioneer of film and music. People used to mob you just for the chance to shake your hand or get your autograph. There was a time where Dave Strider was the name of the freshest pancake out of the pan, too hot to dare to get close to but also absolutely desired by everyone in the kitchen. Now you’re nobody, and you’ve been nobody for five years. Get married Dave. You’re only thirty Dave, everyone would kill to have a girl like Jade. She’s really going to go places with that whole ectobiology business, Dave. Come on Dave, don’t you want to lock her down while you’ve got her? When should we expect kids? Aren’t you two going to live together now that you’re married, Dave? Dave you really shouldn’t be away from home so much. Dave don’t you love your wife? Don’t you want her to be happy? Don’t you want her research to pan out? Aren’t you willing to make sacrifices for the woman you love? Dave she’s got her PhD and all you do is make movies, c’mon support her with school, be there for her. Who the fuck do you think you are?

You’re fucking nobody now.

Well, that isn’t true. You’re Dr. Jade Harley, leading researcher in the field of ectobiology,’s husband. Every press conference you appear at with her that’s all you’re recognized as, you’re lucky if anyone even knows that your last name isn’t actually Harley. It’s petty. It’s petty and you’re bitter and Jade is a great wife even with late nights working at the lab.

You really ought to quit acting like a jealous teenaged girl who just saw her best friend wear a shirt that shows off the newfound cleavage she got over the summer and now you can’t stand to be around her nor can you stand the attention the boys give her that used to belong to you. It isn’t fair to her nor is it fair to your relationship. One that was, admittedly easier when you were able to spend months on location filming while she studied to get her PhD. Striders aren’t meant for cohabitating, especially not so closely. At least showing up at home after six months to a year made things feel fresh. The takeout and cuddles had an air of peace, something that you could’ve missed when you were away. Now all you feel is bored. You’re so bored all of the time. There is never a moment where you’re not bored, except when you’re drinking, maybe.

The drinking is a habit that you didn’t expect to pick up, that’s a Lalonde thing, not a Strider thing, and despite your appreciation for the drinks your dear half sisters can put away you could never really see the appeal of it. Even when Roxy was getting sober, she would talk about drinking like it was this magical thing that you just couldn’t stop once you started. It didn’t make any sort of fucking sense. At least, before it didn’t. Now, you’ve come to realize there are two kinds of drinkers, the ones who do it because there’s nothing else to do and the ones who do it because doing anything else is too much. Roxy and Rose drink (or rather, drank) because other things are too much. You drink because there isn’t anything else to do. You spend all day in your little castle in the middle of the desert waiting for your wife to come home while you wait by the pool like some sort of trophy wife, which is what you sort of are now. No more jet setting for Dave, no no, all you do is stay home with Bec and take him out on walks. It’s horrible, it’s gotten to the point that the wives in your neighborhood try to talk to you like you’re one of them. You absolutely loathe it. You loathe yourself. You loathe the fact that you’ve locked yourself here and Hollywood doesn’t want to let you back in because you left when they wanted you the most. Now there are new promising directors, ones who will fly off to Sweden or Jamaica or China to film more Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff films than they even need. They didn’t care about the artistry like your audience did, the layers of irony you so painstakingly worked on in the most ironic of fashions. No, all they wanted was you, and you wanted to give yourself to them, but then you got married and suddenly everyone from Jade’s side of the family was in your ear while yours was too busy to realize, and then you left. The Strilonde empire, one full of creatives who did nothing but the best, new Hollywood money, one that was something good, something real all gone now because some assholes from the middle of nowhere made you feel like maybe you weren’t doing the marriage thing right. You go to grab the bottle and find that it’s empty.

You’re staring at yourself now, staring right into the blank face of your ultra wide HD flat screen that you never use except when you’re feeling extra pitiable, like today. Jade never uses it either, you don’t know why you even have it really. All you know is that this tv is basically a symbol of all the things you hate about your life. It’s surrounded by old awards and pictures of you and Jade when you were younger. It’s the perfect shrine to mock you, it’s sort of ironic. A man who loves the screen so much can’t bear to look at it. That’s just great, Dave. At least your chokehold on irony is there for you. It can be like a lover, someone you’re having a steamy affair with, probably younger than you, but not too young. Irony will be some sexy graduate student who remembers your movies and remembers how good they were and will make you feel like maybe you aren’t a living ghost at age 35 when really the world should still be your oyster instead of rotted chum. Irony is the only kind of affair you can be having anyway, anything of the non-metaphor variety is something you can’t do-won’t do because that would mean hurting your lovely wife. Your intelligent, lovely wife who you married at thirty and have lived to regret it nearly every day since and you miss the days of dark nightclubs and firm hands.

Wait. P>

Wait wait wait.

You aren’t supposed to think things like that.

No, you don’t think anything like that.

You don’t think things like that because they aren’t true and your little experimentation phase you were in when you and Jade got together is over now that you’re married. You concluded you didn’t even like guys that much anyway, If you were gay then you’d probably be like Dirk who can’t even pretend that he’s had a thought about a woman’s appearance that wasn’t some sort of aggressive critique that he would spare any other human person, so no, you’re not gay. You love your wife. Sexy grad student irony is not a guy and you’re just drunk fantasizing.

Speaking of drunk, you push yourself off of the couch and grab yet another bottle, mostly something to sip on while you avoid even thinking about whatever bullshit movie they’re filming for SBAHJ. You heard that they brought some new asshole on the scene, your complete opposite to say the least, he’s young and fit and wants to make SBAHJ into an adventure comedy series with none of the same nuance. It’s awful. Of course, you had written it with the intention of comedy (that of the most ironic kinds of laughter were incited by) but he wants the vision to be something entirely different. It’s awful. A twenty-something film school graduate whose only other directive effort was put into a reboot spin off of Indiana Jones that ate shit.

You’re gripping the fabric of the couch, trying to resist the urge to throw something. Throwing something, no matter how upset you are, is totally not your thing. No. You need to cool off. You need something to drink.

You grab another bottle from the case and pour yourself a tall glass before draining it even faster. You want more, ironically. In the most ironic way possible you want to get shit faced and avoid the very quickly overflowing dam of feelings you’ve been avoiding for the last half a decade-no, probably even longer.

You need to get out of the house, away from the tv, away from all of your past mistakes, but you can’t face anyone else. Not when you’re like this. You grab your new companion and wonder if he should get a name before you entirely empty him of his contents, but no, that’s stupid. More than stupid really, not even stupid enough to be funny. So instead of thinking on that, you walk into the backyard, and look at the beautiful expanse of your pool. It’s oppressively hot, and you’re already sweating bullets.

You don’t pause for a moment when you start taking off your clothes. Even if your housewife neighbors see your dick out, it’s your private property, not your fault if they caught an eyeful of Lil Dave. You kick your clothes off to the side before diving in. It’s refreshing to say the least. Even more so when you've got your little friend with you. You start swimming laps and relish in the way that your head clears. Things are fine now-you’ll be fine now

You end up dragging in one of the pool loungers in with you and climb atop it with your bottle, drinking until your arms are too heavy and your eyes are practically already closing. That’s how you end up asleep on one of the floating loungers, sun beating down on you with Lil Dave sitting right in the open.

That’s how Jade finds you, wine flush and out cold with your dick out and an empty bottle of wine floating around in your vicinity.

How absolutely graceful of you Mr. Strider.

She doesn’t mind it though, she wouldn’t. At least, not the part about you in the pool with your dick out. You can’t be sure if she knows that the bottle floating around you was opened today or if she’s seen the other one next to the couch.

Jade isn’t the type of girl to get flustered by much anymore, not since the two of you have been together. It’s something you like about her, though that is to say one of many things. Jade really is the coolest girl you know, and she’s your wife. You love your wife, The Coolest Girl You Know and she loves you. She loves you enough to wake you up from your now nap at sunset and you realize that you slept long enough for a completely uneven tan. Then, once you’re out and have tried to discreetly get rid of the still mostly full bottle of red that you know she saw when she came out. You ask her about her day, just like a good husband.

You feel like a fraud, a kid at a big meet for the debate team who never even showed up to practice. You totally though you were arguing some sick ass points, but it’s dawned on midway through you have no fucking clue what the fuck is coming out of your mouth nor are you entirely certain that it’s coherent. Then, the judges and your opponent start staring at you and you realize all you’ve been doing is admitting your darkest secrets instead of arguing about why the use of fossil fuels in the United States does more harm than good.

”There’s an awards dinner coming up soon and I’d like you to be my date, if you’ll have me that is?”

She grins at you real big and that just makes you feel like even more of a douchebag for thinking like this. You smile right back at her anyway and sit beside her on the couch. The tv is still there, so is your empty glass, and it’s like you’ve been caught despite you being a grown ass man who reserves the right to a glass of wine. You press a kiss to her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear just how she likes. Her skin is warm, comforting, there’s a part of you that wants to lie in her arms and have her just stroke your head for a while. She used to do it back in college, before you dropped out when all you did was film garbage that you felt no passion for. You’d lie in her dorm room for hours and just listen to her talk. It was one of the things that made her one of your best friends, and now it’s a thing that you won’t let her do. You haven’t let her do it properly in five years.

You pull back and agree. Of course you do, it would be a dick move if you didn’t. Besides, you miss getting to go just about anywhere at all-do anything at all. Your days are full of nothing but listlessness and you’re sick of it. A night of reprieve is a blessing and you know this well. Jade squeals and throws her arms around your neck, she’s happy. It’s almost like she expected you to say no.

Ouch.

You squeeze Jade tight and try to feel like a real husband, try to think about how you’re excited to take her out and show her off rather than think about how you’re really the one being shown off.

You don’t like to think about it that hard, but there is some part of you that realizes you’re literally the blonde trophy wife. You’re basically tits on a stick, not something meant to be thought about too hard. You’re a big ol bimbo who stays at home all day watching her soaps and going to cycling classes in the afternoon where right after she gets plowed by her instructor and when her husband has her host events she always makes sure she has the most high fashion outfits and expensive liquor. Wait. That sort of is you, minus the getting plowed by a cycling instructor, or even going to cycling in the first place. Dave “Tits On a Stick” Strider. That’s who you are now, even if you don’t have tits.

When you look at yourself in the mirror, you remember the man you were, the man who owned the red carpet. The best fucking director Hollywood had ever seen, and you feel good. You feel really fucking good. Your suit is black and your iconic red tie, ironically gifted to you from Dirk, is just loose enough to give off the vibe of a cool guy who doesn’t care which is exactly what you are. You’re reminded of red carpet nights and champagne, award shows and actresses, everything that was and can no longer be.

You love it anyway.

Jade looks beautiful in her dress, a long green thing with glittering stones embroidered on to it and her hair is up. You give her a kiss and she seems almost surprised.

The car ride is just as good and keeping your Cool Guy facade up is less of a facade and more of a reality. You’re on Cloud Fucking 9 and you ride the high by playing music in the car and asking Jade what the fuck this gala is even for, and that’s how you find out that she’s up for some sort of award in her field.

”That’s sick. Super sick. Like, stomach flu mixed with the bubonic plague fucking sick. You’ve got assholes rolling over on their bathroom floors covered in their own puke and shit with how fucking sick they are babe.”

Jade laughs and you’re still on Cloud 9 and totally not being a jealous dickbag by not being a supportive husband. The rest of the car ride is full of Jade talking, full of her explaining and telling you the finest details of the field of ectobiology which you do not know shit about. She also mentions something about her assistant researcher, a troll. His name is something off and kind of funny, you can’t quite remember it, something involving a dog maybe? It doesn’t matter, even if you are probably going to meet him tonight. All of this is about Jade and her research and how good she is. Tonight is about why she’s the best and you plan to be there and be the most supportive fucking husband in the world.

You hold her hand tight in yours and ground yourself by thinking about how good you both look and how good tonight will be and how just absolutely fucking good everything is, has been, and will be. The moment you enter the nice ass hotel this dinner is at you grab a glass of champagne off of the nearest tray and drain it. You remind yourself of Rose for a moment and resist the urge to cringe at whatever possible psychoanalysis she would definitely try to offer you in this instance. Probably something about how you feel emasculated by having a wife who is the center of attention at an event rather than you and you’ve latched on to some sort of dated idea of gender roles built out of your extra-macho upbringing with Bro and long term issues accepting the attraction to men that you in fact do not have. Then, you’d deny everything she was saying while internalizing it just enough to feed next week's self-loathing session. Suddenly you kind of wish Rose was here, at least then you’d be entertained by something other than listening to everyone praise Jade and feeling your jealousy fight your pride.

You drink more and follow Jade around and you realize that you really are just tits on a stick. Jade introduces you every time, “This is my husband Dave” and she sounds so happy about it, like she wouldn’t want anyone else to be her husband. Then, all of her coworkers just shake your hand and talk about how proud you must be of Jade and how happy you must be to be with someone like her and of course you nod along the whole time. Just nodding and nodding and nodding over and over and over again for scientist after scientist.

It’s like you’re in one of those old shows from the 50s with that gag, can’t put together the item on the conveyor belt faster than the conveyor belt moves until suddenly everything is moving faster than too fast and you’re on the floor surrounded by sushi or some shit. Instead of being surrounded by sushi though you’re leaving a trail of champagne flutes in your wake and sitting at a table where everyone practically disregards you as a person. You’ve been introduced to everyone sitting there by now, they all know you as Eye Candy Husband Dave which is the best you can ask for since you were once assumed by these same guys to be a PA and asked to go get a waiter so their orders could be taken already. At least Eye Candy Husband Dave is spared a few glances because of his role as Eye Candy. They don’t mean anything though, all of these women just want to fuck you because they’re probably jealous of Jade and think you have a rideable face. It’s not actually about who you are, though in this case you suppose this isn’t about anyone. This is just you, sulking your way through this dinner while your wife uses her fantastic brain to enchant this table of assholes in front of you.

You don’t deserve her.

Just as you’re preparing to fall deeper into your self loathing session, completely ready to unpack why you don’t deserve your ten star wife who really is the coolest fucking individual you’ve ever met, you’re met with someone else.

He’s short and sturdy, like a tiny brick wall. He’s definitely a troll, with the grey skin and bright red horns and weird fucking eyes, and he’s gorgeous. His lips are forced into a pout with his fangs and his scowl is sort of handsome and fuck you can’t take your eyes off of him. His hair is slicked back exposing these weird fin-like ears that keep fluttering ever so slightly while he looks around. He’s gotta be like the troll equivalent to 26, but there’s something behind his eyes that makes you feel like he’s an old man. Then, Jade calls him over.

”Karkat!”

Karkat.

Karkat.

Ectobiology and Its Importance in the Future of Interspecies Breeding and Genetics written by Dr. Jade Harley and research verified by Karkat Vantas.

This sexy troll is your wife’s research assistant.

The sexy troll with the cool fins and the pretty ass and the great face helped your wife make leaps and bounds in the field of ectobiological study. He is a ‘great thinker in science’ and all you just did is eye fuck him like some horndog teenager. He ends up sat down right across from you and he gets a look on his face when his eyes land on your face is one that’s so familiar that it makes your whole body go warm with nostalgia.

He keeps shooting little looks at you, over and over and over again, quick little glances that tell you that he knows your face and knows your name and knows your work and fuck if that doesn’t bring you to life once again. Yet again you think of what Rose would say.

”You’re determining your value based off of what you can give other people, and being confronted with someone for the first time in so long that can give you that validation is feeding this childish sense of self worth you’ve had since you were a kid.”

Wow. That was awful. Good going Dave you just made your weird boner for the kid working with Jade even weirder by psychoanalyzing yourself and the reasons behind your attraction to him instead of just getting to enjoy the total fanboy right across from you. Said fanboy whose eyes keep shooting over to you like he wants to say something but just can’t. God you’ve missed that look.

It looks the best when his mouth is formed right around the edge of a champagne glass and you can feel the intensity of it all. You wish he would say something to you-wish that all these assholes would shut up for a second so you could hear what the hell he sounds like. You try to imagine it, something probably nice, gruff, it would be sexy in the way that an authority figure’s voice is, like some sort of sexy principal, the amount of sheer fucking muscle he’s got tells you enough about what kind of guy he probably is. It doesn’t matter that he’s at least a full head shorter than you or that he’s got this weird sort of baby fat on his cheeks. He’s totally got hot authority figure vibes, like he’d ride you into oblivion while telling you what a bad boy you’ve been. Shit. You wonder if he’d call you daddy, or maybe you’d call him daddy? Shit. You aren’t going to project your kinks onto this kid Dave.

Then, he opens his mouth, and somehow his voice is both the exact opposite of what you would’ve pegged it for and totally hot. It’s raspy and kind of shrill, like he’s always on the verge of losing it and it’s honestly kind of sexy. That voice is sort of what sends your weird, sudden crush on him overboard and you finally meet his gaze. You sit there like that, watching the way that he looks at you, melts under the way your eyes focus on every part of him you can see. He’s flushing red yet again, a deep sort of red right underneath the grey of his skin and fuck if you don’t want to feel it beneath your mouth. Hit pause, like, the hardest fucking pause ever. Hit pause like the remote has been broken for the last year and you’re too lazy to get a new one and set it up so it works with the tv. You’re being ridiculous-you’re drunk. You don’t know how many drinks you’ve had by this point in the night, but you do know that it’s making you act embarrassing and stupid. You’re eye fucking a research assistant that’s worked directly under your wife for the last three years and you want to turn that into actual fucking like you’re some sort of asshole who is completely willing to lead someone on even when you don’t actually like guys.

You stand up, announcing that you have to take a piss and being met with the eyes of people who couldn’t give less of a shit about what you’ve gotta do. All except for Karkat, who's still watching you over the rim of his drink (a completely new one, you note) and just gives one curt nod.

You take a leak in the urinal and once you’ve washed your hands you stare at yourself in the mirror.

”Pull it together strider, some sexy alien beefcake isn’t gonna make you cheat. Even if he’s got arms the size of a fucking teakettle and a mouth that’s totally fuckable and eyes that make you feel like you’re maybe still worth it to someone else. You aren’t gonna cheat. You’re at a dinner literally for your wife. If you cheat you’re the biggest asshole, you’re the worst. You’re a prolapse, like, someone filmed a super hot gay porn with a huge dude with an even bigger dick and you’re the twink ass that got destroyed so bad that he ended up with the hole falling out of his ass that is you. Nevermind the fact that-”

You can hear the door opening and for a moment you feel a sense of shame so raw that you’re absolutely sure that you’re thirteen again, and then you look up from the sink with its running water and clean white porcelain and you’re met with the sexy alien beefcake who is looking at you like you’re nothing less than the man who hung the stars in the fucking sky. He’s flush down to his neck and you try to keep your expression steady when he struts right up to you and you can’t help but imagine having him call you daddy.

”Dave Strider.”

”Karkat…”

”Vantas”

He immediately flushes and you really didn’t think the kid could get any redder but fuck if you were wrong.

You decide to continue, “You a fan of my wife?”

”Jade is a fine human. Good at her work if a little bit less concerned about the places our research is going compared to me, but that’s why she’s the project head and I’m not. I like your movies though, as far as human media goes it’s some of the...least disgusting content my oculars have had the horrible misfortune of stumbling upon. I’ve even bought a few, for the sake of having them when they are inevitably removed from all streaming platforms for being works of an anti-government rebel.”

You swear to God your heart flutters in your chest hearing that. You try to bite back a smile but instead end up with this pseudo-smile and a chuckle that you’re sure makes you look like a dickhead right off of the red carpet which is exactly what you are. That doesn’t matter now, not when he’s talking about what lies beneath the ironic surface of your movies and how much he likes them. You’re so worthless, eating up his opinions like this, acting like they’re the only thing that give you a sense of any sort of self-respect. You don’t really care though, not when he’s looking at you like this. Not when you can feel the heat of the fire behind his eyes. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. You know that if he offers anything to you at all you won’t be able to resist. You know it from the look in his eyes to the way his mouth falls as he fidgets to say something else.

”I just….think your work is really...passable.”

His expression is soft now and his face is so close to yours and you can’t help yourself when you lean in and press a kiss right to that mouth of his. He tastes like hors d'oeuvres and good alcohol and your hands immediately shoot to his waist to pull his body right against yours. He’s so warm all over and through his suit you can feel his heart absolutely fucking racing. Yours is too, you can feel all the blood rushing southward bound even though his lips have only been on yours for about half a second. His teeth are blunt against your lips and you love the way that his tongue licks into your mouth all sand papery and wet. You groan when you feel the way his crotch presses against yours and you melt all over. He’s so hot-all hot. He is made out of heat and you’re sure he’s gotta house the fire and brimstone of hell underneath that skin of his because there’s no logical explanation for someone being as hot as he is.

You move and press him right against the sink, your hand moving from his waist up up up underneath his suit jacket. You push the thing off and it ends up in the sink, right into the water you’ve left running. He turns to look but you’re already grabbing his chin to catch him in yet another kiss, this one slightly less sloppy than the last.

You turn off the water and hoist him on top of the sink. He’s on the edge and it's so precarious that you have to wonder if he’s alright until he lets out this keen that tells you that you need to be inside of him. You slide your hand down his pants and feel something slimy and wiggly and fuck is your dick rock hard and confused. He’s got an alien dick, an alien dick that’s writhing all over your fingers while he less kisses you and more pants right into your mouth while his alien dick writhes around all over your fingers. When you pull your hand out of his pants you see slick trails of slimy red all over your fingers, it looks like syrup. You stick your fingers into your mouth and suck, the shit tastes like a delicacy and if you had more time you’d give him some wicked fucking head, but there’s only so long that you can have in a bathroom where you should be attached to the hip of the guest of honor.

Karkat watches you when you suck your fingers and he lets out this groan that’s near animalistic. He sounds like something that’s dying but his expression says more. This time, when your hand ventures down into his pants, he tilts his hips upward and your fingers slip inside of something that’s fluttering and hot and tight. You have no clue what this possible alien hole is but damn if it doesn’t feel eerily similar to a cunt. Do trolls have cunts? If so, why the fuck did you not know this sooner? Why have you limited your porn watching to just human on human shit. Trolls having tentacle dicks and hot, wet alien cunts is something that, if you had known sooner, you would’ve capitalized on when finding anything at all to jerk off with. Karkat keens when you fuck two fingers into him. It’s an absolutely filthy noise that makes you press an even filthier kiss to his mouth. His hand comes up to your shoulder and he grips so tight you worry that his claws will puncture a hole in your jacket.

He clenches around you and when you feel his mouth on your throat your knees go weak. He can’t leave any marks and you want to remind him of that but you just can’t seem to when his tongue laves against your neck and even more of that hot hot hotness just falls right into you.

You use your free hand to pull his head back and his eyes look dazed and a little anxious, like he might be doing something wrong. You kiss him again and this one is softer, he shudders when you drag your fingers across the roof of his alien cunt and his legs spread a little bit wider for you. You wanna see what it looks like, you wanna know what he looks like fluttering and spread open on your fingers. You pull him off of the sink and instead bend him over it. Then, you yank his pants down and get a look at what’s been soaking your fingers in all this weird red fluid. Whatever his cunt is called it’s bright, candy red, and it draws you in in a way that you haven’t felt since you were a teenager. You’ve never wanted to fuck something so bad in your life.

You fumble with your pants and immediately get both them and your boxers around your ankles. Karkat is panting, watching you in the mirror as he braces himself on the sink, expectant.

”Hey dude, just to uh make sure of some shit. I don’t need, like, a condom or anything, right?”

”What? No. Of course not. That’s such a stupid fucking question that I would nearly have to-”

Karkat is cut off by you sliding your dick right up against the folds of his alien cooch and he lets out the sexiest trill you’ve ever heard, not that you’ve heard many.

He grips the sink tighter and you feel your knees get weak with how hot he is. Shit, you cannot imagine this thing actually around you. Karkat is panting to his reflection and fuck if that isn’t sexy. You take a deep breath and ready yourself. You press the head of your dick right against his slit and as you feel yourself sink in inch by inch you’re sucked in by his tight fucking hole. You realize that he’s probably built to take things more like the thing that’s wiggling against the sink leaving red smears against it. It doesn’t matter though, not when you’re here, balls deep inside of him while his head hangs over the sink.

Finally, you pull out ever so slowly, savoring the feeling of him trying to suck you back inside before thrusting in again. He makes yet another one of those ridiculous noises and it goes straight to your dick. He grips the sink tighter and you realize that he’s scratching it and fuck if that’s not sexy.

You set a brutal pace, pulling out before slamming back inside of him and he cries out for you like a bitch in heat. That’s not what gets to you though. No, what really makes you fuck him like you mean it is the way that he looks at you. Even if it’s just from the mirror, the absolute reverence in Karkat’s eyes makes you feel alive. You grip his hips tight in your hands and listen to the way that he cries out your name. You wish you could listen to it forever, his broken little sobs and moans of Dave. It makes you go wild. You’re so close, close enough that you’re petrified you’re going to bust before he does, until Karkat finally decides to formulate words that are more than just your name.

”Close-closeclosecloseclose-bucket-need bucket”

You have no fucking idea what he’s talking about but it’s so fucking hot. You realize, dumbly, that he’s probably gonna shoot from that tentacle dick of his and the idea of that is so hot that the idea almost makes you nut then and there. You pull his jacket out of the sink and let Karkat’s tentadick rub one out all over your fingers until he cums so much you’re worried it might actually fill the sink. At least, for a split second you are, a second later Karkat is clenching so tight around you that you end up cumming so hard you’re sure you black out for a second.

When you come to, Karkat is still leaning over the sink, this time panting with his alien dick now disappeared off to somewhere. You want to say something to him, thank him maybe? But he’s already pulling up his pants and fixing his hair. He doesn’t really say much to you before he leaves, instead he casts you one glance that you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a glare or something of a more affectionate manner. You look at yourself, dried alien cum on your fingers and on your dick. You really are kind of a desperate old man. It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting. You just cheated on your wife with her fucking research partner who is probably ten years your junior.

You take off your shades and look at yourself, really look at yourself, for the first time in a long time.

You really are just nobody now, aren’t you?