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Dave has you slung across his lap, your pants bunched down around your knees. He’s hardly even touched you but you’re hard already, your bulge rutting up against the denim covering his thighs. Thank God he always wears black jeans; it makes it a little easier to hide the red of your genetic material already seeping out, though the damp patch is spreading. He knows how agitated you are – it’s not just your bulge, it’s your whole body, taut and quivering in anticipation – and so he pets you, gently, fingers ruffling your hair but staying carefully away from your horns before he runs his palm along your spine, over and over, soothing you.
You know what you did. You were messing around with stuff that wasn’t yours, Earth cultural artifacts that were precious to him but nothing to you. The heat of his hand lays heavy over your asscheek, and oh, fuck, your face is already flushing. “Your arms,” he says – doesn’t ask, but demands.
Compliance is holding out your wrists to him; his long, pale fingers wrap around them, stretching your arms over your head and pinning you in place. The strange peachy-pink of his human skin stands out against your red-flushed gray. You know you’re not really supposed to speak unless spoken to, but this – he knows how much this sets you off, gets your motor purring, so to speak. “Please,” and it comes out as a stage-whisper, scratchy and hoarse and rough and breathy, a yell without any weight behind it.
He swats you lightly, more of a pat than anything else. The anticipation is making you bite through your own tongue. “Say it,” Dave orders you, his voice dark, lacking inflection, purposeful.
“’m sorry.” Your apology is muffled by the covers on this strange solid Earth recuperacoon.
This one isn’t a warning, it’s a full-on slap; the sound echoes from the steel walls. “Louder.”
The inherent capslock returns to your diction. “I’m fucking sorry!” Jegus, you’re already so desperate and he’s only spanked you once.
One strike, another, this time on the opposite cheek. “What did you do?”
“I – hnngh – I scratched it, I fucking scratched your record…” Terezi knew how to work a record player, so you thought you had this in the bag, too. But no, as it turns out, Past You is a moronic waste of perfectly good air and had no thought to what kind of trouble Future You – that is to say, Present You – would get into if something went wrong.
“Which record?” Dave knows, but he likes to hear you say it, confess your transgressions out loud. The crack of each blow resonates in your ears, harmonizing with the beat of your expanding and contracting vascular system as it redirects more and more of your mutant blood to the bulge leaking genetic fluid onto his clothing.
You whimper at each delivery, squirming in his lap. If it weren’t for his determined hold, you’d be clawing at the duvet by now, scratching it to ribbons. The purr in your throat is involuntary, and you wish it would stop – it gives away too much, how turned on you are by this, how much you really, really don’t want him to stop. It’s a good measure of how meaningful your protests are.
Right now, if you were to say ‘stop’, he’d know it wasn’t real. Besides, if you really wanted this to end, you’d just say ‘Minnesota Vikings’ and it’d be over. You deserve this, though, so you’re resolved. You also… enjoy it, being brought to task for your wrongdoings. At least someone holds you culpable. “Which goddamn record?” Dave asks again, drawing you out of your thoughts with the hardest strike yet.
“The original printing of ‘A Night at the Opera’, please, fuck!” You don’t know whether you’re asking for him to bruise you or to cut this out and get to the point already. Whatever the case, he can’t stop here.
And yet he does, freezing with his hand in the air. Through the tears in your eyes, you can see it hanging, ponderous and still, the lightning before the thunder. Did he freeze time to keep his impulse to swat you at bay? You can’t read his face – that’s the entire point of the goddamn shades, the hard, thin line of his mouth – and so your body is trembling with fear. You have no idea what you’ve done. Well, you know what you did, you just don’t know what it means. “Do you know how much that was worth?” You shake your head back and forth, but he’s not satisfied with that; he brings his hand down, a thunderclap as it connects with the back of your knee, and you jerk in his lap, bulge rutting against his clothed thigh. “Do you fucking know,” he repeats, the spaces between each word laced with a ferocity his expression won’t show, “how much that shit was worth?”
“No…” It comes out as a kitten’s weak mewl. Generally you’re not afraid of him when he does this – this is just FLARPing in bed – but he sounds dangerous right now, fury coiling inside him and lashing out at you.
“It’s priceless,” each word punctuated with a slap to your abused asscheeks, “priceless. The first record my brother ever gave me. You. Ruined. It.”
“Sorry, shit, sorry, sorry…” You’re breathless. Gog, you’re the scum of Alternia, destroying something so precious to him just out of curiosity.
“You deserve this,” Dave grits out between his teeth as he continues to beat you, reinforcing what you’ve been telling yourself all along. He has to know how deep inside your own head you are, and he’s determined to keep you there, it seems, down-talking you with every smack of his hand against bruising skin.
“Sorry, sorry, fuck I’m sorry,” you keep repeating, like it’s going to end if only you can say the right thing. He probably can’t understand what you’re saying – it’s usually by this point that you’ve disintegrated enough to be speaking in Alternian to him.
And then it stops. Dave’s hand, instead of spanking you, instead rubs at the stinging skin of your asscheeks, the heat sinking into the muscle and healing as he kneads. He lets go of your wrists, ruffles your hair again, and the way he touches your horns has to be intentional. “Grip the headboard,” he murmurs into your ear, low enough to send a shiver down your spine.
Yes, good. Penance was over and now he was going to make up for it. Right? You lift your hips enough to allow him to shift, and he takes the opportunity to yank your pants off completely, leaving you naked and flushed in the cold air of the room. You shiver, both from anticipation and contrast, and when he rearranges you with his hands, you can’t help but comply, spreading your knees as he settles his body between them, underneath you.
Your hands are far enough apart that when he sits up, your wrists, bruised from his grip, brush against the shoulder seams of his shirt. His mouth briefly twitches up in a smile, and when you look down, he’s unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping the fly, pulling down pants and boxers together to reveal he’s just as hard as you. He squeezes his cock, pumps it once, twice, and a little glistening bead of fluid forms at the tip. “Polish it,” Dave growls, the sound stuck in his throat as he threads his fingers through your hair and latches his fist around one of your nubby horns.
Your eyes roll back in your head – your horns have always been particularly sensitive, a fact that Dave uses and abuses to his advantage – and you nuzzle against his hand. “But I…” is your weak protest as you look up into his shades. You just want to see his eyes, the dilated black-in-red, and the fact that he’s denying you means that you definitely fucked up this time.
Dave slaps your face at your hesitation, a refreshing change of pace from him wailing on your other set of cheeks for so long. “Fucking polish it, bitch!”
You take your hands away from the headboard, rest them on either side of Dave’s hips, and crouch down, just far enough that your breath ghosts over his cock as you try to figure out how to do this without razoring his dick to shreds with your teeth. “Sorry,” you mumble in advance, pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses against his frenum and down, down.
He draws you away from him by the hair and backhands you, catching your other cheek. “Did I say you could move your hands?” You shake your head miserably. “Back on the fucking headboard,” and your grip on it is white-knuckled as you lean down again, “and don’t talk with your mouth full this time.”
It’s only a matter of time before you’ve licked everything your tongue can reach; his cock is smeared and shining with your spit and his pre. His hand around your horn is insistent, though, and won’t let you up. Meanwhile, his other hand is sneaking down your back again. You’re prepared when the pad of his finger swipes across your sphincter, but the way he pushes in leaves you whimpering – too hard, too much, too full too fast.
But you suppose that’s the point. Before long, you’re panting and drooling lazily onto his dick while he finger-fucks you open, eyes half-lidded and mind somewhere else entirely. “Come on,” Dave mutters from somewhere far away, dragging your face up to kiss you and shove his tongue into your mouth.
He tastes good, so good, that human taste of salt and musk and then something uniquely Dave underneath it, and on top a garnish of sex and desperation. Your bulges bump together, and you hiss at the sensation. Why won’t he just touch you? You feel like you’re about to explode.
But he pulls you up further, letting go of your hair to hold your hips over him with one hand while the other positions his cock at your entrance. Absurdly, he shushes you quietly as he presses up into you, going slow enough that you can take it without too much trouble. “Yeah, that’s it,” he sweet-talks you. “Juuuuuust like that. Fuck, Karkat…” It’s the first time he’s said your name, and your bulge jumps at the sound.
Then your hips are flush, your abused ass nestled against his upper thighs. This – this is good. You hiss out a garbled phrase of Alternian, the purr in your throat moving into your chest and making your entire body thrum and vibrate with the pleasure. When he thrusts up into you for the first time, it takes all your willpower not to let go of the headboard and rake your nails down his chest. There’s a slap as his skin meets yours, aggravating the sting already in your skin, and you yowl at that, your eyes squinting shut as you focus on the feel.
Then he does it again. And again. And again. With each percussive movement he gives you less time to adjust between, so it doesn’t take long before he’s pounding into you mercilessly. To make everything more intense, he starts up the spanking again. At first you think it’s just a one-time thing, but then he slaps the other cheek, and you cry out past your own teeth digging into your lips. They don’t come at even intervals; whenever you suspect he’s done with it, he slaps your ass again, deliberately out of any sort of rhythm. Now it’s him who’s reduced to “fuck, Karkat, fuck,” a blush creeping across his cheeks as he moves in you.
There’s a steady flow of genetic fluid coming from your bulge, staining the skin of his stomach a garish pink. He still hasn’t touched you, and you’re so hard you’re aching. You haven’t seen a pail in here – is he seriously going to use you like that? Leave his genetic material in you and mark you with it? Force you to release without anything to release into? You know he’s filthy, but fuck, that is so perverted and dirty and you love every minute of being used like this.
It doesn’t take you long until you’re skirting the edge, every breath coming out as a whine, your thighs trembling with each powerful thrust. “Hold it,” Dave orders you, and his first touch to your bulge is a finger and thumb clamped around the base. Oh, fuck, maybe he’s going to get a pail after all, maybe he’ll offer you some salvation after your sin.
You can’t breathe. You can’t catch your breath when he’s ramming you like this, you can’t gasp or sigh. It’s like the chokehold he has on your bulge is instead his hands wrapping around your throat. You can’t escape, can’t move, can’t think, every part of you desperate for a release he won’t give.
Then he fists your bulge roughly, jerking you off in time to his fast, sharp movements. You can feel the pulse of his dick inside you, and his pounding eases off a little as he bucks his way through his orgasm, but he never completely stops. “Come on,” he mutters, lip curling up in a snarl as he works on you, “come on, come on, come on, you ornery fuckass, come for me…”
Fuck, it’s filthy and it’s wrong and you do it anyway, letting yourself release. A torrent of genetic fluid gushes out of you, drenching Dave’s chest and stomach, and you ride it out in waves, too out of it to even think to rock back against Dave’s cock still inside you.
It leaves the two of you exhausted and sticky, lungs burning, skin flushed with the same ruddy color underneath. Dave catches his composure back first, pressing a sloppy kiss to your adam’s apple as he holds your hips up and pulls out with a squelch; you can feel his genetic material dripping out of you, and you shiver at how perverted it is. Then he’s undoing your vise grip on the headboard, peeling away your fingers one by one, and your knuckles pop as the tension leaves your hands.
Eventually he has you laying on your side, curled in on yourself like a satisfied cat. Even though he’s coated with a thin film of pink slurry, he doesn’t seem to mind that his shirt’s now ruined. He’s doting on you right now, petting your hair, your face, your neck and shoulder. The heat under his skin saps the rigidity from your body, and with each soothing touch, you start to relax more and more. You’re tired and fuck-dazed, slowly coming back to yourself, but you still remember how this started. “’m sorry.”
“You’d better be,” he grumbles back, but there’s the twitch of a smile haunting the corner of his mouth and there’s no real bite to his tone. “Just don’t touch my shit, got it?”
You hum happily, nodding and pushing your head into his hand when he combs his fingers through your hair to get it back in place. Penance served. Life resumes. And next time when you break something on purpose to get this kind of punishment, you’ll make sure it’s not something he’d be devastated losing.