"Who's my little fuckdoll," he hums in your ear, casual and fond.
The presumption makes you see red. You say nothing; it's in your terms, and you've lost one too many bets as it is, you don't fancy seeing the kind of penalty game that'd come from cursing him out right now.
"Aw yeah, you've got the cutest glare."
Fuck you, you think, mouth stubbornly closed. You lift your chin, defiant, exposing your throat in a taunt he's too human to get. (then again he's too human to tear out your throat no matter what.)
He's got you naked; he's shirtless, still in jeans, and he circles and prods at random as you stand there and wait for him to tell you what reward he's going to claim from your body. Your bulge has been trying to poke out for the last five minutes, you're starting to feel the strain of clenching down on its swollen length, of fighting to keep it inside. You've known from the start he wasn't going to waste one free sexual fantasy of his choice on standard pailing; the thought has you scandalized and hopelessly aroused both. You glance nervously at the tent in his pants, face flushed; you remember porn clips he's shown you and today he could actually order you not to bite down if he puts it in your mouth. You don't know what you could really get from that act, physically speaking, but at the same time... His hand pulling on your hair as he chokes you with his human bulge, you would hate that so deliciously.
"Lift your arms over your head -- yeah, like that, good, yeah." He guides your arms into the position he wants, glides his fingers down your arms, your ribs, your waist. He's behind you. "Oh yeah, I need to take pictures of that shit."
You stiffen; it probably counts as a sex act of some sort and you have to bite down on your tongue pretty hard to keep the words in, though you can't stop yourself from grunting a protest.
"Shit would be awesome, I could pose you in all kinds of ways... And like with cucumbers and shit... and then I'd have little sexy yous in my pockets for every time I need to rub one out..."
You burn. He'd dare -- steal this from you, get satisfaction from your body without even having to touch you, endure your presence, without even -- no, this hurts, not the good way, your eyes are burning too. You shake your head.
His hand cups your chin from behind; he presses his fingers and thumb in your cheeks and makes you do a quackbeast mouth. You can still make noises; you growl. "Maybe later, you'll make a better model well-fucked."
You roll your eyes, pointedly, you snort. Is he ever going to get to the fucking, your face says, because so far he's been all talk--
He cups the back of your neck, nudges you forward; you bend without thought, because you've spent the last five minutes being moved and arranged like a doll, and at first your bloodpusher jumps because you think he wants you on your knees. He stops you when your knees start to bend, though, with two hands on your hips. You can feel him pressing his cloth-covered bulge against your ass crack.
Fff. Is that all? You've insisted on pailing face to face before, so you could keep fighting each other for pleasure, roll around on the floor still joined (so you could see his face) but even though you prefer twining your bulge with his -- it's more equal -- your nook is hardly unexplored territory. You're going to have to take it, and he likely won't let you touch yourself, but it's not as bad as you hoped. You roll your eyes, even though he can't see you; you hope he can tell somehow.
"I had the most awesome convo with Rose the other day, whoa."
He's kneading the flesh of your ass and hips like he's trying to make grubloaf. Asshole. You grunt a bored acknowledgement.
"By most awesome I also mean most embarrassing, but we were partaking of moonshine -- new batch's pretty excellent, by the way, you should try it, love the way you tear up and pretend you're not about to cough up a lung, shit's so cute -- but anyway then she goes and tells me all about her xenoventures, and I'm like no really? And she's like yes really and I'm like no way and she's like it's dangerous to go alone, take this and then she gives me her code for lube."
You have no clue what he's going on about. You're tempted to kick him, but the forfeit looms in your mind; it might be more of this tedious bullshit -- already bad enough -- or it might be really humiliating. The other day he was musing about stealing your underclothes and making you go around like that. No one'd notice, probably, but it'd still be weird as hell.
He decaptchalogues a tube of... toothpaste? What the fuck. And then he says, "Grab your ankles, Karkatoes." You do, blushing in embarrassment, mostly of the secondhand kind. What, does he have a fetish for contorsioterrorists? Does he find it sexy to have your waste chute stare back at him like an accusing eye? That's just ridicu--
He touches it. You jump.
"I'm gonna be a generous and suave sexy bastard here and pretend it's just that my hands are cold and not that you're trying to get away," he says, a hand pressed on the small of your back so you can't straighten up.
You crane your neck to meet his eyes, communicate your what the fuck that way; you don't manage.
He pets your ass with both hands, palms it, squeezes it, and then he spreads your ass cheeks and when you blush this time you know it's not just the blood rush or secondhand anything. Holy shit he is looking at your waste chute.
"Bad Karkat, worst doll. Didn't tell you to squeeze your legs." He kicks your feet apart. You make a muffled, chest-squeezed sound of protest. That fucking bulgebite. "Whoa, you look all flustered. Guess Rose wasn't making it up."
He lets go for a second and then his fingers are wet, and he's touching your asshole again oh lord. You can't help it, you squirm, start to let go of your ankles to step away.
Whap. Your ass stings.
"You forfeiting, Vantas?"
Dave's voice is low, challenging -- but worse, it's already disappointed. You growl, shaking your head. Like fuck you're running away.
"Good. Grab your ankles -- yeah, that's a good fuckdoll, that's what you are tonight, yeah? Fuck but that looks tight. Can't wait to see if it feels half as tight as it looks--"
You shiver, eyes shut tight, fight not to make a noise. His thumb rubs circles around your hole, you can't get over how dirty, how depraved that is. How demeaning. He's not even going to use your nook, he's not going to do you the courtesy of a pail ready and waiting for your mixed materials. You'd be culled presenting the drones with spunk out of someone's shit chute; this is so entirely not about proper mating, duty to trollkind, it's about marking you, humiliating you. It's a gauntlet slapped in your face, the metal kind with knuckle spikes.
When his thumb breaches you, you start trembling.
You clench around him even knowing it'll hurt worse, you can't help it. The sensation is-- you can't put words on it, you didn't know your ass would be so sensitive and it feels weird having a part of someone's body inside you, not the way it feels inside your nook, your nook is made for this; it's like he opened up your skin and is feeling up your organs, just about that uncomfortably intimate.
"Whoa. Remember, if you wuss out you just have to tell me and I'll stop straight away, spare your delicate sensibilities, shit you're going to take my thumb off." He wriggles it inside you. You hiss. Like fuck you're going to give in now.
He pours more of the wet stuff in your crack, cold and thick like seablood spunk, and you shudder in disgust. His hard dick comes to nudge your nook, the rough cloth over it rubbing almost painfully against your delicate folds, and you want him inside, you ache with it.
He shooshes you even as he massages your clenched hole open, the hideous bastard, rubs the pad of his fingers around the rim and nudges in, and out and in and god, you're going insane. You rock back onto your heels, unbalancing yourself and oh, the way it presses his clothed bulge against you. Your own bulge has long since given up and is questing along your belly for a hole or a hand or anything at all to provide more than teasing brushes.
"Whoa there, dolly. Didn't know taboo was snarky broad code for eager. You little ass-slut, Karkat, you naughty little backdoor bandit, just wait a sec and I'll--"
You'd kick, you'd yell, fuck the rules and the forfeit and fuck everything, you hate him so much, only then something goes zip and something presses against your asshole and you can tell it's not a finger. Your nook spasms and clenches, dripping with juice; you whimper quietly at how empty you feel, how much you want his weird stiff, thick length stuffing you.
Instead he presses his cockhead against your ass and you'd think your skin is going to tear first, and then it just pops in past your muscles. You hiss; he groans.
"Oh fuck fuck fuck don't clench so hard, god you're so tight, hell yeah--"
He works himself in, inch by inch, back and forth and a little deeper each time, nudging things inside you that have never been nudged, or never from that angle; it feels weird in your nook, little fluttery echoes of bumps and slow thrusts, nook teases, strangely muted.
Fuck. He's going to rearrange all your organs around his human dick at this rate. You wish you had something to bite down onto that wasn't your lip.
You shake your head no. You're surprised, but it really doesn't. It feels a little like the slow burn of stretching muscles before a spar, and it's weird and awkward but there's no real pain. The embarrassment might kill you, though. You wonder if he wants it to hurt. If he's going to fuck you harder now he's got enough of himself in.
He kneads your ass again and grabs your hips tight to hold you to him, and then he marches you to the couch three steps to the side, which with your hands holding onto your ankles is exactly as ridiculous and shameful as it sounds, fuck, you hate him, you--
He thrusts. You lose your balance, your arms shooting forward without thought to catch yourself on the couch, but even so your cheek ends up pressed against the cloth. You try to push back; he thrusts again.
"If it hurts -- tell me -- no forfeit."
You grunt despite yourself, try to make it into an angry growl. You can't get over how much of himself he managed to stuff inside you, how tight you're gripping him and how huge his dick feels as a result, it never felt so big in your nook and it was plenty thick enough as it was. It feels like you couldn't even just slip off him if you wanted to stop, like he might get stuck there inside you, connected so shamefully. Your nook aches with sympathy pangs, echoes, indirect stimulation, you want to finger yourself, god, just one finger, but you said you wouldn't do anything on your own and the bastard isn't touching you there, he's too busy using your hips as handles to pull you back against him, faster and harder until your ass bounces against his hips and you can feel the impact traveling up your spine. You cross your arms, hide your face in them, bracing hard with your elbows.
"Cause see, my master plan? 'm going to make you -- like it -- so much, you'll never want it up your nook again."
You growl, or try to, it sounds like a whimper halfway out of your throat; you muffle it in the couch. Your asshole feels stretched and warm, a little chafed; it should hurt, it does sting a little, and somehow that means your nook has to go into a frenzy of ripples, trying to draw an absent bulge deeper in.
He leans back, spreads your cheeks as he presses as close as he can; you can tell he's admiring the way you stretch around his human dick, the narcissistic paildrinker. You want to put a fist in his smug douche face, you want to (assfuck him right back) get him back, you want him to fist your hair and pull you back on his hard length that way, make your back arch, stuff you, make you feel that shadowed ecstasy of loathing and trust and trembling, perfect submission -- your kismesis, the one you will always clash with, the one you can entrust yourself to.
"I hate you so much," you mumble into the couch, rocking with him. It's probably too quiet for him to have heard over his own grunts and the slap of skin on skin, the wet sounds of his dick and the artificial lube. Your own natural lubricant is starting to drip down your thighs, cold wet all over your folds where he should be warming you. You're so full and so empty at the same time, he feels huge in your ass but if only you could have even just a finger... The noises he's making, he won't notice, gog please make it so he doesn't notice; you reach under, discreet as possible, hoping he'll think your arm is just curled under your chest. You find your bulge, let it coil around your wrist, give it a tight, rough squeeze, continue downwards.
Your fingers have almost reached your needy hole when he slaps your ass, hard.
"Penalty," he says, and you bet he's actually, physically smiling, and you can't turn to see it, that asshole. It drives you crazy how he'll never have an expression before you if he can help it even when he makes them freely for others. "Double penalty, actually, don't think I didn't hear you there -- oh, fuck, yes, yes--"
You've gone all tight and tense with rage, you weren't thinking, and now you're borderline clamped around him, he has to put his weight in it to thrust and it chafes, you're going to be tender for days, this never happens with a nook dear lord do you hate him, everyone will know.
"Wonder what I'll -- nnh, fuck, your ass is so nice, babe, strangling my poor chicken -- it'd be way too nice of me to -- mm -- give you what you wanted, right, give you --"
He's panting so heavily you can barely string his sentences together. His thrusting has you too distracted. You try not to whimper; it's a doomed effort. You're oddly glad you can't speak, not allowed, you don't want to spill it all, how you hate how good this makes you feel, how different, how claimed.
"Give you -- in your nook too, shit'd be crazy tight, two of me -- three, fucking all your holes -- make sure you're quiet, no fourth forfeit -- all your holes, all your -- Karkat, Karkat--"
He hasn't got a hand on your bulge and your nook is empty and you come anyway, arching under him, head thrown back, rocking back sharp on his dick, you go tight all over, can't control it. Your nook aches with need and oversensitized pleasure and you keen as he stuffs two fingers in, clumsy, the angle all wrong and you don't even care, you're coming again.
You're a sweaty, exhausted mess and his dick is still inside you, softening and still huge; you don't, can't, won't move, upper body slumped on the couch, Dave with his hands leaving bruises on your hips. It feels so good.
He could do anything right now, and you'd let him. He could yank you off the couch by the hair and you'd follow, body limp, all thought burned out of your pan that aren't submitting to his every whim.
He came inside you, of course. You hate him so, so much.
You are not going to throw the next contest, hoping he'll demand this revolting prize again. Nope. But you're sure going to put a revenge-assfuck on the list of your demands. Considering how twisty he is, he's guaranteed to laugh at you and promise to "remind you how it's done".
So if you win, you win, and if you lose, you also win.
"Hell yeah, planted that flag, hell I planted a goddamn tree, this country is now Striderland, wait a minute I got a seed joke on the tip of my tongue..."
He's pulled out of you and left you sore and empty and flustered, but too well-fucked to find strength to protest. Now if he could have not slumped on top of you and tried to take a sleepy-rambly post-coital nap there, maybe there'd truly have been no reason to bitch him out and tip him off face first onto the floor, but there was, so you do.