Work Text:
You are an organized being.
Okay scratch that, you’re scatterbrained and talk too much and have far too many plans in your head that will never be put into action. And yet, however much you blather and improvise and are scolded for this behavior, you can be a planner, and you’ve had this planned down to the letter for too long to put it off anymore. You’ve proofread and triple-checked and battened down anything even remotely resembling a hatch. It’s time to put this baby into action.
You double-check that your outfit is all laid out nicely on your bed where you put it before picking up your phone.
-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGenetecist [CG] --
TG: heyo
TG: karkalicious
CG: NEVER AGAIN.
TG: hehe
TG: okay fine
CG: WHY ARE YOU BOTHERING ME NOW?
CG: I TOLD YOU ALREADY, I’M WRITING. YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER BY NOW THAN TO BOTHER ME WHILE I’M WRITING.
TG: im taking you out to dinner
CG:
CG: I BEG YOUR PARDON
CG: YOU’RE DOING WHAT NOW?
TG: im taking you out to dinner
CG: WHERE?
TG: dont you worry your pretty little head about it karks
TG: ill be over in twenty
CG: YOUR APARTMENT IS A THREE-MINUTE DRIVE FROM MY HOUSE, DAVE.
TG: dress fancy
CG:
CG: DAVE
CG: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU TAKING ME?
TG: <3 ily babe
CG: DAVE
TG: see you in twenty
CG: FUCKING
CG: STRIDER!
-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGenetecist [CG] --
CG: STRIDER, *WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU TAKING ME?!?*
“You’re taking me to Kajda’s?” Karkat explodes from his place in the passenger seat of his little red Volkswagen Beetle - an actual one, not one of those little punchbuggies they make now. You insisted on borrowing his car because pulling up to Kajda’s in a shitty pickup truck does not look good. “You’re taking me to fucking Kajda’s?”
“Yep,” you reply smoothly, putting on your turn signal and giving Karkat a glance from the corner of your eye. You have to admit, he does look really nice. He’s in a blood-red button-down shirt with a gold tie, a charcoal-grey jacket and matching dress pants, and red stilettos with gold accents. The rather demure (for an internationally famous rockstar at least) stud through his earlobe is gold, too. Your eyes catch again on his tie, and you smirk.
“We can’t afford this shit,” Karkat’s saying, slumping back defeatedly in his seat. “Do you have any fucking clue how expensive Kajda’s is?”
“‘Fraid not,” you joke, “since they don’t put prices on the menus.”
“That’s just it!” Karkat rages, flinging his arms in the air in a way that makes you very very glad that he’s not the one driving. “They don’t put the prices on the menus so that you don’t realise how much money you’re spending!”
“Look, Karkat,” you say, pulling into a parking space out front of the restaurant and turning off the car before shifting in your seat to look at him head-on. You don’t remove your shades, but you can see in his expression that he knows you’re looking at him, really looking. He swallows hard and doesn’t speak, so you continue.
“I know you’re worried about the financial side of things, and I can appreciate your concerns. However, tonight, I am not going to deal with any bullshit.”
He takes a deep, angry breath, but you keep going.
“I would never do anything as stupidly extravagant as take you to Kajda’s for dinner if I wasn’t entirely fucking sure we could afford it, dumbass,” you inform him evenly. “We’re a hugely fucking popular band, Karkat. We should be allowed to enjoy that. This evening is for me and you, and approximately nobody else,” you conclude, “and if you’re not going to agree to stop fucking worrying and just enjoy it, I’m taking you home.”
He doesn’t seem to breathe for about four seconds. Then he takes a shuddery breath.
“I made a reservation,” you add as an afterthought when he looks like he wants to protest.
His eyes go wide. Kajda’s charges for reservation cancellations, and he knows it. You can’t count the times you’ve driven by and watched Karkat’s longing gaze linger on the hand-painted sign out front, with the name of the restaurant printed in English and Cyrillic, “Kajda’s” at the top and “Xaждaя” below. He knows everything there is to know about Kajda’s, except for what he’s about to find out.
“Are you with me?” you ask, holding out a hand to him.
He takes a deep breath once again, like he’s steeling himself to walk through a hurricane, and takes your hand. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
You smile. Brushing your lips over his velvety grey knuckles, you meet his eyes over the gold rims of your shades. A shiver runs down his spine. You know how much he loves romantic shit, which is why you’re sitting in front of Kajda’s in the first place.
You open your door and step out of the car, darting around to open Karkat’s door for him like the fucking gentleman you are - you are the charmer, it is you, and you can already see the way Karkat’s melting under what little romantic gestures you’ve already shown.
You take him by the elbow - still connected, but subtly so, much less obvious than taking his hand; passers-by won’t know if you’re pale or pailing just from that - and lead him to the door.
There’s only one thing Karkat doesn’t already know about Kajda’s, and that one thing is the main reason you’re here tonight. Leading him up to the Maître D’s podium, you let your hand slide from his elbow to his wrist. He shoots you a questioning look, but you just nod reassuringly.
The Maître D’ greets you with a warm, pleasant smile, an effect which is almost but not quite ruined by her viciously sharp fangs. “Good evening, sirs,” she says in English, and then Alternian.
“Good evening,” you reply in English. “We have a reservation?”
Her smile grows no less welcoming. It’s truly impressive how the warmth doesn’t leave her eyes despite how long she’s likely been smiling that exact same smile. “Certainly, sir. Under which name?”
“Strider,” you tell her, and her smile widens to a grin.
“Ah, yes. If you would wait here for just a moment,” she requests gently, before turning and heading through the restaurant.
Karkat leans up to whisper in your ear. “What’s going on?”
You shrug, feigning innocence. “I’m not sure.”
He narrows his eyes up at you, and you know he can tell you’re lying, but he doesn’t have time to prod any further before the Maître D’ returns, followed closely by a very short, very plump mutt with a bright cherry blush under her grey skin.
“Mr. Strider?” she asks you. Her voice sounds the same as it did on the phone, rich and bubbly like a vat of melted chocolate.
“Shacqe,” you reply, smiling and releasing Karkat’s hand to offer yours to her. “So good to meet you.”
She takes your hand, kisses it. Karkat makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat.
“Mr. Strider, it is truly an honour to have you here,” she tells you. “And this must be the immensely gifted Karkat Vantas, yes?”
You nod. “Karkat, this is Shacqe Kajda, the owner and head chef of this fine establishment.”
“I know who she is,” Karkat replies faintly.
“Mr. Vantas, you do not know how honoured I am to have you here this evening,” Shacqe gushes, taking Karkat’s face in her hands and going up on tiptoes to kiss both his cheeks. He squeaks under the onslaught of sudden affection.
“See, kitten, there’s one thing you didn’t know about Kajda’s,” you tease him, “and that’s that Shacqe Kajda is a hardcore Sxyvaan fan, and has been since before we released our first album.”
Karkat makes a noise like you’re killing him. You feel immensely pleased with yourself. You’re a fucking genius.
“Mr. Vantas,” Shacqe says softly, “if you would permit me I would like to do something for you. As a thank-you.”
“Why do you need to thank me?” Karkat manages.
“You showed me that greatness can come from following your passion and not being afraid of who you are,” Shacqe tells him, clasping both his hands in her own. You can’t help but notice that her hands are nearly the same size as Karkat’s. “I, like you, am a mutantblood, a candy-red troll.”
Karkat looks a little surprised. “But - you’re always called a mutt,” he says.
Shacqe removes one hand from Karkat’s to part her thick black hair where it’s pulled back into the bun at the nape of her neck. Between her fingers, barely visible, is a shallow ridge of orange keratin.
“Oh my gods,” Karkat breathes, one hand drifting to his own nubby horns in sympathy. You’ve never seen horns that small before. You didn’t know they could be that small.
“You showed me that I should not be afraid of who I was, or what I wanted,” Shacqe continues, “and I would like to thank you.”
“I’m glad I could do anything to help anyone,” Karkat says - his automatic response to a thank-you, you’ve heard it a million times, but somehow it always sounds like the only thing he could possibly say that would convey it. Shacqe just holds her hand up to stop him.
“Anything you see on the menu,” she says. “For you, and for Mr Strider - tonight, it is all free.”
Karkat gasps. “Oh, no, Ms. Kajda, I couldn’t - we couldn’t possibly - ”
Shacqe squeezes his hands. “It is done,” she informs him with a distinct finality. “I have already worked it out with Mr Strider.”
Karkat turns his best accusatory face on you, but Shacqe keeps talking.
“At my age, I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and my instincts are telling me that you deserve a night of good food for a good price,” she finishes. “Go. Enjoy your meal, and do not hesitate to ask me for anything you may need. I must return to the kitchen.”
Karkat watches her go with a look of awe. “What the fuck did you do,” he breathes to you.
“All I did was make a reservation,” you defend. “The Maître D’ recognized my name and talked to Shacqe about it. This was all her idea.”
A waiter appears, gesturing you to follow him. As you head through the dimly lit restaurant, you take Karkat’s hand. He startles, but squeezes you back when you squeeze his fingers gently.
The waiter leads you to a secluded table in a shadowed corner of the restaurant. Handing you and Karkat two menus, he leaves you in peace as you contemplate.
“I am going to kill you for this,” Karkat mutters under his breath. “I’m not sure whether I’m flipping red or black right now.”
“Burnt,” you decide.
He looks up from the menu. “What?”
You give him a wicked smirk. “By the time tonight is over, you’ll be so stuck between loving and hating me that you’ll be too burnt to function.”
His pupils dilate. It could be blamed on the dim lighting, but you know better.
“What the fuck are you planning, Strider,” he says evenly.
You reach across the table and take his hand. He flinches - not in public, you fuckwad! - but you don’t let go.
“I’m going to romance the fuck out of you,” you inform him. “I’m going to seduce you with an expensive dinner and romantic mood lighting and all that fun stuff, and then I’m going to take you home and blow your mind.”
His breath catches in his throat, and he swallows to try and hide it. “Why?”
You set down the menu to slide your shades off your face, watch the way his eyes go wide. Bring his hand up to your lips, kiss his knuckles.
“Because,” you murmur. “You deserve everything I can give you.”
His eyes flutter closed, the way he does sometimes when he hears a piece of music that sends shivers down his spine. You shift your grip on his hand to bring his wrist to your mouth, kiss the candy-red line hidden under his cuff. Then you release his hand and return your attention to the menu.
You glance through a couple of items on the appetizer menu, feeling Karkat’s eyes still burning into you. It only takes about thirty seconds of silence before he blurts out, “Blow my mind - how?”
You flick your gaze up from the menu and allow a smirk to touch your lips. “You’ll find out.”
He gives you an are-you-fucking-kidding-me look.
“Now, what would you like for an appetizer,” you say, “bacon-wrapped scallops or calamari?”
“Scallops,” he answers instantly. “Which would you prefer?”
You look up at him with the kind of gaze Rose would probably call “smoldering”. “Whatever makes you happy,” you practically purr.
He does that eyes-closed spine-tingle thing again. You’re half expecting him to say stop, in that almost-pleading, almost-commanding tone of voice that says If you keep talking like that I swear I’m going to pop the biggest wiggly of my life, and that little sensible voice in the back of your head pipes up with Wish I’d thought to tell him to wear the clamp, but Karkat doesn’t say a word about your tone. He shifts in his seat, but all he says is, “Scallops, then.”
“Scallops it is,” you agree, as the waiter returns with a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. “Could we get a plate of the bacon-wrapped scallops?” you ask him, flipping to the last page on the menu - the drinks section.
“Certainly, sir,” the waiter agrees, pulling out his notepad and jotting it down. “Would either of you care for something to drink?”
“Yes,” you reply over whatever Karkat was about to say. “What do you have in the way of alcohol?”
As the waiter rattles off a list of wines and nectars, Karkat catches your eye with a look that says, Go ahead. I’ll drive home.
The waiter finishes his list, and you return your full attention - or rather, most of it; you can’t quite tear your thoughts from the tie around Karkat’s neck - to him, ordering a bottle of sweet wine. It’s a personal favourite of you and Karkat both, and you ask for two wine glasses, ignoring Karkat’s glare.
“And who’s going to drive home?” he hisses as soon as the waiter steps away.
“Karkat, babe,” you soothe, reaching across the table to take his hand, but he snatches it away with a look in his eyes that very clearly states Strider, if I don’t get some answers right now you’re going to get walked out on. This being something you very much do not want happening, you resolve it’s time to come clean. (Not all the way, of course, but something will have to be done to keep your darling firmly in his seat and anticipating what’s to come with minimal anger).
“Rose is taking your car home,” you inform him. You would continue, but he interjects with “You enlisted your fucking moirail?”
You roll your eyes. “I wanted to be able to enjoy this evening as much as you will,” you explain. “Consequently, I’d like to be able to have a drink. When we’re ready to go home, Rose will call us a cab.”
“How will she - never mind,” Karkat interrupts himself, and you smirk despite yourself.
“That way,” you continue as if Karkat hadn’t spoken, “you and I can get as buzzed as we like, and we won’t have to worry about driving home.”
“Okay, then what?” Karkat presses.
“Then, it’s a surprise so I’m not going to tell you,” you retort, and he rolls his eyes.
“I’m not going to trust you if you say that,” he points out, and you sigh.
“You’ll like it, I promise,” you say.
He gives you a suspicious glare. “You’re sure?”
You reach out your hand, and this time, he places his own hand in yours without hesitation.
“New rule,” you say solemnly, and Karkat’s ears prick up. “From now on, either of us can plan and execute something without asking permission, provided it does not involve any pain or anything we’re sure is going to not go well. Are we agreed?”
Karkat considers. “Tonight’s plans,” he muses, giving you a suspicious glance, but all you can see is how dilated his pupils are. “Do they fall within these guidelines?”
You pause, releasing Karkat’s hand and sitting back as the waiter returns with the bottle of wine and two glasses - cut crystal, by the looks of them. The waiter sets down the glasses, opens the wine, and with dexterous movements splashes just a sip into one of the glasses; you taste it, nod, and he pours two full servings, then asks you if you’re ready to order your dinner. You glance over at Karkat, who gives his head a tiny shake, before telling the waiter that no, you are not yet ready to order. He gives you a respectful nod, sets down the bottle of wine, and leaves.
You turn back to Karkat. He hasn’t looked away from you since the waiter arrived.
You take a sip of your wine, feeling the way Karkat’s eyes are boring holes in your skull.
“Tonight,” you say suddenly, and he tries to hide the way he flinches at the suddenness of it, “I promise you that I will not do anything that I do not know, for absolute certain, that you are all right with.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to ask how you can be so certain, then stops, apparently changing his mind and picking up his wineglass. He takes a sniff, then a careful sip, then his eyes light up and he takes another sip.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” you say with a smile, and he nods.
You set down your glass and return to the menu. “Now, what to do for dinner,” you muse teasingly, and Karkat slaps his menu shut and whaps you over the head with it.
You flinch, laughing, and he scowls at you to hide his smile, returning to his menu. Your eyes linger yet again on the gold tie around his neck, threads catching the dim candlelight of Kajda’s, but you manage to return your own gaze downwards at your menu.
When the waiter returns next, it’s with a plate of bacon-wrapped scallops. Instantly, Karkat attacks the plate, popping one of the scallops into his mouth before you can say “yum”.
While Karkat savours the scallop, you order your dinner - a Manhattan steak with caramelized onions and mushrooms on top. Then you pop a scallop into your own mouth, savouring the way it practically melts in your mouth as Karkat orders a peppercorn steak.
“Whoa,” you say, gesturing to the four scallops left on the skewer, as the waiter turns and walks away.
Karkat nods in agreement. “Yeah. Whoa.”
You lapse into a comfortable, if slightly tense, silence. You’re well aware of the way his eyes refuse to leave your face; your own eyes keep darting back and forth between his tie and his slightly parted lips as the two of you finish off the scallops. His tongue flicks out to swipe across his lower lip, and unconsciously, you draw your own lip between your teeth.
You jolt back to reality when the waiter arrives with your steaks, and you manage to redirect most of your focus to the food, but you can’t help the way your eyes refuse to stop sneaking up to Karkat’s eyes, his lips, his tie. The food is fantastic; the company, surpassingly so. The tension in the way Karkat doesn’t speak is enough that it’s way too hard to keep yourself from popping a stiffy in the middle of the restaurant.
Between the eroticism of the silence between you and Karkat and the smoldering glances he keeps shooting you, it’s a wonder you make it through the meal without dragging him off to the bathroom and blowing him in the handicapped stall, but you manage somehow. The bottle of wine is drained under your combined assault; the waiter comes to take your plates away when you’ve finished eating.
“Would either of you care for dessert?” he asks, picking up your plates from the table.
“No,” you and Karkat say in perfect unison, both of you refusing to look away from each other’s eyes. “Thank you,” you both add as the same afterthought.
The waiter nods with what’s likely a knowing smile, but you can’t quite see out of the corner of your eye. “Ms. Kajda has informed me that your meal will not be charged for,” he says. “Therefore, I wish the two of you a wonderful evening, and hope to see you again.”
“Tell Shacqe thanks again from us,” you reply, rising to your feet. Karkat stands up as well, and your eyes catch once again on the gold threads running through his tie. “We’ll try to be back soon.”
The waiter nods again, and yeah, that’s a knowing smile on his lips. You reach into your wallet and pull out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Karkat just gapes at you.
You press the hundred into the waiter’s palm, then pull out a fifty, nodding your head towards Karkat. “Nobody hears a word about this,” you demand, offering the waiter the fifty with a slight smile. “Deal?”
He takes it, folding it and the hundred into his pocket. “Deal.”
You smile, take Karkat’s wrist. “Thank you,” you say, before dragging Karkat on his mildly unsteady feet out of the restaurant. The cab Rose promised is sitting at the curb; your phone buzzes in your pocket, announcing a text.
TT: The taxi’s number is 1729.
TT: It is interesting to note that 1729 is the original “taxicab number,” though you are unlikely to have any idea what that means.
TT: I have already paid the driver and sworn him to secrecy.
TG: thanks rose
TG: youre a gem you know that
TT: You and Kanaya have informed me many times.
TT: I do hope you enjoy your evening.
TT: Oh, and cousin dearest?
TT: Be careful not to make the knots too tight.
TG: oh fuck off
TT: Pale for you too.
TT: Have fun.
You slide your phone back into your pocket, opening the back door of the cab and gesturing Karkat in. He clambers in, and you follow him, sliding into the middle seat so your thigh touches Karkat's.
You tap his heel with your own. "I like your shoes," you murmur, and he leans heavily into you.
"Thanks," he breathes, the scent of pepper and sweet wine distinct on his breath. You're feeling the buzz yourself, but you're pretty sure Karkat's nudged over the line from just buzzed to actually legitimately drunk. “I like your everything,” he adds, and yeah, he’s drunk. You probably should have split the wine a little more evenly; Karkat’s always been a bit of a lightweight. Oh well, too late now.
“You ready to get your mind blown?” you murmur.
He leans into you even more heavily, and you hear a rumble start up in his chest. “It’s already pretty fucking blown,” he informs you with the solemnity of the highly intoxicated. You know that, as Kanaya likes to word it, “The Period Of Heavy Intoxication For Trolls Is Significantly Shorter Than That Of Most Humans, But The ‘Buzzed’ Feeling Lasts A Similar Amount Of Time.” You’ve always liked to translate it into layman’s terms as being like a sunburn: trolls are like the people who get burned really badly and then the next day are just tanned, and humans are like those people who get burned to a crisp and stay crispy for, like, a week.
“Well, it’s going to be even more fucking blown,” you inform him right back. “Gonna be all, kapow! brain bits all over the walls, short circuits all up in this nervous system, too much good, does not compute, like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting on the inside of your – mph!”
You mph because he kisses you, sloppy and sweet and a little spicy. “Shut the fuck up, you feculent pile of half-digested anthropomorphic praying mantis heads,” he says succinctly.
You have to admit, he’s a fairly entertaining drunk. “Make me,” you murmur, sliding your shades down your nose to waggle your eyebrows at him.
He takes your incredibly mature bait with gusto, wrapping his arms around your neck and half-attacking your lips. One of his legs ends up slung over yours; you’re honestly a little curious as to why you’re not already feeling his bulge doing its little hula dance against your leg.
"Hey, Karkat," you manage to gasp between kisses.
"Mmmh?"
"Are you wearing the clamp?"
He giggles - legit, honest-to-fuck giggles. Welcome to the world of drunk-off-his-ass!Karkat Vantas.
"Nope!" he crows, before getting his mouth on your ear and whoa, stay on track here, this is serious business.
"What the fuck," you choke out. "You're . . . you're wearing something, right?"
The giggle turns into a cackle, and he has to lay back against the door to catch his breath. You sit there, just sort of . . . staring at him, while he regains some semblance of sobriety.
"What the fuck are you wearing if not the clamp?" you ask finally.
He straightens up, slinks into your lap, and winds his arms around your neck. "Guess you'll have to find out, won't you?" he murmurs.
You really, really want to ask him more but then he kisses you again, and even though his bulge hasn't even gotten its grass skirt on the way he's wriggling against your dick is more than agreeable.
You know you're not going to get any farther than hot makeouts in the backseat of a taxi, but even so it barely feels like any time has passed before the cab pulls to a halt and the driver clears his throat, his eyes fixed very decidedly on the dashboard. You hold a finger up in the rearview mirror and finish kissing Karkat one last time, long and slow, but then promptly slide headfirst into a problem, which appears in the shape of Karkat not being inclined in any way shape or form to even consider removing himself from your lap.
Being the smooth motherfucker you are, you have a plan (of course) and after a short moment of maneuvering you get one arm under his back and the other in the crook of his knees and with a kiss to his jawline you hoist him upright. Something painful and sweet twangs on your heartstrings as his weight shifts so he's resting against your chest - he's so light still, you can lift him with practically no strain, and every time you hold him it stirs something a lot like heartache in your chest. This time is no different.
He squeaks as you unfold yourself and stand up into the sleepy summer-night air, striding with ease up the walk and loping up the stairs to the front door of his little bungalow as the cab pulls away from the curb. You set him down with a kiss, and his hands stay latched around your neck as his tongue presses hot and slick against yours, his feet finding the ground but his chest still pressed against you. When you pull away to unlock the door, you meet his eyes, and you're not really surprised to see how lucid he looks - not fully sober, but he's definitely hovering around the merely mildly tipsy point at the moment.
"Dave," he says, and oh, his voice is hitting all those yes-good-hot boner-inducing frequencies, and it takes all you have not to just give in and pound him against the front door of his own house. But then an image flashes through your mind of what you have planned, with Karkat writhing underneath you as you wreck him just the way he likes, and the bolt of heat that lances through you makes the fuck-him-right-now instinct fade away in comparison.
You swallow before answering. "Yeah?"
One of his hands disengages from around your neck, settling on your jaw. The pad of Karkat's thumb traces the curve of your lower lip. It would be a sweet gesture if not for the look of sheer lust in Karkat's eyes as he watches the movement.
“I want you,” he rasps, his voice dipping low, sliding against husky and completely bypassing any hint of gravel before proceeding to shoot straight to your dick.
Oh fuck, your libido moans, but you manage to grind out, "I want you too, babe." Despite your best efforts, your voice manages to bottom out at the gravel level, but judging by the prickle of claws on the back of your neck Karkat doesn't really mind.
The key slides into the lock. You let the innuendo get under your skin.
Karkat's mouth distracts you just as the door gives, and you lose yourself in the slick, hot space between his teeth and his clever, wicked throat. Karkat's mouth is fucking great. You don't give Karkat's mouth anywhere near enough credit; Karkat's mouth is fucking poetry.
Karkat buries both hands in your hair, props his elbows on your shoulders, and hitches himself up, wrapping his legs around your hips. Your free hand gravitates to his ass, and he chokes on a breath before sucking your tongue into his mouth.
A faint startled noise escapes your throat, and one of Karkat's hands leaves your hair to remove your shades as you stagger through the door and careen into the nearest wall, kicking the door shut behind you. You grab your shades from Karkat's hand and toss them onto the little whateverthefuckit'scalled by the door, and Karkat digs his elbow into the wall, pushing you back against the door and throwing the deadbolt.
You toss the door key against the wall, and it falls with a jingle to join your shades. Your hand instantly joins the other hand on Karkat's poetically perfect posterior, and it's barely a second before Karkat starts humping you, hips grinding like a good bass line.
You guide Karkat's movements with your firm grip on his ass, and he breaks away from your mouth to breathe, great desperate gulps of air like he's drowning. You grind him harder against you, and he starts gasping, these little involuntary-sounding pornographic noises on every movement. It's only about ten seconds before you're mouthing desperately at the velvet skin between his neck and shoulder, your feet carrying you falteringly towards the bedroom, oh the bedroom. This little piece of heaven currently making you harder than you've been in a good long while is going to have such fun with you in the bedroom.
You slam open the door to Karkat's room, flick on the light, and take two steps before practically flinging you both onto the bed, kissing him like he's the best thing that's ever happened to you, which he is, so of course you're kissing him like that, and you should probably definitely leave this metaphor under the carpet where it belongs because holy fuck his hand is on your dick, squeezing just like you like it, and you are really not going to last much longer if you don't get to the good part soon.
You push yourself up with both arms and, with a final kiss, hot and wet, you hoist Karkat farther onto the bed until he's situated just how you want him. He looks up at you through his lashes, an ashy blush gauzing those freckles that you always have to resist counting, one by one, each with a kiss, and you can't resist snogging him again, his lips soft and desperate and his quickening breath spicy against your tongue. His hands fly to your shoulders, shoving your jacket down off you, and fuck, you hadn't realised you were both wearing so many fucking clothes. Instantly, you're mirroring his movement, and his suit jacket gets tossed across the room half a heartbeat after yours.
His hands hesitate for a moment, almost asking permission, before grasping at the wine-red tie around your neck, untying it with experienced fingers and sliding it out from under your collar. It falls from his hand, crumpling to the floor just beside the bed, and his fingers start prying at the buttons at your throat. Your own hands have found Karkat's hips, and your thumbs trace the slight ridge under his once-crisply-pressed trousers. It feels like a harness of some sort, and the thought sends a pulse of heat to your dick.
Karkat's fingers stutter once, twice, three times on your third button, and he abandons it in favour of diving for your wrists, freeing them both from your impeccably white shirt's cuffs at once. He goes to untuck your shirt, and you pull away, stepping off the bed and back out of reach. He keens and shifts on the bed, but doesn't follow you.
Your hands move swiftly, but very deliberately, folding your sleeves up twice before shoving them up to your elbows. Karkat watches your every movement hungrily as you toe off your shoes, and he reaches for his own shirt buttons but you stop him with a hand on his wrist.
You set your hands on his knees, then slide them down his calves until you can nudge his shoes off his feet. You like Karkat's feet; he has very nice feet. You don't even have a foot fetish, but you can admit, Karkat's feet are nice. Every single bit of Karkat is nice, to be completely honest, and oh Mary mother of God you are going to implode if you don't get every single inch of this creature unclothed in the next two minutes.
Your fingers dip under the hems of his pants briefly, eyes returning to Karkat's face. He looks like he's about to spontaneously combust.
"Karkat," you breathe, and he meets your eyes. You lick your lips - slowly, purposefully - and his hips jerk, probably entirely involuntarily. You smirk - honestly, you can't resist it - and slide yourself up his body, forcing him to lie down beneath you, a breath away from pressing your half-clothed chest against his.
Once your face is level with his you dip down, just barely, your lips hovering millimetres away from his, and exhale slow and not-very-steady as you try to control yourself. You want this one certain way and you'll have a very hard time forgiving yourself if you fuck it up. Your hands are on either side of Karkat's head and your eyes are locked with his, dear Lord are you glad you ditched your shades back at the door, and your boner is quite possibly cutting off circulation to other essential parts of your body.
Your hands find his throat and you undo his tie with practiced fingers, sliding the gold silk off his neck and draping it around your own with a slow smile. He licks his lips and pulls you down for another kiss, and while he's distracted by your mouth you undo the buttons of his crimson shirt and he arches his back obligingly to let you remove it. You can't resist dipping your head down to press three kisses to his stomach, each progressively lower than the other, as you flick open the button of his trousers but don't go any farther than that. You're a fucking tease, and you know it.
Your heart is beating out a violent tattoo against the inside of your ribs as you try to work up the nerve to set the next stage of your plot into action. You know Karkat will love it in the end, but you're undeniably, achingly worried he'll just nope out and leave, maybe forever. If there's one thing that could break you more thoroughly than anything else in the world, it would be Karkat leaving you. God knows he got close enough to doing just that thing to make you absolutely positive it's the thing you fear most.
Before you can chicken out completely you dive straight in, whipping his tie off from around your neck and, with a long, slow kiss, laying it softly over his eyes. You can feel his heart rate speed up against your chest, and hear his breath catch violently in his throat, but he doesn't protest, only hesitates for barely a second before he lifts his head and lets you tie a simple knot in the thick hair at the back of his head.
You exhale a shaky breath at the sight of him, blind and willing, gold silk on grey velvet skin, and kiss him again, trying to put every single bit of relief and promise for the mind-fuckingly amazing time you're about to give him in that touch. He kisses you back with equal desperation and his hands come to rest on your shoulders before splaying down your chest. You smirk against his mouth. Letting him touch you is one thing you're going to miss tonight.
"You ready, babe?" you ask him, your lips barely brushing his, and his mouth curls into a smile against yours.
"You must be even more of an idiot than you make yourself out to be if you think you really have to ask me that," he tells you. You kiss him with a huff of amusement, teasing his mouth open and tickling the ridges on the roof of it with the tip of your tongue. He lets out a single gasping breath into your mouth and you reach down to undo the fly on his trousers, snaking down his body and taking both them and his boxers with you.
You don't let yourself look at whatever he's got strapped to himself before you've got him completely naked, because you just know it'll distract you, and once you're kneeling at his feet and finally let your eyes fall on the apparatus keeping his little Hawaiian dancer from your grasp you're very glad you set that policy because goddamn you were right, it's distracting.
Soft black leather strips trace over his hipbones and thighs, all attached to the centerpiece shoved straight up his sheath. You can see red rubber, and guess that there's a buckle at the back that would release the entire thing. All in all, it's insanely fucking hot, and the sight of his flushed nook and hints of wetness around his firmly plugged sheath only add to the whole effect.
He looks absolutely fucking delicious.
You slide your hands up either side of his body, past his head, and dip your fingers into the snug space between the mattress and the wrought-iron headboard as you kiss him, your tongue stroking along his. You find what you're looking for almost immediately and pull it out with an almost-flourish that kind of dies halfway through, courtesy of the slight pressure of Karkat's fingers, splayed and tracing blindly over your shoulders, your collarbones, the base of your throat. His claws tickle your skin, teasing the soft, vulnerable spot where your blood beats strongest, and your breath hitches, your eyes fluttering closed.
He pulls you down for a kiss and you taunt his tongue with yours, drawing it into your own mouth, as you (very stealthily of course, because let's be real, you're a fuckin' ninja) uncoil two lengths of soft black rope, laying each one beside each of his hands.
"Safeword," you remind him (and yourself to be honest), and you're pleased to note that it comes out less uncertain and more like you want to be sure he knows what it is.
"Canasta," he replies, slightly breathless, and you smile a smile that he can't see, propping yourself over him and looping the first length of rope around his wrist.
He goes to marble underneath you.
Your fingers screech to a halt. You're looking down at him, hardly daring to breathe, kneeling icily still with your severely interested dick still trying to pop your pants zipper about a foot from his perfect mouth.
That perfect mouth opens to admit a shaky breath, then closes again. Karkat swallows, the tip of his tongue swiping across his lower lip. You stay frozen.
He nods - almost imperceptible, but you catch it.
"Go on," he says, and oh, that was a good growl, that was a very good growl. That was an oh-you-perfect-little-devil growl. You like it when he growls like that. Your fingers start working again, tying the rope snugly enough around his slender wrist that his hand can't slide through it. You give it a sharp tug, and his breath catches in his throat.
"Good?" you ask.
"Yes," he - God, yeah, okay, that was a moan, he just moaned for you and all you've done is tie him up. You feel suddenly, intensely, acutely powerful. It's an interesting feeling. Encouraged, you yank his arm up so his fingertips smack one of the intricate bars of the headboard. He yelps, but when you lean down to lave your tongue across his injured fingers the yelp turns into another moan.
Quickly, efficiently, you tie the rope off to the headboard, then release it, moving to the other hand. This time, the second the rope slides across Karkat's wrist, he shudders, a full head-to-toe shudder almost exactly like the way he comes.
"Fucking - close," he spits out, and it smacks of frustration, like a curse.
You pause your hands, lean down to his ear. Moisten your lips with your tongue, just to watch him tremble at the soft wet sound your mouth makes as you open it to speak.
"Don't you dare come yet," you order, the only word accurate enough to describe your tone being a purr - but you actually fucking order him, normally you'd never dare but this and "normal" aren't even in the same galaxy any more, this is so far from normal paradox space isn't large enough to contain the distance from "normal" to what's happening right now and your instincts are leading you blind. You didn't use to have empirical evidence that humans can purr, you note absently; you'll have to rub it in Rose's face the next time you see her, because that was definitely a purr.
Karkat moans, and you retroactively chastise yourself for not thinking but thinking isn't really your strong point at the moment, and whatever, because he liked it so the point is moot anyway. You tug on the rope, and his throat clicks instinctively, releasing a series of primal noises that almost obscure his next choked words.
"Couldn't come anyways, with the plug in," he grinds out. "No room."
You tie him off for the second time, carefully storing this interesting piece of information away, then roll off the bed and to your feet, stepping back to admire your work. Fuck, he looks so good you could just eat him alive, hands bound and eyes hidden behind gold silk and legs spread just the tiniest bit, tense as a leopard before the leap and as desperate as a man dying of thirst (this is quite honestly the best metaphor you can come up with, and it vaguely worries you). From this angle you can just see the lips of his nook, spread and flushed and glistening, and the way the plug in his sheath is framed by that same red-flushed skin. His lips are parted, chest rising and falling almost alarmingly fast. His entire body is almost shining with a thin sheen of sweat.
You turn your gaze from the spectacularly picturesque beauty before you, stepping across the room to Karkat's recuperacoon. You made sure to check after your conversation with Terezi - God, was it really three weeks ago? - that the co-star of tonight's show still lived in the built-in cage at the bottom of the 'coon, and now, all you have to do is press the hidden button on the side of the 'coon to make the little door at the bottom slide open with a hiss.
Karkat goes stock-still. His ears twitch under the blindfold - you should've probably made sure to tuck the tie under the tips of his ears, but honestly you can't be fucked to care right now.
"Strider," he murmurs, "what are you doing?"
"Bringing a friend of yours out to join in the fun," you reply, reaching into the goop-filled cage and scooping up the almost gelatinous creature in the corner.
Karkat goes to speak, but is interrupted by a chirp from his newly-retrieved nookworm as she squirms around in your grasp in an apparent attempt to get comfortable. Even through the sopor slime residue, you can feel her little buggy pores start to secrete her worm-slime stuff. It tingles a bit when it hits your skin, and if you weren't turned on to the point of absurdity before, that slime would do it.
"Holy mother of fuck," Karkat says, disbelief evident in his voice. "You - how did you know -"
You interrupt him by setting the worm down right next to his inner thigh. He cuts himself off with a gasp. The worm chirps again, and Karkat chirps back, you suspect by accident.
"Constance," he breathes, tone almost reverent. The tension goes out of his spine, and he practically melts into the mattress.
"You're welcome," you say in the ridiculously smug tone you reserve for when you've done something particularly worth being smug about. Then you reach over to the CD player (hooked up to his bedroom surround-sound, of course) on the bedside table, check that the volume's not painfully high, and press play.
The drum pounds out the rhythmic beginning, the guitar snarls out its first chord and as the music, caustic and deliberate, hits Karkat's ears, he stiffens, choking on a moan. "F - fuck," he hisses, spreading his legs a little wider.
You grin. You crank the volume a little higher, just high enough to be inescapable, before you move to the foot of the bed and start working the buttons of your shirt free.
Constance has already started squirming her way into Karkat's nook and he's cursing and panting, head thrashing back and forth nearly enough to dislodge the blindfold. You can see from the way Constance is taking her sweet time that he's probably magnificently, blissfully, sinfully tight. Your dick throbs at the thought, but it's not your priority tonight.
You peel off your shirt and drop it to the floor, before scrunching off your socks. At the sound of the fabric hitting the floor, Karkat goes still. You think it's probably grounded him.
"Is this - nnh - your ev - evil plan, Striiiihder?" he manages. Bless this gorgeous piece of troll. He looks delicious, sounds delicious, smells delicious. He looks so fucking wrecked already. "Watch me wreck myself on my nookworm and a sheath plug and Fall Out Boy?"
"Mmh," you say, ridiculously glad your voice holds steady and just as smug and full of promise as you wanted it to be. "Not quite. Tempting, but not quite."
His spine arches and he shudders; Constance must be doing her job well, because you're pretty sure that would have been an orgasm if not for the plug. "R - really now," he gasps.
You pop the button of your trousers, pull the zipper down slow. Karkat's ears prick up, following the sound. Your arm is still covered in green goop; you wipe it on the corner of a blanket as you slide your pants and boxers off with the other hand.
You climb up onto the bed, kneeling between Karkat's legs and admiring the view. Constance finishes squirming her way in; judging from the jolt that wracks Karkat's body she's bottomed out. Karkat's spine arches, head tipping back and mouth falling open. He's gone quiet, his breaths making his chest heave perfectly in time with the pounding beat of the music. You reach out and trace the skin around the plug, and he gasps, bucking his hips up into your hand.
Your fingers move to the soft black straps around Karkat's hips, tracing the leather up over the arch of his sharp hipbones and around to his ass. There are four straps, spreading like butterfly wings from the bright red plug; two go over his hips, and two go down around his legs, framing his nook in a way that draws your eyes in. At the small of his back, your fingers find a buckle, and you start working at it, loosening the straps. Karkat wraps his fingers around the ropes tying him down, as if he needs to anchor himself before he flies away.
The straps slide through the buckle, making the plug shift in Karkat's sheath. He whimpers, and you lean down, your left hand keeping the position of the plug just so until you get your mouth at his sheath and you let it go.
The second your tongue presses against the plug, pushing it back into Karkat's sheath, he shudders, head lashing to the side. You lift your right hand to the lips of his nook, stroking upward, coating your fingers in a mixture of nookworm slime and candy-red lubrication. You take in a deep breath and close your eyes, focusing on the music and your heartbeat syncing up with the beat and Karkat panting and undulating beneath you.
Let's do this.
You ready yourself, knowing if you don't get this started you'll run out of time to employ your entire plan, and dive in. Lube, music, fingers, ass, ohhh, fuck yes -
"Strider," Karkat chokes out, and you spread your free hand across his thigh, managing a slight hum against the plug to reassure him. He lets out a long, low, vibrating groan and you have you bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from coming then and there. No, time will not be an issue, at least in that department.
Patrick Stump launches into the first chorus and you sit up, adjusting yourself so your hand takes your tongue's place on the plug and you're kneeling, your knees on either side of Karkat's trembling thighs. It takes a little bit of maneuvering, but by the time the chorus is halfway through you're hovering right above Karkat's still-sheathed bulge. Your breath is thick in your throat, your nerve endings positively singing with anxiety and anticipation, but you listen, and you wait, and at the exact moment that the second verse falls into place you let the plug go, and there's hot writhing wetness against you, in you, and the pressure and pleasure and heat almost has you coming untouched right then and there as he unsheathes directly into your ass.
Karkat goes stiff underneath you, the muscles in his arms straining against his skin, the way the rope is digging into his skin turning gray to white, and his back arched up. His lips are parted and his bulge is doing all manner of magical things inside you, and you can only imagine what he's feeling right now.
You dare to rock your hips in time with the beat, and the tense arch of the troll beneath you melts into a sinuous undulation that makes you catch your breath. You have to brace yourself against his chest, and you can't help but choke on each gasp that fights its way out of you, the hot slick slide of Karkat against you drawing noises from you that are too desperate and breathy to be real moans. This is so much fucking better than anything you'd done in preparation.
You come out of your Karkat-induced high just as the second chorus pounds to a start and bend down, sliding your hands up to Karkat's neck and leaning your head so your lips just barely brush the rim of his slightly pointed ear.
"I don't care what you think, as long as it's about me," you sing in his ear, your mouth so close to him you can practically taste the heat and tension radiating off him, your voice low and raspy and with the best growl you can muster rolling up and out of the base of your throat along your words and he does that thing again, his full-body orgasm shudder that makes you tense and shiver, which pretty obviously corresponds directly to Karkat's bulge and only turns everything into this giant feedback loop that's starting to short out all your brain functions. Your voice catches on the long scale of the first "misery" and as you loop back to the start to snarl the second half of the chorus into his ear you actually let out a throaty moan that carries the last word out into a long, shivering, growly note that sends tingles down your spine, let alone Karkat's.
The music ebbs, in the kind of pressurized, suddenly-twelve-times-more-intense way that reminds you of carbonation in a bottle or the pleasure building up inside you as Karkat's bulge starts hitting your prostate, and you arch your back and your vision starts to go fuzzy around the edges. You keep it down, forcing it back, forcing yourself to wait. Just a little longer . . .
Karkat's bulge is getting frantic. Karkat's everything is getting frantic; he's thrashing under you, spreading his legs as wide as he can and rocking his hips up into you as he tugs on the ropes, at the headboard, digs his nails into his palms. His mouth is open in something akin to a silent scream, and you swallow a desperate breath before you lean down, mouth a wet path up the side of his neck, trace the edge of his ear with the flat of your tongue, and, just as the bridge finishes, breathe into his ear, "Come for me."
His orgasm is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. His entire body arches, head flung back, face wracked in what could almost be mistaken for anguish. His knuckles are white on the ropes, and the headboard creaks at how hard he's pulling as he shakes apart under you, breath finally escaping his throat in a sob. You barely even pay attention to how hard you're coming; you have to blink hard to keep your eyes clear so you can watch him as pleasure whites out everything below your shoulders. Your hands are gripping Karkat's ribcage and you can feel the heat, the rasp of his grubscars under your fingers and the heaving to and fro of his frantic, sobbing breaths.
Thank God the music settles quickly after the last chorus. Karkat's literally shaking, like an aspen branch before a storm. You don't even wait to catch your breath; you reach down instantly to his nook, grab Constance by her hooked tail and start sliding her out. Karkat mewls quietly, and are those damp spots on the blindfold? Fuck, is he crying -
Karkat's bulge is slowly resheathing, releasing the flood of genetic material he pumped into your ass. Constance managed to catch all the material from his nook, which you're pretty grateful for. This is already enough of a mess. Oh holy fuck, he better be okay -
You finish pulling her out and toss her carefully aside, making sure she lands on the bed and not somewhere she'd hurt herself. Your fingers start working instantly at the ropes binding Karkat's wrists; two quick tugs on either rope, and he's freed. You're not a slacker when it comes to Karkat's safety; you did your knot-tying research. Your breath quick, you roll off him and slide the blindfold off his face.
Karkat's eyes are shut tight. He doesn't even open them before lashing out with both arms and dragging you in close so he can bury his face in your shoulder. His eyelashes are damp. He's definitely crying.
"Uh, Karkat?" you whisper, and he digs his nails into your ribs. No talking. You can take a hint. You hold him in silence, worry and apprehension pulsing through you. Fuck afterglow, this troll needs to confirm that he's still fully functional before you do anything for yourself.
He reaches up and scrubs the spit off the side of his neck, though, and you laugh on the inside.
It's probably at least five minutes (seven minutes, thirteen seconds) before he takes a deep, shuddery breath.
"Holy shit," he breathes into your shoulder.
You wrap your arms tighter around his back, rub little soothing circles between his sharp shoulderblades with your palm. "You okay?" you ask.
He pulls back far enough to look you in the eyes. His eyes are red and shining, a little bloodshot, but wide and full of some indescribable emotional mash-up. He doesn't say a word - just kisses you, soft and sweet and just a little exhausted. You're pretty sure you know what he means.
You let him burrow into you, hold you tight, and kiss you stupid until you both fall asleep.