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The soft whirr of the door as it slides open is what tells you that someone is in your respiteblock, pulling you out from your light sleep.
You’ve come to expect his visits, so you don’t panic, watching him in the dark as he slips inside, the door closing behind his back.
As you blink the sleep from your eyes, slightly disoriented by the sharp shift from dreamscape to reality, he moves forwards until he is standing in front of your recuperacoon, face still shielded by his stupid shades, lips pressed tightly in a thin line.
He looks like one of the creatures in the stories your Lusus used to clack at you when you were just a wriggler, annoying and fussy before sleep time, which is to mean he looks like he’s not real, ready to disappear into thin air the moment you blink –and yet he’s there, and when you reach out towards him, his skin is soft under your fingers, tangible.
It’s somewhat uncomfortable to stretch out of your recuperacoon just to touch him, but you’re unwilling to come out, even if there is no sopor slime in there to quell your nightmares; the meteor doesn’t have any, but the comfort you take in sleeping inside your alchemized recuperacoon still beats trying to get some rest curled into a stupid pile of shit or horns.
It took you a bit to realise that you missed your commodities from back on Alternia, though it should have been obvious, but of course your thinkpan is a rotten piece of grub matter, and it actually didn’t occur to you until someone else pointed it out.
As it is, you have been able to sleep again, no matter how lightly, and that has somewhat improved your mood –which is why when Dave first entered your respiteblock at night, you didn’t chase him out screaming in outrage.
Now you expect his visits, if not nightly, at least often enough to form a pattern. It’s a familiar routine, one developed slowly, one step at a time.
You don’t really talk, as if the night has taken away your ability to form punctuated statement of loathing, swapping it with silence, and he doesn’t talk, either… but you can’t say you don’t like it. You’d be hard pressed to admit that aloud, but the fact remains.
When you two talk, there’s always something that messes it up –his absurd metaphors, his casual insults that rile you up, or your own stubborn streak, how you goad him up, wanting to make him lose his cool façade.
If you speak up, you tend to say things you don’t mean, uncomfortable self-loathing you internalise and then point at him, and he replies with cutting words that stink of a similar plague.
If you talk, you end up fighting because it’s easier than trying to sort this clusterfuck of a situation. It’s easier than face your feelings and open up in the light.
You want to tell him everything, you want to talk about this, but your words fail under the weight of your own feelings.
This is different.
The first few times, he curled up at the base of your empty recuperacoon as you forcefully ignored his presence, huffing harshly to drown out his own soft breathing.
You didn’t talk because you didn’t know why he was bothering to come around when you didn’t want him there.
You didn’t speak because you wanted him gone.
Slowly, tentatively, you ended up peeking from the safety of your coon to stare at him, and observe him, and the bond shifted, because without words there wasn’t attrite, and without that, you didn’t have to be so defensive all the time.
Now you don’t speak because you have not taught yourself how to work in a relationship yet, no matter how many romcoms you’ve seen, this is reality, not fiction. To protect it, you have decided to express your feelings without words.
There’s just you, there’s just him.
As it is, you sleep better when he’s in the room, and the times when his presence kept you awake, making you glare at the wall of your coon hoping he choked and died are long since gone.
He’s a welcome presence. Things have changed.
After realising he would be a constant during your nights, you even went as far as to prepare him a small pile, right next to your recuperacoon, but most nights nowadays he simply slips inside your coon with you.
It’s big enough for two, especially since it’s empty, and you watch him peel off his shoes and slip inside, curling at your side, covering you both with his stupid horrendous cape.
It’s stuffy and it’s pitch dark under that shit, but Dave’s body is warm and calls you forth, so you unashamedly squirm until you’re pressed flush at his side, his arms wrapping around your shoulders.
He leans his head until he’s breathing in your hair, and he’s laughing without a sound. You smile back, even though neither can see it in the dark.
When it’s like this, it almost feels like you’re hidden away from the world –any world– and even though it’s just stupid hope, because the moment you pass through a dreambubble your room becomes the centrepiece of the fucking universe, you still take some comfort from it.
He’s nuzzling your neck, breathing hot against your skin, and you feel a shiver run down your back, your body reacting to his closeness.
His hands are tugging you against him, wriggling until he’s sprawled on his back, legs propped up awkwardly on the side of the coon, and you slip on top of him, curled against his chest, hands fisted in the folds of his cape as you tuck it above both of you, to maintain the pretence of privacy.
You hate to be pressed down, without means to run. You feel trapped. Constricted. as a self-imposed recluse, covering up your blood to be safe, being held down triggers your instincts. He’s learned it the hard way, but now he knows better.
He always lets you dictate the pace, he lets you cover his alien body with your own, lets you breathe his scent, knowing that in the morning it will be all covered with your own.
You think in a way, he likes when he’s not forced to be in control of everything.
You can’t see him, but you feel up his chest with your fingers, groping him until you caress his face again, and before you lean in to steal a kiss, you slide his shades away, and he captchalogues them.
There is no need for them here, even if you could see. You have seen his eyes already.
Then you’re finally kissing him.
His lips are cool against yours, pliant, but soon they are moving together with yours, and you deepen the kiss.
His hands are sliding down your sides, making you shiver when they slip under your shirt, and you do the same. In the dark, your bodies are similar, and things like colours and shapes disappear. It would be easy to think of him as a troll, if not for the lack of horns, but you like the fact that he’s not.
He’s a human, and he’s yours, just like you are his –even if it’s in silence, even if it’s quiet, that doesn’t make it any less true.
He moans into your lips when your fingers grace his nipples from above his shirt, and you groan back as his hands trace your vestigial grub-leg scars.
One of his hands slips between you, rubbing between your legs, and the friction of the clothes against your slowly unsheathing bulge is almost too much, and you falter, nails digging into his chest, gasping into his mouth.
His caresses continue, and you push your hips against his hand, groaning. It feels good, grinding down against him.
Your hand moves lower, mimicking his teasing touches; you find his human bulge, hard under your fingers, and you stroke it, knowing exactly what to do to make him keen.
It’s hot, and there’s a tightness in your chest that is entirely caused by him. You want him, in a way that almost scares you, as strong as your feelings for Terezi were, but with an intensity that leaves you breathless. He’s not what you thought you wanted, he’s not the perfect matesprit you dreamed about watching romcoms, he’s not even a troll–
But you don’t care about that, because he’s under you, he’s touching you and you’re touching him, and his soft moans leave him more open than all his stupid rants ever do.
You know him, in a way that surprises you, because you never realised you knew so much about him.
He’s not perfect but he’s perfect.
His lips are still against yours, and he’s mouthing something, and you kiss the unspoken words away, tasting him, your hand slipping past the line of his pants to touch the hot skin underneath.
He arches up, gasping and moaning softly, and you catch your name in the next moan as your fingers wrap again around his bulge, this time with no layer of clothes to block the feeling of skin against skin.
You like to hear him moan. You like to feel his hard bulge twitch into your grip, leaking genetic material as you give him pleasure.
He’s dissolving into breathless sounds, one arm holding you tightly against his chest, the other twitching and finally finding his way into your pants.
His fingers pursue your nook, and you tremble as they caress the folds around your bulge, slick with your own genetic material.
He presses at the base of your bulge, and your vision goes white for a moment. You gasp and kiss him again to muffle a louder groan, your hand moving harder on him, matching the pace.
You’re both getting loud, limbs slamming against the constricting walls of your recuperacoon, but you don’t give a flying fuck, pressed flush into the small space, breathing harshly as you stroke each other to completion.
It’s burning and it’s coiling around you, taking your breath away–
He comes first. He shivers and arches against you, moaning your name again in the silence, so soft against your ear. The sound is enough to blind you and you climax too, shuddering and falling on top of him, your hips thrusting for some added stimulation as you both ride out the pleasure.
You kiss him again, softly, panting against his lips, breathing his scent, and he wraps his arms around your shoulders to hold you close.
He’s breathing words against your ear, sound never leaving his lips, but you know what he’s saying, and you curl on top of him, holding him close.
There’s a smile on your lips and your body is pleasantly warm, and Dave kisses you again, fingers intertwined with yours, and you find yourself drifting off to sleep.
Tucked away in your recuperacoon, you think, hidden under his shitty cape, there’s no real danger anybody will find you.