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The first thing to do, of course, when one suddenly finds oneself equipped with an entirely new body, is explore. Right? It’s only logical.
At least, that’s what you’re thinking at the moment.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are now a troll.
> Dave: check out your new digs.
The first time you try to stand up from the platform of whatever this machine is that you found yourself lying on, you overbalance and topple to the floor. Either it’s the new muscle configuration, ‘cause they’re all really fucking weird all of a sudden, or you’re a little woozy from the machine, but you can’t get your hands behind you in time to break your fall. You end up falling more or less like a rag doll, except your head is heavier than you know to compensate for and your neck isn’t used to having to hold up the extra weight, so you end up slamming into the floor horns-first.
> Ow.
You fucking shriek, jolting into a sitting position. You of course topple over again, but you manage to land on an elbow instead of your horns. You stay like that for a moment, legs out in front of you, propped up on one elbow, like a little L-shape on the floor.
> Okay, let’s try that again. Slower.
As your eyes uncross and the tremors of absolute fucking agony subside from the jolt you just gave your horns, you sit up slowly, hands planted on the ground so you don’t fall again. You’re well aware that gravity is functioning perfectly as per usual, thanks, you can stop checking now.
You sit there for a ridiculous amount of time, gently flexing all your various muscles and just getting used to the way your breath seems to fill your entire torso and the three-four hop-skipping of your new heart. You feel, absurdly, like Lady Cassandra just after jumping into the Doctor’s body: ooh, baby, I’m beating out a samba! (Except, of course, that a samba is in two-four, but never mind that right now.)
> You’re feeling a little steadier now. Proceed.
Eventually, you raise your arms above your head, stretch, feel your spine cracking – and it feels so fucking weird. Everything feels so fucking weird. You stretch your arms out in front of you, admiring the wickedly sharp claws at the tips of your grey fingers. Surprisingly, your hands look basically the same – slender, elegant, and, you find out when you flex them and practice some quick air guitar, just as nimble as always. The claws are kinda weird though – they’re, like, yellow. Your eyes, you recall suddenly, probably look the same: yellow sclera, with grey irises and black pupils capable of pulling into slits like a cat’s. Why the fuck are trolls so jaundiced? Aliens sure are weird.
> You’ve been saying weird way too much over the last fifteen minutes. Stop it.
Carefully, you rise to your feet. You feel absurdly heavy. After a minute of adjusting, you start to shift your weight around, then gradually to walk. Soon enough, you’re sprinting around the room, and you even feel brave enough to try flashstepping.
You don’t brake quite fast enough, but it works okay. A little practice, and you’re back to your usual standard. Then you draw your sword, and spend several minutes slashing things until you’re comfortable again, until it feels familiar. Satisfied, you return it to your strife specibus and head back to your room.
> Be future Dave.
You are now Dave Strider precisely four minutes and thirteen seconds in the future. You are still a troll, and you are about to investigate exactly what that entails, biologically speaking.
The second the door is shut behind you, you check out of habit that your chair is still blocking the vent cover before stepping up to your full-length mirror. You feel obliged to point out, even if only to yourself, that the mirror was Rose’s idea, and she just sort of put it there without permission or reason. You’ve found way too much use for it recently: dancing, rapping, practicing your coolkid face, your swordfighting, et cetera.
> Take a good look at yourself.
You slide off your shades and take a good look at yourself.
You haven't turned on the lights, but you can still see perfectly from just the light of the dim lamp you leave on on your bedside table. Trolls are nocturnal, you remember; it's why they always wince when they come into a room where one of the humans has been doing anything requiring a half-decent level of light. You're wincing as you set down your shades and turn back to the mirror, but that's probably because of the shades. You straighten up, squaring your shoulders, and open your eyes wide.
You look exactly the same, and yet completely different at the same time. Your irises are still red, actually, almost the exact same colour as before. Your skin is velvety gray and completely hairless, as you find when you shove one sleeve up and run your palm up your arm. Your hair is blacker than you knew was possible for hair to be, and when you reach up to brush it out of your eyes you find it's more coarse than your fine blond locks were, but still absurdly soft. Your horns curve backward like the top part of Egbert's sign, the windy thingamajig, elegant and sweeping and when you reach a hand up gently to touch it makes you shudder. God, they're so fucking sensitive, what the fuck.
> Further data is required. Touch them again.
You touch them again and your knees nearly give out as another shudder runs through you. Fuck, that feels good. You wrap your fingers gently around the end of your horn and fail to suppress a moan as you start to rub.
> Describe the feeling.
Fucking hell it feels amazing. The surface of your horns is kind of velvety, like... you don't even know what, but it's really fucking soft, and the horns themselves are so sensitive you can nearly feel your fingerprints. You barely even register that your knees start to buckle; you just prop yourself up on the wall and keep stroking, rubbing gently until it makes you dizzy and you feel something start to shift behind your pubic bone -
What?
> Look down.
You look down at yourself, then spare a glance in the mirror, but, as it turns out, you can't see jack shit of what's going on down there.
> Forget the horns. Investigate the junk.
Your shirt and cape go first, revealing what appears to be... tits. They're barely noticeable - just teeny little curves - but they're a lot more than you had before, and they're... kind of weirding you out. There are also dark divots on your sides, which are pretty weird too, and you apparently have no belly button.
Then you remember whatever you were feeling down lower, and you realise that it's about to get a whole lot weirder than all those things.
> Quit stalling and ditch the pants already.
You kick off your shoes and socks, then shuck off your pants and boxers in one fell swoop, baring...
Holy shit. You look like a Ken doll.
There's nothing there. Nothing except grey skin - very soft, you discover when you run your fingertips over it - and a burgundy slit that you're kind of way too afraid to touch.
> Touch it anyway.
No fucking way.
> Come on. You know you’re going to.
Sure enough, curiosity ends up winning out over fear, and you run a fingertip gently over the slit, wary of your claws.
It feels kind of... almost ticklish, but not. It's really fucking sensitive, though, and when you run your finger over it again you get that weird shifting feeling behind your pubic bone again, like there's something moving that wants to come out.
> Touch it again.
You hesitate before running your finger over your slit again. The shifting feeling turns into squirming. As you reach up with your spare hand to touch your horn again, the squirming starts to slide out of you what the fuck.
You look down. A dark red nub is peeking from your slit. It looks... a bit like what a clit looks like, from what you've seen (thank you, internet), except not so much pink as it is red.
> ==>
Without thinking, you curl your hand around your horntip, and with a startled gasp, you feel your slit curl open, blossoming like a flower in a time-lapse video as the little nub turns out to be a tentacle which comes slithering out in a single fluid motion. You watch, agape, as it starts to curl lazily in the air, slick and red and fucking huge, holy shit, you swear it's at least a foot long and as thick at the base as your fucking arm –
> Liar.
Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. But it's still fucking huge.
So this is what Karkat's packing, you think absently. Then you feel something clench down where your balls used to be, sharp and sudden and hungry, as the mental image of Karkat, stark naked and oh fuck soaking wet, dripping water from his hair, with his collarbones sharp against his velvety skin and his eyes glowing wickedly from behind his bangs flashes through your mind. Your tentacle dick lashes at the thought, spattering red-tinted slime across your stomach.
> Stop thinking about Karkat.
You can’t. It’s no use trying.
What used to be your perineum clenches again, and you hiss in a breath at the feeling. It feels... hungry, empty, like it's begging to be filled.
The fuck?
> Peruse your new junk.
You swallow and get down on the ground, spreading your legs in front of the mirror to take a look, almost afraid of what you'll find.
> ==>
... You have a pussy.
What the actual fuck.
> Record your discovery.
You'd try to catalog actual details, but at the moment your brain is too consumed with running around in circles carrying too many ideas to function beyond spouting out several words at you: Red. Dripping. Empty.
> Do something drastic and quite possibly stupid.
You're not thinking quite clearly - you can admit it, you're not thinking clearly - which may have something to do with your next brilliant idea. Rising back to your feet - it's weird being on the floor, okay - you lean yourself against the wall, wrap a hand around your tentacle dick (fuck fuck fuck) and direct its squirming down at your alien snatch. It hesitates for a second before plunging in.
> ==>
You gasp raggedly, head tipping back against the wall, and your horntips scrape the metal, sending a burst of heat between your legs. Your tentacle dick is still squirming further into your pussy, and you twist your head, feeling the pressure against your horns as it radiates down your spine. You're kind of glad you don't tend to make much noise when you're jerking off, because if you did you'd be moaning like a really bad pornstar. As it is, your thorax is making these growling and clicking noises that you’re pretty sure you can’t stop.
Everything between your legs feels like it’s on fire, in the absolute best way possible. Your claws are digging into the wall as your junk keeps fucking itself – your hips jerk involuntarily, and you gasp as your horns drag across the wall. Tipping your head back further, pressing your horns harder into the wall, you toss your head.
A half-smothered squeak slips from your throat, followed by some sort of troll noise – you think it’s a chirp but you don’t know and you don’t care, because everything feels so good and so intense, it’s like you don’t even know what but you love it. You twist your head harder, scrape your horns against the wall more harshly, and –
> ==>
The door clicks open.
> Dave: be the new guy.
Your name is now Karkat Vantas, and holy shit what did you just walk in on.
Dave Strider fucking himself against the wall, apparently.
Holy mother of fuck.
> Karkat: don’t flip out.
You manage to take in the entire scene before flipping out. A troll who looks suspiciously like Dave is leaning against the far wall, stark naked, with his bulge as deep up his own nook as it can probably go, rutting his horntips against the wall like he’s in heat. As you stand there, silent, his hips convulse once against the empty air. What you can see of his bulge shifts, and you’d be willing to bet money that it just lashed in his nook (oh fuck you did not need that image).
His eyes flick open. “Oh, hey Karkles,” he chokes out. “I can – ngh – explain.”
Your eyes couldn’t be any wider if they were literally teacup accessory plates. “What the fuck are you doing,” you demand in a monotone that you’re sure would make Dave proud if he were paying attention. Which he’s not. If the troll against the far wall even is Dave, which you’re pretty sure he is.
> Put the weapon down, Karkat.
Your sickle is in your hand and you don’t remember putting it there. You capchalogue it reluctantly.
> Dave lookalike: explain yourself.
“I’m – ah! – experimenting,” he gasps. “New body, new junk, righ – oh!”
His eyes roll back in his head as his hips jerk again. His legs are trembling, his claws digging grooves in the wall.
> Okay, yeah, this fucker is definitely Dave.
“You have got to be Dave,” you decide out loud. “No actual troll would ever even consider doing something as bulgeknottingly depraved as fucking their own nook. Only Dave Strider would be that desperate.”
The revolting piece of shit snickers. “John would,” he retorts, but it loses some of its venom in the way his breath hitches. “Fucker wouldn’t even get the impli – oh fuck.”
You can’t look away. “Holy shit,” you breathe, but you don’t think he hears you.
“Rose prob– probably would too,” he stutters. “Curious little biahhhhshit!”
> Karkat: lose it.
You slam the door, suddenly incensed. You’re not sure what did it, but something is urging you to teach this piece of utter nookwhiffing, bulgechafing self-fucking trash how to do it properly.
You’re on him in an instant, wrapping your hands around his waist and pulling him upright against you. He chirrs. Your bulge lashes in its sheath.
You slam him into the wall and snarl in his face. You have to go up on tiptoes to reach, but he shudders and the growl in his chest starts to ramp up.
You are going to wreck this bastard.
> Karkat: be the other guy.
You are now Dave Strider, and you are so fucking wrecked.
Your pussy is fucking throbbing. Karkat’s growling at you. He looks like he’s about to rip you to pieces and stick you back together inside-out and fuck the seams, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
You open your mouth to say something witty and Striderian but all you manage is “Fuck.”
You do, however, manage to strangle the me.
> Dave: be the hot troll who’s about to fuck your brains out.
You are now Karkat Vantas, and you are about seven seconds from fucking Dave’s thinkpan inside-out. You are going to fuck him so hard he won’t be able to walk; by the time you’re done with him, he’s going to be screaming your name so loud the whole fucking meteor will know you’re tearing Dave Strider to pieces.
And, now that he’s not a puny fucking human any more, you know exactly how.
You wrap your hand around the root of his bulge and start pulling him out of himself.
> Dave: resist.
Your mouth is running, a constant mantra of “nonononononono.” You’re shoving at Karkat’s shoulder, trying to stop him; your tentadong is putting up a hell of a fight, which is only serving to disconnect every brain cell in your entire troll brain via cunt pummeling.
He growls, and your brain fucking melts out through your snatch and holy fuck you’re dripping on the floor.
> Karkat: you’re on a fucking roll. Don’t let it go to waste.
“You piece of shit,” you hiss, continuing to pull Dave’s bulge slowly and steadily out of his nook, hearing the way his genetic material drips onto the floor. “You don’t have any fucking idea how depraved this shit is, do you?”
His throat releases a chirp, and his growling starts to slide up into a submissive frequency that translates to oh god yes Karkat fuck me. Your own growl drops a notch: Don’t worry, I’m going to.
The second his bulge is all the way out of his nook, Dave chirps again, begging in a primitive language that’s spoken only by instinct.
“Fucking bitch,” he snarls, and you grin. His growl slips a little higher.
“You like it,” you remind him. Your growl is so low you doubt a human could even hear it.
He squirms, trying to get free, but failing far more miserably than he would normally. That might have something to do with the fact that he was just fucking himself. Fuck you’re wet. Your bulge is trying to undo your jeans’ zipper from the inside, entirely disregarding the existence of your boxers.
“Like fuck I like it,” he chokes, but all you hear is the growl, so high it’s nearly a trill, that’s telling you that yes, he fucking likes it.
“Let me tell you something,” you purr, reaching up and burying a hand in his hair to pull him down so you can whisper in his ear. He chokes again.
“You’ve been doing it wrong,” you hiss, and he actually does trill.
“Well then,” he pants, trying and failing to bypass the trill in order to speak clearly, “why don’t you show me what I’m doing wrong?”
“I’ll do you one better,” you snarl, wrapping your hand around the tip of Dave’s horn. He makes a noise that you don’t have a word for. The fucker’s blunted his own horns rubbing them on the wall like that.
“I’m going to fuck you until you scream,” you promise, and he moans.
> Karkat: be the bottom bitch.
You are now Dave Strider, and you’re not a fucking bottom bitch, okay. Just because you’re turned on by Karkat shoving you around, threatening to fuck you until you’re screaming his name, doesn’t mean you want him to just shove you down and take what he wants from you.
… oh, fuck yes you do.
You’re totally a bottom bitch, aren’t you.
> This guy’s pretty much fucked. Be the other guy.
You are more than happy to be the other guy. The other guy is so happy being be’d.
You are now back to being Karkat, and you currently have Dave Strider begging for your bulge.
Right now, life is pretty good.
“First thing you were doing wrong,” you start in the most official tone you can manage, because apparently Dave doesn’t get the whole growling thing yet so you can still seem put-together, which is giving you an unfair advantage which you are more than happy to abuse. “I’m not entirely sure how you managed it, but you’ve been touching your horns wrong.”
He grunts. You take that as your cue to continue.
“The tips are sensitive, certainly,” you go on. “However, if you get some pressure on the bases –” you wrap your fingers around the base and dig your thumb into the slightly spongy, velvety tissue; Strider moans like you’re tearing him apart and he never wants you to stop – “it’s much better.”
Dave agrees with you. What a shock. You wrap your other hand around the base of his other horn and go to town.
> Let’s see what Dave thinks of this.
Fffffffffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
> Be Karkat again.
You spend probably way long enough on his horns; you’re almost surprised he hasn’t jizzed himself, honestly. Then again, your horns are significantly more sensitive than most; you never asked Nepeta or Sollux about their horn sensitivity – what kind of pervert even does that, seriously – but you know that the bigger someone’s horns are the less sensitive they are, and you know Equius broke one without suffering a pancrash from the pain, so the fact that you can come from just horn stimulation isn’t exactly likely to apply to everyone.
You release Dave’s horns; his head lolls back against the wall. He’s too out of it to even try anything. You feel extremely proud of yourself.
“Second thing you were doing wrong,” you say, and he manages to focus on you. You stifle a chuckle but let slip a smirk at his expense.
One of your hands reaches forward to stroke almost tenderly at the sharp outline of his hipbone, and he shivers under you.
“You never,” you murmur, hand sliding down to wrap around his bulge, “ever, ever. Under any circumstances.”
Your other hand comes up, tracing a teasing fingertip around the folds of his drenched nook. “Fuck your own nook,” you breathe, directly into his ear.
The fucker bites you.
> Be Dave.
HA!
> Be Karkat.
You snarl and jerk backwards, wrenching your hands away from Dave’s junk and pinning them around his throat, slamming him against the wall. He chokes on a laugh.
“You fucker,” you growl. Dave’s pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the burgundy ring of his irises. His fangs are bared, two sharp teeth on the top and two on the bottom like a feral barkbeast. They’re dripping candy red.
You bring one hand from Dave’s neck to touch the four holes in the side of your own neck.
“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that one,” you promise, and he tries to laugh but it turns into a thin whine when you press the heel of your hand into his throat.
You cock your head as Dave gives you a horrified look. Your lips curl up into a smile.
“Maybe next time,” you decide, and the horrified look gets somehow both more and less horrified.
You grin. “This time I’m afraid I have a plan, and that plan involves fucking you into next week.”
He swallows hard. His bulge lashes against his stomach so hard you wonder if it’s going to leave bruises. His face is going dark red-grey.
> Dude, he’s choking. Ease up.
You release him, and he doubles over, coughing. You step back and let him slide to the floor.
“So tell me, Strider,” you say casually, stripping off your sweater and tossing it aside, “any particular way you want this?”
He manages a scoff, but it turns into a choked cough. “With you spreadin’ em for me,” he snarks, and you scoff right back.
“Your growl claims otherwise,” you point out, stripping off your undershirt and noting the way his eyes track the movement.
He blinks. “What?”
You jerk your chin at his chest, unfastening your jeans and letting them drop to the floor. “You hear that?” you say, kicking your jeans aside and sliding your boxers off your legs. “The trilling? Submissive frequencies, Strider. There’s no way you can lie to me about this one.”
The horror on his face is delicious. You savour it accordingly, before jerking your head again.
“On the floor,” you order.
He gives you a look of pure, sweet loathing, darker than midnight and thick like blood. Acid burns the back of your throat. You so need to get your tongue in his mouth.
“No,” he says.
> Oh, he did not just go there.
You grab him by the base of the horn, and he yowls. You’re pretty sure that’s genetic material dripping down his thighs, staining them mahogany.
“All right then,” you growl. “We’ll do this the hard way.”
You yank him to his feet, stepping up behind him and grabbing his other horn. Fortunately for you, they’re the perfect size and shape to be used as handles.
“On your knees,” you snarl, and he barks out a defiant growl. You shove his head forward by his horns, and the growl turns into a trill and a whine as he falls to his knees.
“That’s better,” you soothe mockingly, forcing his head down towards the floor. He obliges, propping himself up on his elbows and burying his head in his arms.
You smack his ass. The sound is immensely satisfying. The acid taste in the back of your throat gets stronger, but that can wait. You’re going to fuck him like this first, on his hands and knees like an animal. You smack his ass again, harder, and he yowls, back arching.
“There you go,” you say, still in your mocking tone. “You’re starting to look as greedy as you are. Now let’s see how much you want it.”
You lean forwards, draping yourself over his back. Your bulge rubs teasingly at the entrance to Dave’s nook, and he whimpers.
“Beg,” you tell him, and he moans.
“Ngh – fuck you,” he manages, and you dig your claws into his hip.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” you reply. “Come again?”
He yelps, nook squeezing out still more genetic material. You grin. You thought that might get him. He’s big on wording.
“I said f-fuck you,” he rasps.
You wrap your fingers around the base of his horn, start to rub. He cries out.
“What was that?” you snarl.
“Please,” he whispers. “Please, fuck, Karkat, please just – fuck,” he chokes, voice suddenly hollow.
“Please what?” you prompt softly.
He whines, but doesn’t say another word. You dig your fingers into his hornbeds, and he cries out again, but this time it’s a cry of “Please!”
“Fuck me,” he pants, and you slither off him as he starts up a chant: “Please, Karkat, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, just fuck me.”
> Karkat: fuck him. Seriously. Fuck this guy.
You clamp your hands around his hips. Your bulge curls into his nook in a single fluid motion.
Dave’s back arches and he cries out again, head tipped back, throat bared. “God, yes, fuck me,” he breathes, rocking his hips back against yours, “c’mon Karkat, fuck me, I want it, yeah, fucking – ah!”
Your bulge lashes again, curling against the spot at the front of his nook that’s making him clench down hard around you. You hiss in a breath through your teeth, before raking your claws down his back. He chirps, trilling louder.
The second the tip of your bulge breaches his seedflap, Dave howls, back arching so hard that it’s got to hurt like hell. You press into him as deep as you can, stretching the tip of your bulge out to open his seedflap as wide as it’ll go. It spasms once, clenching around you, forcing your bulge to release its flood of genetic material. You hold on to his hips as the rush threatens to dislodge you, and you keep your bulge moving, lashing against the delicate nerve cluster at the front of his nook as you shudder through your orgasm until he shakes his head, letting out a tiny pained whimper. Only then do you pull out.
The sour taste in your throat is nearly overwhelming as you let Dave collapse onto his side, panting. It’s so fucking tempting to just desert him here with his bulge unsated, spit the mouthful of acid on the floor and leave to finish yourself off, but your seedflap is so fucking empty, and he wouldn’t get the implications anyways so where’s the fun insulting him like that?
You shove him over onto his back. He’s looking at you like you’re some sort of holy creature sent down to save him from his own stupidity. In a way, you guess, he’s right.
Well, don’t you feel good about yourself now.
> Do it. Ride this bucking bronco like your life depends on it.
If you weren’t being distracted by inane narration, you’d already be on his bulge.
> … Point taken.
You get down semi-gracefully onto all fours as your bulge resheathes, your lips half an inch from Dave’s and your hungry nook right over his still-moving bulge.
Dave looks so out of it he might just as well be asleep. You poke his face.
“Wake the fuck up, Strider,” you snap. “We’re not done yet.”
He makes a noise that could potentially be interpreted as an interrogative remark, eyes focusing slowly on your face.
“I’m going to ride your bulge now,” you inform him cheerfully, and his throat clicks, likely in spite of him.
“Y’r g’n fuckin’ kill me,” he mutters, blinking distractedly.
“No troll in recorded history has ever been fucked to death by one orgasm,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “Get a grip on yourself. Besides, you’re not even done yet.”
“Says who?” he snarks back. “For all you know I could be totally happy to just curl up and go the fuck to sleep, right here on the floor, fuck beds and slime tubs and all that shit –”
“Oh, would you shut the fuck up,” you huff, exasperated, before grabbing both sides of his face and kissing him.
He makes this perfect little muffled noise against your mouth that may or may not have started as a word, and you take the opportunity to slide your tongue between his lips. In seconds, he’s kissing back, and the bitterness in his mouth mingles with the sourness in yours, flooding both your mouths with salt.
After you have no idea how long, he pulls back, breathing hard. “What the fuck,” he manages. “That bitter stuff, and – what the fuck.”
“I’ll tell you later,” you promise, slightly breathless, before dragging him up to a sitting position by the shoulders and attacking his lips again.
He moans and grabs your hips, and his bulge nudges its way into your nook. The two of you moan in tandem as he works into you, and when the tip touches your seedflap you convulse.
“Fuck, yes, there,” you order, and Dave does as he’s told, pressing his bulge forwards and distending your seeflap as far as it’ll go. You come in a wash of white-hot pleasure, digging your claws into the bases of Dave’s horns as your mouth opens wide in a silent scream.
“Oh, fuck,” Dave whispers, burying his face in your shoulder and biting down on your collarbone. His bulge lashes in your nook, and you thrash in his lap as he grabs your ass with both hands and forces you as far down on his bulge as you can go.
You barely notice the way his bulge lashes harder a few more times before cramping up and releasing, pumping wave after wave of genetic material into your nook until it feels like you’re going to fucking burst from the sensation. Gradually, his bulge stutters to a halt, and you pull off him and crawl up his chest.
He looks barely conscious. You smack him, and he clicks at you in a reprimanding sort of tone that you can’t possibly take seriously.
You grab his horn and force his head up to look at you. You’re straddling his shoulders; your sheath is right in front of his nose.
You grab the base of his other horn, twist both hands hard. His seedflap releases, and he shouts as the flood of your genetic material pours out onto the floor.
“You don’t fucking deserve a pail,” you hiss, grabbing his limp hands from where they’re resting on the floor on either side of his head and dragging them up to your own horns. Thankfully, Strider gets the message, wrapping his fingers around the bases and digging his thumbs into the spot where your horns join your head.
You thrash, reservoir dumping Dave’s material all over his throat and shoulders. Some of it even splashes up to his face. It’s a mark of ownership that his own burgundy is smeared with candy-red. You're immensely proud of yourself.
You rise to your feet, grabbing Strider’s cape from where it’s lying in a heap of clothes on the floor. Without a word, you wipe the smears of genetic material from the insides of your thighs, then look back.
Strider’s lying on the floor, in a puddle of genetic material of merging shades of red. You decide that you’re not going to tell him how badly that shit stains if you leave it long enough. You’re pretty sure he’s falling asleep.
“Sweet dreams, you self-fucking heap of fecal matter,” you murmur, almost affectionately, before sliding back into your clothes and strutting out the door.
You are the winner. It is you.
> Be future Dave.
You are now Dave Strider approximately nine and a half hours in the future, and you are stained pink pretty much from toesies to nosie.
You fucking hate Karkat Vantas.