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"Fuck off with those, asshole," he snaps at you, so you yank on his horns again. "They're not a fucking steering wheel, this is not the Stridermobile, you know what that feels like-" you yank harder, pulling his face straight into the crotch of your jeans so his voice comes out all whiny and muffled. It's incredibly precious in that way that makes you want to throw him at walls a lot. Oh good god he's still talking though- "...or maybe you wouldn't know, yours were too small to get a grip, weren't they, must be why you were always so fuckin' pissed off."
"Shut up," you growl, only your stupid human vocal cords don't do it right, so it just sounds sort of raspy and dumb and you try to make up for it by curling a fist in his hair and pulling. God you miss your claws. It's not nearly enough to hurt him, his pain tolerance was way too high even as a human, but it's satisfying and it makes him curse directly into your weird humany bulge, and you can feel his hot breath through the thick cloth and wow pants are the worst thing to have ever happened to you. You let go of him long enough to try and grapple them off, and immediately he's on you, clawing at- oh. He's helping. That's. Helpful.
"You're gagging for it," he says, which is less helpful, but one of your hands and both of his is enough to get your pants down and off and still let you get one hand back on his horn, only this time it's to try and keep his face off your crotch for a second, because fuck. "You're such a slut, Vantas, can't believe you lasted this long, fuck, I can smell you, you know that?" (Yes, you know that. The human nose has proven to be an incredibly useless item, relatively speaking.)
You're still not used to your new bulge, and you're really not used to feeling a tongue on it. You let out a desperately stupid noise and try to pull him off by the horns. He's having none of it, though, and you have the sudden suspicion that you were only moving him earlier because he was letting you. Fuck.
"Strider what are you even trying to-" He's trying to get your bulge in his mouth without his teeth getting involved, that much is pretty obvious, the part that is just really incomprehensible is why, why he thinks that is even possible, maybe you were wrong and he's not black for you, he's just a pervert psychopath and he wants to kill and eat you genitals-first.
"Fuck, these teeth," and he gets the growl right, oh god that's scary this close to your junk, only then he just gives up getting the thing into his mouth and goes back to licking, and okay shit his tongue is really long. You're back to trying to pull him closer, and you get your useless little stub-claws right up on the base of his horns (why are they so big it is not fair, you want to take his head and stuff and mount it in your fucking trophy room with a rack like that) and he makes a mean, low noise, a noise like you really want to make but can't. You're making this breathy moaning noise instead, you can't take yourself seriously at all, but you can't stop. You want to block his ears up, or rip your own throat out, anything to stop him from hearing you, because when he does, he stops.
Why the fuck is he stopping. Oh god he's looking at you and he looks so hungry and he nicked his lip on his teeth and his blood's a fine cherry line down his chin and your bulge throbs and twitches and he laughs at you.
When you pull on his horns again, he lets you. He lets you bury his face right down where your nook's supposed to be, lets you wrap your legs right around his head so his horns gouge into your thighs a little- the points are blunt but it still scrapes, and he just mouths wetly at the skin between your legs and under the sac of- whatever. Whatever, it feels amazing, his skin is velvet-soft and he presses the flats of his teeth against you and you are so not scared of this asshole, even though you are, you really aren't. You're scared that you're going to have a heart attack before the bucket even gets introduced, and more than that you're scared that this is an elaborate irony double-reacharound that ends in him walking off leaving you to deal with yourself alone. But he's drooling on you, he's letting you basically hump his face, he's licking at everything he can get at, which is a lot, and the growl didn't stop being a thing at any point, yeah. You want to cram him in, up in through the skin, these parts are so wrong and it is so not fair that you can't get his tongue up in you, the way it's moving.
You steer him up, because every part of your body is screaming and exploding but you're beginning to suspect that the bulge is kind of crucial to the procedure. You can hardly stand to look down at it, it looks so unnatural, your whole body is so incorrect, but you hate it less when his long black tongue wraps around the head of it, when he carefully wraps his lips around and sucks. You hear some shouting, which is probably you, but at this point you have not a damn clue what is coming out of your mouth. You pull on him almost against your own will, but his mouth is so hot and you just want your entire fucking bulge in there, you know about the teeth but you just cannot bring yourself to care. He lets you, and oh god the further in you manage to drag him the stronger the vibrations from the rumbling he's still making. Your mouth feels dry, your lungs are burning, your vision is completely tunneled down on fucking Strider, on his mouth. You squeeze your legs around his head, try to dig your heels into the back of his neck, anything to get further into him. He pushes back effortlessly, though, and for a split second you seriously think you're going to just burst out sobbing and then die, except, no, then he goes back down, what fresh hell is this.
When he does it the second time- goes off and then back down- you're sort of prepared for the general notion, but you're really not prepared for being flattened down by how good it is. You thought it was good already! You were pretty sure that how good it was was a sign that you were already dead or dreaming! But the rocking... sort of pumping... motion, whatever, that he's doing with his mouth, that is really. Really nice. Like, you no longer have the urge to try and climb into his face, since his face seems to be a fine job of doing that on its own. You fall back against the couch, let your legs hang a little slacker around his head and shoulders, dig your heels into his back and your fingers into the bases of his horns to keep you grounded. He groans when you do it, and your bulge is all the way deep in his mouth when he groans, and the whole thing makes your hips just buck, and that is easily the most dangerous thing you've ever done with any set of genitals you've owned, but it pays off, because he chokes a little and groans again. It's coupled with a sort of tongue-swirl thing when he pulls off, and brief thoughts you had of flipping him over and fucking his face are swiftly dismissed.
The pressure from before, the screaming wild GET IN MY NOOK YOU USELESS BAG OF SMUG ORGANS drive, it's different now. The pull's still there, and something wild and desperate gives a vicious kick in your guts when he goes faster suddenly, or sucks harder, but it's, it's so weird, it's not normal at all, not like the pleasant aching receptive wiggling wet-nook experiments that you've definitely never performed. It's hot and low and tight and you're hanging onto his horns so hard that the ridges leave imprints in your palms. You're not pulling him much of anywhere anymore, but your whole body's tense. You make the immense mistake of looking down.
Jegus. His shades have slipped down his nose, his fat black lips are plump and shiny where they're wrapped around you. He's not looking up at you, he's almost cross-eyed, brows furrowed, going at your bulge with naked concentration. At some point he got his hands up around your knees, but he's pulling your legs in around him, not pushing them apart, and his claws are hardly leaving marks, all the pressure careful in his palms and wrists. Something in you jerks, just once, and the motion travels to your hands, your thighs. You yank his whole head straight down, and maybe he's too surprised to stop you, or maybe he doesn't want to try, but he goes all the way down, 'til the glasses on the bridge of his nose are tucked tight against your belly, and you see white.
You keep seeing white for what feels like maybe five thousand hours? But is probably only a second, because the next thing you know he's bucking your hands off and pulling away.
"Wh," you say.
"No need to start the parade right away, I'll give you an hour to get the marching band set up," he says, and pushes his glasses back up by nudging his face on your knee. You want to break his nose, a bit.
"Where did," you manage- an astounding accomplishment. Are human bloodpushers supposed to do this weird stop-thump-stop thing?
"Where did I learn- well, a man's gotta be well-researched, you know-" You do knee him in the nose. It doesn't break, and you bruise your shin on his fucking horn, but it's immensely satisfying. It also makes him untangle from your legs and act all affronted, which is less satisfying.
"No, fuckface, where did-"
"Fuckface," he says, all nasally because he's still holding his nose. "You did." You kick out at him weakly, miss, and try to haul more of your useless body onto the sofa.
"Where'd it all go," you finally finish.
He looks at you blankly.
"Didn't- you didn't have a bucket. Where did it. When I."
His face does something sort of unreadable, and he stops the nose thing. "I swallowed it." It's weird, but he sounds almost hurt.
You feel your face heat. "How"
"Is that not something you-"
"No, shut up, physically how could you do that?"
"Oh," he says.
"Is it diff-"
"Is this what the buckets are for," he says, in a near-perfect monotone.
"Yes, this is what the fucking buckets are for." You're feeling less dead now, already- not quite enough to find your pants, but enough that you can sit up and glare at him properly.
"Do you have a-"
He is close enough that, once again, you can grab him by the horn, drag him close, steer his head so you can talk right into his ear. He's hot all over and you feel drugged and shivery and you can smell him too, almost, and you've finally, finally got a Dave Strider you know how to deal with. You drop your free hand to his zipper, feel his bulge push up to try and meet you, feel the damp heat from his nook. "Yeah," you tell him. "I'll show you how it's done.