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Your name is Dave Strider, and you're on your fucking period.
You slept like dogshit last night, drifting in and out of weird, feverish dreams, consistently plagued by a vague sense of discomfort you couldn't place or name. It all makes perfect sense why the moment you wake up. The push and pull rhythm of your nonsensical dreams, like ocean waves. The tacky feeling on your thighs when they rub together. The discomfort localizes into sharp, unrelenting pain concentrated right beneath your stomach.
Son of a bitch.
Groaning, you roll out of bed, landing on your feet with all the grace of a drunken figure skater, and shuffle down the hall to your bathroom. The pain in your abdomen throbs cheerfully with every step. It already hurts so bad you genuinely think you might start crying. You want to just drop to the floor and curl up and die.
In the bathroom you hit the light switch and regret it immediately. Didn't really have the presence of mind to grab your shades before you got up. There is clearly going to be no winning for you today.
Stumbling around like a newborn deer in a pool full of Jell-O, you wet a washcloth and make a quarter assed attempt at cleaning the blood off your legs. You succeed only at smearing the blood around like a finger painting made by the kid from The Omen. The creaking, groaning way you bend over to open the cabinet under the sink, gripping the edge of the counter so hard your fingers might break, would make the most arthritic, osteoporotic grandma appear as limber and lithe as Ginger Rogers. Naturally, your pads are shoved all the way at the back of the cabinet, and extracting one drags out this errand into an endless stretch of misery.
The trial overcome, you slap a pad down into your underwear, try to fold the crappy little wings underneath, grab the crotch of your sweats and tug them around when the wings inevitably stick to your legs, and head back to your room. The cramps seize tighter and you make the miles long journey doubled over with your arms locked around your stomach. As though it helps, el-em-a-fucking-o. Your pain addled brain thinks that if you could somehow find a way to film the unrelenting clench of muscle, you could dominate all those hydraulic press YouTube channels and make a goddamn killing.
Before you finally allow yourself to drop back into your bed—the blood hadn't leaked out of your sweats by the time you woke up so your sheets are miraculously unsullied, thank fuck—you dig your heating pad out of a cluster of mystery cords under your desk. You plug that sucker into the power strip beside your bed, flop onto the mattress like a beached whale, cram the pad under your waistband, and use the last of your energy to cocoon yourself in your blankets.
The second you settle into as comfortable a position you can achieve in your pain-hazed state, your phone goes off.
One arm snakes out from the pile of blankets and slaps around on your nightstand until your fingers slide over the cool glass of your phone's screen. You draw the offending device into the blankets and squint through the smear of your fingerprints at a text message.
CG: BE THERE IN AN HOUR
Mother fuck burger with a side of oh fuck fries. Your period pain is accompanied by a heaping helping of guilt, not the recommended side dish for overwhelming physical agony. Zero stars, will not return to this restaurant, hire a new goddamn chef.
You sigh and close your eyes. Might as well try to grab a little more sleep before he shows up and you have to tell him that all your plans for today are cancelled on account of your spiteful biology.
Your name is Dave Strider, and your boyfriend, Karkat Vantas, is the biggest, sappiest romantic on the fucking planet.
And today is fucking Valentine's Day.
You're floating just above the surface of real sleep when you hear a key grinding in the lock of your front door. You turn over and stretch out your legs out a bit. The cramps throb like a middle schooler's first outing on the drum kit, loudly letting you know that yep, they're still kicking and not going anywhere anytime soon.
The door clicks open and you expect him to enter your apartment on the wave of one of his classic rants, maybe running down the plans you'd made for your day, accented with a colorful array of swears. You're well accustomed to his shoutiness, hell it's one of the things you love about him, but in your delicate state you're as ready to suffer his voice grinding on your ears like a bone saw, as you were for this relentless abdominal torture when you woke up this morning.
But to your surprise, he doesn't say a word as he shuts the door and starts walking down the hall to your room. He's not even stomping. The only noise you hear is a quiet crinkling, like plastic.
Your bedroom door opens, feet shuffle inside, and plastic rustles as the door is shut.
"Hey," Karkat says, unusually gentle.
"Sup," you mumble, not making particular effort to be heard outside your blankets.
"Period?"
"Yup."
"Take your pill?"
"Sure did. Top of the list when I woke up in screaming pain and a puddle of blood, was taking my pill. I popped outta this bed and set a land speed record crossing the room to get that pill down my gullet."
You hear him walk over to your nightstand and sort through the assorted shit scattered over the top. There's a rattling noise as he picks up the blister pack of your norethindrone.
"Dave, you haven't taken your pill in…two and a half weeks."
"Well shit Kar, I'm a busy guy, you can sue me for bein a little forgetful but it won't hold up in court, not like I signed a fuckin' contract to take those pills, in fact I should be the one bringing the lawsuit cause those little bastards don't even work."
"They don't work because you don't take them consistently." There's a definite growl to his voice, evidence of the shouting he's holding back like a pissed off dog on a leash. His restraint is remarkable. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy. He loves getting worked up, but he loves you more, and is holding himself back for your sake. "And if remembering your pill is too fucking difficult, there are plenty of other options."
You two have had this argument approximately two dozen times. It's just one of those little rituals that forms in a committed relationship, and even though this one happens every month, it's never escalated into anything approaching seriousness. Karkat knows why you're not interested in the other options and he won't push. He just lambasts you a little bit, then hands you a pint of Phish Food and cuddles you on the couch while you ride it out.
This time is a little different though, as the guilt rears its head alongside a fresh throb of pain. In the interest of not making the situation worse, you change the subject. "Gotta say Karkat, I'm surprised you're not reading me the riot act for ruining our Valentine's Day plans. You've been talking about it for weeks."
"Oh." You hear him set down the blister pack and more rustling plastic. "I'm saving that for when you're feeling better, you peanut-brained chimp." Ah, there it is. You love him so much. "Besides, I knew this was gonna happen, so I got the insurance for the rental. I've already rescheduled for next weekend."
You finally stick your head out from your swaddle. He turned the light on and you blink blearily as your grasp for your shades and cram them into your face. Karkat is kneeling on the floor, pulling items from a plastic bag. You see a ibuprofen, a couple bottles of water, one of those shitty chocolate samplers you both love, and two boxes you don't recognize, one orange and one white. "The fuck do you mean, you knew."
"Well, since someone refuses to use a period tracker—"
"I told you man, I'm not downloading one of those apps and handing my personal health information directly to the feds—"
"And I told you that you don't need a fucking app. You can just use a fucking day planner, you useless sack of shit. Anyway, since you can't be assed to take a pill, filling out a day planner is also clearly too much to ask, so I've been doing it myself."
Prior to this, you could count the number of times you've been rendered totally speechless in your life on one hand. Four of them were Karkat's fault. He's just upped his count to five and a second hand. You manage to untangle your tongue as Karkat crumples the bag, stuffs it into your overflowing trash can, and slots his purchases into whatever space he can find on your nightstand.
"You—you've been tracking my periods?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Because one of us has to be fucking prepared. Now come out of there and let me take care of you."
The cramps are briefly quelled by the syrupy adoration that floods your veins. You are the most loved dude on the planet, it's you. And he's the best boyfriend ever, it's him.
You wriggle out of your blankets and look at him properly. One eyebrow arches up over your shades. "Okay, as wooed as I am by your dedication, that fit does not scream, "I predicted my Valentine's day plans would be cancelled". What are you really up to, Vantas."
Not that you're complaining. If you weren't still in astronomical pain, you'd be climbing the tree that is the sexy fuckin troll standing in the warzone of your bedroom. He's in black dress pants and shoes, a red button up with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and black vest and tie. The shirt is stretched across his broad chest and you have fantasies of the buttons popping off and putting your eyes out. Totally worth it, hashtag would.
"Just because you're not feeling well, doesn't mean I can't set the mood a little bit." Karkat bends over you, reaching for your waistband, and you feel a spike of heat thinking he's about to put the moves on. Instead he grabs your heating pad and draws it out.
Okay, now you're complaining. "Hey!" you complain.
"Fucking chill out. You always burn the shit out of yourself with this thing."
"Because it's the only thing that brings me any goddamn relief."
"Well, let's try something new before you end up with another scar." He grabs the orange box. Inside it is a little pouch, and when he opens it you're immediately socked in the nose by an overwhelming, astringent smell.
"What the fuck is that?"
"Stripebeast balm patches."
"Stripe—" You grab the box. "It literally says tiger. You don't need to translate it to your excessively descriptive alien mumbo jumbo."
"It rolls off the tongue better." He pulls out a rectangular fabric patch from the pouch, strips off a plastic coating from one side, tugs down your waistband, and sticks it to your skin just under your stomach.
At first it kinda hurts, it's cold and it stings like a motherfucker. Karkat lays a hand over it, smoothing down the edges, and his furnace hot body temp leeches through and soothes the sting. You decide to deal with it, because he did all this shit for you knowing it would ruin his sappy corporate candy day and he's not complaining anywhere near the extent he's entitled to.
After a minute the sting from the patch fades, leaving a strange hot-cold feeling, and you think it is honest to god actually soothing the cramps. "Holy shit," you mumble. "Where's this stuff been all my life?"
"Any CVS or Walgreens in the US. I hadn't heard of it either, for the record. Nepeta told me about it."
You snort. "Of course she did." You lean back onto your pillow, finally approaching something like comfort as the miracle magical smelly thing gradually takes the edge off the pain. Karkat sets the box back on the nightstand and you see the ibuprofen. "Look, this stuff is great and all, but can I have a hit of the good stuff too?"
"Have you eaten anything?"
You pout. "Come on, you know my appetite's gonna be totally shot until my body gets over this current homicidal episode."
"At which point I will get you a burger." Oh fuck yes. You're always feral for a cheeseburger when the cramps are done. "But if you take the ibuprofen now it's gonna fuck up your stomach, and then you won't even be able to enjoy these crappy chocolates with me."
"Oh, Karkat. Your romantic wordsmithery is a once in a generation talent." You frown because that's as much true as it is a jab. You were genuinely looking forward to how thick he was gonna lay it on you tonight. You were extra looking forward to how hard he was gonna give it to you tonight.
Sighing, you say, "I'd trade all the burgers and crappy chocolates in the world if it meant I was riding the tentacle train right now instead of the menstrual cycle."
Karkat crosses his arms. "I mean, you still can."
Shock and a hot spike of pleasurable interest stab through you. You shoot upright. "Fuckin, are you serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Uhhh." You laugh nervously and run a hand through your hair. "Dude, you are constantly bitching about the weirdness and grossness of human anatomy compared to troll anatomy, why would I ever think you would want to get up in my business when I'm literally bleeding?"
"It's not actually blood, it's—
"It's as good as blood, is what it fuckin is, and you had a hangup about that too when we first met if I recall correctly."
"Yeah, when we were wrigglers. I'm a fucking adult now, thank you very much. Besides, I read that orgasms can help with menstrual pain."
Of course he did. Of course he fucking did. But—"Well shit, why didn't you offer that up first?"
"I didn't know if you would be into it."
Shit. You're definitely interested in something. That is not just blood leaking out of your cooch right now. And hell, you get painted red every time you bang anyway. Your contribution to the mess is hardly gonna make a difference.
You lick your lips. "Shit, Kat, all the hot fantasies I've jacked myself off to bout you and the red wings never crossed my mind. You've managed to outmaneuver my perverted day dreaming, congrats."
"Do I want to know what red wings means?"
You snatch up your phone and cruise on over to Urban Dictionary. When you shove the screen in his face he doesn't even flinch.
"I guess that's not so different from when you suck me off." He's so fucking casual about it.
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. You shiver and press a hand to your mouth to suppress a groan. This is happening? Yeah, this is happening. Your huge, hot troll boyfriend is dressed up and going down on you. Fuck whatever sappy shit he was gonna romance you with. Best fucking Valentine's Day ever.
"Fuck, okay. Let's do this man. Let's—"
He claps a hand over your mouth and his deep red eyes burn right through your shades. Doesn't need to speak to get his point across. No SBaHJ quotes today, alright, and you'd maybe be tempted to do it anyway just to make him look at you like that some more if you weren't afraid he'd call off the sexy stuff, a point you have in fact pushed him to before. Not willing to take that chance now though. You are so hot that if you were still using the heating pad you'd probably have passed out from heat stroke.
Karkat climbs up on the bed and kneels over you. Your muscles clench, from both pain and pleasure.
"Hey," he says, with a small, dangerous smile curling the corners of his mouth.
"Hey," you say back, trying to be cool and failing.
Smirking wider, he bends over and kisses you.
You're already so cranked and ready to go you shoot for the good shit immediately. Karkat indulges you, opening his mouth and slipping his tongue into yours. He's so hot in so many ways but fuck counting them, your brain is flooding with happy sex chemicals and nothing matters except the way his thick tongue is filling up your mouth and his hands are roaming up under your shirt to caress your tits. Yes yes yes. You hook a leg around his waist and grind against him.
He extracts one hand from booby central (fucking rude, you almost shout) and presses down hard on your hip, forcing you still against the mattress. Oh, of course sir, never mind, this is clearly his train and you're just along for the ride.
"Shut the fuck up," he mumbles against your mouth, swiping his tongue over your palate.
You're a good, obedient boy, so you shut the fuck up by sucking on his tongue. He hums with pleasure and you keep sucking merrily away, until your muscles seize up again and the good sexy feelings are steamrolled by fucking ow. Motherfuck, it's hard to enjoy the ride when everything fucking hurts!
"Listen, babe," you say, pulling away, "I am so fucking thrilled that you're into this, and there are so many sexy possibilities for us to explore now that we've agreed this is explorable territory, but I would really, really prefer if I could just go ahead and get off once and then we can take our time mapping out this brave new world of degeneracy. Yeah? Please?"
Karkat sighs. "Fine. Fuck me for wanting to be a little romantic about it I guess."
"Got all day for that. Not going anywhere, remember?"
He growls. His big big hands slip your tee off, thumbs brushing over your nips. You giggle, shivering with each wave of pleasure pulsing up from your cunt. Karkat grabs the waistband of your sweats and pulls, not sexy slow style but not ripping them off you either. The little patch on your stomach is still doing it's thing, a nice hot-cold square over your sensitive skin.
Karkat strips away your underwear. This should be sexy, except the pad predictably comes unstuck and plops down into your bed bloody side down.
"Gross," you mutter.
"Gonna have to change the sheets anyway," Karkat replies, and oh good there's the sexy feeling back again, and fuck yes there it extra is as he grips your thighs and spreads your legs and takes a good long look at what you've got on offer.
"Like what you see?" you ask with a little shake of your hips.
Instead of answering, he lifts one hand and swipes his thumb through the smear of period goo on your thigh. Then he lifts the thumb to his mouth and licks the goo off.
"Holy shit," you choke out, even as everything strings tight and a wave of slick pulses out of you.
"Yeah," he says. Then he stands up and gets off the bed.
You want to cry. You want to scream. It's perfectly reasonable that he'd change his mind after that, that stuff probably tastes awful and he's gonna have to wade through a gallon of it to get to the good part, but fuck you're so horny and so ready for it, maybe he'll at least let you rub one out on his hand—
Karkat takes your hips and maneuvers you around on the bed, before dropping to his knees, head positioned perfectly between your legs.
"Oh," you say.
"Ready?" he asks, and then he doesn't even fucking wait for an answer before he dives in and gets to work.
Interestingly—or infuriatingly might be a better word—you don't feel it right away. Like you feel it, you feel his tongue doing something down there, but you don't get the sexy sparks from it you usually do. He's really having to part the red sea in order to lead you to the promised land. You lay your hands at the base of his horns, twisting fingers through his hair, trying to pull him closer.
Karkat seizes your hips again and yanks you forward. His tongue plunges into you right at the same time his nose brushes over your clit. Hot pleasure stabs through every inch of you, out to the end of every limb.
"Fuuuuck Karkat, yes, don't stop—"
Stop he does not. He's so good to you, takes such good care of you, always so prepared and ready to give you exactly what you need.
He pauses for air, which you are totally fine with because you need it yourself, your breath has been punched clean out of you with every thrust of that thick, talented tongue. You glance down and get a glimpse of a red smear before he goes under again. This time a finger slides slick and welcome into your hole, and you clench down on it in a combination of need and another pulse of pain and pleasure. Karkat's tongue moseys northward and gets friendly with your clit.
You're panting, high and sharp. Your shoulders twist against the bed, all the motion you're allowed under the heavy drape of Karkat over your lap, his free hand pressing your hip firmly into the mattress. Christ you hope he's gonna leave a bruise.
One finger becomes two. You clamp down on them as his fingertips glance over that special spot inside you. Karkat's tongue circles endlessly over your clit and you're—you're actually not sure that's a circle he's making? You focus on the feeling for a while and…
"Karkat," you croak, "you fucker, are you—are you licking my clit in a hhahhhh heart shape?"
In response, Karkat presses a third finger into you. You let out a long, keening moan, stuttering, "Y-you romantic…ass….bastarrrrrrah fuck!"
He completes one last heart, licks a long, solid stripe straight over your clit, then locks his lips around it and starts to suck.
You're gone. You're fucked.
"Karkat, Karkat Karkat Karkat." You babble helplessly. Everything's a mess inside you. Pain and pleasure all smeared into some new thing that overtakes you and you don't know what to do, all you can do is writhe and moan and cry "ah-ah-ah!" as you inch closer and closer and finally—
You come so hard everything goes white. You clamp down on Karkat's fingers, refusing to let them withdraw, so he curls them instead and strokes your g-spot and kisses your clit and works you through the insane heat burning through you like a wildfire. You're making noise but you can't hear it, ears ringing in the aftermath of your orgasmic explosion. You writhe madly against your sheets and Karkat allows you to, holding your thighs just tightly enough that he keeps contact with your cunt as you ride out the last waves of pleasure and go totally, completely limp, barely able to even breathe.
When your eyes decide to work again and your bones have reconstituted into something mostly solid, you lean shakily up on your elbows and observe the aftermath.
Karkat's face looks like a murder scene. You look like a murder scene too but that's old news, this happens every month. You can't tear your eyes away from the red wings spread wide over Karkat's face, from his nose to halfway down his fucking throat, Jesus shitting Christ. It gets your engine revving again, just a quiet idle for now, but you'll definitely be ready for round two pretty fucking quick.
"Feel better?" Karkat asks.
You think. You feel the sting of the patch on your skin and the last trembling aftershocks of your climax and nothing else.
"Fuck yes," you breathe.
"Good." Karkat stands up and walks over to the nightstand again. You turn your head to watch, head rolling bonelessly on your neck, but his back is turned and you can't see what he's doing.
"Wanna cuddle," you mumble, making loosey goosey grabby hands even though he can't see.
"Not until I clean you up. Hot as that was, I am not ruining these clothes."
You giggle and turn your head back, eyes drifting dreamily shut. You might sleep, actually. You don't think Karkat will be too upset.
There's a crinkle of plastic and then you feel the displaced air as he turns and bends over you again. Something presses against your lips, and horny bitch you are, you open your mouth to take it.
A piece of chocolate slides into your mouth, and then Karkat's lips seal over yours. Karkat's lips, still smeared with the blood and come he just licked out of your pussy.
Your eyes fly open and you jerk on instinct and Karkat's tongue, coated thick with a salty, tangy taste, presses the chocolate in deeper before he withdraws, leaving you with a wet, smacking kiss. You swallow down the chocolate, coughing and gagging.
"What the fuck, babe!" you sputter, even as your tongue swipes your own fluids off your lips and an interested quiver strums through your cunt.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Dave," Karkat murmurs, lips brushing over yours. He says it so tenderly, so loving, that any annoyance disappears immediately. You sigh and lean back, smiling.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Karkat. I love you."
"Love you too. Now drink this."
He hands you a bottle of water and yeah, you're pretty fucking thirsty now you think about it. You chug half the bottle and when you come up for air, Karkat's opening the last of the items he brought, the white box. It's a pack of wet wipes; he pulls one out and starts to clean his face.
Two and two slam together and make five in your head. "Oh my fucking god, you planned this."
"Yeah, maybe," he says with a grin. "Or maybe I just wanted to be prepared. Got a problem with that?"
"Absolutely the fuck not. Not a single problem here, this is a problem free zone, all we got are good times in the Problem Free Zone, the population's just you and me babe, and it's our civic duty to keep the good times rolling."
"Another round then?"
"Fuck yes, Karkat. Let's fly on those red wings."