Archive of Our Own ^omega

Quadrants are something you and Dave used to talk about a lot.

There were a lot of things that you talked about on the meteor, in the early days of your relationship. Very big picture issues that seemed incredibly important to Past Karkat and Past Dave, clueless insecure buffoons as they were. Not that they were wrong; those things definitely matter. It's just that when this was new and neither of you knew how it worked yet, it seemed a lot more pressing to know exactly what quadrant you were in. The difference between human love and troll pity. The difference between pale and flushed feelings. How much it's normal to vacillate. Whether he was even capable of caliginous feelings. Whether he was actually okay with yours. You talked about everything, just trying to get a handle on how you could make it work because what if you can't make this work?

But then you actually started living together, and it was working, and together you started to realize. In between all the long, exhausting conversations, the hushed and awkward confessions of what you need, what he needs, what both of you think in your dubious wisdom that you need from this - in between all that, you have lives to live.

The nuts and bolts of making a life work, it turns out, weren't in most of those conversations.

For example, Dave never bothered to introduce you to the human idea of a "double date." This particular absurd human ritual involves insinuating yourself and your matesprit into another couple's dinner plans for some inexplicable reason. Bizarrely, it's explicitly a couple's activity, which you learned when Dave laughed at you when you'd suggested he take June instead. While you can understand and respect Dave's desire for Rose's cooking (Kanaya's dietary requirements mean that Rose tends to cook to her own taste; even when she tries to cook troll food it tastes like human food), you certainly don't understand why you need to be there. "That's not a double date,” Dave had said, “That's just me third-wheeling it with Rose and Kanaya.”

So Dave couldn't go if you didn't go. Just great. You hadn't entirely understood the problem, but you'd gone along with it. You were still, maybe, a little insecure about the cultural difference. If this was how humans did dates, fine. You could humor him. So you picked at a meal you lacked the appetite for, caught up with Kanaya, endured probing personal questions from Rose, and held your shit together like the goddamn matesprit of the century. You fucking did it.

Only that wasn't the end of it.

Rose invited you back.

The idea of letting your ass go numb in one of Rose and Kanaya's dining chairs while you starve in front of an utterly unappealing home-cooked meal like an ungrateful asshole sort of makes you want to cut off your own arm. Nobody would make a guy bleeding to death from his own severed arm-stump go on a "double-date." You should have just told Dave that from the get go, but you were having a shitty day, and by the time you got around to standing your ground on the issue it was almost too late. You'd lost your shit spectacularly at an entirely blindsided Dave, who had had to cancel the whole cursed date situation for you. The rest of the evening was spent in recovery mode, cuddled on the couch with takeout boxes. That was a few weeks ago.

The problem is that it doesn't seem like Dave quite got the message, because he let Rose fucking reschedule. To today. Which you forgot until the miserable and condemned early hours of the morning, while you were once again failing to sleep. Suffice to say, the day has not improved since then. On top of the lack of sleep, the resulting tension in your head, and your unwanted evening plans, Dave has been insufferable. He's been a quick-witted and entirely too awake claw in your side since he got up. His very presence, walking around the hive, constantly acknowledging you and getting in your face is conspicuous to you today. 

If you think about it, it's pretty funny how cohabitation with your matesprit only made it harder to ignore the darker feelings you have for him. Neither of you was used to living in close quarters with normal, talking people that you saw and interacted with before, and it took a lot of adjusting to. Generally speaking you've enjoyed getting used to your matesprit's scent in the air and his stupid rapping in the meal block. Just like he's gotten used to your stomping around and screaming at inanimate objects when they don't follow fucking orders as intended. Some things become background noise, after long enough.

Except for today. Today is one of the days when Dave's eerily quiet footsteps and his audible ongoing personal narration are stepping on your nerves. He's just such a weird alien mess of contradicting signals. His feet are trying to hide but his mouth keeps running. There are days when that would be the most pitiful thing in the world to you, but today, it's merely utterly unignorable.

You're sitting on the couch, fully dressed for dinner like you have been for hours, because there's no good reason not to be ready ahead of time if you can be. It's not as though it's that different from what you already wear all day, except that these are your outside pants, which are slightly less worn-out than your inside pants. Clothes do not need to be complicated. 

Dave is in the ablution trap, which means you get the rest of the hive to yourself for half an hour or so. You're not exactly enjoying it, you're not enjoying much of anything, but the TV is on. This is an episode of GBBO that you and Dave have already seen, and it's filling its purpose extremely well as something to glare at until your mood passes or Dave finishes up in the ablution trap, whichever comes first. 

Behind you and in the hall, you hear the sound of a door opening, followed by the rush of water in the ablution trap getting louder. A beleaguered sigh leaves your mouth without your strict say-so, but you allow it. Whatever's prompting Dave to pause his shower partway through is probably stupid, annoying, or both.

You're not quite sure he's actually coming to bother you until he's coming up behind the couch and you can hear his footsteps on the carpet. The next instant, he's standing in front of you. He's clad in nothing but shades and a towel held around his waist, right in the path of your glare and blocking the TV. He's clearly still mid-shower, because every inch of visible skin is covered in heavy water drops, dripping from his hair, down his arms and legs, along his midriff into the towel. His arms are crossed, and his mouth is set into a line that you know means you did some minor stupid thing wrong.

"My eyes are up here, man." Despite his expression, he sounds amused when he says it, and you fix him with the glare you've been aiming at Paul Hollywood.

Of fucking course he caught you looking. Hell, he probably would have said it whether you were looking or not. Probably had that line locked and loaded. Fine, you're attracted to him, so fucking what? You're in a fucking relationship. You're allowed. You roll your eyes.

"Tell me you didn't come out here just to drip on the carpet and use that shitty line."

The frown returns."Nah, I got fucking grievances. Or I guess a singular grievance. You ready for this?" He uncrosses his arms and holds out his fist with no small amount of what you're pretty sure is ironic indignation. "I don't know what you could possibly be using it for, but leave my razor the fuck alone. You don't even have anything to shave, dude. I can't believe I have to fucking have this conversation." 

You blink. It takes you a second, but you're pretty sure you know what he's talking about. There's something in his hand that you've definitely seen before. Unfortunately, in that second it registers that he bothered to throw his shades on his face on the way out of the ablution trap but not to dry his fucking feet, and it's distracting enough to throw you off.

"Your what?"

Dave is shaking his head before you're even done asking. "Nope, uh-uh, I'm not playing 'guess the space name' with you, dude. Don't play dumb."

You narrow your eyes at him and take a deliberate second to look over the follicle culler in his hand. You know exactly what it is. You knew what it was when you used it earlier, clearly not for its intended purpose, but you know for a fact Dave has several of these. You figured he could spare one this one time. 

(Or you just get some kind of fucked up glee from leaving obstacles in Dave's way sometimes, either or.)

Dave's more the stoic stoney expression guy, but you do your best as you make eye contact again. "I can't know if I used it if you don't tell me what the fuck it is, can I?"

"This fucking thing." He holds it up, twists it around in his fingers as if you need to see the 360 degree view to identify a fucking follicle culler. A few droplets of water fly off in the movement, and none of them had better land on you. "This right here."

"Oh," you deadpan. "That 'razor.' What about it?"

Dave snorts a laugh, derisively playful. "That's it? It's not, like, a multi-bladed grooming stick or a personal hair scraper or something like that?"

You cross your arms and settle back into the loungeplank, glaring again. "Sorry, I thought you didn't want to guess the 'space name.' See these quotes I put around it? It's because that's how fucking ridiculous it is that you say shit like that even though neither of us is even fucking from this particular Ea-"

"Kat," Dave interrupts you with a sigh, shifting his weight onto one foot and letting the hand holding the razor fall to his side. "I got the hot water running, I can't stand around waiting for your fucking monologue to wrap up."

You stop short, a little incredulous at the brazen interruption. The absolute fucking hypocrisy almost makes you laugh. You make a spiteful point to pull the same line on him at your earliest opportunity. Not that he wouldn't just take it completely in stride, the bastard. 

It doesn't help that you’re having an angry day. Not that you’d generally deign to call it that. Not that every day, in point of fact, isn’t an angry day in the life of you. Not that you’d ever even admit to anyone that you, yourself, are aware of the daily ebb and flow of your own fraught emotions. But in the private and embarrassing recesses of your own mind, yes, you know you're on edge today for absolutely no fucking reason. It just happens. You deal with it.

Dave knows all this, of course. Living in close quarters with your mood swings seems to have, for better or worse, gotten him used to them. It's not that he doesn't empathize, and he's always considerate when you actually need it. He just doesn't handle you with wiggler gloves anymore when you're just being an asshole. You like it better this way.

It's not for you, you've come to realize: having someone around who pities you all the time.

"Then why are you still fucking here?"

"Because someone's been sneaking time with my razor. Look at this."

Dave walks right up to you, and you recoil automatically, not willing to get your clothes wet at this juncture. He seems to figure that out and stops short at an angle in front of you, the hand holding onto his towel closest to you. You notice that you can see more skin through the gap where the two ends of the towel hang loose from his grip. It's an awfully good thing that you live with this man and have access to that skin extremely fucking regularly, or your libido would be having words with you right now. Even still, you don't tear your eyes away from the pale, damp flesh until Dave is shoving a razor in front of you and talking.

"Quit undressing me with your eyes-" (You scoff at the idea) "-already and look. See how instead of being all shiny and sharp and ready to take on the world like the newest hire at a prestigious fucking law firm, he's all dull and dirty with gunk shoved up everywhere? He looks like I just rescued him from the moldy tile of a prison shower. Like he got fired and mugged in an alley and fell in with some real bad guys who set him up and landed him in the big house. Karkat." Dave looks at you seriously. "He's seen things."

You give him your best unimpressed look from under your brow as he stands over you. "Since when do you gender your goddamn grooming tools?"

Dave exhales this puff of air that just barely counts as a laugh, the corner of his mouth drawing lazily up around it. The overall effect - stupid smirk, dripping hair - is attractive in a way that doesn't match the situation. You can't just kiss him or compliment him when he's personifying inanimate objects and generally being an irritant. You don't even fucking want to, really.

"Hard to come to a bro's defense when you're calling him an 'it,' dude. All kinds of dehumanizing."

"It's literally not fucking human! Or troll! Or- or any fucking order of sentie-"

"Cool, cool, that's great and all," Dave starts, signalling a subject change in the most aggravating way possible, "but if the water's gone cold by the time we're done with this little inquisition, I swear I will come back here and carry you in there with me. You like cold, wet sweaters, Kat? That do anything for you?"

" You're the one who decided to fucking bother me in the first place, assface."

"Don't think I won't do it, babe."

You narrow your eyes at him. You're pretty sure he won't. Would he? You think back to similar threats, and the alarming frequency with which he would at least attempt to make good on them. He's not above chasing you around the hive, still dripping wet. There's definitely precedent for that, at least.

In front of you, Dave's smirking at you with a cheerful impatience that seems to confirm your assessment.

Well. If it'll get him back to the ablution block faster.

"...I used it to cut my cuticles."

"Your what?"

You throw your hands up in exasperation.

"You know! The skin around your claws? It was getting dry and flakey, I couldn't find anything to trim them, you left your follicle cullers on the tub and," you shrug, trying to shake off a brief, late flare of guilt at the act. "I figured you could spare it."

When you look back, Dave has the kind of smile on that's more of a grimace. It's not much, but it tells you you've gotten to him, at least a little. It feels fucked up to count it as a win, but then, it's supposed to feel fucked up. "That's kind of gross, dude. You can't get your own heavy-duty troll skin sheers or something?"

You shrug again. "Your follicle culler was the only thing around at the time. I didn't think it was important, since you replace them constantly anyway. However, clearly you have a real emotional fucking attachment and if you truly fucking feel the need to have some kind of ironic burial for 'him,' I suppose I can promise not to mock you audibly during the service."

It's not an apology, but it's the closest he's getting from you right now. You're too wound up, too embarrassed, and too fucking transparent for him not to realize that.

You hear that not-quite-a-laugh. A droplet of water runs down from his shoulder, right to the hand gripping the towel around his waist. Did he even really need to come out here and bug you with this? Or was he just looking for something to bug you with?

"Aw, you do care. I was starting to wonder."

"That's because you're an idiot," you grumble, doing your best at pretending to watch TV around Dave's waist. He lets you pretend for a moment, even turns around for long enough to listen to Mel and Sue describe the episode's signature challenge. The pause is comfortable.

"Well," Dave starts up again, holding up the damning razor. "I hope you like prickly balls, Kitkat. Because that's what you get for using my downstairs grooming buddy on your flakey digits. When you suddenly find a wrinkly fucking cactus down there in the heat of the moment and catapult out of bed screaming, I want you to remember you did this to yourself. To both of us."

That makes you sputter. “What fucking cactus? Prickly-? What the fuck? Why do you need to shave there just so we can go to some shitty dinner?”

Dave gives you a look. It's the one that makes you feel stupid.

“Okay, one-" he starts, "you’re going to have to take that back, because Rose does not make a shitty dinner. Two- have you ever tried walking around with a sleeping hedgehog nestled between your thighs? All bristly and poking sensitive places? Because that's what's in the cards for me tomorrow since I can't deal with this today, thank you very fucking much. Third - are we even still going to that? I kind of assumed you were going to bitch and moan about it for a couple more hours and then beg me to do the socially responsible thing and actually let Rose and Kan know we’re not coming.”

You scowl, bracing your claws against the cushion you're sitting on. “That was one fucking time and I was trying to be fucking considerate about not exposing our friends to my shitty mood and you fucking know that.” 

“Yeah, no, try twice. You pulled that shit last time June was going to come over. It’s cool, man, you don’t gotta be a social butterfly, you know I don't mind a night in.” He pauses. You know he means it. You know you could just communicate like a normal fucking matesprit, or moirail, whichever you two are when you're not like this. It would be fine.

But the look he gives you when he continues is practically a taunt, and this sure doesn't feel like talking to your moirail. “Or are you telling me you totally still want to go sit around a table and eat around other people with a fork and not just by shoving your hand in the takeout container like an animal, because that’s cool, we can defs do that. If that's really, actually what you want and you're not just dragging your feet on saying otherwise for no good reason. Again.”

It embarrasses you a little, flusters you, that he knows you well enough to confront you with your own hoofbeast shit. It puts you on your toes, makes you feel like you have something to prove. He's looking down at you like he just gave the most casual suggestion in the world. He's watching your reaction. You relax your fists, settle back again.

“You can’t give me shit for how I eat, Strider. Everything you call a meal coats your hands in either orange powder, orange grease, or processed orange cheese.”

He smirks. “Yeah, as it should. But I can adult up for a dinner. You’re the one who obviously doesn’t want to go.”

You sit forward. “I said I would go, didn’t I?" Your hands are up, gesticulating. "You’re the one who came in here and started getting everything fucking wet and making hoofbeast shit assumptions about what I fucking want. Maybe I’m fucking looking forward to a meal of predominantly human food and a lengthy conversation with people I fucking care about and completely fucking enjoy seeing any fucking day of the week. Ever fucking think about that?”

You finish your point with a scowl, hands suspended in the air, challenging Dave with a glare. 

"Getting everything wet, huh?" 

Your matesprit is a goddamn imbecile. "Fuck off."

He shrugs. “Whatever you say, man. But don’t look at me if you change your mind at the last second, I am not listening to Rose’s passive-aggressive spiel about ‘putting away the extra place settings’ again. Or at least, not unless you ask me very, very fucking nicely. You might even have to…” 

He waggles his eyebrows at you, and for a moment you think you're about to have to yell at him again, you even open your scowling mouth to do it, just as he finishes his sentence.

"I am not fucking trading sexual favors just so-"

“... say please .”

Your jaw clicks shut. You can't stop glaring at him and his stupid, smug face. It doesn't affect him one bit, of course. He's known you for too long, known softer sides of you that take all the bite out of your bark. Being obnoxious isn't a fucking victory, but he's grinning at you like it is, and fuck he's just the fucking worst sometimes.

"'Sexual favors?'" Dave repeats like it's the funniest thing anyone ever said, arching an eyebrow.

You feel your ears getting warm.

"Shut the fuck up. I didn't fucking say anything. You were obviously just hearing what you fucking wanted to hear and aren’t you about fucking done wasting the fucking hot water?”

He perks up at that, as though he actually fucking forgot. The sound of running water had faded into the backgroun for both of you. “Oh shit, you’re right. Guess I'm Wendy Wasteful. It's me." He hits you with the most pointedly casual smile as he walks away. "Throw this out for me?”

Before you know what's happening, Dave has rounded the couch and has thrown something wet at you. You swear and sputter in surprise and indignation as the very wet, truly gunky follicle culler lands in your lap, splattering water all over the crotch of your outside pants. 

Fuck.

"What the fuck, Dave!" You yell after him. "Since when do we fucking throw shit in this hive? We fucking don't! It's fucking wet, asshole! And sharp !"

"Not anymore it's not," Dave calls back from down the hall.

And then the ablution block door shuts again, leaving you with a piece of dirty plastic to dispose of and an embarrassing wet spot on your outside pants.

God fucking damn it.

***

Fifteen minutes of seething and intermittently blotting at your crotch with a paper towel later and Dave has finally, formally finished cleaning himself. It's about time. The only mirror is in the ablution block, and you wanted to get a last look at your hair. You don't want anymore bullshit out of this day.

Unfortunately, on your way to the ablution block Dave tries to heckle you again about canceling. You flip him off, totally ignore him, and don't stop walking.

Fuming, you shut the door decidedly louder than necessary. It’s loud enough for Dave to complain from down the hall. You relish the sound spitefully. God, you wish you didn’t have to go on this ludicrous, nonsensical fucking double date. It’s not even important. Rose and Kanaya would definitely rather just spend some fucking time alone. And you’d really fucking rather just show Dave the natural consequences of his fucking bullshit.

Well. Plenty of time to do that later.

For now, you have to dedicate yourself to the evening's plans. A double date. Dinner with your friends. You set your jaw with the kind of determination you wish you'd had at the end of the world. You are absolutely not going to embarrass yourself. You are going to give Dave no fucking further ammunition - let him try to goad it out of you, the bastard -  and when the two of you get home you are going to take every last bit of your frustration with this situation and overwhelm him with it until he sees stars and screams your name. Then, when you've fucked that cocky attitude clear out of his thinkpan and he's spent and cuddly and looking at you like he knows he's yours and doesn't care if you know it too, then -

Then you can relax.

With a few swipes of your hand you clear off a spot in the middle of the mirror, damp with steam from Dave's shower. It's blurry, but it'll do. You don't really need a look at your face. Even if you were the type to fuss about makeup, you know no amount of face painting is going to make you any less of a lost cause. You're lucky enough to have friends that find other flaws to ridicule you about. Speaking of…

You grab the edge of the mirror and throw it open to get at the contents of the medicine cabinet. It takes you a moment to find it, and another to grab it with your stubby fingers after you drop it into the sink, but there it is: a comb.

It’s not like you don’t know how to take care of your hair. It’s just that, on the list of things that made a difference in your bleak, shitty life for the first seven sweeps of your existence, the appearance of the follicles protruding in all directions from your nugbone was pretty fucking low. So low, in fact, it hadn’t ever really made the cut. Unless you’re feeling particularly fucking self-conscious, you rarely bother with more than just shoving it flat (flatter, at least) with your hand and some water. It tends to take an enormous amount of patience and swearing to accomplish anything else, and it’s not just you. Dave’s attempts at wrangling your hair have yielded pretty mixed results. Even so, you’re pretty sure he’s brushed your hair more times than you have, when you’ve begrudgingly allowed him to do so. Once or twice, because you swallowed your pride and actually asked him to.

The point is, this definitely isn't something you do every day, which might in fact be how you end up in your current situation. Seriously, what in hell is happening to your hair? Has it been like this all fucking day? You literally cannot see your right horn. What an honest fucking embarrassment. And fuck that shit , you are going to be presentable today and that is that .

You run the comb under the water for just a second, shake it off, and aim it into the thicket on top of your head like a thresher into dense jungle. 

At first, it seems like it's working. You’re holding down the explosive mess on one side and carefully working the comb through what seems to be the problem area. You can see your horn again, if only barely. That’s about as good as that situation ever gets, anyway. It's starting to look almost excusable. 

A sudden knock on the door startles you, both your hands, and the comb into jumping just enough to jerk a lock of hair into standing upright. 

"You almost done primping in there?" Fucking infuriating chute huffer with the quietest fucking steps you ever didn’t hear approaching a bathroom door. Unless he’s fucking flying out there. That’s probably it, god-tier-flaunting asshole.

You growl deliberately fucking audibly in frustration. "What the fuck is this? Active fucking sabotage ?"

"Dude what are you on about?"

"My hair, nookbreath! Did it not at any point occur to you to fucking tell me it has gotten this bad?"

You can hear him chuckle at you. You absolutely seethe , especially when you find a knot right the fuck at the base of your horn. Fucking perfect. You start picking at it.

"Is it really that bad? I didn't even notice, let me see." 

Oh fuck no.

"Fuck. Off!" You jam your hip against the door, then curse under your breath as you struggle to recover your jostled progress with the comb. The doorknob wiggles and the door pushes back against you experimentally. Through the door you can hear the irritating sound of your matesprit being way too entertained by how fucking irritated you are. Your thinkpan is in three different places and your hair is a nest for squeakbeasts with low standards. Pick pick pick pick.  "Motherfucking pissshitting goddamn ass FUCK!"

"Oh shit. You're not actually trying to comb it, are you?” There’s a note of exasperation wrapped up in mostly-ironic concern that makes you vaguely want to slap him across the mouth “Oh Kat . Kar. Kar-bear. Kitkat. We'll be here for months. I might as well call Rose up right now and cancel, because by the time you got your luscious locks all organized by length and, I guess, angle from your scalp, dinner's not going to be cold so much as a distant memory I'm sharing with Rose and Kanaya's great-great-grandkids. Only, y’know, I’m not going to do that. Partly ‘cause nobody calls anyone anymore now that texting’s a thing, and partly ‘cause you haven’t asked me to, so I’m assuming you’re still totally gung-ho for these double-date shenanigans."

Luckily you've been dating this idiot long enough to know that you can safely tune him out at the three-shitty-nickname mark. Not that that stops the smug lilt of his faux-concern coming in through the door. You can fucking hear the shape of his mouth. You want to change that fucking shape. Pick pick pick .

"You alright in there, man? You need help?"

You swear as the knot slips through your fingers. You shove the comb at the knot and start pulling, less careful than you ought to be, but fuck it. You loosened it, didn't you? There's no fucking way you're letting this take long enough to actually be late. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of lording it over you. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of yelling at him, either, but fuck if you can control that shit. " For fuck's sake, Dave ! I am not a fucking wiggler , I can comb my own fucking hair! Just hold your fucking hoofbeasts and shut the fuck up for five fucking - shitting fucking ow !"

The comb catches on the hair just being your horn, pulls at the sensitive hornbed painfully, and then it just… stays there. Your hand pulls away, throwing you off balance for a split second. You blink.

No. No fucking way.

Dave, having no awareness or respect for the brewing crisis, keeps talking at you.

"So should I wait for four more of those or?"

"Fuck you."

“I mean, you know I’d pretty much always rather do that than dinner at Rose’s. Not like it'd be the first time we canceled plans because 'something came up,' if you know what I mean. And I know you do. Know what I mean. Just say the word, my guy. That word being ‘please.’”

If you were listening, you might have had something to yell in response, but the situation had just become critical.

For a moment, you had been calm, because you hadn't quite accepted what had happened. Because you hadn't yet given the comb a series of experimental tugs. Because you hadn't yet tried to pull the offending piece of plastic from your scalp while your eyes watered helplessly. Because you hadn't stared at yourself in the mirror, panting with anxiety and rage, with that stupid fucking comb sticking up from your head like a deformed third horn. Because it hadn't quite sunk in yet.

But a couple of minutes, frantic and horrible, go by and it begins to sink in.

Fuck.

Dave is going to give you so much shit .

As if on cue, you hear a familiar voice.

"Hey man, it's been five minutes, which I assume is what you meant. You good to go?"

In the mirror, your reflection is glaring at you hatefully. You understand what it's trying to tell you. Why the fuck did you even bother with your hair, Past Karkat? Didn't you realize it was going to be a fucking fast track to humiliating yourself? What a fucking idiot.

It would be one thing if you were feeling a little more red about him today. Any kind of red would have been fine, it didn't even need to be one of your pale days. Though, it's not accurate to say you aren't feeling those things; you’ve come to appreciate that, sometimes, quadrants are just different kinds of outlets for different kinds of feelings. Today, you're getting under each other's skin. That's what you need an outlet for. Asking him to stop and fix your fuck-up isn't going to take either of you out of that zone. 

"Karkat?"

You sigh. You're still going to have to ask him to fix this, aren't you? Even if it basically means handing him ammo to use against you at dinner and beyond - "hey, did i ever tell you about that time we lost a comb to the brambly wilderness that is karkats hair, heres a shitty commemorative comic i made" - he's still your fucking matesprit, he may as well be your moirail, and he is in point of fact the only person you would willingly allow to help you with this. 

You'd really rather still be thinking of ways to get him back for the wet follicle culler earlier. Goddamnit.

"It makes me nervous when you're quiet, man. Say something or I'm gonna have to break down the door sexy fireman style."

"What the fuck does fire have to do with - you know what, forget it, just - here. Get in here." You step away from the door, ears burning with shame. You consider telling him not to laugh but the thought of the tiny smirk he makes when he's holding in a laugh at your expense makes anger bubble up in your thorax, and you decide it's better to just take it. 

"Never fear, ma'am, the Earth C fire department in on the case," Dave is announcing as he comes in. "Did a Kat get stuck in a tree? And I do mean you- oh Kat , seriously?"

You glare at the tile by the shower because looking at Dave's face while he takes in your fuck-up is just too much. What's strange is that he doesn't sound like he's going to laugh at you, and he barely even sounds annoyed. But then, he's only been here for ten seconds, and he already made a purrbeast pun using your name. You narrow your eyes at the grout.

"No, obviously this is a fucking elaborate joke. I've been spending so much fucking time around Egbert that I'm pan-damaged now and I'm going to express that through the medium of shitty, half-cocked pranks. What the fuck do you think?!"

When you look back up at Dave, he's got both hands held up in front of him, signalling you to stop. You see he's not even fucking dressed for dinner, back in a t-shirt and obnoxiously red sweatpants. It makes you feel a little better about making both of you late with your hair catastrophe.

"Okay, okay, down boy. This isn't that big a room, you don't gotta yell. Just let me get a look."

Begrudgingly, even though this is exactly what you were expecting, you let Dave maneuver the both of you until you're facing the mirror and he's behind you. You would've preferred to maintain some dignity but that turns out not to be in the cards when he needs you to tilt your head back. Since he's got some height on you, you would have thought he'd have a good angle on the comb without putting you in any uncomfortable positions. Unfortunately, this whole day seems to be one big uncomfortable position. 

After dealing with your reluctance for about thirty seconds, Dave ends up using the tips of your horns to gently pull your head back until you're almost looking at the ceiling. You're so taken aback by the gall of the gesture (Who just grabs their kismesis's horns like it's no big fucking deal like that? Not that Dave is your kismesis, but don't the same rules apply right now?) that you let it happen.

You'd had to explain, during those hushed and awkward conversations in the early stages of your relationship, that yes, having your hornbeds touched feels really fucking good. You'd also had to explain that it's not just about feeling good - it's about the feelings of trust and safety that get released when those areas get, so to speak, enough attention. When a moirail rubs your horns, you can relax so much you'll fall asleep. If a kismesis does it, it's an incredibly intimate taunt. It's one of those things that rarely comes up anymore outside the respite block, but in this moment, you wonder how much of that conversation he remembers.

Behind you, you hear Dave give an impressed whistle.

"Shit, you really fucked this up good, huh? Why didn't you just ask for my help in the first place?"

"Why do you fucking think?"

There's a hesitant tugging starting up around your hornbed and you try not to react. It's surprisingly gentle, not painful yet, but your scalp is so sensitive right there that you swear to human and troll Jesus alike that you can feel the root of each individual strand as they're pulled.

"I don't know, you like making shit hard for yourself?" You feel fingers settle down around your horn as he jiggles the comb. "I basically always fucking offer, and I would have offered today if you'd fucking said anything. God forbid you ever do anything the easy way, man. I really fucking don't get it."

From where you're standing right now, it's hard to argue with that. His fingers on your hornbed make your eyelids want to slip shut, half-instinct, half-habit, and you ignore it. You're still determined not to let him get to you today.

"Seriously, Dave? You can't think of a single reason I might not want to come crawling to you with something like this? You'd be totally fucking okay with it if our positions were reversed?"

"I don't have nearly this much fucking hair, dude."

"Fuck you, you know what I mean."

"Finally, the truth comes out. This whole damsel-in-distress stuck-comb story is just a ruse to seduce me into canceling on Rose in favor of sexytimes. I'm wise to your game, man. Can't fool me. Not sure how effective this whole thing is as a seduction method, kind of weirdly self-sabotaging, but I guess it’s the thought that counts."

"Right, because the only way anyone gets pailed around here is through acts of self-sabotaging idiocy."

"I mean, if the shoe fits."

"You do realize that's a fucking insult to both of us?"

"Like I said, man, if the shoe fits." He sounds distracted. "Anyway, shut up for a minute and let me do this or you're ending up with a bald spot. Never fucking noticed before, but you move around a lot when you talk. Super fucking animated over here."

You can feel Dave resting his left hand against your left horn, getting a better angle at the comb. It's a constant pressure that's honestly doing wonders for the tight muscles in your scalp, an effect only slightly mitigated by the occasional pull at the root of your right. It's distracting. Your eyes keep trying to shut and your face is tilted up and it's impossible to hide your expressions, and with your throat stretched out it's hard to swallow the dryness in your mouth. 

But actually shutting up would still feel like a loss, so you muster your indignation and find your voice.

"Hey! Here's an idea! How about you shut the fuck up so I won't be fucking tempted to inform you how fucking stupid everything you say is."

Dave pauses in his work, and you hear a quiet, impatient sigh. 

That's all the warning you get before his right hand takes a handful of the nearby hair and pain blooms from the base of your horn to the back of your head as he drags you back. You nearly stumble back; you do swear and nearly grab onto his hand to stop him before you stop yourself. No fucking way are you instigating a wrestling match in your ablution block.

"Here's a better idea:" Dave says matter-of-factly, in the kind of cool tone that tells you he's not planning on putting up with any bullshit. "You're the one who got yourself into this predicament, you’ve fucking definitely hit your bitching quota for the day, and I'm the one trying to fucking help you. That means you have to shut up and hold still and I can do whatever I want." 

For a moment, you can't respond, can't say anything at all, because he has a handful of your hair and it's so close to your horn, too close, way too close, and he's telling to hold still and let him do whatever he wants. It's infuriating how much of an impact that is having on you, warmth spreading on your face and in your thorax. You immediately wonder if he's willing to make good on that later tonight as well. It's not often Dave has any enthusiasm for taking control with you, and it's so hard not to give in and melt under his hands. Your scalp hurts, sure, but even that isn't unwelcome. It's even grounding. Today you're all anger and hard edges, and the near-tearing sensation, the way he's using your horns to hold your head steady, the humiliation of having to bare your throat like this while he fixes your problem - it all speaks a physical language that matches your insides.

"Lucky for you what I want is the safety and security of this luscious head of hair right here. Okay?"

His voice is softer this time, and you're surprised at the way it send tingles along the backs of your ears. He pulls again, even closer to the horn this time, and your eyes water. His words are so gentle, but it hurts so bad. You wish he'd let go. You wish he'd pull harder. You feel the pinch in your throat, like you're about to cry, and you swallow it. Despite your efforts, before you know it, there are tears running down your face. You wipe at them spitefully. He releases you as soon as he notices.

"Whoa, shit, you okay? Too much?"

"Yes, no, I'm fucking fine, my eyes are just fucking watering. It's-." You look for the words, trying to block out how warm your face feels. "It's fucking sensitive right there, okay?"

You glance at the mirror as best you can. You can see your face, awkward and ugly at this angle especially, far more conspicuously flushed than you'd like it to be. Dave is smirking at you, and you glare back, silently daring him to say anything more.

"Right," he says with a laugh. "Remember, Kat, you can always safeword."

You open your mouth to yell at him that this you meant it's fucking painful , smartass, this isn't the respite block, but just then he tugs at the comb again with renewed focus and you suck in a pained breath with a hiss. You can feel how the monstrous piece of plastic is connected to hairs all around the most delicate parts of your horn, and as Dave picks at them, you can't hold back a whine.

"I know, I know, sorry about this," he says, and the tension where he's working eases up just enough that you exhale in relief.

He says it so casually you want to laugh, like it's so obvious. Like he can be ordering you to shut up one minute, and at the same time he can be sorry that it hurts as he patiently helps you. His voice is soft. It's so confusing. 

There was something Dave would say to you when you were first starting out. He shared secrets and old pains in the pile in your block on the meteor, only to thank you for your attention with slow and languid kisses that never failed to pick up steam. The stretching of your quadrants felt like a stretching in your skin, and your reactions were erratic as you struggled to decide whether you wanted to set the boundary or not. 

"Look, it's not like there's a quadrant police waiting to take our asses to horny jail or whatever. Can't we just try this cool old Earth thing where we fucking shut up about quadrants and just do what feels natural?"

You'd pointed out that there wasn't much that was natural between a troll and a human. It was a roundabout admission of defeat in the face of his "old Earth" logic. You've had so many conversations about quadrants since then, and Dave has never failed, not in one of them, to remind you about doing what feels natural. With time, this mess of vacillation and criss-crossed feelings became natural to both of you.

You're honestly not sure what feels natural right now. 

All day, you've felt nothing but black feelings for Dave. He's been irritating and insulting, and you can't get him and his hoofbeast shit out of your thinkpan. You were sure he was in the same place with you. But he's just… helping you. And it's fucking nice, knowing that he'll help you like this, even when you've given him every reason to laugh at you and leave you to fix your own mess. It makes you feel guilty for being shitty to him, for getting into this situation, for hating him on any level. You're grateful. Grateful to the wonderful, patient fucking matesprit you do not deserve.

Pitch irritation fights with gratitude in your gut while Dave's fingers work at the comb. How is any of this fucking natural?

You wince at a renewed pain at the base of your horn. Dave is picking at a knot on the comb. You can hear it, as well as the quiet humming that Dave's monologue becomes sometimes when he's too distracted for words. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, carefully, trying to compensate for the prolonged discomfort in your head by adjusting the discomfort in your feet. It's agonizing, the pain and pressure being at once too much contact and yet definitely not enough. As though reading your mind, Dave's fingers ghost along your hornbed just right, lighting up the nerves for just a second and sending a pleasant shiver down your scalp, the back of your neck, your spine. Your head tilts back just slightly before you catch yourself.

The sound that comes out of your lower voice box is quiet, but in the small space of the ablution block, it's loud enough.

Dave pauses. You freeze.

“Sorry, Karkitty, what was that?” 

You can see the reflection of his grin in your periphery, you can hear it in his words.

“Shut up, it wasn't anything, fuck you, shut up.”

“Nah, it was something. It sounded a little more like… well, shit, I ain’t got the vocal chords to demonstrate, but I think we both know what a horny troll sounds like, right babe?”

“I was clearing my throat , you fuckas-”

This time you just gasp, vocal chords constricting and going silent as two hands dig into the hair on the back of your head and pull. The gasp still manages to come out louder and clearer than the chirp, and on the whole much needier than you would've wanted to hear.

“Aw, and here I was sure that’d get a repeat performance.”

“Wow, okay, fuck you. You’re - fuck - yanking , excuse me, on some very - ow - fucking sensitive skin, and - motherfucker - and you’re using my fucking ho- o -orns. Horns." The onslaught on your horn beds is overwhelming. You feel like melting, like dissolving in a puddle around Dave. You swallow, looking for your train of thought. Then he does it again, holding you in place with a hand on your left nub, and you remember. "Like they’re con- convenient fuck ing handles. That's how you're using my horns, which they are not and you know they are fucking not , so don’t even fucking pretend you - fff - don’t know exactly -”

His fingers drag across your hornbed, your hair pulled painfully taught, and you can't help it. A series of clicks and chirps comes bubbling up out of you, an utterly desperate sound.

“I don’t know, man," he teases,"It seems a little fucked up that you’re getting off on this while I'm just trying to help - oh. Oh . Duh. Well, that all makes perfect fucking sense now.”

It's a solid few seconds before you have enough of a thinkpan in one place to respond.

“Am I going to fucking regret opening my mouth to ask?”

There's a pause. The edge of the comb pokes into your scalp.

“Well, like, and you can correct me if you want, but you’re having kind of a spades day, right?”

You heave a long-suffering sigh.

And you want this asshole. In more than one quadrant! Your palm meets your face before you have time to stop it. How he can just say shit like that, it's like he doesn't hear himself talk. But you're still going to have to spell it out for him, aren't you? Of course you are. Why the fuck not?

“...I don’t fucking see how I, as an individual, could be having a ‘spades day,’ whatever that is. Try saying that in a way that makes any fucking sense and doesn’t leave me sorely worried about the state of our fucking relationship.”

You try to be understanding. You know he still doesn't really "get" that quadrant, by his own admission. You think he just has a hard time imagining himself in it. He's only ever been exposed to trolls in kismesissitudes, mainly in books and movies. He's not a troll, and you're pretty sure he struggles to relate.

This is something you've talked a lot about. You do share this quadrant together, is the verdict, although Dave doesn't like to call it hate, and you respect that.

“Sorry, man. Slip of the tongue. We're totally having a spades day, right? I mean you're not usually this annoying all day. No offense. Not that it's not hilarious, watching you just stomp around with zero fucking self-awareness, using my stuff without asking, pulling stupid shit like this -" He punctuates the point with a tug on the comb that forces you to bite down on more embarrassing sounds. " - but hey, I guess it's kind of cool that there's a whole quadrant for when you're pissing me off. Gotta hand it to trolls.” There’s a beat while you feel him fiddling with a knot, his fingers pressed up into your hornbed. 

Normally you would fill it by telling him, like you do every time, that that’s not what blackrom is. It’s not about being annoying. You can be annoying in any quadrant. Blackrom is about the challenge. It’s about being kept on your toes. It's a protective measure against complacency. Dave acts like he understands, but he still rarely talks like he understands. You're still always correcting him, even if nowadays you're mainly straightening out nuance. But you’re too distracted by his hands to correct him now.

You almost forget he’s still talking until the other shoe drops: “So having to 'come crawling to me for help' - your words, not mine- right now must be just all kinds of kinky, huh?"

That gets you to snap your head down - a painful gesture, you instantly regret it, you think you lose a few strands of hair, but the comb still comes with you -  to glare at him incredulously in the mirror.

He's grinning at you like a fucking idiot. It's breathtakingly fucking obnoxious. If there were ever a time you weren't thankful that he emotes more than he used to, this right here would come close. Your face is so red it makes you sick to look at.

"Oh shit, it totally is. I bet if I shooshed you right now your bulge would just- ow ."

You elbow him. You can't fucking help it. He can take and he fucking deserves it and he knows it and so your elbow is going in his ribs. That is how that works. He just laughs it off.

What the fuck is his problem? Why does he think he can just say shit like that to your face? In the respite block is one thing, when you're sharing in the equal vulnerability and trust of an intimate moment, but in the harsh light of the ablution block you just want to hit him again. 

"It is not - that's - fucking - Stop thinking with your fucking dick and can we please just get this fucking over with? This is only 'all kinds of kinky' if by 'all kinds of kinky' you mean you're fucking infuriating and blatantly fucking with my thinkpan for no logical reason."

He just shrugs, still smirking. "Protest all you want, my guy, we both know you only hit me when I'm right."

"I only hit you when you're being infuriating," you shoot back, crossing your arms defiantly.

"Oh, come on, Karks." You break eye contact with his reflection spitefully, and instantly you regret it as he takes the opportunity to yank your head back by the horns. "You know you like me."

Motherfucker. What the fuck is he even doing pushing your buttons like this? Is this still about making him cancel fucking double-date night? Does he think he can fluster you into submission? Make you admit that you overestimated your ability to handle it? 

If that's the case, it's working.

You swallow the gasp you just had to bite down on. "I don't know how much I fucking like you right now."

His hands in your hair still, just for a moment, and you think you might have taken it too far.

Then, the tugging behind your horn continues. "Ungrateful dick. Come on, admit it. You loooove me."

Well, shit. You can't argue with something like that. 

Or, maybe you would, or you'd at least make him work for it a little more, but you know him too well for that. His tone clues you in, not insecure in the slightest, but of that particular and uniquely Dave quality that you know means there's insecurity buried under the obnoxiousness. Dave's insecurity is a weakness of yours. As much as he makes your blood boil, at the first sign of his insecurities, you feel the pulse of pale concern rising in your thorax. 

"Of course I fucking love you."

You'd intended it to have a little more bite, but the intensity of sensation on the most sensitive part of your scalp and a particularly ill-timed pull on Dave's part leaves your voice strained and halting. The words come out all soft around the edges. You can actually feel Dave silently laughing behind you.

"You're so lucky you're cute, because this is a fucking nightmare back here. Don't take this the wrong way, because I really like your hair, but I'm starting to really fucking hate your hair. Oh shit. I think I just finally figured out blackrom, Kat. Try not to be jealous 'cause your hair is my new kismesis, okay?"

And there it goes: the last shred of pale pity you were capable of feeling for him in this moment. Dave is still a ridiculous asshole, what a shock.

"As endearing as it is when you make a mockery of aspects of my culture - which, if ny obvious sarcastic tone went over your head, you should know is not very fucking endearing - you should know that my hair is not a fucking person, and no amount of ridiculous personification on your part is going to turn it into a suitable and valid kismesis."

"Holy fuck, dude, your head is just fucking bouncing up and down in my hands over here. ...yeah, I just heard that. Anyway, all fucking around aside, I honestly don't want to have to cut any of your hair off or anything, so hold fucking still. If you don't, I'll have to stop time to deal with this, and you don't want to be the guy who fucked up his hair so bad all of Earth C had to hold its breath while I fixed it."

That is actually a formidable and realistic threat. You can already hear June's stupid laugh bouncing around the interior of your nugbone. With an assenting grunt, you stop responding and focus on holding still.

You're not sure if he simply wasn't trying that hard before, or if he's made progress, but you aren't feeling as much now as he works the comb out of your hair. There is a gentle movement around your hornbed where the comb is still attached, but it doesn't feel as close to the roots. You're trying to hold still, closing your eyes so you won't feel tempted to check in the mirror. A few minutes pass.

"Oh shit, I think this is it!"

You open your eyes. "Fucking finally. Did you get it out yet? This is taking forever and my fucking neck is going to get stuck like this."

In the corner of your eye you can see Dave look up at the mirror, presumably at you. "Hey. You want me to put it back? Keep being a dick."

That sounds promising, aside from the lukewarm threat. "So you got it out? Can I move?"

"Hang on one sec…"

You huff, impatient, but you keep the position. Then, about one second later, you flinch a little at the sudden sound of plastic hitting plastic. It takes a second before you realize that Dave is throwing the comb out. You finally lower your head ( fuck that feels better) and turn around to look at him questioningly.

"Yeah, you don't get to have combs anymore." He looks at you meaningfully, brushing his palms against each other in the universal done-with-this-shit gesture. "Comb privileges completely revoked, Karkat, no appeals. Sorry. Not sorry, actually."

You consider that for a moment, holding his gaze.

"I'm pretty sure that was your comb anyway."

Dave's shoulders relax and he does that not-quite-a-laugh thing. The proximity feels charged with the lingering ache in your scalp. It crosses your mind that you could kiss him, but you let the moment pass. You don't want to be the initiater in case you make yourselves late making out, and you get to kiss Dave whenever you want, anyway.

"Seriously?" Dave is still laughing. "Dude, this is what the alchemiter is for. Getting your own fucking comb. Except not now it's not, because your privileges are revoked."

Before you can properly roll your eyes or ask him on whose fucking authority, he has a hand on your shoulder.

"Okay, now c'mere, I wasn't done."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" 

Despite yourself, you don't stop him as he pulls you back in front of him and tilts your head back - just slightly this time - by your horns. 

There's a second when you entertain that maybe he left behind some kind of vicious knot, but only a second. Dave's fingers move along your scalp, parting around your horns and weaving deep into your dense locks. The pressure on your scalp is soothing after all the sustained tension, but then he presses his fingertips firmly into the top of your head and just drags them back along the same paths and it's fucking heaven. When his fingertips reach your hornbeds, you don't even think about it, you just melt back into his hands with a sigh.

"Told you I wasn't done." Dave's voice is soft, and you think he's speaking closer to your ear. "Seems only right to give your nubs a bit of TLC after all that abuse."

There is something you've learned about Dave, and you're not sure if it's a common human trait or simply a rare Dave trait: he cannot be rough with you unless he gets to take care of you afterward. It's something the two of you have talked about, and as much as it gave you emotional whiplash at first, you honestly find it incredibly endearing and sweet. A kismesis would trust you to take care of yourself, and leaving you to do so would be a sign of respect. You're glad that Dave respects you differently.

Dave's fingers move over your scalp, rubbing and scratching along your hairline before returning to focus on your horns. He massages one hornbed in earnest and you can feel muscles relaxing in your head that you didn't know where tense. He massages the other at the same time and you nearly melt back into his chest. If changing position didn't risk stopping the horn rub, you would fall right into him. For the moment, you couldn't muster an ounce of anger for anything, and it's not fair.

"You're too fucking much," comes out of your mouth in a mutter, and it's true.

Tension is bleeding out of you, replaced by an all-encompassing sense of safety. You know you should be worried about how long this took. You have somewhere to be. But Dave will say something when it's time to go. He's the one always keeping you two on schedule. You trust him. 

Fuck his hands feel so good.

And then it's over.

Dave smacks you on the ass and your eyes are open in an instant.

"Now come on, we're going to be late." He says it like it's some kind of joke.

Before you can even muster the indignation to react, still hazy from the horn rub, Dave is out the door and the cool air from the hall is filling in the space he left. You sway a little where you stand, distantly thankful that Dave isn't there to tease you for being so affected.

Your eyes fall on the mirror. For the first time, you get a good look at the discord wrought by your matesprit’s fingers. Your hair is sticking out in all directions and twice the volume you started with. The area recently reclaimed from the comb is the worst offender, but every lock that Dave’s fingers touched seems to be on end. By all appearances, it’s spectacular fucking sex hair. In the wet reflection, your eyelid twitches. 

Somehow, this is enough for something in you to snap. 

You yank the door open and whip your head around, searching for Dave. You find him in the respite block, where he looks at you with mock surprise.

"Hey, Karkat, what's going -"

Dave doesn't stop you as you storm up to him and grab him by the front of his t-shirt. You didn't think he would. You shove him back against the dresser with a growl and use your free hand to relieve him of his shades. He lets out a " hey! " of nominal protest, but he doesn't stop you. It's mostly for their protection, and he knows that by now. Once they're on the dresser off to the side, you fist your free hand into his shirt and shove him again. One of his hands comes up to your fist, holding you steady. Now that you can see his eyes he looks like he's laughing at you.

"I'm glad you fucking think this is funny!" you snarl. "Well, fine! You win! We're not fucking going to this awful dinner full of food I don't eat and where an uncomfortable amount of the conversation forces me to examine my psyche and personal life more than I am fucking okay with. Double dates are a terrible fucking idea, Dave! There's a fucking reason trolls don't do them! It's awkward and shitty and sucks all the fucking joy out of what would otherwise just be called 'hanging out with our fucking friends, regardless of their quadrant status!' Which we don't normally fucking force ourselves to do over some fancy fucking dinner at a dinner table in a fucking dining block. Our dining block is full of your fucking turntables and jars of dead shit, Dave! We are not dining table people! We may never be dining table people! Sorry to break it to you. Actually, no, I'm not even fucking sorry. Somebody had to fucking tell you."

"Wait, I'm confused, do you want to get a dining table?"

"And another thing!" You shout over him, not willing to entertain his nonsense. "I am not fucking asking you nicely to let Rose know. I am going to fucking text Kanaya right this fucking minute and I bet she won't even fucking care because-"

His hand squeezes yours to interrupt you. He still looks like he thinks this is hilarious.

"Babe, I texted Rose like as soon as I got out of the shower. She says she totally understands and hopes you're feeling better. I, uh, might've said you weren't feeling so hot. When I canceled. Which is a thing I did. You can relax. Or the Karkat version of relaxing, which is I guess this?" He runs his hand down your still-clenched fist.

For a moment you're just staring dumbly at his face, because it isn't making any sense to you.

"What. Wait. You what? "

When he laughs this time, it's actually sort of sheepish. "Uh, yeah, I was in the shower playing shit back and I guess I realized you might actually not be in a great mood today and I should probably cut you a bit of a break, so I just. Took care of that part. I was going to say something, but then you were being all grouchy and shitty and, well." He shrugs, as if to say, "you know how it goes."  

You do, in fact, know how it goes. You're actually sort of flattered, on one level, that Dave was so committed to scoring that point over you. From that perspective, you don't mind that he didn't tell you. And it was incredibly fucking thoughtful of him to take the hassle of dealing with a social thing off your plate today. You suddenly feel like you've got your moirail by the shirt and it makes you a little dizzy.

"Are you fucking serious?"

Dave takes his free hand and uses it to cup your face mock-reassuringly.

"I'll take a 'thanks for being such a considerate boyfriend and taking note of my obvious discomfort, Dave, I'm so gosh-darn lucky you let me touch your dick.'"

You shake your head and dislodge the hand. Even if he's not serious, you are.

"No, shut up, why would you fucking do that? I've been a moody asshole all day for no fucking reason-" His eyebrows shoot up at that and you roll your eyes. "Yeah, I fucking know it, you know it, we all fucking know it. It's well-fucking-disseminated public knowledge. But you could have at least fucking followed through on your fucking threat and made me do the actual cancelling."

He shrugs. "Guess I just didn't want to add to your stress levels."

"Dave, I've been adding to your stress all fucking day."

That gets a laugh. "Yeah, not sure if you picked up on it, but this is more or less where I was hoping that'd end up." He looks down at your current situation pointedly. You look down too, and you're pretty sure you see a bump in Dave's sweatpants that wasn't there when you walked in. Your thinkpan helpfully plays back a handful of Dave's lewd comments today, and yeah. That tracks.

You snort a laugh. "I can't fucking believe you accused me of trying to seduce you to get out of dinner."

He smirks. "Mighta been projecting a little. Rose says I do that sometimes."

You stand there for a second, just smiling at each other. Your fists are still holding his shirt tight, his hand is still on yours, and you just take him in as he looks at you. Pale skin, pale hair, red eyes, pink mouth. He's lucky he's so fucking pretty.

You get a feeling in the back of your thinkpan, or maybe it's fluttering around your bloodpusher. A lifetime of romcoms and quadrant novels. Years of experience with Dave. You recognize the right moment for a kiss.

You've just barely started to lean in when his mouth starts moving.

"But I mean, we can totally talk, if that's what you're feeling instead. Not trying to ignore the issue just because I'm super fucking horny today. Or lots of days. Or just right now. And not that there's an issue? Or is there an issue? Because I'm down to jam out-"

Your smile fades a little with each word, not that you don't appreciate it. Not that it isn't nice that he's so considerate of your feelings and needs. But his backpedaling is killing the moment, so you yank him forward by his shirt and move your mouth in close until he has to either stop talking or keep going against your fucking lips.

He stops talking.

You kiss him intensely, meaningfully, with teeth at his lower lip. As grateful as you are to him, this pitiful human man you love fiercely, you still owe him for all his teasing and bullshit. Dave lets out a sigh that's nearly a moan, needy and relieved, like this is all he's been waiting for today and whatever comes next is just a bonus. His hand on your fist moves up your arm between you, searching out the back of your neck and pressing you in hungrily. You kiss him, over and over again, grasping his shirt and pulling him forward into each kiss, until you decide to allow him a second to breathe.

He pants in the space between you, grinning breathlessly with bitten lips.

"Cool. Yeah. Hoped you'd say something like that."

His fingers find their way into your hair, up through the tangled locks to press into your hornbed. You gasp, grip slackening. His eyes twinkle and you know what's coming, and before you can react he's got a handful of your hair and there's a delicious, aching tension pulling your head back and exposing your throat to him. He adjusts his grip, teasing the hair at your hornbed, and then he pulls again.

You don't bother to hide the needy, submissive chirp that escapes your throat. There would be no point. 

Dave presses his lips to the sensitive skin on your neck, a couple inches below your ear. You feel him smile.

"I was hoping you'd say that, too."