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Dave’s physique is mediocre.
This is not harsh judgement, but rather a statement of objective fact. He has an inch or two on you when he finally rises from his perpetual slouch, with freckles scattered across his cheekbones and a long, straight nose, and wears nondescript clothes on a body that has filled out from underfed to thin. He doesn’t—despite your poisoning of the bloodline—have obvious genetic defects. By all rights, Dave’s body is perfectly normal, and should operate as such.
Dave’s corporeal normalcy is why you are so shocked once you discover his secret. The awkward, unspoken tension between the two of you finally breaks in the form of Dave’s soft, shuddery exhale after you catch his hand in public. Through bitter experience, you know that the most effective way to circumvent Dave’s agitation is to pretend nothing out of the ordinary is happening. You slip your clasped hands into his hoodie’s pocket and interlace your fingers together, stroking your thumb over his knuckles. Dave pretends to roll with it, telegraphing anticipatory anxiety even as you walk together. He’s always known you wanted him—all of you. So that, of course, isn’t the secret.
When he takes you back to his apartment, he kisses you like he is afraid of his own starvation. The kisses are open-mouthed and desperate, and you cup the back of his head to deepen them, fingers shaking as you card them through his hair. You push him flat on his back on the couch, flick his shades to the top of his head, and press the length of your body to his. His obvious, physical want for you makes your head spin, and you might not be as quickly erect as him, but you grind your hips against his, wanting to feel him against you. You swallow Dave’s gasp to silence him before his trollian roommate—whose name you cannot for the life of you remember—investigates, and the shared air between you gets heavier as you do your best to climb into his skin while he wraps his legs around you and clings.
When he begins to fidget, you press him down harder and ignore his weak, half-hearted protests. You’re only half-hard, and it’d be presumptuous to go so far on day one, but you’re showing him how much you want him. If he didn’t want it, he wouldn’t be as desperate, holding onto you tight enough to bruise, drinking you down in deep, breathless kisses. It’s frantic, messy, and then, suddenly, he shudders underneath you and goes limp. It’s only when you see his bright red face and the embarrassment in his eyes that you realize what happened.
The next time is at the movie theater with a big bucket of buttered popcorn on your lap. When a raunchy scene between the love interests plays on the big screen and Dave starts to squirm, you slide a hand under his sweatshirt to palm his bulge through his jeans, breathing into his ear that his big brother can help him, but he’ll have to be discrete. It only takes a few minutes of rather tentative rubbing before he closes his eyes, jerks his hips once, and excuses himself, leaving you poring over the memory of unexpected warmth under your palm. When he comes back from the bathroom, bangs wet from splashing water on his face, you’re too lost in thought to ask whether he mopped up the cum or chucked the boxers into the bin.
Dave has a hair trigger. This is surprising, but only in that it’s unknown why it originated, or how long it’s been an issue. For all his jokes, he has never let it or anything related to his ultimate shame slip. As far as you know—which isn’t much, as no one wanted to talk to you about Dave’s sex life, least of all the man of the hour—Dave’s past hook-ups had a decent enough time. Anything he lacked in personality, he made up with genetically inherited dick size, and for that, he is very welcome.
Your bemusement stems from how into it you are. Dave is shy when it comes to the two of you, and he sometimes touches you like he expects you to hurt him. You begin to push his boundaries, very carefully. It takes a while for your sexual activity to progress past anything under his clothes—usually because he accidentally cums before anything happens, pushes you off, and stumbles away before you can reassure him. You understand his problem better than most: he is simply unable to control himself. But he keeps coming back, and while he’s still so ashamed that he will sometimes tear up after he loses it in his underwear for the umpteenth time while you’re not even fully hard, you keep accepting him with open arms. In the moment, getting yourself off is the furthest thing from your mind. What you need—your purpose—is to satisfy Dave, no matter how long it takes.
When you get into Dave’s pants, the two of you have long since migrated your activities to his bed behind closed doors. Your guardian is separated from you by centuries, long-dead and untouchable, but here you are, Dave right here in your lap and embarrassingly into you, his blatant desire making you breathe in sharp, heady pants. His skinny jeans are unwieldy and tight, but you manage to yank them down and fish his erection from his boxers, and the two of you stare at it; you in awe, and Dave in trepidation, as if it’ll explode at any second. You reach out to grip it, and Dave shies back, so you pause before making contact and deliberately trace a single finger up the shaft and circle around the tip. It’s light and teasing, and he should know exactly how hot he makes you. You lean in to press your lips to his, moving your finger to rub at the sensitive spot beneath the head. He doesn’t make you wait, losing it in three hard pumps of his hips, and thunks his head onto your shoulder.
“For fuck’s sa—sorry,” he tells you. “Sorry, it’s pathetic, I’ll get you back—”
But you cut him off with another kiss, and for once he doesn’t run away. You guide his hand to your dick and jerk yourself off with your hand over his, teaching him what you like. You last longer, cum harder, and finish with a greater volume, showing him precisely how much of a man you are. Dave licks the semen off your hand only after prompted, visibly ashamed but even more visibly excited. After you notice he’s regained his erection, you finish him off with a proper blowjob, continuing to suck him after he cums in your mouth, which is how you learn Dave can have several orgasms in a row without becoming flaccid in between.
The next time, you break out the lube. Dave pales unsexily when he sees it, and you swallow down the familiar disgust at yourself. You usually topped with Jake, but you happily finger yourself open for Dave, giving him a show. He tries to hold it back judging by his panicked expression, but cums almost as soon as he’s hilted. You wrap your legs around him, kissing him until he’s hard again inside you. His thrusts are deep but hurried, and it doesn’t take him long before he cums again and you reluctantly release him. You’re deciding whether to finish yourself off before or after his freak-out when he folds you in half and pushes his tongue in while fingering his own semen out of you, eating you out so enthusiastically that when you can’t take it any longer, you only need to stroke your dick a few times. He licks the cum off your stomach without complaint; no one has more to prove than a man humiliated.
The two of you lie next to each other afterwards, panting, Dave carefully holding his body so as to not touch yours. When you work up your courage and touch your pinky to his, the tension goes out of him and he is out like a light. You use his shower and grumpily start the walk of shame to your own place, feeling like the woman and ignoring the way Karkat, reading one of his novels in the living room with his feet kicked up, glares at you.
You’re used to being the pursuer, resigned to reluctantly push until your partner pretended to give in. It was a well-worn game with Jake, and you’d mastered the art of pretending to be the bad guy in bed, the one who was so desperate that he had to force himself upon his victim. But you’re needy, clingy, and it’s a physical need for you to be wanted by your partner. You want to please and give pleasure so much it hurts if denied—there is no point in sex if you are not of service.
Having Dave want you so strongly and obviously is a revelation. At barely a touch from you, sometimes none at all, he will inevitably climax just because you are there and he wants you. You decide, in your infinite wisdom and unshakable sense of justice, to aid him with his sexual dysfunction. You wait when he’s out of his mind with want to introduce the concept of him remaining a premature ejaculator—or, as your diligent, pornographic research informed you, a prejac—all the while casually rubbing his erection over his clothing. He actually hides his face in his hands when you tell him that you love the idea of him being premature just for you, so mortified that the tips of his ears are a hot, burning red. But when you count down out loud from forty-five, he ruins his pants right on time with a strangled groan.
He doesn’t love the idea, still clinging onto vestiges of his dignity, but once you’ve decided on a course of action, nothing short of apocalyptic universal destruction will deter you, and sometimes not even that. His verbal commitment is lackluster, to say the least, but his compliance is military. Pleased, you begin making him wait for sex, ramping up his cravings for sexual release, riling him up with whispers and letting him shift uncomfortably, not letting him escape to relieve himself. Your rendezvous become exclusively referred to as “quickies.” You brush up on your dirty talk and speak to him the moment he enters you with such filth that he can’t meet your eyes, and if he’s not in the mood to hear you, then you only let him enter you after you’ve stroked him almost all of the way to completion. Whenever he ejaculates too soon, you praise him effusively, telling him how great it was, how proud you are of him.
Praise is the most effective method, and once you realize that, it’s child’s play from there. Dave wants to please you, to be good for you. You tell him how sexy it is when he can’t hold it when he’s with you. You begin recording how long he lasts and report the times to him—which he already knows with the aid of his internal atomic clock, making his embarrassment worse—and encouraging him to beat his record.
You reward him when he hits various milestones. It can be anything from a new vinyl, to a newer replica of the beloved zip-up hoodie he wore to scraps, or the indulgence of a stranger kink of his. When he hit fifteen seconds, you herded him into the shower, had him fuck you until he was flaccid, then let him piss inside you, even though you shivered in disgust while it happened and the clean-up was hindered by Dave’s clinging, telling you how hot you were, how he can’t believe you’d do this with him. This relationship is two-sided, as any relationship is, but it makes your heart swoop with happiness at the verbal confirmation that he wants you almost as much as you want him.
It’s not all roses, at least from Dave’s perspective—if he takes too long, you punish him. You set a cut-off point and stop having sex with him if he runs over the time limit, denying him entirely. Dave cries the first time this happens, when you unseat yourself from his dick and hover over him, holding his wrists down. He curses and calls you a sadist, and maybe you are, but that doesn’t stop you from kissing him gently, trailing from his lips to the wet tracks on his cheeks until his erection gives up and slowly softens until it’s nice and limp against his thigh. Of everything you’ve done with him, wrenching control away from him like that gets you the hottest, and you almost lose control of yourself during that first punishment, jerking off over him with such intensity that your eyes are bloodshot afterwards.
One reward is your personal favorite: enter the collar, a relic of happier times with Jake. Dave shies away at its introduction, but you calmly display the well-kept leather band before buckling it around your own throat. You don’t tell him you love him, instead that you adore how obedient he is for you, ruining himself simply because you desire it. The collar grows on Dave, and he gains a fixation with it that you carefully and silently observe. You sometimes wake up with him stroking the leather when he thinks you’re asleep, even going as far to wrap his shaking hands around your neck as if he’s fascinated but afraid of the physical bond. It only takes a few more sessions before he allows you to wrap the collar around his neck, and he shudders every time you slip your fingers under the band to pull him closer. He knows exactly what it means.
It’s late at night, and Dave’s heart beats loudly as you lay on him with your head on his chest, half-dozing as he plays with your hair and snickers every time he parts it in some ridiculous way. You don’t talk much during these quiet moments, which is why you don’t register his inhale as a precursor to speech until you’ve missed half of it.
“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” he tells you. “Don’t freak, but I think you’re ruining me for anyone else.”
“Good,” you say, not fully aware that you’ve said this out loud until he tenses, and the two of you still. You always know precisely the wrong thing to say.
“Good,” he echoes, “is not what I’d call you wanting to castrate me, you grade-A pervert.”
It hurts when you swallow, and you lift your heavy head to look at him, squinting through the fringe of bangs he gave you. You must look exactly like him right now, other than the eyes. You could barely handle when you lost Jake; you can’t afford to lose your brother, your dad, your damn son, your—
He places his hand on the collar, worming his thumb between the leather and skin. He’s electric, and you’re buzzing against him. “But it is,” he relents. “It’s also really fucking good.” The flush, as always, rises to his cheeks, but every part of him is a defiant claim: I am yours.
“Oh,” you say, barely able to talk through the cotton in your mouth, adrenaline pumping through your body, alighting with him. Men who love being humiliated for their sexual performance, you theorize, are obsessed with their perceived mediocrity. They would rather be humiliated for their premature ejaculation than learn self-control. It is, in a perverted way, about self-acceptance. “Me too. I think so, too.”