Your nook gives another pull at him, and you hollow the small of your back with a small whine.
“Wow, dude.”
Your face is wet. You hate him. Loathe him. Detest him.
He’s in you so snug or you’re open wide around him, you can’t tell, just that you need your legs spread for him while he holds you there.
You’re shaking.
Your nook draws tight around his dick again -you groan- and you allow yourself, your body, to sway backwards with it -towards him. There’s not far to go, but the pressure grows tighter and brighter, so good, and even better when your brain finally catches up with your libido and figures out you don’t need his useless ass to do anything if he’s going to be such a shitlord about it.
Slowly, steadily, you pull yourself forward. Fingers tightening in the sheets, your shoulders squaring. Your thighs flex and his dick drags out of you inch by inch. He lets you do it until it’s only the heavy, blunt tip of him inside of you. You exhale. Curse. Push back.
“Fuck.”
You’re not sure which of you said that, him or you, you just know it feels amazing to fill yourself up with him once more. Full. Warm. Tight enough it almost hurts. Your ears are full of the heavy rasp of your own breathing, the hammering of your heart. John’s so quiet.
“John?” your voice comes out pitched and wobbly, you hate that it does, like you’re afraid he somehow detached his fucking dick and went for a motherfucking stroll -you’re pathetic, a prize class idiot. Fuck.
Two hands settle on your hips. “Here,” he says. And then: “Keep going.”
That bloody bastard, the black-hearted, buck-toothed, slime bred son of monkey. And you, doing exactly what he wants.
Whatever. You don’t care (you do you do you fucking do). You just fuck yourself on him, because it seems that’s the only way you’re going to get it, like he’s too bored with this -with you- to put an effort into it.
He still doesn’t help you. Barely any pressure in his touch even, just there to appreciate the way you’re pistoning yourself along his cock. His thumbs sweep along the curve of buttocks until they fit into what’d be the crease of your thighs if you weren’t bent over on a bed with your ass in the air -all drawn out and strung out. But the skin and flesh is soft there, cushy, and gives under his thumbs when he pushes down. Your nook widens around him and you let out a startled cry when your ass hits his pelvis.
And then he holds you there, fingers biting into your skin. Off-balance, your arms slide from under you.
“You fucker,” you snarl, scrabbling for purchase.
“Hey now,” John says, and you can hear the smile in it and it’s not fair, not fucking fair at all that he can do this to you. You should be done throwing yourself in front of the good-natured disaster that’s John Egbert, it’s been years, and yet here you are. Still are. All but gagging for it while he sounds as cheerful and distracted as he did earlier. Hey now. Fuck.
Your arms won’t obey you, so you just stay where you are, sucking in air and mouthfuls of fabric as you try to get a grip. Which isn’t happening, the only grip is the one on your hips. John sighs, swipes his thumbs along the outer lips of your nook, framing the place where his cock enters your body.
Steady. So sure. While he’s not properly fucking you, he’s… rocking. Not enough to actually move, but there’s alternating pressure. You want more, you’re so close you’re lightheaded with the taste of your own orgasm at the back of your throat. It’s sharp and bright and right there, he’d barely have to breathe and you'd spill all over yourself.
“Can you- fuck, don’t- ah-“ you hiss as he bumps your seed flap. It’s a good kind of hurt, and the little nip of it has your anger claw back to the surface. “You just wait until it’s you on your fucking knees begging for-“
“Actually I’m not hearing any begging, just a lot of complaining,” John says and one of his hands releases your hip and slides down the line of your spine to catch the back of your neck. Shoves you face-first into the sheets. “So shoosh.”
How does he fucking dare-ah, shit, fuck, fucking dare to shoosh you when he’s ball's deep in you and pushing your face into the bed at angle that your bones scream with tension, all curled over you to exert pressure on your head and your world is the scent of fabric and sleep, the smell of comfort and safety even as John tightens his fingers in your hair.
You sob. He stops. Breathes in, opens his mouth-
“Shut up,” you snarl, voice thick.
You’re quivering. Your nook throbs around his cock, hungry, and wetness squeezes free to run down the length of your bulge, just hanging there swollen and useless between your legs.
Your hand curls against your mouth, which is open, hot and wet like you can’t close it from how goddamn badly you need to get fucked by him. If he’d had a second dick you’d snap your spine trying to suck it, but instead you lick at your own fingers for want of his mouth, his cock, his skin.
“Look at you,” John murmurs, “holy shit, Karkat.”
You turn your head and peer up at him. He’s literally towering over you, crumpling you under his body with only your legs holding your nook up for him. John’s all hard lines and shadows, and he’s looking right back at you.
Nobody’s ever looked at you like that, like you’ve kicked him while he’s down and he wants you to do it again. Damn him. Brilliant bastard that he is.
“Fuck me,” you tell him, and he does. Like all you needed to do was just ask.
All it takes is him drawing out —you can feel the pleasure rushing along like it’s chasing his dick and his thumb curls along your lower lip, rough and salty within the soft inside of your mouth— and then he slams back in. It’s like he hammers a bolt of pleasure through your nook down your bulge and out your mouth and you scream-
and scream.
Somewhere on the other side is John’s hips bucking into you through his own orgasm, every snap sending another streak of genetic material from you as you cry into the sheets, oversensitive but unwilling to pull away. John’s hot inside of you, saying your name.
This part is never easy.
John loves you, and now he’s going pliant and shaking, crumpling over you until your legs give out and you land with a delightful splat in your own fucking mess. Hot exhales tickle through your hair and it’s protective the way he covers you, gentle in the way he finds your mouth and licks at your lips.
Your blood pusher is tight with confusion.
Part of you just wishes he’d pull out and gloat (and that’s a big part, considering your whole body aches and you're covered in your own slurry like an overexcited wriggler) but another part wants him right where he is. John presses his face between your horns. You think he’s blushing. He makes no sense.
It takes awhile (minutes, hours) before you can clear your throat enough to ask: “You okay?”
“Fuck,” he says.
“Now he’s willing,” you grumble, and John huffs out a laugh. It’s a little shaky and a lot unsure, so you heave him off your back and gather him close.
