[Fic] "All That We Survey" -- Homestuck
Oct. 16th, 2013 02:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
edenfallingThis is a ridiculously, incredibly super-belated kinkmeme fill -- the original prompt was posted back in August 2012 -- but what the hell, porn is porn, yeah?
Prompt: Can we get some breast worship all up in the house? It's my biggest kink and I never see anything for it! I just want something with one of the more well endowed girls (in my headcanon, Jane and Jade are the most "gifted" of the girls, but whatever girl the filler wants to do is fine) getting their breasts played with and cared for by one of the guys or girls with maybe some nipple play and suckling thrown in too?
(also, if you do it as f/f, I think it would be cool if one of the human girls was getting fawned over by a troll girl who just can't get over how much softer, squishier and bigger human breasts are)
Summary: Jane and Dave are on a mission to thoroughly map certain areas of bodily terrain. Explicit sex. (4,775 words) [Also posted here on the kinkmeme]
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All That We Survey
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Jane has always thought Dave Strider is a bit of a fox, despite his irrational enmity toward Crockercorp. Meeting a younger alternate universe version did nothing to change her mind, even though this Dave isn't half as smooth as the one she grew up watching on talk shows and reading about online, nor does he have the same careless stubble and smoker's rasp to his voice. The insouciant slouch and the maddening half-millimeter quirk at the corner of his mouth are still exactly the same. So are the gymnast's frame -- sleek muscles wrapped tight under warm brown skin, joints bending in ways Jane can only dream of -- and the the swordsman's calluses roughing his palms and fingertips.
And when this Dave rests a hand on her shoulder, his intent has nothing platonic about it.
"Hey Egbert, I hate to break up this family baking extravaganza but I'm stealing your hot jailbait granny to sex her up," he says as his fingers slip down and insinuate themselves under Jane's arm to graze the side of her breast through her t-shirt. She shivers at the contact, ideas blossoming unvoiced in the depths of her mind.
At the sink, John twitches and accidentally aims the hose extension up at his face instead of down at the bowl he's supposed to be washing. He turns, his glasses dripping with water and traces of diluted cake batter, and makes a terrible face.
"Stop saying things like that!" he says.
Jane does her best to keep a straight face despite his hapless puppy impression. "John, what kind of ungrateful grandson begrudges his dear nanna a roll in the hay with his best friend? Don't you love me anymore?"
John's open-mouthed horror is beautiful to behold, and Jane can't hold back her laughter any longer. She leans against Dave's side, wraps her arm around his waist and insinuates her own fingers into the pocket of his black jeans. She can feel him suppress a twitch. So adorable.
She's always been partial to sexy dorks.
"Jane ninety-seven, John eighty-six," Dave says. "You've gotta step up your game if you want to play with the big girls, bro. But not right now, 'cause your dear, sweet granny and I are gonna go play a different kind of game this afternoon." He turns his head, leers down at Jane like an exaggerated pantomime villain.
She taps the tip of his nose. "Now, now, Mr. Strider, don't go giving away all a girl's secrets."
John grimaces in only half-exaggerated discomfort and waves them out of the kitchen. "Whatever, just stop telling me about it! And don't forget everyone's coming over for dinner -- I'll totally send Jade and Roxy up to bang down your door if you're late."
"Bang down, you say," Dave muses. "Dude, kinky. I guess I could be talked into an orgy. I know Jade'd be all over that, and I bet Roxy wouldn't say no."
"It's on her bucket list," Jane offers, falsely helpful.
John clamps his hands over his ears. "Augh! Go! Go and stop talking!" he shouts. He lowers one hand for a moment to point dramatically toward the door, then shields himself again before Dave can make any more innuendos.
Jane tugs Dave out of the kitchen on a wave of laughter. "That was well played, Mr. Strider. We make an excellent team, as always," she tells him between snickers as they abscond up two flights of stairs. This house is tall and narrow, deliberately unlike the one she and John grew up in, and she has the entire third floor to herself. It's a welcome luxury.
"We are the best at teamwork, Ms. Crocker; it is us," Dave replies. He holds open the door with an ironic flourish and bows his head as she walks through. "And on that note, what does the team's long-term strategic planner suggest for today's mission?"
Jane sits on her bed and pats the plain blue comforter beside her, bouncing a little in anticipation. "We've been quite busy exploring new terrain, but I believe today we should take time to consolidate our discoveries. Double-check our maps down to the tiniest detail. Verify that we've left no stone unturned. Ensure we've used every tool at our disposal to conduct the most thorough survey, as it were."
"Mmmhmm," Dave says. He sits behind her rather than beside her, his legs settling warm and solid against the outsides of her thighs. His chin hooks neatly onto her shoulder and the frames of his shades click against her glasses. "Tell me more. I'll point the magic tour bus anywhere you want, just say the word. Got my license to please all stamped and legal, ready to take this trip out for sicknasty spins round all kinds of curves." His hands rub up and down her sides, kneading soft flesh through her suddenly too-thin shirt.
Jane wraps her fingers around Dave's hands, raises them to her breasts. "I have two particular curves in mind," she says.
Dave laughs, a half-silent exhale against her left ear, and his fingers slip forward and down to cup her breasts through her shirt, test their weight in his palms. "Sounds like a plan to me. Any tactical pointers before we let this campaign hit the road, you know, little strategic details from the general herself? It's your show. I'm up for whatever."
He grinds his hips against her ass, and yes, he is up, isn't he? Jane awards him a mental point for the terrible pun.
Then she bites her lip, because she does have a strategy -- or at least a thing she wants to ask -- but she can't think of a way to phrase it that isn't hideously embarrassing and probably incredibly greedy besides. "I think-- that is-- um--" she says.
Dave squeezes her breasts, knuckles and tendons flexing against Jane's palms, and cuts off her awkward attempts at finding the right words. "You cannot possibly be kinkier than Rose and Dirk, trust me on this, and I grew up hearing all about their weird-ass fetishes, not to mention I now also get Roxy's patented 'what the fuck are inhibitions?' sleepwalking monologues over breakfast. Life in the Strilonde household is a never-ending barrel of kinks and pain and I can't even keep booze around to drown my sorrows, because of reasons."
Which is a fair point! And one likely to give her sympathetic heebie-jeebies for the rest of her life and then some if she lets herself think about the implications, so Jane bulls forward instead. "I want your mouth on my breasts."
"Sound delicious," Dave says into the crook of Jane's neck. "Except. You know. Kind of anatomically tricky. Just saying." He nibbles on her between each phrase, lips and tongue and breath warm on her skin.
Jane tilts her head to give him better access. "Only if-- if you think-- if you-- yes, there-- if you think linearly," she says.
Dave pauses, a tiny fold of skin pinched delicately between his teeth. Then he lets go and leans back. "Oh. Yeah. Uh."
Jane's fingers tighten around his hands, fixing them against her body. "Um. So? We don't have to! I know you don't like casual time travel, I just thought that perhaps--"
"You thought right," Dave says from across the room, between her dresser and the closed hallway door.
Jane blinks at her boyfriend. How did he get over there, why is he half naked, where are his shades, when did-- oh, right, stupid question. She smiles, just a bit shakily, as Dave tenses behind her. Then he sucks in a deep breath and twists his hands out of her grip, presses down on her shoulders to leverage himself up and around so he's on the bed beside her. Her hands fall to her thighs; her breasts feel cold at the sudden lack of contact.
"Lying down?" Dave says to himself, and Jane glances back toward the door to see Dave nod. "Awesome. 'Kay, General Crocker, it looks like today is your lucky day. I'll be your conductor on this symphony of sensory overload -- lie back and think of Washington and you'll be across the Delaware into orgasm city before you can say boo."
"B--" Jane starts to say.
Dave's hand is gentle on her mouth as his other three hands press her sideways and down; time stutters, skips a beat, and she's on her back with no sense of the intervening motion. Cheater, Jane thinks. But a very sexy cheater. She grins and licks his palm.
Half-naked Dave grins down at her and wiggles his fingers against her cheek. "Hi there."
"Hi yourself," Jane says into his muffling hand.
"One of us is wearing too many clothes, and here's a hint, that person isn't me," Dave says. Behind him, Dave strips off his own t-shirt and shades and now the only way to tell future from past is by the faint sheen of sweat and the slightly messier hair, spindrift white disarranged from its usual style.
Jane pries his hand off her mouth and grins back up at him. "Private First Class Strider, I order you to take initiative and solve the problem. Be creative."
Dave exchanges an unreadable look with himself. Then he looks back down at her, four eyes red as strawberries and cinnamon sprinkles trained like lasers onto her chest. Jane swallows, arches her back just a bit and braces her hands against the quilt to give him a better view. Gravity works against her in this position, flattens everything even more than her sports bra already does. Her breasts have always been bigger and softer than she'd prefer, more like oversized helpings of vanilla pudding than perfect handfuls, proud and upthrust globes, or whatever nonsense porn and romance novels tell her she ought to possess, but somehow she doubts that matters to Dave.
Sure enough, he snags the hem of her t-shirt and tugs upwards while he also slides his hands under the rising fabric and teases the soft skin over her ribs, never quite high enough to touch her bra or her breasts themselves. "Hands over your head," he says, shifting around to her side, and when Jane obediently raises them he whisks the shirt over her head and leaves it tangled around her wrists where they rest on her pillow. "That okay?" he asks, glancing up from where he's kneeling by her hips.
"Yeah," Jane and Dave say in chorus -- he knows her answer because he's already heard it, even though he's hearing it for the first time.
Time travel is so weird.
Dave reaches underneath her back, hands fumbling downward from her shoulder blades while his other hands are still busy dancing along her ribs, playing her skin like a mixing board. He unfastens her bra in stages, misses the middle hook then twists to pull the fabric tight and win himself some give to maneuver. Jane breathes in deep, strains against the constriction, savors the pressure and the bite of the elastic as it pulls tight before release.
"Butterfingers," Dave mutters.
"Don't insult yourself," Jane says as Dave makes a tiny triumphant noise into her ear and her bra comes loose. She sighs and wriggles against the mattress, shaking her breasts free as Dave takes his fingers off her ribs and tugs the bra band out from under her as his other hands ease the lax straps over her shoulders. He slides the bra up and over her face to join her shirt around her wrists.
It tickles a little but she doesn't care. She can get her hands free in seconds if she wants. She can swing them down to touch Dave's hair even if she leaves the fabric tangled around her arms. And it's... comfortable, maybe? To know that if she doesn't want to touch, she doesn't need to. She can let Dave make her happy without worrying she isn't doing enough to reciprocate.
Jane's never been good at receiving gifts or compliments, but she thinks she's learning.
Dave moves down to kneel at her side, framing her like matched guardians outside a temple gate. Jane is so glad she let Roxy talk her into buying a queen-size bed, not a double. It felt like such an embarrassing indulgence, but the hell with embarrassment if it wins her moments like this.
"Fuck you have gorgeous boobs," Dave says. "Not that the rest of you isn't gorgeous too, remind me to write a rap sometime, but damn. I get why you wear all heavy-duty yoga soccer crap -- these babies'd get in the way something fierce in a strife -- but man, the world is missing out."
"The world can continue missing out. I'm not going to dress in clothes I don't like just because they might make me look sexy. Nobody owes sex appeal to anyone," Jane says.
"Did I say that?" Dave asks, as he lies down beside her, twice, and runs his hands simultaneously up and down from her stomach, tracing spirals with his close-trimmed nails as he goes.
"You do whatever you want and I'll be there rocking out in the arena," he says, stroking down the arch of Jane's pelvis. He opens the button and zipper of her jeans and slides his fingers beneath her underpants, into rough hair.
"I just want you to know you are sexy like a smoking hot grove, and I'm damn lucky you're cool with letting me see. Got my own private season pass to strawberry cheesecake heaven," he adds, drawing a line up her sternum between her breasts, his forearm just grazing a nipple as he moves.
"Oh," Jane says. "Um. You're welcome?"
Dave glances at himself; his mouth twists up at the corner in a tiny, false-mirror smile. "Maybe later. Right now, the only one in this room who needs to come well is you," he says, and he bends down to put his mouths on Jane's breasts before she can mock him for the terrible pun.
Oh.
Jane arches up into his touch, squirms downward, trying to get her nipples between his lips, but Dave laughs warm and wet against her skin and presses his free hands on her shoulders, holding her in place more by suggestion than force. He licks the undersides of her breasts in eerie synchronicity, tongues moving outward to her sides and around, then back. Then again. And again. Every time just a little higher, a little closer to where her nipples are hard and crinkled, desperate for contact.
"You are-- are an insuff-- oh my goodness-- a complete and utter-- higher, damn you-- an insufferable tease," Jane tells him, words spilling out ragged between harsh, panting breaths.
"Hey, boobs like these deserve more than wham bam thank-you ma'am," Dave says, lifting his mouth from her left breast. "Besides, we're verifying territory maps. Can't just wave the spyglass past my eyes and call it a day. We've gotta go over every inch of ground, make sure we're not missing any landmines or ambushes. My honor as a knight is a stake here, General Crocker."
Meanwhile he keeps sucking her right breast, slow and torturous. The trail of his tongue on her left breast is cooling in the open air. The contrast is awful and perfect at the same time. Jane's nipples tighten until they ache.
"I don't care how ironic you think it is to pretend game titles are literal. Move faster!" she says.
"Huh. That's a tough one," Dave says, raising his head from her right breast as he gets back to work on the left. "Fast or thorough, fast or thorough? I'm in deep existential conflict here, shit's really weighing on my shoulders, think it might break my back, leave me helpless behind enemy lines waiting for some big damn heroine to come flying to my rescue."
Jane bucks up under his mouth. "Stop teasing, shut up, and touch me."
"Welp. Guess that's that -- orders are orders," he says, and closes his teeth over her nipples.
Jane wails at the shock of sensation -- too intense to diffuse into either pleasure or pain -- that shoots through her body and explodes behind her eyes and low in her gut. Her hands twist and clench on the fabric of her t-shirt, heels press into the quilt. She gasps, dragging air into flash-frozen lungs. Her ribs expand, carry her breasts with them; Dave pushes back, pinning her against the bed to keep his angle right.
He has a hand down between her thighs, heel of his palm pressed hard against her pubic bone; his fingers dance light and aimless over her folds -- teasing, biding time. He has another hand wrapped around the base of her left breast, shaping it, thumb sliding rhythmically back and forth along the curve of a rib as his tongue circles the nipple caught between his teeth. He's licking her right nipple, grip widened so his teeth graze light at the borders of her areola and give his tongue space to work.
"Yes," Jane says. "Yes, yes, thank you, yes, more."
"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," Dave says, over himself saying, "As you command."
He's raised his mouths to speak and now he backs off, takes his hands from her shoulders and starts to roll the flesh of her breasts between long, callused fingers. Around and around and around, gentle and inexorable. One hand is still down between her legs, thumb on her clit, two fingers lazily pushing into her cunt, but then he pinches her nipples -- just a tweak, just a second -- and all Jane's attention jerks back up her body.
Dave holds her left nipple between two index fingers, grins down at her from two mouths, and slowly bends his fingers until his nails are digging into skin, pinning the tip between delicious, unbearable pressure-pain. His free hand traces delicate spirals around her right breast, in and out and in and out -- darts down to tickle along her side -- he bends down, slowly, slowly, so goddamn slowly -- sticks out his tongue -- bends down another inch -- she can feel his breath on the straining, tight, trapped nub of her nipple, where all her nerve endings seem to converge -- he starts to pull away--
"Dickface," Jane says. "You-- oh my god-- you fucking-- I swear-- you asshole--"
"You say the nicest things," Dave says, and bites her right nipple with no warning.
Jane shrieks.
Her whole body seems to swap sides, brain struggling to match sensation to expectation and failing. She's not a computer, she's not, but half the reason that possession worked so well is that Jane likes logic, Jane likes predictability, Jane likes patterns... and Dave loves to subvert them.
She should know better by now, she really should, but he gets her every time.
He lets go of her left nipple, pulls his fingers back and kisses the tip in apology. Meanwhile his teeth clench tighter on her right breast. He chews and sucks and his fingers knead at the edges of her breast, squeezing just to the edge of pain.
"This good, Janey?" he asks. "We okay?"
"I-- ha-- I-- yeah," she manages to say. "'s good. 's all good."
"Awesome," Dave says, and shifts one hand to roll her left nipple, still aching with leftover anticipation. His fingers are slick with saliva, nails ever so slightly ragged -- he's been biting them again, Jane thinks, such a stupid habit. She should file them down this evening, maybe trim his hair. It's been getting long enough to fall in his eyes first thing in the morning. Or maybe she should mention that to Terezi. Dave takes advice better coming from her, for whatever reason. Guilt, maybe, or else a shared language of shitty comics that Jane only partially speaks.
She has no idea why she's thinking such inanities in the middle of sex.
"Am I boring you, General Crocker?" Dave says. "Have I lost you in the nitty-gritty of topographic details? Accidentally smothered you in an avalanche of maps and diagrams and shitty battle plans?"
It is entirely unfair that he has enough breath and self-control to speak normally.
"Yes," Jane says. "Most boring sex I've ever had. Demotions all around."
"Well shit," Dave says as he rolls her right nipple between his other teeth. "Guess I'd better step up my game."
"As if--- oh-- as if you had any-- harder, you twit-- any to start with," Jane manages. She catches his eyes and grins to show it's a challenge, not an accusation. "You're a disgrace to the army, Private Strider."
"Ma'am, sorry, ma'am," he says, and lowers his head to her left breast as well.
Jane closes her eyes and clenches the tangled fabric of her shirt and bra. She points her toes, tenses her calves, clenches her thighs, arches her back, tightens every muscle she can to withstand his assault. She can hold out. She will hold out. She won't thrash, won't shred her shirt like she did to Dave's last week, won't break this bed. She won't grab Dave's head, yank him off her chest to escape the sugar-sweet shocks his teeth and tongue send jolting through her body, lightning zig-zagging up and down and sideways, striking sparks off places she never would have thought could feel erotic, never would have thought she could feel at all. She can accept pleasure. She can. She will.
Her bra strap snaps between her fingers.
Dave lifts his head from her right breast. "Whoa. Watch out, Incredible Hulk in the house. Guess that's why you're the general and I'm just a grunt, riding my horse, got my telescope all ready to make your maps and shit."
Jane snarls at him.
Dave grins. "You know, I think we're both overdressed," he says, and slides his hand down to push at the waist of her jeans.
"That my cue?" Dave asks, lifting his head from her left breast. Jane shivers at the loss of sensation and the weird, puddled warmth seeping outward from her breasts to the rest of her body.
"Not quite yet," Dave tells himself. "Remember, my mouth on her breasts. Can't fuck around with orders."
"Perish the thought," Dave says.
Jane rolls her eyes. Dave fucks around with orders any damn time he wants, no matter who's giving them. Oh, he'll generally obey in the end, but never without backtalk and nine times out of ten you'll get what you asked for but either so literally it's useless or with some strange and gratuitous improvisation thrown in for flavor or irony or verisimilitude or whatever excuse he feels like using that week.
"Hey General Crocker, lift your hips a minute," Dave says.
"You take off your pants too," she says as she braces herself against the bed so Dave can draw her jeans down over her hips and butt, dragging her underwear with them. He leaves them tangled around her ankles, like her t-shirt is still tangled around her wrists. Jane pushes her feet outward as far as she can, testing the restraint of the fabric, and smiles.
Meanwhile Dave has shucked his own jeans and boxers, tossed them carelessly onto the floor. He shifts sideways, one knee on either side of her thighs, one hand on either side of her waist. "Hi there," he says again. "You ready, Janey?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you?" Jane says, raking her gaze down the length of his body: damp hair, scars, moles, and all. He's not as painfully thin as he used to be -- her cooking has done some good, it seems -- but even if her hands were free she could hardly find a spare inch of flesh on him to hold. She'd have to hold his cock instead, she thinks, have to coax it to life and tease the head out from its little nest of skin. Such a shame; how ever could she manage.
Oh look, there it is, peeking out on its own.
Beside her, Dave snorts. "Yeah, get on with it already," he says as he sets his hand on Jane's left breast, taps his fingers against her skin like he's playing the melody of some unknown song.
Dave looks sardonically at himself. "Timing is everything," he says. Then he guides his cock down and up and in and settles his weight on Jane's body.
He bends his head to her right breast, body contorting like a performer in Cirque du Soleil, painful and erotic all at once. Jane's own neck aches just watching.
"Don't bother," Jane says. "Just-- your hand-- that's enough-- just move."
He does.
Hand on her clit, hand on her right breast, hand and tongue on her left breast, hand between her lips to suck and bite, cock in her cunt, lips and teeth and tongue on her neck, and everywhere the pulse of time and life, doubled and redoubled, echoed and mirrored back on itself in perfect harmony. Jane closes her eyes, watches the flame of Dave's life lick over her, around her, in her, listens to the sound of his breath and blood as skin touches skin, flesh and bone flex against each other, electricity flashes and sizzles along nerves primed to explode.
Dave shoves his face up under his arm, gets his mouth over her left nipple, scrapes his teeth across the tip as his fingers tweak her clit and Jane feels her shirt tear as her hands clamp down on his heads, press him to her -- giving life every way she can: milk and blood and flesh and bone and breath and hope and heart and mind and rage and everything that can grow, given space enough and time.
He thrusts on through the aftershocks, rhythmic at first, then erratic, then pulsing warm and wet inside her while his mouths and hands still work her breasts and throat, ragged and desperate.
At some point Dave disappears from her side; gone back in time to become Dave who lies between her legs, face pressed against the crook of her neck, gasping for breath.
Jane strokes her hands along his shoulders, the curve and sweep of his back, the hollow at the base of his spine. She rolls her hips, presses up against him, feels his weight on her breasts and hips and thighs like a warm and sweaty blanket. His cock is still in her cunt, softening now.
"Thank you," she says.
Dave grunts. "Uh. Yeah. Welcome."
"I did come well," Jane says.
He groans at his own pun fed back to him. Jane laughs and flips them over so she's his blanket instead of vice versa. "An excellent job, Major Strider. Full commendations for the troops."
"Thought I was a lowly private, all the scutwork, clean the bathrooms on my knees with a toothbrush," Dave mumbles into her shoulder.
"Ah, but that was before the successful outcome of your mission. Promotions all around," Jane assures him.
She's fairly sure there are ranks between private and major that she's blithely skipping over, but she doesn't care and she doubts Dave does either, if he even knows enough about the army to realize her lack of accuracy. Besides, she's the general here. If she wants to give out blatantly unrealistic battlefield promotions, that's her prerogative.
"So now I answer to General Crocker and the two colonels, Right and Left, is that how it goes?" Dave says.
Ohoho! If he's awake enough to make terrible jokes, he's awake enough for other things. There's still plenty of time until they're expected down for dinner, and John will want them to be clean, after all. How could she possibly disappoint her dear, respected poppop, even his alternate universe teenage version? Wink wink, nudge nudge, wonk wonk.
"That is exactly how it goes," Jane says. She props herself up on her elbows and grins down at her boyfriend. "And the colonels have an absolutely smashing idea for a new campaign. They suggest we retreat to the shower and see if it really is big enough for three."
Dave groans. "Army life is gonna kill me one of these days," he says, which of course demands a tickle attack in retaliation. Jane naturally provides one.
When Dave rolls off the damp and rumpled bed to follow Jane to the bathroom, she can see he's already half-up for the new mission.
Jane thinks about hot water rolling down sleek muscles, about soap helping callused fingers glide over her breasts, about two (three? four?) heads bent to give her pleasure, or even about two of her touching one of him, and retreats as fast as she can.
Inevitably, they are late for dinner.
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End
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And that is that. Yay porn?
Prompt: Can we get some breast worship all up in the house? It's my biggest kink and I never see anything for it! I just want something with one of the more well endowed girls (in my headcanon, Jane and Jade are the most "gifted" of the girls, but whatever girl the filler wants to do is fine) getting their breasts played with and cared for by one of the guys or girls with maybe some nipple play and suckling thrown in too?
(also, if you do it as f/f, I think it would be cool if one of the human girls was getting fawned over by a troll girl who just can't get over how much softer, squishier and bigger human breasts are)
Summary: Jane and Dave are on a mission to thoroughly map certain areas of bodily terrain. Explicit sex. (4,775 words) [Also posted here on the kinkmeme]
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All That We Survey
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Jane has always thought Dave Strider is a bit of a fox, despite his irrational enmity toward Crockercorp. Meeting a younger alternate universe version did nothing to change her mind, even though this Dave isn't half as smooth as the one she grew up watching on talk shows and reading about online, nor does he have the same careless stubble and smoker's rasp to his voice. The insouciant slouch and the maddening half-millimeter quirk at the corner of his mouth are still exactly the same. So are the gymnast's frame -- sleek muscles wrapped tight under warm brown skin, joints bending in ways Jane can only dream of -- and the the swordsman's calluses roughing his palms and fingertips.
And when this Dave rests a hand on her shoulder, his intent has nothing platonic about it.
"Hey Egbert, I hate to break up this family baking extravaganza but I'm stealing your hot jailbait granny to sex her up," he says as his fingers slip down and insinuate themselves under Jane's arm to graze the side of her breast through her t-shirt. She shivers at the contact, ideas blossoming unvoiced in the depths of her mind.
At the sink, John twitches and accidentally aims the hose extension up at his face instead of down at the bowl he's supposed to be washing. He turns, his glasses dripping with water and traces of diluted cake batter, and makes a terrible face.
"Stop saying things like that!" he says.
Jane does her best to keep a straight face despite his hapless puppy impression. "John, what kind of ungrateful grandson begrudges his dear nanna a roll in the hay with his best friend? Don't you love me anymore?"
John's open-mouthed horror is beautiful to behold, and Jane can't hold back her laughter any longer. She leans against Dave's side, wraps her arm around his waist and insinuates her own fingers into the pocket of his black jeans. She can feel him suppress a twitch. So adorable.
She's always been partial to sexy dorks.
"Jane ninety-seven, John eighty-six," Dave says. "You've gotta step up your game if you want to play with the big girls, bro. But not right now, 'cause your dear, sweet granny and I are gonna go play a different kind of game this afternoon." He turns his head, leers down at Jane like an exaggerated pantomime villain.
She taps the tip of his nose. "Now, now, Mr. Strider, don't go giving away all a girl's secrets."
John grimaces in only half-exaggerated discomfort and waves them out of the kitchen. "Whatever, just stop telling me about it! And don't forget everyone's coming over for dinner -- I'll totally send Jade and Roxy up to bang down your door if you're late."
"Bang down, you say," Dave muses. "Dude, kinky. I guess I could be talked into an orgy. I know Jade'd be all over that, and I bet Roxy wouldn't say no."
"It's on her bucket list," Jane offers, falsely helpful.
John clamps his hands over his ears. "Augh! Go! Go and stop talking!" he shouts. He lowers one hand for a moment to point dramatically toward the door, then shields himself again before Dave can make any more innuendos.
Jane tugs Dave out of the kitchen on a wave of laughter. "That was well played, Mr. Strider. We make an excellent team, as always," she tells him between snickers as they abscond up two flights of stairs. This house is tall and narrow, deliberately unlike the one she and John grew up in, and she has the entire third floor to herself. It's a welcome luxury.
"We are the best at teamwork, Ms. Crocker; it is us," Dave replies. He holds open the door with an ironic flourish and bows his head as she walks through. "And on that note, what does the team's long-term strategic planner suggest for today's mission?"
Jane sits on her bed and pats the plain blue comforter beside her, bouncing a little in anticipation. "We've been quite busy exploring new terrain, but I believe today we should take time to consolidate our discoveries. Double-check our maps down to the tiniest detail. Verify that we've left no stone unturned. Ensure we've used every tool at our disposal to conduct the most thorough survey, as it were."
"Mmmhmm," Dave says. He sits behind her rather than beside her, his legs settling warm and solid against the outsides of her thighs. His chin hooks neatly onto her shoulder and the frames of his shades click against her glasses. "Tell me more. I'll point the magic tour bus anywhere you want, just say the word. Got my license to please all stamped and legal, ready to take this trip out for sicknasty spins round all kinds of curves." His hands rub up and down her sides, kneading soft flesh through her suddenly too-thin shirt.
Jane wraps her fingers around Dave's hands, raises them to her breasts. "I have two particular curves in mind," she says.
Dave laughs, a half-silent exhale against her left ear, and his fingers slip forward and down to cup her breasts through her shirt, test their weight in his palms. "Sounds like a plan to me. Any tactical pointers before we let this campaign hit the road, you know, little strategic details from the general herself? It's your show. I'm up for whatever."
He grinds his hips against her ass, and yes, he is up, isn't he? Jane awards him a mental point for the terrible pun.
Then she bites her lip, because she does have a strategy -- or at least a thing she wants to ask -- but she can't think of a way to phrase it that isn't hideously embarrassing and probably incredibly greedy besides. "I think-- that is-- um--" she says.
Dave squeezes her breasts, knuckles and tendons flexing against Jane's palms, and cuts off her awkward attempts at finding the right words. "You cannot possibly be kinkier than Rose and Dirk, trust me on this, and I grew up hearing all about their weird-ass fetishes, not to mention I now also get Roxy's patented 'what the fuck are inhibitions?' sleepwalking monologues over breakfast. Life in the Strilonde household is a never-ending barrel of kinks and pain and I can't even keep booze around to drown my sorrows, because of reasons."
Which is a fair point! And one likely to give her sympathetic heebie-jeebies for the rest of her life and then some if she lets herself think about the implications, so Jane bulls forward instead. "I want your mouth on my breasts."
"Sound delicious," Dave says into the crook of Jane's neck. "Except. You know. Kind of anatomically tricky. Just saying." He nibbles on her between each phrase, lips and tongue and breath warm on her skin.
Jane tilts her head to give him better access. "Only if-- if you think-- if you-- yes, there-- if you think linearly," she says.
Dave pauses, a tiny fold of skin pinched delicately between his teeth. Then he lets go and leans back. "Oh. Yeah. Uh."
Jane's fingers tighten around his hands, fixing them against her body. "Um. So? We don't have to! I know you don't like casual time travel, I just thought that perhaps--"
"You thought right," Dave says from across the room, between her dresser and the closed hallway door.
Jane blinks at her boyfriend. How did he get over there, why is he half naked, where are his shades, when did-- oh, right, stupid question. She smiles, just a bit shakily, as Dave tenses behind her. Then he sucks in a deep breath and twists his hands out of her grip, presses down on her shoulders to leverage himself up and around so he's on the bed beside her. Her hands fall to her thighs; her breasts feel cold at the sudden lack of contact.
"Lying down?" Dave says to himself, and Jane glances back toward the door to see Dave nod. "Awesome. 'Kay, General Crocker, it looks like today is your lucky day. I'll be your conductor on this symphony of sensory overload -- lie back and think of Washington and you'll be across the Delaware into orgasm city before you can say boo."
"B--" Jane starts to say.
Dave's hand is gentle on her mouth as his other three hands press her sideways and down; time stutters, skips a beat, and she's on her back with no sense of the intervening motion. Cheater, Jane thinks. But a very sexy cheater. She grins and licks his palm.
Half-naked Dave grins down at her and wiggles his fingers against her cheek. "Hi there."
"Hi yourself," Jane says into his muffling hand.
"One of us is wearing too many clothes, and here's a hint, that person isn't me," Dave says. Behind him, Dave strips off his own t-shirt and shades and now the only way to tell future from past is by the faint sheen of sweat and the slightly messier hair, spindrift white disarranged from its usual style.
Jane pries his hand off her mouth and grins back up at him. "Private First Class Strider, I order you to take initiative and solve the problem. Be creative."
Dave exchanges an unreadable look with himself. Then he looks back down at her, four eyes red as strawberries and cinnamon sprinkles trained like lasers onto her chest. Jane swallows, arches her back just a bit and braces her hands against the quilt to give him a better view. Gravity works against her in this position, flattens everything even more than her sports bra already does. Her breasts have always been bigger and softer than she'd prefer, more like oversized helpings of vanilla pudding than perfect handfuls, proud and upthrust globes, or whatever nonsense porn and romance novels tell her she ought to possess, but somehow she doubts that matters to Dave.
Sure enough, he snags the hem of her t-shirt and tugs upwards while he also slides his hands under the rising fabric and teases the soft skin over her ribs, never quite high enough to touch her bra or her breasts themselves. "Hands over your head," he says, shifting around to her side, and when Jane obediently raises them he whisks the shirt over her head and leaves it tangled around her wrists where they rest on her pillow. "That okay?" he asks, glancing up from where he's kneeling by her hips.
"Yeah," Jane and Dave say in chorus -- he knows her answer because he's already heard it, even though he's hearing it for the first time.
Time travel is so weird.
Dave reaches underneath her back, hands fumbling downward from her shoulder blades while his other hands are still busy dancing along her ribs, playing her skin like a mixing board. He unfastens her bra in stages, misses the middle hook then twists to pull the fabric tight and win himself some give to maneuver. Jane breathes in deep, strains against the constriction, savors the pressure and the bite of the elastic as it pulls tight before release.
"Butterfingers," Dave mutters.
"Don't insult yourself," Jane says as Dave makes a tiny triumphant noise into her ear and her bra comes loose. She sighs and wriggles against the mattress, shaking her breasts free as Dave takes his fingers off her ribs and tugs the bra band out from under her as his other hands ease the lax straps over her shoulders. He slides the bra up and over her face to join her shirt around her wrists.
It tickles a little but she doesn't care. She can get her hands free in seconds if she wants. She can swing them down to touch Dave's hair even if she leaves the fabric tangled around her arms. And it's... comfortable, maybe? To know that if she doesn't want to touch, she doesn't need to. She can let Dave make her happy without worrying she isn't doing enough to reciprocate.
Jane's never been good at receiving gifts or compliments, but she thinks she's learning.
Dave moves down to kneel at her side, framing her like matched guardians outside a temple gate. Jane is so glad she let Roxy talk her into buying a queen-size bed, not a double. It felt like such an embarrassing indulgence, but the hell with embarrassment if it wins her moments like this.
"Fuck you have gorgeous boobs," Dave says. "Not that the rest of you isn't gorgeous too, remind me to write a rap sometime, but damn. I get why you wear all heavy-duty yoga soccer crap -- these babies'd get in the way something fierce in a strife -- but man, the world is missing out."
"The world can continue missing out. I'm not going to dress in clothes I don't like just because they might make me look sexy. Nobody owes sex appeal to anyone," Jane says.
"Did I say that?" Dave asks, as he lies down beside her, twice, and runs his hands simultaneously up and down from her stomach, tracing spirals with his close-trimmed nails as he goes.
"You do whatever you want and I'll be there rocking out in the arena," he says, stroking down the arch of Jane's pelvis. He opens the button and zipper of her jeans and slides his fingers beneath her underpants, into rough hair.
"I just want you to know you are sexy like a smoking hot grove, and I'm damn lucky you're cool with letting me see. Got my own private season pass to strawberry cheesecake heaven," he adds, drawing a line up her sternum between her breasts, his forearm just grazing a nipple as he moves.
"Oh," Jane says. "Um. You're welcome?"
Dave glances at himself; his mouth twists up at the corner in a tiny, false-mirror smile. "Maybe later. Right now, the only one in this room who needs to come well is you," he says, and he bends down to put his mouths on Jane's breasts before she can mock him for the terrible pun.
Oh.
Jane arches up into his touch, squirms downward, trying to get her nipples between his lips, but Dave laughs warm and wet against her skin and presses his free hands on her shoulders, holding her in place more by suggestion than force. He licks the undersides of her breasts in eerie synchronicity, tongues moving outward to her sides and around, then back. Then again. And again. Every time just a little higher, a little closer to where her nipples are hard and crinkled, desperate for contact.
"You are-- are an insuff-- oh my goodness-- a complete and utter-- higher, damn you-- an insufferable tease," Jane tells him, words spilling out ragged between harsh, panting breaths.
"Hey, boobs like these deserve more than wham bam thank-you ma'am," Dave says, lifting his mouth from her left breast. "Besides, we're verifying territory maps. Can't just wave the spyglass past my eyes and call it a day. We've gotta go over every inch of ground, make sure we're not missing any landmines or ambushes. My honor as a knight is a stake here, General Crocker."
Meanwhile he keeps sucking her right breast, slow and torturous. The trail of his tongue on her left breast is cooling in the open air. The contrast is awful and perfect at the same time. Jane's nipples tighten until they ache.
"I don't care how ironic you think it is to pretend game titles are literal. Move faster!" she says.
"Huh. That's a tough one," Dave says, raising his head from her right breast as he gets back to work on the left. "Fast or thorough, fast or thorough? I'm in deep existential conflict here, shit's really weighing on my shoulders, think it might break my back, leave me helpless behind enemy lines waiting for some big damn heroine to come flying to my rescue."
Jane bucks up under his mouth. "Stop teasing, shut up, and touch me."
"Welp. Guess that's that -- orders are orders," he says, and closes his teeth over her nipples.
Jane wails at the shock of sensation -- too intense to diffuse into either pleasure or pain -- that shoots through her body and explodes behind her eyes and low in her gut. Her hands twist and clench on the fabric of her t-shirt, heels press into the quilt. She gasps, dragging air into flash-frozen lungs. Her ribs expand, carry her breasts with them; Dave pushes back, pinning her against the bed to keep his angle right.
He has a hand down between her thighs, heel of his palm pressed hard against her pubic bone; his fingers dance light and aimless over her folds -- teasing, biding time. He has another hand wrapped around the base of her left breast, shaping it, thumb sliding rhythmically back and forth along the curve of a rib as his tongue circles the nipple caught between his teeth. He's licking her right nipple, grip widened so his teeth graze light at the borders of her areola and give his tongue space to work.
"Yes," Jane says. "Yes, yes, thank you, yes, more."
"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," Dave says, over himself saying, "As you command."
He's raised his mouths to speak and now he backs off, takes his hands from her shoulders and starts to roll the flesh of her breasts between long, callused fingers. Around and around and around, gentle and inexorable. One hand is still down between her legs, thumb on her clit, two fingers lazily pushing into her cunt, but then he pinches her nipples -- just a tweak, just a second -- and all Jane's attention jerks back up her body.
Dave holds her left nipple between two index fingers, grins down at her from two mouths, and slowly bends his fingers until his nails are digging into skin, pinning the tip between delicious, unbearable pressure-pain. His free hand traces delicate spirals around her right breast, in and out and in and out -- darts down to tickle along her side -- he bends down, slowly, slowly, so goddamn slowly -- sticks out his tongue -- bends down another inch -- she can feel his breath on the straining, tight, trapped nub of her nipple, where all her nerve endings seem to converge -- he starts to pull away--
"Dickface," Jane says. "You-- oh my god-- you fucking-- I swear-- you asshole--"
"You say the nicest things," Dave says, and bites her right nipple with no warning.
Jane shrieks.
Her whole body seems to swap sides, brain struggling to match sensation to expectation and failing. She's not a computer, she's not, but half the reason that possession worked so well is that Jane likes logic, Jane likes predictability, Jane likes patterns... and Dave loves to subvert them.
She should know better by now, she really should, but he gets her every time.
He lets go of her left nipple, pulls his fingers back and kisses the tip in apology. Meanwhile his teeth clench tighter on her right breast. He chews and sucks and his fingers knead at the edges of her breast, squeezing just to the edge of pain.
"This good, Janey?" he asks. "We okay?"
"I-- ha-- I-- yeah," she manages to say. "'s good. 's all good."
"Awesome," Dave says, and shifts one hand to roll her left nipple, still aching with leftover anticipation. His fingers are slick with saliva, nails ever so slightly ragged -- he's been biting them again, Jane thinks, such a stupid habit. She should file them down this evening, maybe trim his hair. It's been getting long enough to fall in his eyes first thing in the morning. Or maybe she should mention that to Terezi. Dave takes advice better coming from her, for whatever reason. Guilt, maybe, or else a shared language of shitty comics that Jane only partially speaks.
She has no idea why she's thinking such inanities in the middle of sex.
"Am I boring you, General Crocker?" Dave says. "Have I lost you in the nitty-gritty of topographic details? Accidentally smothered you in an avalanche of maps and diagrams and shitty battle plans?"
It is entirely unfair that he has enough breath and self-control to speak normally.
"Yes," Jane says. "Most boring sex I've ever had. Demotions all around."
"Well shit," Dave says as he rolls her right nipple between his other teeth. "Guess I'd better step up my game."
"As if--- oh-- as if you had any-- harder, you twit-- any to start with," Jane manages. She catches his eyes and grins to show it's a challenge, not an accusation. "You're a disgrace to the army, Private Strider."
"Ma'am, sorry, ma'am," he says, and lowers his head to her left breast as well.
Jane closes her eyes and clenches the tangled fabric of her shirt and bra. She points her toes, tenses her calves, clenches her thighs, arches her back, tightens every muscle she can to withstand his assault. She can hold out. She will hold out. She won't thrash, won't shred her shirt like she did to Dave's last week, won't break this bed. She won't grab Dave's head, yank him off her chest to escape the sugar-sweet shocks his teeth and tongue send jolting through her body, lightning zig-zagging up and down and sideways, striking sparks off places she never would have thought could feel erotic, never would have thought she could feel at all. She can accept pleasure. She can. She will.
Her bra strap snaps between her fingers.
Dave lifts his head from her right breast. "Whoa. Watch out, Incredible Hulk in the house. Guess that's why you're the general and I'm just a grunt, riding my horse, got my telescope all ready to make your maps and shit."
Jane snarls at him.
Dave grins. "You know, I think we're both overdressed," he says, and slides his hand down to push at the waist of her jeans.
"That my cue?" Dave asks, lifting his head from her left breast. Jane shivers at the loss of sensation and the weird, puddled warmth seeping outward from her breasts to the rest of her body.
"Not quite yet," Dave tells himself. "Remember, my mouth on her breasts. Can't fuck around with orders."
"Perish the thought," Dave says.
Jane rolls her eyes. Dave fucks around with orders any damn time he wants, no matter who's giving them. Oh, he'll generally obey in the end, but never without backtalk and nine times out of ten you'll get what you asked for but either so literally it's useless or with some strange and gratuitous improvisation thrown in for flavor or irony or verisimilitude or whatever excuse he feels like using that week.
"Hey General Crocker, lift your hips a minute," Dave says.
"You take off your pants too," she says as she braces herself against the bed so Dave can draw her jeans down over her hips and butt, dragging her underwear with them. He leaves them tangled around her ankles, like her t-shirt is still tangled around her wrists. Jane pushes her feet outward as far as she can, testing the restraint of the fabric, and smiles.
Meanwhile Dave has shucked his own jeans and boxers, tossed them carelessly onto the floor. He shifts sideways, one knee on either side of her thighs, one hand on either side of her waist. "Hi there," he says again. "You ready, Janey?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you?" Jane says, raking her gaze down the length of his body: damp hair, scars, moles, and all. He's not as painfully thin as he used to be -- her cooking has done some good, it seems -- but even if her hands were free she could hardly find a spare inch of flesh on him to hold. She'd have to hold his cock instead, she thinks, have to coax it to life and tease the head out from its little nest of skin. Such a shame; how ever could she manage.
Oh look, there it is, peeking out on its own.
Beside her, Dave snorts. "Yeah, get on with it already," he says as he sets his hand on Jane's left breast, taps his fingers against her skin like he's playing the melody of some unknown song.
Dave looks sardonically at himself. "Timing is everything," he says. Then he guides his cock down and up and in and settles his weight on Jane's body.
He bends his head to her right breast, body contorting like a performer in Cirque du Soleil, painful and erotic all at once. Jane's own neck aches just watching.
"Don't bother," Jane says. "Just-- your hand-- that's enough-- just move."
He does.
Hand on her clit, hand on her right breast, hand and tongue on her left breast, hand between her lips to suck and bite, cock in her cunt, lips and teeth and tongue on her neck, and everywhere the pulse of time and life, doubled and redoubled, echoed and mirrored back on itself in perfect harmony. Jane closes her eyes, watches the flame of Dave's life lick over her, around her, in her, listens to the sound of his breath and blood as skin touches skin, flesh and bone flex against each other, electricity flashes and sizzles along nerves primed to explode.
Dave shoves his face up under his arm, gets his mouth over her left nipple, scrapes his teeth across the tip as his fingers tweak her clit and Jane feels her shirt tear as her hands clamp down on his heads, press him to her -- giving life every way she can: milk and blood and flesh and bone and breath and hope and heart and mind and rage and everything that can grow, given space enough and time.
He thrusts on through the aftershocks, rhythmic at first, then erratic, then pulsing warm and wet inside her while his mouths and hands still work her breasts and throat, ragged and desperate.
At some point Dave disappears from her side; gone back in time to become Dave who lies between her legs, face pressed against the crook of her neck, gasping for breath.
Jane strokes her hands along his shoulders, the curve and sweep of his back, the hollow at the base of his spine. She rolls her hips, presses up against him, feels his weight on her breasts and hips and thighs like a warm and sweaty blanket. His cock is still in her cunt, softening now.
"Thank you," she says.
Dave grunts. "Uh. Yeah. Welcome."
"I did come well," Jane says.
He groans at his own pun fed back to him. Jane laughs and flips them over so she's his blanket instead of vice versa. "An excellent job, Major Strider. Full commendations for the troops."
"Thought I was a lowly private, all the scutwork, clean the bathrooms on my knees with a toothbrush," Dave mumbles into her shoulder.
"Ah, but that was before the successful outcome of your mission. Promotions all around," Jane assures him.
She's fairly sure there are ranks between private and major that she's blithely skipping over, but she doesn't care and she doubts Dave does either, if he even knows enough about the army to realize her lack of accuracy. Besides, she's the general here. If she wants to give out blatantly unrealistic battlefield promotions, that's her prerogative.
"So now I answer to General Crocker and the two colonels, Right and Left, is that how it goes?" Dave says.
Ohoho! If he's awake enough to make terrible jokes, he's awake enough for other things. There's still plenty of time until they're expected down for dinner, and John will want them to be clean, after all. How could she possibly disappoint her dear, respected poppop, even his alternate universe teenage version? Wink wink, nudge nudge, wonk wonk.
"That is exactly how it goes," Jane says. She props herself up on her elbows and grins down at her boyfriend. "And the colonels have an absolutely smashing idea for a new campaign. They suggest we retreat to the shower and see if it really is big enough for three."
Dave groans. "Army life is gonna kill me one of these days," he says, which of course demands a tickle attack in retaliation. Jane naturally provides one.
When Dave rolls off the damp and rumpled bed to follow Jane to the bathroom, she can see he's already half-up for the new mission.
Jane thinks about hot water rolling down sleek muscles, about soap helping callused fingers glide over her breasts, about two (three? four?) heads bent to give her pleasure, or even about two of her touching one of him, and retreats as fast as she can.
Inevitably, they are late for dinner.
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End
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And that is that. Yay porn?
