Chapter 14: Ownership
The dream clung to Dave’s skin like sweat, thick and unsettling. He woke tangled in damp sheets, heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. Not the good kind of pounding. Not Karkat’s cock driving into him. This was panic, cold and sharp. The phantom fullness between his legs had vanished, leaving only the familiar, maddening pressure of the pink cage and a hollow ache that went deeper than flesh.
His room, usually a sanctuary of organized chaos – decks, headphones, discarded hoodies – felt claustrophobic. Sunlight stabbed through a gap in the blinds, harsh and accusatory. His roommate, Bro, was already clattering dishes in the tiny kitchenette attached to their dorm room. The sound grated, each clang echoing the jangle in Dave’s nerves.
"Morning, dipshit," Bro grunted without looking up, shoveling cereal into his mouth. His shades were already on, face impassive.
"Sup," Dave mumbled, voice thick. He grabbed his own shades, snapping them onto his face like armor. He needed coffee. Badly. But the communal pot was empty, a crusty ring staining the glass. Just… perfect.
"Yeah, you used the last grounds yesterday," Bro said, finally glancing over. There was no real anger, just a flat statement that somehow felt like a judgment. "Gonna grab more?"
Dave flinched. He had used the last. Why did that feel like a personal failing? "Yeah. Later." He retreated to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. The reflection in the smudged mirror looked pale, shadows under the shades. Looking like shit, Strider. Real heterosexual champion. The internal sarcasm tasted sour.
Campus was worse. Every interaction felt loaded. The barista at the coffee cart snapped at him for fumbling his change. A girl in his Poli Sci seminar glared when he accidentally kicked her bag walking to his seat. Professor Eldritch droned on about existential nihilism, his monotone voice scraping against Dave’s raw edges. Usually, Dave could zone out, craft beats in his head. Today, every word hammered into his skull, heavy and meaningless. We are alone. Adrift. Nothing matters. Yeah, tell him something he didn’t already know, especially with a plastic cage squeezing his dick and his neighbor’s cum probably still haunting his dreams.
He tried studying in the library. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps. Someone’s phone vibrated incessantly on a table nearby. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It drilled into his temples. He snapped his textbook shut, the sound echoing too loudly, drawing annoyed glances. Another fucking judgment. He fled.
He fled the choking sterility of the library, the institutional fluorescents replaced by the bruised purple-grey sky of late afternoon. His sneakers slapped the pavement, echoing the frantic rhythm in his chest, each step sending a dull throb up from the persistent pressure of the cage. The world felt abrasive, every passing conversation a shout, every car horn a physical jolt against his already frayed nerves.
His phone vibrated incessantly in his pocket. Not the library buzz this time. A specific, demanding rhythm. Karkat. Dave ignored it, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, fingernails digging into his palms. The phantom ache from his dream mingled with the very real, frustrating confinement. He felt raw, exposed, utterly unlike the cool, detached persona he usually projected. This wasn't just stress; it felt like his carefully constructed shell was cracking under pressure he couldn't even name.
The phone vibrated again. And again. Persistence was Karkat's superpower. Dave finally yanked it out, the screen blindingly bright in the gathering dusk.
`carcinoGeneticist [CG]: STRIDER`
`carcinoGeneticist [CG]: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKING HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM TODAY?`
`carcinoGeneticist [CG]: YOU LOOK LIKE A KICKED PUPPY WHO LOST ITS FAVORITE PISS-STAINED RAG.`
`carcinoGeneticist [CG]: ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN PHONE.`
Dave leaned against the cold brick wall of the Humanities building, the rough surface scraping his shoulder blade through the thin fabric. He took a shaky breath, thumbs hovering over the screen. The sarcastic deflection died before he typed it. He just felt… empty.
`turntechGodhead [TG]: its nothing`
`turntechGodhead [TG]: just a shit day`
`turntec
`carcinoGeneticist [CG]: BULLSHIT. I SAW YOU TRYING TO BLEND INTO THE BRICKWORK OUTSIDE HUMA. GET YOUR SCRAWNY ASS OVER HERE. NOW.`
`carcinoGeneticist [CG]: I HAVE PEPPERONI. AND YOUR FAVORITE SHITTY ENERGY DRINK. DON'T MAKE ME COME DRAG YOU.`
Dave stared at the screen. The demand was pure Karkat – loud, intrusive, impossible to ignore. But the offer… the offer hit the raw, exposed nerve humming just beneath his skin. Pepperoni. That vile, radioactive-orange drink Karkat pretended to hate. A tiny, pathetic spark of warmth flickered in the hollow space behind his ribs. He was moving before he consciously decided, feet carrying him towards the familiar, slightly grimy apartment building across the quad. Resistance felt pointless, another weight he couldn’t shoulder today.
The climb up the narrow staircase felt endless, each step amplifying the low thrum of anxiety vibrating through his bones. He paused outside Karkat’s door, number 3B, hand hovering.
The door flew open before his knuckles could connect with the wood. Karkat filled the frame, silhouetted against the warm, chaotic light spilling from his apartment. Pizza grease and the faint, sweet-chemical tang of Dave's favorite energy drink clung to the air behind him. Karkat’s eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned Dave’s hunched form, the tremor in his hand still hovering mid-air.
"You look like fucking death microwaved twice," Karkat stated flatly, no trace of his usual teasing smirk. His gaze didn’t waver, seeing past the shades, past the brittle facade Dave hadn’t even had the energy to fully erect today. The raw concern in that look, so uncharacteristically devoid of sarcasm, was the final crack in Dave’s crumbling dam.
Karkat didn’t wait for a reply. He simply reached out, his large, warm hand engulfing Dave’s wrist where it hung limply in the air. A firm, undeniable pull. Dave stumbled forward over the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a lock sliding home. The familiar chaos of comics, action figures, and humming electronics enveloped him, a stark contrast to the sterile anxiety outside.
He collided with Karkat’s solid chest, the scent of cheap laundry detergent and Karkat’s own warm skin flooding his senses. And then it happened: Dave crumpled. His rigid posture dissolved like wet paper, shoulders slumping, head dropping forward to bury itself against the worn fabric of Karkat’s band tee. A shuddering breath escaped him, ragged and entirely involuntary. He pressed himsel
A shuddering breath escaped him, ragged and entirely involuntary. He pressed himself against the solid wall of Karkat’s chest, seeking an anchor in the storm of his own unraveling. The familiar scent of cheap detergent, stale pizza, and something uniquely Karkat flooded his senses, momentarily drowning out the static buzzing in his skull.
Karkat didn’t recoil from the sudden intimacy. His arms, thick and strong, slid around Dave’s slender frame. One hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, the other cradled the back of his head, fingers tangling roughly in his blonde hair. "Christ, Strider," Karkat muttered, his usual bluster softened into gruff concern. He held him tight, a silent, immovable bulwark against the chaotic tide of Dave’s emotions. "Breathe. Just fuckin' breathe."
The dam burst. Silent tremors gave way to harsh, shuddering gasps that tore from Dave’s throat. He clutched fistfuls of Karkat’s t-shirt, knuckles white. The frustration, the weird sensitivity, the fucking cage reminding him with every shift, the vivid dream he couldn’t shake – it all poured out in wordless, choking waves against Karkat’s chest. Hot tears stung behind his shades, a humiliation he couldn’t voice. He buried his face deeper, hiding.
Karkat held on. He didn’t pat Dave’s back awkwardly or offer meaningless platitudes. He just held, his grip unyielding, grounding. His chin rested atop Dave’s head, a solid weight. The frantic pounding of Dave’s heart gradually synced with the slower, steadier beat thudding against his cheek. The chaotic apartment – the plastic sheen of action figures, the glow of monitors, the faint hum of the mini-fridge – seemed to recede, leaving only this pocket of strained silence and desperate contact.
Minutes stretched, measured only by Dave’s slowing breaths and the occasional sniffle. Finally, the crushing weight of panic began to lift, leaving behind a heavy, almost drugged exhaustion. The tension bled from his muscles, leaving him boneless against Karkat. The simple act of standing seemed suddenly monumental.
The simple act of standing seemed suddenly monumental. Dave’s limbs felt like lead weights tethered to his trembling core. He sagged further, relying entirely on Karkat’s unyielding grip just to remain upright, the earlier panic receding into a numb, hollow exhaustion.
"Can't...," Dave mumbled, the words muffled and thick against Karkat’s shoulder. His shades pressed uncomfortably into his own face and Karkat’s chest. The plastic cage was a constant, tight reminder, a physical ache beneath his jeans layered over the emotional wreckage.
"Alright, princess, up you go." Karkat’s voice was a low rumble, surprisingly gentle despite the nickname. He didn't ask, didn't hesitate. In one smooth, powerful motion, he scooped Dave’s legs out from under him, cradling him close like a child. Dave’s breath hitched in surprise, a weak protest dying on his lips as he was effortlessly lifted. Karkat carried him the few steps to the overstuffed, slightly lumpy sofa nestled amidst the comic book towers and discarded game controllers.
Karkat sat heavily, the cushions groaning in protest. Before Dave could register the shift, strong hands guided him down, pulling him sideways until his ass landed squarely on Karkat’s thick, denim-clad thighs. Karkat’s arm banded around Dave’s waist, anchoring him firmly against his solid torso, while his other hand cupped the back of Dave’s head, pulling it down to rest on his shoulder again. The position was intimate, dominating, Dave’s slender frame enveloped by Karkat’s larger one.
"Let’s try that breathing thing again, yeah?" Karkat murmured, his lips brushing against Dave’s temple. The warmth was disarming. "Slow. In... hold... out." He demonstrated, his chest expanding slowly beneath Dave’s cheek. Dave tried to mimic it, the air shuddering into his lungs. It was embarrassing, being held like this, perched on Karkat’s lap like some fragile fucking thing.
"Just... overwhelmed," Dave choked out, squeezing his eyes shut behind the shades. The confession felt alien, terrifying. "Everything’s... loud. Sharp. People...." His voice cracked. "Never used to... feel this shit." The raw admission scraped his throat. Feeling things? Not his style. He was Dave Strider; cool, detached, above it all. Now he was a trembling mess on his neighbor's lap, needing this. It was mortifying.
Karkat’s hand slid from Dave’s waist, his large palm coming up to cradle Dave’s jaw, his thumb gently nudging the arm of Dave’s shades. "Hey. Look at me." His tone brooked no argument, but the calloused pad of his thumb stroked lightly over Dave’s cheekbone. Dave hesitated, then slowly, stiffly, lifted his head. He pushed the shades up onto his forehead, revealing red-rimmed, vulnerable crimson eyes blinking in the dim apartment light.
Karkat’s dark gaze held his, intense, searching, utterly focused. "Aw, angel."
Dave flinched as Karkat leaned in. But instead of the demanding kiss he half-expected (half-feared, half-wanted), Karkat pressed his lips lightly, chastely, to Dave’s sweat-dampened temple. The touch was feather-light, unbearably gentle. Then another soft kiss, lower, on the delicate skin of his tightly closed eyelid. Dave shivered, the sensation utterly disarming.
"Shhh," Karkat soothed, his breath warm on Dave’s skin. He kissed the other eyelid, the gesture somehow protective. "Just breathe, baby. I got you." His thumb continued its gentle arc over Dave’s cheekbone, a grounding counterpoint to the devastating tenderness of the kisses peppering his brow, his eyelids. "Right here. You’re safe. Let it out. No one’s judging. Just me." He pressed another kiss to Dave’s temple.
The pet name – baby – whispered in that low, gravelly voice against his skin, combined with the sheer physical comfort, the safety of Karkat’s arms, undid another layer of Dave’s resistance. A choked sob escaped him, and he pressed his face back into the curve of Karkat’s neck, hiding again, breathing in the familiar scent. Karkat just held him tighter, one large hand splayed possessively across his back, the other cradling his head, his lips occasionally brushing Dave’s hairline as he murmured wordless sounds of comfort. The relentless pressure of the cage was still there, a persistent hum of frustrated desire beneath the overwhelming tide of vulnerability, but for this suspended moment, cradled and soothed, Dave felt an unfamiliar, terrifying peace. Karkat’s hand slid lower, rubbing slow, firm circles on his back right above the waistband of his jeans, the heat seeping through the thin hoodie fabric.
Karkat’s hand slid lower, rubbing slow, firm circles on his back right above the waistband of his jeans, the heat seeping through the thin hoodie fabric. The tears had stopped, leaving Dave feeling scraped raw inside and impossibly heavy-limbed, his forehead still pressed into the warm hollow of Karkat’s neck. He breathed in the scent of Karkat’s skin – cheap soap, laundry detergent, the faint musk of him – like it was oxygen he’d been starved of.
"You're alright now, angel," Karkat murmured, his voice a low rumble against Dave’s temple, completely devoid of its usual sharp edge. His rough fingertips traced idle patterns just above the denim, a grounding pressure. "Just breathe with me. Deep and slow, yeah? Like that." He demonstrated, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath Dave’s cheek, a slow counter-rhythm to the frantic beat Dave’s heart was finally starting to lose.
Dave tried to match it, a shaky inhale catching in his throat. The world outside Karkat’s apartment, the sharp edges of the day, the campus and its judging eyes, felt distant, muffled by the solid reality of Karkat’s body and the cluttered safety of the room. He felt boneless, drained, yet weirdly tethered. The persistent ache from the cage was still there, a low throb beneath the numbness, but even that felt… manageable. Here.
"Good," Karkat breathed, the word warm against Dave’s hair. He shifted slightly, adjusting Dave’s weight on his lap, pulling him even closer so Dave was fully enveloped, Karkat’s thick arm a band of warmth and security across his back. "Real fuckin' good, Dave. Look at you being all brave, coming over here instead of stewing like a weird little hermit crab in your shell."
He pressed a kiss, soft and lingering, to the crown of Dave’s head. His free hand came up, blunt fingers carding gently through the messy blonde strands, careful not to dislodge the shades pushed up on Dave’s forehead. The touch was unbearably tender, possessive in a way that should have made Dave bristle but only made a weak, involuntary sigh escape him instead. Submission felt less like defeat and more like… sinking into a warm bath.
"Knew something was eating at you all day," Karkat continued, his voice a low hum vibrating through Dave. "Saw it in how you walked, tense like a fucking guitar string about to snap. Shoulda dragged your dumb ass over hours ago." He rubbed his cheek against Dave’s hair. "But you came. You came to me. That’s so fucking good, baby. My brave boy."
Dave flinched minutely at ‘baby’, a tremor running through him that had nothing to do with tears now. It wasn’t mockery, though. Karkat’s tone held nothing but possessive warmth, a fierce protectiveness that wrapped around Dave tighter than the arm across his back. He felt Karkat’s lips curve into a small smile against his hairline. "Yeah, you heard me. My brave boy. Doing so well just letting me hold your skinny ass." His hand on Dave’s back drifted lower, palm flattening possessively over his hip, thumb tracing the waistband of his jeans again. The touch sparked a low heat beneath the exhaustion, a confusing counterpoint to the cage’s unyielding pressure.
"Gonna take care of you," Karkat promised, the words a vow murmured into the quiet space between them, broken only by the hum of the old fridge in the corner and the distant campus sounds filtering through the window. "Always. When the world gets too fucking loud, too sharp, when that dumb fucking cage makes you feel crazy... you come here. My door’s open. My lap’s yours. Got it, angel?"
He tilted Dave’s head back gently, just enough to look into his red-rimmed eyes. Karkat’s gaze was intense, dark, utterly focused. There was no teasing glint, no expectation. Just open, raw care that hit Dave harder than any sarcasm ever could. Dave swallowed, throat clicking, unable to form words. He managed a tiny nod, his eyelids feeling like lead weights.
"That’s it," Karkat approved, his thumb stroking Dave’s cheekbone again, wiping away a final, stubborn trace of moisture. "Rest your head. I got you. Pizza’s cold, drink’s warm, but I got you." He guided Dave’s head back down to his shoulder, the hand on his hip settling into a firm, grounding hold. He reached over blindly with his other hand, snagging the forgotten, half-cold slice of pepperoni pizza from the coffee table littered with controllers and comic books. "Open."
Dave hesitated, the idea of eating feeling monumental, ridiculous. But Karkat nudged his lips with the greasy corner of the slice. "C’mon. Fuel for the emotionally wrecked. Don’t make me chew it for you like a goddamn bird." The familiar, crass edge was back, softened by the gentle pressure of the food against his mouth. Dave opened his lips slightly. Karkat guided the bite in, his calloused fingertip brushing Dave’s lower lip. The cold, greasy cheese, the salt of the pepperoni – it tasted like comfort. Like surrender. Karkat watched him chew, a satisfied glint finally returning to his dark eyes. "Good boy," he murmured, the praise settling deep in Dave’s hollowed-out chest. "Keep going. I’m right here." He took a bite himself, chewing noisily, his body a solid, unwavering anchor beneath Dave’s exhausted weight.
The salty grease of the pizza felt heavy on Dave’s tongue, a grounding counterpoint to the lingering tremors in his limbs. He chewed mechanically, the simple act requiring immense focus, each swallow a victory against the hollow ache inside his chest. Karkat remained a solid, immovable warmth beneath him, the denim of his jeans rough against Dave’s thin sweatpants, the thick muscle of Karkat’s thigh a firm anchor. The chaotic apartment – the glow of paused video games, the sprawl of comic books, the faint scent of dust and electronics – seemed to hold its breath around them.
Karkat finished his own bite, wiping grease onto his faded band tee with a distracted gesture. His hand, large and calloused, didn’t return to the pizza box. Instead, it drifted upwards, bypassing Dave’s shoulder, moving with a deliberate slowness that felt significant in the quiet. The warm pads of Karkat’s fingers brushed against the short hair at the nape of Dave’s neck, sending a shiver cascading down his spine that had nothing to do with cold. Dave froze mid-chew, breath catching.
Then Karkat’s fingers sank deeper, tangling gently in the messy blonde strands above Dave’s collar. The touch was exploratory at first, tracing the shell of his ear, rubbing lightly against his scalp. It was impossibly intimate, a tender invasion that bypassed Dave’s usual defenses completely. A low, involuntary hum vibrated in Dave’s throat, muffled against Karkat’s neck where his face remained stubbornly buried. He couldn't look up, couldn’t face the intensity he knew would be in Karkat’s eyes. The vulnerability felt like an open wound, raw and terrifying.
Karkat didn’t speak. He simply continued the rhythmic motion, his fingers carding through Dave’s hair with a possessiveness that felt both claiming and soothing. He scratched lightly, just behind Dave’s ear, a spot that sent sparks skittering across Dave’s nerves. The rough texture of Karkat’s fingertips contrasted beautifully with the softness of the touch, a paradox that mirrored their entire fucked-up dynamic. Dave felt himself sinking further, the tension leaching from his muscles like poison drawn from a wound. The weight of the day, the crushing anxiety, the persistent throb of the cage – it all receded, pushed back by the sheer, overwhelming focus of Karkat’s touch on his scalp, on the vulnerable curve of his skull.
The rhythm deepened. Karkat’s fingertips massaged slow circles now, firm and grounding, working through the knots of tension Dave hadn’t even realized he carried. Each stroke seemed to pull him deeper into the warmth and solidity of Karkat’s body, into the scent of him – laundry soap, warm skin, pepperoni – that filled Dave’s senses. The world narrowed to this: the rasp of Karkat’s calloused fingers against his scalp, the steady thud of Karkat’s heartbeat beneath his ear, the safe, dark haven of Karkat’s neck where Dave hid, overwhelmed and utterly surrendered. He pressed his forehead harder against the warm skin, a silent plea for the contact to never stop, for this fragile sanctuary to hold. Karkat’s other arm tightened fractionally around Dave’s waist, a wordless answer, a promise held in the quiet dark.