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Your name is Dirk Strider and you love your husband's brunch outings as much as he does.
You especially love them after you brought home Paloma, because up until the new house, he barely spoke with you as punishment for having taken in another wiggler without checking in with him. You understand, to a point, why he was upset, and you were relieved that the new house had brought down some of the walls, especially when you designed it after what he'd described as his grubhood dream home and had it built for him specifically, but he still wasn't very affectionate, especially when it came to the bedroom.
You wouldn't want to force him, per se, you just wanted some intimacy, and he was not interested in that right now.
He was… more open, when he drank. He hadn't gone to brunch in forever, and he'd barely touched the wine and champagne at the housewarming party he threw, insisting a sloppy and drunk host was unbecoming, especially with the girls around.
Brunch often meant mimosas, which Kankri would happily have his fill of. He had been unsure, on break for the season while college was out of session, and you insisted.
“I can handle the girls, Kankri, go on. If it makes you feel any better, Roxy wanted to have them for the afternoon for a playdate with Harry.”
“…If you're sure…”
“I am.” You tugged him down, his towering height endearing to you as you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. You grin with the knowledge you are winning when you feel his mouth twitchy into a small but toothy smile.
You check the time, and you know he will be home soon, and so you prepare. You make sure there is a clear path to the stairway, you make sure the candles lit are pink peppercorn and tobacco, and you wait, patiently, the girls content to have a playdate and possible sleepover with auntie Rox and their human cousin.
When Kankri does finally come home, he's grinning, stumbling about. You help him get his coat off as he giggles.
“How was brunch, babe?”
“Wonderful! Everyone congratulated me on how wonderful the hive is…” His speech is slurred, and he sways in place just slightly. You swallow to ease the tightness in your throat, already getting hard. He's so agreeable like this.
You put an arm around his waist, walking him towards the stairs, only half listening to him as he updates you on the gossip and lives of his peers, making sure to “hmm" and “yeah" and “really" at all the right times, so he doesn't realize you aren't paying attention.
It was never really hard to get away with that, as he did like hearing himself speak.
You make it to the bedroom, and you shut the door behind you. You lock it, just in case Roxy somehow brings the girls home early without checking in with you first. Kankri stands, swaying in place, grinning and happy just to look upon you for the first time in the near year since you had brought Paloma home to him. You are sure after this, things will get back to normal. You're eager for that almost as much as you're eager for what's about to happen.
“You look so pretty, babe.” He hates pet names, and you know that, but when he is drunk, he does not complain. He's mindless, smiling and giggling, leaning against the wall some. That's fine. You'll redirect him to the bed soon enough.
For now, you just enjoy the sight. He does look pretty. His curls are combed out carefully, framing his face. The hair had grown out some, covering the nape of his neck more than just reaching it now. It took him more time to style it, now that it reached his chin, but he always looked perfect once it was over. He often complained about having to wake up earlier to tame the curls, but you'd been pleading with him this long to not get it any shorter. You loved running your fingers through his hair, feeling how soft it was. Thus far, he has conceded n it for your sake, and you are so grateful.
His shirt is crimson, they almost always are. One arm is almost entirely exposed, his left arm, the same one that bore the heart shaped ring you proposed to him with and the golden pegasus pendant on a bracelet you'd given him to match with the girls’ necklaces. The other arm was covered by the layers of nearly sheer red fabric, draped over fashionably, a classic asymmetrical look. You wonder, briefly, if this was one you had bought him, or on Porrim had made.
The slacks are much simpler, wide legged and black, with some red details on the sides, some embroidery. It isn't quite floral, perhaps just some spirals. Ah, what did it matter, you weren't planning on looking at them for long.
You tug him by the hips, gently, towards the bed, where you push him to sit down. He does so with a hum, leaning back on his palms while you kneel down before him.
“You look good there,” he breathes out, and you grin, even if he seems mildly embarrassed at himself. He was definitely far gone.
“Is that so?” You trail your hands up his thighs, gently spreading them. He flusters, slamming his thighs back closed the second your hands leave. So he wouldn't do more than flirt without some extra work on your part. That's fine, you've done this before.
You kiss his knee, and focus on undoing the laces of his boots. They had a slight heel today, not that he would ever need added height. It was clearly just to accentuate the slacks, the rest of the outfit. It made sense, when he was going to be drinking with Porrim of all people.
You decide to keep him distracted.
“What did you eat at brunch?” You undo the zipper on the inside. You are starting with his right foot. As you ease the boot off of his foot, you see he is wearing pale blue socks with crabs decorating the hem. He's adorable.
“Mm, eggs and some croissants. Turkey bacon.” His accent is thicker, when he is drunk like this. You realize how much it sounds like Cronus', and you remember Kankri had been raised by a violet. You wonder if they all sound like that, some horrible mix of Scottish and Russian. You roll the sock down his calf, his ankle, and tug it off of his foot, grinning in delight as you look at the paw-like foot characteristic of trolls. You don't give into the temptation to toy with his paw, to rub across the pads and dewclaw.
You work on his next boot. He's more agreeable when distracted.
“The girls start first grade next year. Have you decided any schools yet?”
“Mh, wanted to um…” You get the second sock off. You toss the socks into the clothes hamper next to the bedroom door, you set the boots aside next to the nightstand.
“Wanted to go over the options with you.”
You're endeared, gently grabbing his paws and rubbing thumbs along the largest paw pad. His legs jerk at the sensation, mildly ticklish, and you smile apologetically up at him.
“These are one of your cutest features, Kankri.”
“Cut it out.”
“Sorry,” you kiss his knee again, giving one more gentle squeeze to his paws before you stand up. He shifts where you move him easily, being pushed onto his back and rolled over, so you can undo the zipper in the back of the shirt.
“What was the weather like while you were out?”
“So perfectly warm. Cronus kept complaining, cold bloods can't handle these humidities, but, oh, Dirk. I wish we could've gone to gardens or something together.” He's slurring, in the throes of romantic daydreaming.
Rolled back over and sat back up, he smiles at you, expression adoring. This is what you need from him, you need him to remember he loves you.
He loves you in all ways a husband should.
You help him get the shirt off, and he's bare beneath it, gray flesh and bright red grub scars on his sides. The slacks are high waisted, ending just below where his mid drift starts, and you gently trace along his grub scars, even as he squirms and whines at the sensation. He doesn't protest much, until you mistaken rub your thumb across old scarring, letters, like a branding, or serial mark.
Shit.
He jerks away with a hiss, and you gently grab his shoulders before he can go too far.
“Hey, hey. Just me, Kankri. Just us, at home. See? There you go. ‘M sorry.”
He relaxes quicker than he usually does when this happens. He presses his forehead to your chest, breathing out slowly. You had asked him years ago why he did not get it removed, or covered up with a tattoo, that ugly scar between two grub scars, a permanent marking of his past. He couldn't answer, but you know now that every time it is touched, he struggles to behave rationally, he gets jumpy and defensive. A cover up would be excruciating for him to sit through.
You pet his hair for a moment, until he calms back down, and leans back on his hands again.
“Better?”
“Mhm.”
You smile, and you reach for his belt. It is black, with little red charms decorating it. Hearts. It was a gift you had gotten him ages ago, and it touches you that even during moments of tension in your marriage, he will wear the things you gift him.
You gently lay him back, lifting his hips so you can get the slacks and his boxers down. He pauses, brows furrowed, when he realizes he has been fully undressed, and you shush him. You gather up his clothes and place them in the dirty clothes hamper, giving him som space.
“Oh, Kankri,” you start once you return, crawling onto the bed and hovering above him. He is so tall, so much larger than you, having him beneath you is a thrill you never get sick of. “You're so gorgeous.”
You run your hands along his stomach, the toned, tough exoskin there. You run your hands along his shoulders, his biceps, the hidden, strong muscle beneath. He could fight you off, if he wanted to.
“I love you.”
You kiss him before he can say it back, because of course he would. If he didn't love you, he would have left so long ago, you're sure of it. It takes a moment, but he kisses back, arms wrapping loosely around your shoulders.
You love when he drinks. When he's agreeable, and eager. There is less foreplay expected, there is less seduction and planning and scheduling with him like this.
You bite at his lips, full and soft and black, until his mouth falls open in a pained gasp. You press your tongue into his mouth, rubbing against his until he gets the memo and dances with yours. His hands tangle in your hair, and you decide you don't like the level of control that gives him, so you take his wrists and hold them down on either side of his head. You use your knee to press his thighs apart, pressing it between them, against his nook. There's none of that excessive wetness yet, but it won't take long to get him there. It never does, when he's drunk.
You are more careful this time, as you run your fingers along his grub scars. They're sensitive, and it has never failed to get a reaction from him. He moans into your mouth, before long, his body practically melting into the mattress beneath the two of you. Were he sober, he would be throwing a fit you were doing this on top of the comforter and not beneath it, on the sheets, where the inevitable stains could be hidden later. He may even be angry about it when he sobers up, but you were prepared for this. You had planned this entire day out, and there was already a new comforter set coming tomorrow to replace this soft, pale yellow one you knew was going to be destroyed. You hated this ugly yellow bedding anyways, you have no idea why Kankri even kept the housewarming gift from Dave's more feathery counterpart.
You break the kiss to catch your breath, listening to the way Kankri pants, feeling the way he trembles. You kiss down his jawline, his neck. You silently bemoan the fact you cannot give him hickeys, your teeth are not sharp enough to bruise or break the tough exoskin of a troll. Maybe one day you would be crazed enough to get at least your canines sharpened so you can leave some sort of mark on him.
Regardless of the fact that you cannot mark him, he flutters and moans all the same. There's some of that telltale wetness touching your knee now, and you don't even care these jeans will be stained and you'll have to toss them out.
You kiss down his chest, sliding further down the bed as you lower your mouth. You kiss against a grub scar, sucking on the much softer flesh there and delighting in the choked, chittering sound that leaves Kankri's mouth.
You could suck on the tender flesh there for hours, but his hips begin squirming, his hands running up and down the comfort uncertainly, and you remember you have a mission that must be accomplished while he is still stupid and weak with drink.
You kiss down his stomach, you kiss his hips, and finally, you are face to face with his nook. His hands grip your hair, weak and shaky but protesting all the same, crimson eyes wide, expression mortified.
“Don't--” It was heavily taboo, to trolls, oral sex. You imagine it was more based in survival than anything else, considering trolls had such sharp teeth. You think it is ridiculous this cultural interdiction controls him even now.
You know you fail to keep the frustration off of your face, because his gaze darts away briefly, and that overbite of sharp teeth digs into his plump bottom lip. That may as well be permission.
You take his wrists, gently pulling his hands from your hair. His claws are painted red today. You press his palms down onto the mattress by his wrists.
“It's okay, Kankri.” You kiss just above his nook, and smile as he cries out in what you decide is pleasure.
You keep a grip of his wrists.
You press your mouth against the smooth, hairless slit of his nook, moaning against him as you press your tongue inside. There is no clit to search for, but the inside is made of nothing but nerve endings, so every lick and thrust of your tongue as him whining and gasping, his hips twitching and squirming, pressing back against the bed as if to create distance that you chase to close every time.
You know your face is coated in red, and you are grateful you had abandoned your glasses when you hear him come in the front door, because the last thing you needed was for them to be cracked or for him to complain about the sharp edges digging into him. You look up at his face, twisted up with a mix of pleasure and horror, moaning against his nook again.
Even with how drenched he is, steadily leaking as his species always did during sex, his bulge has not unsheathed and wiggled out from his nook, and you find yourself getting frustrated. Here you are, being entirely selfless, focusing on his pleasure alone when he's been a rigid bitch for several months, and he's going to be ungrateful like this? You can't fuck him until his bulge is out, or you could hurt him. You can only put two fingers into him at most when he's like this.
Instead of letting your frustrating become too outward, you pull back, panting and looking up at him as tenderly as you can. His eyes have grown wet, and he's sniffling. God, you hate when he's like this. Usually, when drunk, he's a lot more willing and excitable, not weepy and hesitant. You force a gentle smile onto your face.
“Shh, it's okay.”
“Dirk… I'm— I'm drunk, I don't feel…”
“Shh, it's alright. Let me take care of you. I know, I won't go too far.”
You pull your shirt off, already ware its ruined with his cherry red slick. You toss it towards the hamper, uncaring if it even reaches. You undo your own belt with its golden horse head shaped buckle, pushing your jeans and cowboy hat print boxers down just enough to pull your cock out.
You're more than half hard, and you use one hand to stroke yourself. When you see Kankri bracing his hands on the mattress, intending on inching away, you grab one of his legs above the knee, squeezing gently.
Warningly.
You coo to him, pet his stomach sweetly as precum drips onto the comforter between his thighs. He flinches at the sight.
You gently slide your hand down from his stomach, and push two fingers inside of his dripping wet nook. He clenches around your fingers with a choked whine. You are glad, once again, for the way trolls are designed for pleasure during sex, because it makes it so much easier to curl your fingers upwards, searching for the internal sheath of his bulge, and then you press against it, hard.
He yelps.
“Stop—!”
You know forcing a bulge to unsheathe is uncomfortable, perhaps even painful. It's only ever done for medical examinations, the kinds you know Kankri avoids as long as he can due to the discomfort, but god damn it. You had earned this, you earned being intimate with your husband, why couldn't he see that?
“Shh, relax, sweetheart.”
“Don't— Don't call me that…” He's panting, and those tears that were welling up have begun to spill. You shush him, and press against the sheath again.
You pull your fingers out with a sigh of relief once his bulge fully emerges, the red tentacle-like appendage thrashing wildly along his own stomach, smearing a mess of cherry red along his abdomen.
“There we go. Good job, Kankri. You're being so good for me.”
Your cock is throbbing, and you waste no time in lining yourself up with him, even as he gasps and shakes his head. You coo, cupping his face in your hands, leaning over him as you slowly ease your way into him.
“That's it, Kankri, that's it. Your body remembers that you love me.”
He presses his face into your shoulders, lets you hold his wrists down against the bed as you roll your hips carefully. You press your body flush to his, trapping his squirming bulge between the two of you as you set a slow, lazy pace, kissing his face, his mouth and ears and jaw and neck, even as he shakes his head, gasps and whimpers, sobs and moans.
He's perfectly tight, not too much or too little, and every thrust causes him to clench and moan, his bulge pitifully pulsing with each new gush of red it gives while you fuck— no.
You're not fucking him. You don’t fuck your husband. You are making love to him, reminding him of everything a marriage is between humans.
“It's okay, I'm here, I got you.”
“Dirk—!”
“Shh, shh, I know. This is part of marriage, Kankri, and you're loving it, it feels so good, doesn't it? Don't worry. I know, you're giving so much to me, you've already given me so much.”
You rub against his grub scars again, moaning when you feel him clench down on you again, his bulge trying to thrash between your stomachs.
“That's it, Kankri. You're so perfect, so much better than everyone and anyone, you know that, right? You're above everyone, my perfect, superior husband. I love you, I love you, it's okay, let go, cum for me, clench that pretty little troll cunt—”
He cries out. He hates when you call it anything other than a nook, but the way he clenches and arches his back makes you think that, maybe, he's faking the hatred.
“There we go. Fucking-- Perfect little troll pussy-- Cum for me, cum for me, Kankri, I wanna feel it-- Wanna feel you lose yourself--”
You shift, wrapping your hands around his throat, squeezing just enough to cut off his breathing. He looks scared, but his nook pulses, lashes fluttering, bulge thrashing and--
There it is. He arches his spine almost unnaturally far, hips frantically meeting your thrusts, cumming silently as you choke him, the bed soaked through with that pretty candy apple color.
Thank god. You didn't want to cum before him.
You keep that grip on his throat, even as his orgasm comes down and he's oversensitive and twitching. You keep it as your thrusts grow brutal, harsh, slamming against his seed flap mercilessly, earning pathetic little squirms and choking sounds that go straight to your dick.
Finally, you let go, moaning as you hear him choke and gasp on air, pushed in as deeply as you can.
“Dirk-- Dirk, nono, don't-- Don't-- Not in me, please, it's disgusting—! Please, please, I'm begging you, don't-- Not again--"
Another one of those trollian taboos of his. Shameful to release inside your partner, sacrilegious even, all slurry reserved for the Mother Grub, a divine and still lesser being. It was akin to being reduced to a condom, to be filled, for a troll.
You don't really give a shit about that.
You moan into his ear, flooding his nook (and seed flap, you know he will complain about that later) with your cum, lazily kissing his shaking shoulders and slowly bruising neck. You must have squeezed too hard.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I didn't mean to, you just felt so good… Shh, shh…”
You pet his side, his hip, his hair, you gently rub along the base of his short horns, still buried inside of him, until he starts to fall asleep, exhausted from the fucking and drowsy from the drinks.
Once he is fully asleep, you pull out. You pull back the bedding, and get him situated under the slurry stained comforter. You don't bother to clean him before you shower, and you don't bother to clean him as you lay down next to him in bed, arms wrapped tight around his middle from behind.
You want him to feel it, and when he wakes up, confused and sore, you'll tell him that he practically threw himself at you after brunch. He'll be embarrassed, and apologetic, and you'll kiss his cheek and give him a bath.
“What-- Dirk!”
Your eyes flutter open, and you smile up at Kankri, petting his arm. He looks panicked.
“Hey, Kankri.”
“What did you do?”
“Me? I just-- Oh, Kankri… Were you really that drunk? You came home but I thought you were just tipsy. You flung yourself at me, begging me to--"
“Stop, stop it. Just-- Did I really…?”
You let out an endeared chuckle, kissing his wrist and petting his forearm. “Yeah, you did.”
“I am so sorry, I… I don't know what came over me, I was…”
“Hey, it's fine. I really didn't mind. Come on, let's get you in the bath.”
“Thank you, Dirk. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”