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You watch Tavros try to struggle free of his shirt without getting up from lying facedown on the bed for a good thirty seconds before you pull it free of his arms for him.
"Where's the knot you wanted me to rub out?" You shift your weight, trying to find a spot where you can sit comfortably on his back without weighing on his spine. You're probably half his weight, and he's so broad you can't actually straddle him comfortably, but you're not going to be the one bringing the twink jokes to the floor. Oh Tav, you're just so big! Swoon.
Tavros snorts, "I'll show you, where to rub it out."
You throw his shirt at the back of his head.
You like the solid size of him, though--you can feel the thick muscles wrapped around his hips flex under your thighs as he wiggles around to point along his spine. Just above the knob visible under his skin where the wiring in his nerves connects his metal legs to his spine. Avoiding that spot itself, you push the heels of your hands into the muscles on either side of his spine, digging in hard, and he groans happily.
"Jesus, it's like punching a brick." There is no give to his back at all, even accounting for trolls' thick, pebbly-textured skin. You drag at twin handfuls of his skin.
"Have you punched many bricks?" Tavros taken to using Rose's usual dry-humored tone when he's mocking you.
"I see you haven't heard my other name, Dave Strider: Destroyer of Bricks." You puncuate your title with punches between his shoulder blades.
Tavros chuckles, "More like Dave Strider, Destroyer of Baby Hopbeasts and Sissy Human Salads."
"Look, the sissy salads are the best salads, don't hate." You push your glasses up into your hair. "I'm talking like, is your salad kind of bland? Just put some glitter and frills on that bitch, maybe a tutu. Still not your thing? Black heels and lipstick. Now we're talking. That salad's a stone-cold killer." You work at a tight little knot underneath his shoulder blade with your thumbs until you can't feel it anymore and Tavros's whole chest is vibrating beneath you.
"I still say, grub salads are much tastier, than your watery human leaves," he mumbles out, shoulders flexing rhythmically, and you run your knuckles up and down his laterals before you realize--
"Are you kneading? Are you actually kneading, like, a cat? You're purring and kneading, you're totally a fucking cat."
Tavros's hands pause on the pillow. "I'm--? Why'd you stop?"
"You're making biscuits!"
"What?"
"Oh my god."
"Biscuits? Do Earth purrbeasts usually make loaf?"
You can't answer him for laughing.
"Dave," Tavros heaves up, forcing you to scrabble for grip, but he tips you sideways off the bed, still cackling, before you can grab onto him. "I'm gonna, make you into grubfucking biscuits."