Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2555585.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Dave_Strider/Karkat_Vantas
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Karkat_Vantas
  Additional Tags:
      Humanstuck, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Trans_Male_Character, Trans
      Karkat_Vantas, FTM_Karkat_Vantas, Oral_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-02 Words: 4046
****** Ambigram ******
by sumomomochi
Summary
     His lips are soft and sweet. They taste like mint and wax and you
     find it kind of funny that you can separate the taste of his
     chapstick from the taste of his mouth. With him hovering over you for
     a change, he’s quick to take charge, tongue dipping down between your
     lips. You have yet to figure out if he’s naturally a total top or if
     he’s trying to compensate, but either way it’s adorable; you love it.
     You love him.
     Damn.
     (Sequel to The_Morning_Dew_Betwix_Thine_Thighs)
Notes
     reading morning dew betwix thine thighs isn't exactly super necessary
     to read this fic but it's more porn :DDDD
     also heads up some of dave's thought process in regards to karkat's
     dysphoria may be squickworthy but in a dumb cis boy way instead of
     anything malicious so
  This work was inspired by
      The_Morning_Dew_Betwixt_Thine_Thighs by sumomomochi
You think you’re actually in love with Karkat. It’s been no secret that you
adore him; he’s been your best bro since you were kids, your friendship largely
based off mutual asshattery and beating the shit out of each other with sticks
and toy swords and, on one occasion, frozen pool noodles. You’ve had a crush on
him off and on since you were five, as your gran is so quick to remind you
every time he’s ‘round.
Which is a lot. He lives four houses down, he’s always lived four houses down
and it’s so completely cliche that you’ve fallen for your childhood friend that
you keep any and all declarations of love firmly tucked behind your teeth, even
though you know he’d be thrilled. He adores shitty paperback romance plots and,
if there was a convenient vampire for a love triangle, he’d basically be in
one, that’s how cliche your feelings are.
And it’s not even ironic. You’re completely sincere which, technically, is
actually ironic but...
You’re a teenager and you’re well aware of how many teenage relationships fall
flat and you refuse to break Karkat’s heart.
And if you refuse tell him you love him, you can’t use it as leverage to get
him naked, won’t have him thinking he has to get naked. You think it’s dumb
that he’s so uncomfortable with you seeing his tits, even though he has no
problem with your face between his thighs, and you feel like a total ass for
thinking that way. You have no say in what makes him disphoric or not, you get
that. It’s cool.
It still frustrates the hell out of you though, enough that you’re climbing
through his bedroom window at two o’clock in the morning. It’s nothing new;
neither of you sleep very well and you spent half of middle school chilling up
here at dark thirty. You haven’t snuck in without warning since he came out
though, even if he still leaves his window unlocked.
You can see him typing at you, your dp visible over his shoulder along with a
mile of angry capslock, and the force of him hitting the keys echos in his
room. You can’t help your grin as you watch him, squatting on his window sill.
You crawl in for real after a moment, careful to keep your shoes off his bed.
He flinches and whirls around when you shut his window, maybe just a little too
hard.
“Jesus fucking christ,” he snaps at you, his voice an angry whisper. He’s got
one earbud pinched between his fingers, blaring a tinny beat -- no wonder he
didn’t hear you coming in. His glare is ruined by his bed head and his hoodie
slipping off one shoulder. You plop onto his bed and start untying your shoes.
“Okay, no, one, you could have fucking told me you’d be ninjaing up into my
room, we were literally just talking, and two, if you tracked dirt into my bed
again I am going to murder you.”
You laugh, “Didn’t track dirt in, promise,” as you toe your shoes off. Your
boyfriend continues to glower at you, his dark eyebrows drawn in as he yanks
the side of his hoodie back into place. He’s not wearing anything under it, his
jimjams solely comprised of a too big hoodie and flannel pants that are
probably three feet too long. You smirk at him; “You doin’ anything interesting
over there or can we make out?”
He sighs hard and rolls his eyes but he does it in the way you know is just him
posturing. You bat your eyelashes at him, lips pursed with your arms squished
against your puffed out chest like you’re trying to show off cleavage you don’t
have, and he laughs this tiny, breathy laugh. He stands, shuffling over, and
you were totally right about his jimjams being too long. They pool around his
toes and it’s really cute, but they’re also slung tantalizingly low on his
hips.
He lets you grab onto them hips and drag him closer, between your knees. He
lets you rest your head against his chest too, arms sliding around his waist.
“Man, you are the snuggliest motherfucker,” you tell him, leaning up a little
to press a kiss against his breastbone where he’s always been covered before.
His hands are on your shoulders, not doing anything, just there. You want to
slide your hands under his shirt, to smooth them up his back and touch his bare
ribs. You don’t. Instead, you tilt your face up towards him, expectantly
waiting for him to kiss you.
His lips are soft and sweet. They taste like mint and wax and you find it kind
of funny that you can separate the taste of his chapstick from the taste of his
mouth. With him hovering over you for a change, he’s quick to take charge,
tongue dipping down between your lips. You have yet to figure out if he’s
naturally a total top or if he’s trying to compensate, but either way it’s
adorable; you love it.
You love him.
Damn.
He pushes you back onto his bed, straddling one of your legs with his, gasps
when you slide your hands over his ass and down the back of his thighs. With
his jimjams slung so low and trapped under his knees, you can’t push your thigh
up against his crotch, the taunt fabric keeping you at bay even as one of his
hands comes down to rub against your dick.
“Tease,” you hiss against his lips, hips canting up against his palm. You’re
not even hard; you don’t fuck here, in the middle of the night, in his room,
with his headboard against the wall shared with Kankri and their parent’s down
the hall. You just came to chill, maybe cuddle, get him comfortable around you
without his vest since you figured he wouldn’t be wearing one after getting up
in the middle of the night.
You are not fucking complaining though, your fingers tangling with his when you
reach down to yank your jeans open. His hand slithers through the fly of your
shorts, pulling your dick out, and you’re more than content to let him nibble
on your neck while he jerks you off.
Your hands migrate back to his hips and you really want to return the favour,
want to pull him against you and hump until he forgets what he was doing and
squeaks moans into your ear. You don’t though. You don’t want to overstep
boundaries or push him into something he doesn’t want to do.
He slides his hand over the head of your dick with a flick of his wrist and you
twist to press your face against his neck, muffling the little noise that
creeps out your throat, hyper aware of the house full of sleeping people
surrounding you.
“You know,” he mumbles against your temple, “you can touch me.”
You grumble, “Get out of my brain.”
He just laughs, a breathy chuckle against your cheekbone, and you slide your
hands up under his shirt and over his waist. The front of his hoodie billows
out more at that, zipper brushing your chest and you don’t shift to look down.
You don’t.
It just happens it’s stuffy trying to breath against your boyfriend’s neck and
your eyes being pointed towards his chest is simply a byproduct of you
adjusting, that’s all.
You don’t see anything either, his chest wrapped in black shadow and charcoal
cotton, so it totally doesn’t count.
He keeps jerking you off as you slide your hands up just a bit farther, palms
wrapping around his ribs. It’s a little weird not feeling the dip between his
vest and his flesh. He’s soft and squishy and hot to the touch, silky skin
instead of nylon, and you really, really want him naked under you, cocooned in
blankets, chest to chest while you fuck him.
It’s not even that he has tits. You saw him topless once on accident, when you
were thirteen and he wore nautical print underwear sets. It was weird. He’s
always been manly as fuck and your best bro wearing a bra was not something
that had occurred to you. It’s still weird, the same way him standing dickless
in his boxers that first time was weird.
But he’s hot with his thick eyebrows and big nose and nut brown skin that’s
awkwardly pasty because he hardly ever leaves his room anymore, and he’s your
boyfriend and you want him naked and in your bed basically all the time.
You creep your hands up just a little bit higher, until you think you can feel
where his tits start to swell out and he shudders, just a little. It takes a
lot of effort to keep your hands where they are, to not flinch away. When he
pulls his hand away from your dick to fumble with one of yours, your heart
sinks.
He only goes after one hand though, your left brought out from under his shirt
and then he’s shoving his boxers down until the elastic pinches around his
thighs, and when you touch your fingers to his crotch he hisses a pleased
curse. You don’t know why. You suck at this part.
Your dick lies forgotten against your hip, his left arm braced against the bed
to keep him propped up, his right hand around your wrist, guiding you into
jerking him off. He contorts your hand until you’ve got your thumb against his
clit, two fingers pressed into him and you’re clumsy as fuck, you know it, but
he’s still ends up trembling and moaning into your ear.
You want to tell him how great he sounds, how much you adore the noises he
keeps trying to muffle against your face, how cute it is that he’s shy but
still unable to keep from groaning. You want to tell him that you think you
could get off from just touching him, especially if he keeps having to swallow
back your name as he clutches your shoulder with the hand he’s resting his
weight on. You aren’t even joking. You probably could and you wonder how he’d
react to that but you keep your word vomit locked behind your teeth. You don’t
want to let spew in case you can’t shut up.
The last thing you want is his parents, or god forbid, his brother to catch you
with your dick out, knuckle deep in Karkat, when you should most definitely be
at your own house.
He flails at you a little after a moment, shaking and uncoordinated. You
obediently pull your hands away.
“You okay?” you breathe, not daring to say more than that. He nods, climbing
off you, jello kneed and gasping. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch
him as he shimmies out of his pants, his hoodie long enough to reach the top of
his thighs. It’s starting to slide off one shoulder again, and with him turned
a little towards his computer, you can actually see hints of the curve of his
chest.
He returns with a towel pulled from his laundry hamper. You move without any
prompting, letting him lay it out. You learned your lesson about the towel
already, when you wound up with sheets soaked through with sex and you put your
hand in the wet spot. You’re not going to have sex though. Your intent was some
mad snuggles, and thus, you are gloveless.
Karkat makes a face and swipes the corner of the towel along the inside of one
thigh before he crawls back into bed with you. You raise your eyebrows and he
scowls; “Dripped all the way down to my knee”
Your laugh at that sounds like an asthmatic schnauzer and he smacks your thigh.
“Hot,” you tell him, grinning.
“Shut up.”
Even with how his screensaver is washing out his skin, you can totally see his
face turn red, and you pull him to you.
“It is,” you whisper to him, “Totes flattered here bro. Glad to know I make
your kokoro go doki doki.”
He shoves your shoulder this time, squirming out of your grasp, but he’s
grinning too. He rolls to lay on his side next to you, hips over the towel and
a hand in the collar of his hoodie, holding it closed over his chest. You
wiggle until you lay even with him, tucking your dick back into your underwear.
You scootch close too, until you can press your forehead against his. Slowly,
you bring your hand up, fingers pinching the zipper of his hoodie. You can
literally see the way he tenses up, eyes dropping from your face to your hand,
but you just tug the zipper up a little.
You want him to be comfortable.
When he looks back up at you his eyes are a little wet looking, shining in the
near dark, and he looks kind of shocked.
You shrug, “You look cute as fuck drowning in that hoodie.”
He drops your gaze again, cracking a grin, and scootches a little closer, until
you’re pressed against him from the gut down.
You want to press your thigh between his again, want him to grind down against
you until he creams himself. You don’t give a shit that you’re still dressed
either. You have to do laundry anyway.
But you also sort of want to go down on him.
“You opposed to some oral right now?” you whisper to him, hand skimming down
his chest. You linger more over his belly and the fraying graphic on his hoodie
that you do his tits. He rolls back and takes you with and you try not to laugh
at how he basically just shoves you down.
You like to think you’re much better at this than you are at jerking him off.
You waste no time in slathering him in affection, tongue prodding at where he’s
already slick. You lap at his slit, tongue flat against him, listening to his
breath pick up. He parts beneath your touch easily and he makes this tiny,
pathetic keening sound when you press the tip of your tongue into him. His hips
arch up, putting his weight on his heels and his spine, and you listen to the
way he whimpers when you fuck him with your tongue.
His fingers tangle in your hair after one apparently pleasant prod and you
grind your hips into his bed. You pull back enough to nip at the inside of one
thigh, hissing, “Not fair.”
He just yanks at your head, almost viciously, and when you manage to look up at
him, he’s smirking down at you.
“Asshole,” you grumble. His grin widens.
“You like it.”
You sigh, face heating up. He gasps when you simply return to sucking at his
crotch, slowly pressing your fingers into him too. That always gets him.
He writhes on your hand, squirming to fuck himself better with your fingers
while also trying to keep your tongue against him just where he wants it. His
breathing is fast and ragged. You run your tongue along the crook of his thigh,
fingers pressing up how he likes, and he keens.
He keens words.
“Oh god, fuck me already, jesus shit, Dave, please.”
Even with his fingers clenched in your hair, you pull back, slack jawed and
amazed. Usually you’re the one spouting needy, desperate bullshit, but Karkles
even tacked on a please.
“Don’t got nothing,” you tell him, stupefied. He groans, frustrated and a
little higher than usual, so you kiss the inside of his thigh and work your
fingers back into him; “‘M cool doin’ ‘just this.”
He moans at your continued touch, trembling a little before he flails his hands
at you and you pull away. Karkat’s flushed and breathing hard, squeaking in
sensitivity when he sits up. His zipper’s fallen again, hoodie twisted around,
and when he leans over to rummage on his side table you --
You avert your eyes, no matter how tempting his soft, warm skin is.
“What’s the date?” he asks, squinting at a plastic rectangle.
“Sixteenth,” you answer automatically, “Seventeenth now.”
He presses his thumb against the plastic and pops out a pill, tonguing it
immediately. He flips the rectangle over, flashing you the other side of the
half empty blister pack.
“We’re good,” he says, slapping his, his meds back on the table and flopping
back, one arm crossed against his chest.
Your face is hot; your mouth sticky and wet, almost literally dripping sex, and
you just sort of stare at him. You lick your lips out of habit and your dick
throbs at the taste of him still lingering.
“You sure?” you ask after what feels like an eternity. You can see his face
redden even in the twilight of his room.
He croaks, “Yeah.”
You wipe your mouth on the back of your wrist; “Honest?”
“Yes,” he snaps, scowling, “so quit fucking asking, okay?”
Grinning, you climb up his body, leaning in to kiss him. He turns away, pulling
a face.
“Don’t be gross, asshole,” he grouses.
“Hey, I didn’t make the mess.”
You wiggle your eyebrows at him and then he tells you, flatly, “Yes you did.”
You... yeah. Yeah, actually, the mess in his pants is so totally your fault.
You are entirely alright with taking the blame, so you just wiggle your
eyebrows more.
“Don’t hear you complainin’, babe.”
He scowls, sighing hard through his nose with his brows pulled down like he’s
the most ferocious of kittens. You’ve got it so bad.
“You gonna fuck me or what?”
You sit back on your knees, giving him your best come hither look while you
strip off your shirt. You really enjoy the way he bites his lip as he watches
you. It’s not jealousy in his eyes -- you know what that looks like, remember
it from the start of his transition, before he officially came out, when you
and John would run around Rose’s pool shirtless in the summer while Karkat sat
at the edge in an oversized shirt and swimtrunks. You had thought it was
because he was uncomfortable with his weight. You know now it was nothing like
that.
And this is completely different. This is a look of appreciation, of smug
reveling in the fact that his boyfriend is hot shit.
You roll your hips as you strip, tensing your stomach to accentuate your hard
lines of muscle, putting on a show. When your shirt clears your head, he’s
smiling.
“You’re such an idiot,” he tells you, voice filled with affection.
“Your idiot though.”
It’s almost embarrassing how hard you’ve fallen for him, but then, it’s dark-
thirty and he’s the sweetest thing drowning in his hoodie with his bed head and
half lidded eyes and soft lips pulled into a smile that just barely shows his
teeth.
Time slows for half a heartbeat and the words are at the tip of your tongue, so
close to spilling out without your permission. You skew them desperately but
you still sound reverent when you whisper, “You’re gorgeous, you know,” and you
can hear how his breath catches.
You think he knows. Or maybe he thinks he’s injecting your words with his
romcom ideals, forcing himself to believe the metaphorical rose tinted shades
he’s viewing your relationship through are all in his head. Metaphorically.
Probably the later. You think you should probably do something about that. Your
heart clenches at the thought of him saying It back to you and you’re such a
sappy loser.
It sort of scares you how intense your feelings are for him.
He doesn’t turn away when you kiss him this time, hard and almost desperate as
you fumble with your pants. You get them shoved down your thighs and that’s as
far as you can manage with him sucking on your bottom lip. You don’t care.
You need to do laundry anyway, so what does it matter if your jeans get
splattered with his spunk.
It doesn’t. What matters is his hot breath against your cheek and the amazing
slickness you’re pressing into. You get one of his knees up under your
shoulder, folding him in half. He squawks in surprise, the sound petering into
a bitten off moan as you slide home.
And it is glorious.
You whimper at the feel of him, so tight and hot; slicker than a fifty gallon
drum of synthetic birthing fluid -- fuck, wait, no more playing Mythbusters
reruns as background noise, what the fuck. You can’t help the jittery snicker
that crawls past your teeth, and he curls tighter around you, clinging to you
with all his limbs like he thinks you’re gonna leave.
Like you’d ever leave.
“And what exactly is so fucking funny?” he grumbles, voice low and raspy and
you think, I’m in love with you is what.
You don’t tell him that. Instead, you say, “Banana peel skating rink,” and
muffle your inappropriate giggling against his shoulder. He slumps under you,
limp arms falling from around your shoulders, and he heaves the deepest, most
weary sigh you’ve ever heard from him.
“Fucking really?” he hisses, “You are such an insufferable dick pimple, I don’t
even know why I continue to deal with you.”
“Because you love me,” the words just slip out, your tongue apparently slicker
than his crotch. You can hear him suck in a surprised breath and you bury your
burning face in the side of his neck, backtracking, “An’ you you owe me for
breakin’ my nose with a pool noodle.”
You think, if you weren’t balls deep in your boyfriend, your dick woulda
shriveled up in despair at how fucking stupid you are, but you’re already hard
and your boner has a mind of it’s own. Your only hope is to fuck him good
enough that he forgets.
He gasps, “You’re an idiot,” as he arches up under you, his thighs squeezing
‘round your hips.
“Your idiot,” you whisper in return and you know, transcribed, your reply would
be an ambigram, an upside down love confession ‘cause the word’s already fallen
from your lips and you can’t take it back.
You don’t really want to.
Karkat opens his mouth to say something else but you can only hear how the
words catch in his throat. You fuck so sweetly you can feel the cavities you’re
creating, even when you pick up the pace, even when you muffle moans in each
other’s mouths, even when he bites down on your neck so hard you bite out a too
loud curse and shoot your load.
He doesn’t let you pull away, hands on your face to keep you close, forehead to
forehead. He looks serene; eyes closed and face smooth, breath trembling from
between parted lips, painted gold from street light on one side and flickering
electronic blue-white on the other. You could count his eyelashes.
You don’t. Your tongue is a lead weight in your mouth, lungs tight with the
words, filled to the brim with confessions, leaving no room for air and you
think you might explode if you don’t say them.
It’s so saccharine you think your thoughts are comprised of ninety percent
glucose.
And then he kisses you and the words don’t even matter anymore.
“Shut up,” he orders, “And get off me, jesus, I think I’m going to have bruises
from your bony ass hips.”
You laugh and his hands fall away. Yours linger on his skin as you pull away,
just far enough to deslime your dick while he tucks one side of the towel
between his legs, making a disgusted face. You tug your pants back up your hips
and go to retrieve his underwear like a true gentleman.
He drags you back into bed with him, doesn’t let you go until his alarm the
next morning makes you bolt awake and you have to sneak out his window to go
home. He shoves a piece of paper down the back of your shirt in second period
and when you fish it out, you find it reads, “LOVE YOU TOO, ASSWIPE.”
You have the best boyfriend.
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