Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1307227.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Dave_Strider/Karkat_Vantas
  Additional Tags:
      Xeno, clueless_dipshits_in_love
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-13 Words: 2722
****** At Least One Universe ******
by Circadienne
Summary
     It's gratuitous dreambubble smut, folks.
          "Shut up," you growl, and roll over on top of him, hands on
          his shoulders, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, I am not the
          asshole here because I am not the one whose stupid dead
          self shows up playing grabass just to make it absolutely
          clear that I am the biggest romantic failure of all time,
          it is me, even alternate universe doomed timeline me can
          get laid but me, no, not me, if I were to get someone's
          pants off we'd all die, that's what this means, do you even
          realize that's what's going on here? No, of course you do
          not, because your weak human brain cannot comprehend basic
          causality. Which is why I need you to SHUT UP and also to
          go away so I can bang my head against the wall and wonder
          why I was ever hatched." You're panting a little by the
          time you force your mouth shut.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
You're reading In Which A Blueblooded Psychiadjudicator Develops Flushed
Feelings For Two Trolls, One a Rustblooded Stevedominator and the Other A More
Suitable Indigoblooded Lieuterrorant, But Finds Herself Conflicted and
Therefore Unable to Act, While Her Bemused Kismesis Reaps the Benefits of Her
Sexual Confusion, Containing Three Scenes of Gratuitous Dockworking, Caliginous
Uniform Kink, A Squeakbeast Deployed for Dramatic Purposes, Unsauced Grubloaf
etc. etc. etc. for maybe the fourteenth time. Not captchaloguing more novels
before the end of the world was one of the more trivial mistakes you've made,
in a life liberally larded with mistakes, but it's a constant source of
irritation. You've been learning the stupid human alphabet so you can read
Rose's books, and you're not bad at it, exactly, but it's work to read in
English and you're feeling lazy and tired and washed out. Also her novels are
all…beardy. Better to take another turn through Bulria's inability to grow a
pair and admit that she really wants the warmblooded muscley one.
But you're not exactly concentrating on the story when Dave flickers into view,
shirtless, curled up and sleeping on the pile beside you, and you realize
you're in a dream, because Surprise Half-Naked Alien. He stirs just enough to
reach a hand up and pat at your shoulder, clutching at your shirt as he sinks
back into sleep.
You're never going to get used to their weird snub-nailed hands; they look just
enough like normal fingers that usually you don't notice it, but up close, when
there's one…clinging to you…the distances between the round lumpy hinges are
not quite proportional and there are cilia all over the back and the pallor of
the thing, the little spots on it -- it's a hand but it's also nothing you can
imagine finding at the end of your own arm. It's just wrong.
"Dave," you say, nudging him with one elbow, because you can't stand to have
his creepy hand all over you like that any more, "Dave, wake up."
He mutters a little, shifts, and -- oh. That's his whole creepy arm around you,
snaking in under your paperback and -- and tugging you back against his chest,
snugging his hips up against your ass, and wow that's a lot more familiar than
you've ever gotten with his entire creepy alien everything. Hello.
"Hey, assbasket," you growl, "you're molesting me."
"Hmhmm," he agrees, into the back of your neck, breath tickling through your
hair, "Yes, indeedy-do, call me Chester," which makes as much sense as what
he's doing which is to say no sense at all.
"Dave. You're dead."
He sighs. "Repeatedly. Habitually. Yes. We are. Get over it already and take
your pants off. Take it all off, baby. It is morningtime in the woods and I am
a lumberjack. Get out your chainsaw, pull the little cord, grrn grrn timber
kshaboosh down it goes --" There are hand motions that go with this whole
speech, hand motions that slide across your chest and reach down and whoa, rub
right up against your crotch.
"Dave," you interrupt, because your associations with chainsaws are not at all
sexy but you are being extremely patient even though he's bumping his creepy
alien bulge against your well-rounded ass, or perhaps because he's bumping his
creepy alien bulge against your well-rounded ass and wow, that's, that's
something, "I'm not dead."
His arm loosens and he twitches back. Goodbye, Dave's bulge. "Oh. Shit.
Really?"
You turn your head. Yeah, he looks awake now. "Yeah, really, douchebag."
"I --" He sucks in a breath. "I am…not a lumberjack, am I?"
"Not with me, no." Which you're starting to regret, because, okay, that whole
awkward thing he was doing was maybe the most physical contact you've had with
another person in perigees and your hands are kind of shaking.
"Shit, Karkat. Really?"
"You are as pure as a virgin mother grub and twice as tightassed," you tell
him, because it's true, the asshole hasn't so much as taken his cape off in
front of you in the sweep you've spent on this stupid rock and now here's his
dead half-naked self flailing around your pile babbling about forest
byproducts.
"But I'm alive."
"Yeah."
His lip twitches. "Well, that's something. Although it sounds like dead Daves
have more fun."
"If dead Daves are completely different than the one I'm used to, sure."
"We could do a comparison test?" he offers, then laughs. "Your expression,
Karkles, that was great."
"It's good to know that my sexual frustration amuses you, nookwipe." You pull
the grubby bit of card you use for a bookmark out of the back of your novel and
stick it in to mark your place. "Since when do you hate me like that, anyhow?"
He chokes a little. "Since never."
"But --"
"Hu-man," he says, stretching the vowels out and pointing to his chest.
"Huuuuuu-maaaaan. We don't fuck people we hate. Well, I don't. I save that
particular magical experience for people -- or, okay, you're not a person,
you're a freakish gray alien but not the big-eyed Whitney Streiber kind, which
is good because their heads are even more freakish than yours -- people that
I'm completely stupid about."
He's shitting you, you're sure of it. He sounds so relaxed about saying it,
salted in there in the midst of all that hoofbeastshit like it's something he
says all the time, like it's something he's used to saying.
"Wow, I make my big love confession and you think I'm shitting you. You never
change, Karkat, you are always the biggest asshole you can possibly be. All the
Karkats in all the universes are always --"
"Shut up," you growl, and roll over on top of him, hands on his shoulders,
"Shut up, shut up, shut up, I am not the asshole here because I am not the one
whose stupid dead self shows up playing grabass just to make it absolutely
clear that I am the biggest romantic failure of all time, it is me, even
alternate universe doomed timeline me can get laid but me, no, not me, if I
were to get someone's pants off we'd all die, that's what this means, do you
even realize that's what's going on here? No, of course you do not, because
your weak human brain cannot comprehend basic causality. Which is why I need
you to SHUT UP and also to go away so I can bang my head against the wall and
wonder why I was ever hatched." You're panting a little by the time you force
your mouth shut.
He reaches up a hand and brushes your hair back from your face. You hiss in a
breath, you can't help it, because that was so pale but now his hand is
tightening, up against your scalp, and no, that's not pale at all.
"Karkat," he says, and leans up and pulls you down and kisses you, just a press
of lips but it lights you up, "baby, darling, grub muffin --" you're growling,
at that, "can you please try for just one fucking second --" another kiss, "to
realize that this means there's at least one universe where I get my shit
together?"
"Uh," you say, because you are the smartest and most coherent. Because, shit,
he's just kissed you. Wow. There's this feeling in your chest, like something's
broken in there, like something's on fire in there, and you think he actually
does, and it's too much like too many things you've imagined. You close your
eyes. You can't look at him right now.
"And if I can get over myself," he's saying, "then maybe there's some hope for
you, too?"
"Uh," you say.
He kisses you again. You kiss back. His other hand is braced against your back,
holding him up against your chest.
"Shit," you say. "Really?"
"Yes, dumbass, really. Really and truly." You force your eyes open. He's
smirking, because he's an asshole. He might be your asshole. At least right
now.
"It's hard to tell when you're not shitting me," you tell him.
"I'm always shitting you. That's my charm."
You pull back, just a little. "I'm not always the best at, ah, seizing the
moment."
Dave rolls his eyes and kisses you again. "Yeah, I know. I can stop, if you
don't want --"
"You festering buttpustule, of course I want. I'm just not sure why I should
get to have --" He slides his hand down under the waist of your jeans and palms
your ass and you can't help it, you don't want to help it, you buck your hips
forward and rub down against him, because he's here and he's with you and he's
between your thighs and your goddamn nook is literally aching.
It takes you two tries to undo the button on your jeans and then the toothed
closure just won't go down, it's the stupidest thing, you're sitting back on
your heels and struggling with it and then Dave's hands are pushing yours away
and sliding the little tab down. "I've had a lot of practice at this," he says,
"you just relax and sit back and -- okay, no, don't sit back, lift up, these
fucking pants are so tight, I love to see them leaving so I get to see you go -
-" and then he's, oh shit, he's hooking his toes up into your belt loops and
dragging your pants down your thighs. You knew he was that flexible but you'd
never really considered the practical applications.
"Fffht," you say, and he laughs at you. You claw at your ankles and drag your
pants and shorts the rest of the way off and oh, wow, you're -- you're not
wearing any pants. Hey.
"Sweater, too," Dave says. He's sliding his hands up your thighs as you pull it
off, over your head. His creepy alien hands feel impossibly warm and strong and
-- oh, he's used to you, isn't he, the way he curves around away from that spot
where you're too ticklish and slides the heel of his hand down across the tip
of your bulge, pressure but not too much, this solid thing for you to rub up
against.
"Why're you still wearing pants?" you ask, breath ragged in his face as you
brace yourself over him.
"You want me to move my hands? Really?"
"Yes, bitch, really."
He twists his hand, dips two fingers into your nook, shallow, and just as
you're moaning into it and pushing forward because wow, fingers, he pulls out,
says, "Okay," and starts working on his jeans.
You think it's only fair to bite him hard in the meaty part of his shoulder.
That -- oh, he reacts beautifully to that, hissing and shifting up and toward
you, hah, and his blood is bright and metallic and sweet on your tongue. You
lick at the bite and he moans and kicks his pants the rest of the way off.
"You're sure we haven't done this before?" he says, hands at your hips, pulling
you back toward his crotch, and you glance down and -- no, not the same as
yours but not so impossibly different, either. He hasn't got a nook but you
knew that, from one or another embarrassing conversation, so it's not like it's
a shock.
You run your fingers along his bulge and it's warm and twitches a little, up
into your hand. He shivers, and you stroke down over the tender sack of his
shame globes. Having all that just out there kind of makes you wince, but at
the same time…you're fucking an alien. It would be disappointing, really, if
everything were normal.
It's nothing you don't like, nothing you don't want, which is good because he's
got you by the hips and he's rubbing you along the hard, ridged length of it,
against his belly, which is astonishing, how much you like that. You're slick.
You're trilling. You're actually fucking trilling, which would be embarrassing
if you had any room left in your thinkpan for embarrassment which you do not
because the arousal has taken over completely.
"Pretty sure this is all new, yeah," you pant.
"Because this seems very familiar." He has the nerve to sound smug.
"Not to me," you mutter. "Not even a little." You wish.
He kisses you again. "You need to take a break?"
"What I need to take --" You kneel up again and nudge the blunt tip of his
bulge into you, and it's hard to get it in, at first, because it's so thick
there at the tip, he catches your hand and adjusts the angle a little and "-
- yeah, yeah, that's -- oh." It's nothing like a concupiscent device, it's much
warmer and it moves and, oh yes, it's attached to another person, who wants to
be in you. Who actually wants you.
The blood is very pretty, trickling down his pale shoulder, and you lick at it
again. Dave gasps. "Fuck me."
"Am," you say, a little smug yourself, rocking back onto him. He's stretching
you open and full, and he's got his hand on your bulge, pressing it against his
belly so you've got something soft and warm and tight and Dave to rut against.
It's motion, and heat, and the taste of his sweat and his blood on the back of
your tongue. He's in you and around you and it's more than you thought it would
be, it's more than you expected, and you start giggling a little because you
think about how you're not going to die a virgin because you slept with someone
who's dead while you were asleep and does that even count and if you didn't
laugh you might start crying.
He grabs your hips hard and thuds up into you and says, "Do you find this
funny, Karkat?" and you giggle some more, helplessly, overwhelmed, and he says,
"Good," and does it again and again until you can't think any more. Your palms
are slick on his shoulders.
He comes first, and he tries to stay in you but after a second he's hissing and
pulling away and fussing about how sensitive everything is, which you thought
was the whole point. You're close enough to orgasm to be grouchy about it. But
he makes it up to you, hands and mouth all over your bulge and fingers, curving
into you, the hard lumps of his knuckles pressing hard against the places that
make you gasp and stutter and his mouth warm around you as you finally,
finally, crash over the edge in a rush of clenching and shaking and spots at
the edges of your vision.
"Shit," you manage, when he's pulled out of you and crawled up to lean his head
on your shoulder. "Is it always like that?"
He shrugs. "That was pretty good. It's…usually pretty good."
"Yeah."
His breathing has evened out and his eyes are half-closed when you say, "Dave?"
"Yep?"
"Are we still friends?"
"What, even though we fuck?"
"Yeah."
"You're so stupid."
You sigh. "There is widespread consensus on that fact, yes. Can you just answer
the question?"
"You're my best friend. And we fuck."
"That…that sounds really nice, actually."
"You should try to work something out with the other me."
"That doesn't bother you?"
"Oh, yeah, I'm really bothered by the idea of me getting laid. I just hate that
plan. Karkat?"
"Yeah?"
"You're supposed to go to sleep after sex."
"Right," you grumble, and drop your nose into his hair.
You wake up alone, your novel splayed open on your chest. You're dressed, but
you've come in your pants, which is as damp and sweaty and vile as you've
heard. Yuck. You heave yourself up, strip, and stagger into the ablution trap.
Hot water and soap.
That was, well, that was a thing that happened. You're not sure if it counts as
a wet dream or an actual sexual experience or…or what. You slide a soapy hand
over your genitals and they're a little sore, a little swollen. It was good,
whatever it was. It was so good. You quite desperately want to do it again.
You think you're going to go eat something and maybe see if Dave wants you to
read to him. Yeah. Not that you have any kind of an ulterior motive there or
anything.
End Notes
     So, a couple of weeks ago I read a little cartoon in which Karkat is
     reading to Dave and Dave's bored and trying to get a rise out of him
     and says something along the lines of hey asshole, hey, I've totally
     fucked, like, all these Karkats in dream bubbles, and Karkat says oh,
     really, was it good? and Dave's like, wait what, and Karkat says, no,
     I mean it, was the sex good? and Dave splutters and says no, I did
     not really do that, I'm just messing with you, and Karkat says, very
     smugly, well, I fucked a Dave.
     And I laughed, because it was funny, and then I thought, wait, wait,
     that would be hot. I should write something like that.
     And so I did, and then I went back to find the cartoon so I could
     credit the artist, but in the meantime I'd had to reboot my laptop so
     I lost all my tabs and...yeah, long story short: I would very much
     like to give inspirational credit where it's due, but I have spent a
     couple of hours searching and had no luck.
     If you know the cartoon I mean, please let me know so I can (1)
     credit the artist and (2) bookmark it! Thanks.
     ETA: It's by freakyhumanshit_at_Tumblr. Also I remembered it wrong,
     but oh well.
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