Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/246589.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Eridan_Ampora/Aradia_Megido
  Character:
      Aradia_Megido, Eridan_Ampora, Sollux_Captor, Ensemble
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_homesmut, Highschoolstuck, Underage_Drinking, Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-08-29 Words: 3226
****** I Think I'm Confused ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     In which awkwardness and persistence triumph, if "triumph" means "get
     an alternate universe version of Eridan Ampora laid"; and Aradia
     isn't as detached as she might like to think. (This is pure idfic,
     and I am ashamed.)
Notes
     Written for the kink meme (http://homesmut.livejournal.com/
     9406.html?thread=13948350#t13948350).
     Title is from Jenny Owen Youngs's "Coyote."
     My dignity, unfortunately, is nowhere to be found.
tell me not to fuck this loser
ok
“How’s your friend?”
He’s sitting on Kanaya’s bed, watching you text. How did you end up alone with
him? There were like five other people here a second ago.
“Fine,” you reply shortly, and shut your phone. “Where is everyone?”
“Trying to open the drinks cabinet. King’s Cup is just gross when you’re
sober.” He fiddles with the ends of his scarf. Your eyes are suddenly drawn to
his long, knobbly fingers, for once uncluttered by tacky-looking rings. His
nails are filed-down and clean. You hope he doesn't notice you looking.
“Yeah,” you say, because you aren’t sure how else to respond.
He crosses one gangly leg over the other, leans back in a way he must think
casually suave. “So uh, got any plans for the rest of the weekend?”
“Yes.” You glance toward the door.
“Oh. Cool. Fef an me are goin to a concert, she’s really into hip-hop lately.”
He clears his throat. “We’re not, uh, together, though.”
“Mm,” you nod. You are careful to keep your face blank. “Shouldn’t we go help
them?”
“I don’t think,” he begins, but you’re already up and heading to the door. He
follows you; of course he does, he has to. The helpless way he jerks to his
feet, and then his sort of embarrassed scampering to catch up, make things
happen inside you as much as they creep you out.
On the way downstairs, you try to ignore the warmth of him behind you, almost
but not quite too close.
sollux help
its not working
why the fuck diid you a2k me then?
His attention rarely leaves you, even when you’re across the room and to his
back. He insists on including you in conversation at every turn, and also on
mixing your gin and tonic. (You would prefer a scotch and soda.) Under Feferi’s
scrutiny, he fills and empties a shot glass the appropriate amount of times,
and even garnishes the drink with a thin slice of lime. No one else gets lime.
When you assemble for King’s Cup—played, as always, in conjunction with Ten
Fingers/I’ve Never/Truth Or Dare—he sits next to you. Once again, he’s skirting
the edge of too close, but only just.
You can see his striped pants out of the corner of your eye.
Feferi draws the Ten of Hearts. “Categories!” she announces, and vibrates with
joy. “Okay…um…sea creatures!” Everyone but Jade groans.
It is Jade, seated to Feferi’s left, who goes first. “Blue-ringed octopus!”
“Uh, shark? I don’t know that many,” says John apologetically.
“Jeez, John!” Vriska loosens her death grip on Kanaya’s waist to poke him in
the side, and nearly upsets their PBRs. “The abyssal spiderfish, of course.”
“Is that even a,” says Terezi, at the same time that Kanaya says, “I fail to
grasp how what you have said warrants that particular interrupting phrase.” You
notice that he’s watching Vriska with a pained expression, and feel a twinge of
not-quite-jealousy.
Kanaya adds, “Vampire squid from hell”; and Terezi says, “Rainbowfish”; and
Gamzee (no one knows why Gamzee’s there) asserts, “Komodo dragon, sister, that
shit is tight,” with such conviction that it goes unchallenged. He smiles at
you. “Your turn.”
“Moon jelly,” you offer.
“Sea nettle,” says Eridan, and draws the Eight of Spades.
“Mate!” Feferi crows. “Who’s going to be your mate, Eridan?”
“Aradia?” He sighs at you so plaintively, and you roll your eyes and nod your
acceptance. He blushes almost fast enough to be sincere.
You know why he’s doing this. You know what he thinks. You’re “easy.” You’re
trash. You have “a past.” If Sollux’s parents weren’t always fighting, they
wouldn’t let you in their house.
People act nice when they want to screw you, but they’re never nice after you
let them. Never.
Whatever, you’re fine. You have good friends and a thick skin. Maybe you’ll
find something you want in him, and take it, and enjoy it. For now, there’s the
promise of an awkward two hours, and maybe another free gin and tonic.
i will not fuck this loser
i will not fuck this loser
i will not fuck this loser
hate to 2ay iit, AA, but
iit kiind of 2ound2 liike you’re goiing to fuck thiis lo2er
An hour later, everyone is drunk, except for you and the designated driver
(John, who has only had one beer, and switched to apple juice after he finished
it). Nobody remembers whose turn it is, so Jade suggests you watch a movie. An
impassioned debate ensues, fueled by private interpersonal tensions as well as
feelings and opinions. This debate is dispersed by the shattering revelation
that Kanaya owns nothing but vampire movies. Terezi and Vriska make it an
argument anyway, one taking the side of Queen of the Damned and the other
advocating vehemently for Zoltan, Hound of Dracula.
(He keeps touching you, just little touches. A tap on the shoulder to get your
attention, a brush to the wrist when you’ve said something he agrees with. A
poke to the knee to make sure you’re still there, like you could go anywhere.
God, this kid must be desperate.)
In the end, Kanaya makes An Executive Decision—“We are watching My Best Friend
Is A Vampire and we are watching it now”—and tears the squabbling girls apart
solely with the force of her stern, yet feminine gaze. Not even the charms of a
young Robert Sean Leonard can entice you to view the 1987 horror-comedy, so you
slip out of the room while everyone else is occupied with preparations. (Terezi
is drinking the abandoned King's Cup while Vriska heckles her.)
Kanaya’s house is big and dark and wonderfully empty. (You could fit like three
of your house in this place, seriously.) Shadows swallow the bright
decorations, suck the color from colorfully upholstered furniture. You allow
yourself to be confused by staircase landings and artfully placed full-length
mirrors, and eventually stumble on what must be her mother’s study.
There are bookshelves under glass. An antiquey-looking desk, a computer that
cost more than your dad’s car. You feel out of place. That doesn’t stop you
from laying down on the chaise lounge—mmm, it’s nice and cool—and giving in to
the urge to close your eyes.
Maybe you’re drunker than you thought, because you don’t hear the door open.
“Ar?”
…shit
He’s moving toward you, then standing over you. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, just tired.” You fake a laugh. “I’ll be fine. Aren’t you going to watch
the movie?”
“Naw, I’m not in the mood.” He sits down on the floor, pulling his knees to his
chest. Oh, great. “Is it okay if I hang out with you?”
You mash your face into the cushions to hide your sigh, tightness rising in the
pit of your stomach. “Yeah, whatever.” You hear him breathing, the rustle of
fabric as his limbs shift. You can tell he’s trying not to stare at your legs,
exposed by the catch of skirt on upholstery. You hope that he’s not actually
staring at your ass.
“So what’s up?”
“Eridan, you saw me like five minutes ago.”
He huffs a laugh. “I don’t know Ar, somethin’ could of happened.”
You shrug—which is awkward, because you’re still prone.
His voice gets softer. “It’s really weird to be drinkin’ at Kan’s…”
“Oh?” you mumble into the join of seat and back. You steel yourself for a
rambling sentimental anecdote, with a focus on heartbreak and failure, and
possibly something about how he just needs someone to believe in him.
“Yeah, we used to come here all the time when we were little. Me an’ Fef an’
Vris, an’ sometimes Eq.”
You start. You roll over to face him. “Eq? Do you mean Equius Zahhak?”
“Yeah, Eq.” He regards you with puzzlement, then comprehension. “You an’ him
used to—”
“Not really.” The frost in your tone surprises you. Not that it’s there,
really, but that it’s showing through.
After a minute, he says, “Want to talk about it?”
“No.” Your hands ball into fists.
“Are you sure? Cause I went through a lot a things with Vris an Kar an Fef an
also kinda with Nep, and it reely helped to—“
“No,” you nearly shout.
That shuts him up. “Whoa,” he says. “Whoa. We don’t have to. Sorry.”
"It's fine." You clip your words just short enough to let him know it isn't.
You are feeling a little cruel now. While he's probably still ruing his fuck-
up, you twist up onto your side, crossing your legs behind you. “How far have
you gotten with a girl, Eridan?”
His eyes widen. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve heard things.” You tilt your chin down, appraise him.
“What kinda things?” he says, hopeful, panicked.
You re-cross your legs slowly. Oozing honey, you say, “I’ve heard you’re a
virgin.”
You have heard no such thing. You expect faux-macho bluster, followed by an
unfortunately detailed rundown of his exploits. But, instead, he squeaks and
goes very still. “That’s a fuckin’ egregious falsehood,” he manages. “Blatantly
untrue. Who said that?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Your lips quirk upward.
“Come on Ar, I gotta know if somebody’s spreadin’ lies about me.”
You dismount from the chaise lounge, sit facing him. He flinches at first, then
leans in.
“Wouldn’t you rather prove it to me?”
“Huh?”
You ladle more honey onto your tone. “Wouldn’t you rather…prove it to me?”
It takes a minute to sink in. Oh dear, now it seems he has frozen in place!
“You mean—”
You incline your forehead more toward his, scoot so your knees barely touch.
Biting your lower lip, you glance at the floor, then his face. Your eyes half-
close. You smile.
“Yeah,” you say. He’s never looked more terrified.
He sucks in a shuddering breath. “Okay. I mean, yes. Yes.”
Dipping your head to hide a laugh, you straddle him, and fasten your arms
around his sweater-clad middle. His heart is beating fast, he’s kind of
trembling, and something is definitely going on in the pants department of the
Eridan Amporium. And they call you easy.
You kiss his neck, then move to kiss his cheek. But he turns his head aside, so
your lips mash awkwardly against his. Okay, you can work with that. But is it
really time for tongues to get involved? God damn he is awful at kissing. You
pull back, wipe the spit from your mouth and chin. You almost make a face, but
his expression is so wretched that you smile instead.
“Hey,” you say, “it’s okay. It’s fine.” You wipe your hand on your skirt.
“Course it’s fine.” He glowers. “I’m, uh.” You touch his jaw, and he deflates.
You reach for his glasses. He shoos you away, takes them off and sets them
aside.
You touch his lips, nudging lightly at first, then stroking over with your
thumb and index finger. He stiffens, but his mouth opens eagerly. (God, such a
whore, you think, and suppress a whimper.) His tongue darts out, beckoning you
inside. It’s hot, and wet, and other mouth-type things. He licks at your
fingers while he’s sucking them, sucks them inside almost to the root. It is
really not your fault if you feel a little faint.
A smirk is blooming on his face, the insufferable smirk of the highly insecure.
You won’t stand for that. You withdraw your fingers, shivering as they slide
out of his slick-swollen mouth, and kiss him again. He tastes like gin and salt
and also a little like mildew.
You kiss him once more. Your teeth clack together. It hurts, but you don’t let
him go. You bite his lower lip, really bite into it, and maybe he’s bleeding
but he gasps and clings to you.
“You like that?” you mutter, and are immediately mortified at yourself. He
responds by rolling his hips clumsily upward. Apparently, yes. You push a hand
through his stupid overstyled hair, to the back of his neck, and dig your nails
into the cradle of his skull. He hisses, but doesn’t recoil. In fact, he leans
into the pressure, kisses you more urgently. You would grind on him, but you’re
not sure he could handle it.
Oh, how could you have forgotten? With your free hand, you start rummaging
through your pockets. Lost in Overexcited Virgin Land, he doesn’t notice until
you push him away.
“Dammit. Do you have a…?”
He frowns, blinks, then gets it. “Shit. No.”
You can work with that. “Change of plans. How do you feel about cunnilingus?”
Oh, he recognized that straight away. Pervert. (You are secretly rather
pleased.) He gawks, then drops to the ground and starts pawing at your thighs.
You bat him away, rise to your feet. The air is still and warm, and your
clothes stick to your skin. You pull your top over your head—he attempts to
help, but the slant of your glare freezes him—and then bend to remove your
underwear. The skirt ain’t coming off. He follows suit, except apparently the
pants are coming off. Well, the pants are eventually coming off.
You sit astride the chaise lounge, watching him try to wriggle out of his pants
while kneeling. In the darkness, your eyes meet. It is the opposite of sexy.
Your breath catches anyway.
“Come here.”
He shuffles toward you awkwardly. You spread your legs and beckon him between.
His expression is a mix of wonder, greed, and resentment. He skims his palms
across your skin, then strokes, feels, clutches. It’s like he’s the kid whose
parents forbid him ice cream, and you’re the mysteriously unlocked ice cream
shop. You are a little endeared, a lot alarmed. But you still have control.
He’s all over the place, sloppy and frantic. You hook your knees around his
neck and guide his head with your hand. He grasps your hips hard enough to
bruise.
When you’re almost gone, you yank lightly at his hair. He keeps going, so you
yank harder. He tumbles back, nose and cheeks wet, tongue still out of his
mouth. You release him, fix your eyes on his, and begin to touch yourself.
Three fingers are usually a stretch, but tonight they glide right in. You moan
a little more than strictly necessary, and toss your head, flicking sweat-
drenched hair out of your eyes. You’re so slick (with spit and sweat and…other
things), it’s difficult to get any friction. So you rub harder, you twist more
furiously.
He reaches for you. “Nope,” you snarl. You repeat it when he reaches for
himself. It seems like he hates you, but he obeys.
He’s straining against the urge of it, with all of his weak little will. You
can tell. You feel...proud? And maybe you’ve hit the right spot, the right
pressure, the right mix of roughness and lubrication. Because in moments you’re
coming, panting into thin air.
You’re too scared to look at him, but once the blood stops pounding in your
ears, you find your voice. “Hey, look at it like this.” You pull your fingers
out, wincing, and bring them to your mouth. You suck one into your mouth; he
whines. “This way, you actually got to see me come.”
His breath catches indignantly. He clears his throat. “Like you know I couldn’t
of, when you didn’t give me a fuckin’ chance.”
“Excuse me? Is that backtalk I hear?” You dismount from the chaise lounge on
shaky legs. With effort, you collapse beside him.
You curl a hand around one of his fists, clenched atop his naked knee. He
shudders. There is a long moment of eye contact that doesn’t communicate
anything in particular. Then you kiss him roughly, and he kisses back, and his
fist unclenches and his fingers lace with yours.
You free him with your other hand, skin-on-skin, and you squeeze, and he cries
out like you’ve stabbed him. It is ridiculous. You wonder what to tell the
others, cause there’s no way they didn’t hear that; but then he’s writhing
against you like he’d do absolutely anything you asked, just to feel a little
more; and, well.
It sounds like he’s saying things, just curses and maybe your name mixed in.
You realize too soon that you haven’t thought this through. Then his hips
jackknife up, and he wails, and (turning away just in time) he comes all. Over.
The carpet.
Okay, so, a substantial portion of the carpet—more than 95% of it, in
fact—remains unsullied by spooge, but whatever.
In addition to a digital clock (blinking twelve colon sixteen at you in dusty
red), Kanaya’s mom keeps a box of Kleenex on her desk. You fetch some while he
bemoans his incompetence.
The gin and the orgasm have worn off somewhat. Disillusionment ahoy. This is
the part where he asks you not to tell anyone (as if you’re any worse than
him), or reveals that, “You’re cool and this was fun! But, uh, Aradia, I kind
of really like someone else.” Should you grit your teeth and clean it up, or
make him do it himself? It won’t matter either way.
“You’re leaving?” It comes out thick and weird-sounding, probably because he’s
lying on his back on the floor.
“That a hint?”
“Just thought it’d be nice if you—” his voice falters. “Never mind, it’s fine.”
It is clearly not fine.
“I’m not leaving,” you say, because the decision re: cleaning up spooge has
proven too difficult to make. Or maybe you’re tired.
“So why are you over there?” (You’re standing literally ten feet away. Christ.)
But you drop the Kleenex, drop to your knees, and crawl over to him.
“Floor’s probably dirty.”
He mutters something slurred and petulant in response.
He’s too warm, like you, but you have great tolerance for high temperatures.
You wrap your arms around him, and he melts into you. The crook of his neck
just fits your chin.
“This is nice, huh.” His chest vibrates as he speaks.
“I guess.”
“Wanna go to the movies tomorrow?”
“I have work.”
“Next week?”
“…Maybe. I’ll check. Now shut up.” By some miracle, he does shut up. You kiss
his temple. You aren’t used to this, and it feels a little weird. Then your
phone buzzes. Oh! You forgot about that.
AA, come on
ii’ve been tryiing two reach you for age2
what’2 goiing on?
hi sollux
fiinally, jegu2!
haha
2o what’2 up?
diid you giive iin to the iineviitable?
well i guess i will say
without sharing any details
tell me not to fuck this loser again?
WHAT THE 2HIITFLIIPPIING HELL
II WA2 KIIDDIING
haha i was just kidding too!
im going to do it anyways
You turn your phone off and settle back down. Sollux can flip his shit
tomorrow. For now, you’ve got a loser to cuddle, a stain to hide, and a cover
story to concoct before people come looking for you. (Feferi, particularly,
will be a difficult gumshoe to bamboozle.)
Said loser leans gratefully back into your embrace, not even pretending to be
asleep. You roll your eyes, but tenderly, and tighten your arms around the
boneless sack of douche.
How did you get here? You can hardly fathom it. But, honestly, you don’t think
you’re sorry.
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