Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/328853.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Sollux_Captor/Karkat_Vantas
  Character:
      Sollux_Captor, Karkat_Vantas
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Blood, Desperation, Eyesocket_Licking
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-29 Words: 438
****** Karkat: cope badly. ******
by Laylah
Summary
     This has nothing to do with quadrants. It has everything to do with
     being alive.
Notes
     For a smutty ficlet bingo game; the prompt was "eyes."
     ...yep.
This has nothing to do with quadrants. It has everything to do with being
alive, barely, being some of the last sorry bastards alive in the ruins of this
universe, everything to do with the fact that poor pitiable Sollux is still
warm after you were scared as fuck you'd lost him too and now you can't get
close enough to him, crawling into his lap, burying your claws in the short
fringe of his hair and wishing you could get a better grip.
"Kk," he's saying, face turned toward you, empty eye sockets reminding you how
fucking close he came, yellow streaks across his skinny cheekbones. "Kk, come
on, stay calm," and it's fucking weird to hear him without the lisp. You kiss
his poor bloodied mouth, licking an apology where his teeth are gone. He holds
on tight to you.
You had no idea mating fondness would feel so awful: you feel terrible for him
and it makes you a sloppy, disgusting mess of arousal, clinging to him, kicking
your sneakers off, fumbling for the buttons of his pants. "Tell me this is
okay," you whisper against his thin lips. Probably this shit is hardwired into
trolls by now. The fear of death sparks your stupid breeding urge.
"This is okay," he tells you. One corner of his mouth twists up in something
that hurts too much to be a smile. "Thiss issssss okay."
You sob, squirm out of your jeans, make something tear. Your seedflap is
soaking wet, slicking the insides of your thighs telltale crimson. One of his
favorite colors, and you'd never ever have told him, and now you can do this
and he can't see what's wrong with you. "Here," you say, catching his bulge in
one shaking hand, rocking yourself down on it. It hurts, in a way that makes
your skin prickle tight with need all over, and he makes a sound like it hurts
him, too.
You catch his head in your hands, the pads of your thumbs braced just under his
horns, and you lean forward to lick him clean: licking the blood from his
cheeks, lapping it from the hollows of his eyes. His claws dig into your hips,
make you bleed. You're swallowing more miserable sobs along with the the
unbearable sourness of his blood and you think he's sobbing, too, strangled
sounds dying in his chest as he rocks up into you. It's horrible and you don't
think either of you could stop and the flesh of his eye sockets is raw and
brutalized, and every thrust of his bulge says, you're alive. You're alive.
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