Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/809576.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Dave_Strider/Karkat_Vantas
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Karkat_Vantas
  Additional Tags:
      Hermaphroditic_Trolls, Not_Sexually_Dimorphic_Trolls, Oral_Sex,
      Fingerfucking, Xenophilia
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-19 Words: 4445
****** Suddenly Rumblespheres ******
by sumomomochi
Summary
     “You have tits? When did that happen??”
     He facepalms; “Last molt,” he grumbles from behind his palms.
     “When you disappeared for a while? That’s what that was?”
     “Yes Dave, when trolls reach that special molting phase, they grow
     rumblespheres. Mammals.”
     He spits the last word as a curse and you’re pretty sure you’re
     offended.
Notes
     standard in-the-veil au spawning from this and this with a little bit
     of that one headcanon where limebloods are the papmasters and karkat
     would be a limeblood if he weren't a mutant. because aliens are cool
     and aliens that are not sexually dimorphic are even cooler.
     (also there's some mentions of sounding and dead daves but neither
     are really a thing so it's not tagged but heads up in case of squick
     factor.)
You’re finally getting into Karkat’s pants. Fucking finally. You’d only been
getting your mack on with him, casually, for (six months, three weeks, four
days, nine hours, forty three minutes, fifty two seconds, fifty three seconds,
fifty four seconds....) ages and now, now he’s finally agreed to get a little
more horizontal with it.
And a little more naked.
Fuck yes. One point for being the first to get it on with an alien.
(No, that’s a lie; your sister’s been fucking her girlfriend for (two months,
one week, six days, fourteen hours, twenty six minutes, fourteen seconds,
fifteen seconds, sixteen seconds...) a while now.)
It doesn’t really matter because, for once, Karkles is pretty quiet, his face a
dusky pink as he frowns, eyebrows squinched together, at your shirt. You strip
it off, brows wiggling obscenely and shades undisturbed. His breath hitches
when you nudge your fingers under his sweater, air sucked in through razor
triangle teeth and black lips pulled back into the most adorable little snarl.
“Your hands are fucking cold, bulgemunch,” he snaps. His breath is hot against
your jaw, his skin hotter under your fingers, and he lets you nudge him back
towards your bed.
You get to slide your hands further up his shirt without protest either,
fingers over his rib cage and the weird nubs along his side. You can feel the
muscles all along his torso twitch as you fondle them until he’s rumbling
obscenities and squirming away from you except, whoops, he’s already backed
against your bed. He goes down like a Californian redwood, hands automatically
clawing at you, clamping around your biceps like a vice, and you go down with
him.
The impact knocks the wind out of him and you just barely manage to not drop
all of your weight on him too. He’s wide eyed, and you can’t help but breathe a
tiny laugh at how huge his pupils have blown. They’re like, the size of a
quarter, this tiny rim of dark, streaky red-grey all around, and he looks like
a cat.
“Well, fuck you too,” he spits, eyes narrowing.
You laugh harder, honest to god giggling out, “That’s the plan, kitten.”
And he doesn’t argue. He stares you down, lips set in a flat line and just ever
so slightly pursed like he’s an asian pop idol and you’re at just the right
place to duck down and kiss him. It’s delicate and tender and he snorts
sarcastically.
“What, is this a wriggler’s romance plot or are you going to pail me?”
“Says the jerkass who’s spent -- “ (six months, three weeks, four days, nine
hours, fifty seven minutes, three seconds, four seconds, five seconds...) “ -
- six months demanding I woo him properly.”
“ Congratulations, I have succumbed to your gross, alien charm and now I want
your gross, alien genitalia.”
He grins a little when you snort (he thinks it’s cute, even when you end up
spewing various things out your nose because of it) and you deadpan, “Well,
that’s flattering.”
You worm your hands back under his sweater anyway. He arches his back, up into
your touch, and you can feel the rumbling pick up in his chest, his quiet
little purr (which you think is cute, even though he’s convinced it sounds
stupid or is the wrong tone or any one of a million strange, alien
insecurities) ramping up until they affect his breathing too.
Which, you’re not gonna lie, is even cuter, especially since it makes his
breath raspy and halting, and you know, after a while, he’ll have to
consciously stop the purring to actually inhale properly.
You get his sweater up far enough to bare his middle and admire his alien
musculature, just a little. He’s a lot different than Terezi, thicker all
around and dense as fuck like trolls, apparently, are, and he’s red. Red as you
are, his extra bug leg nubs crimson with little gashes of red just above that
Terezi definitely didn’t have, not even in her green-blue.
You know it’s because he’s a mutant. He told you, punched you angrily when you
made an X-Men joke even though he didn’t get it. You like him better though;
he’s disgustingly sweet under all his ranting, his anger a cover for his
insecurities, and you know probably the half the reason he’s allowed himself to
pursue a relationship with you is because your genetics are fucked too.
(And it was so hard convincing him that your being a pasty ass motherfucker was
an issue. It took Rose’s uncanny ability to bullshit knowledge on basically
anything -- you would have not even thought to compare human racism to troll
casteism even though duh, and then from there it was a matter of just
explaining the genetics behind albinism and how it fucked you halfway to Sunday
and he practically shoved his tongue down your throat.
Okay, no, he wrapped his arms around you and freaking papped you and then the
next time you were alone, he shoved his tongue down your throat.
The point still stands that being black and albino is apparently pitiable as
fuck and who are you to complain. You’re getting laid because of it.)
Okay wait. You’re stalling like a motherfucker, holy shit. You’re pretty sure
Karkat can tell you’re nervous too because he’s quiet, patiently waiting for
you to get your shit together and fuck him. That’s still totally a thing that’s
going to happen.
You kiss him again, bite his lips until he’s gasping and his purring stutters,
intermixed with chirps and chuffs and a couple other things you can’t quantify
in english, but you’re pretty sure they're his version of moaning. The way he’s
pressing his hips up against yours, his alien dick wiggling behind his jeans,
is a pretty clear indicator that, yeah. He’s probably alien moaning.
You’re moaning too because, holy shit, this is weird in a really great way.
Rose wasn’t kidding about how dexterous they are, jesus fuck, and you could
probably get off just from this and wouldn’t that be embarrassing.
Karkat makes a frustrated noise and snaps, “Fuck, I know your species is stupid
but I really cannot fathom how it persisted if you’re managing to fail at
copulation.”
He doesn’t actually manage to sound pissed off, not with his purring, and you
hide your awkward grin in his neck, tugging the collar of his turtle neck down
to press your lips against the tiny gills there too. He squeaks a little and
flails and you roll off him.
“Take your shirt off then, dickhead,” you tell him sweetly.
He snarks right back, “Your pet names are so touching, assface.”
You just blow him a kiss and you can’t help the grin tugging at your lips as he
rolls his eyes (still blown kitten wide) and yanks at his sweater. It comes off
in a glorious show of compact musculature -- for being a stocky shithead, he’s
graceful as fuck -- and, huh. You’ve never noticed the tank top he apparently
wears.
And then you realize, when he twists a little and you catch sight of cleavage,
that’s a sports bra. Your alien boyfriend has boobs. Every fuck you currently
possess is whating and your poker face slams down.
“What?” he grumbles, self-consciously fussing with the elastic around his ribs,
“Don’t tell me you were expecting me to be strapped into something fucking
lacey. That only happens in porn; like hell I’d paint that sort of target on
myself.”
You can see how he’s starting to curl in on himself, disquieted by your
speechlessness, and you blurt, “You have tits?”
He facepalms and you can see his blush rise up with a vengeance; “What an
astute observation.”
“When did that happen??”
Both hands cover his face and his blush is crawling down his neck. It’s really
weird seeing the colour pool in various areas where you guess the skin is
thinner and you should probably be flattered that you’re allowed to see all his
stab-me-here spots but you’re a little too flabbergasted over the suddenly
rumblespheres.
“Last molt,” he grumbles from behind his palms and, oh look. You can pick out
the points of his ears from his wild, birds nest of hair with how pink they’ve
gone.
“Couple weeks ago --” (four weeks, three days, seven hours, fourteen minutes,
thirty six seconds, thirty seven seconds, thirty eight seconds) “ -- ago when
you disappeared for -- “ (eight days, fifteen hours, seven minutes, twenty-six
seconds) “ -- a while? That’s what that was?”
He groans and flops across your bed again. He doesn’t even complain when the
pillows your bed is made of squish out from under him and he thunks back
against the table, his purring petering out. You, personally, are a little
distracted by troll jiggle physics. Terezi ain’t got shit on him, holy dicks
(and suddenly you completely understand why she doesn’t think it’s a big deal
to whip off her shirt while you strife since dudes have tits too apparently).
“Yes Dave, when trolls reach that special molting phase, they grow
rumblespheres. Mammals.”
He spits the last word as a curse and you’re pretty sure you’re offended.
“Do you still want to fuck or has my alien anatomy successfully grossed you
out?”
“I -- yes how is that even a question?”
“You’ve been gaping at me like I’ve grown an extra limb for the past five -- “
(three minutes, forty six, fourty seven, fourty eight seconds) “ -- minutes.
Excuse me for thinking you may not be interested anymore.”
He lets his arms fall back to the side with a huff, scowling, and you crawl
over him, slowly.
“You’re dumb,” you tell him and he snorts.
“What an eloquent insult.”
“Yeah, well, apparently you’re a moron, because in case you haven’t noticed,
human dudes don’t grow tits when they reach their third evolution. ‘Scuse me
for not expecting an alien dude to, ‘specially not when chicks of the same
species also have ‘em.”
“Mammals,” he grouses again and you snap back with an equally exasperated,
“Aliens,” and he smacks you in the thigh.
“So do I get to touch them or what?” you ask.
“Gee, aren’t you romantic,” he squints at you and, damn, his eye boners have
deflated, you’re an asshole. He averts his eyes and clenches his jaw before he
grumbles, “You’re surprisingly magnanimous about it then.”
You shrug, “I’m trying to get it on with an alien. Weird shit is bound to
happen and a dude having tits is not as weird as whatever junk I’ve heard
you’ve got going on, okay?”
That has him snapping his teeth shut and he makes a face like he’s constipated.
“Oh, fuck no, you are not allowed to go all self depreciating. I swear to fuck
I will pap you so hard we swing ‘round ashen and our cherry red romance will
never be the same. It’ll be tainted with the grey of you having a boner for
hate-punching yourself and that’s not cool bro.”
“That not even how it works!”
“So?”
“You dirty quadrant fucker.”
“Yeah. Human. Your fault for making us that way.” He huffs and deflates and you
ask again, “So do I get to touch them or what?”
“No, you are not allowed,” he replies, sarcastically deadpan, “Rumblespheres
are colloquially known as murderglobes. It is absolutely imperative that you do
not touch them.”
You take that as he really wants you to grope his chest, so you do and you were
so totally right. He arches up into your touch, yanks you back over him by your
beltloops and you’re a right gentleman about it. You clamber onto your busty
alien boyfriend, squeezing his tit while you push a thigh against his crotch.
He snaps a curse and grinds down on your proffered leg. His purring picks back
up double time, his hands hot as sin against the back of your hips as he pulls
you closer, pulls you flat against him so his dick can wiggle against your hip
and dang. His thighs are like iron and it’s really fucking nice to rub your
dick on ‘em.
“So, kitten,” you mumble against his jaw, “How you wanna do this?”
(You really hope he has an idea because you sure as fuck don’t. If left to your
own devices you’d probably just hump his leg, which would totally be fine by
you but is also pretty fucking selfish.)
And he growls through his purring, “Without pants,” and you snicker into his
ear.
Your pants are easy enough to get off. The waistband of your boxers catch on
your hardon but otherwise you shimmy out of them and your god pants without
climbing off Karkat, who, in turn, can barely unbutton his jeans without
getting distracted by his bulge. He lets you bat his hands away, doesn’t even
scowl at you. He just stutters in his purring as your fingers ghost over his
tentadick in your quest to get into his pants.
You do and your reward is an alien with a prehensile dick who apparently does
not wear underwear. His junk twists out to meet you, winding around your
fingers and holy fuck that’s hot. It’s a little slimy, tapering to a thin point
and it pulses around your fingers, clenching and unclenching and jesus dick
shitting, tap dancing christ, aliens are the best thing.
You entertain his dick while he shoves his pants down to his knees. You don’t
want to move to let him take them off the rest of the way ‘cause, fuck, you’re
able to cop such a great feel and he’s nowhere near protesting. He’s pressing
his lips and tongue to the edge of your jaw, panting haltingly against your
face as you trace your fingers down his junk, sliding through the slime as it
crawls between your fingers and up your wrist. By the time you work your way to
the base of it, he’s clutching you to his chest, chittering desperately, and
you couldn’t pull away to actually look at him if you wanted to.
“You are such a fucking tease,” he hisses at you, trembling with arousal and
the force of his purring.
(You try really hard not to think about what it’d be like for him to blow you
while he’s purring like this, or if he’d let you straddle his chest and pin
your dick against where the vibrations are the strongest ‘cause tentacle dicks
you can deal with. Alien dudes with tits you can deal with. Your sudden
interest in how great purring would feel against your dick, however, is fucking
weird and a little too easy to apply to actual fucking cats.)
(The echos you can feel in his thighs though, are fucking amazing.)
He groans and shoves your hand lower, the claws of his other hand scritching
the back of your head gently. His purring thrums through his chest and into
yours, and he’s so fucking comfortable to be pressed against, warm and broad,
wrapped around you like a snuggie. He’s so much bigger than you, shorter, yeah,
but thicker, thick enough for it to be obvious that his species as a whole is
fucking huge and that clown who ditched him is a fucking moron because, wow,
you’re not even a troll and you’d be thrilled to snuggle with him, fucking
christ.
But you guess you’re arguably in a section of his romance to be allotted cuddle
time on top of fuck time and you will do everything in your power to have it be
naked cuddle time ‘cause skin on skin contact is great.
And the way he chokes when you aim your fingers for the wet spot is pretty
choice too. His dick lashes against your belly, releasing your wrist as you
carefully, fucking carefully push your fingers into his bug cooter and he
crackles like lightning. You’re pretty sure that was something obscene he just
said, something The Game’s mechanics can’t translate, and you groan into his
throat gills.
“Oh fuck,” he whispers. His claws aren’t quite so nice anymore, just on this
side of pleasantly painful, but you can’t bring yourself to care because he’s
enjoying himself so much and you’re doing that, turning him incoherent and
making wet as fuck.
You’ve never been harder in your life.
Your dick wants in him like nobody’s business but he’s so tight you don’t know
if you’d even fit.
His dick wiggling against yours is a good compromise, you guess, and even if
you can’t fuck him with your dick you can definitely fuck him with your
fingers. Tentatively, you thrust into him, wary of your nails against the
delicate skin of his junk, your head full of Rose’s drunken xenophile musings.
You do it again, a little harder, and he hisses, “Stop.”
You do, immediately, and you can hear his teeth click together as he chews on
his words, pretty much literally.
“Not like that,” he tells you, “flick, flick your fingers.”
He taps two of his fingers against your back and you copy the motion inside him
as best you can. His breath hitches and his bulge pulses alongside your dick,
the tip worming under it and fuck, that feels nice.
Karkat nuzzles your cheek and breathes, “Higher.”
You press your fingers a little deeper into him and rub up and he fucking
melts, completely pliant under you. You shift over him, hunching a little to
give your hand a little more room to navigate, and his bulge wraps around your
fucking dick like it did your hand, dear sweet baby jesus.
“Oh fuck, Karkat,” you moan against his throat. It takes a lot of effort to
keep from thrusting into his junk’s grasp, its slick, wet, hot, pulsing grasp.
“Stop fucking breathing into my gills, asshole. It’s weird.”
You gasp your laughter, turning your head to press your lips against the meat
of his shoulder instead as you bask in how great his alien junk is. His cunt
analogue his hot and wet and whatever you’re poking at with your fingers is
turning him to putty and prehensile dicks are legit the coolest thing. His is
sliding all around yours, squirming grossly along the slime trails it’s leaving
across your skin, exploring like it’s freaking Lewis and Clark and your dick’s
the Louisiana purchase.
The tip of it’s been rubbing against the underside of your head and you don’t
think you can hold out much longer if it continues. Not a bad thing,
considering all the noises Karkat’s making. You don’t think he’ll be much
longer himself.
The point of his dick slides up, against the slit of yours, as the rest of it
squeezes harder around you and you breathe hard against his shoulder, dick
twitching. Karkat gasps and you flex your dick again, on purpose this time, and
he moans. You make a mental note to learn Kegel exercises, ‘cause fucking your
alien boyfriend is your number one priority from here on out.
And then the tip of his dick presses into yours and you squawk out in alarm.
“No. Fuck no. Control your fucking tentacle, kitten, oh god.”
It doesn’t hurt, thank fuck, but it’s weird as shit and you are really not into
sounding thanks, and it takes (two, three, four seconds) a moment for Karkat to
process what you mean. He mumbles a flustered apology and you shudder as he
pulls the tip of his dick away, the palm of his hand cupping over the head of
yours immediately after.
“Supposed to, to do both,” he rumbles, voice raspy, “Just taking it is...
selfish.”
You kiss his shoulder, his gills and his jaw, up to his face. You can feel how
his dick is trying to wiggle under his fingers again and you really don’t want
it to have another go at your crotch eye. You can’t really blame it, him, if
that’s how his biology works though. Fuck knows you’re having a time of it
trying not to just fuck him.
“‘S fine,” you tell him, “Just, just don’t stick your dick in my dick, okay?”
He wheezes a little laugh and rubs his hand over the head of your dick, the
rest of him pulsing around you.
“That’s good,” you gasp, rolling your hips against his dick, “that’s real
good.”
The next (seven minutes, forty three seconds, forty four seconds, forty five
seconds) couple of minutes are quiet except for your heavy breathing, the buzz
of Karkat’s purring and the wet stchk of your fingers stuffing him. You claw
your way back to the edge of impending orgasm and it’s the way that he grinds
out a series of clicks that The Game translates as both your name and a
collection of curses and pleading intent that sends you over. You spill into
his hand and he gasp, his purring skipping like a scratched record as he milks
you for all you’re worth.
You take (one minute, three seconds, four seconds, five seconds) to catch your
breath before you’re wiggling out of his arms, peeling his dick from around
yours.
He makes a confused noise when you come face to face with his junk -- it’s
cherry red, everything is cherry red and freckled with darker splotches of
pink-grey -- and his bulge curls up against your face instantly. You just
barely keep it out of your nose, opening your mouth to press your tongue
against it.
“What are you doing?” he groans. He’s got his hands over his face again and,
wow, yeah. You almost forgot his boobs were a thing there for a moment because
there’s a dick in your face but. Yep. He definitely has tits. It’s gonna take
some getting used to them considering how masculine the rest of his build is
but. Welp.
You’re not gonna complain, no sir.
Aliens, man.
“I’m sucking your dick, duh.”
“That’s fucking gross.”
You snort, “Yeah, well, shut up.” A little softer, you add, “Kinda can’t fuck
you properly so I’m improvising.”
He groans in embarrassment at that and kicks you a little, his legs still half
trapped in his pants and you snicker. His dick prods at your lips and you open
up. It swarms into your mouth, writhing against your hard palate and tongue and
would probably crawl down your throat if you let it.
You don’t let it. You keep yourself propped up on one elbow far enough that he
has to stretch to get any more in your mouth, the hand not still knuckle deep
in his crotch wrapped around the base of it. The tip is thin enough that, even
though you’ve the first handful of inches in your mouth, it doesn’t really
bother you when it straightens out. Mostly it keeps bunched up along your
tongue, shifting constantly and you’re a little jealous of Rose. It’s probably
surreal as shit to be fucked with something like this.
But you can tuck that thought away for next time, focusing instead on quirking
your fingers up against the spot he likes as you suck on the tip of his
tentacle.
You get the hang of it pretty quickly, judging from how he clicks and clatters
and crackles, sounds that mean yes good more all at once.
“I’m going to drench your bed,” he grumbles at you, back arched as his thighs
tense against your shoulders, and it’s more intent translated than the actual
words. You can almost feel his meaning and you’re not sure if it’s because half
his speech is mangled so bad The Game can’t translate properly or if he’s
actually some sort of weird porno psychic, but either way, it’s fascinating as
hell.
“So?” you ask, talking around his bulge. He lets out a long, drawn out,
chittering groan.
A bucket clatters out of his sylladex (fifty nine milliseconds) half a breath
later and you remove yourself from his genitalia long enough to drag his ass
back, off the edge of your bed to hover over the bucket. His jeans drop to the
floor and you don’t bother wrangling his dick back between your teeth, let it
fill your fist instead, squeezing it back the way it squeezes you. You mouth at
the crook of his thigh, fingers pressing back in, and he’s gone.
His spunk floods down your arm, thick like blood, and you jerk your face back
in shock. It’s red, alright, but translucent, viscous like honey, weird as shit
and utterly alien. It doesn’t take as much effort as you woulda thought to tamp
back your ‘nam flashbacks, not with him creaming himself because of you.
(You still end up with the half there memory of a thousand bloody deaths,
lodged tight behind your ribcage but whatever. You can deal. It doesn’t really
phase you anymore if you actually think about it. You’ve been dead but now
you’re so, so alive.)
It takes him (three minutes, seventeen seconds, eighteen seconds, nineteen
seconds) ages to finish dripping his entire load into the waiting pail and by
the time he relaxes again, you’re hard enough to drill straight through to the
center of your meteor.
You drag yourself up, half collapsed face first into his lap. The hand sticky
with troll spunk fucking glides over your dick as you jerk off, hard and fast.
It takes you (two minutes, twenty nine seconds) hardly any time at all to come
a second time, and you moan against his hipbone as you ooze out across your
fingers.
“Jesus fucking christ,” you hiss, jelly limbed. You have successfully
accomplished sex with an alien.
Really fucking successfully, holy fuck.
“I swear to fuck I will drown you in our slurry if you make any stupid jokes.”
You laugh, dragging yourself back to sit. Your shirt is magically right where
you need it, right under your knee. You use it to mop up the mess all down your
arm, off your chin and off your dick before you crawl over him, faceplanting
right in his cleavage. He makes a disgruntled crackle, but his purring picks up
again, right under your ear, when you wedge your arms against his waist.
“You’re disgustingly adorable when you purr, assjack,” you mumble to him. His
purring stutters and picks up again, louder.
“Flushed for you too, fuckface.”
You need a shower and maybe some clothes or a blanket to keep yourself from the
chill of the lab but cuddles. Naked cuddles, naked post coital cuddles with a
hot, bulky alien who has really comfortable tits and a penchant for petting
your head. Showers and blankets can wait ‘til you’re not quite so blissed the
fuck out.
(Porn psychic, definitely. That is the only explanation.)
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!