Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/840243.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      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, FTM
      Karkat, Trans_Karkat
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-13 Words: 4522
****** The Morning Dew Betwixt Thine Thighs ******
by sumomomochi
Summary
     You had thought he’d been so adamant about you coming over after
     school today to ask you out.
     And instead he gives you a fucking dick in a box and you tell him to
     take off his pants.
     Fucking great.
     Wow you suck.
Notes
     ambiguously high school aged davekat with a title that does not match
     how adorbs the fic is ngl
See the end of the work for more notes
The fuckhead’s waiting for you after school, ass leaned against a planter with
his legs stretched out, ankles crossed. John’s nowhere to be seen, which is
strange, but Dave perks up immediately when he sees you, slinking up straight
and you almost punch him purely because he’s so fucking tall and you’re a short
ass, spiteful motherfucker with an uncomfortable crush.
“‘Sup,” he says, “Got you a thing. Wanna come home with me?”
You don’t punch him. You do elbow him in the ribs when he decides to use your
head as an armrest, which is fucking dumb because you’re not that short.
He steers you to his shitty ass car and then he steers his shitty ass car back
to his little house. He throws the coup into park, grinding gears hard enough
to make you flinch in sympathy, and twists towards you. One hand is braced
against the dash, the other wedged between the seats as he leans in towards
you.
“Hey babe, how ‘bout it, can I get a little kiss?”
You can feel his breath against your face, hot and sweet and fruity.
“God damnit Strider, I will punch you in the dick.”
He wheezes a little laugh, lungs rattling as he pulls away, slithering out of
his car. You do the same, except you’re not graceful about it; You haul
yourself out, dragging your bag with you, and slam the door too hard.
Whatever. You know Dave doesn’t give a shit.
He lets you into his house with a sweep of his arm, giving a little bow like a
real fucking gentleman and you narrow your eyes at him. He just grins,
following you almost too close. The little plaque hanging off the inside
doorknob clacks against the door when he shuts it and he says, “C’mon, it’s in
my room. Didn’t want Gran to accidentally open it.”
You know the way to his room by heart, lifting the knob when you turn it so his
door actually fucking opens and you think you can feel the heat of his skin
behind you. He slides by you without a fucking sound, scooping the nondescript
box off his desk to present it to you with a flourish. He even flicks out his
pocket knife, handing it to you by the blade. You tear into the box and
inside..
Is a dick.
Dave Strider gave you a fucking dick in a box.
“Figured the big one would match your redonk cojones, but I have no fucking
clue why they only offer the really pink one, like what. Do trans dudes only
come in one flavour; it doesn’t even match my skin and I’m pasty as fuck.”
“Strider, shut up.”
His teeth snap shut audibly and he’s gone pink around his shades.
“Did you seriously buy me a fucking packer?”
He shrugs and it’s almost hilarious how awkward he is about this. You lean up
to peck him on the lips and his blush crawls down his neck, clear down to the
collar of his shirt. You snort.
“What, can’t a guy buy his friend a dick?”
“Depends on if you seriously think I’m gonna fuck you for it.”
He gapes and sputter, “No I just, I -- “
“Dude, you’ve been trying to get into my pants since we were kids.”
“Lies and blasphemy,” he tells you, “Don’t listen to a thing my Gran says.”
“Yeah. Whatever. Take off your pants.”
“What?”
You roll your eyes, exhale hard through your nose. You can feel how hard you’re
blushing. You’re very careful with your enunciation when you say, “Take. Off.
Your. Pants.”
He strips off his shirt first then shoves his jeans down, toeing off his shoes
when his pants get stuck around his ankles. He’s already pretty obviously hard.
“You were saying?”
He snaps, “Fuck you,” but there’s no vitriol in it.
“Yeah,” you snort, “Sort of the plan isn’t it.”
He looks away, frowning towards his shoulder.
“I didn’t, I’m not trying to buy my way into your pants,” he tells you,
quietly, refusing to make eye contact even through the stupid sunglasses he
managed to keep on despite stripping off everything else, “So don’t. If you
think you owe me.”
Honestly, you weren’t actually expecting him to take off his pants. You would
have actually gone about this the right way if he hadn’t fucking taken his
pants off when you told him to. You’ve pretty transparently been crushing on
him, and he on you, for half this year already. You, for one, are done giving
his cousin fuel for her so called novel.
You had thought he’d been so adamant about you coming over after school today
to ask you out.
And instead he gives you a fucking dick in a box and you tell him to take off
his pants.
Fucking great.
Wow you suck.
But jesus shit he’s attractive; face tilted down just a little, pinker than
you’ve ever seen him before, even that one time when you were seven and he was
convinced he didn’t need sunblock and burnt lobster red within the hour. You
think he’s trying to hide his face, which is fucking dumb because he’s almost a
full god damned foot taller than you. You set your dick box back on his desk
and step in close to him, close enough that you can feel the tent his boner
creates against your stomach when you breathe.
His blush, much to your amazement, darkens when you part your lips to speak, a
little tremble running down his spine as you tilt your head up to make eye
contact; “So here’s the plan,” you tell him, your voice deceptively even,
despite your own jittered nerves, “We fuck and then you hope you were smart
enough to order a harness for me too, and then we get dressed and go out for
pizza or something.”
“Like a date?”
You shrug, “Yeah. Like a date.”
“Oh -- “ he sounds a little breathier than usual, but you’re magnanimous enough
to allow that that might be because of the amount of blood currently residing
in his crotch “ -- okay. Cool.”
His lips are a little damp, wet with spit out of nervous habit, when he ducks
down a little to press them to yours. He’s delicate about it, tender like
you’ll break, like you’re some swooning virgin. He’s too tall for you to get at
on your own, so you can’t pin him, take control and shove his pussy footing
around up his ass -- metaphorically -- but you can still wrap a hand around the
back of his neck. You pull him down, closer, press his lips to yours harder,
and nip at his mouth. He gasps, lips parting just enough for you to press your
tongue in behind his teeth, and then he groans, his weight melting over you.
You reach up with your other hand to cup his face. His own hands come up to
rest just above your waist, against your ribs, where you fold your vest over
itself, fucking finally touching you with more than just his breath and his
lips and the tip of his dick.
You stumble back far enough to perch your ass against the edge of his desk,
dragging him with you. The extra couple of inches the desk boosts you makes it
so much less awkward to kiss, his hands smoothing down your waist to rest at
the top of your thighs. He’s hovering over you, close but pointedly to one
side, like setting between your legs would be a bad thing.
It wouldn’t be, not at all. In fact, you would definitely like him between your
thighs. You’re already uncomfortably wet, your crotch slimy in your boxers.
You reach out to grab onto his dick, clumsily jerking him off through his own
underwear. He chokes on air, pulling out of your kisses to press his face
against your neck, his hands planted against the desk to either side of your
hips.
“Fuck,” he groans, low and lewd, rolling his hips into your touch. He repeats
the curse breathlessly a couple times more before he moans your name, right
into your fucking ear.
An embarrassingly high noise escapes you and you want to both squeeze your
thighs together and spread them to pull him closer so you have something to
rock against.
“Fuck, Kat, please,” he breathes, lips against your neck, “Please can I fuck
you? I’ll do anythin’, please.”
You’re trembling a little when you grind out, “Condom?”
He shakes his head and whines pitifully. The noise itself is obnoxious, like
him in general, but he wants you so bad, his entire aloof facade completely
shattered. It’s an ego trip.
“M’ bro might have somethin’,” he says, pulling back. You can hear him
swallowing before he leans in again, to press a desperate kiss to your lips.
He’s a little hesitant to step away, but you nudge him off, peel him off of you
like scab so you can shrug out of your jacket. You half glower at him from
under your brows, your hands at the collar of your shirt, ready to tug it off,
and he takes the hint, shuffling to his door. He peeks his head out first, to
make extra sure no one’s home, before he crosses the hall and sneaks into his
brother’s room.
You can hear him searching through drawers as you strip down, your jeans left
in a pile on top of your shoes. You stuff your socks into the pocket of your
hoodie, habit since Dave’s house has always seemed to make off with at least
one of them any time you’re over.
You end up with enough time to dig his flat sheet out from the mess of blankets
on his bed, tugging it untucked. You fold it in quarters and lay it out across
the middle, smoothing it nervously. You feel presumptuous, which is fucking
stupid since he literally begged to get into your pants.
He lets out a tiny, triumphant laugh, apparently successful in his quest, comes
back with a string of condoms and an adorable half grin, his cheeks two
flustered pink triangles. He stops in the doorway, hesitates for just a second,
and even with his stupid shades you can tell he’s looking you over. You scowl.
“I don’t know what’s more insulting, that you think we’ll fuck that many times,
or that your stamina’s lacking enough that you’ll need multiple attempts to get
me off.”
He laughs at that, with a full, true, honest grin, and flips you off.
“Naw, babe, my dick’s so sweet you’ll be gagging for another taste the moment I
pull out.”
“Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that.”
The banter still comes easy, and it soothes your nerves. Besides your parents
and your brother, he’s the first person who knew you before to see you stripped
down so far. Everyone else you’ve fucked met you after you started
transitioning, didn’t have the memory of you in dresses with waist length hair.
But Dave looks you up and down again, stepping closer, and says, “Yeah, you
look weird without a dick.”
“Fuck you.”
“Sort of the plan, isn’t it?”
It’s your turn to laugh, snorting as you pull him right up against you, hands
on his hips. His dick is hard against your gut, sticky wet at the tip where
he’s soaked through his boxers. He buries his nose in your hair, arms around
your shoulders.
“So,” he says, hips twitching like he wants to rock against you, “How you
wanna...?”
You roll your eyes, “Lay down, loser.”
“Aw, man, but you’re so snuggly. And tiny, jesus, you’re pocket sized.”
“Yeah, fuck you, we can’t all be beanpoles.”
He laughs, his usual breathy barely there sort, and it’s pretty novel to hear
it with your face pressed against his chest. But then he’s unwinding himself
from around you, fingers lingering down your arms. He lays back, ass smack dab
in the middle of the sheet you put down.
He averts his eyes when you shuck your boxers down your thighs, even as he does
the same. He also very pointedly doesn’t let his gaze stray any further down
than your collarbone when you straddle his legs. His dick rises up to meet your
hand and he hisses a breath in through his teeth when you give it a squeeze,
thumb trailing through the precome gathered at the tip.
“Take off your stupid sunglasses already,” you tell him.
He laughs an airy, “Yessir,” and fumbles to knock the frames off his face. He
gets them off, hooks them over the edge of his lamp the way he always has, eyes
closed the entire time.
“I’m not gonna implode if you look at me, you know.”
His eyes stay hooded, half hidden by his pale lashes, but you can still see
them flick up and down you again. He brushes his fingers across the bottom of
your vest, where it pinches in a little.
“You gonna be okay in that?”
Your lip curls back from your teeth when you snort, “Yeah, I wear it all the
time. I’d think, if I were to actually faint from it, I’da done it already -- “
you roll your eyes, “ -- not like you dicking me’d be strenuous enough anyway.”
“Would you quit insulting my sexual prowess, man, it’s kind of insulting.”
“Yeah, fapping doesn’t count as sexual prowess, shit for brains.” He flushes
dark again, mouth pinching into a flat line and holy shit; “Wait, are you
actually a virgin?”
“Like you have room to talk.”
You laugh, flat out and sarcastic, at that, “Thanks for assuming I’m so grossed
out by my own body that I’d never consider getting laid, inadvertently saving
myself for you.” Honestly, you did end up losing your virginity in a pique of
self destructive self loathing, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, licking his lips.
“It’s -- whatever, it’s fine.”
His boner hasn’t deflated any, hot and pulsing in your hand, and it is. Fine.
Whatever. You don’t give a shit. Most the world is grossly misinformed
about.... basically everything, actually. It’s, whatever.
You adjust your grip, giving him a long, firm stroke, smirking at the way his
back arches and his breath hitches. His hands have gravitated to your hips,
thumbs tracing the crease of your thighs, and you drop your eyes from his face
to his crotch.
His dick’s a dick, nestled in pubes four shades darker than his honey blond
hair, and he has the stupidest tan line where his pants sit, the top of his
thighs practically white compared to how dark your own are. Silently, he hands
you a condom, pulled from the string he jacked from his brother. You open it,
roll it down his length, shift forward over him.
One of his hands slides up your back, fingers fanned across your shoulder
blade, nudging you until you’re bent over him, your free hand planted to the
side. He tilts his chin up, just a little, and you swoop down to kiss him. You
can feel him grinning into the kiss. He gasps, going slack jawed, when you
squeeze his dick again, guiding him back to press into you.
You get another drawn out curse, his hands tightening against your skin, as you
sink down.
He’s comfortably thick inside you, twitching when you sit back. You press a
fist against your teeth to muffle your moan as you rock your hips over his.
He keeps on spewing curses, gasping his running commentary of whatever comes to
mind. It’s surprisingly flattering, the way he stutters your name, alternating
between hilarious and adorable in how he’s so vocal, all, “Fuck you’re
gorgeous, you’re so hot, so tight, jesus shit, Karkat.”
His bony hips dig into the back of your thighs, his fingers gripping your knees
so hard the tips of them have turned white. His face is slack, head tilted back
against his pillows, but you can actually see the muscles in his stomach
twitch. His thighs are tense too, hips shifting up just a bit and he shifts
from complimenting you to begging, “Please, please move, ride me, fuck me, oh
god, please move.”
You lift up, just a little, tilt your pelvis forward as you sink back down,
your toes curling as you angle him towards just the right spot. You repeat the
motion, over and over, riding him tortuously slow so you can enjoy the way he
drags at your insides.
He fumbles for the hand you’ve planted against his ribs, pulling it away from
his chest to twine his fingers in with yours, squeezing before he tugs you
forward. His kisses are sloppy and desperate, pressed against your lips and
your chin and your jaw until his nose is nuzzled against your cheek and he
pants into your ear, “Fuck, you’re shaking so hard.”
You are, trembling and pulled tight as his hands squeeze around your waist, his
hips arching up to jackknife into you. You breathe a laugh against his jaw and
try not to look at the cleavage your vest leaves you with at this angle.
You gasp when he slips out of you, hands on your hips to guide you over, on
your back next to him. He clambers back between your thighs, all limbs and no
coordination, head bowed so he can watch as he pushes back into you. One of his
elbows is locked, arm straight and tense to support his weight, his other hand
smoothing down the outside of our thigh to squeeze at your hip, and his eyes
are glued to where you’re connected.
“Dude, your crotch is glistening,” he breathes, half laughing. You groan in
embarrassment, mashing your hand against his face. He laughs harder, “And I saw
the morning dew betwixt thine thighs, as I removed my source of Grecian power.”
“Oh my god, shut up.”
“My pole gives cause to storms and quakes,” he punctuates his words with a hard
thrust, making you gasp and laugh, and you punch him in the shoulder, “But ‘tis
not massive, I am no Othello.”
“I am going to punch you in the dick!”
He has the audacity to pshaw at you, grinning, “You like the d though, yer not
gonna punch the d.”
“I’m going to fucking punch the d if you keep referring to it as the d.”
He laughs, tucking his face against your neck. His breath is hot and heavy
against your skin, and you moan when he starts sucking hickies into your flesh.
He groans in turn when you wrap your arms around his back, clawing at his
shoulders.
“Pain slut,” you hiss, nose against his collarbone.
“Yeah, fuck you.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” He bites at your neck in retaliation, but you
continue to snark anyway, “Ah -- I hadn’t noticed.”
You drag your nails down his back and the rhythm of his hips stutters as he
trembles and gasps, “Shit. Fuck, that’s not fair.”
You snort a laugh, parting your lips to make a retort, but he breathes, “Want
you to come too,” into your ear, quiet and sweet. You tug one knee up towards
your chest instead, your breath hitching when he slides home deeper. He gets
the hint too, looping his arm around your leg, pinning it up against his
shoulder.
You cover your mouth with one palm when you let slip a high pitched, squeak of
a moan and he noses at your jugular, murmuring, “Shh, no, babe, don’t be shy,
you’re fuckin’ perfect, ‘s cool, don’t worry.”
You cling a little closer, forehead against his shoulder, and tell him to shut
up, except your voice catches on his name and it comes out as more of a groan
than anything.
“Oh fuck,” he gasps in return, decidedly not shutting up, “Fuck that was hot.
Say my name again, please, babe, fuck, please?”
“Oh my god, you’re such a needy bitch.”
He laughs, drags his tongue along the edge of your ear, and whispers another
please. You sputter, blushing hard, and hiss, “Fuck you,” instead. You can’t,
not if he keeps insisting you do.
And he groans at that, saying, “Dude you are so fuckin’ hot. You get all raspy,
didju know that? And it’s so fuckin’ hot.”
“Oh god, shut up!”
He noses at your cheek and you can feel his grin, but he listens this time. The
only sound he makes is the sound against his hips slapping against your thighs
and his heavy breathing, and you’re close, so fucking close, now that he’s shut
his trap and isn’t distracting you with pointless banter.
(Not pointless, reassuring, driving home the thought that maybe he likes you,
despite -- )
He tucks your other knee against his shoulder too, sitting back and you gasp a
curse at the change in angle, arching up under him.
“C’mon, babe, please, come for me, Karkat, please babe.”
He presses his lips hard against the side of one of your knees, shuddering as
he thrusts, eyebrows squinched together. His movement stutters to a halt for
half a breath before he leans back over you, folding you double.
A startled, too loud curse pops from between your lips, the change in angle
doing wonders. He kisses the side of your face and you bite your lip as your
lungs seize up and your back arches.
You hiss out a long stream of air after, relaxing back into his bed, and he
laughs, “Jesus, I think I felt that.”
You can’t be assed to harass him back, especially not when he nudges his face
against your neck, pressing kisses to your skin. Your boneless thighs have slid
to the sides, wedged against his ribs instead of his shoulders.
He’s still balls deep in you, still hard, but apparently content to just
cuddle. You don’t mind so much. He’s warm everywhere he’s pressed against you,
courteous enough to not flatten you with his weight. His breath is his against
your neck and his skin pops up with goosebumps when you skim your fingers down
his spine.
It’s nice.
Eventually, he pushes himself up. The shift in position makes you gasp,
oversensitive, his dick still fucking hard and deviating in how it lay within
you with every move. He drops a peck against your lips and pulls out. Your toes
curl, knees squeezing around his ribs, hips arching like they’re trying to
follow him all on their own. He sits back, knees still at your hips, smiles
just a little when you scowl and lock your legs together.
He just leans forward to rest his chin on your knees instead, one eyebrow
quirking up.
“So was it good for you too, baby?”
Your first instinct is to kick him. He jerks back quick enough that you don’t
knee him in the face, but your foot still clips his shoulder, and he lets out a
loud squawk of laughter.
“Wow, asshole.”
“Oh my god, are you actually incapable of shutting your facehole for more than
two seconds?”
“Wanna find out?”
You kick him again and this time he slides off the bed to stay out of range,
grinning. You stay boneless on his bed for a little longer, long enough for him
to get dressed and for you to feel cold. He climbs back onto the bed with his
shirt caught around his waist and his jeans still undone to kiss you again,
still grinning.
“Pray tell, are you actually an Egbert in disguise?” you ask as you sit up,
your damp thighs sticking together. Dave sticks his tongue out at you, lips
still curled into a smile, as he buttons his jeans. You watch the way he tilts
his hips out subtly while he does it, all unconscious sex appeal.
But then, he quoted a comedian’s riff on freaking Shakespeare whilst
copulating, so you are not taken by his good looks and smooth moves.
He catches you staring, apparently, because he says, “Yeah, told you you’d be
gagging for my sweet ass dick again already.”
You snort, “Nope, simply wondering how you could be proud of something so small
and so fast.”
His jaw drops and you can literally watch as he tries to put together a
comeback.
“No, dude, I’m pretty sure I can see the residue of how great my dick is still
sticking to your thighs.”
You open your mouth to retort in turn but there’s nothing you can say to that.
You could deny it but -- you pick at a spot where your spunk’s already started
to dry -- it is kind of obvious.
He’s gathered your clothes for you, dumps the armful of it onto the bed next to
you, nudging his forehead against yours. His shades are still on the lamp, but
his eyes are downcast, shadowed completely by his eyelashes, and you can see
the tinge of pink gathering on his cheeks again. His thumb strokes your jaw oh
so very delicately, and he licks his lips.
“That was okay, right?”
You tilt your face enough to kiss him, and your words catch in your throat for
a heartbeat before you breathe out, “Yeah. It was.”
“Cool.”
And he steps back, turns around to fuck with his computer, bent over at the
waist like he’s giving you privacy or something. Which he is, you realize,
despite having literally just fucked your brains out.
“I think you’ll find I was smart enough to order you a harness,” he says,
smugly, shifting his weight just enough to make his hips swing, “Also did you
wanna order a pizza and watch stupid movies on my phone in my car, or am I
gonna have to find somewhere we can actually eat pizza inside of?”
“You have to take me out to a real restaurant, Strider, I’ll settle for nothing
less.” The box your dick came in is under your clothes and, sure enough, he did
order a harness. You’ll have to fuck with it later, but it’s enough to knot it
so it fits around your hips, and your new packer slips through the ring with no
problems. Except -- “Jesus dick shitting christ, this thing goes down to my
knees.”
Dave glances back over his shoulder, sputtering in laughter. You flip him off,
slipping into your boxers -- you’re still inflicted with post coital swamp
crotch, but you think you might just want to wait until you get home for a
shower. Dave looks back again while you’re pulling up your jeans, twists a
little more to better check you out.
His lips twist back into a grin, more conceited than shit eating, and says,
“Yep, that dick definitely suits you.”
You flip him off and finish getting dressed.
He kisses you every couple of steps on the way to his car, and then in his car,
and then at every stoplight. And then he kicks you under the table at the
pizzeria, showing you his phone and the texts from his brother congratulating
him on getting laid and his subsequent corrections on the details.
End Notes
     the shakespeare dave quotes is actually bo burnham's sonnet_155
     also now with a shiny_new_sequel
  Works inspired by this one
      Ambigram by sumomomochi
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