Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5054821.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Dave_Strider/Karkat_Vantas
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Karkat_Vantas
  Additional Tags:
      Humanstuck, FTM_Dave, Trans_Character, Rough_Sex, Oral_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-23 Words: 9773
****** You Do Not Disappoint. ******
by Lispet
Summary
     aka self indulgent davekat
     He's still staring at you, his milky red eyes are eerie, red in a
     different way to yours, yours are so brown they look a bit ruddy in
     some lights. They suit him, and there's so many ways you want to
     worship his body that he'll sneer at you for. This is just sex
     Vantas. Get your head in the game. And then when he's riding you
     he'll smirk down at you and say 'Wildcats' as you finish, and ruin
     it. You can't have nice things, because Dave isn't inherently nice.
     He's enough for you though.
Notes
     fyi whilst some of this may seem dubcon i promise none of it is both
     parties are fully consenting
     also also theyre both like 16 or 17 and like thats above the age of
     consent where i live but some people are sensitive because they arent
     18
     also includes mentions of drugs and alcohol but only in casual
     passing but just in case some of you dislike that kind of thing
The nights are icy cold and dark, at two in the morning where it hurts to
breathe and your toes numb before you leave your driveway. You can't afford to
complain or tarry and warm your hands though. Your father would string you up
by your intestines and call it a day if he caught you sneaking out at night.
You wouldn't even blame him, it's so fucking dangerous.
Dave lives a couple of blocks away, and you jog half of the distance. His front
yard is almost entirely bare dirt, and there are lights on. The living room,
and you can see Bro reclined on the couch watching TV naked, the room cluttered
with takeaway containers, some empty and some not, empty beer bottles, lined up
meticulously alongside the couch, the desk, none of them get thrown out. You
know.
There's a girl asleep on the other couch, just as naked, and she's glistening
in the shitty yellow lights, all spread out, handprint bruises on her thighs.
It's kind of disgusting. Going to see Dave when you don't sneak in through his
bedroom window is the worst thing. You have to go past Bro and smell the rest
of the apartment and see the filth and squalor and you want to think of Dave as
being above that, like he’s cleaner. Or something. So now you’re climbing up to
the tiles on the first floor, to his bedroom window, which is the second source
of light coming from the house.
You can hear the dull thud of Dave's music issuing from his window. It doesn't
shut properly, or lock, and in this dilapidated town, it doesn't matter his
room's upstairs. It's dangerous, anyone could break in and hurt him, take what
little he has, and you think this even as you're on the patio roof pushing his
window open and slipping inside.
Dave's room is little better than the rest of the house. At least the clutter
in here is organised, jars of freaks on the shelves, interspersed with his
collection of cans, clothes on the floor, photos pegged on strings hanging low
from the ceiling in a twisted spiders web.
He's drawing that shitty comic of his, bass pouring through his speakers, and
you kick your shoes off, sockless already, because they just get in the way
when you get here, you close his window and he doesn't react, not until you're
standing behind him does he do a thing. He's even more washed out when he turns
his desk chair around, the light off his computer screen making him look like
some third rate fashion model, pasty and skeletal.
He's not as skinny as the dramatic lighting leads you to believe. You know this
too well. He's a good size, he fits between your hips and shoulders, eyes level
with the bridge of your nose. But he's still skinnier than he should be.
"Hey." His eyes are dull, unaided by the crappy fluorescent backlight, and he
looks as tired as you feel.
"Hey." You can't tell him off for not being asleep, not when you're here with
him.
You have some sort of ridiculous backwards Mexican standoff, because the
outcome is undoubtedly good the moment one of you move. Neither of you are
going to be bleeding out in the dust, but you're both too proud to really admit
that you're doing this, that you have been for longer than you'd like to think,
and you really do want this. You fucking want him more than anything.
None of this is healthy.
You can see it, five years from now nothing will be different, except you'll be
doing this drunk, or high on some bullshit drug, because addictions don't start
all of a sudden they build up, and this is just the start.
He's still staring at you, his milky red eyes are eerie, red in a different way
to yours, yours are so brown they look a bit ruddy in some lights. They suit
him, and there's so many ways you want to worship his body that he'll sneer at
you for. This is just sex Vantas. Get your head in the game. And then when he's
riding you he'll smirk down at you and say 'Wildcats' as you finish, and ruin
it. You can't have nice things, because Dave isn't inherently nice. He's enough
for you though.
There's so much you know about him that you shouldn't. He shamelessly knows
Nikki Minaj's verse from Monster, and will rap it without fail if he hears it.
He doesn't use shampoo. He tears the skin off the insides of his lips with his
teeth, and chews his nails when he's stressed or worried. That scar in the
crook of his elbow isn't from a strife like he claims, a dog bit him once. You
were there when it happened. He gives blood religiously, once every three
months, like clockwork, unless he's not allowed to. All of that and so much
more. Things you really shouldn't know, considering your friends with benefits
deal. What you know about him could fill an exercise book, and that level of
knowledge should go along with a label like 'lovers', or 'partners'.
That's not what you are. Dave asks you to come over when his brother brings
someone home with him, and come you do.
Ha. God you're fucking terrible. You hate yourself so much. You're going to
hate yourself in five years time, just like you hated yourself five years ago.
You're going to hate everything about yourself when you're fucking Dave and
biting his neck and making him moan against your hair in ten minutes time
because that's just what you do.
Dave is the one to break the silence, because silence between the two of you is
never long-lived. "Stop staring at me like that, Vantas. Someone might think
you love me."
Oh god, if only he knew. You take two steps, one to make the distance to him,
and the other to slam him up against the wall with a loud thump. Bro doesn't
care what happens, no matter how loud you get. You can draw all sorts of noises
from Dave, from desperate, gurgled gasps for air, with your hands tight around
his throat (come on Vantas I know you wanna do it. You wanna hear me shut up so
you can talk about all that romantic bullshit you love. Go on you'd love the
chance to finally have me gasping and begging for more), to actual, genuine
shouts of pleasure (one time, just once, Dave let you handcuff him and (even
more rarely), let you give him head. He didn't beg when you teased him, but he
nearly screamed when he came).
He grins at you, his dry lips have cracked at the corner and there's the
tiniest bead of blood. He licks it away, and you kiss him to bruise. His head
thumps against the plaster with a hollow thump (was that the wall or his
head?). You can hear him chuckling, muffle by your lips and teeth, and your
hands are making his ribs creak like a rusty farm gate, you're pinning him to
the wall so hard.
You'll pin him to the bed next, when you're both undressed enough to fuck, like
a butterfly on a cork-board, and he won't go quietly. He's stronger but you're
heavier by far, because you get three square meals a day and he probably hasn't
had a square meal in his life (that's a lie. Sometimes you can sneak your
dinner here in a Tupperware container and watch him scarf your lamb chops and
mashed potato and vegetables. He eats nearly anything). (He doesn't like
pineapple on burgers and pizza. That's another thing for your exercise book).
He's getting antsy, even though you're probably hurting him, so you quickly
slide your hands under his shirt and singlet, icy against his mildly warm skin,
and he yelps, blunt fingertips digging into the back of your neck, pulling your
hair. He doesn't like to admit it but you know he loves your hair. He and Bro
have the pasty white guy schtick happening, and you look as black as the ace of
spades next to him, even if you're not really. He's so white he makes snow look
grey, but that's just him. Bro's got a healthy tan, gold skin, no tan lines, so
it's either natural, or he's as casual about nudity at three in the afternoon
as he is in the morning.
Oh god you can't imagine having a sunburnt dick. What if he puts sunscreen on
it? You need to just stop holy shit. Dave's hands are a welcome distraction,
and are thoroughly buried in your hair now, tight black ringlets curled around
his fingers, and it pulls a little at your scalp but it just makes you groan
against his mouth, and his smirk cracks the centre of his lip, and he licks
your lips when he compulsively licks his. You wonder if he'd complain if you
cut your hair short, or got it braided. Like your father would let you keep
that for more than a day. He can't have you going around looking like a thug.
God you hate the world. Maybe microbraids, just to keep it in check, because
frizzled ringlets get in the way. You can't do anything with them really, not
when you don't have the energy to do so.
You finally back off him, your hands are warm, and you can curl your fingers
without it hurting now. You kiss him once more specifically to bite his bottom
lip gently, before you step away and pull your hoodie and shirt off.
How undressed you get varies greatly. There have been some times where you've
literally unbuttoned your pants, pulled his down a bit, and fucked him like
that (god you hate calling it that you care about him too much for it to just
be fucking), and there are times you've been naked, and he's been in aught but
his singlet, with it rucked up to his armpits. That's the closest to naked
you've been together. You're not complaining. You've seen more of him than
anyone else has and you wouldn't have it any other way.
It's his turn to get pushy, but when he tries to shove you onto his bed you
plant your feet and divert him to the side, and he goes face first onto the
messy sheets instead, and you're on top of him in a flash, hands on his
shoulders and knees on each side of his thighs, rubbing your crotch against his
ass.
He's not much of an ass guy, which you understand. You're not either which
makes everything a whole lot easier, but the concept of it still makes him
groan against the rumpled blanket. You don't know if it's the threat of pain or
the humiliation that gets him going.
He thrashes under you and you sit up higher so he doesn't hit your nose with
the back of his head. Not that it would stop either of you. It's been countless
times where either one or both of you have dripped blood onto his sheets.
There's a reason you don't do this at your place. Several actually.
You share a wall with your brother, your dad doesn't particularly like the
Striders in general, even though Dave's been nothing short of charming to your
family when he's around. And you wouldn't be able to explain away the stained
sheets, how your room would end up smelling a little of sex, and pot and
cigarettes (you think they're from Bro).
Holding him down is no mean feat. He fights dirty, twists and writhes, tries to
bite and pull your hair. You've copped it in the groin before. He's careful
with that now, at least. You think he was disappointed you couldn't fuck him
that night, never mind that you still had him whimpering on your fingers,
demanding you go faster and harder. He didn't even care that you'd forgotten to
cut your nails right short. You cut him, and since then you haven't forgotten
the gut wrenching panic when you pulled your fingers from him, slick not with
just lubricant, but spots of blood too. You chew your nails now, just in case,
and you can't think of reasons to give your dad explaining your newest habit.
You can't exactly front up and say 'yeah hey dad it's just because I might go
out past curfew tonight and finger my best friend. I'm not sure. It's no big
deal.'
He's wearing trackies, and you plant one hand firmly in the middle of his back
and use the other to yank them down his hips with his underwear, push them down
as far as you can before your legs are in the way. If you didn't know better
you'd think he didn't want this, by his struggling, but this is exactly why he
does this with you. He likes the effort, you've tried taking the fight out of
it, only for him to lose interest very quickly.
But sometimes the fight makes things very difficult, especially when you need
to unbutton your jeans without him accidentally hurting you, so you smack him
across the ass and tell him to stay still.
And he does. He goes too still.
"Get off." He hisses, fingers clenched in the sheets. "Get the fuck off me."
You scramble to obey, and he pulls his pants up and rolls over to keep you in
his sight.
His cheeks are flushed with effort, chest heaving with as much again, and he's
actually angry. Like he's genuinely, might punch you in the face, angry. He
doesn't say anything, and neither do you, so you're standing there in a bit
more of a Mexican standoff thing than before, because if feels like if you do
something wrong, then you don't lose your fuckbuddy. You lose your best friend.
You try not to fidget and wait for him to break the silence. You figure he
didn't like something, but you're not a mind reader. You can't just not do
something he isn't okay with unless he tells you what it is!
"Don't do that." He says. "Ever again. Just don't fucking." He stops, and he's
not just angry, he's scared. "Okay? This is me taking a giant stick and drawing
the line in the fucking sand. Don't slap me. Ever."
You nod, and swallow. "Sorry." You have to apologise, you can't risk doing even
the tiniest thing wrong here. "I won't. I promise." You don't expect another
chance tonight. You'll probably have to go home now, and you won't blame him.
It'd probably safer for you if you did go right now. Less chance of getting
caught when you sneak back in.
Dave nods, as though you've met his minimum standard of apology, and his
posture relaxes. Right now, there's nothing you want to do more than kneel
before him and worship every joint, every point where his skin stretches taut
over bone, up his spine, the softness between hip and rib. Sex is secondary,
and that scares you.
"C'mere. I'm being the merciful bouncer of Club Nook de Strider. Come inside
and dance a lil'. I'm dripping pre down my thighs." His legs fall apart a
fraction, and you're kneeling between them in a flash, before he changes his
mind (despite how fucking lame he sounds. He's shameless, says whatever he
thinks will work, except what when everything works?). His singlet is rucked up
and there's a small bruise protruding from his trackies, up over his hip, and
you're not certain whether it's a couple of hickeys or an actual bruise. If
it's the former, you didn't put them there. You never leave more than one in
the same spot. Your hands curl around his hips, thumbs alongside the points of
the bone. You're angry, jealous even, at the thought that someone else has had
their mouth, their hands, on Dave. That some not quite faceless person,
probably someone you know, might have heard what Dave sounds like with his
voice muffled in the pillow. Your hands are vices around his hips, and in a fit
of childish spite, you hope it bruises. You hope that Dave can feel this, can
feel your touch echoing through his body for days.
You're not even angry at Dave. You've got no grounds. You're not dating him, as
much as you'd like to be (despite all of his jokes about not being an easy lay.
He is. If he likes you enough and you express some modicum of interest, he'll
give anything to you, he's so desperate, so touch starved). You can't be mad at
him if he's fucking someone else on the side. Maybe you're the one on the side
and he's dating someone else.
That makes you angrier.
You scrape your teeth down his abs, they clink against his navel piercing. You
bite the profusion of his other hipbone, and push him more firmly against the
blankets. They're kind of thin, and in desperate need of a wash. Does your
father know you go out and see Dave despite never have being caught, just from
the smell Dave's sheets on you? Maybe. He doesn't care that you do see Dave,
that Dave comes over and you kiss him. It's that you go out in the dead of
night that would bother him.
Right now, having your mouth any lower is an impossibility. He's still got his
pants on, so you have to move from between his legs to divest him of them. His
trackies have holes where his thighs rub together, are dirty at the ankle, and
are probably two sizes too big for him.
He helps you kick them off, narrowly missing kicking you in the motion, and
then grabs at your pants. "C'mon Vantas. I ain't gonna fuck myself."
"God, just shut up Strider." You hiss, slapping his hands away so you can do it
yourself. You shove your jeans and underwear off, and this is it. This is as
naked as it gets between the two of you. You reposition yourself between Dave's
legs, slide your hands up his waist to his ribs, and then back down, over his
hips to his thighs. You press his legs further apart, holding them there with
your thighs, and then without further preamble, shove two fingers into him
roughly.
He wasn't joking, he's wet enough to keep three garden beds and a pot plant
alive all summer, and you can see his abs flexing a little as he tightens
around your fingers, trying to wordlessly convince you that your dick should be
there instead. You don't change a thing, just smirk down at him and rock your
hips between his spread thighs, a totally unfulfilling action, because your
hard dick just bobs a little between his legs. His eyes track the movement
desperately, and then flit up to your face, skipping the tiniest amount of
pudge at your waist in favour of scowling at you.
The expression is wiped clean off his face when your thumb presses down on the
piercing above his clitoris, where it goes through the thin, delicate tissue.
He told you what it was called once, vertical something, you don't remember.
You just remember why he got it, (with a fake ID and all, because he's not
eighteen yet), and that when you press on it, slide your fingers over it
slowly, he comes apart at the seams.
"Oh god." His voice is ragged and breathy, he's embarrassed by it but he sounds
beautiful when he's not trying to hide anything. Tonight, you don't plan on
fucking him, despite his expectations and desires. Instead, you're going to
keep him like this, squirming on your fingers, back arched. He actually
whimpers when you press your hand down on his stomach, right above his pelvis
where it's soft.
You owe him so much for letting you to this to him, even though he thinks
you're coming out on top (both literally and figuratively). You're the one who
gets to fulfil every guys wet dream at the drop of a hat Vantas. We both get
what we want here, so hurry up and fuck me. He gets what he wants, every time.
You? Not so much.
"C'mon Karkat." He squirms again and you plant your hand more firmly in his
belly. He rarely says your name. You refuse to change what you're doing. He
goes silent for a few beats, the music still thrumming from his speakers,
before speaking up again, expression less sure, or as unsure as you can get
when someone is jerking you off. "Don't you want this?" You know he's really
asking if you actually want him or not. He's so insecure. You want him more
than he knows. You'd never stop if you could. You wouldn't do this, actually.
And it's not because you don't want him. It's because you want him too much.
You know part of how you feel about him isn't right. You think he deserves to
be on some sort of pedestal, despite all the fucked up shit in his life, but
that's not really what he is, as a person. He's more than the idea you've got
of him, but when you can see him like this, and see everything he thinks is
wrong with himself, you think he's perfect, and you can hardly see past that
even though you know you should.
There's a lull in the music, where the treble dips and the baseline hums along.
You lean up and kiss him, probably too gently (stop wearing your heart on your
sleeve you idiot), hand still between his legs, and he bites your lip
viciously. You draw back, stung, and sit on your heels, hands coming off him.
"I can't do this." You say, chest tight.
He glances down from your face to your dick for a fleeting second. "Yeah you
can. Unless my eyes deceive me, lil' Vantas junior is very in on this."
"Okay, first of all don't call my dick that." You snap, hands balling into
fists on your thighs.
"Oh, we're doing lists? I've got a good priority one, list topper. Fuck me."
"I don't want to." The words fly out of your mouth like bullets from a gun, for
all you can do to stop them. Dave stares at you. You stare at Dave. The music
goes on, unimpeded despite the (not at all) momentous occasion of your huge
mistake.
"That's. I didn't." You fumble with words, trying to find the right ones.
That's not what you meant. You don't want to just fuck him.
"Get out." He murmurs. The room feels like ice, and you feel sick. What is your
problem? You don't move, frozen between his legs. Statuesque. "I said get out!"
He yells, eyes narrowed at you. He's not quite looking at your face, eyes more
level with your collarbones.
You still don't move, and he kicks you off the bed, heel in your stomach.
You cough and splutter once you get your bearings on the floor, there's one of
his multitudes of cables under your thigh and it digs in horribly. You probably
deserve it. You still complain.
"What the hell? That was totally unnecessary, you incessant whirling pool of
rusty thumbtacks and nettle!" Not your best. You shoot to your feet and your
head spins, leaving you dizzy. Your dick has wilted almost completely, partly
from the unexpected pain, but mostly because you know that Dave's angry. That
Dave might not talk to you ever again.
"Yeah, and so was eight months of great sex, apparently!" He retorts, having
already pulled a blanket over his lap to conceal himself. And he what? Does he
really think that? "You never thought, even once to tell me that you weren't
into this? Did you ever actually want to fuck me? No one knows! You're a
veritable mystery, your true sexuality veiled beneath several opaque layers of
bullshit and smack talk about your sexuality!"
You don't really have much conducive to say. (Because really, he's probably
right).
That's never stopped you before. "Well it's not like you've been perfectly
transparent about your side of things either! What even is this? At first I
thought you called me whenever you wanted to fuck, but then I noticed that your
brother always has someone over whenever you call, so I don't even know if it's
me you want, or if I'm just someone you use to try and convince your brother
you're not as lame as you really are!"
He opens his mouth to reply but you're not done.
"And okay, so say I'm doing this because you did ask me to, and because I feel
that, in some fucked up way, as your best friend, I kind of owe it to you. If
only to make you feel good about yourself, or to make you happy, I don't know.
Would I really come here without fail every time you asked? Fuck no. Okay? I
want this, I want you. But it isn't right. What I want is fucked up and just
proves that I do have a neat laundry list of problems because I keep coming
back." No matter how many times you tell yourself that next time you'll tell
him the truth, that next time you'll do this on your terms or not at all and
treat him the way he deserves, your hands on his thighs, sliding up his sides
under his singlet as far as he'll allow, mouth gentle on his and at his neck,
hips only just barely rocking against his. Sex for the intimacy, not the
pleasure.
Now you're finished.
"Oh yes, thank you for clearing that all up, Karkat. Suddenly, I can see the
light. This all makes so much sense after that concise, perfect explanation
there!" Fuck you hate that mocking tone. You want to make him shut up.
"Well it was fucking better than you! All I've gotten from all, what did you
say, eight months of this?" Shit yeah it has been eight months. You can still
remember the first night, down to the date. You're a man obsessed. "Is that you
just want me to come over, fuck you, and then leave. What makes me different to
any other person who'd wanna fuck you? Because the way you talk I'm pretty
fucking replaceable." For all you care right now he can find a rubber dick and
fuck that for the rest of his life. You're sick of these bullshit not-quite-one
night stands.
And you've actually rendered him speechless. You bite the inside of your lip
and find your clothes. Underwear and jeans on. They're cold because they've
been on his floor. You can't find your shirt so you forgo it in favour of just
pulling your hoodie on and finding your shoes. The music stops, and you realise
you didn't even notice Dave move.
You disgust yourself. You don't want to spend longer than you have to here.
That wasn't how you wanted to tell him everything. You'd had better plans in
mind.
Despite yourself, or maybe to spite yourself, you linger at the window, one
hand braced above you on the frame, facing the open gap onto the cracked roof
tiles, the lichen pale splotches against the red clay.
"Karkat." Dave says softly.
You don't turn around. You don't want to. You're honestly don't know if you
can. You don't want to, or can't, leave either. Or say anything. He takes your
silence as an invitation to fill it. "You're wrong." That nearly makes you
scoff and go off on another rant. Either way, the snort you make isn't quite
smothered. "Oh, what, did you want to hear that you're right? Then what? You're
kind of setting yourself up to fail, you prick." You don't move at all. You're
going to listen to what he has to say, and then leave. "But I mean at least
then I'd be stroking your ego, right? Because that's all you care about." Did
he actually just not hear any of what you said? If anything it makes your point
more valid.
"Okay. Fine. Just leave. It ain't like you've ever actually even tried talking
it out. I suppose I should feel honoured that you've even stuck around to
listen to someone else's opinion."
Your hand tightens on the window at his words. "Yeah. I will." You spit. "Don't
bother calling again. I don't think this is gonna work." You shift your weight
forwards to climb out the window.
"God, Karkat will you at least look at me if you're gonna dump me?" You spin
around, mouth already half open to snap at him. I can't dump you if there's
nothing between us. Or maybe. I don't wanna dump you, you ass. Not everything
is about you and your manpain.
You just end up looking like something that is very shocked and surprised.
Because that is what you are, and you're actually drawing a blank. Your brain's
gone to shit goddamn what is Dave even playing at?
His hands curl in the hem of the shirt he's wearing. Your shirt (fuck he loves
his cliches). (You know you won't get this shirt back, you won't ask for it and
your father will ask where it is and you'll shrug and say you must've left it
at a friend's. Which isn't really a lie.). But even more than that, he hasn't
put anything else on. You'd think he was trying to preserve modesty, but his
shirt is right there on the bed, with the stretched out collar and the sleeves
that have shrunk in the wash so they don't quite sit at his wrists anymore.
Also you've buried your face between his legs once before, and you'd love to do
it again. So modesty is a nope.
Elsewhere, in another time (elsewhen?), you're actually happy and Dave stays at
your house for the weekend and you get to kiss from his mouth to his navel and
back, you get to hold him in your lap whilst you watch a movie, or actually
take him out on a date. Kiss him in front of your friends at school.
He's still looking at you, waiting for an answer. "Well. Are you gonna dump
me?" You can tell he means to sound like he doesn't care, or like he's still
angry, but you can tell he's just upset and frightened.
What do you even tell him? "I didn't think this was serious." God that was
stupid why do you let yourself out of the house? He flinches and yeah that
wasn't right. "Sorry, but you only ever call when you wanna fuck, and then
that's all it literally is. Most of the time it feels like you don't even want
to, the way you fight." That's where you stop, hold everything back for now.
Essentially, you've reached the epicentre of the problem. Everything else now
is secondary until you sort this out. "I don't know where you got that this is
a relationship. It's not, it never was. There's a lot more to relationships
than rubbing dicks together and calling it a day."
"Oh, so this is my fault? That's what you're saying? Goddamn. If this is the
level of reasoning you're giving then I'm not surprised you think I'm solely at
fault here." He's back to angry, and he steps closer to jab you in the chest.
"You never said once that you wanted anything but what we were doing, so you
can shut the fuck up about whether relationships are more than sex. I started
this, which wasn't even what I expected, and I thought, yeah, this is Karkat,
he can't be so phenomenally stupid as to think this doesn't mean anything.
Except you never wanted anything else so I thought it was just sex to you." He
stumbles over 'phenomenally', he's always had trouble with that word. "And by
that point it wasn't like I could exactly ask about it." He finishes, snappy
and short.
You've both fucked up, you more so than him. And you don't know how to move on
from here. You're both too proud to fix this the easy way. You don't want to
lose him. Part of you just wants to grab him and fuck him. (And what if he's
just winding you up to make you angry?) You know he likes it to hurt so he
doesn't have to hurt himself. But that would just prove his words. The rest of
you wants to ask him for time and space, with an occasional splattering of some
sort of contact. Physical or online or text or whatever.
Maybe you can pretend this whole sham never happened, and then start over, do
this properly. You'll take him out to see a movie, and then bring him home and
kiss him silly, and let him wear your clothes in the morning, Kankri's
sensibilities be damned.
But neither of you will apologise until the other does first, and then you know
you'll both argue over who should actually be sorry, and then it'll be okay.
You might cry. You decide you might as well be the bigger man and go first.
Except Dave seems to have the same idea.
"I'm sorry." You both say at the same time. And gosh, stalemates are your jam
tonight, because you both fall silent. The slight breeze is cold at your back,
and Dave shivers across from you, so of course it's logical to shut the window
again.
Somehow those two words are enough for now. The tension has sapped from the
room, and you just want to hold him now. So you do. You step closer, and he
steps closer, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders tightly and pull him
against you, just as his arms wrap around your waist tightly and pulls you
against him. It's easier when he's closer, to apologise, because you know he
won't rebuff you now. He's holding you and he's making everything better, so
you kiss his temple and stand there with him for a moment before apologising
again, more properly.
"Fuck. I'm so sorry Dave." Is all you get out before he stomps on your foot to
shut you up. You scowl a little but squeeze him to let him know you got the
memo. "Can we lay down?" You ask quietly.
He nods and lets you go, so you let him go, and you both quite independently
sit on the bed. Another thing about him that he doesn't like to admit but he
definitely is, is that he's snuggly. You'd almost say that he really just wants
close touch and physical affection, and that that's the only reason he's so
eager to fuck all the time. As far as he's concerned, or his brother is really,
sex is the only form of contact that isn't childish or weak. Bro makes you feel
sick sometimes (all the time). His everything is just not right to raise a kid,
from the overly sexual atmosphere (puppets included), to his stoicism and
almost blind worship of bullshit day to day practices.
Dave instantly kicks his feet up and leans back against his pillow. He has four
on the bed, two of which are never touched. Of the other two, one he sleeps on,
and the other he sleeps with. It's cute, the way he wraps himself around the
beat up pillow. He would punch you in the guts if you said that to his face.
You sit next to him on the unused side of the bed, by the wall. Threadbare
plush toys get crushed or shift under your weight, and Dave slides sideways to
lean against you.
You're weary. Exhausted, knackered, emotionally drained. You don't know how you
got to this point with Dave. (You do). The argument was bound to happen sooner
or later, because you're both hellbent on paths of mutually assured, general
miserableness. If you were less caring you would've said some horrible,
terrible things to Dave. You could've cut him to the quick. Torn the
metaphorical ligaments off his metaphorical bones until he's a useless mess. It
might actually be an improvement from where he is at the moment. You've been
dancing this tango for far too long with him, and you want a break. You want to
be a sappy romantic with him, and you want him to enjoy it.
"Are you still going to fuck me?" He asks, completely out of the blue. This is
not what you mean by you want a break. His voice is quiet but steady. Resigned.
He expects you to say no.
You do not disappoint. "No."
He really does seem to try to not to react, hands curling into fists in your
shirt, his legs shifting restlessly. You try to pretend you don't notice, even
when he shifts and stands. You're really wallowing in too much guilt and self
loathing to pay too much attention anyway, until he swings his knee over your
lap and settles his weight on your thighs. Suddenly you're definitely paying
attention to him.
He says nothing, just loops his arms around your neck and hesitates. Your shirt
is too big on him and he's too light in your lap and you don't think about any
of that, just of how beautiful he is when you lean forwards and kiss him, as
sweet as you've always wanted to.
Even better, he kisses back. He kisses back and doesn't bite at your mouth,
doesn't pull your hair or make it a fight for someone to lose. "Can we just
fuck once more then?" He asks, words obscured and distorted against your lips.
"Before we stop?"
It's then you realise that he doesn't differentiate the hard and fast
punishment from what you'd deem sex. To him it's all or nothing, and that's the
bottom line.
You seize his waist and hold him away from you, to look at him. "Get dressed."
You murmur. You know his brother won't give a shit if Dave vanishes, you don't
really know what time of morning it is now and don't particularly fancy getting
caught out just as you might be making things better with Dave, so you think
your only option is to go home, take Dave with you because you can't stop this
now. You want to show him how you feel, show him you're not ready to give this
up yet. That there are more ways to have sex that rough and violent, and that
all of them are just as good. Show him how much you still love him even if the
sex isn't what he's growing up thinking sex should be like.
You pull your shoes back on to miss his reaction, but when you turn to him
again he's dressed and looking at you.
"C'mon." You murmur.
 
Your house is dead silent, unnervingly so when you get back, and Dave traipses
through like that isn't a problem at all, but manages it quieter than you do so
you have no grounds to get angry, but you still do. You tamp it down. You close
and lock the front door, and then close your bedroom door. When you turn around
Dave is already getting undressed, pushing his pants down and you nearly speak
too loudly when you ask him what he's doing.
"Undressing." He says it like it's obvious, like of course this is what we're
doing. Are you stupid Karkat?
"You don't have to." You tell him, quieter.
"What, so this is literally the most pointless booty call in existence?" He
does stop undressing, at least, even if he does sound offended.
"I never said that." You sit on your bed and kick your shoes off. "C'mere." You
pat the bed beside you and he sits quite obediently.
A little shuffling and awkward negotiation gets you both horizontal and laying
on your sides, face to face. A little more shuffling and you're cupping his
neck with one hand and his waist with the other, and kissing him how you've
always dreamed.
It feels liquid, he feels soft and malleable, and you suck lightly on his top
lip for a second, before sliding your hand under his shirt and across his lower
back. He arches fluidly against you, mouth opening a fraction.
You're worried he's going to push for sex. You're worried he's not going to
want it. That he's going to lie to you and pretend, and that isn't what you
want, but if you stop now to ask for his consent he'll mock you. So you break
the kiss and look at him, really have a good look at him, trying to figure out
the answer to that dilemma, until his fingers scrabble against your hoodie and
you let him unzip it, slip it off your shoulders and drop it to the floor
behind you.
He's the one that kisses first this time, his hands on your neck, and you wrap
one arm over his waist and roll onto your back, easily pulling him along on top
of you. He winds up straddling your lap and grins against your mouth when he
rolls his hips down against you. You hold him still, hands firm on his hips,
and he nips your lip, not as hard as usual.
"What's it gonna take to make you fuck me?" He asks, fingers tightening in your
hair for a moment.
Your sigh is heavily put upon. When is he going to get it? "Can you stop that?"
You ask, turning your head away from him. "You mean more to me than a warm
squishy tube I can stick my dick in, so stop treating yourself like that."
His stare is somewhat flabbergasted, maybe it's because you're being so open
and honest with him.
You kiss him once more and close your eyes. For once in your miserable life
you're tired. You just want to fall asleep with him and wake up beside him and
kiss his neck whilst he sleeps so he squirms just so. You want to witness the
honesty of his slumber.
Unbidden, your fingers creep under the hem of his shirt a fraction, and he
takes it as a cue to roll his hips again. Your fingers dig into his waist until
he stops. "Stop trying to please me." You grumble.
There is no response from him to that either, so either he's got nothing to say
or too much. Probably the latter, although usually that never stops him.
A scant amount of shuffling gets him stretched out properly beside you, him in
your shirt and his underwear, and you in aught but your trackies. Adding
blankets over the top creates a warm secret den for the two of you, with him
curled up loosely in your arms. You could just about settle and fall asleep if
it weren't for his pervasive and ill-timed questions.
"Why won't you fuck me?" At least he doesn't sound angry or upset anymore. This
is a genuine question.
So you give him the honest answer, your exhaustion loosening your tongue and
tightening your arms. "Because I like you. And I wanna treat you right, even if
you think I'm being stupid." You open one eye to look at him for a moment, to
see that he's looking at your chest. "And I think I've had quite enough of
pretending this doesn't mean anything. So if you really want to have sex we're
doing it my way."
He nods, you can feel it, and then doesn't say another word on the matter. Or
any other words at all.
When you open your eyes you see that his are closed, and his body becomes such
a dead weight in your arms that you do believe that he's fallen asleep on you.
Rude.
You're unable to really find this upsetting. And so you just kiss his hair and
fall asleep yourself.
 
On the morrow there's no alarm that wakes you, and for a few minutes as you lay
sleepily beside Dave, listening to him breathing shallowly, you think it's the
weekend, or you're up before your alarm. Except the light creeping through your
curtains is too warm, and then you're seized by such utter panic that you're
late for school that you wake Dave when you jerk to get up.
His arms tighten to strong bindings around your body and you still, opening
your mouth to apologise.
"Go back to sleep." He mumbles. "Your dad came in earlier and took your phone.
I think he called you in sick." Of course he doesn't care so much about his
education.
You find yourself restless after that, but Dave sleeps a while longer, so you
study him. He looks so fragile when he is so unguarded, lips parted to show his
slightly crooked teeth, all the worry lines around his brow gone. His lips look
dry and flaky, the corners of his eyes have motes of sleep stuck between his
closed lids. Perhaps because he probably didn't eat, his breath doesn't seem to
smell bad like yours most likely does. You should brush your teeth and drink
some water before coming back to bed.
Dave's eyelashes are long and pale, they sit against his skin, just, and all of
them seem to grow straight without crossing their neighbours. You can see the
very slight kink in his nose, and the sparse freckles across his nose and
cheekbones. He has more on his shoulders and back than on his face.
Without real reason to get up you lay there admiring him as he naps, and then,
unable to help yourself, you press your lips to his after about half an hour.
As expected he wakes and shifts, murmurs your name sleepily. His hand skates
over your waist and to your hip.
You don't move, just smile and kiss him again.
"You better have a good reason for waking me." He warns sternly. There is a
distinct lack of force behind his threat.
"Of course." You reply, voice low and husky in a way his won't be for a few
years. You feel him squirm a little, his body pressing closer to yours as you
speak. He turns his head into your neck to stifle his yawn.
"Are you gonna put your money where your mouth is?" He asks, lips brushing
across your throat.
Pretending to mull it over, you hum thoughtfully, one of your hands sliding
down his spine to curl around his hips. "If you'll let me." You tease. You know
he will, he's desperate to please.
He officially kisses your neck and slides the hand he still has on your hip
under the waistband of your trackies a little, just the fingers. You grip his
hip and push him onto his back. He has absolutely no need to touch you just
yet. You're cocked and loaded already.
His pout is disarming, or would be if you weren't determined. "Lemme touch
you." He pleads. You stonily ignore him, and skate your fingers down his sides
to slip under his shirt. "Don't make me say it." He tacks on, a pathetic
warning.
Your hesitation is for a brief moment before you kiss his neck. Your hands hold
his waist easily.
"Karkat I never touch you." He keeps going. "I've been really selfish," it's
too early in the day for such honesty in your opinion, "please let me?" His
fingers are still trailing against the fabric of your trackies.
You remain firm and catch his wrist in hand, and gently press it down against
the bed. You don't take your mouth off his skin, leaving a trail of wet kisses
down his neck to his collar like stepping stones to map out the garden of his
body. At the same time your hands slide up his waist, under the shirt. He's
worn his binder all night.
You'd like him to take it off, you always do, want him to trust you that much
to not think of him any differently to see him like that. Your fingers skate
against the elastic for a brief moment before settling against his ribs. The
question isn't verbalised, but it doesn't need to be.
Either way he doesn't respond, he doesn't move, scarcely breathes. You push
your luck, edge your fingers under the hem ever so slightly, and gently pull it
away from his skin, careful not to let it slip and snap back.
A deep breath in, and then out, and he relaxes curling his body towards you
like you're the moon and he's the tide. Except it's the other way around. You
follow him about like a lost puppy, caught by his pull.
Keeping your fingers under the binder you slide the hand to press against his
spine, and pull him close, squashed against you. Its twin dips lower to cup his
hip, and you roll your body against him from chest to thigh and everything
between. He reacts as expected, trying to anticipate your next move and pushing
his body against yours obscenely.
"You're gorgeous." You breathe, lips brushing his. Your fingers worm into the
constriction of his binder even further, up the bumps of his spine one by one.
He squirms closer and pushes one of his legs between yours. You're not certain
if it's to get closer or anchor himself to you, or to try and rub against your
dick but you don't stop him this time.
It takes a moment to free your hand, but when you do you use it to pry his legs
apart and slide them up his thighs. It takes a little shuffling to get this
right, but soon you're kneeling between his thighs with the tips of your thumbs
brushing ever so lightly against soft plush skin, depressing it gently to feel
at where he's wet and wanting. There's so much you want to do with him from
here. It's almost hard to decide exactly, when all your dick wants is to fall
into what you know is welcoming and snug around you, like Dave was made for
you. But you can do that later. For now you decide to pin his hips to your bed
(you finally have him in your bed and you're not going to screw this up. You're
not giving up maybe your only chance to have him squirming and panting in your
bed, where you're not worried about the dubiously lumpy spot, or bugs, or
Dave's sheets scratching your skin uncomfortably), and give him every possible
pleasure he could hope for.
You don't quite remember getting his underwear off, it happened amidst a myriad
of soft kisses and he probably took them off for you, now you think about it.
But you're on your belly between his legs, mouth pressed to his thigh where it
hangs over your shoulder. His hips twitch a little and in response you hold
them tighter. "I'm gonna take care of you." You promise.
As proof of your pledge, you ghost your mouth over the crease of his thigh,
where the skin is softest of all and he groans at how close you come to what he
wants so much. One of his heels, the left one, nudges your back, before both of
his legs pull you down and closer.
You have no heart to resist, and with no modicum of delicacy or finesse, you
quickly have your mouth pressed right up between his thighs, jaw wide open and
tongue out to encompass as much of him as possible.
His moan is nothing short of delicious, for the brief moment you can hear it
before his thighs are pressed tightly over your ears. You have no idea whether
anyone else is home and right now you're too busy to care. Like this you can
almost pretend that last night's argument had none of the argument. That maybe
you just got cold feet and were way more suave and just better in general about
the whole thing. That you didn't blame Dave, that you tightened your belt,
laced up your boots and took a hike into Serious Relationship Territory. For
real this time.
His fingers twist through your hair and he tugs your head a fraction higher.
It's easy to forgive him because you know what it's like to be so desperate and
needy, and you like him desperate and needy, you like holding his hips and
moaning against his skin and feeling him try to fuck your face. (When he gets
the idea that you don't think of him any differently for letting you do this
and then forgets the next time he calls you up at two am).
You resist his pulling fingers, even though he's tugging hard enough to make
your eyes water. You're an expert at this, and you want to have him writhing
and babbling and you don't even give a shit if anyone is in the house to hear
the obscene noises coming from the two of you. There is no punishment your dad
can bestow upon you that will make this not worth it.
Your hard work is very quickly paid off when he goes all quiet and gasps
softly, his legs shaking like leaves around your ears. You stop pushing and
just lick over him slowly, careful and soft. He tastes so rich and strong now,
and you quickly slide your thumb over his cunt, dipping in a fraction, and feel
how sopping wet he is. You love it, how he trusts you so much now to relax and
enjoy this. When you first started, he'd hardly get wet at all, and he'd be so
impatient and desperate to feel like someone wanted him, that you ended up
buying lube so he wouldn't hurt himself.
You make a pitstop at his navel, pressing your face firmly against his stomach
to sigh happily, before finally wiping your mouth on the back of your hand and
sitting up to look down at him, hands finding homes on the soft insides of his
thighs. He slowly opens his eyes to look up at you, chest still rising and
falling desperately, mirroring the look in his eyes.
“I'd ask if you're gonna put your money where your mouth is. Was. But for
starters I already used that one, and that's either kinda gross and unsanitary,
or means we gotta rename your dick ‘money’.”
You do not have the heart to shut him up, just keep rubbing his thighs. You
wonder if you still have the condoms you were given in class that one time. You
might have thrown them out, at the time not seeing a foreseeable use.
“But you should totally come here and put your dick in me. Morning sex is the
bomb and we're only halfway there. Just saying.”
“Congratulations Dave,” you shift your weight to reach for your bedside table,
“You've passed Observational Skills 101. “ A little rummaging reveals a purple
condom in darker purple and clear plastic wrap. Good enough. “You now possess
the qualifications to participate in the level two course, ‘Pillow Talk; an
Introduction’.” That earns you a grin, and you shimmy your trackies down around
your thighs before you unwrap the rubber and roll it on in a couple of
movements. “But that's gonna have to wait. The professor’s about to fuck his
flunking student.” You press your lips to his and rub the tip of your dick
against his soft folds, and he groans, probably at your words but you don't
care.
“Do I have to do everything myself, or are you gonna start wielding that thing
properly?” He asks when you apparently spend too long just kissing him.
To be honest, you know this is going to be embarrassingly short, and you don't
want it to end quite yet. He’ll have to go home and you'll have to catch up on
your school work.
“Doing this how I want.” You remind him. Remind yourself, really. You cave to
his wants way too easily.
Either way, you lean forwards and sink into him slowly, and groan softly. You
muffle it against his cheek, rather ineffectively, and lay your weight
carefully over him until your body is pressed right up against his, and your
can slide your hands, palms flat on his skin, to his hips.
You gasp and mouth along his jaw, leaving a wet trail to just under his ear.
You'd feel stupid for this affecting you so much, but he seems to be having
some sort of spiritual experience judging by his noises and how his legs clamp
tightly around your hips.
You push yourself up a little to look at him, and find him staring back
intensely. “All good?” You ask, cupping his face with one hand to rub his cheek
with your thumb. He nods and that's all the permission you need to go to town.
As predicted, it is over rather quickly, and thank god he doesn't seem intent
on teasing you about your short fuse. You wind up half laying on him, sweaty
and sticky and you slide a hand up the inside of his thigh, fingers brushing
lightly over the slick and he sucks in a short breath, so you close your eyes,
smiling, and jerk him off lazily until he all but whines and claws at your hand
because you won't let up after the third in a row.
Your dick makes a good effort to get involved again but honestly, you can't be
fucked. In the slightest.
You wipe your hand on his (your) shirt, and strip the condom off to toss it
away.
By the time you're done, he appears to have not moved in the slightest (except
apparently he has, skin bare and pale and so fucking gorgeous you want to put
your mouth all over it and both of his nipples are pierced too) and this gives
you a perfect excuse to resume your position on your stomach by his side, head
on his shoulder.
“Next time,” he mumbles, hand sliding through your hair, your arm lays over his
stomach heavily, so you aren't laying on it, “I'm gonna fuck you, okay?” You
bite your lip and think about him naked and pressed up against your back, mouth
on your shoulder or neck.
Fuck yes that is happening.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!