Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/575541.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Sollux_Captor/Karkat_Vantas
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-27 Words: 2526
****** haha, i'm sorry ******
by indications
Summary
     You are a tool again, but you're the one that I've chosen
     I'm not familiar with this type of devotion
     I used to be a pimp without emotion but now you got me simpin'
     and singing to Frank Ocean and thinkin' 'bout you
     Ooh no no no, I been thinkin' 'bout you, ooh no no no
     I been thinkin' 'bout you
     Do you think about me?
     - Troll Socrates
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’ve never had a fling. You do not do
‘flings’. Flings are for dumb wrigglers who don’t know what romance is. Flings
are for launching objects into space. Flings are bullshit. 
It is not a fling. 
For one, the word makes Sollux snort derisively, which is a sound he already
makes way more often than he needs to. Practically every other inhalation is an
expression of distaste and you’ll be damned if you give him any more fodder for
that shit than necessary. For another, you’re positive that part of having a
fling is actually giving half a fuck about the romantic aspect of it and you
don’t think Sollux has a romantic cartilage nub in his body that isn’t reserved
for Aradia (which is fine, really, because the combined product of the little
romantic inclination he has couldn’t coax a smile out of a sopor-addled idiot.
You have to wonder how she finds him charming). 
Besides, when you have real, actual romance in mind, you can’t be bothered to
waste your time cooing at lispy self-important toolbags. You’re a pretty big
deal, damnit, and if the metaphor didn’t grate on your yelp sponge like
swallowing gravel you’d say you had a shitload of irons in the fire. 
Not that that precludes you fucking your best friend. 
No, ‘fucking your best friend’ doesn’t work any more than calling it a fling
does. Nobody but your pan-rotted moirail has used the phrase ‘best friend’ in
sincerity since they grew into their grub nubs, and honestly it’s not even
fucking so much as. What can you call it. The asshole you spent most of your
wriggling putting up with sometimes comes over with the express purpose of
eating you out and still manages to be smug about it, and you can’t actually
complain even though you feel like you’re doing him a favor. 
There’s a word for that, right? 
Your name is Karkat Vantas and even though you know better, sometimes you think
you are having a fling. 
It’s not that casual sex is weird. You’re an adult. You know how these things
work. (You do not actually know how these things work.) It’s just that casual
sex with Sollux is weird. 
You knew him when you were still pupating, for fuck’s sake. When you were tiny
he’d call you sometimes in the middle of the day and just hold the phone
against his dorsal cavity so you could hear him buzz as his lusus sang to him:
low droning tones you’d play through your tinny auxiliary speakers so you could
fall asleep when your own guardian was out foraging for nights on end. He was
the reason you kept coding, even though you hated it. He likes sweet pastries
with grubsauce, the lethally spicy kind you can hardly find anymore because
mashing pepperbug larva burns your hands like crazy and only masochists even
eat the stuff, and the first time you got drunk with him he told you he never
kissed Aradia before she died. 
You know him too well for it not to mean anything when he’s the first person to
make you come, but then it just doesn’t; he laughs and licks his lips and tells
you your voice cracked, as though you couldn’t hear yourself moaning like the
jelly-limbed first-timer you so obviously were. You spend the rest of the night
playing Battlegrub 3 and eating yesterday’s rootworm noodles and it’s not even
weird. It’s weird that it’s not weird. 
It’s less weird now, you guess? Once you had a chance to find a rhythm again
(though he didn’t seem to break stride for a second, the asshole) you got on
fine pretending it didn’t kind of freak you out that your best friend had
become your. What the fuck is the word. Strider just told you, some made-up-
sounding bullshit you’re half-convinced he’s just waiting for you to use and
look like a moron. 
Fuckbuddies. 
That’s what the asshole said. 
Not the asshole in glasses. The other one. 
No, wait. Fuck. You know who you mean. The slightly less sufferable of the two.
(That’s debatable, actually. Which of them do you detest more? One of them has
never dirty-talked you into ruining a pair of underwear and then laughed about
it, but then again the one who has gives what he is not wrong in describing as
the be2t head iin two uniiver2es and honestly no purse-lipped hornless monkey-
descended douche can compete with that.) 
Anyway giving the thing a name hardly helps now because you’ve got it all
figured out. You are the quadrantmaster. It’s you. 
You’re also the fuckbuddy master. Probably. You’re not in quadrants with
Sollux, any of them, at all, and have not considered it ever under any
circumstances. 
Besides he pisses you off to too much to be flush and stresses you out too much
to be pale and he’s too much of a comfort, though you’ll never admit it, to be
black. Nope. No. Platonic fucking is all it is. Platonic, obnoxious, more-
trouble-than-it’s-worth fucking. 
You must be stupid or something. 
You can admit that Sollux gives great head. Not that you’ve fucked anyone else
(except your moirail, that one time, sort of halfway, and you don’t acknowledge
that as sex because that would have some really disturbing implications about
your sanity). But goddamn is he a pain in the ass. 
Case in point: earlier this week, when he up and kicks you off your server in
the middle of a legendary Stargate campaign just so you won’t be dii2tracted
when he shows up in your block five minutes later, bitching about some coding
shit and deliberatelyreferring to the most abstract constructions that you
still don’t understand (despite your insistence to the contrary, you’re half-
convinced he just makes this shit up). 
He doesn’t even register that you’ve restarted on a different server and are
determinedly not getting up or responding or anything – he just lets himself
in, whining the usual nasally lispy whine about the usual boring shit, and
elbows you a little before he kneels between your legs. 
“Fuck’s sake.” Cold shoulder? Not working. “I’m campaigning here. Go rub your
bulge on something that doesn’t have actual shit to do. Kanaya’s keeping some
really lovely needlethorn succulents I’m sure you’d like.” 
“Good morning to you too, spongerot,” he says, about as cheerfully as he gets
outside of mania. “Do your nub-thumbed jackassery for drooly wrigglers, it’s
not like it requires a functioning thinkpan to wreck every chumpass on the beta
servers anyway.” 
“Has it occurred to you that I object more to the principle of you barging in
and bothering me when I’m in the middle of-” He unzips your pants. “Are you
even listening?” 
“What, I thought you were ignoring me. Lift your bony glutes up so I can get
your pants off.” 
“You blistering puke-clotted fuck, I swear to god – if you levitate me I will
make you so fucking sorry-” 
“Heh, you liked it well enough last time.” 
“You launched me across the fucking room!” (He caught you before you really hit
anything, but damned if that didn’t kill the mood.) 
“Shut up, you liked that too.” 
You lift your bony glutes indeed when you feel a psionic spark along your back,
and he gives you the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen as he pulls your
pants down. 
“You are kidding me with this.” 
“Nope,” he says, and smirks, and pushes your knees apart. 
Inconsiderate fuck that he is, he doesn’t even grab you a bucket, even after
you’ve abandoned the irritable façade for a more genuine fisting-hands-in-his-
hair-squirming approach. You have to actually give him a shove to make him stop
licking you (loathe though you are, at that point, that he stop) and then
threaten getting up yourself before he’ll deign to snag it with psionics. 
“So what did we learn today,” he says smugly, positioning the bucket under you
(fucking goddamn shitfuck) and looking up at you under his lashes like a
pornstar might if mutant lowbloods with attitude problems ever featured in
fucking pornos. 
You try to knee him and he grins, leans in, gets his tongue against the slit of
your nook and fuck, okay, the noise you make is totally justified. 
“Aside from. Ah. What a petulant shithead you can be about ah. Fuck. We learned
that Sollux Captor is an obnoxious bulgeslut who will stop at nothing to hassle
his supremely magnanimous ssshitoh fuck.” 
There’s not much retaliation available to you at that point but to thumb his
horns and let him fuck you with his tongue. You are briefly unable to decide if
orgasms this good are worth dealing with his bullshit, and then you are unable
to do anything but come. 
After a consciousness-obliteratingly long time he decides, by whatever
mysterious alchemy is happening in his perverted pan, that if he makes you come
any more you’re going to turn inside-out like an aquatic tube worm, and eases
up enough for you to start coming down. Half a minute of lapping at your bulge
and half a minute more of leaving hickeys on your thighs and he deems you good
to fucking go. Doesn’t fuck around with the foreplay and doesn’t stick around
for the afterglow. You can’t even decide if you appreciate that or think it’s
conceited. 
You are a hot mess and so, honestly, is he: goddamned if he hasn’t got genetic
fluid down his chin and on his fucking shirt. And he’s just snickering like a
moron, wiping his mouth and leaning back on his heels and looking you up and
down with disgusting self-satisfaction. 
“I swear to god,” you rasp out, when you can get breath again. You’re shaking
like a bitch. Why do you let him do this do you? (Other than the fact that you
can’t even make yourself come like that.) 
“Yeah, you do that a lot,” he says, and wastes no time at all in getting off
the floor to straddle you. Right down to business. “Come on, gimmie a couple
fingers, you owe me.” 
“I don’t owe you shit,” you say, and unbutton his pants anyway. “I owe you a
punch in the bulge, you overconfident asswagon.” 
“Heh.” He hasn’t even got the decency to get shivery when you rub his bulge,
just shifts his hips up with your touch and licks his lips again. 
You find yourself, pretty frequently, wishing there was an innocuous way to
tell him to stop doing that. 
Fuckbuddies you may be, but you’re very sure he’d laugh his skinny ass off if
you tried to do more than engage him in the occasional aggressive tongue-battle
(which, you’re finding, is not all it’s chalked up to be. It’s just fucking
slobbery. You want to kiss him, goddamnit, and you. Are not having a fling.
You’re fuckbuddies. Right). 
Sollux Captor has thin, chapped lips and an overbite. The amount of time you
have spent fantasizing about tenderly macking on him is exhibit number one that
you are a hopeless lunatic. 
You focus on working your fingers into him. You can be cool about this. Reason
yourself out of it. Yeah. 
“Yeah,” Sollux groans, in time with your own thoughts, and you want to tell him
to shut up and let you be dispassionate about this but you don’t. That would be
weird. You are not going to make this weird. 
“You’re gonna ruin those pants,” you say instead. He gives you a blearily
exasperated look that says he was planning on ‘borrowing’ a pair of yours
(again) and also that this is not really the time for laundry concerns. 
“So take them off,” he says, as though it’s even remotely that simple. 
“So get off my lap, you deranged nookweasel, it’s not rocket science.” 
“If I thought you were actually going to fuck me worth a damn I’d put the
effort in,” he huffs, and when you bite his shoulder through his grossly-
splattered shirt he just snickers. You don’t want to consider that you just put
your mouth on something sticky with your own genetic fluid, but there you have
it. The things this asshole reduces you to. 
The minute you pull your hand out of his pants he nips your ear, which is so
hot you can’t complain. Besides, he gets the message quick enough, sliding out
of your lap and shucking his shirt and jeans and then yanking you impatiently
down onto the floor. 
You missed the bucket a couple of times, you notice, but it’s water under the
crossing trestle at this point. 
You palm his swollen bulge and slide one finger into him, work a second
alongside. 
The first time you did this it was weird as fuck. You can barely take one, and
so when he hissed in your ear two, give me two, come on, you couldn’t decide
whether you were more freaked out or turned on. You’ve made your mind up now,
though - ten points to Vantas, division champion in unrequited attraction to
pointy-elbowed psychopaths. 
He’s slick and tight and shudders when you twist your fingers just right and
it’s worth it, you think, all the bullshit of negotiating this non-
relationship, because you know how he likes it and damned if you’re not getting
wet just giving it to him. 
You’re quickly running out of room in the bucket and you haven’t got another. 
Any serious thoughts of stopping go out the window when he starts sparking,
though – that’s always your favorite part. Panting, overstimulated, too
stubborn to tell you to stop, his mismatched oculars start leaking sparks like
he’s blown a fuse in his pan. You’ve got a minute or so before he accidentally
(‘accidentally’) zaps you, and look at that, your bucket runneth over and your
fuckbuddy curseth as he comes. 
Cleanup takes you twenty goddamn minutes. 
The useless lump that calls itself Captor passes out purring, and when you
squeeze in the ‘coon with him he slaps at you sleepily. It bears a kinky
resemblance to papping, leaving you no choice but to pinch him until he smacks
you for real. You realize the pathetic and ridiculous nature of your slime-
covered slap-fight before he does, but he’s the first to make a self-
depricatingly hilarious comment, which means he gets de facto credit. 
You don’t kiss him, however much you want to. 
Instead you sink into the sopor, right up to your chin, and lay your head
against his bony thorax. He scratches at the back of your neck with his short-
bitten claws and purrs, a low buzzy sound you can’t replicate for all your
trying. Apparently your uniquely shitty mutation knocked your rumble box into
nonfunctionality, so all you can do is sigh and loop an arm around him – I
would if I could, you want to say, but you’ve said it a dozen times and he
always just shrugs. Couldn’t care less. 
You feel weird and fragile. Sollux’s purr tapers off as he falls asleep. 
Your name is Karkat Vantas and even though you’ve never had a fling, sometimes
you think you’d like to.
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