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Kua tō Māia	By : grimreaperchibi Category: Web Comics > Homestuck Views: 1725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Homestuck, nor the places, people, or objects within. I make no money writing this.

Chapter List
- 1-Kua tō Māia
- 1
A/N: Officially, this is Aewin's three months late holiday gift. They helped nurture the idea behind this when it first sprang to life. As a doting fauxrail, I want to spoil them with the fruits that nurturing wrought.
Unofficially, this dedicated to SybLaTortue, as their art was the inspiration for it all, even if my head went and messed a lot of it up.
Need some mood music? Might I suggest Breathe by (you guessed it) Miracle of Sound.
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When you first wake up, you’re disoriented. The pillows you’re clutching are white (your bed has red and blue pillows), the murky depth of the room is unfamiliar, and you’re cold. Since everything is still pre-dawn dark, you ignore both of these observations, rolling over and nesting deeper into the heavy blankets to flirt with sleep again. You apparently fail in a manner just shy of getting a drink thrown in your face because the cold, and thus consciousness, continues to creep in. Eventually, you wake up enough to realize why; you’re alone in the bed. The personal space heater you’ve been dating steadily for a while now is gone, the exotic smell left lingering on the sheets the only thing marking his previous existence. Reluctant yet concerned, you emerge from the tangled bedding and grope through the foreign feeling room until you find something a bit warmer than skin to wear. Holy fuck, it’s cold, which means it probably snowed. Again. Why had you ever considered snow to be something desirable and fun?
Get out of the city, she said. The fresh air would be good for the both of you, she said. And look, a conveniently available cabin in the middle of fuck-all-else that facilitates all that and more! It’s per—FECT! You’re grateful for her being there and everything else these last few months, you really are. Seriously, though, the next time Feferi decides to be helpful with your vacation plans, you’re going into Witness Protection.
Your winter holiday home-away-from-home isn’t that big, despite what the open floorplan with its extra large picture windows wants you to think. All it really does is make it easy to find your wayward boyfriend. Karkat has freed a small space on the back deck from the previous night’s snowfall, stripped down to his boxer-briefs (you take a minute to thoroughly appreciate the way the cloth stretches across his ass), and is sort of just standing there now like he’s waiting for something. A part of you wants to stick your head out the door and yell at the moron. Ninety percent of the reason the two of you are out here, lost in the mountains, forest, and enough snow to last you two lifetimes, is because he’s supposed to be resting. Apparently taking the time to recover from life-saving surgery isn’t listed as a good enough excuse to stay put for more than two seconds in the Karkat Vantas Book of Bad Logic and Reasoning.
You met Karkat because you’d been trying to start over; new city, new job, new you. Taking the IT job for a think-tank company meant you still got to do what you loved without the stress that contributed to your first breakdown. As head of security, Karkat had been the one in charge of getting you clearanced out and settled in. The friendship that came after was antagonistic and accidental, but his steadfastness had anchored you, let you thrive, and saved you from the condemnation of your own thoughts more than once. And though you never meant to, had sworn not to, you fell in love. The universe finally showed you some favour—he kissed you back and agreed to go out with you as more than friends. You learned to be happy again.
And you are apparently not meant to be happy.
On some level, you recognize that it was complete random chance, a statistical anomaly, that of the six buildings on the business campus, a deranged gunman would pick yours to start shooting up. And Karkat had done his job by taking a bullet himself so that numerous other lives would be spared. The caliber was small, which helped the damage remain localized. It still macerated part of his liver and spleen, driving him through two surgeries and nearly twelve pints of blood. By the time you finally got free of the building lockdown, all you knew was that he’d left a sizable blood puddle on the foyer floor and which hospital he’d been taken to.
It was Aradia’s death all over again; the sitting, the waiting, sick with hope and fear and the daft notion that you should have been there to change fate, only worse. At least then, stained in her blood, dripping wet from the rain, you had held her until the end. She had touched you, smiled, said your name in that teasing way she always had and been with you. Not so with Karkat, whom you had not seen since going your separate ways that morning. The very fact that you waited in only slightly dusty clothes meant you’d somehow failed to be where you were needed. You’ve kept the noise in your head subdued by helping Karkat convalesce. The fear never left, but you could ignore it, mostly because getting him to treat his injury correctly took all the energy you had. As soon as he could move, he wanted to go back to work; a thought that still terrifies you.
Though he’s through the worst of it now, on the tail end of healing, the stress of it all definitely cracked your relationship. You threw yourself into your work, frustrated that Karkat seemed so hell bent on return to a job that nearly killed him. In turn, he was frustrated with you because you kept stalling out on him, making up excuses to either smother him or run away. Can’t very well run away when you’re surrounded by eight feet of snow and civilization is two hours away by car, though. And as much as you’re loathe to admit it, Feferi was right—getting out of the city and spending your accumulated holiday time together without interruptions or distraction has been good for the both of you. You’ve come to realize you’re both overprotective idiots after some impressive yelling on everyone’s part and the rest of the time has been about rediscovering the things that make your relationship worth fighting for.
Which is why you won’t interfere with this ritual of his; you know how much it means to him, how important it is for him to do this even if it doesn’t seem safe or sane. Karkat is waiting for something, attentive yet relaxed as he stands there nearly buck naked in the frigid air. You do the supportive boyfriend thing by reminding yourself he’s ready for this, stealing a cup of the coffee he started instead before settling in to watch.
This high up, there’s no messing around with daybreak. The iron gray of lingering night doesn’t gradually give way to the light, filtering through in various weak stages of colour and brightness; it evaporates as the slightest sliver of sun breaches the mountain rise. Karkat goes from being another milling night shadow to a beautiful, terrible figure braced against the otherwise consuming light. He’s ethereal as he raises his hands in a wide, sweeping arc, forcing the light to bend around his body, deepening the black of his loosely bound hair and various visible tattoos, caramelizing the olive-brown tone of his skin, and making the breath haloing his head shimmer iridescent. At the apex of his arm swing, Karkat’s stance widens. There’s a moment of absolute still. Then his foot stamps hard against the deck, his hands slap against his nearly bare thighs, and a challenging roar echoes out over the snow.
Once the movement starts, it doesn’t stop, each precise gesture making his muscles coil and flex to the rhythm set by his thudding feet. His voice shatters the silence like a rock slide, rough, tumbling, and inescapable. Staring at his back, you don’t get the full impact of what he’s doing. You can’t see how each slap to the thigh, the bicep, the chest glances off like it hit stone rather than muscle. Or how his face contorts, both grimace and scowl, turning the left half into something Old Testament devilish while the unblemished right somehow makes the tattooing even more intimidating. There’s no way to see the fire that’s caught in his eyes or appreciate the fact that he’s managed to make the childish antic of sticking his tongue out something fierce and frightening. All you see is the smooth undulation of muscle across his broad shoulder blades, the tense lines that corset his core. You can still feel it, though; the power that radiates off Karkat, turning him from a (not at all) polite wall into a force of nature. Something stronger, even, considering he started this all by flipping a middle finger to the winter cold and cowing the morning light.
The haka, as you understand it, is a war dance meant to strike fear into the opposition, to prove a warrior’s strength and prowess before the battle even starts. Karkat doesn’t need any of it in order to be intimidating—his glare naturally curdles milk—and most people find him utterly terrifying under normal circumstances. You, on the other hand, get a boner that won’t quit when faced with that ferocity, so it’s probably for the best that you don’t have a better view. Otherwise, the semi you’re sporting right now might have already exploded all over the cabinetry that isn’t yours.
It’s one of the longer variations that Karkat’s decided to go through this time. From start to finish, the whole dance takes maybe five minutes; just long enough to leave you uncomfortably turned on. You tear your eyes away from his backside as he slips back into a pair of pants to fix him a cup of coffee as well. A touch of flavoured creamer swirls through the otherwise pitch dark liquid, settling into a colour not far from his skin tone as you meet him at the back door. He’s startled, but pleased to see you there, still only half dressed as he stamps the excess snow from his equally bare feet, which means you have to work to keep your eyes up on his face. (If you don’t look at it, you can pretend that there isn’t gauze taped to his stomach, covering the remaining surgical stitches.) That’s easy to do when he breaks into an adoring smile as you hand over the coffee. He takes the cup while wrapping one of those wonderfully well muscled arms around your waist, effortlessly pulling you into a kiss that has your toes curling.
You never thought of yourself as the type who’d enjoy having to lean up in order to kiss someone. He’s only got four inches on you, but that’s enough to mean his random kisses end up on your forehead while yours land on his collarbones. Furthermore, he’s got about a hundred pounds of compact muscle on his otherwise stocky frame, making him bigger than you in just about every way possible. Being the scrawny and pale server room dweller that you are, you’re little more than a weird inverse shadow in his presence. All this means he has zero problems lifting you off your feet or pushing you around when he wants to and you kind of like that more than you should when it’s being used for sexy purposes, not evil ones.
Right now, it’s definitely sexy. The only reason you don’t take it further by grinding against one of those amazing thighs is because that’d be tantamount to dumping ice directly onto your balls at the moment. For all his natural blast furnace tendencies, Karkat’s early morning stunt in the snow has left him the consistency of a ice sculpture, something his fingers prove when they slide under your shirt to tease your lower back. You’re totally waiting for it, too, and still you jerk with a startled yelp. The bastard returns a grin to your glare, letting you know he did that absolutely on purpose. Since you are equally guilty of sticking your cold fingers and toes in uncomfortable places on him all the time, you don’t really have a right to complain. The principle of the matter still annoys you enough to smack his arm for the cheeky behavior.
“Go take a shower, dumbass,” you admonish, half-heartedly trying to push him away. Because you’re not paying attention, your lisp slaughters the end of your sentence. The mental twinge pings in your head out of habit rather than real discomfort, forgotten as quickly as it came. “Before you have to get taken off at the neck for frostbite or something.”
If anything, Karkat’s grin gets wider. That means trouble. You grab at the arm around your waist even though you have no hope of pulling it away as that cold hand purposefully slips under the band of your pants. “Why don’t you warm me back up?” he leers, letting one of those icy fingers trail down the cleft of your ass. You open your mouth to swear at him. He beats you to the punch, however, kissing you hard and oh, damn, even his tongue is a little bit cold as it strokes over yours. Hot arousal surges up to clash with low body temperature and you shudder hard, torn under the conflicting sensations. He kisses you until a whine escapes, then eases back, not really breaking it as he fumbles around for a flat surface to put that mug of coffee on without pulling away or letting you go. Once both hands are free, they’re on you, so gentle and soft despite what you know them to be capable of. “Warm me up,” he breathes, more entreaty than innuendo this time, pressing kisses to your face like he can’t bear to stop.
Even you don’t get to hear Karkat sound vulnerable often. That more than anything makes you reach up and pull him back in for a proper kiss, one he returns with enthusiasm. After that, it doesn’t take long for those hands of his to find purchase somewhere under your bony ass and lift you clear of the floor. Despite the number of times he’s done this, you still flail for a second before your limbs wrap tightly around him. The reaction plays right into his devious plan—your legs twine around his waist while your arms tighten around his neck, leaving you clinging to him in a manner that lets you know you’re not the only one dealing with an advanced case of morning wood here. There’s a fleeting thought that he shouldn’t be doing this; that gets disregarded once he starts walking. You moan instead, lost between the drugging effects of his lips and the subtle rub against your groin.
The next time your feet hit the floor, you’re back in the bedroom, those still cold hands already working hard at relieving you of your clothes. There isn’t much resistance from a pair of sweat and a long-sleeved shirt, but he still has them both out of the way by the time you manage to undo the knot keeping his pants where they are no longer required to be. It seems like he never stops kissing you, his mouth losing urgency as the simple pleasure of being this kind of intimate settles in. His broad, calloused palms skim over your skin almost reverently, trying to touch everything, eventually coming to anchor around your head. He cradles your jaw, lets his fingers splay out through your hair while his thumbs caress your cheekbones, treating you like you’re something infinitely precious. The gesture never fails to make something inside you melt. All you can do in return is open your mouth to him as your hands pet his sides and stomach.
You cringe when your fingers find the medical tape, but Karkat doesn’t let you pull away or apologize for it. He redirects your now reluctant hand down further, groaning in relief when you hesitantly take hold of his heavy erection. The sound goes straight to your own dick, overriding some of your trepidation. A light squeeze followed by a firm stroke coaxes a similarly pleased noise from Karkat’s throat. The kiss breaks for good as he gathers you close, starting to pant in your ear as he presses his head to yours for stability. It never ceases to amaze you how quickly he turns to quivering putty in your hands. He’d have zero problems just taking anything he wanted from you, but he doesn’t; never has for as long as you two have been friends, let alone anything more exclusive. He lets you slowly jack him off, growing harder with every pass, hot breath puffing against your neck while his hands clutch at you like you’re the last stable thing in the universe instead of the other way around.
You palm him until precum slicks your hand. Then you nudge him towards the bed; he gives easily to the pressure, bouncing a bit oddly on the mattress you still don’t know whether to call hard or soft. Both of you free yourselves from the clothing that’s pooled around your ankles, leaving it to puddle elsewhere. His knees shift open just wide enough to let you sit comfortably between them. You pet his gorgeous thighs as you settle in, dragging your lips along the sensitive inner line before licking at the broad band of ink that encircles his leg, following the mark as far around as you can reach. You continue spreading open mouthed kisses up from there until you can suck at the enticingly soft crease of his pelvis. Then you repeat the worship on the opposite side, languid and worshipping. Karkat’s trembling by the time you finish, hands fisted into the bed sheets as a flush crawls under his dark complexion.
He’s propped up on his hands, watching you with an intensity that would be intimidating under any other circumstance until the moment you take a steadying grip on him again. Then he collapses down to his elbows, his ankles locking together behind you as you return his heated gaze. The white patch on his stomach is distracting, though, so you look away as you lick a stripe up the underside of his wonderfully sensitive dick. Karkat huffs out a moan that turns into a sharp whine as the flat of your tongue runs over the crown. He tastes good enough you do it again before going down properly on him.
Despite the fact that you can practically unhinge your jaw and have no gag reflex to speak of, this part of your boyfriend is proportioned correctly to the rest of him; there’s only so much you can take. You don’t even try in the beginning. Many embarrassing, fumbling nights have taught you what he likes, what he doesn’t, and all the other little quirks that help facilitate this particular act. Karkat can become over-stimulated quickly, meaning you don’t focus on any one particular point for too long. Tension is monitored via a hand resting against his shaking thigh, the reedy whine that accompanies each breath telling you when it’s time to move on. You lap over his f-spot a few times before licking your way down the rest of his shaft, lavishing attention as you go until your teeth can gently tug at the looser skin around the base of his cock. You stroke the whole of his wet length with your free hand, adding a little twist when you reach the head that makes Karkat’s whole body shudder, then lick a broad stripe over his balls before tonguing and sucking at the soft flesh there.
When one of his hands starts carding through your hair, that’s your cue to give up the tease-retreat tactics. What can fit goes back down your throat and what can’t gets jerked by your hand. You brace against his completely tense legs as you fall into the infamous bob-and-suck rhythm, guided by that reassuring pressure on your head. Your name starts slipping out of his mouth the closer he gets, the full “Sollux” quickly morphing into just “Sol” as he barrels towards completion. Then his breath catches completely, body too tense to even quiver. You try to open your throat further, take just that much more, because in the next moment Karkat’s coming in a series of strong pulses that makes your jaw ache. In the end, it’s less than what it could have been, but each throb still pumps out a significant amount that is hard to swallow alone. You hold still until he takes a desperate gasp for air, which in turn releases the rigor that has overtaken the rest of his body. You ease off him, giving one last light suck to the hypersensitive head before letting it roll off your tongue, just so you can taste him again, and maybe also to hear that satisfied-yet-somehow-still-interested moan that drifts up from the covers he’s completely collapsed into.
Getting off your knees requires a rolling start and a lot of heaving with your arms, but you’re rather used to that because of your day job, huddled up behind misbehaving servers and under the random-odd desk unit. And the way Karkat looks now, flushed, lazy, content, more than makes up for any stiff muscle complaints. Sweat glistens silver on his skin, shifting in pattern as his muscles contract and expand with each heavy, gradually slowing breath. Your eyes roam possessively for no better reason than they can, a self-satisfied twist pulling half-consciously at your lips. He’s gorgeous and you made him this way… The feeling of pride and love that washes through you is hard and aches in the best way possible, but it’s still edged with something sharper, less romantic because of the white stain on his dark skin.
You try to look past it, but it’s hard, given the contrast. The desire to rip the bandage off is both tempting and torturous. You hate seeing it there, hate what it signifies, hate that the memories you’ve worked so hard to lock away still slip free to run amok because of it. Seeing the sixteen surgical stitches underneath, however, would taunt you worse than the white bandage ever could. Bad enough to feel the uneven surface under the slight padding afforded by the square piece of gauze; to actually see the—
You don’t realize you’ve fixated until Karkat reaches over and touches you, startling you out of your spiraling thoughts. Your gaze jerks guiltily away and you bite your lip, stopping yourself from apologizing for more things than you could possibly explain. He doesn’t ask or admonish, just let’s his fingers trail along your cheek, the warmth there grounding and reassuring. You nuzzle against his palm, taking comfort in its solid existence. When he tugs you forward, you oblige, carefully crawling onto the bed with him. Karkat’s not happy leaving it at that; he keeps pulling at you, closer and further up until he can kiss you again, which he does with slow understanding and great empathy. It’s soft, passionate even, but also undemanding, nor overtly sexual. Not a first. Not until you’re feeling steady again and the curling tendrils of pleasure have helped you relax once more.
When you get back into the present moment, Karkat does this odd little wiggle number underneath you. Then your back hits the mattress before you can register what is going on. He pulls away just long enough to swing your legs around so that the both of you are laying out properly on the bed before he returns to kissing you in that slow, intense way he has. The arousal your mental detour almost doused comes back; Karkat is methodical in the way he stokes it back to life. He’s holding himself above you solidly on one arm, hand buried in your hair while the other kneads up and down your side, ribs to knee and back again. His tongue’s back in your mouth, stroking lovingly over your own, not the slightest bit disturbed by the taste of his own orgasm still lingering there. You might not be taking the full weight of his body, but he’s still pressed against you firmly enough that you can feel the thud of his heartbeat in your chest. His still mostly soft erection is gaining strength against your lower stomach, urged on by the way you shift against him. Every place the cold had touched him is gone now and his heat is as pushy as the rest of him, burrowing under your skin now that it’s overflowing from his. You drink it in readily, letting it fill up the empty spaces inside you until it prickles along your skin in all the places his fingers trace. By the time he releases your mouth, you feel hot, heavy, and on the slightly liquid side of drunk. Then his tongue slides over your throat. Everything in you suddenly solidifies, leaving you arching and twisting up against him in an effort to deal with the pressure change. The noise you make is as much a gasp as it is a groan. Karkat echoes it back in your ear as he grinds down into you, starting the process all over again.
“Let me…?” he finally asks, his words trailing off with a suggestive roll of his hips quite different from the way he’s been moving against you for the last few minutes. You know exactly what he wants, and at first, you hesitate; the stitches… At the same time, though, you want. You have yet to get off this morning and it’s been over two months since you’ve enjoyed something more than your own hand. Add that to the fact that he rarely asks to be on top and a shiver of pure lust runs down your spine. The simple thought of having him buried inside you is enough to instigate a vicious war between what you should do and what you want to do in your brain, one that turns sharply when he suggests you ride on top of him.
“Just…be careful.” They’re words of surrender, words you’re pretty sure he’s going to misconstrue, but Karkat takes them in with all seriousness. There’s a lingering kiss before he’s sliding off the bed to get the lube. With a fainéant stretch, you roll onto your stomach, the weird combination of arousal, nerves, and concern making it a somewhat uncomfortable position to be in. There isn’t a chance to back out or think better, though. A warm hand wraps around your ankle, pulling it a bit wider before smoothing up the back of your calf, knee, thigh as Karkat settles between your legs. You hear the bottle hit the covers, close, yet out of the way. Then he’s leaning over you, kissing and sucking at your shoulders before slowly working his way down the stark line of your vertebrae. His hair has come loose and it trails along your skin in a soothing, fragrant wave. Your unease melts under his presence; you relax, small noises of pleasure falling into line with your breathing. Though it’s obvious he’s moving with purpose, Karkat takes his time getting there. The whole of your back is given attention via soft kisses and broad licks until you’re squirming and raising your hips in order to urge him on. You’re pretty sure the asshole lingers right there, at the flat-ish point where your spinal column intersects with your pelvis, because you’re trying to urge him on…
His legs brace against yours as his hands curl almost possessively around your hips, pulling you back to him, up onto your knees. Everything in your back flexes, stretching, elongating into one of the few yoga poses you know. A steadying breath placates both the feeling of exposure as well as the tense muscles still holding out. He strokes your sides soothingly and you hum, contented, gathering your arms and a pillow under your head as you settle into the position. Karkat runs an appreciative hand over the arch in your back before both hands spread over what little you have to call an ass. He seems fascinated, though, as he starts methodically kneading what’s in his grasp. It starts small with just the tips of his fingers digging in, almost rhythmic, until his whole hand is into the movement, encouraging you to open up further for him, which you do with small murmurs of encouragement.
When his hold shifts, you suck in an unconscious breath. The bed creaks a bit as Karkat leans in, tongue practically molten as it glides over your perineum, following the body seam all the way up to your tail bone. Your lungs seize around the air you drew in, only to stutter back out with a wavering moan when Karkat purposefully drives the tip of his tongue into your ass. Your mind tells you that it’s disgusting while your body tells you it’s wonderful and when Karkat does it again, higher brain function kindly ceases to function, leaving you to drift on the waves of pleasure being provided undisturbed. And it feels stupidly good to have his tongue brush repeatedly over all those nerve endings, leaving you drooling into the pillow as much as your cock is onto the sheets under you. Every pass seems to leave more saliva behind, letting his tongue glide wherever it wants, including further into you and it does so on a frequent basis. There’s several long draws across the surface before pushing past the increasingly less resistant muscles, making you moan mindlessly into the pillow you keep clutching harder. Every time he does it, another wave of heat washes over your senses, placating the desire to get off as much as it makes you want more.
Karkat is well versed in the fact your body often thinks it wants more than it can actually handle. As such, he continues on at his own pace regardless of how you whine and wiggle. You, in turn, do your best to lay there and enjoy what you have, a difficult task when he finally gets you open enough to fuck you with nearly the whole length of his tongue. You’re only half aware of moaning his name, let alone how you keep trying to press your hips back further. His mouth seals against your skin, adding a bit of pressure to the wet, undulating muscle sliding in and out of you without much care for consistency. Then his hand slides over your neglected erection, already slick because of the amount of precum you’ve been leaking and almost burning hot around you. One…two good pulls of his hand in tandem with his tongue and you’re undone, coming against his palm and his mouth while you muffle your shout in the severely mangled pillow.
For a few blissful moments, you simply exist, free form and content. Then the machinery in your head starts slowly chugging back to life, leaving you aware that you’re too warm, that you’re being touched, and that for some absurd reason you have toes, but nothing connecting you to them. As more information starts lining up into the correct order, you realize it’s Karkat who’s touching you, petting your damp skin and spreading random kisses to your hips and lower back while he patiently waits for you to come back from la-la-land.
“You okay?” he asks when you finally gain enough cohesion to stretch again, trying to ease the ache in your shoulders. You hum back something in the direction of yes, still not functioning fast enough for the whole word thing to be viable. A warm, affectionate chuckle rumbles out of your boyfriend as he continues to touch, the lethargy you feel waning under the soft attention. In fact, you’re just about done being a space case when he lets his fingers oh-so-innocently trail over your still saliva-slick hole, making you shiver and whine a bit. You know it’s the whine that gives him pause. Both hands spread across your backside in an effort to be steadying. “Do you want to continue?”
It wouldn’t be the first time you took that question as an out, nor would it be the last. Something in the distant reaches of your mind is trying to tell you to take it now, that there’s a perfectly sane and valid reason to squirm out of playing the bottom this time. Damned if you can remember it though. You’re still drifting in the shallow end of orgasmic bliss and don’t necessarily want it to end yet. So you shimmy your hips in a manner you hope is enticing, replying, “It’s okay.” Your voice is breathy only partly by design and you can’t even be bothered by how the lisp slurs everything this time. You let your legs slip open further as you do everything you can to exaggerate the arch in your back. “Please, KK.”
It’s probably a good thing neither of you are much for dirty talk because frankly, you’re fucking awful at it. Karkat doesn’t say anything at all—his approval is demonstrated by the warm kiss to your tailbone and his hot tongue back against those still tingling nerves endings of yours. Thanks to his earlier efforts, you’re still loose enough for it to slip inside you with relative ease and you relax quickly to further prodding. It doesn’t take long before he starts teasing a finger in at the same time. Covered with not quite warm lube, he eases that digit further into you than his tongue could ever hope to go, pressing forward and retreating only to press forward a little bit further the next time.
For a while, his tongue continues to lap over the edges. Those eventually dissolve into more open mouthed kisses spread over your upturned ass. By the time that first finger sits comfortably inside you, it’s just his other hand steadying you, absently stroking the skin under it as he concentrates on this part of the prep. In the mean time, you have fallen back to half-sighs and soft murmurs of encouragement as Karkat takes his time making sure you’re open and comfortable. He pauses a couple of times to add more of that still cool lube, the gel-like consistency warming quickly as it gets worked into you. It’s an easy ride like this, one you’re content to take as the smaller waves of pleasure gently build you back up.
Though you’re doubtful you ever went truly soft, the tension in your dick has definitely returned by the time you feel that first finger withdraw completely, only to return with a second already lubed up and trailing after. There’s a significant amount of resistance at first (there always is), but Karkat doesn’t force the issue, careful and steady as he coaxes you into accepting both fingertips, then the first knuckle, and then the second. It doesn’t hurt; your boyfriend is far too gentle with you for it to actually hurt. It aches, though, being stretched like this, enough that you can’t enjoy the feeling of him sliding in and out the way you were before. The sparks of pleasure are there still, a reward for your body’s slow-to-come cooperation, and you focus on helping those catch. The broad hand on your back keeps your hips tilted at the right angle. You do your best to keep your breathing steady, trying to ignore the natural inclination you have to tense every time those fingers shift. For a while, it feels like you’ll never relax enough to take those two digits, let alone what’s to follow. Then something shifts and you moan as the discomfort gets overrun by the heady tension of being filled.
And this is the reason why you are typically the giving force during sexy times—your body does not like to stretch. Karkat’s barely two fingers into you and already, you feel almost too full. You’re no slouch in the endowment area, but that doesn’t make up for how much physically bigger your lover is than you. You’d be a liar, though, if you said you didn’t love it, the feeling of his thick shaft inside you, filling you up past what it feels like you can handle. If it didn’t reek absolute havoc with your body, you’d let him take you more often. Already, you can feel where the strain is going to linger over the next day or so. It’s probably a good thing he can haul you around like the skinny sack of bones you are because he’s going to have to after this. But that’s a problem for later. Right now, it feels too good to worry about such trivialities. Karkat asks if you’re doing all right. You practically chant affirmation back to him, breaking off into a wavering moan when he starts tentatively moving again. The full feeling doesn’t so much dissipate as it turned into a longing, spurred on not only by the fingers pumping into you, but also the knowledge that this is only the start. There’s more to come. So much more and your want for it only increases every time those large fingers brush your prostate in their quest to makes sure you can handle what you want.
Taking the third fingers is a lot like taking the second; there’s more even breathing, more remembering to relax, and being even more patient. Still no pain, but the ache is profound, fighting against the aroused throb in your cock and leaving you struggling to make sense of the conflicting signals. Karkat keeps up a croon of encouragement you can’t necessarily understand, pausing every so often to make sure you’re still doing good. You don’t know whether to praise him as a saint for being so thorough and concerned or curse him because he always seems to stop right when you’re on the verge of accepting. Besides, it’s a matter of pride now. You’ve gotten this far and you’re not willing to back down. The result is that you’re probably more verbose in your response to him than is actually true, trying to encourage Karkat to keep going. He does, and before long, you’re back to drooling into the pillow, breathing hard as you slowly lose your mind to how great the extra pressure of a third finger feels.
All the crossed wires in your head have fused together by the time he pulls back, leaving you whining at the loss, yet eager for the replacement. Karkat pulls one of your legs out from under you, helping you to roll to one side so that you don’t accidentally twinge something trying to regain a more natural body position. You stretch the kinks out while Karkat pushes the bedding around, creating a comfortable place to lean against the headboard. He flops into his new spot, not even getting fully situated before reaching for you. Your mouths meet again, hot and urgent, as he pulls you over him, arms tangling as you both struggle to get into the right position for this to work. All either of you really manage to do is get in one another’s way, but it’s an excuse to add in some groping, mumbling teases and false grumblings back and forth between kisses.
By the time your hands hit the headboard, his have wrapped securely around your waist. You can feel his erection slide along your ass and fleetingly wonder if he used half the bottle of lube on you and then the rest on himself because everything feels so fucking wet right now. Then you’re sitting up and twisting to reach behind you, stroking the solid shaft you find a few times just to watch Karkat’s eyes roll up into his head. When he flexes his hips up in response, you take the invitation. Karkat freezes the moment he actually starts penetrating you, barely daring to even breathe, where as you pant heavily against the building pressure. Your boyfriend has done his job well, though—between how turned on you are and the extensive amount of prep, the crown slips in without too much undo trouble. From there, it’s a slow, yet even slide the rest of the way down. A hard throb of arousal pulses through you when your ass settles against Karkat’s thighs, making you moan.
All you can do for a minute is breathe. Everything inside you feels wondrously, almost dangerously tight. It takes a minute for the edge to fade, but you’re more than happy to sit there and wait, getting used to having him inside you. As you start to relax, your eyes drift open to the beautiful sight of Karkat under you. He really is gorgeous, his thick, wild black hair splayed out over the pillows he’s leaning against, curling against his collarbones. It calls attention to the fierce pride he holds for his Maori bloodlines, manifested as a half mask of intricate swirls of black on his face. What light had filtered past the still drawn curtains has caught in his eyes along with all the fiery passion he possess, the rich brown now practically red as he returns your gaze with love and adoration; the intensity makes your heart thump hard against your ribs. And holy fuck, do you love him back, this beautiful, infuriating, stubborn, heartfelt, strong-yet-soft man who makes you feel so deliriously normal even when you’re rocking through the extremes of your emotions. It’s strong, painful and overwhelming, this feeling he’s somehow stolen from you, made you believed existed again, and you can only love him all the more for it.
The chance to say something embarrassingly sappy slips by when Karkat tentatively flexes his hips. The last of your body’s resistance melts under a flood of desire. Reaffirming your hold on the headboard, you rock up on to your knees, feeling him slide out until it seems like he’s going to slip free completely, then let yourself back down. You moan has he easily fills you again, loving the way his hands tighten around your waist. You do it again, making sure you’re riding along as much of his length as possible, and then he meets your down stroke. This time, he moans and you hiss, that extra bit of momentum ratcheting up the arousal twisting around in your stomach. You want so badly, but you’re not ready for this to end yet…
Not that you have much of a choice in the matter. Every time you move, it’s a little faster, a little harder. Karkat keeps thrusting up to meet you, pushing himself that much deeper inside you and it’s rapidly dissolving your already flimsy self-control. Before long, the effort has you trembling. That firm grip on your waist keeps you moving steadily for a while longer, until the want is a need that can no longer be ignored. You stammer out something between all the other noises you’re helpless to stop making, hoping it’s coherent enough for your partner to understand because you certainly have no idea what you’re saying. Then those hands slip down to your hips, pushing you harder and faster and oh fuck yes, this is what you’ve been craving. This incredible, insistent feeling of being filled, being whole, devastated by sensation to the point where all you can do is feel without the obnoxious noise in the back of your head poisoning the moment. There’s only you and him and now and that glorious conclusion you’re both starting to crash headlong into.
Somehow you get a hand on yourself—you’re an absolute mess—and that’s enough to loosen your tongue again. The only word you can conjure, the only one that means something, is his name. Not just the familiar and easy “KK” you’ve been using since you met, either. “Karkat” falls from your lips, a prayer, plea, affirmation, invocation, and so much more as you hit your orgasm first. It rips through like lighting, spurred on by each frantic thrust as Karkat tries to reach the same end. It’s simultaneously too much and perfectly enough as you seize around each intrusion, buoying yourself along until he makes this sobbing-snarl sound and he’s coming in those strong, rhythmic pulses that echo yours. Even though you’re both spent, you continue to move against each other through the final aftershocks, drawing out that last bit of pleasure before collapsing together into a tired heap.
The world is blissful and silent as you slowly float back down from your second high. You remain entwined for a while, only breaking apart briefly to slip off of him and curl into more comfortable cuddling positions. Eventually there will be a need for a shower (another round pressed up against the wall, losing your mind and sense of reality to the steam and heat) and food (cold cups of coffee, fruit neither of you can identify, and slightly burnt toast) and then you’ll settle into the day’s activities (he’ll pick that trashy romance back up and you’ll restart your campaign against Gannondork). In a couple more days, you’ll go back to your shared apartment in the city, then back to work the following Monday, and all the daily bullshit that is being a responsible adult. For now, though, there are no worries, no stress. There’s a bubble of peace surrounding you. Karkat’s heartbeat is strong in your ear, steady and soothing. His hand idly strokes your lower back as he whispers little bits of love into your hair. There’s quiet in your head and a pleasant ache in your hips and for the moment, at least, nothing else matters more.
Except maybe kissing him again, which is something you’ll be forever grateful you gathered to the courage to do so long ago. And as his lips melt over yours once more, you think to yourself that maybe one day, you’ll have the courage to ask him to stay forever.
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A/N: The title means "to have courage" in Maori (according to Google Translate and my dictionary searching skills). Alternative titles considered include "Hotty Hot Hottie KK" and "Sollux==> shimmy your hips in a manner you hope is enticing," both of which were suggested by my co-conspiritor-in-crime moirail Robin.
Want more writing/music/bad fangirl antics? I've got a semi-NSFW writing blog where all the weirdness gets dumped @ grimreaperchibi on tumblr.
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