
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1318306.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Jake_English/Karkat_Vantas
  Character:
      Jake_English, Karkat_Vantas, Karkat's_last_shred_of_dignity
  Additional Tags:
      Wet_&_Messy, Flapjack_play, Food_Kink, Caliginous_Romance_|_Kismesis,
      Crack_Treated_Seriously, Masturbation, Sexual_Fantasy, the_worst_jake,
      Not_Canon_Compliant, Humor, okay_maybe_just_crack, Community:_homesmut
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-15 Words: 2303
****** Karkat: encounter flapjacks. ******
by deadcellredux, orphan_account
Summary
     "Would you care for a flapjack?" he inquires, ever-cheerful and
     downright grating as you enter the kitchen. The goofy grin on his
     face is 100% earnest, and you absolutely hate it.
Notes
     Written for the kinkmeme prompt Karkat furiously masturbating in the
     shower, thinking about just how much he loathes Jake English.
     WHOOPS
You had sincerely hoped that no one else would be in the meteor’s kitchen at
this hour, but judging by the sweet stench wafting down the hall, someone is in
there and cooking. If you were just grabbing a snack, you’d turn right back
around, but unfortunately you promised Rose and Jane that you’d do your dishes
first thing in morning. You’ll just go in there, do the dishes, and get the
fuck back out.
"Good morning, Mister Vantas!"
Oh for fuck’s sake. It’s Jake.
Not surprisingly, he doesn't give you time to respond before he continues.
"Would you care for a flapjack?" he inquires, ever-cheerful and downright
grating as you enter the kitchen. The goofy grin on his face is 100% earnest,
and you absolutely hate it.
His statement is so bizarre that it takes you off-guard, causing you to pause
and reply rather than shoving past him to get to the sink.
"What the fuck is a flapjack?" you ask, incredulous, though you've already
decided that whatever the hell it is, you'd rather devour a dusty, bitter,
rainbow buffet of chalk with Terezi than put this …jackflap bullshit in your
protein chute.
Jake smiles and holds up a large platter upon which heaps of ugly discs of
bread product lay, drenched in a gross amber ooze that reminds you of alien goo
bursting out of enemies in a FPS more so than anything that might resemble
food. Something clicks, and you realize, immediately, that the awful sweet
smell is coming from the stuff. You cringe as he continues.
“Why, it’s a breakfast classic! Flapjacks with real maple syrup! Or, well, I
ought to say, real imitated maple syrup, if that even makes sense, har har. Now
don’t be shy; you're in luck today, Sir Troll! I’ve made enough for two. Come
on chum, step right up with your plate!”
"Don't come near me with that shit," you bark, and take a step back. You want
nothing more than to knock that platter out of his hand, if only to see the
look on his face, as irrational as that is. Objectively, he isn’t really that
much worse than any of your other taintlicking friends, but he gets to you in a
way that’s completely beyond reason. The warning bell’s starting to go off in
your head; you should just get the hell out.
“C’mon, just give it a try!” he insists, matching your retreat with a stride
forward.
"I said I don't want the flapjacks."
You try to push past him, and the next few seconds of your life flash before
your eyes before they even happen in the worst-ever montage of pure fucking
fail ever imagined. As you take a step, you see it there, dripping over the
edge of the plate in Jake's hands-- a thin stream of syrup, which your eyes
follow down, down to the floor, into a puddle on the floor into which your foot
is about to land, and--
Shit. You already know where this is going. You knew where this was going
before you even tried to alter the path of your foot with a switch of your hip
but it was too late. You knew it. Your heel slides and you lurch. You're all
going down: pancakes, syrup, and one human fuckface. Smack.
"Fuck!" you scream, and grasp at the edge of the counter with one hand and
Jake's arm with the other in a last failed attempt to steady yourself. You gasp
in horror-- the fucking counter is sticky too.
Jake makes an awful goofy noise as he's tugged down with you, and a fluffy
blanket of fuckflaps or whatever the hell they're called slaps down on top of
you, along with Jake himself. The clatter of the tin plate against the floor is
awful. The smell is awful. Jake is awful. Everything is fucking awful.
Fuck your life.
"Did you have to get syrup on everything?" you yell, feeling aching and sore
and winded, as you try to shove Jake off of you. He’s heavier than he looks.
"What the fuck is your problem? Are you some sort of syrup-obsessed freak? Is
this a fetish or something? Do you enjoy rolling around it in and rubbing it
all over yourself or something? This is fucking awful. The kitchen is sticky,
do you know how fucking disgusting this is? Get the fuck off me--"
With one particularly inept shove, you manage to simply elbow Jake in the
stomach. There’s less give that you expected, and while you don’t exactly
bounce off of his abs, he doesn’t seem particularly hurt either. If anything,
it eggs him on.
“If you wanted a good scrums you could have just asked!” Jake laughs. Rage
rises inside you. How the fuck can he be laughing with his breakfast ruined and
the two of you both drenched in its saccharine gore?!
“No, I don’t want a scrum--” you manage to squeak, before he pins you down
beneath him by the wrists.
His face is inches from yours, glaring down at you, and another emotion rushes
through you. It’s not just pure, unadulterated rage. No, it’s definitely been
adulterated with...
Could this be… is it… hate?
You feel the familiar warmth of arousal as you struggle beneath him. He’s
laughing and egging you on with those bullshit chucklefuck phrases of his, and
you become aware of the fact that you no longer can smell the sweet stench of
syrup. It’s overpowered by something even stronger, kind of spicy, dark, and
revolting.
Is that… Axe? You didn’t think humans had Axe too. But no, of course this
douchenozzle would fucking wear Axe.
Your bulge has definitely decided to get involved.
You need to get out now.
You finally put some effort into your struggles, and it seems to take Jake a
bit off guard. Your bodies twist, and you realize the sudden and dangerous
possibility that Jake might notice the obvious party currently happening in
your pants.
Fuck this.
You knee him hard in his tender human shame globes, and he lets out a series of
undignified exclamations as he topples over.
“Jimmy Christmas! What in the high heavens was that for?! Foul play, sir! Hot
butter that hurt!”
The stream of absolute fucking nonsense grows distant as you frantically flee.
Your almost slip on syrup again in your haste, but manage to right yourself.
You have never needed a shower so badly in your life.
                                   + + + + +
You can’t deny it, as much as it makes you want to throw yourself into a
bottomless chasm and disappear into the abyss. You have feelings. Why the fuck
do you have to be caliginous for HIM?!
The shower is full blast and hot enough to steam up the entire bathroom, but it
feels goddamn chilly compared to your rage. You punch the wall of the shower in
a motion half-hearted enough to make you feel pathetic, yet hard enough to
actually hurt. You curse as you vainly try to shake the sting from your
possibly-bruised knuckles. That was stupid, you think, but not one-thousandth
as stupid as the other pathetic emotions coursing through you, so maybe it’s a
blessing that you distracted yourself for one fucking second.
The respite doesn’t last long. Your cursing trickles off into an exasperated
sigh and you lean your forehead against the wall, idly rubbing your aching
hand. As the pain fades, the reason for your initial outburst clearly prances
through your mind.
You can’t stop thinking about him.
Seriously, of all the self-absorbed, ass-backwards, idiotic humans and trolls
you know, Jake fucking English is the one who’s now stuck in your mind like
hoofbeast droppings on your favorite pair of shoes.
Or syrup...
You thought you’d fallen in hate before, but those feelings were nothing
compared with the gut-churning detestation you feel for this human boy who had,
at first, seemed to be nothing more than an innocuous Egbert lookalike, and yet
you’ve now discovered that he is indeed much, much worse than that. You hadn’t
thought worse was possible. Why were you ever so naive?!
Your sore hand starts to creep across your stomach, and you’re aware of an
acute yearning, the steady burn of pitch hate accompanied by undeniable
arousal. Jake’s perpetual, idiotic grin seems burned into your mind as your
eyes flutter shut.
A quiet groan slips through your lips as your hand finds your bulge and wraps
around the base. Your length is already thick and full, slowly writhing with
desire. You can’t kid yourself; you hate Jake and you want Jake. There’s no way
to deny it, and there’s no one here but your own lust-addled self.
You might as well get down to business.
You shift one foot out further to better reach between your legs as you bring
your other hand down. It goes further than your first, past your bulge to slide
into the tightness of your nook.
You begin to embellish on the memory of earlier this morning, shamefully
reimagining the events of earlier.
You’re under him on the floor again, except this time, it’s different. The
glint in Jake’s eyes is knowing rather than innocent, his motions oh-so-
deliberate as he grabs your hair, his hand sticky with syrup and your eyes roll
back as he pulls.
A rational part of your thinkpan reminds you that this is fucking awful, but
your desire only heightens as you rub your shame globes through the wall of
your nook. No, that’s not quite enough, You stroke your bulge, think pan
sifting through other possibilities in your sick fantasy sylladex.
This time, there are no flapjacks in sight, though Jake is standing over you, a
bottle of syrup in one hand. You’re naked, one hand wrapped around your bulge -
which you release in embarrassment as soon as you see him. You don’t know what
the fuck you’re doing here but it’s a goddamn jacking off fantasy so you stop
thinking about that and focus the object of your loathing.
“You look like you could use a hand there,” Jake says, one eyebrow raised
saucily as he gets down on one knee. He doesn’t extend a hand though, and
neither do you, as yours are otherwise occupied. There are two ways he could
mean that, but there’s no way he’s going to actually help you with either. You
simply prop yourself up on your elbows, cheeks burning bright red, and glare at
him defiantly.
Sure enough, his free hand instead goes to sensually caress the syrup bottle,
making exaggerated motions with his fingertips as if he’s teasing a ticklish
lover. It’s like something out of a bad porn gif, yet your bulge is still full
with arousal and shifting across your stomach, begging for you to return to
your ministrations.
“Or perhaps,” he continues, “some lubrication.” He punctuates it with the
goofiest wink possible and you roll your eyes - which is where your first
mistake is.
You can’t believe that you’re actually thinking this right now. This is
downright fucking vile…
Whatever.
Jake’s hand lands on your hip, pinning you in place, his calloused, large hand
warm against your skin. What follows, however, is cold and smooth and sticky
and terrible and all over your goddamn bulge. You swear like a subjuggalator
witnessing blasphemy, bubbling with rage, as he pours the entire contents of
the bottle over you, drizzling from the base of your ribcage all the way down
your stomach and thighs. With his iron grip, you can’t wiggle away, so instead
the sap covers your lower torso, coating your bulge and dripping down your
nook. It’s going to take forever to clean off, but Jake’s just grinning at you
stupidly, like he did something to help.
“I daresay that should be wet enough, don’t you, chap? But our jolly breakfast
is just getting started, isn’t it?”
Yeah. You can’t help but smile to yourself at how brilliantly you’ve managed to
capture his kooky voice.
Suddenly you remember that you have hands that you could be using, and you grab
for him. He laughs and tosses the bottle aside, freeing both hands to promptly
grab your wrists. With his strength and size, he’s able to shove your wrists
together, grab them in just one hand, and push them back down. Of course, he’s
still straddling you, but now he’s leaning over more, his body nearly parallel
with you. His free hand runs across your belly, sliding through the syrup and
down to your soaked, uncomfortable, and yet still lively bulge.
“I’m sure, my good fellow, you’re wondering what else we need to get underway
to a truly remarkable morning meal experience!” His hand briefly squeezes your
bulge but doesn’t stop there. His long fingers move lower still until they’re
caressing nook. Jake envelops them with one of his large hands, covering them
and just barely teasing the entrance between them, the spot where your wetness
is less syrup and more desire. “I reckon your muffin could use some...
sausage.” He wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis.
You shudder and bang your forehead against the wall as you come. Genetic
material shoots out of your bulge, splattering the shower wall, and your nook
throbs rhythmically around your fingers. You curse and gasp and nearly lose
your balance, but the pleasure flows out of you quickly, leaving you shaking
and weak. You sink down, sitting on the floor of the shower, your sticky cum
still beneath you, the water taking its sweet time washing it away.
You just jacked off to fantasizing about Jake English.
You just jacked off to fantasizing about Jake English pouring maple syrup on
you and calling his penis a sausage.
You bury your face in your hands and wonder how the fuck you reached this new,
spectacular, unforeseen low.
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