coprime_recs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
coprime_recs) wrote2021-03-20 07:48 pm
coprime_recs) wrote2021-03-20 07:48 pm
Entry tags:
Homestuck: Comets and Coal by SpoonerizeSwiftness
Comets and Coal (Karkat/Gamzee | PG13 | 21,393 words | sequel to Diamonds and Stars): For Karkat and Gamzee, life after quitting the traditional porn industry includes obsessive stalkers. This is a really interesting fic dealing with (mostly Karkat's) stalkers and the consequences of them and how Karkat and Gamzee work together on a day-to-day basis.
Excerpt:
"Sometimes a fucker just…gets sick up in the pan," he says, and leans forward, tucks your head under his chin so you can feel his squawk-blister hum against your skin. You focus on that, try to breathe—the list of awful things they said, the things they wanted to do to him, it keeps scrolling past behind your eyes and you can't stop shaking, gasping for deep, fast breaths that make the roof of your mouth buzz and don't seem to get you any air. "A couple sick fuckers, Karkat, but not some god set to come down on us. Just trolls, love, fuck, just trolls. Shooosh. And we got bigger on our side, bigger and better. There's those as love you better, remember?" He kisses your head, the root of one horn, slips his hand under the back of your shirt to rub cool circles on your overheated skin. "We got the biggest and most baddest of bitches on our side we got me and we got you and—fuck, we got the goddamn empress, beloved, they won't just come in here and hurt not a single one of us."
"We—could fight," you say, shaky, trying to convince yourself, "—you can—you could—" You trail off, unwilling to ask from him what's running through your pan, but the words hang unsaid in the air between you. He makes a low noise, a strange, chittering, feral noise low down in his thorax.
"For you, love?" His long, thin fingers loosen and settle, kneading, like he's finding his grip on a weapon. For a second, his whole body is harsh angles. "For you. I'd kill a hundred motherfuckers and paint my sign in their blood. Fuck off, for all them as might come after, fuck off, he's mine now."
"God—" you're tearing up again, it's stupid how much your thinkpan is melting at the stupid violent awful things he's saying, and you can't stop smiling even while you nudge your forehead into his cheek. "—no—no, I don't—want you to commit fucking—hrk, no mass murder, that's a l-last resort—" you sniff, but it's too late to clean up the awful mess of your face. You must look terrible. The panic is starting to fade, and in its wake you're self-conscious, trembling and wet with tears and worse. You must look fucking awful. "—I'm—fuck, I'm okay. I'm back, I got it. Here, take these off, I'll—clean up. We need to plan for—"
Excerpt:
"Sometimes a fucker just…gets sick up in the pan," he says, and leans forward, tucks your head under his chin so you can feel his squawk-blister hum against your skin. You focus on that, try to breathe—the list of awful things they said, the things they wanted to do to him, it keeps scrolling past behind your eyes and you can't stop shaking, gasping for deep, fast breaths that make the roof of your mouth buzz and don't seem to get you any air. "A couple sick fuckers, Karkat, but not some god set to come down on us. Just trolls, love, fuck, just trolls. Shooosh. And we got bigger on our side, bigger and better. There's those as love you better, remember?" He kisses your head, the root of one horn, slips his hand under the back of your shirt to rub cool circles on your overheated skin. "We got the biggest and most baddest of bitches on our side we got me and we got you and—fuck, we got the goddamn empress, beloved, they won't just come in here and hurt not a single one of us."
"We—could fight," you say, shaky, trying to convince yourself, "—you can—you could—" You trail off, unwilling to ask from him what's running through your pan, but the words hang unsaid in the air between you. He makes a low noise, a strange, chittering, feral noise low down in his thorax.
"For you, love?" His long, thin fingers loosen and settle, kneading, like he's finding his grip on a weapon. For a second, his whole body is harsh angles. "For you. I'd kill a hundred motherfuckers and paint my sign in their blood. Fuck off, for all them as might come after, fuck off, he's mine now."
"God—" you're tearing up again, it's stupid how much your thinkpan is melting at the stupid violent awful things he's saying, and you can't stop smiling even while you nudge your forehead into his cheek. "—no—no, I don't—want you to commit fucking—hrk, no mass murder, that's a l-last resort—" you sniff, but it's too late to clean up the awful mess of your face. You must look terrible. The panic is starting to fade, and in its wake you're self-conscious, trembling and wet with tears and worse. You must look fucking awful. "—I'm—fuck, I'm okay. I'm back, I got it. Here, take these off, I'll—clean up. We need to plan for—"