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“That fucking tickles, asshole!”
You try to swipe at Dave, but he just laughs and dodges neatly to the side. “That’s not my fault, man. You’re just so damn sensitive, there’s no way for me not to nudge your tickle glands.”
“I know you know that’s not a thing.” You give him a flat look that’s broken by another drag of his marker against your skin. You shiver at the feeling, which makes his lip twitch into a crooked smile.
“I dunno, troll biology is just so complicated. Must be because you’re the superior species.”
You don’t know how Dave manages to get you to feel so pleased when you know he’s laughing at you. Supposedly it’s just Rose who dabbles in magic, but damn if this motherfucker hasn’t enchanted you. What a dick.
“What are you even drawing on me, anyway?”
Dave just keeps smiling and shakes his head. “Nah dude, it’s gotta be a surprise. Don’t you know anything about grand romantic gestures?”
“Grand romantic gestures my ass,” You grumble. “I swear, if you’re drawing Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff on me right now, I’m going to shove your cape into the garbage chute.”
That just makes him smile wider, which is hardly the appropriate response to your very real threat. Well. Your mostly real threat. Your theoretically real threat.
Okay fine, you wouldn’t actually do that, and you like to make him smile. Bring on the legislacterators and hang you for the crime of thinking a dumb human is cute. You might not be god tier, but it would surely be a just death regardless.
“I can hear you being dramatic from all the way out here,” Dave murmurs. He still doesn’t look away from his drawing, which is very mildly frustrating.
You roll your eyes. “At least I keep it all inside my head, unlike your rambling ass. It’s called self-control. You should look it up next time you stick your foot so firmly in your own maw that it gets tangled up in your small intestine.”
“I know there’s gotta be a different troll word for small intestine.”
“Rose alchemized some human medical books,” You nearly shrug, but remember to stay still just in time. “We were going through them yesterday. I’m being culturally sensitive, Dave. You should try it sometime.”
That finally wipes the smile off his face. “Ugh, no. If learning troll biology requires sitting down for a lecture from Professor Rose Lalonde, I’ll pass. I don’t even want to imagine what y’all talked about.” He pauses for a moment and finally makes eye contact. “Now, if I’d be in class with sexy Prof Vantas, then I’d be down. I’ll be the best student you’ve ever had, takin’ color-coded notes and coming to all your office hours. Though I might not be there for help on the next exam, if you get what I mean.”
He winks, and you can feel your face flushing red. He’s so embarrassing. You hate him. (You don’t.)
“Yes, I get what you mean, you wriggler.” You look away, absolutely unable to meet his gaze when he’s got you thinking about something like that. “You’re disgusting, you know that?”
He just hums and keeps drawing. “Didn’t think I was disgusting last night when I—”
“Do not,” You hiss. “Bring up things we have done in the privacy of our block while you draw on my body in the common room.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t sully your reputation in front of chair and table-senpai.” He moves to a different area of your arm, and you shiver all over again. “Have I mentioned that you look really good in my shirt? Like, it’s wild that you don’t have a single t-shirt, but I’m okay with it if that means I get to see you in my clothes.”
“Shut up.”
Wearing something without long sleeves feels really fucking weird, but you’d do far stranger things for the sake of making Dave happy. And well. You don’t want to admit it out loud, but it is nice to wear his clothes. You like having pieces of him on you, and maybe that makes you a selfish asshole, but it feels good to be marked like this. It’s a similar reason to why you don’t tear him a new waste chute when he leaves bruises on your neck.
Though that’s also just impressive, considering how much tougher your skin is than his. He has to really focus on making those marks, which is. Hm. You…should think about something else. You weren’t kidding earlier. You really don’t want to get turned on in the common area. With your luck, Vriska would walk in and then you’d never hear the end of it. Also, just the idea of being turned on while in the same room as Vriska Serket has your bulge feeling like it might never unsheathe again.
“Alright babe, almost done.”
Dave’s voice is almost startling, but you manage not to flinch. You doubt he’s been drawing anything other than crappy goofball hoofbeastshit, but it’s just polite not to throw him off with muscle twitches. Somebody in this relationship needs to have basic fucking manners, and it’s definitely going to be you.
“Thank fuck,” You grumble, trying not to let your curiosity get out of control. “I’m sick of laying here while you deface my body.”
There’s a pause where you just know he’s holding back from making another sex joke, and in turn you have to hold back the urge to smack his leg. He doesn’t say anything, which you’re incredibly grateful for. You really don’t want to associate his shitty drawings with, uh. That.
Finally, he leans back and caps the marker. “Okay, you’re finished. My masterpiece is complete. Let’s get you to a mirror so you can properly check out the absolute brilliance I’ve painted on you. Your arms are like the Sistine Chapel, dude. You’re gonna be in museums.”
You follow him to the transportalizer and hold back your groans, which you think is very magnanimous of you. Deep breaths, Karkat. Whatever garbage he put on your body, it’ll come off eventually. He even did it on your arms, which you usually cover up anyway. You should probably at least pretend not to totally hate it, since he does seem genuinely excited to show you.
He drags you to the ablution block and tugs you in front of the mirror. When he finally lets go of your wrist, it’s so he can make jazz hands and gesture dramatically at the marks on your skin.
It’s…not what you expected.
There’s drawings, and yes, some of them are the classic, asinine trash Dave usually makes. You definitely glimpse a corner of Hella Jeff’s mouth near your elbow. But there’s also the carefully outlined shape of his broken record symbol, and right beside it, the curves of your sign. There’s an earth crab, which he’s told you about several times before. A can. Stick figures, one with nubby horns, one with shades, holding hands. Sitting together in front of what must be a laptop. Leaning close—kissing, maybe? Dozens of hearts, and scattered among them, other quadrant symbols. Your bloodpusher goes soft and tense at the same time just looking at it all.
But that’s not it. Of course it wouldn’t be, with Dave. All throughout his doodles, there are words. Some of it looks like lines from raps he’s subjected you to before, but there’s other words, too. Words like home, safe, and cozy motherfucker. Like soft and alive. Like best ass and great kisser and sex god. Words like love. Like love, scrawled all over your skin in colors you never thought you’d get to show to anyone.
“Oh.” Your voice is small and quiet in the wake of what he’s written all over you. You feel like you should say something bigger than that to show him what you’re feeling. You want to make sure he knows what this means to you, that you understand what he’s telling you, that you love him too.
He slides his arms around you from behind and hooks his chin over your shoulder. “An artist is only as good as his canvas.” He smiles at you in the mirror, and for all you really do love seeing what he’s written on you, you can’t bring yourself to look away from his face. You’ve got it real bad for this idiot, and you don’t even mind.
“I know you’ll wanna cover it up around other people, and that’s okay.” He murmurs, soft and kind. You almost want to cry. “I get it. And, y’know, if you ever want to borrow more of my clothes, that’s also cool. Wasn’t kidding about how good you look. Not that you don’t always look good.”
He shoves his face into your shoulder. Finally he’s actually managed to embarrass himself, but all you feel is fond. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll take you up on that. And, uh, for the record, I do…like it. It’s good. You’re…thank you.”
God, you sound so stupid. But when he glances back up, he’s got all the words he wrote on you in his eyes. It’s something beautiful, something that makes you feel like maybe you are precious enough to be kept somewhere safe. He’s written poetry across your skin and somehow, you believe that he means it.
“Yeah, man. I liked doing it.” His smile is so sweet that you don’t see his next words coming. “Also, I did draw more SBaHJ on the back of your arms. Like, several panels. If you’re gonna get any of this tattooed, it really should be that. Some of my best wor—”
He’s cut off as you shove him to the ground and clamber on top of him. “What did I say, Dave? Your cape is dead, you hear me? Dead!”
Your shared laughter fills the ablution block and, you imagine, echoes all the way across the meteor.