#making him very fruity for his ghoul is my second one

[mardyart]

he’s not a monsterfucker but who knows-

[royalrastafariannaynays]

“Hey.” “Hi.”

((thank you for the prompt @notedchampagne! for this davekat soulmate/wedding/enemies to friends to lovers/fake boyfriends au!!))

Your ass was unlucky enough to be saddled with the absolute worst EVER soulmate. Fucker just had to say a normal greeting when he met you. No inflection, no tone, no punctuation, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Embellishment? Who’s heard of it.

Originality? Ha.

Hints as to which poor and sorry fucker it could be in your life? yeah right.

The only way you would ever know which soulmate was yours, would be if you kissed them right on the mouth. Or shared some other body fluid, but it’s not like you’re gonna be drinking tears or playing blood brothers - how unsanitary.

No. You have to just wait and see, for your entire goddamn life.

And the best part?

You have to show up to Rose’s wedding.

With a literal life partner.

That you told her you have.

And you absolutely, positively, don’t.

Now, of course, is when you’re sitting at the airport, and you’re waiting on your drink to get to your little space on the bar.

It’s almost too late to find a fake soulmate. It was a stupid idea to begin with, but at least you could fake it easily since your mark was so easy to match with… literally anyone. Jesus. Just a nice fake meetcute story and bam. There it is.

And then you could break it off! One of those ‘I thought I met my soulmate but it was actually not them because I’m a dunce’ stories.

No one is going to let it go if you don’t show up with someone, though.

Your soulmate tattoo is located just below your right nipple.

It says “Hi.”

Literally.

Fucking stupid, isn’t it?

The waitress is looking like a pretty good candidate for fake-soulmate. Just a few good lines, a promise of getting her some sweet fat stacks when you get home (not like you couldn’t afford it honestly), and she’d be an Oscar-winning actress.

Or maybe the bartender? He’s pretty fine. Big, burly, redhead. Probably more hair on his chest than you would know what to do with. Pretty much your type, but bears were always more of Dirk’s thing.

You sigh into your martini. Two hours until your flight takes off.

No one even bothered to hit you up on craigslist about your ad, and that almost always worked for like. Black tie events and parties and shit. Usually, then, you were glammed up. But you’d had to leave the ad cryptic so that your sister wouldn’t immediately find it upon trying to uncover your ruse.

Fuck.

And you’re carpooling with some friend of Rose and Kanaya’s that you’e never met, to get to their nice little rented vineyard once you’re there. His name started with a K, right? The only name that comes to mind right now is Karkat. Vantas, to be specific. Your biggest critic.

But no way he’d be Kanaya’s best man of honor or whatever. No way.

The world ain’t that small.

Rose is getting married to Kanaya, her soulmate. Your whole goddamn family will be there, as well as about a billion trolls. It’s gonna be a pretty big and fancy affair. Likely in tabloids.

And you’re already going to have to be putting on a good face for the paps and the fuckin’.....

Ugh.

You really screwed the pooch this time.

Someone sits next to you.

“Can I get something strong?” he asks, and.

Ooh.

Well if you’re gonna get truly and definitively fucked this weekend, you might as well get fucked by someone with that voice. Like ayyyyy, who are you fella.

There’s a short conversation, in which you turn to examine the dude out of the side of your eye. Okay, nice, dark skin, black hair, too much bangs, strong nose, tall, thick as fuck, okay. Damn.

The Jack and Coke is making you feel adventurous, and your normal grace is totally here, which means when your eyes reach his face, he’s glaring at you like you’ve sprung eight cysts and one of them is leaking on his cashmere sweater.

Fuck.

“Hey,” you stammer out at him, and.

For a second, you swear you see him freeze.

Maybe it’s the uh. Maybe it’s the alcohol?

“Hi,” he says.

And you don’t think anything of it.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” the guy growls at you, and ohhhhhh. Oh yeah. That’s a good one right there. His tone sends unruly shivers down your spine and you’re thoroughly embarrassed by how easy you are.

Like seriously, for a guy who spent his entire life like a mule in a horse courtship corral, you’re incredibly easy. Meaning that, no matter how awkward and uncomfortable you are, you will basically take anyone attractive.

Look, touching people is nice, okay?

And it’s usually only makeouts that you go for, maybe a handy or something.

Cuddling is the SHIT.

“I would, but I think a ghoul like you might break my camera,” you reply, instinctively, and. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god what did you just say???? What???????

Luckily, he laughs instead of getting angry and throwing his fruity nonsense drink in your face. And he gives you a look that’s halfway between begrudgingly tolerant and something like a half-assed smolder.

The lemon wedge wouldn’t have felt good on your eyes.

“Okay, what’s your name, pain in the ass?” he asks, and.

Huh.

Somehow that worked.

Weird.

“Dave Strider,” you say, and wink. “Care to get a bat up in my belfry?”

…. What. You were trying for funny again.  

And apparently that was a mistake.

Okay, so it didn’t work.

His face is frozen in a mask of stone so solid you could break a diamond on it.

One of his hands is coming up to his mouth, and his eyes are widening in horror.

That’s when you look down and see his luggage tag.

[Karkat V. Vantas]

Shit.

This fuck.

Is your.

Oh my god.

“I thought she was joking,” he whispers, and you look back up at him. Your shades flip down from the top of your head and onto your nose and he.

He visibly recoils.

Ouch.

“I prayed that she was joking.”

Double ouch.

“Your movies…. They’re terrible.”

You wince, and remove your glasses.

Instant soberity.

“I know. I make them,” you say.

And he.

He gets up, chugs the rest of his drink, and.

He walks the fuck away.

You think you’ve seen the end of him.

That is, until you find your seat on the plane.

And despite it being first class, guess who’s sitting right next to you? Holding an identical invitation to yours in his left hand?

Karkat fucking Vantas.

It’s at this point that you realize that yes.

Rose’s critic friend, and Kanaya’s best man of honor, is indeed, Karkat Vantas.

The critic who hates you the most in the world is going to be a part of Rose’s wedding.

And if you didn’t know better, you would think that Rose married Kanaya just for this exact fucking moment. She orchestrated the entire soulmate thing with Kanaya.

Fuck.

He’s glaring up at you, and you’re trying not to scowl down at him, and the whole thing is so ridiculously inconvenient you could just cry.

“So you’re in this wedding, too?” you try, as you throw your carry-on up into the overhead storage.

The guy sighs so loud, you’re surprised heads don’t turn.

“Yes, idiot, I’m also in the wedding,” he says, and you try not to slump. Okay. Whole flight seated next to him. Maybe you could ignore him, and he could ignore you, and it’ll all be kosher?

“Right,” you mutter, and sink into your seat.

There’s a decent margin between the side of your chair, and his. It’s that kind of cheaper first class seating. The kind that doesn’t have like. Massive partitions, but instead has a little semi-clear divider between your chairs, and then some extra pillows and blankets, and better reclining.

It’s not your usual fare, but what can you say. You reserved the flight… a little late. Definitely not in fear of Rose’s judgey eyes.

Judgey at the fact that you’ll be arriving to her wedding, sans the soulmate you thought you had.

This is going to be a shitshow. You can imagine it now.

Rose, laughing at you per usual, saying that yes, she was correct in assuming you wouldn’t be bringing a plus one, yet again. Dirk, shaking his head very slowly at you. Jade, and Roxy all with identical blank faces destined to turn into glee the moment you turn around. And John. Who will be the only sad sap to actually feed you any sympathy.

;alsdkjf;lakjs.

There’s absolutely no chance at you finding anyone at this very short notice.

Someone knocks your face with their bag as they pass down the aisle of the plaine, and you just sit there and take it. Like a particularly smarmy penis, just slapping you continually, regardless of the fact that you don’t even want to suck his dick. Hhhhhhhg.

“Hey, watch it!” you hear from your left.

And you look over, to see Karkat V. Vantas, your biggest critic, glowering at the dude whose bag is entirely too phallic for its own good.

“Stop hitting random people in the face with your luggage, you careless piece of shit,” Karkat V. Vantas says to that man.

Huh. Defending you.

Maybe he doesn’t think you’re all that bad?

And you get the absolute worst idea.

The absolute best idea.

You wait until the flight has taken off, and they’re walking the little carts up and down the plane with snacks and shit.

“Wanna pretend to be my soulmate?” you blurt out.

And Karkat chokes on his complimentary soda.

“Excuse me?” he asks.

And yeah. This is gonna be a great idea.

From the angle you’re at, his coughing perfectly outlines his jaw, and you wanna get your mouth on it. Attraction from your side won’t be hard to fake, at all.

“I told Rose that I was coming to the wedding with a soulmate, and I don’t have one,” you say, waving one hand, once he’s done hacking his lungs out with enough force to make a flight attendant look pretty concerned.

You take a sip of your own beverage, and give him a look across the space between the two of you.

He looks more disgusted than he did back when he first found out who you are, and that he would have to be staying on the same floor of a hotel with you.

“How tasteless. How do you know I don’t already have one?!” he asks, patting his chest with his fist. He’s still working off the dregs of the coughing, and he waves away the flight attendant with his eyes still glued to you.

Ah yeah. You hadn’t considered that.

“Do you? Have one, that is?” you ask, and his face fills with red.

“No, I don’t, thank you very much,” he says, and you grin.

“Oh no! Don’t you dare give me that shit-eating smile, you nasty little sub-human,” he splutters, and you just grin a little wider. Your chances are increasing. And as he’s getting riled up, you’re getting a rush in your chest. The newfound coloring on his face is great to look at, and highlights his cheeks just so.

In that moment, you understand that you might be attracted to him more than sexually.

See, before, it was just physical.

But with every word, he’s etching out another little crease for himself in your mind.

Maybe after this, you could try to be friends.

He’s talking again. “...because of that, I hate your films anyway, so why would I waste my time on this farce for more than five seconds!”

You’re distracted, and you answer honestly and instinctively.

And for whatever reason, it’s something you’ve never told anyone before.

It sounds cheesy as fuck, and hokey and stupid. But it’s true, somehow.

“You only hate my films,” you tell him, simply, “Because you fail to realize that each and every one of them is an attempt at multi-faceted social and political commentary on the current state of events in Hollywood.”

Shit.

“Your very first review of my work was the most correct one yet,” you add.

And shit. More shit.

And, for the first time in maybe his entire goddamn life if you had to guess, Karkat Vicente Vantas is stunned into gape-mouthed silence.

“And now, you’re the only one who knows it,” you finish.

Something like long-coming realization is dawning on Karkat’s eyes.

His lips purse, and he looks like he’s going to throw up.

When you open your mouth again, he puts a finger to your face, and you close it promptly.

“You read all my reviews?” he asks, after a few minutes. “And you remember them?”

You just nod, not sure if you’re allowed to talk again yet.

“God, you’re full of shit,” he says.

And yeah.

You are.

That stunt with wearing a dress made of only recycled avocado skins to the People’s Choice Awards, and then telling a reporter that it was in defense of the avocado-consuming millennials everywhere? Classic Dave Strider.

Using your given name instead of a pseudonym, ridiculous as it sounds? Classic.

Skateboarding into celebration party of your tenth film, not wearing anything except one of those socks they use to strap penises to dudes’ thighs in filming sex scenes? Very you.

“No one is going to believe me,” Karkat V Vantas whispers, seemingly to himself.

“Nah,” you agree.

And he glares at you, then. The realization is still happening. Every little cog is flicking into place, every little moment that you orchestrated in your films, every little theme that you hid in the music scores and named as coincidence to the public.

“I did lie about you being the only one, though,” you say, sighing. “My siblings also know. John knows but doesn’t believe me. Jade doesn’t give a shit.”

“But I’m… holy shit.” he puts his hands on his head.

“You believe me now? Go ahead and ask Rose about it,” you offer, pulling up pesterchum on your phone.

Yeehaw for the in-flight wifi.

Karkat refuses.

“Oh no, I believe you,” he says.

“So will you pretend to be my soulmate?” you ask him, and he glares at you again.

Like, this, ‘how dare you suggest such a thing be done to my fragile countenance’ glare. Like you’ve asked him to shovel shit directly into his own mouth from the anus of a bull with really bad irritable bowel syndrome.

“Fine,” he says.

And you’re ready to beg again, but instead you’re the one leaning back now, surprised.

“What?”

“I’ll do it, but not for you,” Karkat tells you.

And uh.

Okay then.

“Alright, cool,” you say.

“But only to get back at that filthy wizard-fucker for making me wear a lime green suit to her wedding,” he says.

And oh. Okay.

“How would that get back at her exactly?” you ask, dumbly. “I mean I hate our lady-in-waiting attire as much as the next guy, but…”

“Fooling Lalonde is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Dave,” he says.

And. Oh.

Hearing your name come out of his mouth feels really good. For no particular reason.

Like every soulmate romcom ever. Like this is reality.

You ignore that bit with iron blinders on.

“And she did this awful wedding trope just to spite me,” Karkat continues, examining his fingernails. “Because I mentioned the movie ‘27 Dresses’ and she almost creamed herself with bliss at the idea of making a man wear a suit that he could only use for one occasion.”

It hits you, and you groan.

“Like a hideous bridesmaids’ dress,” you sigh, sinking into your seat.

“Exactly,” Karkat says, and you slide your eyes over to look at him.

“So if we do this, what’s our story?” you ask.

And Karkat already has one planned, damn him. He improvises with the skill and speed of a practiced veteran.

Over the process of the next four hours of plane trip, you work it out.

The two of you met at a press party, and ended up kissing over a glass of champagne, and from there it was magic.

No, you weren’t planning on getting married anytime soon.

Yes, you didn’t tell anyone because you’re keeping it under wraps for the press.

Et cetera Et cetera for hours of making details happen. Karkat also takes a bribe with stride, just some extra assurance from you.

He wanted your new car for the bribe.

You bitched and moaned about it, but eventually agreed to sign over the title for him. It was no skin off your bones right now, anyway. You make enough money.

It was going to be an interesting weekend.

So, you were off the plane.

Karkat took your hand as soon as you left the gate, bags over your respective shoulders, and led you down to the baggage claim.

It’s for the press, you have to remind yourself. It’s for the press, and then once you’re in private he won’t have to put on a show anymore.

But his hand feels… nice.

It’s hard not to focus on it as you’re brought down to the baggage carousel, and you stand there, waiting. Your hands are almost always cold, and just from this moment you can tell he runs hot. Something about thermodynamic equilibrium and memes runs across the forehead area of your thoughts, and you snort softly.

Karkat gives you a weird look, and squeezes your hand.

When he tells you to stop giggling like a newborn moron, he leans in close to do it, and you can feel the put-upon smile on his mouth.

You’re getting a few stares, and you can see some press out of the corner of your eye.

They’re waiting for you outside, just a few since you’re not really quite that famous. And you hid your destination pretty well, you think. After one of them got a restraining order, they stay at least thirty feet away from you.

Having Terezi as a friend is fantastic.

“David?” you hear, just barely within earshot.

You turn your head slightly and see Rose, just out of the truly visible range of your periphery.

There are people with her, maybe two or three. One of them would be Dirk, since he insisted on being there to see your ‘new soulmate’. The other either Kanaya, or maybe, Jade?

Who knows.

The point is, before you can fully turn your head to them, the carousel starts up behind you.

The metal creaks and whirs, and the little blaring bell rings, and you can’t even focus on it, or be scared, or remember your little acting role in all of this.

Because Karkat Vantas is kissing you.

His hand is warm on the back of your neck.

His lips are so soft, but not too soft. You feel them, strong and moving against yours.

And his breath is sweet.

And your own air is just taken away.

Because all of a sudden, you feel it.

Galaxies burst into being in your chest, in your soul.

The mark on your chest burns, for a split second. Like the worst itch imaginable. And then it’s gone, and Karkat is panting against your mouth. And you’re leaning down to him, hearing a wolf whistle in the background, and sarcastic clapping from Rose.

And you know.

Holy shit.

There’s so much intent, and there’s so much knowledge and incredible awe in Karkat’s eyes. And you feel like you’re going to throw up, it’s so much.

You know.

He’s yours.

Yours.

He’s your soulmate.