Work Text:
You close your eyes, deep breaths, Karkat. And... release!
Ah, there we are, the last arrow. Finally you can be free of this stupidly oppressive prison of being the fucking servant for a lazy damn god. You don't even know why he chose you, Cupid is a fucking stupid asshole and he chose the wrong damn boy to take up his mantle while he fucked off, doing whatever it is gods do in their spare time. Whatever, all that matters is that you're finally out of arrows. And that just means that you can get back to your life as usual.
You sigh, leaning back against the weather-worn brick of your apartment building, admiring your work. The quiver on your back rattles and your stomach flutters nervously, shit. That's not fucking good. The clattering means that there's still fucking arrows in there. You pull it around and pop the top of it back open. Sure enough, there's metal glinting in the low sunrise light deep within the quiver.
FUCK.
You pull the arrows out, checking for the "other half" to make sure that this one has a match. To your surprise though, this one doesn't have an other half. In fact, this is the only arrow left in the damn quiver. Did you lose one? No, no no, you're not that irresponsible. Besides, magic items are shockingly hard to lose. You only know this because you've tried (and failed) to lose this very item.
The striped shock of colour around the black body of it is a surprisingly bright red. Usually, there's two arrows with the same colours, but you've never seen one with a colour as bright as this. As you twist it to check for possible initials, you notice a weathered sheet of paper, browned at the edges, wrapped around the body of the arrow. It's tied off with a pink ribbon and you roll your eyes. It's the same type of ribbon that was tied around the damn quiver when you first got it. This is your indication that this letter, or whatever it is, is from Cupid himself.
You unravel the ribbon, sticking it in your pocket (you've heard enchanted items are lucky and you need all the luck you can get recently.) The letter is written in a surprisingly ornate script, it takes you a minute to actually fucking read the damn thing because of how stupidly flashy it is.
Karkat,
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve finished the task I’ve set for you. This last arrow is for the one you hold dearly. And though you may try to deny it, he admires you deeply as well. There is but one problem, he needs a bit of a push. A sharp one, directly to the heart. You will be the one to deliver your final arrow straight into his heart and thus you shall be rewarded for your work. Trust that your shot is true and his heart will belong to you.
Cupid <3
Jesus fucking christ, he even signed it with a little fucking heart. And even though he didn’t say who it was for, you know exactly who he’s talking about. Dave Strider, he’s been showing up at your real, paying job every morning for four years now. Hearing that he’s actually in love with you makes a lot more sense than what you’d previously assumed about him. Not to mention, it’s flustering as fuck to hear from the actual fucking God of Love, the very person whose profession it is to know these things about people.
Shit, shit shit. Work starts in less than an hour and Dave is always there first thing for his usual; mint mocha frappe, two pumps of mint, three pumps of mocha, extra creamer, two sugars. It's disgustingly sweet but you’ve got to admit, after he started ordering that, you tried it too and ended up falling in love with the drink yourself. And sure, you'll admit that to yourself but after telling Dave that he was a heathen for drinking that syrupy sweet bullshit, you definitely can't tell him that.
Whatever. You guess this means you have to walk back up to your apartment and quickly get dressed or you'll be late for work. It's damn annoying that the one who needed the last arrow was some hyper specific note. "Eyes of green, Heart of blue to the soul of Eyes of brown and Mind of green. Wednesday’s cloudy morning against the brick of the tower."
Your neighbours, because of course they were. Who the fuck else on this goddamn planet would it be? Heart of blue is a stupid way to say that his favourite colour is blue in your opinion. Mind of green makes sense though, he's a botanist. You can get behind that. But calling your fucking shitshow of an apartment complex "the tower" was a bit too on the nose for your taste. And of course, it had to be today, the only cloudy Wednesday for months. This particular puzzle fucking sucked and you’re going to scream in the face of whoever wrote it, as if you don’t know that Cupid writes them. Well… you don’t really think that screaming at gods is a good idea. That’s how you ended up with this gig in the first place.
As you walk up the stairs to your apartment, you muse on the unfortunate day, three years ago. You thought you were just getting a particularly flirty customer at the cafe but no. It just HAD to be fucking Cupid himself. And when you told him to leave everyone alone (because he was an indiscriminate flirt. Cupid is bisexual, who knew?), you had no idea that he would try to fight you for stepping in on his flirting game. When that didn’t work (and no, you did not lose, you swear), he hunted you down after work and shot you with a “binding arrow” and gave you his job. Now, three years later, you’re finally fucking finished with your task. All you have to do is shoot Dave Strider.
Gods help you, you’re going to fuck this up somehow, you just know it.
You open the door to your apartment, or... well, you try to before you remember you locked it like a dumbass. So, you reach into your jeans pocket and pull out your house keys, your keyring has a keychain of DJ equipment on it, Dave gave it to you. Now that you think about it, maybe all of those times the two of you "hung out alone" were more like dates than you'd realized. It really does explain a lot, knowing what you know now.
All of those times he asked to hold your hand(which you thought were just because he was nervous), those times you woke up post-movie night, swathed in blankets on your couch. Those times he would come over out of the blue to cry on your shoulder over problems with his family. Those times he kissed your cheeks when he said goodbye. You thought he was just a very affectionate person, but it turns out that you were just reading him totally wrong.
This person, Dave Strider... This stupid, flirty, pretty idiot is in love with you. And your five foot tall, slightly chubby, sweater-wearing ass is just dealing with all of this falling into place. He just needs the damn final push, right into your arms and into your heart.
As you puzzle this out, you pull off your nightshirt (which is really just a big, baggy, yellow sweater you got at JC Penny when they were having their closing sale) and switch it out for your black work shirt. It has some smaller, grey stripes down the front of it and the logo of the café on it. "A Cup of Love" is a damn ironic name for the very fucking place where you met the person you're about to shoot in the heart with your final arrow AND the person who gave you the damn things in the first place.
Whatever, you despise actual fucking irony anyway. It’s stupid and you’re so done with it that you don’t even need the fork to tell if it’s finished. You know just by looking. And you LOOK damn fucking finished with this shit.
You decide that the random pair of slim-wear jeans that you tossed on are good enough and throw your favorite cardigan over your shirt, sighing softly when its warmth envelops your arms. Damn you love being cozy and warm and just- being wrapped up in good and comfortable things. It's goddamn great. And they actually let you wear your cardigans while you're at work, as long as the company logo is showing, they don't care what kind of jacket you have on.
You run your hands through your tangled mess of curly hair, unknotting bits and pieces as you go, but it's unfortunately not enough. You've got a damn birds nest starting on your scalp and that's annoying as fuck. So instead of trying and failing to deal with this shit, you pull out the big guns. Which is to say, your underused hairbrush.
As you tear through the knots, your phone dings. It’s your morning alarm, “It’s time to wake up!” the screen tells you cheerily and you nearly hiss at the stupidly cavalier tone. It’s some beat that Dave mixed together and sent to you to use. You’ve had the damn tone for so long now, it’s kind of funny to think he sent it to you two years ago and he’s never around to hear it when you use it. You silently wonder if that’s going to change once you shoot him.
And if that thought isn’t enough to make your stomach flutter and make your brain pool in your ears, your next one is. The image of Dave, leaning across the counter at work, magical arrow embedded in his chest, lips pressing to yours. Why does that have to seem so- so fucking good?
You stamp your foot indignantly, this is so unfair. You have to do this while you’re at work. It’s a good thing the bow and arrow are enchanted so that nobody can see them. You’ll just look like a dork, holding your hands and making the ASL sign for “bow hunting” while you do it. It's fine, you'll just get it taken care of and you'll never have to worry about it again. But gods if you aren't nervous to see the love-stricken look every single one of your vict- one of your patrons gets on their face directed at you on Dave's face.
You pull your phone off of the dresser, unplugging the charger it's connected to and pocket it. You set your brush back down in its place and run your fingers through your loosened curls again. At least they're more manageable when you actually bother to brush them. You pat the ones that curl up by your cheeks back behind your ears. Dammit, that's annoying as fuck. Well, at least Dave thinks they're cute- SHIT.
Okay. You're are not going to have a crisis over this. You are going to calm down and breathe. Everything is just fucking fine. You'll get it done before the other baristas and customers come in and it's going to be just fucking fine. He's just so damn pretty that it's a little bit intimidating to help him fall in love with you the rest of the way. The arrows are specifically meant to help give lovers that extra push for when one or more of them are holding back for some reason and everything falls into place after that.
You vaguely wonder if Dave is holding back because he thinks you don't feel the same. You do like him, it's just that you've gotten really damn good at concealing it so that you could still be friends with him. Maybe he thinks that you're not gay? You really fucking are- well, okay, to be specific, you're pansexual but who's really paying attention to those details? You know for a fact that Dave is bisexual, he's very loud and proud about that fact. He even has custom Converse with the bi-pride flag colours up the sides(which he didn't hesitate to show you the day after he got them) and he's expressed attraction to nearly all of his friends.
It wouldn't be a far cry to call him gender indiscriminate, a bit like Cupid himself. To be honest, you'd believe it if Cupid and Dave were actually the same person. But when you met Cupid, Dave was in the cafe with his then girlfriend, so you know they aren't the same. Plus, Cupid has long vaguely brownish, blondish hair and green eyes and Dave has short, reddish blond hair and red eyes. Cupid is kind of a dick, in your opinion, and his real name isn't even fucking Cupid. You barely remember what his real name is, but you're pretty sure it started with a "K" and it had an "e" sound in it.
You gather up the rest of your things and pull on your Vans, tying them quickly. You pull your headphones out of your work bag where you’ve tucked your quiver away and begin the four city-block walk to work. It doesn’t take that long but it’s just irritating to have to deal with other people bumbling around and heading to work too. At least with your headphones in, you can deal with the noise. Chicago is a really annoying city to live in because it gets kind of loud sometimes. But on the half of town you live on, it’s quieter than it would be if you lived in the city-proper.
You try to take your time and enjoy the sun as you walk because hey, it’s autumn. At least it’s cooled down enough that you’re not sweating your ass off. Plus the wind that comes off of Lake Michigan is really nice. It makes your sweater addiction worth it. So you enjoy your walk there, taking in the sight of the sun rising over the lake. It’s goddamn beautiful and, even though you’ve lived in the city for six years, it’s still just as mesmerizing today as it was the first morning. You get to the cafe you work at and, to no surprise, Dave is there, leaned against the wooden slats on the side of the building.
“G’mornin’,” he says in his vaguely Southern, yet Chicago accent.
“Morning Dave,” you greet him back with a small but nervous smile.
He looks great this morning, wearing a soft-grey sweater with red converse and dark blue skinny jeans. His nose is a soft-pink colour, probably from the cold since he’s a Texas native. His freckles are showing too, but only because his usual sunglasses are resting on top of his head.
"So... you gonna open?" He taps the toe of his shoe on the pavement behind him.
"You gotta move it first, Strider. Can't damn well open when you're in front of the keypad I use to unlock the fucking place."
"Right- shit. Sorry 'Kat, I'm wind, baby." He says that same stupid thing he picked up from his idiotic half-brother, but at least he moves aside for you.
You punch in the code, 12031995, and the door clicks open, beeping twice as it unlocks both mechanisms. The door hisses when it swings open and Dave hands back for a minute, he's waiting for an invite, like some kind of fucking vampire. You sigh and rub your forehead with your fingers. "Get in here, dumbass. You're always the first customer."
"Just figured I'd wait 'til you were ready but if you want me in so badly, here I come." He answers you with a wink and a nod. You sigh, he's so damn flirty all the time. Maybe this is why you had a hard time reading if he had an actual fucking crush on you or not. He's like this with everyone except for his brother and sister. Damn fucking flirty ambiverted weirdo.
He follows behind you and takes his usual place, leaned against the counter, phone in hand. He's probably furiously texting one of his siblings or his newest datemate. Wait- actually, he's single right now, his last boyfriend broke up with him because he's "too close to his brother" and he "spends more time with Dirk than with anyone" but you know that's bullshit. Dave is at your house most nights or he's texting you, telling you about whatever he wants to talk about.
“Same as usual, Dave?” you ask, tying your work apron around the back of your cardigan. You pull the bunched, knitted material out of the knot and tighten it, fluffing the back of it back over it so you’re in uniform but still comfortable.
“Mint mocha frappe. Two pumps of mint, three pumps of mocha, extra creamer, two sugars.” He recites it like it’s a poem and he smiles at you, mussing his hair with his left hand. As if you don't already have the damn order down pat, but you take the chatter to mean he's in a damn good mood this morning.
He's got his laptop bag with him, which means he's going to hang out and work on his lyrics this morning. Good, it gives you a reason to be pointing your arrow at him while he sits around, sipping his drink. You just gotta get the damn thing out and ready to go. It's fine, it's gonna be just fine . Deep breaths, Karkat, you can do this. Cupid trusts you and even though he’s is a flirty asshole, you know he's not stupid. He would've probably just killed you instead of trusting you with his job if he didn't think you could do this.
Speak and he shall arrive, as they say. You hear the door jingle and watch as none other than Cupid him-fucking-self sits down at the booth in the back of the café. He gives you a flirty wave, kissing his fingers as he does so and you scowl at him. He takes this exactly the opposite way you sent it, which is to say, he just smiles and rests his chin on his hand. "You can do it, babe. I believe in ya," he mouths at you. Stupid fucking flirty weirdos. You’ve had enough of that shit for one damn lifetime.
"You know that guy?" Dave asks and jerks his head back in Cupid's direction.
"Un-fucking-fortunately, yes. Ignore him." You hiss under your breath.
"He flirting you up or something?" He tilts his head and gets this weirdly fierce look on his face.
You are NOT about to tell Dave who Cupid is, nor will you fucking mention the fact that the two of them are so similar that Dave's distrust of him is really goddamn telling of how Dave feels about himself. "No, he's just- I used to work for him. Ex bosses. You know?"
Dave's eyes open a little wider but he nods, understanding, "Got it. I'll watch out for ya if he tries anything though."
You shake your head and ignore Cupid, he probably fucking planned this exact shit so he could watch you writhe under his grip. That’s just the kind of smug, vaguely manipulative fuck he is. He thinks it's hilarious to line up all the little pieces of things and cackle like a maniac at the results when they come out as he predicted. And you only know this because of the damn amount of cackling he’s done over the phone when he does his monthly check-in calls with you while you tell him how his puzzles worked out.
You grab a large cup from under the counter where your bag is tucked for safe keeping and quickly de-bag your quiver, tossing it over your shoulder. The actual bow itself comes from the Heart, or so Cupid says. It’s made from emotions and you always have to focus on happy moments whenever you want to use the arrows otherwise the magic doesn’t work. When Cupid shot you with his binding arrow, it gave you only a small fraction of his powers. You’ve seen Cupid’s bow, it’s absolutely fucking massive, the bowstring is hewn with flowers and made of tightly woven vines. You’ve not yet had the unfortunate event of seeing the body of the bow since, when he shot you, your back was turned away. Yours is the colour of dried blood, the bowstring is made of tiny metal chains all linked together tightly, woven into a simple, twisting pattern. It’s really goddamn ornately carved wood though, you like to look at it while you work. The dripping pattern that runs along it is really damn pretty.
You watch Cupid from the corner of your eye as you work, he pulls out his phone, thwapping away at the keys with his thumbs. Knowing him, he’s texting his friends to gossip all about how his newest puzzle went, gods are weirdly cerebral dudes and you’ve grown to despise them. You tear your eyes away from him(he’s a weirdly magnifying dude, probably because he’s fucking Cupid ) and get back to work.
You pump in two mint, three mocha and pour in the creamer. Next goes the ice, half a scoop the way Dave likes it, and then the coffee over it, cold brew, city roasted. After that, you top it with the whipped cream and shave a milk chocolate bar over it. Finally, the mint green sprinkles and straw. You slide it across the counter and Dave grabs it, sipping it immediately. You laugh, he’s so damn desperate for his caffeine fix in the morning.
“Ugh, god bless you, Karkat. You’re really doing the work of the gods out here. I loooove it.” He takes out his wallet and hands you the blue card he always uses. You scan it quickly and hand it back to him as he punches the keycode in.The work part of your meetings is usually quick and, because it’s quiet in the cafe in the morning, they let you hang out in the front until customers show up at the normal time of 6am instead of 5am, when Dave shows up.
“Thanks for the coffee.” He smiles at you while he pockets his wallet, “Wanna come sit with me for a bit?”
“Thanks but I gotta do a thing.” You say, as if you’re not psyching yourself up to shoot him. Cupid perks up in the corner and pockets his phone quickly. Great, this means he’s coming over.
Dave nods and heads over to the table, walking past Cupid as he goes. Cupid smiles, great and wide, withdrawing his bow from his soul as he does. Cupid carries it around his shoulder, a sign that he wears his Heart always on his sleeve. Maybe that’s why his dumbass is always getting his Heart handed to him on a silver fucking platter, all shattered and fucked up in the stories.
“Yo.” Dave says and sets his things down on the table.
“What’s good, homie?” Cupid greets Dave and continues making his way over to you, still grinning the entire fucking time. Smug fuck.
“Welcome to A Cup of Love, how can I help you?” You greet him and try to be casual.
“Hey there, Kat, how’s things been? How’s the fam? How’s the love life?” He leans on the counter, bowstring pulling tightly across his black sweater with the effort.
“Fine. Can I get your order already?” You tap your fingers nervously, you wish he’d just go away and let you finish this.
“Extra large Mocha Caramel latte, five sugars, extra extra creamer. Keep it warm.” He orders the most sickly sweet thing you serve and you stick your tongue out at him in disgust, to which he rolls his eyes, “It’s only as sweet and sickly pale as me. Which is to sa-”
“Yeah I fucking get it, weirdo. What’s the name for the cup?” You pull out your red marker and a large cup, readying your writing hand.
“Kishi, K-I-S-H-I, duh. You think you’d have learned my name by now, love.” He runs his hand through his long, vaguely coarse hair. “Just make sure you draw the heart on the end of it. That’s so damn aesthetic and I wanna take a fuckin’ pic of that good shit, you feel me homie?”
“Whatever, Cupid.” You sneer the last bit and he smiles again, like your smug looks are absolutely nothing but rain falling off of his shoulders. You sign the damn cup and lean in to whisper to him, “Just tell me how the fuck I’m supposed to shoot Dave?”
“Easy enough bro, just focus on ya happy place, a task I’m sure is easy for you. Pull out your bow and fire at his Heart. Trust me, chickpea, I know plenty about Hearts.” He smiles like he’s telling an amazing joke that everyone should know the punchline to.
“That’s not what I meant and you damn well know it.” You mumble under your breath and pump mocha mix into the cup. Creamer goes in and coffee gets poured over it, you mix the disgustingly pale coffee and drop ten whole cubes of sugar in.
“Listen, chickadee, you gotta trust me. I’m here for a reason and it’s because you also need a little boost today. And I’ve got your back here, I ain’t gonna letchya fuck up and ruin this. I’m a lotta things but I ain’t no heartbreaker.” He reaches forward and pats you on the shoulder. “You got this, for real. No joking. I trust you and if you get too nervous, just take a deep breath and relax. I know you can do this, Karkat.”
This is why you hate this guy.
He’s so weirdly trustable, but he’s damn smug about everything so it makes it seem like he’s always plotting something. Those damn stories had Cupid all wrong. He’s romantic, sure, but he’s cackling like a dork the entire time, tapping on his phone and telling all of his god friends about it. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was giving them live updates on some Discord server about it.
“Thanks Cupid, you uh… don’t totally suck.” You try to reassure him but it doesn't come across correctly. You think he gets it though because he shrugs at you, taking the caramel mocha from your hands.
"You're a sweetie, Karkat." He pauses and retrieves a fifty dollar bill from his pocket, dropping it on the counter, "Keep the change as a tip. I'm gonna go tell everyone about this. I know a certain god who dies for these love stories." You frown at him and he shrugs again, he's not even sorry that he's comparing you to a story, but it's fine. It's... weirdly charming, in a way. He's just excited for you, so you think. You close your eyes and focus on the happy feeling as Cupid walks back to his table.
Dave is usually the first thing that comes to mind, the first day you met. It was your third day on the job and he came in with his brother and sister. Dirk, his brother, was laughing with him about something and shoved him toward you. Dirk was whispering something to him and Dave looked damn mortified and disgusted. You asked him what he wanted and he gave you his mocha order and got to banter with him about how disgusting it was and he argued back. It was the first time anyone ever actually talked with you on the job and it helped to set the tone for your time working here.
Your heart warms at the memory of the smile he gave you that day. The number he wrote on your wrist in sloppy black Sharpie probably helped too. You feel the bow manifest in your hands and grip onto it. Cupid peeks over the top of his phone at you but he focuses on what he’s doing. Good, you’re glad. You don’t want him to interrupt you. You grab the arrow out of its quiver and hold it in your right hand, readying your bow and nocking the arrow on it. You’re all ready to go, you just have to pull back and fire.
You’re goddamn nervous but you’re at least ready to fire it.
Dave is busy with his writing, sitting at the bar stool. You watch him as he types away at the keys with his left hand, tapping his fingers in a rhythmic pattern with his right. He looks zen as fuck and you hate to shoot him while he’s working. You think for a moment that you’re just straight up not gonna get this done today but you know that Cupid wouldn’t be here if you weren’t supposed to.
SHIT. This train of thought is just making you more damn nervous. You can’t fucking do this, not without fucking up Dave’s rhythm and ruining his work. And if you do that, you’ll just feel even damn worse. Cupid stands up; rolling his eyes, he pulls an arrow out of his own quiver, a single, totally bright red arrow. You gulp, knowing exactly who it’s intended for.
Cupid pulls back his arm and his bow floats off of him and lands in his hands with the grace of a feather falling out of the sky and into a child’s waiting fingers. You watch with a vague sense of horror as his short arms somehow manage to pull back the bowstring(which is well over half of his height, body included.) His bow string is really all you’ve seen because you’ve only seen it when it’s in action or tied around his back and he never turns his back to anyone.
The maroon light shines brightly, twinkling at the ends of it, enveloping his whole body in light. Dave is too busy staring at his work to notice and the magic from the damn god himself makes it impossible to see his work being done. So you just have to watch in abject horror as he pulls back the ridiculously red arrow, dragging his fingers all the way up to his right cheek. He closes his left eye and aims it onto his target, breathing outward.
His fingers wrap tightly around the purpleheart wood of the bow’s body, fingers intertwining with the heart-shaped holes carved into it. He breathes again, deeper this time and opens his eyes back up. Dave is still not paying attention and you’re starting to think that Cupid is making him not look because there’s no fucking way that Dave is just not looking up for what feels like five minutes.
Cupid winks and you watch his lips as he mouths, “Fuckin’ idiot, I swear to fuckin’ god,” and he releases the grip on his braided vine drawstring.
You swear in that moment, as it strikes you, you hear music from somewhere. But no, that’s just the fucking magic of these arrows. Apparently, Cupid has a music addiction and he likes to forge his favourite songs into his arrow tips. He says it puts more emotion and Heart into it if a little piece of him is in every arrow. Soon after the music stops, you’re overwhelmed with warmth. Your heart overflows with compassion and affection and a very strong feeling of “this is for the best.”
You steady your feet again, ignoring the absolutely massive arrow embedded in your chest. Really, that damn thing MUST be at least FIVE FUCKING FEET LONG, so it’s not a super easy task. Somehow, you manage though. Dave turns around and stands up, as if he’s going to walk over to you. He stares at you and tilts his head slightly, like a bird inspecting its prey.
“You good, Karkat?” He asks and you pull your arms back.
You love him and you know this is for the best, you suddenly understand why he’s holding back so much. He loves you and he thinks that he’s no good for you but that’s just not fucking true. You need him as much as he needs you and you’re going to prove it, right now, by giving him the most selfless thing you can think of: a good, sharp push in the right direction. Your fingers meet with your cheek and, though you’re not as well-practiced as Cupid is, in that moment, your aim is as true as your Heart. Your Blood vibrates with energy and you feel a connection forming between you and it.
Your breath abated, Heart slowed, Blood buzzing with intent, you release the arrow and trust that he’ll finally realize that you want him just as much as he wants you.
Dave staggers backward as the arrow buries into his chest, he wheezes and clutches at his chest, reaching for a physical force he can't touch nor feel. All that he can feel is the aftereffects of the sheer force of your will powering through him, coursing through his veins and warming his heart. Your strain your ears and listen for the sound of the music, of course it's a song you know, how annoying, you actually know the song. You hum along to the lyrics, bringing them to the front of your mind, you whisper them under your breath.
And it might be pathetic
And you might be skeptical
But I just want to be with you
Please tell me boy can you
Get a clue or come through
Cause I just want to be with you
Peachy! has good lyrics and their sound is fucking perfect for Dave's personality. That's probably why Cupid forged this very arrow, because he just sort of knows what people really need. And the emotion radiating off of the song is sickly sweet and tongue-coating saccharine. You watch the shape of his aura change and mold itself from sharp and protective to warm, soft, and open. The final push of your intent fills him and you see his eyes light up with recognition.
"Karkat..." he whispers, sounding half-strained and half breathless.
The arrow begins to dissipate and it burns brightly, in a flash of bright red, it's gone as quickly as it went, you know that he can feel it now and that he understands. He finally gets it. He knows that he doesn't have to keep you safe from some demon that doesn't exist. He can love you and it's okay to love you. He steps forward again, eyes trained to yours.
Cupid stands and gathers his things, shoving them into his pockets. After he's all put together, he slides his sunglasses up and walks in your direction, heading for the exit. Before he passes you, he leans in and whispers something.
"People are gonna start staring, you goddamn loser. Stop standing there and fucking kiss him already or I'll give you forty more arrows to deal with."
You step forward and he does in turn. Within moments, his arms raise up and his hands wrap around your elbows. You've had him close to you before, yes, but never this close with this intent behind it. Despite Cupid's final, smug request, you actually do want to kiss him of your own volition. And from the starry-eyed look on Dave's face, you think it might not be such a stretch to assume he does too.
"Dave I..." You start and the saccharine feeling coats your tongue and you're at a loss for words. You think that this is part of Cupid's magic, making it so that way the only language needed is the language of lips, and not the spoken kind either.
He nods and steps closer, pulling your arms around him. You feel his binder underneath his shirt but you pay it no mind, you've got a goal here and you want to get it accomplished as soon as possible. You've just poured your heart out to him in the most physical way you could muster, an arrow charged with your very soul directly to him. His forehead presses to yours and his left hand slides up your arm, dancing its way up to your hair, where it plays with the curls on your head. You're silently thankful that you bothered brushing them out today because his fingers bury themselves in the thick of it.
His eyes are fucking beautiful from this close and you're overwhelmed with need. You need to kiss him, it's no longer want anymore. You might actually die if you don't kiss him in the next five seconds. He bites his lip slightly and smiles at you, eyes glinting in the light and you melt. Every fiber of your being pulls you closer and closer to him and you feel your lips skirt his for a moment, testing the proverbial waters. Dave makes an annoyed noise at you, a sound that speaks as many words as it needs to.
"Fucking kiss me already, dumb fuck."
You goddamn well oblige because you're not a damn torturer.
His lips press to yours, warm and full. It's clumsy at first but once he tilts his head just to the left, you fall into the rhythm of the long-faded music and just enjoy his lips on yours, showing you his Heart. God, his lips are so soft and thick. You could do this forever, if you really fucking wanted to (and Cupid knows you damn well do) but you have to pull back eventually. Even the best kissers in the world need air sometimes. As you do, he opens his eyes, still love-stricken and shining. He finally speaks to you.
"Shit."
You've never accused him of being eloquent and you're damn well not about to start. You will, however, laugh right in his face. Not in a mocking way, of course, but a soft hearted disbelief that he kisses you and the first thing he does is swear at you because he liked it so much.
You bury your face in the side of his neck, still laughing gently, “You’re a goddamn idiot, Dave Strider, but I’ll be fucking damned if I’m not hopelessly in love with you.”
He shrugs some, wrapping his arms around you, he kisses the top of your head. “I don’t know what you did but- wait. Fuck. Can we…? You have to work. Can we talk when you’re done?”
FUCK. You forgot all about work. Well, you guess you’ll have to put this on hold for now. You grab his hand, kissing the knuckles of it. “Yeah, meet me here at noon.”
“I love you.” He whispers and kisses you again, this time on the forehead. “You got me fallin’ for you and I ain’t even able to kiss you. Shit ain’t fair, Karkat. But damn if I ain’t gonna be a patient son of a bitch for ya.”
“Go. I’ll be here.” You whisper tenderly to him, “See you then.” You blow a kiss to him and wave as he packs his things and you gather yourself up and go hide out in the breakroom to take a deep breath. Cupid is a mean son of a bitch but damn if he didn’t choose the right guy for once.
Cupid: 1
Karkat: 0