bucketlist | Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

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Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

Homestuck Kink Meme

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Definitely.

The White Queen watches over the sleeping princess every day. She says it's just in case of an assassination attempt, but there's more to it than that.

[I call this a consent trigger because Dream!Jane is asleep for the entire fic. No explicit content.]

The White Queen tells herself it's because of the long wait, because she's nervous about what Derse will do given the time to stew before the war can begin. She tells herself that she's only trying to keep her people's heroes alive.

She tells herself that, but she finds herself drawn to the maid. She watches her as she lies in her bed, slumbering, chest rising and falling gently as she breathes. She is beautiful, her face untroubled by her waking dreams, short black hair spread out across her pillow.

There's so much life inside of her. So much vibrant, beautiful life. She's watched her grow up for so many years, ever since she was brought to them by the falling stars, clothed in her magical glowing golden robes.

More than anything, she wants to see her open her eyes.

---

She's not sure why she goes to see the Maid of Life in her room. She has never gone to see the Page in his room; he sleeps more restlessly, his hands clenching and unclenching in his dreams, and she watches from a distance as he tosses and turns, but it's never the same.

It's simple enough, at first. She stands at the doorway, watching her sleep. She looks so quiet, so peaceful... she's growing up, her arms and legs long and shapely, plump and curvaceous in her robes. She's so different from the people of Prospit, her skin rosy-pink, her hair dark, her eyes hidden by sleep and her glasses. Such a fascinating girl, she thinks, a small smile on her face.

What sort of life does she live in her waking hours, as she waits for the games to begin? What does she do? Is she an innocent girl, with that same innocent smile? Or is she a dangerous hellion, full of passion and fire and life? She wishes that she could stare up at the clouds and see their future, but that is reserved for the dreamers.

The game that they're playing... she knows how dangerous it will be. She wants to see the future, at least so that she will know that the Maid of Life will have a chance.

---

One night, almost two and a half years after the cold war began, she walks into the Maid's room and stares at her for a very long time.

Her husband is gone, off to oversee the army that itches for a beginning to the long and epic conflict of light versus darkness. They might not, if they suspected what she suspects... but then, she has been afraid of a great many things. She keeps hearing whispers of strife on Derse, and a new, terrifying power that is rising there.

Her worry makes her wander. What she wonders is why she has wandered here, of all places - why the sight of this girl brings her so much comfort. Although she is no longer such a girl, now...

She gently steps over to the side of her bed, moving as quietly as she can; it's an empty gesture, she knows that she won't wake her, but she can't help herself. Violating such peaceful sleep... the thought is blasphemy. Thrilling, beautiful blasphemy.

Just sitting down next to her calms her jangled nerves. She reaches out, brushes her hand against the woman's untroubled forehead, and wishes she could sleep so deeply and so well.

---

The Page is dead. The Queen has failed.

She finds herself in the Maid's room, nearly blind with despair. Their hopes were gone, the hearts of the people full of pain and anguish. She should be down with them, comforting them, not kneeling down next to the Maid in tears.

If only she would open her eyes. If only she would wake and tell her that it wasn't real, that everything was going to be all right. She might even believe it, if it came from her.

She's so lonely. So lost. Her husband gone, her life turned upside down by this murder, Dersite agents wandering her nation and her own people powerless to stop them... this was the only place where her life made sense anymore, the only place that she could find any peace.

She settles down in the bed and curls up next to her, pulling the Maid's head against her chest, kissing her on the top of her head, and wonders. What would it feel like to have her arms wrapped around her, her lips warm and awake and kissing her shining white carapace. She wants to know if her hands are as strong as they are soft. She wants to hear her voice saying her name, the secret name that no one else will say, not even her husband - wants to hear her voice, imagines it like a golden bell ringing in the bright sky.

But all she can do for now is kiss her, stroke her sleeping face - not a stir, not even a whisper - and dream of seeing her open her eyes and smile at her. She won't let Derse take her away. She'll make sure of it. She won't fail her like she failed the Page of Hope.

---

She has nothing to lose now.

The feeling is strange, and she knows it to be false, but she doesn't care. She feels empty now that the Maid of Hope has been declared dead. Empty, and somehow that fills her with more rage than she has ever felt before.

And yet... she refuses the thought that such a brightly-burning candle can be so easily extinguished. She can't believe it, not until she sees her lying there with her own eyes. The sight will hurt her more than she can imagine, but she needs to know.

When she finally catches up to her, she sees the Dersite agent standing behind her, ready to finish what he started... and something inside of her snaps. She has never been violent, has never been as angry as she had been at that moment. She had watched her for so many years and had never known what she would do if she saw her in danger, but now... she surprises herself.

Her scepter feels as light as a feather as she swings it through the air, and it connects with the agent's skull with an audible crack. He topples, and twitches as he falls to the floor.

The White Queen stands behind him with deep satisfaction, her scepter decorated with red blood and fragments of black carapace, and pushes him aside with no care for his safety. She reaches down, cups the beautiful Maid's face with her hands (she stirs in her sleep, and it is the first time she has ever seen her stir,) and allows herself to smile. The violence, strange as it was, was worthwhile, if it meant that she *could* protect her. She could do what she had sworn she'd do from the very start.

Nothing else was going to harm her. Not while she still drew breath.

aaah so sweet! I love how WQ's determination and strength come through here.

The one crucial accessory when seducing Terezi: a tube of candy-red lipstick. Sloppiest makeouts ever ensue.

i'm actually working on a roxy/ar fic right now! ...but he already knows how to flirt and is doing a really good job of sweeping her off her feet. http://archiveofourown.org/works/347758 enjoy~

Feelingsfull no-other-option murder between people who are very close. An auspistice is forced into drastic measures, a matesprit has to put their partner out of misery, a kismesis decides they wouldn't want it to happen any other way, a moirail doesn't want to be left behind ... stuff along those lines, and not with anyone "snapping" to prompt the killing or to perform it. Friends would work too, especially if it's between beta kids.

What could be really interesting is Bec Noir and PM flitting about universes, mostly seeing only each other, and finally having a strangely fraught showdown.

Off the top of my head, the only ships I'd prefer to avoid are Terezi/Vriska, Feferi/Eridan, or Mindfang/Redglare. Considering canon, it's too depressing.

this is one of these fills that im really thankful for even if it's not even my prompt
it's really beautiful and you made me love them even more
thank you *G*

PM/Bec Noir. Sorry, I won't be able to do anything more than a sketch for now!

♥!!! Thank you. It is gorgeous - the musculature, and the bite as part of the final blow is pure wow. (Also I am way impressed by how fast you did this.)

wow, what a dramatic pic! i love their positions and their face expressions. well done, i wish i had your drawing skills!

Aradia's anger occasionally turns on herself - or, at least, on her other robot selves. Hoping for selfcest kismesissitude, with Equius possibly trying to play auspistice once or twice but failing, because Aradiabot's anger is just too powerful/he just pities her too much.

TG: my gaydar is like the exanct fuckin poposite of urs
TG: which is to say it is better than completety nonexistant
TG: mine is so sensitive it has been used to sweep the ocean floor for mythical sea monsters
TG: turns out
TG: all of those monsters are SO gay

Gl'bgolyb gets its tentacles on the Page of Hope. That sea monster is so hot for him. Jake is a wonderful place for tentacles. He learns to like calamari.

Bonus points if Gl'bgolyb treats him tenderly and delicately, and Jake is both terrified and kind of curious BUT MOSTLY TERRIFIED and also, calamari.

Karkat's eyes widen when you ask him for it. "No," he says, shocked.

You kneel down beside him. "Please," you say, feeling like it's just the two of you even though you're sure everyone else is gonna be there soon. "We ain't got much time."

"Fuck you! You can't ask me to fucking do this, you asshole!" Karkat gasps. He's gasping with pain since that attack, an attack that got way closer than it ever should have. Fucker jumped in, saved all of you, and now this is what it cost him, and it hurts like a motherfucker to see him like this. "Please don't fucking say it again, just don't -"

"Palebro," you say, holding Karkat's hand as gently as you can manage, wrapping it around his scythe. You're trying to smile, trying to make it more than just the makeup, but your motherfucking pusher is all up in your throat and you're having a hard time. "Can't let it happen again. Can't ever let it happen again."

"Damn it," he says. There's a thin trickle of his red, red blood pouring out of the corner of his mouth, like a motherfucking clown's nose. It's so goddamned beautiful, and you're pretty sure that anyone who'd cull him for having such motherfucking beautiful blood is a monster. "I fucked up, Gamzee. I fucked up bad. I didn't want it to end like this, didn't wanna leave you... damn it, Gamzee, I'm fucking sorry -"

"Shhhhh," you say, "shoosh now, shoosh." You're returning the favor he did for you, not that long ago. No time for that now. He ain't got much longer. "It'll all be motherfucking okay, Karkat. We leave together now, and that means me and you don't ever have to be alone, ever again."

"You really want this?" he says in a quieter voice now, a gentler one. Less anger, less self-hatred. Almost like he was a wriggler again.

"I really motherfucking want this," you say, and you mean it. Not that you wanted him to die like this - that sure as hell wasn't in your plan - but if he's gotta die, you sure as hell ain't lettin' him go alone. Besides, you can't stay alone, not like this. Not when you know damn well what's gonna happen. You don't know if you can keep yourself together again, man, not without him. You nearly killed everyone on this motherfucking rock once and you ain't gonna be that guy again.

Karkat knows it, too. You feel his fingers tighten around the scythe. "You..." he said, forcing one last smile. "You'd better be... fucking right about this."

"Right as rain, brother," you say, and close your eyes. "Trust me."

Karkat's other hand, or rather the place where his other hand should've been, snakes out with one convulsive motion - you feel it, and reach out to grab it without even opening your eyes, leaving the hand that's still good, the hand with the scythe in it, free.

"Then I'd better see you there," he says, and you hear the sobs he's trying not to let out, and you squeeze the bloody stump as reassuringly as you can. You ain't much for pacifyin', too fucking dangerous, but you'll do the best you can for him. The others are just gonna have to make it to the end of the line without you, 'cuz you ain't takin' what's left of this ride without him.

The scythe falls. Karkat's a damn genius with those things, even now. Pain's bright and clear and beautiful, like a rainbow, like a motherfucking miracle, and for a second you wish it could last forever - you and Karkat, holding what's left of each other under the blurry stars, forever and ever and ever.

"Yeah," you manage through the pain. "See you there. No joke."

(Or Gamzee/Terezi.)

Kismessisitude. So far into the black that it's a miracle that they're both still alive. AU, or during/post Gamzee freakout.

Ooops

so that's my favourite pairing, and now I'm crying a little. aaauuugh, this line - "Karkat's other hand, or rather the place where his other hand should've been, snakes out with one convulsive motion - you feel it, and reach out to grab it without even opening your eyes, leaving the hand that's still good, the hand with the scythe in it, free."

Thank you. The whole moment is perfect, and I love how you write Gamzee.

You can feel hands on you, and you struggle toward wakefulness. Your head won't clear, but you think to yourself that you must not disappoint her. Your mistress has made that plain. You stir, trying to move.

"Hush, my bella dolorosa," someone whispers in your ear, cool breath ghosting against your skin. "Relax."

You take orders much better than you used to. You stop struggling. You drift.

The next time you wake, you're aware that you're floating. Movement still takes effort, but something in the back of your mind tells you this is wrong, so you try: you reach out, find the edge of a recuperacoon, pull yourself clumsily upward until you're half-clear of the slime. You have to stop there to wait for the dizziness to clear from your mind, and as soon as you can force yourself to keep moving you spill free of the recuperacoon entirely. Sopor glistens on your skin, cloying and thick; you try to wipe it from your limbs with your hands.

You've been stripped bare at some point since you first fell asleep. This isn't the first time. The Marquise likes to see you this way. But usually she wants to be there when you wake, and you're alone now.

The floor rolls under your feet in the familiar rocking cadence of the sea, and you can hear the creak of rigging above, but you don't recognize this cabin. Would your legs hold you, if you tried to get up to go investigate?

Before you can convince your body to make the attempt, a door opens behind you. You hear laughter, a low, masculine voice, and the confident stride of boots on the boards. "Sleeping beauty's already awwake, I see," your visitor says.

You let your head loll back against your shoulder, looking over at him: you recognize him first by the flamboyant captain's coat, and second by the shock of violet in his hair. "Sir," you say, your lips and tongue slow. Orphaner Dualscar is your mistress's kismesis, but her hatred for him is cordial in the strange way of highbloods, and she has insisted that you address him with respect. "Is my lady...?"

"Sshh," he says, coming over to stand before you. "Let's not speak a her right now."

Something is wrong here.

Orphaner Dualscar kneels on the floor in front of you and smiles, close-mouthed, without the threat of teeth. He cups your face in one jewelry-laden hand, wiping a smear of sopor slime from your cheek. "Howw about wwe clean you up an go havve breakfast?" he asks.

"Thank you," you say. Your voice comes out slurred, and you blush. You will shame the Marquise with your slovenliness. (You would shame yourself, if there were anything left of you, but since you lost Him and the survivors scattered there has been nothing else that could compare.)

"You're a gorgeous piece a wwork, you knoww that?" he says as he helps you up off the floor. "Nevver seen a landdwweller so pretty."

You think you want to argue; shouldn't he pay that compliment to the Marquise, his quadrantmate? But you don't trust your tongue, or the heaviness still lingering in your mind. You let him wipe you clean, then dress you in a delicate confection of silk and lace. The dress is unfamiliar, but it fits you perfectly.

He feeds you from his own hands when you can't shake the sopor slowness enough to take care of yourself. You apologize more than once, but he only gives you that gentle, no-threat smile and shakes his head. His eyes are rich as amethysts, and the jagged scars across his face are bright as coral. His fingers trace the line of your bottom lip as he feeds you.

"Why?" you try to ask at the end of the meal. Your tongue still feels heavy in your mouth. "Why would you be so kind to me?"

"Oh, swweetheart," he says, stroking your hair back from your face. "Isn't it obvvious?"

You try to think of the obvious answer. It escapes you. The room spins, and you swoon into his arms.

The pattern repeats. It isn't until the fourth time that you manage to claw your way back to lucidity enough to say, "You're keeping me drugged."

For a moment he pauses in the act of sponging sopor slime from your body. His hand fits into the curve of your waist, cool and strong. "It wwas the only wway to keep you safe," he says.

You shake your head, because that doesn't make sense. "Safe from what?"

Dualscar reaches up with his other hand and runs his fingers through your hair. "From yourself," he says. "Or I guess I could say, from wwhat she could make you do to yourself." He looks at you with such kind, sorrowful eyes. "I'vve seen it before, wwhen she gets tired a someone. Didn't wwanna see you wwasted like that."

Your bloodpusher is trying to beat more quickly, despite the sedation. "Seen what before?" you ask. "What does she do?"

He grimaces, as if it hurts him just to think of it. "Wwhen she runs out a patience wwith her toys, they off themselvves," he says.

"You think—she makes them," you say. There is a tiny crawling fear in the back of your mind, and you realize when you try to focus on it that it's the fear of betraying her, of believing him, and being discovered.

"I'vve seen howw she gets her fangs in people. I'vve seen howw you swwoon ovver her like you think you're her swweetheart instead a her slavve." You can barely look him in the eyes. "You tellin me that wwas all your idea?"

The world lurches around you in a way that you can't blame on either drugs or the ship. "I need some air," you say.

He allows you up on deck, but insists that he be allowed to come with you. He fears that he has triggered some implanted urge in your mind, and tells you he couldn't bear it if you were to throw yourself into the water. You agree to his terms. All you do anymore is agree to highbloods' terms.

When he brings you up on deck, he holds you, your hands behind your back, his hands curled around your wrists. His grip is strong enough that you don't think you could break it, but not so tight that you will bruise.

The water stretches away in front of you to the horizon, ink black, rippling with the light of the moons. The wind chills you through your thin dress. His body offers a suggestion of warmth, and you still feel dazed; you lean against him. You discover there is a part of you that wants to believe the Marquise's affections were genuine. There is also a part of you that wants to believe Dualscar's intentions are kind. But you are tired, not in your body but in your soul; you have little faith left to spare.

He drugs you less after you confront him about it, or perhaps you're simply becoming accustomed to the sopor slowness of your mind and limbs. He still feeds you choice bites from his fingers when you take meals together, and he still touches you often—always mindful of his claws and of his strength, as though you were something silken and delicate, something breakable. There is hunger in the way he watches you; now that you're somewhat more alert you can see it. But he bides his time, even though you are a slave and entirely at his mercy.

Eventually you ask him, "Why?"

Dualscar stops in the midst of stroking your hair. "That's a big one, lovvely," he says. "You got somethin specific in mind?"

There are too many ways you could mean it; you have to stop for a moment and try to untangle them in your own mind. "Why are you still taking care of me?" you settle on eventually.

He looks away from you, shrugging awkwardly; suddenly he looks young, unsure, and you don't know what to think of him. "Cause I wwant to," he says. "I ain't good at talkin about feelins."

You don't want to press the subject. If he doesn't declare his feelings for you, then you won't have to figure out how to respond to them. The idea of him having feelings for you—red feelings, clearly, or you would be already torn to ribbons—should be terrifying, perhaps even more so than Mindfang's. Orphaner Dualscar hates landdwellers without exception. To be the exception would be—

He cups your face in his hand, stroking your cheek. "You're driftin awway, lovvely," he says.

"M-my apologies," you stammer. You're blushing; his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, smooth and cool.

"Wwouldn't wwant to think you wwere bored a my company," he says, and for an instant a dangerous smirk almost surfaces on his calm face.

"Never," you say. It's the only right answer.

You lose track of how long it's been since he—since you woke on his ship. You see no other trolls anymore; if he meets up with underlings to resupply the ship, he does it when you are cocooned in sopor and insensible. Cooking and cleaning are tended to by drones. There is only Dualscar, you, and the endless black water of the sea. The more your faculties return to you, the more you crave his company, longing for the stimulation of his conversation, the vibrancy of his presence.

You learn that he plays the fiddle, not sedate aristocratic melodies but lively dockside tunes; his eyes sparkle as he plays, as he drinks in the sight of you delighting in the first music you've heard in perigees. You try your best not to be captivated by the dance of his fingers over the fiddle's slender neck. You fear that you are not doing so well as you might like in that.

You grow accustomed to the solid strength of his presence at your back and the faint roughness of the boards under your feet when you stand on deck. At first it's a small price to pay for the chance to breathe the fresh air and feel the breeze on your face. Later it becomes almost a comfort, being able to lean into him, being able to depend on him to be there. He points out constellations to you, one arm around your waist, the other hand tracing shapes in the sky. His voice is a rumble against your back, thrumming under your skin.

Your world stretches from stem to stern of this ship, and he is lord of it all.

The warm seasons bring storms. The first two you outrun the worst of, sailing hard through choppy seas until only the very edge of the storm brushes the ship. Those are terrifying enough. (He could dive, should the ship be sundered; he could swim the depths and flex his gills and breathe. You would be utterly lost.)

Then comes the storm that he cannot entirely escape, and the terrible helplessness you feel as you wait below decks, clinging to a bolted-down bunk, sick with the furious upheaval of the sea. You still want to live. After all the horrors you've seen, after the fraction of those horrors you've suffered, still the imminent threat of death wakes your instincts and makes you hold fast to the life that's left to you.

Dualscar is on deck, fighting the storm to keep his ship in one piece. You catch yourself wishing there were something you could do. You tell yourself it's only selfishness that makes you hope he'll be all right. You can't bring yourself to believe it.

It's nearly dawn when he comes stumbling down below decks. You hear him slump down and stifle a groan, and before you can second-guess yourself you rush out into the corridor after him. His clothes are soaked through, clinging to his skin—with rain, mostly, but one of his shirtsleeves is heavy with a spreading purple stain.

You help him to his quarters, help him remove the tattered ruins of his shirt. His skin is marked by sweeps upon sweeps of combat, even his gills jagged on one side from an old wound. He smiles wanly when he sees you looking. "Ain't as bad as it looks," he says hoarsely.

"Hush," you say, forgetting yourself. "Let me take care of you."

"Thought you'd nevver ask," he rasps, as his eyes close. Your ribs feel too tight for the ache behind them.

You clean the gash on his arm and bind it closed with strips torn from his ruined shirt. As you work, his breathing slips from exhaustion into the slower cadence of sleep. He trusts you enough to let his guard down that far. You stroke a lock of damp hair back from his forehead and wish you could quell this fierce, desperate tenderness, but it won't fade—even when you've helped him to his recuperacoon and retreated to your own, you can still feel it, sparked and smoldering warm in your core.

You sleep soundly in the rich sopor he provides for you, but you still wake unsettled. Is he well? You chide yourself for being foolish; he is a battle-hardened seagrift with centuries of experience surviving worse harm than this. Still you find yourself drawn to his door, like a flutterbug to an open flame. You stand at the door and listen, but there's no sound from inside. Your vascular pump falters. You are ridiculous.

You open the door and cross to the edge of his recuperacoon; he floats weightless and elegant in the slime, long-boned and rangy with muscle. His eyes flutter and open as you look in on him: gold and amethyst, like the jewels he wears. "Evvenin, beautiful," he says, his mouth crooking upwards in a rakish smile.

"I hope—you are recovering, my lord," you say.

His eyes widen slightly, and you realize this is the first time you have called him that; the first time you have acknowledged that the relationship between you is personal now, that you are his and not simply treating him with the respect any troll of his station would command. His smile widens. "I think I'm on the mend," he says.

He rises, lifts himself free of his recuperacoon with a slow and powerful grace; you realize at the sight of his stark, arched hipbone that he must have finished undressing himself after you left in the morning. You avert your eyes as if there is any possibility he might have modesty to preserve, and he laughs.

"Come help me wwith this," he says as he steps out onto the bare floor. There are tiny violet-tinged fins at his ankles. You dare not look up.

"It would be my honor," you murmur; that is the only correct response from a slave. He reminded you once that you were the Marquise's slave rather than her lover. You try to remind yourself now that he has caused a change in your ownership, nothing more.

He hands you a towel and you sink to your knees without further instruction, wiping away the traces of sopor that cling to his feet, his ankles, his calves. His left thigh is seamed with three parallel scars, thin purple lines left by the claws of something vicious. You wait: surely he will demand your mouth. You are on your knees before him. He knows how thoroughly you are his.

His thumb strokes a line from your ear to your jaw, where he has his most extravagant frills and you have but unbroken skin. He cups your jaw in long, cool fingers, tilting your head up. The sheath of his bulge is flushed dark and dilating, but not yet drawn back enough to expose him. "Come up here, lovvely," he tells you, and his fingertips beneath your chin guide you as you rise.

He meets your eyes steadily and you don't dare look away. Orphaner Dualscar, who is famed for his hatred of landdwellers, who could kill you as easily as he breathes, leans in slowly as if he doesn't dare startle you, as if he wants to be sure you assent. Despite everything you have been, despite everything you know he is, you move to meet him. His mouth meets yours; your eyes close; your lips part. You are drowning.

His passion has been held back for perigees; now the floodgates are open, and you are overwhelmed by it. He takes you there on the floor of his cabin. He takes you again in the ruins of your evening meal—holding you down, licking sweet cream from your skin. You learn the taste of sea salt that clings to his skin, and the darker, musky brine of his genetic material. He cannot bring himself to stop touching you. You are intoxicated with the sensation, with the closeness, with his need.

Your nights blur. You are woken often by his hands on you, by his murmured promises of how he will make you feel. For all that he is careful with your body, he is impatient, aggressive, with anything that keeps you apart—his claws rend your thin dresses to ribbons, and he is a presence constantly at your side. Your world shrinks still further, until you are marking time by his hands, his mouth, his bulge, by the vivid splash of his genetic material across your thighs.

He decks you in jewels, amethysts dripping from your throat and your wrists. He tells you how lovely you are as you shudder beneath him, as you are undone by his touch. In the quiet, late hours of the morning, when the sun traps you below decks and the need for sleep weighs down your limbs, he whispers praise and pleas in equal measure, lovveliest girl I evver seen and nevver leavve me, beautiful, say you'll nevver leavve.

You cannot resist him.

When he brings the ship in to port a perigee later, you almost don't know what to do with yourself. The idea of going ashore, of seeing other trolls, is alien and almost distressing after so long in his orbit.

He seems perhaps to feel the same way; he docks the ship but then is in no hurry to leave, instead remaining in his cabin with you. He touches you, teases you, coaxes you to your knees for him. You lick and suckle at his bulge until he spills for you, and he tells you how beautiful you are, how much it delights him to see you bathed in his color.

When someone boards the ship, strident footsteps approaching the cabin, you tense in alarm but he remains entirely relaxed, entirely pleased. His hand at the back of your neck insists gently that you stay where you are.

"Orphaner Dualscar, you sickening coward," a voice calls from on deck. A woman's voice. The Marquise Mindfang's voice. "You kill her and then flee from me, and then dare to show yourself in less than a sweep's time?" She's coming closer. You feel yourself tensing, anticipating discovery, and still you cringe when she kicks open the door.

"I'vve killed a lot a you landdwwellers in my time," Dualscar says. He strokes your hair back from your face, drawing the Marquise's attention to you. "Remind me wwhich one you cared about?"

Her multipupiled eye seems to burn right through you; you have to look away. "What have you done with her?" the Marquise demands, cold and furious; you can feel traces of her anger lapping at your mind. "She was mine."

Dualscar laughs. "Marquise, you're not the only one wwho can be convvincin," he says. His bulge has already retracted; his fingers dance, re-lacing his trousers. He picks up his sword. "Some a us can rely on natural charm instead a cheatin, evven." He sounds so triumphant. "Still bored wwith wwhat wwe got goin on?"

"I hope you've enjoyed playing this little game," the Marquise growls, and her voice still makes you tremble. "Stealing my planned quadrantmate because you wanted more attention, Orphaner? You have my attention now." The hair on the back of your neck prickles, as if you can feel an onrushing storm. "When I get done with you, you're going to beg me to let you die."

"Promises, promises," Dualscar says.

You feel yourself suddenly consumed with hatred, with a need to carve your name in his flesh and see him beg for mercy. You whimper, trying to fight the urge, sure that it isn't yours, trembling with the effort of keeping your claws from his skin. He looks down at you. The warmth in his eyes is gone as if it had never been; he looks at you now with nothing but contempt. He snarls a hand in your hair and tosses you aside with horrible ease, and you hit one of the ribs of the wall hard enough to bruise.

Whichever one of them wins this duel, you are lost.

Ooooh, god. Dualscar is such a crafty and unscrupulous bastard in this, and so irresistible even though I knew what he was doing, and then... good grief, that ending. Poor Dolorosa.

Thank you so much. This is brilliant and just what I hoped for.

aaah, I'm so glad you liked it! I loved being able to write him being clever and manipulative and horrible, kyaaaaa.

Kismessisitude seems to be really physical and aggressive -- how does that work when you're so STRONG you'd break somebody if you fought back? Just about any pairing welcome, though I generally prefer Equius/Aradia to be flushed, not caliginous. I'm hoping to see Equius find a solution that works instead of just leaving him frustrated. Give me some STRONG and mutually satisfying hatemance~

"You can't have the same person in all four of your quadrants - everyone knows that!"

Tell me the story of a troll couple who tries to prove that long-standing societal norm wrong. I just really want to see where people go with this idea, so any background and pairing would be awesome as long as they're both somehow trolls.

Troll breasts are for making honeydew.

Sweet, sweet honeydew. Psychoactive, aphrodisiac honeydew.

Wonderful! So very hot.

Awww!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 5 of 20

Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

Re: Terezi/Nepeta, rough sex

WQ/Dream!Jane

And It Sounds Like Churchbells (White Queen/Dream!Jane, PG, possible consent trigger)

Re: And It Sounds Like Churchbells (White Queen/Dream!Jane, PG, possible consent trigger)

Terezi/any of the ladies

Re: Roxy/AR

romantic murder, PM/Bec Noir or just about any ship

Re: Make You Hurt (Condense♥Dualscar, M, consensual torture (fantasy))

Re: romantic murder, PM/Bec Noir or just about any ship

Re: romantic murder, PM/Bec Noir or just about any ship

Re: romantic murder, PM/Bec Noir or just about any ship

Aradiabot/Equius/Aradiabot, abuse trigger

Gl'bgolyb/Jake. Xenophilia, tentacles, dub/non-con.

Last Request (M for character death, Karkat <> Gamzee)

Terezi/Gamzee

Re: Last Request (M for character death, Karkat <> Gamzee)

"no earthly treasure," Dualscar/Dolorosa, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, seduction (1/2)

"no earthly treasure," Dualscar/Dolorosa, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, seduction (2/2)

Re: "no earthly treasure," Dualscar/Dolorosa, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, seduction (2/2)

Re: "no earthly treasure," Dualscar/Dolorosa, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, seduction (2/2)

Equius♠???

Any troll pairing

For I on honeydew hath fed/and drunk the milk of paradise

Re: A Fascinating Novelty (Mindfang♥Dolorosa, M, Nippleplay)

Re: And It Sounds Like Churchbells (White Queen/Dream!Jane, PG, possible consent trigger)