bucketlist | Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

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Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

Homestuck Kink Meme

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Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh Dualscar! Not the canon version, but it was really good to see one of him.

I don't really blame Eridan for being upset given his romantic daydreams but at least he had the grace to acknowledge Dualscar once he didn't have an excuse not to. And seen through Eridan's eyes Dualscar is very attractive, I liked the hint of insecurity Eridan had to be feeling.

So, Eridan came from one of Dualscar's clutches...what happens to breeders who fail to produce their owner's heir? Are they punished for it, even though it isn't their fault? I loved seeing Eridan's surprise and confusion at meeting his direct progenitor.

And who was he fighting? Do breeders kept in the same harem often fight among themselves, and is that why the room is so well set up to keep Dualscar and Eridan out of each other's reach? And is that one of the reasons Dualscar's teeth were filed, or does that happen to all breeders?

It was kind of sweet for Dualscar to offer to teach Eridan how to deal with his life and I really like how Eridan responded to Dualscar's interest and offer, how it appealed to his vanity.

Then I loved how Eridan instinctively tried to hide himself at the sound of his master's approach, no matter how futile the effort was.

And finally for Dualscar to thank Karkat for basically throwing him to the ground and stepping on his neck...

Interesting that Eridan wanted to step in - was that a stunted desire to protect Dualscar? And then the way his training punished him for even the hint of defiance.

You're mashing all my buttons here.

I am actually working on the immediate porny aftermath (it got cut from the original post because it would require a ton of exposition in between the two parts) and will definitely be posting it here when it's done.

As for their fabulous adventure rescuing Jane, well. I have all my irons in the WIP fire right now as it is, but I admit that's an idea that appeals to me!

When she sleeps, she dreams - and she dreams that she is awake, in another place and in other times. The only problem with being the hero of void is that sometimes (too often) her powers backfire on her, and even her thoughts and memories are hidden from her own mind. When she wakes, she can never remember a damned thing that's happened.

Well, not nothing. There are bits and pieces, all broken up like some stained glass window that's been shattered for years, its pieces scattered to the wind - with just a flash of color here or there that hints at what might've been before. What the picture might've looked like. It's never enough, though.

She's okay with that, because if she weren't, she knows it'd drive her crazy.

When she drinks, she sleeps more heavily. When she drinks, she dreams more vividly. And, sometimes, (she thinks but isn't quite sure) she even starts to remember.

---

At first, everything is black. But it's not bad. It's familiar.

She's been here before. Maybe it wasn't this exact place or time, but the veil itself still carries with it that shared sense of continuity within the places that pass between. It's fluid, shifting, but still the same - like water filling in the cracks between stepping stones. She doesn't quite hold her breath, but she waits in anticipation to see just what it'll bring this time.

Then there is light.

It's slow to build, and subtle, and at first it's hard to tell if there really are colors anywhere or if it's all just a wash of black and indigo, shadows and darkness. Her eyes - her mind - begins to adjust to the newness, and she glides forward on an unseen breeze.

There is a bubble. It looks like shifting glass, both tiny and massive at the same time. She approaches it until it dwarfs her, and she holds out a hand, pressing against the surface. It feels cool and slippery and ethereal, utterly alien and completely familiar. She smiles and pushes through, her feet finding traction on ground again - on a wood-paneled floor - and suddenly she is in another world with familiar rules like gravity and inertia, and she stumbles as this other world looks so much like her own.

She's standing in the foyer of her own house, only there's real light shining through the windows - and they're real windows instead of just the holographic-and-sometimes-teleportational portals that have always been the only reason why she's managed to survive beneath her house, traveling through fenestrated planes unseen by the drones, for so long. Her breath hitches, and she feels her pulse race, and for a moment she panics, certain that they're lying in wait.

But it's not real. It's not her home. It's ... someone else's memory of a home that looks the same (and yet is completely different) and she can't help but wonder just who it belongs to. (And she can't help wonder if it'd be better if she didn't know.) She tries to not think about her mother, separated by centuries and universes. She tries, and she fails.

A faint chime jars her out of her thoughts and memories. The sound of someone moving within the house puts her on her guard again.

Slowly, quietly, she walks down the hall. She's practiced at moving that way, unnoticed and undetected. She's had a lot of time to go at it. But that one damned loose board still squeaks when she puts her weight on it, oh so faintly, and she knows the ruse is up even as she freezes mid-step.

"Ain't no sense just sneaking around, pitter patter, pitter patter, like a motherfucking tiny squeakbeast when there's good eats a-waiting," drawls a low voice from within the kitchen. (She knows it's the kitchen, first opening on the left; it's her house. Sort of.) "Even if you are just stuck in this here bubble, waiting for it to pop and all up and fade away just like the rest of 'em. At least enjoy what time you have in this fine motherfucker while you've still got it."

She unfreezes, straightens; she even smiles as she walks the rest of the way as if she were taking a Sunday stroll in a park for the first time in her entire life. The patterns of color flowing through the windows are painted in garish pastel, and they make the house look more alive than it ever did before.

"Heeeey~" She calls out, doing a fancy spin on one foot as she rounds the corner. It's not quite a pirouette, but that's okay. It's still fun. She grins at the troll who's bent over by the oven at the far end of the kitchen. He's still young and is dressed in what look like pajamas that hang almost too loose on his gangly form. His hair is a messy tangle, falling around his face and shoulders like a wild mane. His horns are tall and curling, sort of like a corkscrew with the way they twist in a gentle spiral. She's always liked that imagery about him, though it's one of the few things she hasn't yet told him in all of the times they've met each other in the dream bubbles so far. "Aren't you full of surprises. I didn't know you cooked for reals."

"Hell yeah, sister," he says, pulling a sickly green pie out of the oven. It smells terrible, like curdled milk or overripe fruit that's been left out in the summer sun. "Pie's my specialty. Used to eat these motherfuckers all the time back home, before I realized that they all up and messed with my thinkpan."

"Oooh, those pies." She watches him stand up and set the tin on the counter to cool. It doesn't start to smell any better now that she knows just what's in it. She crosses over to take a closer look at it anyway. "Where'd you get sopor for it here? This looks like an Earth dream bubble, not one of the ones from your group. Oh, no wait, let me guess-" She leans back against the counter and leers up at him. He's tall enough that he has to duck just a little bit or risk digging into the ceiling with his horn tips. "Miracles, obvs. Am I right?"

He laughs. It still sounds too strained, too calculated, but it always has. "That's the motherfucking truth, my little sister." But at least he laughs, now. He didn't at first. "Seems a motherfucking shame to let a pie like this go to waste, though, especially after it was all those miracles that were put into making it dream-real. Don't suppose a sister wants to try some, since this motherfucker can't touch it no more."

"Yeah..." About that... She considers her options, and she's pretty sure that intentionally ingesting sopor of unknown and dubious origins - even if it has been cooked - is pretty low on the priority list. Especially considering that everything she's heard has said that it's the worst possible thing for a troll to eat. And she's finding it more and more convincing that sopor is one of those ingredients with a long, unpronounceable name listed on the back of everything that the Batterwitch sells, the type of complex word where no one really knows just what it is. The prospect of eating a pie full of the stuff doesn't quite hold up against her test of madrigogs. She decides that redirection is the better course of action. "How about we let it sit and cool off for a while first. And in the meeeeantime, I've got a better idea."

"Whatcha got in mind, sister?" His grin's still there, and if he realizes that his pie's really going to waste after all, he doesn't seem offended in the least. "You know I'm all about trying new things."

"'kay, see," she says, already almost-pirouetting out of the kitchen to where she just knows the liquor cabinet should be. (Where it is. And it looks completely the same, even if the warm pastel glow from outside makes the wood seem richer in hue.) "This is a human house, which means that whoever lived here had good stash, unless they were completely and utterly batshit insane. You know what I'm talking about, riiiight? A little something something to keep your nerves settled, let you enjoy all of the free will you've got left in all the whole shitty world. Universe. Universes. And I totes guarantee it's not gonna rot your thinkpan."

Already she's got the glass doors open and is picking through the bottles. They're .. slightly different from the ones she remembers. Maybe. Or maybe she's just forgotten what she's had in stock last. But they're familiar enough in how they're ordered that she wastes no time in picking out the tequila. It's a brand new bottle, just like she knew it'd be; tequila's really the only one that has to be shared, which is why it's always sat there alone and untouched. There’s more than enough Cointreau, and she's pretty damn sure that there should be some lime juice in the fridge. If there isn't, then it'd be a crying shame. "It might kill your liver, though," she adds, then asks in an afterthought, "Do trolls even have livers?"

"No motherfucking clue," he rumbles, just behind her, and for a brief instant she's completely unnerved at just how well he can be silent when he wants to, or even when he's not thinking about it, like some giant murder-meowbeast on the prowl. She covers it by grabbing a pair of glasses - not caring that they're way too narrow and meant for wine - and turning around on the spot to simper up at him. "Would you like to partake?" she asks, affecting an exaggerated British accent like she's always imagined Jake to have while raising both glasses and the bottle in his general direction. She maybe wiggles her eyebrows and winks, too.

For a moment, he hesitates. He takes the bottle out of her hand and brings it up to look at more closely, turning it over to inspect the label. He can't read it, she knows; it's written in English and it's not one of those newer types that has both that and the alien text printed on the side. But she doesn't insult him by pointing that out. When he finally says something, his voice is low and all kinds of serious. "This isn't going to knock me off my clean streak, is it? That's the last motherfucking thing I need right now what with everything finally being so motherfucking clear and making all kinds of wicked sense."

They've both their own reasons for continually seeking out these dream bubbles time and time again. For her, she drinks to sleep and escape the reality of the Batterwitch and everything she's brought with her into her world. For him, he waits, awake and apart from the horrorterrors and everyone else, for when he can drift through the dream bubbles, leaving behind the filthy truth of what all has happened on his meteor.

He told her about it once. Exactly once. She's pretty sure he didn't tell her exactly everything, but hearing about the bloodbath and how big of a real in it he really played was still pretty bad in and of itself.

"I don't think it works that way," she finally says. "I mean, I drink this shit all the time. Allllllll the time. Well, I mean, not this specifically, but the alcohol in general. Nothing says good morning like a nice bottle of wine. Except maybe two bottles. Anyway," she stands on her toes to grab at the drink, setting down the glasses long enough to open it. "I figure we can take it slow, right? You try a little, we see how it goes, and I'll keep an eye on you and make sure you don't turn into murdertroll, and it'll be fun! Just you and me and a house full of liquor. It's like.. the best of all possible worlds, of all friggin stupid timelines or dreambubbles or whatever the hell. What can possibly go wrong!"

She's already filled both wine glasses near to the brim with tequila and Cointreau, and ducks past him long enough to find what more she needs in the kitchen. (Who the hell needs to stay restricted to just shots? Not this girl.) He follows behind her like an oversized attack puppy, watching her mix up the most wicked of margaritas. When she's done, she holds the marginally less filled glass up to him with a smile that's supposed to be innocent and charming, yet she knows is just a shade shy of devious. "It'll be fiiiine! Come on, don't be a fucking party pooper. Just a sip can't hurt."

Her smile turns from devious to lascivious when he takes it out of her hand.

---

The first time that they'd met, he'd been a bundle of murdernerves, his face paint smeared and scratched bare in places, a trio of angry indigo lines across his face that were just starting to knit back together. She hadn't been much better off, either, and her first reaction was that this was some sort of wannabe or future Subjugulator ready to get his murder-death-kill haterage on with any fresh human meat asking to be culled just for walking up on the surface. She had to make a snap decision - fight or flight - and as things would have it, she in a much more aggrieving mood than in an absconding one.

In retrospect, she's positive it would've turned into something downright nasty - for her - if he hadn't gotten that glancing blow in that split her temple open. Head wounds are always the ones that bleed the worst. Everyone knows that. But she had never known a troll before who'd freak out in quite that way at the sight of a human's bright red blood.

With all the fight suddenly gone from him, he was reduced to a cowering too-tall adolescent, going on and on in convoluted circles about his pale bro. It would've been way too easy to take advantage of that, to finish him off while he was down and out for the count. And besides, there was just .. something about him that she couldn't help but pity in an entirely un-troll-like and very human way.

He was all awkward limbs and awkward feelings, a terrible, terrifying mix of a strung up junky finally gone cold turkey and a rage-hormone driven troll of the violent (violet) upper castes that was only just starting to realize the power that his blood pusher pumped through him, empowering and enslaving him both. His life and future were crushed, his friends dead in front of him - or by his own hands - and he had virtually no one left to turn to. He hated everyone and everything, wanted to rip it all limb from limb, just as much as he wanted a hug. Or a shoosh-pap. Whatever the fuck trolls really got off on when they were horn-deep in self-inflicted and self-directed grimdark feelings. He had a moirail, his pale bro, that - from everything she could tell - seemed to alternate between being absolutely terrified of him and the best possible thing out there to keep him grounded.

She didn't find out most of that until much, much later, but the scars were as raw as the ones that he wore for all the world to see.

Against her better judgment, she ended up papping the hell out of his ridiculous, messed-up face.

---

Getting drunk in a dream bubble is both very similar to and very different from getting drunk for reals. And, she's decided, it's much better.

For starters, she's pretty sure that even if they were drinking something like wine or beer, she still wouldn't have to stop to use the bathroom every half hour. But that's not even the best part. The best part is that the whole woozy floaty lightheaded buzz is much less woozy than it should be, and it never quite dives into that nasty stick-to-the-stomach phase. And she's pretty sure there's no way to die of alcohol poisoning if what they're drinking is not even real.

And, for once, she actually gets to be drunk with someone else, even if he's barely touched his drink and she's on her sixth. Seventh. Something. Nth. That's more worth it than anything else.

"And.... aaaaand to top it aaaalllllll off, I think AR's even flushed for that bastart, just like Di-Stri an' Janey." She's practically lying on top of him, both of them sprawled out on the big couch in the living room, and when she tries to take another sip, the angle's all wrong and she spills more of it on her shirt than she gets in her mouth. She giggles, completely uncaring to how the dampness continues to spread after repeated mishaps. "And I'm like.. seriously? Seriously? Oh em eff gee, I am laughing my fucking ass off so hard here it's sitting on the ground~ Can glasses really seriously crush on someone? I mean, admittedly he is a sum- spumtious- scrumdiddlyumpishous hunk of man meat, but that's like bio-physio-ecto-lectro-logically impossible, I'm preeeeeeetty totes sure."

He's got one hand caught up in her hair, fingers sliding through it with tips rubbing against her scalp like she's supposed to have horns somewhere and he can't quite find them but still doesn't quite care that they're missing. It feels nice, really nice, and she doesn't want him to stop. "Damn, girl," he says, and with her head on his chest, it feels like the words just rumble straight through her to the bone and she tries not to shiver. "Sounds like a setup for a regular motherfucking troll romcom, except without all the black sparks flying past. But hey, give it time, and I bet at least one of those motherfuckers starts to get his hate on with someone else in a real good way, and that's when shit'll start to get really interesting. Pale bro loves that sorta thing, eats it right on up. I bet he'd like to get his motherfucking watch on with them all carrying on like they're in some motherfucking amateur hack, Quadrants Gone Wild, or some shit like that."

She laughs, and this time when she spills more of her drink, she finally notices just how wet the front of her shirt is. How inconvenient! (How opportune.) She pats his knee with her free hand to let him know to ease up on petting her hair, then pushes herself up to sit - and laughs again when the room starts to tilt just a little bit more than it should. "Okay, okay. But see, that's the best part. None of them realize what's going on, and it's aaaaallllll on me me me to give them the first fucking clue that they should actually just say something to each other! It's- it's ridonkulous. Ridiculous! Whatever!"

She knows she probably shouldn't, but she finishes the rest of her glass before putting it on the table. "And! Speaking of this of which we are speaking most fortun- fortit- for- most, oh hell- that we are wont to do in what can only possibly be the most messed up of feeling jams in all of ever, I think it would be either a very good or a very very bad time for me to say that you, sir, are the finest prince charming troll that I ever dreamed of - I mean, with - and possibly maybe more scrum-dumcious than Mr. English, and my shirt is soaking wet, and I kind of really reeeeeeally need to take it off right now, which means this is going to be either incredibly awkward or fucking awesome, and I should also probably shut my drunk self ass up right now before I straight up propros- prop- prosipition- ask you if you'd ever be up for sexytimes, because this is suddenly also totes embarrassing and nowhere near as smooth as I wanted it to be."

During all of that, he just sits there, silent, watching, his carefully painted face a mask against whatever he's really thinking. And, right when it's gotten to the point where she's positive that it's moved on to incredibly awkward, and the flush across her cheeks isn't just from the booze, he just tilts his head to the side and smiles slow and wide and says in that lazy voice that means he's actually feeling good for a change, "I could be all about some 'fucking awesome' sexytimes with a sister."

Oh hell yes.

"Reeeeeeeeeeeally," she asks but doesn't quite ask, feeling a bit more of the giddy-lightheadedness of the dream buzz. And it's great timing. "Yeah, motherfucking reeeeally," he just drawls right back at her, and the way that he fails to mimic her voice breaks the tension and suddenly she's giggling again.

"Well, then, sir, perhaps I shall slip into something more comfortable. Or just into something less. Out of. Not into."

"You mean," he says, running the back of one jagged claw down the side of her face, and this time she can't help but shiver, "Your motherfucking shirt's soaking wet. Better get you outta it before you catch a motherfucking cold. Now ain't that the motherfucking truth."

She turns her head and catches the side of his finger between her teeth, leering perhaps just a bit more than she is grinning. "That is totes obvs the motherfucking truth."

---

The second time they'd met, she'd been a bit confused at first. It was weird, having part of her knowing what was going on all of the time, and another part - the waking part - that was totally oblivious of her slumberland shenanigans. She recognized him, her fucked up dream troll, but she hadn't quite realized that he was .. well.. really real. Dirk had told her more than a few times about what he'd seen and done on Derse, how he'd keep an eye on her sometimes while she slept (the fucking perv), but she also realized that if that was where she was waking up - if she were really practicing conscious dreaming in another plane of existence - then somehow she only managed to open her eyes and become aware after she'd sleepwalked away from the moon.

Thinking about it too hard always just made her want to scream and punch through a wall, neither of which were terribly productive in terms of shedding light on anything, so she typically ended up punching only a minimal number of walls. At least they were all dream walls, so they never really mattered.

So when she ran into him again, it was kind of weird. But also.. kind of really nice. He became her first constant in that ever changing dreamland.

It'd been a few weeks - maybe a full perigee, even - and he looked like he was more tired than he was in a devious murdermode downswing. Actually, it looked like he hadn't slept the whole time, and when she'd said as much, she was mildly disturbed when she found out that wasn't too far from the truth. It wasn't until much later that they'd figured out that if he slept in a dream bubble, the horrorterrors couldn't creep their psycho alien speak into his mind, like if he were back on the meteor.

They'd sat and talked then. The setting was great for it - some weirdly colored, desolate landscape by an ocean that stretched as far as the eye could see, uninterrupted by neither house nor hive. He said it was on Alternia, somewhere, his home world. He said it was a lot like a place where he grew up, though it wasn't quite the same. He said he didn't want to talk about it anymore, so instead she filled the silence with a hundred stories of Earth, of herself, of what it was like growing up all alone underground. She pretended to not notice the way he sometimes made that face that said, clear as day, that his blood pusher was hurting for everything she'd never had, for the fact she was willing to tell him about it.

When she mentioned her meowcats, he smiled and said that he had a friend who liked animals a lot. But then he went really quiet again and didn't say anything more, so she just kept talking.

And when she ran out of things to say, they just sat there and watched the second moon slowly rise above the water, and everything felt just so .. calm. He put his arm around her, pulled her close, ran his long fingers through her hair and across her scalp like she was his pale bro, and she slipped her arm around his waist like she'd always imagined she'd do with Dirk if they ever were to meet, and she savored every minute of the silence.

---

The fact that he's a troll doesn't bother her. She's long ago come to terms that there might be some among the enemy whose company she'd actually like, and, well, technically he's not even part of the enemy, what with being from another universe and all. The fact that he's a troll isn't too startling, either. The novelty of aliens like him became passé sweeps, if not centuries, ago.

The fact that he's a troll is kind of exciting, really.

He's almost too big for her, and not just with his freaky troll bulge. She doesn't mind; she's surprised and kind of really glad that he's willing to go slow, that he doesn't use his claws or teeth anywhere near as much as she's always thought trolls did during sex with one another. Maybe they do. She's pretty sure that this sort of interspecies recreation doesn't happen all that often.

Hearing about it, or reading, or even seeing photos or videos of alien junk is way different from seeing it in person. "Wow," she says, then, "So can I touch it?" He takes her hand in his, turning it over and kissing her knuckles all light and careful, just like he'd kissed her lips and mouth, and then says in turn, "Was hoping a sister would ask."

She traces her fingers along the strange ridges of his bulge and across the softer folds of his nook. It's cool to the touch, just like the rest of him; it feels both smooth and rough like sharkskin, and there's this sticky-slickness that's starting to spread that's not entirely unpleasant. "Wow," she says again, and giggles, wrapping her fingers around his bulge and stroking down to the base, and she remembers that phrase that Dirk used a few times. "Never thought I'd get a handful of alien wingwong."

"Ain't that a motherfucking miracle," he agrees, then makes this completely amazing sound that's half a purr and half something else. She grins, drawing her thumb back along that one spot of his bulge that she's pretty sure was the cause of it, then grins wider when he makes the noise again. When she tries exploring with her other hand, fingers tracing along the edges of his seedflap, he goes all shivery, humming in the back of his throat, and says, "Lower, sis, just a little bit lower."

She obliges him and finds his nook, first letting her fingers ghost along the outside folds, and then slips the tip of one in when he makes this soft needy keen. And, oh, it's kind of like what she has, she decides, only not exactly, and she takes her time in slowly sliding her finger in and up and down to find out just how different he is - and how much the same. It's also pretty damn cool that he seems to like that even better, what with the way his breath keeps hitching, and how his fingers knead at her nape, and the way he tells her just how motherfucking miraculous she is.

He explores her, too, slow and careful and just as curious about how she's built as she is of him. When he asks if she has a secret bulge hidden somewhere, she just laughs and says no, says that boys and girls are built different as humans, but it's hard talking when he rubs the back of his knuckle against her clit and slips his tongue inside, so she stops trying and draws her fingers across the base of one of his horns, just to feel the way his answering purr rumbles all the way through her. When he finally comes up with his lazy smile and his pupils dilated, he watches the way she tries to catch her breath for a minute and then says, "At least you ended up with the better half of the deal, what with that freaky alien bulge-nook split shit you've got going on." And she can't help but agree, and when he shows her later on just how to press her fingers up inside him, and curl them forward just a bit, she completely gets why he likes that better than anything she does with his bulge.

It's when they try it with her on top, straddling his thighs as he sits back on the couch, that she fully realizes just how big he is, and at first she's worried that it's not going to work this way. He's okay with that, though, and that just makes her want to try again, and oh god is she glad they do when she finally eases down on him, bit by tiny bit, until she's only halfway to his lap. And she laughs and says she's sorry, says she can already feel him just starting to press against the back of her, and he reaches out and fucking shooshes her right then and there, settling her against his chest with her head tucked up beneath his chin even though he's already breathing heavy. When he asks her if she's ready, and she says yes, he starts doing this thing - kind of like he's twisting and turning, and really almost rippling in the same way a snake moves, bunching up its muscles and then pushing them in a new direction - and it's all she can do but hold onto him. It's nothing at all like how she's imagined sex with another human would be; the movement's all wrong. But that's not a bad thing.

In fact, it's a really really good thing.

When they're finally spent and lying in a tangled pile on the other end of the couch - the end they hadn't made a mess of, completely uncaring since it's just a dream bubble somewhere in the middle of nothing, transient and self-reparable - she finds that she feels relaxed, content, and it's a strange but good feeling. His hair is soft and dry and feels almost like really long meowcat fur. She likes drawing her fingers through it, unsnagging the tangles so it falls in a loose dark halo around his head.

She likes the way he purrs, and she wishes she could, too. She settles for lazy smiles instead.

Outside, the light's slowly fading from pastels to greys, and the way it filters through the windows turns everything inside sort of flat. Sort of dull. "Bubble's almost over," she sighs. "Yeah," he just says in return, tracing unseen patterns across her back and shoulders with the backs of his claws. When the dream passes away, fading back into the nothing, he'll be back on his meteor and she'll be .. well, somewhere in that nothing until she wakes up.

She wishes she could stay here longer, and she's pretty sure that he'd wish the same. He's told her some about the meteor, about the lab on it, and while it sounds like he stays busy - learning all of its secret hidey holes, learning the intricacies of what his rage can be and do when it's both there and not there at all - he always sounds kind of sad when he talks it. She knows just why his pale bro pities him so much, because she can't help but do the same. She curls around him tighter and rubs her fingers through his hair and across his scalp.

He makes another of those louder purring sighs, then starts to murmur in that low, lilting cadence of his that's almost musical, "It's gonna be rough leaving behind my wicked little sister this time, but that's how all those miracles go, fading in and out, like they're all flowing here and there. And ain't no way in knowing how they really work, what they really mean, but I kinda like spending time in them. And damn, girl, ain't no way in hell that this motherfucker's gonna get the same kinda pity from his pale brother back on a rock where it's still all one against the other after all this murderraging, murderraging-"

With a laugh, she reaches up and paps his mouth - overreaching it a bit and catching the side of his nose instead, but she still manages to cut him off. "Mr. Makara, are you actually rapping at me?" He laughs, too. "Yeah, I guess I right up and was. Got kinda caught up in the moment, you know? Been a while since I tried out any fresh jams, but what's a motherfucker to do but listen to what his blood pusher's telling him when it feels like the right motherfucking thing to do."

"Yeah," she agrees, though it still strikes her as funny in a kind of awkward-sweet sort of way. And it fits right in with that one side of him that's not a cunning deathmonger, the side that he says was always made stronger by eating all that sopor. She imagines it's even nicer now that it's not as forced. "I think you and Di-Stri should meet sometime and have some sort of epic rap-off, if only for the lulz. It'd be hilariously terrible."

He murmurs, "You tell that motherfucker anytime, any place, and I will motherfucking school him in the ways of the Murdermirthful Messiahs reborn." And he's lightly scratching at her nape and scalp like there's nothing more in the entire universe he'd rather do than have a post coital feelings jam on a couch in a dream bubble in the middle of nowhere with some crazy alien from another universe who won't even remember him when she wakes up.

---

When she sleeps and dreams, everything makes more sense.

When she wakes, mind still fuzzy from a cloud of alcohol, she tries to remember - something important, something real - but it always slips away. There was something good this time, really good, kind of like there've been somethings that were scary before, too. But it's gone now, and as she gets up off of her pile of plush toys, she remembers that she had a lot to do today.

There's a message from Dirk on her laptop. Or maybe it's from AR. The flashing icon's the same. Either way, that's kind of convenient since there's something that she needs to tell him if she can damn well remember it.

And if she can't. Well.

It couldn't have been anything too important.

ahh this is great! you have such strong voices for both of them, and man, you make me feel for Roxy so much ;;

Dualscar sits up smoothly. You recognize the move—your trainer made you practice doing that for what felt like hours, doing a clean recovery to kneeling after you'd been put on the floor. You never got the point of it until now. Dualscar makes it look elegant, the curl of his spine and the roll of his shoulders, the way his hands settle loose and palm-up on his thighs. He looks fucking exquisite, something any troll ought to be proud to call their own. (There's a way you get to call him your own, isn't there? That's goddamn glorious.)

Shit, you're going to have a lot to measure up to.

The Emperor unbuttons his pants, still making this grim face like he's marching to war. It's kind of sexy, you suppose, in a really severe and martial way. Not much like what you're used to, but you'll learn. And Dualscar is watching the unveiling with this completely rapt expression, like he's starved for the Emperor's bulge. All this stuff you've been taught in the abstract is suddenly way more intense when you're watching it done for real.

"Come here," the Emperor says, harsh but kind of quiet, and despite the face he's making his hand's actually kind of gentle when he pulls Dualscar's head down. Maybe his face just stuck that way. Maybe you shouldn't think things like that about the Scarlet Emperor, or you'll get yourself in trouble.

Dualscar opens his mouth and takes the Emperor's bulge on his tongue (other things you shouldn't think about: the fact that you've definitely seen bigger), and the Emperor's eyes squeeze shut like he's a wiggler getting his first piercings done. You can't figure him out at all. Nothing he does makes any sense.

You pay attention to Dualscar instead, because he makes you feel proud instead of confused. His form's amazing, smooth strokes as he takes it down his throat, his hips rolling just enough to say he thinks this is hot without turning that into a demand. He doesn't let his hands tense or anything, just makes himself totally receptive. Your own bulge is squirming a little as you watch, but you know better than to touch it. You sort of hope Captor is frustrated too, since he had to go and invite himself along.

Somehow you sort of expect it to take longer, even though the Emperor is gasping and hissing almost from the start. Even in your earliest training sessions, you were expected to be able to provide pleasure longer than this. But it's only a couple of minutes before he's tightening his grip, clinging to one of Dualscar's horns and trembling, spasming as he goes off.

Dualscar's shoulders slump, all the tension going right out of his spine. The Emperor pulls out and you can see scarlet trickle from your progenitor's lips, his face slack and easy. "Oh my god," the Emperor says, staring at him. "Sollux, I can't—he's—"

"It'th jutht the conditioning," Captor says calmly. "Deep tranthe to make him retheptive, we thaw that in hith paperth, remember? You're halfway done. He'll thnap out of it when you get through thith."

You're freaked out mostly by the fact that he's freaked out, until he lets go and steps back and Dualscar spills down onto the floor like a dropped marionette. His eyes are glazed and distant and he's not making any effort to swallow the genetic material that stains his lips. Your fins flare out hard enough to tremble. Just conditioning, Captor said. You hope the Emperor fucking hurries up.

Captor puts a hand on the Emperor's shoulder. "Finish the imprint, KK," he says quietly. "For everyone'th thafety."

"Right," the Emperor says. "Stop being such a cringing wiggler, Vantas." He comes around to kneel on the floor behind Dualscar, taking Dualscar's hips in both hands to raise them.

"Here," Captor says, and then red and blue light wraps around Dualscar's body, lifting him up, pushing his thighs further apart. He doesn't react, but you're pretty sure you can hate Captor enough for both of you.

The Emperor shifts closer, pauses just for a second, then slides his bulge up Dualscar's nook. You've never actually watched this happen before; you know the basics, clearly, but you weren't exactly given a lot of chances to see the theory put into practice. It's sort of graceless, it turns out. Maybe that's just because of the circumstances—the Emperor's an awkward little fuck, and Dualscar's not conscious enough to make up for him. Maybe it'll be more exciting when it's not about imprinting them on their master anymore.

Captor's psionic light lifts Dualscar's hips a little further and the Emperor reaches under him. That looks really awkward, with the difference in their sizes, but he does it anyway, stroking steady and methodical. There's nothing elegant about the Emperor. He's not what you expected at all.

He's determined, though, and he keeps going, stroking Dualscar's bulge for what feels like a horrible suspended eternity before there's finally a reaction, a couple of little warning twitches and then a full-body shudder as Dualscar's face comes to life again. The tremors of orgasm are seriously fucking intense—you can believe now that it ups the sensation to have your nook stuffed when you come—and he claws at the tile floor as the Emperor suddenly finds the energy to nail him harder.

"Make some noise," the Emperor demands, and on the next breath, "Sollux, let him move."

The red and blue light retreats; Dualscar braces himself against the floor and rocks back, his spine rolling in a sinuous, fluid motion. "Yes," he says, a low, growling moan, "yes, please, Master, fuck me, fill me, yes," and that's enough to make it hot as hell again, to get your bulge pulsing and squirming as you watch. And the Emperor finally looks like he's gotten with the program, his fingers digging into Dualscar's hips and his teeth bared as he pushes back with some actual fucking enthusiasm.

You glance over at Captor and his expression—what you can see of it, with those stupid colored glasses over his eyes—hasn't changed, but his cheeks are turning an ugly shade of yellow. Good. He should be impressed, cause Dualscar is damned awesome. You'd be petting your own bulge if you dared, but you have no idea whether you're allowed to right now and you know it's not acceptable to whine to your master about your needs while he's worrying about his.

Dualscar is crooning and purring as he pushes back into the Emperor's thrusts, sweet coaxing growls that have the Emperor panting for breath and snarling back. You chew on your lip, watching, tense all through your limbs and in the pit of your gut as you think what Dualscar is saying: yes, please, yes, do it, come on, come on.

When the Emperor comes, his growl sounds like half triumph and half injury, and he bows almost double over Dualscar's back. The beat of your blood throbs in your bulge and if your teeth weren't filed you'd have shredded your mouth to ribbons by now. The water ought to be boiling from how hot you feel.

The Emperor pulls out, wobbly on his feet as he gets up. "There," he says. "Who do you belong to?"

"You, Master," Dualscar says. He sounds...peaceful.

"And whose orders do you follow?"

"Yours, wwith all my blood an bone," Dualscar answers. They're ritual words—you've had them taught to you, too—but you weren't expecting him to sound so much like he meant it.

The Emperor looks over at Captor, who nods. "Okay," the Emperor says. "I guess I'm done here for tonight, then."

"What?" Captor says. "But the other one—"

"Captor, please tell me I have other responsibilities besides fucking my slaves," the Emperor says. "Then tell me that some of those responsibilities are on my schedule for tonight."

"Yeth and yeth," Captor says. The Emperor looks relieved.

"Wwhat's wrong wwith me?" you blurt out, and you cringe immediately because that ought to earn you a lashing.

The Emperor doesn't order you beat, though. He blinks at you like he doesn't know what to do with the question. "Nothing's wrong with you," he says, and you meet his freaky scarlet eyes and think you might actually believe him. "I don't want to do this twice in one night, that's all. I'll be back for you tomorrow." You know that's the kind of thing that you can't ever take as a promise, no matter how it sounds; if you're not in season, other things are a higher priority than you. You still want to believe him.

He looks from you back to Dualscar, starting to dig for something in his pocket. "So you're safe to let go now, huh?" he says. "You'll do what you're fucking told?"

"Just givve me the wword," Dualscar says. That's not ritual. It sounds natural. Captor looks cranky but doesn't say anything.

"Here," the Emperor says, handing Dualscar a key. "You should be fine off the leash, then. Don't fuck your little doppelganger and don't fuck him up."

"Be more thpethific," Captor says.

The Emperor rolls his eyes. "Don't hurt him. Don't try to get him to hurt himself. Don't touch his nook or his bulge. Don't get him off."

Dualscar nods, slowly, almost a bow. "Can I unchain him too?"

"Yeah," the Emperor says, after a little pause where he's either surprised or thinking about it. "Sure, go ahead. Keep each other out of trouble or something, I don't know."

Captor takes a deep breath and then lets it out without saying anything. You hope he has a headache.

"Thank you, Your Devvastation," Dualscar says.

The Emperor nods, looking a little uncomfortable, though you can't tell if that's because he thinks this is awkward or just because he still has sticky genetic material and lubricating fluid smeared all over his bulge and his thighs. He lets Captor herd him out of the room, presumably to clean up and then go do whatever important shit is on his schedule that isn't you.

Dualscar unlocks the chain from his collar, slips back into the pool, and wades over to you. Thin little threads of scarlet trail behind him in the water. "He ain't gonna be so bad," he says.

You try to smile. "I guess you'vve got the experience to know," you say. You bow your head so he can reach the lock on the back of your collar, and then you feel the chain slide free and away. "The wway you...wwent under like that," you say, doing your best to sound casual and probably failing all over the fucking place. "That happen evvery time?"

He laughs, and he doesn't step away, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "Not wwith a kid like that," he says. "You gotta be primed for it or else they gotta givve you signals on purpose. I'vve had two, maybe three owwners wwho wwanted to trip that state evvery time, but it ain't a kink most a them go for."

"Good," you say, trying to convince your fins to flatten back down and relax. "Didn't look like a lot a fun, that part."

"Eh." He shrugs. "If you're that far under, nothin feels like a big deal." He steers you over to the side of the pool, where there are some steps cut in. They turn out to make a pretty good bench to sprawl on, and Dualscar keeps you snug right up against his side. You're not totally sure what to do with yourself—you heard as well as he did, your master told him not to screw you, and there ain't a lot of other reasons to want to be this close together, are there? Not for someone like you.

But he just relaxes in the water with you, lounging there while you curl against his side. He runs his fingers through your hair, drags his claws really light along your scalp and the back of your neck. "Pretty nice," you say after a while, as you realize that all your little tense twitchy bits are easing off, melting away into the water.

Dualscar hums, and you feel the noise where your skin meets his, a vibration that's low and sort of almost familiar. "Yeah, this should be a pretty good run," he says.

You shift against him and splay one hand across his chest, so you can feel his voice a little better. "I bet you must a had all kinds a advventures," you say. Look at you, getting to find out where you come from. "Tell me about some a them?"

"Oh, darlin," he says, and he presses a kiss to your forelock. "I'd lovve to."

haha, I admit I am sort of world-building on the fly, so some of this I am making up as I go along!

I imagine that a breeder gets a few chances to produce a proper heir; internal fertilization isn't a really good method for trolls, so clutches produced that way tend to be small and there are fairly high odds of having a non-zero mortality rate. One clutch of mostly (or all) slugs is a bad sign; more than one in a row probably means the breeder is finished.

Mostly the scars were just there because, well, he needs *some* excuse for the name, right? But a few hundred sweeps ago it's entirely possible that modern safeguards for one's breeding stock hadn't come into fashion yet. I tend to think he'd have gotten them from a dangerous rogue blueblood who ran into him by mistake when she was looking to steal something else valuable from his master at the time. (Possibly he's always wished he could have had a rematch. ♠)

All the breeders' teeth get filed, though. It's only common sense, if you're going to use their mouths for pleasure when they're not in season! Nasty creatures have mouths full of needles otherwise.

(It's not unheard of to declaw them, too, but that's far less common. There's a stigma attached to it that suggests the breeder in question has a bad temperament, and that makes their resale value drop.)

Oh yum.

What do you mean when you say slugs? Is that a common slang term in this world for sea-troll grubs or is it a way to refer to eggs that don't hatch?

And yeah, horrible as it is I guess filing a breeder's teeth makes sense in this world.

I have so many feels...

Really good feels.

I don't even know who you are but I want to kiss you for this fill, writernon!! Whoa.

Oh Eridan! It's really good to watch Eridan seeing another breeder in action and how he notices all the technical stuff involved in a way that I don't think Sollux or Karkat are.

Like the rapt way Dualscar watched as Karkat opened his pants, or the subtle rolling of Dualscar's hips, the balance between finding servicing their master hot and presuming to make a demand.

I suppose the idea of his master being practically a virgin is something that would never occur to Eridan. The way Dualscar just collapsed when he went under was creepy, and I don't blame Karkat for being bothered by it. Interesting that Eridan only freaked out when Karkat did though.

Was Dualscar saying what he expected his master to want to hear when he was being fucked, or was that his real response?

And I loved how genuine his submission seemed to be afterwards, just how fully his conditioning kicked in and the contrast to his subtle maneuvring to get some sort of advantage before.

Kind of funny to see Karkat trying to get out of bonding both of them at the same time, but heartbreaking to see Eridan cringe when he asked what was wrong with him, and then accept that even if Karkat sounded like he was promising to bond him tomorrow he couldn't believe that.

Did Karkat bond Dualscar first because he's this behemoth of a troll and it's safer to get the big one under control first? Interesting to see how specific his orders had to be - or was Sollux just being paramoid there with his prompting?

It was sweet of Dualscar to ask if he could unchain Eridan too. And then, another heartbreaker, that Eridan can't believe even another breeder would want to be close to him without it being about sex.

I do wonder how many masters Dualscar has had where he wished they'd put him under every time.

I just want to hug them! All of them! How did you do that? (Well, except maybe Sollux, I mostly just want to know what's up with him in this 'verse.)

OP here, and this is amaaaaaaaazing! More than I could have hoped for and long after I had given up hope! How did you manage to write this scenario and have Roxy and Gamzee be deliciously good for each other? And make it be tragic anyway?

Oh no! The nefarious Doctor DS, master of the Robot Death Fortress, has captured the intrepid Jake English, gentleman adventurer! Stripped of his weapons (and his clothes!), imprisoned in the Doctor's secret lab...what dastardly deathtraps and terrible torments await our hero?

Jake and Dirk do sexy pulp hero/villain roleplaying.

Bonus points if Dirk makes elaborate props for it.

Extra bonus points if Dirk keeps trying to be self-consciously ironic about it, but Jake takes everything DEAD SERIOUSLY and is super into the role.

this prompt wins AT LIFE.

bonus bonus points from this meme stalking anon if Dirk is doing this as a Valentine for Jake.

(inspired by the second gif here (http://theworldismyoysterrr.tumblr.com/post/19342089234))

Most important thing you own?
John: My troll, but I don't like to say I own (him/her/hir). We're just kind of buddies.

Tell me about John and that troll he owns!

Which troll and what kind of dynamic is up to you! Maybe it's Karkat yelling NO WE ARE NOT BUDDIES WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, maybe it's Vriska peeing on police officers and tearing up all of John's homework, maybe it's Equius who is enjoying this more than John knows!

You're welcome to include other kid/troll pairs as well, romantically or not.

Preferably funny or happy, and if there's sexytimes, please NO non-con! (Yes, I know, no non-con in the ownership prompt. I'm a weird kid.)

The mouseover text on today's XKCD says, "Bruce Schneier believes safeword are fundamentally insecure and recommends you ask your partner to stop via public key signature." As someone on my rlist said, I would read that fic.

...obviously I thought of Sollux first. But it would also work with Roxy! Or Sollux/Roxy! (yum) or Dirk, or various robots and AIs that Dirk is responsible for! Or Equius/Bot!Aradia, if you want to go to a dark place with it...

Dear authoranon:

You win. Everything.

I am fascinated and horrified and delighted by your worldbuilding thus far. "Going under" as part of the training protocol, and a few owners being into that, and Eridan presuming no one would ever pail him, and how he feels it's perfectly understandable that his priority level is based solely on whether he's currently fertile! And then there's Dualscar being long-life-jaded, "they all blur together" and so coldly assessing how easy/hard this master will be, and cuddling his offspring and telling him all his adventures! Gah, I am a puddle of sap and mush melted all over the underlying revulsion at how broken they and the world are! The three words that best describe me, however, are "desperate for more".

(Do I see the faint outline of diamonds between two adorable violet breeders?!)

Awkward!Emperor!Karkat is full of Awwww and Win, too; and Sollux being annoying yet essential, and also clearly attached to Karkat underneath the sniping, makes me smile so hard!

sweet, sweet blackrom play. a dessert fight ends in Karkat licking cake frosting off John, delighted to discover (a) that human desserts are delicious, and (b) John hates cake. 2x satisfaction combo!

When you get home Equius is waiting for you by the door, which he hasn't really done since the first week after you brought him home. (Gosh that week was nerve-wracking—you spent so much time pestering Dave and Rose with questions, since they'd already had trolls for ages, and you were so sure you would mess up with yours.) He's kneeling, back ramrod straight, hands on his thighs, his blue-and-yellow eyes wide. He really looks like he needs a hug.

"Hey, buddy," you say as you drop your keys on the table and kick your shoes off. "What's wrong?"

Equius chews on his lip like he's nervous about answering you, which is just weird. He's really good about being obedient—it was one of the reasons you got him as your first pet. (Dave's bro was the one who found him and suggested him for you: Equius came from a really good bloodline and had been trained well, but his broken horn wasn't growing back, so he had to be sold at a discount. You have a scratch-and-dent troll. It's kind of adorable.)

You touch his mouth with one fingertip to remind him to stop chewing. "Don't hurt yourself," you say. "Come on, let's go sit on the couch and relax, and you can tell me what the problem is."

He gets up and follows you into the living room, and you pat the couch next to you when you sit down. He still needs to be encouraged to actually use the furniture—when you leave him to his own devices he's spooked all the time like he thinks he'll break things by touching them. He sits, carefully, and you pull him down so you can pet his hair.

"So," you say. "What were you up to while I was gone?"

"I...I watched your program," he says.

You laugh awkwardly. "Not the best interview I've ever given," you say. You're still not used to being even a little bit famous.

Equius clings to your pant leg a little, his shoulders hunching. "You said...you don't like owning me," he says really quietly.

"What?" you say, flummoxed for a minute. You're pretty sure you said no such thing. Then you remember that one weird question. "No, buddy, that's not what I meant! I like having you here. I like you a lot." You huff out air in a rush, trying to explain yourself. "It's just...saying I own you sounds creepy! I own my car. I own the furniture. It's just stuff. You're not just stuff."

"You're not going to get rid of me?" Equius asks.

"No," you say firmly. "Definitely not. No getting rid of." Dave and Rose were both really clear about that (in their own special ways, heh) when you started talking about getting a troll of your own. They've both had rescue trolls whose first owners didn't care, and the abandonment issues are, in Dave's words, a catastrophe of massive tearjerking proportions, Egbert, so think carefully about whether you want to take this dive.

You slide your fingers up through Equius's hair until you can massage the base of his broken horn, which is pretty much always a good skritching spot. He starts to relax, and you watch the tension ease out of his shoulders. He starts making that low thrumming sound in his chest that Rose insists isn't a purr on a technicality, but it sounds pretty purr-like to you, and it means the same thing, all the manuals say so. It's an instinctive noise produced when a troll feels safe and receptive to touch. (Wild trolls are apparently really violent, so they need to have signals about when it's okay to get in arm's reach, just so they don't attack each other all the time.)

"I'm glad you want to keep me," he says. His voice goes rumbly in a really neat way when he's purring. "I like being yours."

Well that sure makes you feel warm and smooshy inside! "Good," you say. "I want you to be happy here." You keep skritching, watching him calm down and stop being so nervous, watching the way he sort of squirms around when he starts really getting into being touched. He's big for a troll, almost human-sized, and blues tend to be really muscular, and between those two things he's...well, sometimes watching him move makes you feel pretty funny in your pants! Which you have tried to be tactful about. You know some people do that with their trolls and you're not judging! It's just that Equius is so well trained, and so eager to please, you'd worry about him going along with stuff he didn't like, and then you'd feel like such a jerk.

The way he's moving right now, though, man. You can watch the slide of all those muscle groups in his back that you don't know the names for, and when his hips roll your mouth goes sort of dry. You shift your weight a little and let your right hand take over horn-skritching duty so you can reach down with your left and scratch your nails—bitten-short and blunt as they are—down his back.

Equius moans. There goes your ability to ignore what's going on in your pants.

"Wow," you say, all softly. "You feel good, huh? That's nice?"

"Mmmn," he says, "yes. It feels—aahn," and he just breaks off right there, rocking his hips, shivering. You feel sort of shivery yourself, watching him move. There was actually a part of you that figured he just didn't feel this kind of stuff? Like, the breeder had him fixed before selling him to you, but it sort of looks like that just means he can't make more trolls, not that he can't, uh. Feel exciting things.

You lick your lips. "You can take your shorts off, if that would feel good," you say, and your voice comes out a little funny.

Equius nods, almost poking you in the leg with his good horn, and reaches for the buttons of his shorts right away. (Some people also don't keep their trolls dressed at home—Rose has sent you some really elegant photos of Kanaya lounging naked on the fancy couches in her house—but you have always been Not So Sure About That. It occurs to you now that maybe he would rather not be wearing clothes, and you've just assumed without ever asking. Being a responsible pet owner is hard!)

He squirms out of his shorts and you can see a blue flush around the sheath of his bulge—it's starting to swell and open up already. "Just from a little scratching, huh?" you ask.

Equius hunches in on himself a little. "I apologize for my poor self-control," he says.

You laugh. "Don't apologize," you say. "It's fine. I'm glad you're enjoying it." You drag your nails down his chest and his purr gets louder. His hips arch a little and the tip of his bulge slips free of the sheath, dark blue and shiny-wet. You've heard they're prehensile. You lick your lips again. You almost say, Should I keep doing this? except that you've noticed it makes Equius sort of nervous and confused when you ask him what you should do.

Instead you say, "Tell me if anything I do feels bad, because I want you to have a good time." You keep rubbing behind one horn and scratch his chest and belly some more. (You're sort of proud of your dexterity right now, actually.) Equius purrs and digs his shoulderblades into the couch under him—he's wiggling, gosh that's cute, and it makes you feel so good to see that under all the serious business training he can still remember how to just be happy sometimes. "There you go, buddy," you encourage him. "That's nice, huh?"

"Yes," he says, "yes," the words barely rising out of the purr. He rocks his hips up again when your hand strays low across his belly and you think maybe this really is okay after all. You let your fingertips drift lower, trace the opening of his bulge sheath, and his bulge slides out enough to twine around your fingers.

That is the cutest thing. You might say "Aaww," a little. You curl your fingers, stroking along it, letting it twine between them. It slides further out to get a better grip on you, and mostly you're just fascinated until Equius moans again and that reminds you that you're playing with his junk. And your own feels kind of neglected.

"Okay, hang on just a second," you say, and scoot out from under him so you can get up. He watches you like he's not sure what's going on but he trusts you, whatever you have in mind. It makes your heart feel a little funny.

You unzip your jeans and then figure you might as well go all the way with this, and pull your shirt off over your head before you shove your jeans and your boxers down. Equius is watching you sort of curiously, and you definitely catch the moment when he looks down at your dick and then looks away really fast. His bulge squirms against his belly, leaving little blue trails across his skin.

"Here we go," you say, climbing back onto the couch with him. You coax him to stretch out, and lower yourself down on top of him, bracing your weight carefully. When your dick rubs up against his bulge, it curls right around you. "Oh," you say, "wow, yeah."

Equius nods frantically, his bulge twisting and squeezing rhythmically. "Is this—may I," he says, his hands sliding tentatively up your sides.

"Yeah," you say. "Go ahead and touch, it feels good." You thrust into the grip of his bulge and that's awesome, slick and gripping you just right. You let your head fall forward, forehead against his shoulder, and hum a low moan of your own as his bulge slides across the really sensitive spot just behind the head of your dick. You kiss him along the alien curve of his collar bone and he clings to you, his hands on your back and his bulge on your dick, and you're pretty much just letting your hips do what comes naturally at this point.

The noises Equius makes are kind of amazing. The purr's in high gear and it makes all of his moans have a rumbly undertone to them, and his breath comes in harsh warm puffs past your ear. When you let your teeth scrape his skin a little bit, experimentally, he croons wordlessly and shudders all over. You bite him a little harder—trolls are pretty rough with each other, right?—and he bucks hard enough that he almost throws you. "Please, please, yes," he says, and hearing actual need in his voice pretty much wrecks you.

"Yeah, I got you," you tell him, "I got you, it's good, you're doing really g-good, aah," and you give up trying to talk about then because wow and also oh my god, the things he's doing to you, slick and squirming and pulsing. You bite again, right at the base of his throat, and this time you're ready for it when that makes him start to thrash. You hold on tight and let his needy sounds wash over you and feel the way he's squeezing you tight, oh god, milking your dick, and your desperate losing-it sound is muffled by his skin as you blast right past the point of no return and come all over him, a big shuddering mess.

His bulge is still coiled around you, squirming just a little, when you finish, and you try to just stick that out but you're pretty sensitive and it's a little uncomfortable. When you try to pull back—slowly, because yanking when you're tangled up like this seems likely to be uncomfortable for both of you!—he whimpers a little but he lets you go. You wedge yourself into the tiny space between the back of the couch and Equius, still pressed against his side.

There are a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. You reach up and smooth them back off his face, and he smiles at you. "You are...satisfied?" he asks.

"Oh man, yeah," you say, grinning at him. "You bet I am. How about you? Did you, uh," there's no great way to ask this and you feel sort of weird about it, because you've heard they make like bucketloads of mess and you don't see any evidence of that, "did you get off?"

Equius blushes deep blue across his cheekbones and that's kind of stupid adorable. "Y-yes," he says. "Ah. Three times."

"Haha, wow, really?" you say. You definitely need to learn more about how trolls work. "Awesome."

He looks sort of shy about that, but he leans into you and that's adorable. "I...I'm glad it pleases you," he says.

"Of course it does, silly," you tell him. You realize he always seems a little surprised, a little confused, when you make a point to take care of him or worry about making him happy. "You know, you missed something, being so hung up on me not liking the word 'own,'" you point out. You kiss his forehead. "The question was about what's most important to me. And I picked you."

Equius looks up at you with such adorable puppy eyes you think you might just melt right there. "I'm very glad," he says. "I am...happy to be yours."

"That's really sweet," you tell him. "I promise, I'm going to do my best to take good care of you." You look down at the sticky mess drying on his stomach, his fluids and yours. "Starting with getting you washed up, I think. And then we'll see about making dinner. How's that sound?"

Equius smiles at you, and yeah, melting time. "Excellent," he says.

I went and de-anoned on this fill - it's up on AO3 now: Intercession .

Mostly because I wrote another fic in this 'verse for this ship, and I wanted to get it posted for today, because of, well, reasons: Passion. Enjoy.

OP here, sorry it's taken me so long to reply

First off, thank you for filling my prompt! I really appreciate it!

This was so perfect! I really enjoyed everything about it.

OP and Mod, would it be a bother to you if I posted a fic based on this prompt but with another human-troll pair, now that it's filled? Because this idea is NOT letting go. <3

OP here, I don't mind at all! The more the merrier! I would love to read more, and see what other pairings people came up with! (though personally, I can't read non-con for my own self-care reasons, so if that's part of yours I will sadly have to take a pass, but by all means go where the muse takes you!)

Okay, here goes nothing!
There's no sex in this but there will be some darker themes later on (references to trollfighting and serious injuries in the past.) I'll warn for them again when they come up.

---

As you pick your way through the living room, stepping over the shredded remains of your favorite book and kicking aside some fluff from a pillow you'd just bought to replace the last one, you decide that you've very nearly had enough of this.

It's not that you expected owning a troll to be easy. All of the owners on the memos you frequent told you that it could be fun and rewarding, but that you had to be careful with them, treat them well and make absolutely sure that they knew you cared about them all the time, one way or the other. They didn't have to like you, but they had to know you felt something about them, or else they'd just get moody and then really bad things could happen. They'd stressed that you especially had to be careful with the ones you found at the society shelters, because they'd usually been through several owners who hadn't cared. And you'd taken all of that to heart and decided that you were going to be careful - maybe try to find one of those adorable little grubs, or even a cute purple seadweller slug that you could keep in the pool in the back yard. It's not as if you ever use it; you're a thousand miles away from most of your friends, since Janey had to up and move for her new job. Somebody might as well get some use out of it! Sure, you'd have to find the right mix to fill it with, and cover it when it rained, but hey, you're getting good money for your tech skills, so why not use it?

And then you saw Gamzee, almost too tall for his room and happily fingerpainting on his walls, and you finally knew what troll owners mean when they say that they fell in love. It's not quite like falling in love with a human - you've done that a couple of times before, or thought you did, and it's kind of like losing control, which is something you don't particularly enjoy doing unless booze is involved. Really, the only time it ever felt right was with Janey, but she's your best friend and now she's living halfway across the country and you're not sure telling her would do any good now.

But that's another story. This story is about you and Gamzee. And with him it was just complete serendipity, or at least that's what you thought at first. You went in hoping to look at grubs, and they said that first they'd like you to look at the older trolls, the ones who had a bunch of sweeps on them and still didn't have anyone, okay? And you said sure, fine, expecting to see a bunch of sad-faced teenagers with surly frowns and eyes just beginning to change color. Not that you didn't understand - they wanted to get rid of the older ones before someone decided there was something wrong with them, and they ended up culled - but you just wanted to get it over with, so that you could see the adorable little grubs with their waggily antenna, and pick out the prettiest one.

And that was when you saw him for the first time, face painted up almost as much as his walls, a big clownish smile on his face, looking back at you over his shoulder and just beaming at how you admired his work. That was when you knew that you had to have him. You just had to take him home and get him a room where he could paint on his walls to his heart's content. He was just so goofy, so adorable. You agreed to take him home right then and there.

The agency gave you a bunch of paperwork to sign (that you didn't really read) and a history of his life (which you took but figured you'd look at it later, because really, he was so sweet and there couldn't possibly be any problems, could there?) You had to deal with all of that before they let him out, hands tied up in the usual harness so that he couldn't cause any trouble before you got him home, wearing an indigo collar with shiny new tags. It had his name on it; they'd told you the name that his first owner had given him, and you had thought it was as cute as the rest of him, so you kept it. You'd let him keep his makeup, too.

He didn't say much as you drove him back home, until the very end - you had him harnessed in the back seat so that he couldn't do anything, couldn't move around too much. You've heard horror stories about new troll owners nearly crashing because their new pets kept moving around and clawing at the windows to try to escape. Some of them really hated cars; the scientists said it reminded them too much of the culling pods back home.

"Hey," he said as she was about to pull onto her street.

You grinned back at him. "Hi there, Gamzee," you answered. "You got something on your mind?"

"Not much, 'less you up and motherfuckin' count these miracle horns of mine," he said, his voice loopy and high and a bit rusty. He must not've talked much to the other trolls in the society's shelter.

Roxy laughed. "I knew I'd like you," she said.

"Huh," he said. "That mean this is for real? You're really gonna up and motherfuckin' take care of me?"

"Yes, Gamzee. Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm around. You're going to have your very own room and all the paint you want."

"Wow," he said, grinning. "How about Faygo? Any sweet Faygo up in there?"

"I'll buy some for you!" you answered. So that's why they keep stocking soda in pet stores! It's all starting to come together now. "Whatever flavor you want."

"Fuckin' beautiful," he said with a lazy grin. He was tall, almost too tall for your car - his horns were scraping the lining of the roof, and you were afraid he'd scratch them if he tried to move too much, but so far he'd been good about it - which meant that he had to slouch forward a lot - but even then he looked like he was the most comfortable troll in the world. "You're a fuckin' miracle, you know that? All kinds of motherfuckin' miracles all up in here."

You'll have to get him to watch his mouth in public if you want to take him out, or only take him to places where you're sure it won't be a problem. But that's a little thing, and you'll handle it later. "We have all kinds of miracles at my place," you say brightly. "It'll be great!"

"Aw, yeah. I can't motherfucking wait."

---

That had been three months ago, and you've already had to replace five different pieces of furniture. Five! You make good money, but not that good. You can't afford to buy five tasteful pieces of home decor in three months; you're having to make do with a temporary loveseat for a while, because really, who cares about the loveseat? Well, you do, obviously, but it's hardly ever used, so it's easy enough to hide under sheeting for a while until you can get a proper replacement.

It's not just the furniture, either. Gamzee's been acting up for a little over two months now, and he always ends up doing it when you're not there to watch him. You can't lock him anywhere, because he's strong enough to break the locks - or the doors, whichever give first, so he just goes where he pleases. You buy him toys and games to play but nothing helps. He's shredded and painted in your favorite books, eaten you out of house and home, and left Faygo spilled all over the carpet. You try to keep it clean, but it's starting to stain a little and it's bothering you. You're lucky that Frigglish is gone, or else Gamzee would've terrorized him too, or worse!

It's just really weird! When you're home, he's completely different from what he used to be, a sweet and diffident little guy who never talks above a whisper; he still fingerpaints, but he never talks about miracles anymore, and his creations are nowhere near as bright and colorful as they were back in the shelter. When you're not... well, you tried hiring a professional troll-sitter before to watch the house while you worked and try to keep Gamzee calm. What ended up happening was that the man came out as soon as you pulled into the garage, slightly clawed and really bruised up, and told you that you needed to keep anything even remotely club-like out of the house, and that your troll had the worst damned case of separation anxiety that he'd ever seen and he felt really damn sorry for you.

You gave him extra, of course. You didn't want him reporting anything to the society; they could be such hard-asses sometimes. And you haven't gotten any unusual calls from them, so apparently he's kept quiet. That's good news, at least.

Separation anxiety. You turn the phrase over and over in your head as you hunt for Gamzee. You've heard it before - you've owned cats before, used to take care of quite a few of them, although Frigglish was the only one you really considered yours before his tragic death. The others were mostly foster cases, and you at least managed to get most of them good homes before you moved. But they'd all had each other, so it hadn't been nearly as bad. It's different with Gamzee; if he'd just needed company he would've been fine with the pet-sitter. It seems like it's you that he wants with him.

You find him crouching in a currently untouched corner of his painting room, head in his hands. He's still shaking, which means that he's not nearly as contrite as he looks - if anything he's panicking over what he's done and whether or not you'll still want him there. It's happening so much lately, and you're so tired of this. You had a moment of wanting to kick him out, or to take him back to the shelter, when you first came in, but that's passed, now; you know you don't want him to go. You still think he's adorable, although you do miss how he was before; right now you just want to cuddle him and pet him and make him feel better. Later on you can try to figure out why this keeps happening.

You walk over to him very slowly - you know from past experience he might lash out if you're not careful - and gently pap him on the top of his head. "Gamzee," you say, "are you okay?"

"I messed up again," he says, voice wobbling. "I went off and messed everything up and I'm so sorry -"

"Shhh," she said. "Shh, shoosh. Don't cry anymore, okay? Don't cry."

He nods and doesn't say anything else, just sits there all curled up, and you're just... so sorry for the poor bastard that you don't know if you can think straight. You have to figure out a way to fix this, though, or else you're not going to be able to afford to keep him. There has to be something you can do.

You'll call the society tomorrow. They have to have dealt with this before, right? But for now you have to get him calmed down. Hopefully it won't take too long this time, and you can put him to bed in his slime-filled little pod, and you can get this mess cleaned up and get some sleep.

Oh, and a stiff drink. Or two. That needs to be in there somewhere.

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Page 9 of 20

Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

Re: "a jewel in the scarlet crown," Karkat/Eridan, Karkat/Dualscar, slavery, forced breeding, 3/?

Authoranon

"Perchance to Dream" Roxy/Gamzee 1/3

"Perchance to Dream" Roxy/Gamzee 2/3

"Perchance to Dream" Roxy/Gamzee 3/3

no subject

"a jewel in the scarlet crown," Karkat/Eridan, Karkat/Dualscar, slavery, forced breeding, 4/?

Re: "a jewel in the scarlet crown," Karkat/Eridan, Karkat/Dualscar, slavery, forced breeding, 3/?

Re: "a jewel in the scarlet crown," Karkat/Eridan, Karkat/Dualscar, slavery, forced breeding, 3/?

no subject

Re: "a jewel in the scarlet crown," Karkat/Eridan, Karkat/Dualscar, slavery, forced breeding, 4/?

Re: "a jewel in the scarlet crown," Karkat/Eridan, Karkat/Dualscar, slavery, forced breeding, 4/?

Re: "Perchance to Dream" Roxy/Gamzee 3/3

Dirk/Jake, Roleplay

Re: Dirk/Jake, Roleplay

John/Troll

Safewords

Re: "a jewel in the scarlet crown," Karkat/Eridan, Karkat/Dualscar, slavery, forced breeding, 4/?

Karkat/John, sweet delicious blackrom

John: be a responsible pet owner, John/Equius, fluffy smut

Re: Grand Highblood/anyone - blackrom

Re: John: be a responsible pet owner, John/Equius, fluffy smut

Re: John/Troll

Re: John/Troll

Separation Anxiety (Roxy+Gamzee, AU, ownership, M, 1/?)