Homestuck Kink Meme: Act 2

[imperialdrone]

Homestuck Kink Meme

Helpful notes

1. Both art and fic are welcome and encouraged.


2. The character limit for comments on Dreamwidth is 16,000 characters (somewhere around 2700 words).


3. If you need an anonymous image host for porny stuff, you can use http://www.postimage.org


4. It's called a kink meme but we welcome non-porn requests too. Just make sure you give anons something to work with beyond just the pairing.


5. Looking for something specific? Try hitting the tags in our Pinboard bookmarks.

RULES

1. Your kink is okay. So is everyone else's. Do not leave prompts or comments that bash characters/pairings or put down somebody's kinks/interests.


2. If your prompt or fill contains common triggers such as graphic violence, rape/non-con, or abuse, please label it in the comment subject line, e.g.: "Vriska/Tavros [abuse]" or "Gamzee/any [violence]."


3. Please put the character(s) you're requesting in the comment subject line! That makes it a lot easier for potential fillers to find requests.


4. Having prompts filled is what makes a kink meme successful! Try to fill a prompt for every handful you leave.

There's a master list of fills in this post. Please link yours when you finish them!

Comments

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

[(Anonymous)]

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.

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

[(Anonymous)]

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.

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

[(Anonymous)]

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

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

[(Anonymous)]

I came out of this shipping Eridan<>Kanaya and I'm not sure why!

...I think that means you got the stockholm syndrome part right. ^_^;;

(No seriously, this is really good.)