Actions

Work Header

Hate Date

Work Text:

There are, in your line of work, few reasons to try and figure out why the hatch in the ceiling to the roof is always propped open. For pirates and similar seafarers, and you assume for some bird wranglers and associated positions, there are numerous reasons off the top of your head that you could name for a hatch to be propped open, even just a crack, in the punishing Alternian sun and summer. It just seems unsafe, honestly, and likely to let in all sorts of riffraff.

 

Really, as the Grand Highblood, one assumes there would be no need for you to be staring at a hatch in your main amphitheater, wondering about it’s hinges and what is keeping it open, but here you are, valiantly ignoring some blueblood’s decree that they should be able to build something (a stable? How many lusii does one troll even need?) on Jadeblood land. You can tell all parties are getting annoyed, but you can’t seem to turn your head away, because there’s really no need for there even to be a hatch; buildings having hatches to the roofs are silly, it isn’t as though it’s going to fall on it’s side and retain any structural integrity.

“Highblood, sir.” A young clown coughs, stepping into the corner of your field of vision. “Sir, your ruling is needed, please.”

Oh, the case. The stupid, pointless case. Right. Of course. Your neck is getting stiff from all your gawking, anyway. You stand, watching the jade’s shrink away even as you face the blueblood directly. “No.” You lift a hand, wave it like you’re brushing something off a table. “Dismissed.”

There will be some summing up needed in your paperwork, of course, but you’ll worry about that when you get there. For now, you shoo everyone out of your main room and drag a desk that seems sturdy enough to the floor under the hatch and climb up. The night is cool and crisp outside, surprisingly, though the air is stale as ever, and when you shove the hatch properly open to peek out you’re greeted with a starry sky. In some hours, the sun will drag itself across the horizon and you’ll be asleep, but for now you take the momentary quiet to watch a cloud amble over one of the moons.

Satisfied that there isn’t some troll or other creature hiding in a vent and sneaking in through this hatch, you drop it closed, knocking the bit of wood keeping it open out of the way. You drag the desk back into place, and with a few words to your poor secretaries, you decide to take a few hours or so to yourself. None of your cases are terribly pressing, for once, no one asking who should die or pushing your hand on things you honestly don’t know enough about to rule on, so you only feel marginally guilty about it.

Your block is still and silent, as you’d expected. The few times it wasn’t such had been exciting, in their own ways, but you’re more than content to come to an empty block and settle into an empty seat and open a very much not empty tome. Some of the tension wrapping around your horns to your heels loosens up, and you manage to sprawl as you read, sighing a content noise in your throat.

“It’s so nice to relax, isn’t it?”

And, of course, the comedy of errors that seems to be making up your life anymore isn’t taking a break, so you have to leap up and get ready to kill someone. Or not kill, considering that this someone is your kismesis. “The hatch.” You growl, feeling a little stupid, all things considered.

“Of fucking course the hatch. Why else would it be open all the time?” He laughs, hefting the bag over his shoulder before gingerly setting it down on the seat you had been occupying. “It wasn’t even hard to sneek in here, either. Your defenses are terrible. But that’s not that surprising. I mean, I’m pretty great at this.”

You raise an eyebrow. He did sneak in, but you’re sure it wasn’t as easy as he’s claiming; the scuffmarks on his horns prove enough that he had trouble actually getting in for you to ignore most of his comments. “Not simply does a motherfucker break into my hive.” You sigh, eyeing the bag. Since when does he bring things? If this is some kind of prank, again, you’re going to break his nose. Again.

“Whatever, we both know you missed me.” Fuck him for being right. Literally. With a trident. “I thought I should check up on you and make sure you’re not as pathetic as you were before I came around. Honestly, if you need me to visit you all the time to keep you from slipping up–” He pulls himself over the back of the couch and plops into the seat next to his bag, kicking his feet out and giving you a lazy grin. “You’ll need to get some globes and tell me.”

He’s playing you like a fiddle. You know he is. He’s the best at doing that. But even awareness of him purposefully riling you up doesn’t stop you from planting a foot between his legs when he opens them to take up the whole couch, from pressing it close to his body and threatening to kick, from leaning in low and grabbing his hair tomake him meet your eyes. And the part that makes you break and snarl is that he grins even wider at it.

Lips pulled back over his teeth, he speaks again, lifting himself to be closer to your face. “You’re not scaring me, Kurloz. You’re just acting like an animal.” And you have to keep yourself from responding, because you know he’s testing you and you’re not going to give in that easily.

His eyes are wide and angry, those strange wings behind him flicking, and then he huffs a breath through his nose and slams his body into yours, and you know he’s not leaving yet. You fall back a step and he moves to keep himself there, arching his back with a grunt when you tug at one of his wings, and then yelping when you grab one of his ridiculous horns and drag him away from yourself, even if it’s only to pin him against the nearest wall. His claws dig into your hornbeds when he pulls you down to his level, and then you let yourself groan when he sinks his teeth into your bottom lip before kissing you.

And the really, truly terrible part of the entire thing is that it’s good. It’s good, it has you pushing against him, has you needing to pull away to remember to breathe and only kind of pulling his hair when he leans in to bite everywhere he can, and that’s mostly because his horns keep knocking you in the jaw and less because you don’t want him leaving marks on you.

Because, you’ll be honest, you kind of do want them.

The Summoner hitches a knee over your hip and pulls you closer, one of his hands in your hair, the other tugging at your pants shamelessly while he laps at the broken skin of your bottom lip, and you just bite him harder for trying to rush you. His ears twitch when you speak into them, low enough that you can pretend you’re not embarrassed over how pitch you are for him.

One misstep to adjust your footing is all it takes for him to shove you back, almost to the floor, and you have to twist yourself nearly in half to get ahead of him again. His knee knocks into your middle and you cough, flinging him onto the floor of your block proper, and just as you’re going to leap onto him with some rad wrestling move you saw online, his bag chirps.

And you’re no expert on what inanimate objects do and don’t do, but. Burlap sacks don’t chirp, normally. Most things carried in them also do not chirp, and most things that do chirp don’t sound like a phone saying it’s fully charged.

You’d ignore it, if not for the wide-eyed terror that comes over the Summoner’s face when the thing in his bag chirps again, and how he starts rushing over to grab it. Your interest peaked, you sidestep him and snatch the bag up before he can reach it, earning an elbow jabbed into your thigh and a snarled threat not to open it, which is ignored with more than a little glee on your part. You nearly have to step on him to get him to stop yanking the bag from your hands, but he does stop eventually, complaining that you’ll probably have no idea what it even is, anyway.

Inside his bag is a small case, containing what you mistake as a grub for a second, before the striped coloring and lack of horns or hair tell you what it really is. And then you’re not sure if you should laugh, or drop the bag, or ask him about it.

You’re not really sure what the protocol for finding a nookworm, a living sex toy, in your kismesis’s things, but you assume it involves some amount of mocking. Though, honestly, it’s surprising. You hear these things are expensive as all get out (you wouldn’t know, of course. You’ve never looked into it.)

(Much.)

(For any reason other than curiosity.)

(Shut up.)

A wicked grin splits across your face and you turn to him, pulling the fat little worm from it’s cage. It’s not exactly small, but it’s not terribly large, which is a relief. At least you’re not halfway competing with a worm. Though, these things can just keep going and going. So you hear. From sources of totally legitimate nature. “Unsatisfied are by mate yours?” You tease, noting the purplish coloring on the thing.

“No, that’s for when you’re so disappointing that I don’t want to bother chasing you down.” He hisses, grinning right back. “Keeps me busy enough that I don’t come and knock you out at a bad time. I’m being considerate.”

Easy enough for him to say. The worm wriggles in your hand and you nearly drop it, but then he snatches it away from you anyway. Before you have a chance to ask if that’s the reason his revolution is at a total stalemate with the forces on )(er side, though, his eyebrows shoot up and he turns to face you, holding the worm in his arm like a grub, it’s stubby, soft legs flailing in the air while he looks you over, one eyebrow raised contemplatively.

“I bet you’ve never used one of these before, huh?” He’s got that ‘about to challenge you’ edge in his voice. “Probably couldn’t stand even thirty seconds of it.”

Your eyes narrow, and you step into his space, your grin still fixed in place while you take your time looking him over as well, because why shouldn’t you? “Should this as challenge take?” He nods sharply, keeping his chin raised defiantly. “Then my own self this accepts.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see this.” He laughs, reaching out and putting his hand on your thigh and stepping so close you can feel the heat off him. “If you really think you can handle it.”

It’s a bit awkward, but you manage to push him back and get him sitting on the sofa, then climb over him, leaning in as menacingly as you can when his hand slides casually to your ass. “Am not my own self virginal.” Besides, the likelihood of him actually keeping time on this is so low it’s underwater.

Either way, you grab his horn and bite his lips before he can respond, shifting your stance to actually land in his lap and not hover over it. He sucks on your bottom lip when you stop biting him, his hand gropes at you and he rolls his hips up against yours. After a few more seconds of biting/kissing each other, he sets he worm on the couch, digging his claws into your back when he shoves his hands under your vest. The paint around your mouth is rubbing off a little, but it’s fine, this isn’t the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last, if he’s not planning on dropping your pitch overtures.

He actually manages to surprise you when he shoves your chest and knocks you onto your back, and it knocks the wind out of you so well that you actually cough, and then he lands featherlight on top of you before dropping his full weight by relaxing his wings over you. His knee presses almost too hard to be enjoyable at your sheathe and nook, pressing in a slow circle that, after a moment combined with him tearing your vest open and digging his claws into your sides, has you reluctantly rocking your hips back up against him.

Behind him, the worm cheeps. “It can smell you, you know.” He laughs, pressing harder at your sheathe until your hands, previously rested on his horns, move to claw at his arms. “You’re more excited than I thought.”

You bare your teeth, but sit up to take your vest off properly, dragging yourself up with a grip on his shoulder. You’d reply, but there’s not a lot you can say to that. You mean, he’s right. He doesn’t come over enough for you not to react when he’s actually here, and this is his intention. It is somewhat, well, embarrassing, but you refuse to acknowledge it, because that would take away from the enjoyment you’re getting. He grumbles when you drag him by the hips to your middle, but stops when you lift yourself to kick your pants off.

The worm shuffles around on the cushion, but you’re more focused on the fact that your kismesis has re-situated himself not on your hips or legs, but with his knees planted firmly on your chest, teeth bared almost playfully. He thinks won already. Resisting the urge to shove him off takes all your willpower, but he leans himself back (thankfully taking his weight off your chest) and slides his hand over your thigh, away from the end of your limb and towards your pelvis, and you bite your tongue on a gasp as he strokes his fingers over your nook, dipping them only barely inside when you huff a reluctant heard moan.

He shifts over you and settles heavily on your waist, rocking his fingers into you slowly, his eyes fixed on your face. You meet his eyes for a minute or two, but when his fingers press up and hit something that makes your head spin, you let it fall to the side, glad for the paint on your face keeping your flush from showing.

Your hatemate’s teeth sink into your neck, too high to cover with anything but a scarf. “You’re blushing.” His fingers push deeper into your nook as he speaks, catching you enough off guard that you croon. “I didn’t know you were this sensitive.” Your snarl is weakened by the whimper it trails off into, and by the way that you know he’s right, you are sensitive, even when someone isn’t pressing the pads of their fingers so hard against your globes that you see stars.

His hand moves in a smooth, calculated pattern, rolling his digits against different areas in your nook until he’s pinpointed the spots that you make the most noise from, then he just alternates between them, his other hand wrapped around your wrist where you’re clawing at his hip. And you like it, which is good, but only marginally good, because you know he thinks he’s winning from the smirk on his face, from the way, when he pulls his hand away from you and stretches his three fingers apart to show you the sticky trails of faded indigo between them, that he pauses and grabs your hair with his clean hand to laugh and tug you into looking. Thank every god for the paint you wear.

As much as you can, you gather yourself, lifting yourself on your elbows and pulling your legs better together while he digs around in his bag with one hand, the other holding the worm. When he notices you looking, he stops and looks at you with his tongue sticking out, then pulls a tiny vial out of his bag and stuffs it into his pocket, then settles near your feet. After an awkward second of silence where he just looks at you and you just look at him, you kick him in the chest with a laugh, then press your foot to his face when he scratches at your leg, growling; you could pretty easily beat him in strength, but he’s wiley enough that you have a real challenge with him, so you’re just playing right now. Once your body gets interested, really, there’s no reason to stall.

Claws bite into your knee and you let your legs fall open again, saying a few choice words about the type of things he must do to situate himself there, of all places, but he scoffs and tosses his head like a bull throwing someone aside. You can’t help the shiver that rolls through you when he slides his hand up your thigh, the other pressing against your nook with just the knuckles, and a slightly warmer, blunt thing pushes up to your nook.

It’s mostly weird. You mean, you’ve taken bulges, but this is different, obviously. It’s small and blunt, something slick sliding along your flesh pleasantly before it finally starts pushing in. And it’s not bad, per sey, it’s just different from what you’re used to. The Summoner’s hands fall back to his own waist, pulling his fly open to push his pants past his hips. The heel of his hand presses to his bulgesheathe and he sighs, just as that same slick something as before slithers over your globes, the worm’s blunt legs push it forward by a segment, and you groan out loud.

Before you even need to bark the order, he tosses a pillow from the sofa at you and you settle back on it, leaning your head against the table to keep your eyes on him as it starts to feel more good than weird. It squirms similar to a bulge, twisting up against everything inside you better than fingers would, but the tiny, blunt legs make it… Not better, but it adds a new dimension to it, has you crooning a bit, your hips rocking up. The Summoner, still between your spread legs, has his bulge in his hand, and you wonder if you look as good to him as he does to you.

Bronze drips down his thigh to his pants and you choke on some noise that sounds halfway pained as another segment, progressively larger, pushes into your nook. “Wait.” The Summoner murmurs, pausing his own hand in it’s languid movement on his own appendage and resting it still sticky on your bulgesheathe. “Stop trying to be quiet.” His thumb rubs up and down your sheatheslit, drawing a low, rolling moan from your throat. “You’re loud otherwise, you might as well be now.”

You want to snarl something nasty at him, but the worm’s twisted itself round to where it has it’s nubby legs pressing and rubbing against the underside of your bulge, and combined with your kismesis’s hand, your bulge is starting to writhe free and twist in the air and you just manage a moan that sounds somewhat sarcastic. He leans over you, lets his bulge twist around yours, and you chirp, bending yourself to catch him in a kiss that, embarrassingly, has barely any teeth in it. At least this has definitely been more than thirty seconds.

He pulls back with a pleased noise and you let yourself fall, grunting when you knock your horn on the table. The worm, with a final squirm that makes your eyes cross, slips in completely and sets to work rolling itself in wavy twists inside you and you actually mewl before you can stop yourself. Your kismesis’s hips stop moving against yours slowly, though his bulge continues wrapping and sliding with yours, and he stares at your face, a slow flush spreading over his cheeks while he mumbles something you don’t catch that sounds almost like “adorable”, and he drags himself up with a grip in your hair to kiss you again.

By now your hips are twitching up, not so much rocking into the stimulation your bulge is getting as reacting to the stimulation your nook is getting. It’s getting to be too much, you can feel a coil in your stomach wrapping up and getting tighter as the worm writhes, nuzzling up against your globes like they’re it’s best friends. Your hands grab his horns without your thinking about it, gripping them so tightly your knuckles turn white and your legs tangle with his, dragging him up against yourself, and you shudder, biting sloppily at his lips.

All it takes is him pulling himself up a little more, just enough for your bulge to be able to twist down and brush the heat between his thighs, and you lose yourself, eyes going wide and your shoulders pressing against the floor, back arching, and your whole body stringing tense as you come. Your bulge writhes, but doesn’t spill any slurry, and you feel the worm swell in you nook and you’re shivering a little, soft, slightly higher pitched than normal noises pushing past your lips, and it doesn’t stop moving.

It takes a few more minutes for him to finish, his bulge twisting in the space between your hips and his until he spills and coats your lower half in hot bronze. You keep chirping, twitching as the worm continues to writhe in your nook, making your hands clench on his horns uselessly, so you can’t even deal with it yourself. Of course, he takes his sweet time pulling away and kneeling back between your legs and looking you over. You can only imagine what you look like from his angle, thighs open and shaking, your nook wet and exposed, your bulge still twitching limply against your abdomen, which is covered in his material, and you, yourself, barely able to lift yourself up to look back at him.

Two parts embarrassing, one part vaguely enjoyable. Vaguely, must be something about his expression when he looks at you.

After a few seconds more, the worm pretty well headbutts your globes and you croon, your lips pulling back from your teeth when you snarl at him to /Help. You./ Your kismesis shakes his head and pulls the vial from his pants pocket, dips his little finger into it, and presses it into your nook (you’re stuck watching him until your hands decide to stop gripping his horns), and the worm shimmies it’s way out of you, following, you assume, the scent on his finger.

You jolt with each segment that slides out, and then he’s knocking your hands away and putting it back in it’s little box while you get used to the feeling of slurry and natural lubricant cooling on your skin because your legs are also refusing to listen to you. All in all, it’s gross, cold, and would be humiliating if you cared about his opinion (which, should you be honest, you really really do), but at this point there’s not too much you can do to deal with it.

After dealing with his companion (?), he comes back and mutters under his breath, heaving you up to an unsteady walk where he half supports, half shoves you into your sleeping block. He presses your back to the coon and kisses you, biting so lightly that he doesn’t even draw blood or really hurt, and you feel your too-tense back and shoulders start to relax, and after a while he leads you up the steps to your coon. Just before you slide in from your seat on the edge, you wrap your arms around him and drag him into the coon with you, clothes and all.

“What the fuck?!” He snaps, squirming. “My pants, you fuck.”

You laugh, more a sigh than anything, and settle in, still gripping him too tight to be totally comfortable. “For all your own self of myself expected, could to some company expect?” He’s relaxing bit by bit, sighing and finding an angle to keep hi head at.

“Whatever.” He pushes at your chest a little. “Stop squeezing me so much.”

In the early evening, you expect, you’ll need to help him out of the compound. As it is now, though, you’ll just enjoy these nice, rare, hateful cuddles.