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I don't want dishes in the sink/Don't ask me what I feel or what I think

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You are, at this point in what you are (gradually, painfully) coming to accept will be your lifetime of servitude, reasonably well attuned to your owners.  You know what they like to eat and wear and how they amuse themselves.  You know their schedules and what they do professionally.  You know every intimate detail of their financial situation and more or less every possession they own, including yourself.  You know how they like to fight and how they like to fuck.  You know exactly how far you can push back before they put their feet down.  You know what will happen if you push them past that. 

Which is how, when Karkat storms in, a truly vile scowl smeared all over his face, you know the dishes you are currently elbow deep in will not be getting done any time soon.

If nothing else, he’s always refreshingly direct.  Not like his palemate, who flirts and banters and makes the whole thing almost fun. Until before you know it you’re grabbing your ankles over a pail while she ruins whatever you’re wearing (usually something she made), inadvertently sentencing you to the next several hours of chores with slurry periodically bubbling down your thighs until you can wash up.

Him, he just walks up and-

HOW LONG ARE YOU GOING TO BE BUSY WITH THAT?

That depends on the regularity with which I am interrupted.

Honestly, you don’t know how the hell he got to be in charge of anything, let alone an entire station.  The man has the patience of a spastic two year old.

As much as I’d love to drop what I’m doing and completely devote my attention to servicing you, I’m currently busy with these dishes.

You let a plate clatter into the soapy water for emphasis.

THEY’LL STILL BE THERE WHEN WE’RE DONE

Yes, they certainly will be.  As will the ring around the bathtub which set into the sheetrock after your moirail neglected to empty it yesternight.  And your uniform which has yet to be washed and pressed after you tossed it on the floor.  And the meal I have yet to prepare.  And the-

-BUNCH OF OTHER BULLSHIT I DON’T CARE ABOUT

How reassuring.  I’m sure you feel the same way when you’ve expended yourself in me, and, pan no longer fogged with mating fondness, found that my various assigned functions have not miraculously performed themselves in the intervening period.

ARE YOU HAVING TROUBLE FIGURING OUT WHAT FUNCTION I WANT YOU TO PERFORM NOW?  I’LL GIVE YOU A HINT: IT ISN’T ‘USE A WHOLE LOT OF ASININE WORDS TO DESCRIBE WHAT IS AT ITS CORE A SIMPLE UNDERLYING CONCEPT’

You roll your eyes, sigh theatrically in frustration, and begin to strip off your rubber gloves.  The plate covered in stubbornly crusted scorpion jelly will have to wait.  Just as it had to wait last night, when you went to soak it and were instead ambushed by Kanaya for similar purposes, peeling off the outfit she’d given you - and immediately found irresistible - in the process.  God this would all be so much easier if they just wanted a little less sex .

He undoes his belt while you fish a bucket out from under the sink.  (When they let you start buying things on their account for the hive, the first thing you did was order ten.  Kanaya drily wondered out loud whether this was some attempt to spite her.  You rejoined that if she and her diamond were going to repeatedly ambush you for lascivious purposes, it didn’t hurt to be prepared.  Judging by how much they’ve saved on rugs and throw coverings, you were correct.)  Sordid receptacle thus proffered, you introduce your knees to the kitchen tile and begin to remove your top.  The last thing you need is more laundry to do.  Within no time at all you’re stripped to the waist, guzzling bulge in the mealblock.

The balance of oral sex in this relationship is, you think, rather lopsided.  Kanaya has eaten you a grand total of twice, Karkat none whatsoever.  You’d entertained ideas about what she could do with her long, gray tongue but both times it essentially felt like a pale (no pun intended) imitation of her bulge.

(If, by some miracle, you ever find your way home, you don’t think you’d be able to go back to humans.)

His bulge is warm and fat, wriggling and trying to get as much of its stubby length as possible down your throat.  You look up, eyes misty and mouth full, to where he’s leaned up against the thermal hull behind you, trapping you in as he fucks your face.  Irritatingly, you find yourself rubbing your thighs together as you blow him.  Maybe it’s the bizarre insectile musk wafting off his sheathe, or the way you basically always end up wet when there’s a bulge in sight, as a form of damage control if nothing else.  You could ask him to do something about it, but that would mean either getting naked or making a mess of your clothes.  It would take longer, and Kanaya might get home before you finished.  And then she’d want a piece of you, and you’d have to go again with both of them, and it would be all night before you got back to work, and another before you got to sleep.  Better to just deal with it until you’ve got some time to yourself.  Then treat yourself: an orgasm completely on your own terms, followed by a moment with one of the many, many books you’ve yet to finish.

Or just skip straight to sleep, that sounds just as appealing in all honesty.

Speaking of orgasms, Karkat should be finishing up right about now.  You can always tell he’s reaching his limit when his smutty-yet-always-effusive praise trails off into little grunts and buzzes of satisfaction.  Just as well, your jaw is starting to hurt.  You back up off his bulge until it’s squirming in your face like a chubby red slug, whereupon you grab it with your hand.  Normally he has a thing about swallowing, but you want to finish this up without having to brush your teeth, so he’s going to have to live with a little cum dodging on your part.  You angle his bulge down and lift the pail with your other hand, just in time

FUCK, LALONDE, I'M- FUCK!

The sound of his material splattering the inside of the pail does nothing to solve the problem between your legs.  Like so much about your captors, it’s become something of an ingrained pavlovian trigger (You think, anyway.  You’ll never see a psychiatry text again).  You pump and squeeze and massage his bulge the way he likes as it ripples in your hand, squirting until the flow tapers off.  And you’re left with a sticky hand and a pail full of steaming hot troll jizz.

Karkat, still leaned against the hull, gathers his composure and hands you a clean dishtowel from the counter with one hand, tucking his bulge away with the other.  You accept it with a nod of thanks and wipe your hands, face, chest, and the few drops which made it onto the floor - in that exact order, no less.  That accomplished, you pull on your top - spotless thanks to your efforts, and rise from your chafing knees to your aching feet.

Karkat gives a harsh bark of laughter and makes a sweeping gesture at the sink.

SEE?  WHAT DID I SAY?  THE DISHES ARE STILL THERE.

You look him dead in the eye and spit a glob of ruby-red phlegm into the bucket.