You know the type. They walk in like they own the world and more importantly like they own you because they tip waiters like the Empress herself, and this guy isn't even trying to be subtle about what he wants. You're not sure how much longer you can play dumb before you have an aneurysm, but judging by the throbbing in your temples, it's high time you got away from this clown.
You're not, strictly speaking, just a waiter at this club, but you're also not supposed to sleep with any of the customers for several reasons, two of which are because you'd get culled if you did. You gently put a plate of fried beetles on the table with as sickly-sweet a smile as you can manage, snatch up the money he's waving in your face, and sashay away from the table with another twenty ceagars in your shorts.
You hope that guy doesn't mean to be a regular around here.
"Hey come on pupa, come back! There's another twenty in it for you if I get a refill too! Maybe a kiss?" He laughs, and his friends cackle with him, and you do your best not to flip them off while you head back to the bar.
You feel one of your eyelids twitching, but you're far away enough that you can pretend you didn't hear him over the music.
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you've worked in this bar, on this moon, since you were eight sweeps old. You're turning nine in a couple wipes, but you don't think a single one of these patrons has given an iota of a fuck about how old you are, or when and why you got here, either. Truth be told, some nights you think it's a draw for them, fresh-faced and freshly pupated and just shady enough to be desperate, and you know they suspect you've never filled a pail but you're not about to start now, not with them.
Now that you're off Alternia, it's just you and your overly-practiced fingers in the evenings, and that suits you just fine. It does! If you keep telling yourself that, it's totally okay.
You pick up another order of fried beetles and weave your way between the tables, avoiding wandering hands and jutting elbows as best you can. You still get a couple pinches on your ass. You make it mostly unscathed to the next table and don't even bother looking who you're serving in the face as you take their tips.
This turns out to be a mistake. They grab you by the forearm, and you're about to pull the security tab on your collar out of reflex when you take an actual look at who they are.
A ceruleanblood with one eye and a scar across his nose, not the best or worst looking customer you've ever gotten, and leaning towards the stockier, less attractive side actually. That's not what's got you so nervous, because more importantly, he's a threshecutioner. He's got his jacket open and his badges under it, mostly out of sight unless you get this close. You feel your mouth go dry and your hands go cold as he doesn't let go, as he gives you a thorough look from your horns to your high heels like he's sizing up whether or not you can run away.
It's dark in here, but you feel like he might be able to tell you're wearing contacts anyway. Your hands are shaking. He smiles. His voice sounds warm and welcoming and absolutely like bait.
"I know you must be busy, but would you mind sitting at this table for a little longer? I'll throw in an extra fifty. You can split however much of that with your boss as you need to justify resting your feet." He's sitting on a couch, but the way he's sprawled across it, there's nowhere for you to sit without sitting on him.
You stare. Does he actually want you to park your ass on his lap? It wouldn't be the first time. You scowl and try to pull your arm away, but his claws dig into your wrist and his fingers are pretty likely to bruise if they tighten up any harder, and you don't want to show any possible sign of the color under your skin.
"I suddenly need to get back to work, sorry. You can avail a free drink for letting me go, though; on the house." It's not your offer to make, not really, but a little loss of salary is better than this. He smiles wider like you actually said something clever and suddenly yanks you against him; you stumble in your heels and have to catch yourself on him by the shoulders, your knees on either side of his lap, and he spreads his legs a little wider so you have to do the same to accommodate.
"What's the rush? Those shoes look like they're giving you a hard time. Come on, sugargrub, you can have a break, and if you pull that chain I'm gonna make you need one."
You gulp, your hand hovering halfway between the two of you, frozen where you were reaching for the security tab. When you put it back down, you have no idea where to put it, so you settle for fiddling with the hem of your shorts. His eyes graze over your exposed skin and you feel a prickle in the back of your neck, and you're so, so glad they let you wear a shirt that covers your grubscars even if it doesn't cover much else.
One of his hands settle on your hips, heavy and cool. The other reaches for his drink and presses the rim of the glass up to your lips.
You... think this is probably some kind of trick, or else something else is going on here. You lick your lips and meet his eyes, and there's no mercy for you there; besides, you can feel the very beginning of his bulge under your ass. He's getting off to making you squirm. He tips the glass and you watch the liquid inside slide a little closer.
"Drink it, slut."
It smells strong and bitter; you're pretty sure you'll gag on it. You open your mouth anyway so it doesn't spill down your front, and you immediately regret it when the taste hits you as your earlier hypothesis proves correct. You sputter and choke, hard, as you feel it trickling down your chin and neck, down your front, staining your shirt, but he keeps going until he's tipping your head back with the glass, while you desperately try to get air into your lungs.
He finally puts it down while you try to clear your airways, tutting, and pushes you backwards- not far enough to fall, not even far enough to get off his lap. If you could see him properly in the strobing light and the sudden nausea you're overcome with, you'd give him one of your best.
"Told you to drink it, not splatter it all over the place. Guess that's my fault for thinking a lowblood could handle it, though." Despite yourself, you almost sigh in relief, past the stinging in your throat and the frantic way you wipe drool off your mouth. Getting called a lowblood means he hasn't figured you out yet.
"This was fun, but I really need to get back to work." You grumble, and some part of you relaxes a little when he just shrugs.
Your relief is short-lived when he grabs your wrists and pins them at the small of your back, though. He barely even pays attention while he does it, his eyes still on your face the whole time. You feel his bulge squirm again, more obvious this time, and with your hands pinned you don't even have the hope of being able to pull the security tab.
"It'd be rude if I didn't clean you up, first. It was my fault you made such a mess, after all." He grins at you with some of the sharpest fangs you've ever seen in your life. You want absolutely no contact with him at this point, is what; you want to go home and lock the door and have a really long, cold shower, especially as he forces you to scoot a little closer along his lap. He's got his bulge right under your nook now, even, and you gasp as he rolls his hips in his seat, pushing insistently at you like he's going to fuck you through your shorts.
And then he leans down and wraps his lips around a clump of your shirt just under your collarbones, sucking hotly, before his teeth close around skin. A warning, before his tongue laves over the spot he'd almost been chewing on. You gulp.
He does it again, a little lower, his breath through the shirt chilling your skin and making you shiver. You feel his thumb on your exposed hipbone, slow circles that tingle unpleasantly. You want to scratch or scream or something.
You feel the waistband of your shorts snap against your skin, and something tucked into your underwear. He pulls back and laughs.
"Don't look so upset. You just made fifty ceagars." He says, the hand on your hip coming up to your face now. To your horror, you realize there are tears on your cheeks, and it's only the grace of your running makeup that stopped him from seeing the bright, damning red your tears really are. "Though I guess there's some appeal in making a trashy slut cry."
Shame bubbles up in you like nothing else, twisting in your gut worse than the alcohol still staining your throat. He wipes his hand off on your shirt and pinches one of your nipples hard enough to make you hiss through your teeth. You feel his bulge roil harder and you're terrified he's going to fuck you right here, in the corner of the club, and then leave you to deal with the consequences while he goes on to have the rest of his day like nothing ever happened.
Your thighs clench up and he chuckles again.
"Eager, aren't you?" Fuck, fuck, fuck, that's not what you wanted him to get out of it at all. You've had it, you've let this go on far enough, you try to get your legs back under you but he leans back and spreads his knees further, brings you down with him. You grunt as you try to pull away, your breathing gone shallow.
"I need to get back to work. Now." You say. You test his grip on your hands and find it still tight and unforgiving. "I don't want to do this, okay? Let me go."
"You're still putting on this brave front for someone who doesn't believe it for a second? You're wasting your time." You want to tell him he's wasting your time, and even though you know it isn't true, it still feels like the entire club is watching you, practically riding a guy's bulge with tears leaving makeup tracks down your cheeks. He licks across his teeth and digs around in his pocket, pulling out another fifty; it's only when he moves it across your line of vision that you realize he was making sure you saw it.
He smirks and stuffs it into your underwear, next to the other one, but doesn't remove his hand. His eyes bore into yours like a drill bit as you feel his fingers move lower, and your bloodpusher is hammering against your ribs hard enough to drown out the club's bass when his hand makes it to the front of your shorts.
"Be honest with me, sugargrub; you don't want to go back to work just yet."
Something pulls at the back of your mind, keeps pulling all the way down your spine to weaken your knees so you're sitting right in his lap, makes your mouth hang half-open and still. You raise your hips for him without wanting to, your tongue practically hanging out; his fingers dip into your underwear and you realize the motherfucker was toying with you the whole time. It's only now he's taking what he wants.
You want to scream. You want to tear yourself out of his grip and out of your own skin. What comes out of your mouth is a whimper, and then a moan, one that he must have put there because you don't want to moan, you tell yourself. His fingers are cool and insistent where they press up against the seam of your sheathe, and then the seam of your nook. He slides one back and forth and you shiver, feeling like everyone in the block can see what's happening to you.
"So, let's get to know each other. You're eight, right?" His finger crooks slightly, dipping into the crease of your nook. Not far enough to actually get in there, but enough to promise he will. "My, my; too young to have gotten off-planet legally. I wonder why that is."
Thankfully, he doesn't wonder enough to force you to tell him. But he crooks his finger again and this time he tilts his hand up, making you gasp as it pushes into your nook up to the first knuckle. You're dry, and it's cold, but that doesn't stop him from twisting his hand a little to get a better position, his thumb pressed against your bulge sheathe now, grinding into it like he might push in there, too.
"Too young for filling pails?"
You close your eyes, hoping that might make it so you don't have to answer him, but you feel your mouth move around another moan, and you don't know if you're answering him or begging him to stop. "N-no,"
"Of course not, or you wouldn't be here, would you? Who's the last troll you filled a pail with, slut?" He thrusts his finger deeper into you, rubs a circle in the sensitive flesh. "Actually, I don't care. But tell me how they were." It crooks again, pressing into a spot behind your bulge that makes you gasp, fluid starting to gather, your thighs trembling. "Did you like it?"
"No, they were too nice. Sluts like me want it hard, fast, and rough." You're telling him to eat shit and die in the confines of your own head and you don't know if he can tell or not, or if he can then maybe he's getting off to the control he has over you. "You're gonna give it to me like that, right? You're gonna make me screammh!"
You clench up around the second finger he's got stuffed inside you now, tilting your head back and biting your lip. Your hips gyrate, grinding down on his hand, wet, slick noises filling your head. You know it doesn't feel good, though; it shouldn't feel good, but you still weren't expecting it and you didn't know mindscourges could force you to feel anything like this. Some poisonous part of you- or maybe it's still his control snaking its way into your head- tells you it's all you, that you really are a slut who likes being fingered in public.
He starts thrusting his fingers hard enough to make your whole body shudder. You're thankful he doesn't seem to have interest in your bulge, but it's a losing battle to keep it in your sheathe anyway with the way his thumb keeps dipping in and teasing the tip. Your eyes glaze over, you start seeing double.
Your breath stutters. Drool leaks down your chin. You tilt your head back, rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his hand. So close...
But he pulls out his fingers while you sit there, trembling on the edge of an orgasm that won't come. That you want it so bad doesn't matter, you force yourself to focus on any negative stimuli you can grab hold of- the strobing lights overhead, the chatter of other people, your cold shirt sticking to your chest. You can't. Not here. Not all over a literal threshecutioner.
You don't know when he let go of your hands but he's been leaning back for a while now, your grip white-knuckled on his chest while he looks up at you. You look at his face, and he's smiling at you, holding up his fingers with strings of clear nook lubricants between them.
"You seemed to enjoy that." He says. You try to turn your face away, but maybe he thinks you're trying to be demure because he actually takes your jaw in one hand and squeezes your cheeks until your mouth opens again.
"Disappointed? You should be." His eyes twinkle with amusement. "That's all you're getting from me today, slut. I have to get back to the ship in a couple hours, and as much as I'd like to spend that time fucking you stupid, I have a report to compile.
The hand stained with your own fluids comes up to your lips, and then pushes into your mouth, smearing the taste of your own nook all over your tongue. He thrusts them a couple times.
"Clean me up."
You hesitate, but he doesn't push you with his mind control. You suck on them slowly at first, and then when he frowns you force yourself to pick it up, sucking like you've seen pornstars on the extranet suck bulge, twining your tongue between them to get the last drops of your nook juices out from his gloves. The taste is something mostly sweet, a little tangy and a little rubbery, and you don't know how you feel about knowing what it is.
It feels like forever that you sit there with his fingers in your mouth, tear-tracks drying on your face, alcohol drying in your shirt. His bulge has calmed down, but the warm ache between your legs is a constant, and you're not sure if it's because of him or your own hormones, or if you want to face the possibility of it being just you.
When he's done, he pulls his fingers out of your mouth with an obscene pop, smiling as he wipes them off on your leg. "Can't have my uniform smelling like slut nook." He says, and then gives you a gentle shove that sends you sprawling across the couch.
"Maybe I'll come back sometime, sugargrub. Spend my tips on something pretty."
You try to say something but your throat is tight, locked up with something you can't name. You only realize he's gone when you finally look up.
Fuck. You hope nothing like that happens for the rest of your shift. For whatever amount of time is left for your shift, at that. You pick up your tray and pull the bills out of your shorts, stuffing them into the bag strapped to your thigh instead. You don't even bother checking if they're really as much money as he says. You need to get cleaned up, get your breathing back in order, and get back to work.
Short-ish chapter, but Sollux is now introduced, woohoo!
None of your co-workers ask if you're doing alright, probably because they already know the answer. Your face is blotchy in the cracked, spotty reflection panel in the waste disposal block, and your makeup is completely ruined. Lipstick is smeared around the corners of your mouth. Eyeliner is running down your cheeks. Your lashes are a disaster.
Not to mention the massive, luminescent green stain visible even on the black fabric of your shirt. You frown at your reflection, leaning over the grimy sink and wishing you had something to scrub it off properly with. You can wash your face and get the worst of the stain out of your clothes, at least. The darkness in the club proper will help make you seem at least somewhat presentable.
Nothing to do about the stains in your underwear, not for now, but you'll get to that when you get home. You only have another half hour of your shift left last you checked, and then you can lock yourself up in your respiteblock until the next day cycle.
You turn on the tap and peel off your shirt, running the water over the stain and watching leftover green dye float down the drain. The cold leaves you shivering at the memory of hands on your body and frowning at the very beginnings of marks on your wrists when you see them, though, and it's with a deep, crushing shame that your body recalls you still haven't cum. Can you stay out of work for the next couple of days? Or maybe you can dig around in your closet for something with long sleeves. You don't want to be reminded of that threshecutioner every time your wrists twinge.
The door opens. Your head snaps up in panic; the lights in here are brighter than in the club, your color showing stark and clear on your grubscars. You shouldn't have taken off your shirt, fuck, you should've just wandered around looking like Hell instead of coming in here, you knew the lock on that door was faulty-
The psionic standing in the doorway gulps. Snaggleteeth frame his too-thin lips like a cage. He tests the knob on the door, frowning, seemingly unaware of your predicament.
"It... wasn't locked, right? I could've sworn nobody was in here."
Four slightly-curved horns, perfectly tapered like a crown of knives. His lisp is still the same as when you were kids. Something in the vicinity of your bloodpusher collapses in on itself like an imploding star, and while he's not looking at you, or at least the glow in his eyes isn't quite focused on you, he doesn't look all that different from how you remember him.
Taller, less round in the face. His jaw is pointier and his nose is longer, and his acne's mostly cleared up but he's got little pockmark scars all over his cheeks. One eye red, the other blue, if considerably duller than you remember them. But that's just your memory fucking with you, probably; you remember him either a sad, smelly lump in the corner or the kind of troll who could take on the world.
"Sorry, I'm still standing here like an idiot and the door's open, I didn't mean to walk in on someone getting changed." The troll in front of you looks closer to the sad corner lump, if slightly better dressed and not stained in cheesegrub dust. He laughs, breathy and fluttery, almost lazy. "I should probably also let you get back to-"
"Sollux, you asshole, weren't you supposed to be helmed?" It doesn't feel real when you say it, and you regret it immediately, of course, like you've regret a lot of things you'd said to him when he disappeared. Your tone softens, just slightly. "It is you, right? You disappeared when we were seven and I thought the drones finally got you."
He's staring at you like you've materialized out of nowhere. You reflexively cross your arms across your chest, covering up your grubscars and a bruised nipple as best you can, which kind of still hurts but you'll bear with it for now. He pushes himself back against the door like he can't believe what he's seeing, breathes out in a rush that hollows his entire chest and whistles between his deathtrap fangs.
"Alive too, shitstain, and I've been wondering where you went every fucking night of it since you vanished into thin air. Where have you been? What happened to you?" You're not going to forget your lack of modesty, tottering towards him on too-tall heels that still only bring you up to his collarbones, but you approach as quickly as you can anyway, like he might disappear if you don't. He flushes yellow when you get close enough that he can see the state of disarray you're in properly, but you see a little smirk forming in the corner of his mouth. Typical Sollux.
You've missed him so much.
"I dunno if I was prepared for an interview when I was coming in here to take a piss, it's a bit sudden. And you're..." He looks down at your bruises and frowns. Looks at your eyeliner stains and swollen lips. "You're a mess. Shit. Should I go? Should I get someone?"
"No, I don't care about that; I want to know where you've been while I've been tramping it up in this moon club." You snap. It surprises you when he meets your eyes, the intensity of that look almost physically painful. One of his hands reflexively comes up to his temple, and you follow the movement with your eyes even when he freezes and brings it back down. "Before you change the subject, what's that?"
"Eh... ehehe." You even missed his stupid laugh. "Nah, uh, I wasn't going to change the subject, but since you ask." He brushes back a little hair and you see a port embedded in his skin, but the hole is capped with some kind of pinkish membrane. You stare at it uncomprehendingly, and he shrugs and drops his hand again. "Auxiliary helm. Turns out I'm not consistent enough to be a primary helm, and no captain wants the extra upkeep costs of mood stabilizing agents in the interface fluid."
You reach up to touch it and he lets you. It's cool and solid under your fingers, slightly tacky with what's probably neural interface gunk, and the membrane dips a little when you press. You don't press hard, but he still winces before you pull your hand back. You're quiet for a moment, just letting it all sink in. You hear something catch in his breathing.
"It's really you, huh?"
He says it quietly, almost reverently. His lips stretch tight across his teeth in a grim approximation of a smile. He looks like he might cry, and after the evening you've had, you don't think you could handle it if he did.
"Yeah. It's really me, you dolt." Your voice actually cracks this time. But you shake your head and try to scrub at your face, only succeeding in making more of a mess of your eyeliner. "Fuck. I need to get back to work. You don't have to be anywhere soon, right?"
He frowns again, brow furrowing, but he shakes his head. The look on his face is almost sheepish. "I'm free for the day. In fact I'm free for a while, because I need a new job myself."
You raise an eyebrow. "You got fired."
"Heh, yeah, I did. After that fiasco, I'll be lucky to see the inside of a spaceport terminal ever again. Though maybe my true calling is dancing on tables, you never know; think you could put in a good word for me? I bet I've got what it takes to work a pole." He waggles his eyebrows like an idiot and does a pelvic thrust, and even through your misery, you crack a smile at him. It doesn't last long.
"Even if I thought your despicable carcass wasn't a blight to look upon every moment of the night-day cycle, you don't want to work here, trust me." A scarred face comes to mind, broad hands and cold, insistent fingers. You gulp. "Not on the floor, anyway. Only reason I'm here is because... you know."
He glances down at your grubscars. Sparks curl between his horns.
"They're holding that over you?"
"Have been since I got here." You shrug, even as your mouth starts to quiver a little in the corner. "They give me a salary and bouncers to keep things from getting too hairy, I strut my stuff in high heels and let the patrons pinch me on the ass."
You leave out that the salary is well under Imperial standard even for rustbloods. His eyes go lower, to your wrists, bruising a darker red already. They come back up to your running makeup and the trembling line of your mouth.
"That's not all they do, is it."
You shove him back against the door before you can stop yourself, growling in the back of your throat. Your fists bunch up in his shirt but he doesn't even try to pull away from you, and you're fully aware he's at least a head taller than you but you're just angry, with the slimy fuckers who touch you, with your employers, with yourself, so much that it hurts.
He doesn't say anything while your shoulders shake and you keep your head down so he won't see you cry. You're angry at him for showing up out of nowhere too, you think, but mostly you're pissed about how casually he can say it while you're standing here half-naked and desperately wanting to go home.
He doesn't make you pull your hands off him, doesn't touch you. The sound of his voice aches like nothing else ever has.
"Can you take the rest of your shift off? You said you had to get back to work but.." He gulps. You can just about see him weighing the words in his mouth. "I could pay off whatever you need me to so you can hang with me. But that's up to you, I'm just suggesting it."
Your grip loosens up a little, but you don't look up. You're a little too reminded of how you "looked like you needed a break" to that threshecutioner. It's not a good feeling.
But this is Sollux. You've missed him so badly, and you're tired down to your bones. You don't have the willpower to go out there again, even with everything your employer is holding over you.
"What time is it?" You ask.
"Half past ten when I walked in here." He answers. He still looks at you like you might disappear in front of him, but he doesn't move besides his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. You finally let go of his shirt and he smooths out the fabric, picking at a loose thread in the cuff of his jacket. There's still that faint, yellowish flush across his cheekblades, but you're not sure what it means exactly. "I can wait if you want to get back to work for real. As much as I love giving you a hard time, I think you've had enough of one already."
You run a hand through your hair and look at yourself in the reflection panel again. You think you still look like shit, but you look a little better after having spent a little time cooling off in here.
"I'm not supposed to sneak off with customers." You say. His lips go thin and tight again, but you finish up what you're saying. "But I'll survive thirty minutes if I know we can hang out afterwards. Fuck, this probably sounds cheesy as Hell but I-"
"Missed me?" He cracks a lopsided smirk at you, but the way he looks at you is almost tender. "Yeah, I can't say I didn't. I'll accept your fermented dairy solids and we can talk about it later, alright?"
You nod to him, wring the last of the water out of your shirt, and put your shirt under the moisture extracting tunnel while you watch him leave, hear him swearing at the door when the stupid thing clips him on his flat ass. You already want to call him back, but you put your shirt back on and square your shoulders as you face the door.
Twenty minutes later, you're on your knees behind a potted plant, with a stranger's bulge halfway down your throat.
There's vomiting in this chapter, look out.
You feel like you're floating outside of your own head, but you come crashing back to reality when the burly oliveblood raping your throat shoves in another inch and you gag.
He's rough with you, pulling your hair as he saws his bulge in and out of your mouth, and the way he slaps his crotch against your lips splatters drool on your chin and cheeks. What the fuck are they paying the bouncers for around here if they're not going to help you? You try to claw at his hips but the smooth fabric of his uniform is too thick for you to get through and cause him even a little pain, and he laughs down at you and spits in your face. It trickles slowly down your cheek, mingling with your gag-reflex tears.
He shoves in what feels like another inch and you feel like you're going to throw up. It's hard to believe he's not done unfurling from his sheathe. How much of him is there?
"You want more, you slutty little bulgetease?" He grins down at you when you look up, terrified he's actually got more to give. He drives his bulge deeper into your mouth, grinding your face into his crotch, and your jaw aches with the stretch where he's too thick to properly close down around.
Some part of you is so disconnected from this that it’s keeping count, can think about how this is the second time in one day someone’s decided to just use you like fuckmeat. You have no idea what brought this on when things have been going so well, but as you cough and sputter on a bulge too big for your throat, you’re starting to think this is what you deserve.
"Yeah, take it, nice and pretty for me."
You would give anything for enough control to bite his bulge right off.
He changes his grip from the top of your head to both hands gripping the sides, thumbs hooked over your horns, and you can't think past the lack of air as he drives all the way in, mashing you up against his crotch so hard it squeezes your nose shut. Your struggling starts up again, and you're distantly aware that he's moaning above you but you're too busy trying to pull back and get some air to give a fuck.
"Oh yeah, that's how I like my sluts, choking on my bulge." You wish he'd shut up. He kicks your knees apart and you lose balance, falling harder on his bulge with a pathetic gurgle. He seems to like that because he starts fucking your face harder, slamming you onto his bulge with enough force to make you dizzy. The sound of your mouth on his bulge is disgustingly wet, and you hate that your body is responding to it anyway, to your horror, which you're made aware of when he presses his boot to your squirming bulge.
When did that get out?
"Fuck, wish I had a hand free, I'd want to take a picture of that stupid, slutty face." He punctuates the last three words with some particularly forceful thrusts. His claws dig into your scalp, his breathing getting ragged. "Fuck, that's so hot; rusties like you always make the best pails, so tight."
He grinds the toe of his boot harder into your bulge, hard enough for it to hurt. Your hands are starting to shake, your head pounding from lack of air. When another inch of his bulge slides into you, you feel your gastric sac heave.
Sick fuck apparently gets off to making his unwilling pailmates throw up on his bulge, though. Even while you're gagging, he doesn't stop; if anything, his thrusts get shallower, his moans louder. He's practically crushing your bulge now, and you're dizzy with pain and nausea as he finally hits his peak and spills a quart of genetic fluid what feels like straight to your gastric sac. He cums in cool, heavy bursts that fill you up far too much, making you whimper when he starts pulling out at last. The last few splatters of it hit you in the face, across your lips and the bridge of your nose, slimy strings of it hanging off your chin.
You hold it for just a few seconds before you cough, and then cough again, and the movement makes your guts cramp so hard it brings fresh tears to your eyes, makes your throat lock up. You throw up all over the floor at his feet and he laughs.
"Been wanting to do that for a while now." You look up at him with bleary eyes, still shaking from the cramps, your throat sore from abuse. There's a hunger in his eyes that you've seen in a few other patrons before, only barely sated by his recent orgasm, and you can see yourself mirrored in his dilated pupils even in the club's darkness, pathetic and small. He snorts. "Don't give me that look, whore."
You can feel the bile rising in your throat again, and a fresh well of shame. But you feel a crackle in the air, too, like the tension before a lightning strike.
Lightning takes the form of Sollux launching himself at your assailant fist-first on a cloud of red and blue light.
His bony knuckles connect with the guy's cheekblade with his whole body's weight thrown behind it, crunching wetly; you don't know if that was him or the oliveblood, but it's a hideous sound nonetheless. He's so pissed his eyes are glowing almost white.
He rears back for another punch but the oliveblood socks him in the eye, faster than he can block it even with his psionics. Sollux goes reeling back and the oliveblood punches him again, in the gut, grinning like a monster.
Idiot. You finally pull the security tab, but it's another three sickeningly-loud punches before the bouncers actually show up, grabbing the oliveblood around the back of the shirt and hefting Sollux over one shoulder like he weighs nothing. You know for a fact that to these two he really doesn't, but it doesn't make you any less worried when he doesn't so much as twitch in protest. One of them spares you a backwards glance, but doesn't say a word as the two of them carry Sollux and the oliveblood away.
You're shaking. You're freezing. Adrenaline hums through your whole body like you've had a battery shooter or twelve. You rub your arms and forget momentarily that you're covered in cum and vomit, only to be reminded by the smell and the slime sticking to your hands.
At least tissues will fix the genetic material on your face. You grab a fistful from an empty table and clean yourself up as best you can. The digital readout above the club doors show that your shift ended just now. Perfect timing.
You don't bother clocking out, hurrying out the back door into the alley the bouncers usually throw drunks in. The oliveblood is nowhere to be seen, thank fuck, but Sollux is propping himself up against a dumpster, groaning in pain as he touches his bruised face. It's looking pretty bad, too.
You kneel next to him, offering him your hand. He takes it and you pull him up, only for him to collapse against your shoulders.
There isn't much to say. You live close by, and your shift is over. You'll pick up your things later; right now, you're more concerned about bringing Sollux to your hivestem blocks and checking how bad he was hurt. And taking a long, warm soak in your ablutions trap of course. You definitely can't forget that, not with the smell of garbage and your own gastric fluids clinging to the inside of your sniffnode now. You must make a face, because even half-blind with a bruise around half his face, Sollux manages a weak, cocky smirk.
The effect is ruined when he groans against you as you start to walk.
Just as well that the day cycle on this moon is milder than it ever was on Alternia, more akin to dusk than noon whenever it happens, so you don't have to worry about sunburn on top of everything else you've been through. Dragging this sorry ass and your own ass back home in high heels after all the shit you've been through today isn't something you want to repeat ever again, though, particularly when the both of you look like you've been hit by a freighter.
You've never been so glad to kick open your own door in your life.
Your hivecell consists of only two blocks, where you eat and sleep, and where you shit and bathe. You drop Sollux on the musty old loungeplank in the corner and turn on the lights, then leave him for a moment to get something to clean him up with. He groans again, one hand flopped over his face, but you have to pull it away to actually check the damage.
It looks pretty hideous, yellowy-grey and swollen. His lip is split in the corner where he probably got punched in the teeth, and you can at least imagine his fangs managed to slice into that asshole's knuckles when it happened. He still looks like shit, though. You sigh and dip the sponge you'd brought with you into a bowl of cold water mixed with regrowing agents, which you're pretty sure are expired by now but hopefully not so badly that they don't at least numb the pain.
It's quiet like that for a while, nothing but the sound of the city below from where you're crouching, and the breath between you, Sollux, and the localized climate regulator.
"Not that I don't appreciate you rushing in to defend my honor, but why didn't you just tie him into a pretzel with your psionics?" You ask, brushing hair away from his face. "I know I've heard you talk about it like, at least once. It probably would've gone over better than this had, even if he was an oliveblood."
You frown when he offers a weak little smile at you; you hope he isn't too concussed to answer, you know the bouncers at Haze aren't exactly concerned about whether or not the trolls they toss out actually land on their asses.
But he shakes his head and manages to focus the flickering glow of his eyes on you. It takes a second before they do focus, but they do, and that's probably better than you could have hoped for.
"I was pissed." He says, by way of an answer. He doesn't shrug, probably because everything from the neck down likely hurts beyond belief. "I went out to have a smoke for a few minutes and when I came back in to check on you, some guy..." He gestures, vaguely. You don't really need him to elaborate. "I don't remember much after that. You saw what happened, anyway."
He shrugs. You squeeze slightly blood-yellowed water out of the sponge and put it aside.
"I only got there after he finished with you." His expression goes dark and he starts picking at a rough patch on the cushions with his ragged claws. The look on his face goes from seething to concerned again when he looks up, though. "But I don't want to make this about me. How are you holding up? You threw up and your voice sounds worse than ever; I didn't even think that was possible but here we are."
"Can you get any more disgusting?" You smack him on the shoulder. Just thinking about it makes you sick again, though, and it probably shows on your face because the miniaturized hunger trunk in the corner flips open and you see him focusing on it, pulling out a bottle of water and floating it over to you. You sigh and hold out your hand, and he drops it right in your palm.
He's gotten a lot better at fine-tuning his psionics since you were back on Alternia, that's for sure.
He doesn't bother pushing himself up to sit; the same red and blue glow curls up under him and pushes him into a better position for looking at you, leaning against the back of the loungeplank instead of the arm now. You're still kneeling on the floor, though; you're immediately aware of the fact when he has to look down at you, and you growl to yourself and kick off your heels, sighing in relief when you can put your walkstubs flat on the floor. Ugh, your ankles are fucking killing you.
It gets awkward when you're standing though, just sipping water while he sits there and twiddles his thumbs. You should be a better host. Crabdad taught you better than that, even if you'd never had the opportunity to have friends over back then.
"I'm going to use the ablutions block." You say, putting the bottle back into the fridge. Empty, but you can still use it later. "You'll be fine without me, right?"
He looks like he wants to come back with something witty, but he stops himself and bites the inside of his cheek.
"I'll be fine, worry about yourself for a bit." He says. Even with his bruised face, he manages to pull together something like his usual cocky smirks, all snaggleteeth and too-sharp cheekblades. "I'll be the perfect hive guest, promise."
"Doubt it." Even with your bluster, you crack a smile. "I'll keep my expectations low."
"Pssh, like you aren't."
It hurts in just the way you didn't realize you'd missed. You don't even have a poetic way of saying it. You're smiling like an idiot all the way to the ablutions block, and then you catch sight of yourself in your own reflection panel. Every ache, every cramp, every sickening stain in your clothes and hair and soul you'd been ignoring all the way home, it all comes back to you now that you're not worrying after someone else.
You barely have the energy to strip out of your clothes and leave them on the ablutions block floor. Waiting for the ablutions trap to fill up would be agony in your current state, so you sit under the spray until it starts to sting instead, and then flip it to the one other setting which is freezing cold anyway.
It helps clear your mind some, but it doesn't get the literal taste of someone else's cum out of your mouth even when you start gargling. Not even when you accidentally swallow some and gag again, and this time you don't stop yourself from heaving into the load gaper until your grip on the edge of the bowl goes white and your vision begins to swim.
Your throat burns even worse now, but you don't trust the water in here to be potable, not in this part of town. You crawl back into the ablutions trap and start scrubbing yourself, first with a shower brush and then with your hands, and then you just start clawing at yourself like you might be able to get the feeling of irreparable taint out of your skin if you just tear it off.
You don't know if anything will make you feel clean after today. Your thoughts keep going back to the oliveblood, and then the threshecutioner, and all the leering, cackling faces you've seen throughout your stay here until they meld together into one entity in your mind, grasping hands and probing tongues, gleaming teeth and insistent bulges. You imagine what would have happened if that threshecutioner hadn't minded so much about stains, or if that oliveblood had wanted more than to cum down your throat, or if any of the hundreds of other horny patrons you'd served wanted more than a lapdance and a grope-
You hiss as your own bulge slides out of its sheathe in a rush, aching and dripping already. The bends in your nook twist and squeeze on nothing, empty and wanting. You stare down at your crotch like it's betrayed you.
You feel sick again. But there's nothing left for your gastric sac to give by now, so you settle for finishing up your shower and checking your bruises instead, and definitely not thinking about masturbating while Sollux is in the next block, what is wrong with you?
The bruises aren't as bad as you thought they were, anyway, so that's some small relief, and something to focus on. They're uglier now that you can see them under the stark light of the ablutions block, but not as bad as you thought. They'll clear up in maybe a couple nights. You wonder if you can take those nights off.
(You know you can't.)
You dry off, gather your laundry, and wrap a towel around your hips. But you don't leave the ablutions block just yet, sitting on the lid of the load gaper and staring at your hands. You know you're stalling, but you don't know what for. You're trying to ignore the heat under your skin that won't go away, too, even as it ties your insides into knots.
You breathe. You count cracks in the tile.
Eventually, Sollux knocks on the door. Whatever he says is muffled between you and the wall, but you can probably get the gist of it; you've been in here for a while. You should probably put some clothes on, get some actual food in you. Put yourself back together. You shouldn't be alone too long or people will think you're falling apart.
"I'm fine." You lie, loud enough to hear although you imagine he doesn't believe you either. It says something that you almost believe it when you finally open the door. You don't even look at him as you go through your drawers, pulling out some sweatpants and your baggiest shirt. "Order something greasy and smothered in cheese, I'm fucking starving."
You're not sure what that look he gives you is, but it's only out of the corner of your vision. When you look at him again, properly this time, he's on his palmhusk already, dialing up Troll Dominos and struggling not to lisp.
This chapter's just a breather. Can't have *everything* be porn and deep, emotional conversation.
At some point, the two of you fell asleep. You can't speak for Sollux, but you're thankful you were too exhausted to have any dreams. You still wake up with your mouth dry and your head pounding, but your mind clear and sharp as glass, and you at least have an extra hydration cylinder within easy reach.
The sky outside your window has gone from shimmery purple to pitch black. You're squished together on the loungeplank with Sollux, and it probably speaks volumes about how shit you feel that you don't want to make a sharp comment about the proximity. Sollux is taller than you are, but he's curled against your chest like a grub, one of his legs dangling off the cushions while you try to get comfortable under his pointy frame. He's got flavor disc breath that stinks of spiced porkgrub like some basic bitch, and your left arm is wedged into the cushions so deep you think the gaps in the upholstery might eat it.
Somehow he feels warm against you. You're not sure if the regulator is set too cold or maybe it's a psionic thing. Either way, you want to fold yourself into that shared warmth and never come out.
Unfortunately, you kinda need to take a piss, and there's no way to do that without crawling out from under him. You don't want to wake him; waking him up would necessitate talking about the day you've had at some point or another, and you want to put that off as much as possible. At the very least, you want to put it off until you've properly digested your food. You're too poor to afford another flavor disc just because you couldn't keep this one down, and you don't want to make Sollux pay for another one even if he's got a fetish for doubles.
You turn your attention to the last remaining flavor disc wedge in the box, just barely out of reach. The grease is starting to congeal on the cheesy surface now that it's cooling down, in little spots of gross, orange goo. You make an attempt to stretch your right arm towards it where it's lying on the floor and grumble to yourself when you can't reach it.
Five minutes later, Sollux wakes up, slowly, mumbling to himself so quietly that you don't even notice until he grumbles and unsticks his face from your shirt where he'd been drooling. You make a disgusted noise as he looks up at you, the swollen side of his face looking even worse now that the bruises have had time to set, even though you can already tell the regrowing agents are doing their job. He smacks his lips a couple times, frowns when he realizes there's saliva crusting on his cheek.
"Ugh..." He scrubs at his stained mouth with his knuckles and stifles a yawn. "What time is it?"
His lisp is even worse when he's just woken up, that much hasn't changed. You stop trying to mentally move the flavor wedge with psionics you don't have, instead giving him a gentle shove in his unbruised shoulder. "Get off me so I can check my 'husk, dingus."
"Wait, wait, I've got a much better counter-proposal. How about..." He flops against you. "I just go back to sleep." He mumbles, from the confines of your shirt. You can't help but laugh, sharp and sudden.
"Like Hell you are, you sack of rusty razors; you'll give yourself daymares and I don't want to be under a spasming psionic having a panic fit, now move it." It takes some maneuvering before he can, and then you're free to roll off the loungeplank and actually check the time on your palmhusk where it was abandoned on the floor. It's almost midnight apparently, even though you're wrung out and feel like it's been much longer; the two of you have been out of it since the flavor disc delivery and subsequently stuffing your faces.
You roll your shoulders and stretch until your torso discs pop in quick succession with a sort of a gross, meaty-sounding, but immediately satisfying crackle. Sollux reaches for the last flavor wedge and eats it crust-first in four bites, like an animal. He even licks the grease off his palms. When he catches you staring, he quirks a brow at you.
"I have a working cleanse basin. The water works, even if you have to whack the pipes every now and again. Still, you choose to slobber all over your prongs like a shitpanned wriggler." You say. He doesn't even have the grace to be embarrassed, flipping you off instead.
"You're a shit host, you know that?" His upper lip curls up in something like a snarl or a grimace, but there's no real heat behind it. He yawns again and sprawls out across your loungeplank like a flattened, overly-leggy spider, scratching his side and squinting at the overhead light. "First you make me buy you food and then you insinuate I'm unhygienic? Damn, you really can't get any more anal, can you."
"Hey, I carried you through the shittiest part of town in high heels because I was concerned for you, so don't make me wish you were still concussed behind a dumpster for the nibblefiends and vagabonds to get at, because they would've picked you clean by now." You grin in an unnameable kind of glee when he flushes and doesn't have a response. "I think a little food is a fair price to pay."
"And my lack of hygiene? They're clean enough." He holds up his spit-shined prongs like that's any kind of helpful and your face crinkles up just looking at them.
"I think my point still stands, germ-sack. Go wash your hands."
"You weren't telling me to wash when I was getting my filthy prongs all over that flavor disc." He grins, wiggling them towards you. You look up to the ceiling in a silent prayer and throw your own hands up.
"You're right, you're right, if there was anything lethal clinging to you, my shitty body would've taken to the infection by now. You've soundly defeated me in the arena of verbal ownage, and your prize is nothing but the satisfaction of being a sack of fried hoofbeast shit and a half-off coupon for a Troll Wendy's cluckbeast salad."
That gets a real laugh out of him, at long last; you were getting tired of the lazy, stoic facade he was putting on after getting the shit beat out of him. You can be honest enough with yourself in the confines of your thoughts to say it was starting to worry you. You cross your arms and flop down onto the seat beside him, though this time you drape yourself over the far arm of the loungeplank instead of against him, wary of putting pressure on his injuries.
"I'm holding you to that; Troll Wendy's sucks but half-off is half-off." He says. You snort, flipping through messages on your palmhusk; nothing but updates on various social media feeds, and nothing that really catches your attention. It's a waste of time to check the feeds right now and you know it, and besides, you and Sollux have catching up to do.
(Some part of you is still afraid you'll see your own face staring back at you from someone's rechitters, stained with tears and spit and a stranger's genetic material. It feels worlds away while you're sitting here next to Sollux, but you know you're only counting down the hours until you're back at work and you might have to face something like that again.)
(Heat flushes your skin and leaves you feeling used. What was it that oliveblood said? "Rusties make the best pails"?)
(Would he revise his opinion if he really knew?)
"Hey, KK? You there? Hello?"
You blink. Sollux is still sitting beside you, watching you out of the corner of one glowing, blue ganderbulb from where he's leaning back with his arms sprawled across the back of the loungeplank. He chews the inside of his cheeks, the already hollow-looking planes of his face sucked into something ridiculous. You cough.
"Yeah, sorry, I spaced out." You gently place your palmhusk on the arm of the couch, screen-down so you don't have to even consider what might show up on it. "I don't really know what... I mean..."
No, you do know what came over you. And you're not insulting the both of you with another blatant lie.
You shake your head. He saw what happened, you know you have to talk about it. You just wish it wasn't so fucking awkward and painful to do it.
You take a deep breath.
"Promise me you won't do that again. Ever."
Your claws are digging into your knees through your sweatpants. Sollux remains silent while you speak, at least, so you force yourself through it even through the ache growing in your chest.
"I don't want you getting the ever-loving crap beat out of you just because I'm too cluckbeast-shit to pull the security tab early. This is..." You swallow, thickly; you don't feel any nausea like you did earlier, but your throat's gone tight, like you're being gently strangled. "That was the first time anything like that had ever happened. To me, I mean. I don't know if it'll be the last. Fuck, I want it to be the last but I'm not stupid enough to hope for it."
"You sure know how to kill a conversation." He says. There's a little more silence before he shrugs. "Not that it was much of a conversation, I guess. But, hey, no, I don't think I can do that. I mean if there's ever a next time, and I damn well want to make sure there's never a next time, I'll actually be there for you, yeah?" When you look at him properly, he smiles, though it's a sad, drawn-thin kind of smile. "Look, I didn't think I'd ever see you again after I got drafted, you know? I feel like I gotta make up for that. Besides, what kind of a friend would I be if I let you deal with that shit on your own?"
"You'd be a smart one." You say. He snorts this time.
"No, I'd be a fucking moron, and a terrible friend." You give him a side-eye and you're pretty sure by the rest of his exaggerated expression that he just rolled his eyes so hard he might have popped them out of his head if not for that probably being impossible to do. "Look, okay, I won't lie, I'm fully aware of how heinously stupid that stunt I pulled last day was. It might come as a shock to you, but I really can learn from my mistakes, and I promise that if I see anyone trying that kind of shit again, I'll actually tie them into a grainloaf twist with my thinksponge. Maybe even before you pull the security tab! Got it?"
He sounds so sincere that for a moment you feel like he really can, and nothing can stop him. It takes you a moment to realize your face hurts because you're smiling so hard. You being you, though, you twist your mouth into something more like your usual contemptuous sneers and sigh as dramatically as you can.
"I'm only acquiescing because I have shit to do before I get back to work, so I really don't have the time to argue the point any further, but just. Stay out of trouble. For your sake." You pause. He opens his mouth and you narrow your eyes. "Fine, stay out of trouble for my sake too, you self-sacrificing douche."
"Damn." He chuckles. "It was worth a shot."
Maybe it was, you wouldn't really know. Your bladder chooses then to remind you that you gotta go, anyway.
Something else comes to mind after you've finished in the ablutions block and thrown out the detritus of last day's dinner, now that the two of you are somewhat rested; mostly because you remember that you've been sleeping on a loungeplank, and your sore body aches for the recuperacoon back in your hivecell. Maybe you can catch a nap before work. You have something else to ask first.
"Do you have somewhere to stay?"
He looks up from the cup of coffee he's been trying to grab hold of for the past five minutes. You hold your own cup almost by the rim, with a couple tissues folded between hot paper and your fingertips. Steam rises off the dark liquid even though it's a humid night, and an oily film is already forming on the surface from its contact with your lips. You eye him as you take another sip.
"You said you got fired from being an auxiliary helm. I don't know the protocol for that, so I don't know if you got a place to stay after your... service."
"Oh. Well, sort of. I've got a place to stay, I just gotta get a job soon or else they'll kick me out. It's not like back on Alternia when it was finders-keepers, huh?" He gives up on actually holding the cup and floats it up to his mouth with psi instead. Red and blue curls around it like arcs off an electrical coil. It strikes you that something's off from where you're standing, his eyes too bright maybe, or his face too long.
Which is ridiculous, because he's looked like that all night. The steam wafting against his cheeks doesn't look unusual, but you know it's something around there. You can't place it until he looks at you head on, once you've been staring for a minute.
You gesture at his face, hoping you can convey it without speaking. He smirks again.
"I know I'm a handsome motherfucker but seriously, what, do I have something on my..." It sets in when he reaches up and pokes himself right in his bruise. For a moment he looks pained, and then he realizes what you're trying to say and just looks pissed. "Ah, fuck.
"Yeah, I'd say that's the opposite of having something on your face."
"Ugh." He rubs his temples. "Was wondering why I was getting a pancramp."
He pats around in his pockets while you buy yourself another cup from the automated snackifier. Disappointingly enough, it comes out already halfway to cold. You still suck it up and gulp as much of it down as you can, trying not to grimace too hard from the cheap, bitter taste, and then you almost drop the cup when he jerks his hand out of his jacket and almost hits you with it.
"Hey, watch where you're throwing-!" Blood streams down his fingers even as he shakes his pocket inside-out and the crumpled remnants of a pair of spare shades tumble out. He puts his fingers between his grindfangs, tongue pressed against the wounds to try and stop the blood.
You immediately feel like an asshole.
"Just perfect." He grumbles, checking on the bleeding, then wiping his hand on his shirt. "Must've lost the first pair when I got punched out at the club. Did you see them when you were dragging me back here?"
You drain the rest of your overly watered-down coffee and toss the cup into the nearby dross-coffer. "No. Sorry. I was a bit too busy making sure I didn't break a heel and strand both of us there."
"And I just realized I haven't been wearing them this entire time." He almost slaps himself in the forehead before thinking better of it. He sighs instead. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd rather hang out with you longer, help you do your groceries or whatever, but I gotta dig around in my stuff for a spare. Another spare. You know what I mean." He chews his lip. "You'll be fine, right?"
"I'm not a wriggler, Sollux; I'll be fine."
"Okay, cool.” He fishes out his own palmhusk, which miraculously wasn’t crushed throughout that entire fiasco. “I'll message you after work."
It's still a few hours before you start your shift. You still feel a creeping sense of dread at the thought of meeting him after work, but you don't say it. You buy a spiced porkgrub sandwich from the snackifier each and go your separate ways.
You feel a little colder already.
Finally caught up to the NaNo scheduling, wish me luck!
Gang rape in the next chapter, but mind control and slut-shaming in this one, just a heads up.
You come in late, but there's not enough going on to warrant anyone giving you shit for it, so you take your time in the waste disposal block getting changed and putting on your makeup.
You don't think you're ever going to get used to the "uniform" your boss insists on, that's for sure, because it always shocks you how much a little eyeliner and lipstick can change about your face. Normally you think you look around the range of "okay" to "hideous", but the troll that looks back at you from the mirror has full, dark lips and warm, alluring eyes; you can’t even say the dark splotches under them are too bad, they lend your expression more of a sleepy, almost sensual appeal more than anything else.
Your hair is still a mess, of course; you can't do anything about that besides running your prongs through it and hoping it doesn't get tangled any further.
One last thing. You'd brought it home by mistake last day. The security collar sits heavy around your neck once you strap it in, and this time you check and double-check the alarm chain to make sure there are no obvious catches or malfunctions in it. Your nerves are still frayed just by being here, but you can't hide in the disposal block forever.
You take a deep breath and push open the door to the rest of the club.
When you've been on your feet for three hours straight, it's just your luck that the front door opens up on a whooping cadre of subjugglators. They're deafening enough that you can hear them over the shitty glubstep blaring over the speakers, and some of the dancers even falter during their routines when they crowd in.
You frown where you're picking up glasses from another table. Subjugs? In a day club like Haze? You didn't think anyone above cerulean knew about the place, let alone visited it, and anyone above olive is already slumming it. A whole troupe of them...
No, you can't think about that. You can't even consider thinking about that. The odds of them picking you out of a crowd are slim to none, and if they pick you out anyway, you're dead meat walking. You still gulp nervously as you pass their tables, weaving between bodies almost wider than you are tall, their horns nearly bumping the multicolored lights.
Breathe. Breathe. They haven't noticed you yet. Even when some of them sneer your way and you feel smaller than ever, you tell yourself as much. Your feet ache as you carry a heavy tray of drinks to one of their tables and you're at least thankful that they're generous with tips. You actually struggle to get them all in the back around your thigh, and when that doesn't quite fit them all, the useless little pockets in your minishorts. They don't watch you, for the most part, which you're thankful for.
You're less happy about the fact when, as you turn, one of them- you think she's telling a story to them, you can't be sure but you think that's some obscure clown dialect- one of them flings an arm out in a gesture and your world goes down to slow motion as her fist swings towards you.
There's a crunch and a cry and the world goes sideways. A couple of them stop talking and turn to see what blasphemous motherfucker dared lay lowblood flesh against one of their own without permission, and unlucky fucker that you are, the blasphemer is you. You're lying on the floor, staring up at them while the strobing lights spin around your head. Some of them are looking down at you.
You taste iron. You lick your lips. You touch your face.
When your hand comes away, it's slick with something thicker than spit, and your sniffnode is aching- not broken, and it could have been broken by that blow, but something has definitely burst, spilling blood across your lips and, when you notice it, on that subjug's knuckles. She looks at them and then at you, several of them are looking at you, their voices gone rough and low, and you get the distinct feeling that the dark won't hide the luminosity of your blood today.
You pinch your nostrils shut to try and stem the flow, shakily getting back on your feet, but your heels slip a little and you fall back on one knee. To your horror, a fresh spurt of blood trickles down your hands, down your arm, a few drops hitting the floor.
"Now why a motherfucker gotta try and get his abscond on right the motherfuck now, I ponder?" You hear more sentiments like that. They crowd around you while you back up on the floor, and you're intensely aware that they're all bigger and stronger than you, and most of them probably older. They look at you like you're little more than an entertaining, particularly succulent grub.
"I- I'm sorry." You stammer. You're still pinching your sniffnode as you struggle to your feet, and they're still murmuring among themselves, quietly enough that it's a background buzz behind the music now. There's a hunger in their gleaming eyes tempered by what you recognize is lust, for blood or your body you don't want to stick around and find out.
They look like angels in the blacklight, grinning and skull faced. Painted smiles stretch wider around jagged fangs, and you gulp around the blood leaking down the back of your throat.
You turn around and, in measured, careful steps so you don't bust ass in front of them again, hurry your way back to the waste disposal block to clean up.
You've been sitting in a stall in the waste disposal block for the past fifteen minutes.
You'll message Sollux before the worst can come for you, you tell yourself. If you hurry, maybe you can get a last will and testament in there. You're not dumb enough to think there will be any mercy for a mistake like that; you're just waiting for when the inevitable hammer- or juggling club- comes down on your vulnerable spinelump.
Every time the door opens, you hold your breath, and your prongs freeze on the screen of your palmhusk. Tears are already gathering in your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall, you refuse to sob and curl up on yourself in terror like a wriggler. No matter how much you want to, no matter how much you feel like a wriggler, some animal hindbrain part of you still feels like making noise in here will be what gets you culled.
Beginning chaos between carcinoGeneticist [CG] and twinArmageddons [TA]
CG: SOLLUX, IS THIS YOU?
TA: ii don't thiink anyone el2e ii2 u2iing thii2 handle unle22 2omeone'2 jackiing my 2tyle.
TA: diid you really thiink ii wouldn't upgrade two Anarchy once Trolliian 2tarted goiing two 2hiit?
TA: get real; my nerd cred would be iin ab2olute ruiin.
TA: but no really what'2 up?
TA: a2 far a2 ii can tell, your 2hiift doe2n't end for another couple hour2.
TA: want me two come fuck wiith your record2 or 2ome 2hiit?
There's some comfort in seeing how he answered so quickly, but you still don't feel like you can type fast enough. Even then you find yourself reading and rereading what you have in the type coffin, and you know you're stalling for time as you delete it and start over.
As if not sending the message is going to stop what's coming for you. As if anything you do at this point matters. You feel the trickle of tears actually starting to fall and hate yourself even more for making this mistake. You've stopped the bleeding by now, but there's still blood crusting on your shirt and your makeup is running, and even after meeting Sollux again the past couple nights have been Hell.
You hear the door to the block open and your blood feels like it's turned to ice water, chilling you from horns to nubs. Several voices, loud and boisterous, echo around the confines of the block, chilling you even further, and you think you can see a set of horns over the edge of the door to your stall.
You gulp. Trembling, you force your voice as loud and authoritative as you can manage.
"I hope you realize you've got your choice of several other stalls in this block alone, shitpan, because this one's occupied." You even straighten your back, clenching your fists to put more power in your voice. When there's silence on the other end you feel every hair on the back of your neck stand straighter than a pin, but you keep railing at the mystery horns outside your door anyway. "Did you hear me or what, chucklefuck? Hurry up and find another stall!"
Is all the warning you get before the stall door is ripped open.
You're too shocked to even scream. The highblood looking down at you has wide, wild eyes glinting purple and glowing just slightly around the scleras. When the scream does come, she grabs you around the neck faster than you can see, squeezing tight and forcing you to look up at her.
"Shhhh. Shh. Shhhh. Shoosh and calm down, pupa, we're gonna take some real motherfuckin' good care of you." The way she speaks is mesmerizing and despite something in the back of your mind telling you to fight back, to claw at her face and run despite the futility of something like that, you find yourself relaxing into her words. Your worries melt away as her grip loosens, as she strokes your vulnerable neck in a hand almost bigger than your head. "Good, good, y'all some unrighteous motherfuckin' trash but we're gonna play real nice with you, sweet thing."
There are snickers and cackles behind her. Once more you're reminded of angels, bright and terrible, except now the thought brings you a sense of comfort that absolutely doesn't belong there.
"Shhh, you're still not getting it. Come out, pupa, let's see you in the light."
It's only as you stand, slowly, still trapped in her gaze, that you realize her eyes really are glowing. Not in rage, but in something you can't name, something you're struggling to remember from conversations with Gamzee. It's so hard when your thoughts are slipping against each other like you're floundering in your recuperacoon, and they're just as sluggish as if you'd gulped the sopor by mistake.
Everything is muffled and hazy at the edges, but you're pretty sure you follow her out of the stall, into the harsh fluorescent light. She's the only solid thing you see, even amid the other subjugglators; she's the only thing that feels real, and despite your earlier terror, she makes you feel safe.
"Gonna treat me good, right?" You feel your jaw move and your lips curl up in a soft, submissive smile. It's only a second later that you realize that's your own voice you're hearing, underlined by a husky purr. "Gonna treat me like a heretical piece of mutant trash motherfuckin' deserves, right?"
The other subjugs slowly come into focus in a ring around you, but the troupe leader, the one who'd smacked you in the face earlier, she tucks a bit of hair behind one of your auricular shells, taking up the most of your focus as her other hand grabs her crotch, grinding her palm against her straining bulge. Your mouth waters. You lick your lips, your whole body flushing with immediate desire.
She grins, the glow fading from her eyes, and you snap out of it.
They've crowded around you now, pressing in on all sides; one of them is behind you, gripping your hair tight and pulling your head back to look in your ganderbulbs. For a second you think he's going to pluck one out, the way he caresses your cheek with his thumb as he keeps them open with two claws pressed delicately under your lashes. Your bloodpusher hammers harder as the other hand descends on your face.
It comes away wet with tears, but it's not holding your ganderbulb torn from your screaming face. A little grey disc sticks to one. The subjug smiles.
Your contacts. They can see your eyes, and your color filled in just a few weeks ago this sweep.
"Now ain't that a right motherfuckin' sight." He says, tossing it somewhere to the filth in the corners. You're trembling all over. "Your mutant filth went and sullied holy flesh, freakblood, how do you think you're gonna motherfuckin' make it up to us?"
"Please," You would never consider begging in any other situation, but your knees are knocking together and you feel like you might piss yourself in stark, primal fear. "Please don't hurt me, I didn't mean it, I didn't want to-"
The troupe leader shuts you up by grabbing your jaw and squeezing your cheeks tight. Her claws dig into the sides of your face and you think they all crowd even closer, if at all possible; you feel your ganderbulbs twitching in their sockets, sweat and tears running down the sides of your face and mingling in the little wounds under her claws.
"We ain't gonna hurt you, don't you worry your pretty little head." A purplish-pink haze settles over your entire thinksponge again as she croons at you. Her grip softens and once more you feel any tension in your body bleed right out in a rush that feels more like pleasure. She grins. "Least not in any way a slut like you won't be begging for."
The subjug behind you smacks down hard on your ass. His massive hand practically closes over a whole cheek, and even through that haze, you yelp. The end of it curls off into a moan, your nook slicking up under your shorts; his hand gives you a squeeze and your mouth hangs open, eyes sliding closed until all you can see is a sliver of shadow and purplish light.
Before you can even think about anything else, the troupe leader leans in and sticks her tongue in your mouth, lips crushed against yours with a growl. Her fangs are huge, sharp, and pressed dangerously hard against your skin. A shiver goes down your spine, settles hotly behind your bulge as her hands come up to grope your chest; she hums disappointedly that you don't have much in the way of rumblespheres at all, and that hurts, stings deep in your core in a way you can't explain.
You want to please her, down to your very core. You want her to take everything you've got, everything you can give, use you, and she's not going to do that if you don't give her reason to.
You moan against her probing tongue, arching your back to press your ass harder against the hands gripping your hips and your chest up against her wandering hands. She chuckles and breaks the kiss, leaving you gasping for air. Spit shines on her lips and hangs in a heavy strand between your open mouths before she breaks it with her tongue.
"That's motherfuckin' adorable." She purrs, and you feel a fresh trickle of wet between your legs as your bulge starts poking out of your sheathe, squishing in your shorts. Cool air brushes your nook as the subjug behind you pulls them aside, making you whimper again as the pad of one finger runs up and down the seam from under your bulge to the beginning of your taint, and at the same time, the one in front grabs your collar and tears your shirt down the middle with barely any effort.
"Please..." She could break you if she wanted, but you're not scared in the slightest, floating on that purple-pink cloud that swaddles the edges of every thought. You smile up at her radiant face, panting for more. "Please,"
"Please what, trashblood?"
The words are echoed around you. Unfortunately for you, the troupe leader's grip on your mind falters for a second, letting you see clearly just how vulnerable you are, how hungrily they look down at you, waiting for your answer. You feel the prickles of fear freezing up your limbs again, and even if you desperately want to, you can't make so much as a squeak.
"Aww." She says, practically against your cheek, her lips nibbling at one auricular shell as she speaks. "Don't gotta be like that, pupa; don't be shy. Confess your most unrighteous desires unto us, that we may transmute your blasphemous flesh into something worthy of our most wicked attentions."
You gulp. Your nook is dripping and your bulge is twisting in on itself, even while you feel like you can't breathe. The finger rubbing at your taint crooks a little higher, towards your chute, and you're about to scream again but there's several pairs of eyes on you, all glowing that lovely, miraculous purple.
"Come on." One of them says. The words thrum through your whole body like a shockwave. "Tell us how you really feel."
More mind control. I'd even go so far as to call this mindbreak.
What you think you want to say, what your traitorous, blasphemous self wants to spit in the face of their glory, is that you want to leave. If they're giving you a choice, and you don't really think they're giving you a choice, that's what you would say.
But you want what they want instead. How could you ever ask for more?
"I want you to use me." You say. She grins.
Teeth catch your shoulder. Your voice goes high and breathy as you tilt your head back, someone's fingers are in your nook and in your chute, a hand caressing your bulge. They deign to touch you and it feels so good you could cry.
"I said louder, my most unrighteous bitch." Her voice brings you back like the crack of a whip. You whimper.
"Use me," You beg. You grab hold of the troupe leader's wrist, looking up at her, flush all over, burning up from the inside out. "Use me, please, wreck me, fuck me, break me like the freakblood slut I am! Use me however you want, I want it, I- I need it, I need you to fuck me!"
When she smiles, it banks the heat building up inside you, but only just. Her words light you up anew, making you sweat, making you sob. "Now that's what I like to see."
One of the others whoops, another licks their lips, another joins in on the noise, their voices melting together into cacophony, all of them are looking you up and down like they're trying to decide what part of you they want first, all of them thinking how they want to take you apart. Troupe leader gets first dibs, though, and nobody here is going to deny her the right, least of all you.
She grabs you by the throat and kisses you again, practically fucking your mouth with it. Something like a moan builds up in you, but she chokes it out in the kiss, and more importantly, you let her. You run your hands down your body and make a show of it for the others, hands sliding down your sides, down your belly, around your hips until you reach behind you and spread your ass for the highblood already kneeling behind you as if you're something worth kneeling for.
He kneads at your ass, squeezing and squishing the pliant flesh, and somewhere in the back of your mind is a repeating refrain that you can't escape, that you don't want to escape; that you're a worthless dirtblood slut, that you want this so much even though it's heresy for you to even consider it, that you don't deserve the honor of any part of him in your trashblood chute but he's giving it to you anyway in an act of unprecedented mercy.
And it is mercy, when you feel like this. When he pushes his tongue into you, your first instinct is that doesn't belong there, but your whole body locks up and your bulge tries to dive into your own nook, aching for something to bury into while he fucks you slowly on his mouth. You think you scream a little, but you're not aware enough of yourself to tell; your throat is hoarse and your blood is rushing in your head and in your bulge, and your nook is practically gushing over with need. His fingers work you over the entire time, thrusting in counterpoint to his tongue; and you don't know which one feels deeper but you know you're rocking back against his face, and then his hands, and through it all the troupe leader never stops tonguefucking your face.
He pulls out and with a growl, tears the bottom off your shorts and underwear off, too. You're left standing in the tatters of a crop top and what might have been a miniskirt if someone squints, shivering and wet, pinkish lubeslime dripping slowly out of you. Your heels bring you only up to the bottom of the shortest subjug's thoracic struts at best. The troupe leader, though, she looks at you like you're a treasure, as she rakes her claws down your sides, scratching at your gills.
"Beautiful." She murmurs as you wail and arch your back, as you bleed for her. "You're an even more heretical mess than we thought, you miraculous little fuckup. Now I need you to do me a nice solid here, I need you to get my pants down and my bulge out."
She grabs your head and presses your teary face up against her crotch, laughing as you breathe deep of the smell of her. You can feel her bulge squirming against your cheek under the fabric, and you open your mouth, lips sucking at the writhing flesh as she laughs above you.
"Wish I could see what you look like from the back, pupa. Showing off that nook like you want it bad, bet you love sitting on highblood bulge when you can get it." Cloth rustles behind you, hands settling on your hips. You feel both holes squeezing around nothing and desperately want something back inside. "You want a bulge in your chute, don't you? Want a motherfucker to break that fat ass like it was made for taking highblood cock?"
You nod. Your own hands reach up to undo the strings of her pants while she pets your hair and describes what's happening, but you don't need her to. You feel cool flesh laid against the curve of your ass, and then the small of your back, a thrill of terror and need making your nook and chute clench up at once, almost fluttering under the bulge striping wetly across your skin.
"Liacci here is one of the big boys, and I bet you're gonna love every inch." She grins, twisting her fingers in your hair and humping your face. "Twelve inches of fat fucking bulge, all the better to break you in; you feel how much he wants you? Lucky slut."
You can feel him squirming against your ass while you mouth at the side of the troupe leader's bulge. She drags her pants down when she gets tired of feeling you through cloth and mashes your mouth up against her nook with a moan. "Yeah that's right. You're going to take it all, too; you're gonna take Liacci's bulge back there and mine here, and you're going to take all of it."
You feel him lining up behind you, and in a flash of sudden clarity, you think, you've never had anything there, it's never going to fit. You don't know if she'll fit either, the bulge against your cheek is massive, snaking over your forehead to curl around one of your horns. She ruts against your nose and grabs hold of her bulge, jerking herself for a moment before pressing the fat, blunt tip against your closed lips.
"Take it, mutant." She presses more insistently. You've never seen a bulge even in porn that managed to be blunt, and it still tapers slightly on the way down, widest at the base where it meets her crotch. When you look up at her, your mouth falls open before you can stop yourself. There's a snicker behind you. You feel Liacci's bulge pressing insistently against the barely-prepped ring of your chute and the terror boils over in you in the form of tears, running down your face now. They're going to rip you to shreds.
"Mmh, that's good." Your jaw is stretched wide, wider than even on that oliveblood who'd raped your mouth last day. That's like eating grain noodles compared to this; her bulge leaves no room for argument, no room for resistance, pressed against your palate and your tongue as she feeds it to you. "Yeah, you wanna be a good whore for us, right? Now take it."
Liacci presses in harder. You whimper as the pressure mounts, and then you feel him slide in like a dam bursting; even those first few inches feel bigger than anything you could have imagined in your nook, let alone your ass. Your whole body trembles and your vision goes double as you find yourself spreading your legs, trying to take the stretch. His claws dig into your hips and he pulls you back on his bulge, spearing you further, stretching you hard and fast and too much all at once, oh god, that's too much, you can't breathe,
"Shhh, shhh, relax, you wanna be good for us, right? You wanna take every inch of us, every one of us, right?"
Your hands are on her hips and you think you're trying to beg for her to stop, but you pull yourself down on her bulge instead and gag as it butts against the very beginning of your throat. Her grip on your hair tightens while you scream around her, sobs muffled in her flesh, and your nook squeezes tight as it feels like things get even more crowded down there. You realize it's because Liacci's reached around and shoved two fingers in your nook, slowly pulling them apart from each other, spreading you obscenely wide.
When you scream again, the troupe leader takes the opportunity to choke you on her bulge, thrusting down your gullet.
It's no use trying to pull away. Any movement you make pushes you into one or the other with the way they've crowded in on you. You're held up by their bulges now, just about bent in half and almost on the tips of your nubs; you don't know when your heels left the floor but you can't bring them back down, wobbling between the bulge in front and the bulge behind, fucking yourself deeper on every little twitch.
You can't see anything unless you look up or to the sides, and all you see is that wash of purplish light that makes you hunger for more. Even through the fear, the desperation, you feel that need pulling you forward. You moan weakly as Liacci grunts behind you and pushes deeper, and you almost don't feel the stretch anymore, just an unceasing pressure deep inside you.
"That's right, pupa." The troupe leader rolls her hips, her bulge writhing in your throat and forcing another gag out of you. She pushes deeper until you're stretched so tight around her you can't even breathe, and then she keeps going.
Her crotch meets your face hard enough to splatter your drool across your cheeks, grinding into your lips as she rolls them in and twists her bulge so deep in you that you think it might meet Liacci's in the middle. You can hardly keep your lids open, or maybe they've rolled up in your head; Liacci's bulge fills you heavy and cold, snaking into you further than anything was ever meant to go.
Your whole body trembles as they moan above you, wet noises filling your head. It takes a moment to realize they're kissing while they fuck you, using you as nothing more than a set of warm holes. Somehow the thought doesn't disgust you. Somehow it makes you moan more.
When Liacci's bulge curls in your ass you scream again, terrified he's going to dig it in deeper; you still can't feel him against your hips, and you know that must mean he's not done pushing in. His prongs, already almost the size of most lowbloods' bulges, stretch your nook open wider. Your eyes go wide and you come back down to reality, your vision clearing up and then going dark again when you feel a third prong trying to squeeze into you beside the first two, slipping on what you really hope is just lubeslime. You can't take it, you're too full, you're at your limit; but he grunts behind you and shoves.
There's laughter around you as fresh tears spill down your face and a fresh scream rips out of your throat, only to be crushed into a gurgle by the troupe leader flexing her bulge, a long, low moan working out of her as she shivers from horns to nubs. It feels like you've been here for an eternity, in this disposal block, stuffed so full of prongs and bulge that you feel like any moment now you're going to snap.
The haze of purplish light never goes away, either. You drink it in like it might save you, try to hold onto the feeling that you'll survive this if only you're good enough for them, if only you can bear what they give you, if only you take the punishment your filthy body brought on itself.
"Aren't you pretty, taking all that cock?" Another subjug smirks down at you as she approaches, rumblespheres bared and bulge squirming out already. The troupe leader growls something at her that you don't understand, but she looks at you curiously, and back to the troupe leader, and then she pulls one of your hands away from where you were trying to keep yourself stable. For one harrowing moment, you feel like you're going to fall harder, forward or back, and you don't know which one's worse, you don't know if you're going to be able to take so much all at once-
Your desperate scrabbling lands your hand on her bulge and she laughs again. "Eager! Good! Just the way I like them!"
She grabs your wrist, and you hate that you're thankful for the point of stability that provides, hate yourself for being thankful to her when she starts jerking her bulge with your fingers. When she lets go, you don't; if anything, you squeeze her bulge tighter, but you don't stop jerking her bulge, feeling it flop against your forearm.
"Think we're about ready to get started?" Liacci says. You feel your guts drop with the knowledge that they've been toying with you this whole time, that this was foreplay to them. Your bulge aches, your nook feels like it's never going to close up again, not with Liacci's fingers still digging in deep, your chute is stretched wider than you thought was ever possible on his bulge. You're still gripping the troupe leader's hip with your other hand.
"Why don't we ask our playmate?" She says. She humps your face a little more, just for a couple short, slow strokes, and then her bulge draws out of you just as slowly. Watching it pull from your lips, feeling it in your throat, it's horrifying to see how much of her was in there, how you managed to take that entire monster to the base. She forces you to look up when the tip of her bulge is just kissing your lips, her eyes glowing brighter than ever as she wipes her bulge clean on your smeared cheeks. "What do you say, pupa? You wanna get this party started?"
The heat lights up from your nook this time, surprising you with its intensity. Your jaw, too sore to move, locked open by how long she'd been feeding you her bulge, you can't speak even while she massages it with her thumbs. But you moan, and hopeless, reckless slut that you are, you try to take her bulge again, you wrap your lips around the blunt tip and suckle on it as best you can, drooling all over from how your mouth's been forced open.
Another subjug takes your other hand. You watch him take your whole fist in his mouth, and a prickle of fear comes up through the haze when you feel his teeth graze your knuckles. He pulls your fist out with a pop and then guides it towards his nook, and you're barely in control of yourself when you rub your palm into his folds until his bulge starts pushing past its sheathe.
"I think we have our answer, motherfuckers."
She thrusts into your mouth again. You feel another clown crawling under you, a cool tongue tangling with your bulge. You whimper. You drool. You're strung out on every sensation like an addict and to your shock you realize you're so close to cumming it hurts.
"You're gonna love this." She says, when you're halfway down her bulge again, looking up at her in adoration and fear. "We're gonna motherfuckin' wreck you, just like you want."
The gangbang pt. 2
Nothing you won't understand if you miss this chapter, I think, as long as you read the previous and the later chapter for context. This one's just graphic. But don't hold me to that.
Honestly if you're not here to read Karkat being abused I don't know what to tell you.
Also, Sollux returns for a sec. He'll be back again for real in the next chapter.
Your mind does the only thing it can do in this situation and shuts down.
There's only so long you can be drawn through the apparel crusher before you can't take any more, and while your body hasn't quite reached that limit yet, you certainly have.
You're still aware of your body, somewhat; you're still aware that you're strung between four bodies fucking you in every manner you can be aware of, and a few others you hadn't considered before. You're aware of someone using one of your arms as a makeshift bulge, swallowing it all the way to the elbow in the tight confines of their nook. On the other side, spurts of pale purple slurry splatter across your shoulder and dribble down your wrist as the second juggalo in a row squeezes your prongs around their bulge, tight enough that your knuckles strain.
Someone's bulge is curled under one of your armpits, slick and cool, making you shudder. Another is squeezed into the crook of your knee. Still one more rubs against one of your stocking-clad walkstubs, the thrusting between your nubs and leaving slime stains in the tight, gauzy fabric.
It feels good, so good any beginnings of thought fizzle out against the pleasure; everything melts together into a sludge of lust. Liacci's prongs stretching your nook open are as much a part of the sexually-charged background noise as the murmurs of the club outside this block, as the way your vision fades in and out of the warm, reddish darkness whenever your ganderbulbs roll up. It could also be the lack of air getting to your breathsacs, but it's not like you have it in you to care about the difference right now. Your body twitches every so often, probably to remind you that you're still alive, still participating, still squeezing weakly as you try to breathe every time the troupe leader pulls her bulge out of your throat.
You're stretched so taut that all you can consider is getting the next breath between the troupe leader's thrusts into your bruised, pliant mouth. Half of those breaths are wasted when, as Liacci thrusts into your chute, you moan, and even your own breath makes your nook try to draw his fingers in deeper. Claws curl in your hair, scratch at your hips and thighs. Your other shoe gets lost in the orgy, and you're only aware of as much because someone's sucking your toes.
It repeats. Some of them change position. The constant throb of light echoes over and over in your head that it feels good, superimposed on the remnants of your consciousness: you need this, you want this, you crave this, and you don't know where to begin so you glut yourself on every sensation they press into your writhing body. Maybe it's the throbbing, purple light filling in every crack and corner in your thinksponge, or maybe you're just stretched too far and in too many directions to do anything more than lie there and take it, just like they want.
Just like you want.
It's that thought, bright in the ruins of your mind, that leaves you gasping for air when the troupe leader yanks her bulge out of your throat. You take a deep breath, air tainted with the smell of her rushes to your head with relief that crosses straight into pleasure, and you cum.
You hear the clown under you swear appreciatively as your bulge spurts across his face, and another prong is jammed into your nook, tears prickling in your eyes; you didn't think anyone could stretch this far. He suckles on your bulge while you're still cumming and your whole body locks up, legs kicking, back arching, your mouth open in a perfect, orgasmic O. You scream as he makes you cum again and pulls away, licking his lips and his hands while your bulge is still twisting against itself, while your overstretched nook tries to close around Liacci's spread fingers.
They explode into laughter, beautiful and deafening, as your orgasm wrings you so tight that Liacci cums in turn, filling you with so much material that it spurts out around the seal of his bulge.
It feels amazing. Being used is your purpose. Being raped fills you with ecstasy, perfect and wicked, as you're filled with bulge and geneslime.
He finally pulls his hand from your clutching, ruined nook and slaps you across the ass, hard enough to make you bounce where your nubs are barely alight on the floor. When did they let go of your legs? You can feel your chute clenching and unclenching, dribbles and globs of his slurry leaking out of you as he spreads your cheeks for everyone to see your overstretched holes. The appreciative hums, the lewd grunts and murmurs, they go straight to your dizzy thinksponge, and you wiggle your hips for them now that you can get your feet on the ground and spread your legs wider.
"Next!" Liacci bellows to the rest of the block as he lets go of your ass with another painful, bruising slap. It's no time at all before another subjug takes his place, this time positioning her bulge at your nook. Cool ridges grind against your folds, teasing you with the promise of how full she's going to stuff you in another moment, just long enough that you don't expect it when she rams the whole thing home.
"Mmmph!" You slurp at the base of the troupe leader's bulge once you get some air in you, before the subjug behind you starts thrusting into your nook, long, slow thrusts that slide almost all the way out before she pushes into you so deep you swear you can feel her in your gut. When you get one hand free, you rub your belly as if you might feel her there. You wish the troupe leader still had her bulge down your throat, just for a little while; just so you could feel them straining towards your middle.
"Ooh, that's good; keep doing that, pupa, you're gonna make me spill..." Her hand grabs the back of your head, mashing your face into her crotch harder, sniffnode practically crushed against her bulge. You weren't quite aware that you were mouthing at her bulge just now, with your tongue trying to squeeze between her bulge and the inside of her sheathe. Either way you press your tongue in harder and she rewards you with a dribble of bulge lube across your forehead, sticking in your hair as her bulge wraps around one of your nubby little horns.
"Good slut." You're panting now even after the earlier two orgasms, and the words make the pulsing light in your head turn up a little brighter, like it's going to swallow you whole. Coupled with her bulge squeezing around your horn, feeding a constant stream of sensation and chemical need right into your nervous system, you almost black out again.
You stop being able to register visuals for a minute, that's for certain, though you're still aware of flesh sliding against flesh, the wet smacks of the clown behind you pounding into your nook. Her bulge has a weird little pseudobulge sprouting from the main body, and you're suddenly made aware of this when it wraps around yours and starts stroking it when she pulls back. Even when your vision comes back, you can't stop shaking, tilting your head up to try and look up at the troupe leader even through the haze.
You're rewarded with a smile and a sudden flush of cool weight in your nook. It triggers a third orgasm that feels like your insides collapsing in on a single point behind your bulge. This time you feel your own geneslime splattering your belly, and it's you pulling on your bulge now, stroking it hard and fast with one hand as you convulse.
"More," You beg. Your voice is hoarse and strange, sounds like it's coming from deep underwater, sounds like it's not yours anymore. Whatever they've done to you, you're possessed by it; everything is tinged by that purplish light and it's all you can do to beg. "P-please, don't stop, don't even slow down, I need more,"
"You heard him, everyone." You feel something wet sliding down your cheeks, warmer than the troupe leader's bulgeslime. Tears. You're crying, sobbing even, overstimulated and overjoyed, every nerve in your body thrumming with it. When the subjug behind you pulls out and lets go, you have to grab onto the two supporting your arms because your legs just won't hold you anymore. The tremors won't stop, but that's not stopping anyone here, either.
The troupe leader is tall enough that she has to bend down if she wants to pick you up, and so broad her hands almost encircle your waist when she does. She turns you around to face the rest of the block, just as the door opens and four or five of the subjugs who hadn't joined in on the action yet turn around and take a look. You don't even raise your head, too fucked out to pay attention, really; too caught up in how the troupe leader's bulge licks across the folds of your nook.
She's not as distracted as you are, though. Her eyes are still glowing, but that doesn't mean she actually has to look at you, and you try to crane your head up and entice her into kissing you again, even though you've just had your mouth slobbering all over her bulge. She grins down at you, but shoves a pointer against your searching tongue instead, thrusting it slowly in and out between your lips.
"You wanna join in, pissblood?" The subjug who'd been fucking your nook after Liacci, she jerks a thumb your way where you're spread out for everyone to see. Your legs are held apart where the troupe leader presses a thigh almost thicker than both of yours between them, one hand on your belly and the other still caressing your face. You look down, forward, compelled by the glee in their voices.
Your eyes meet across the floor. One red, one blue, both wide in shock. You think you recognize him, though you're not sure from where. That voice in your head suggests you've fucked him before, and the thought makes a fresh dribble of lubeslime leak between your nook lips. He'd be pretty sexy moaning under you while you ride his bulge, maybe pulling your hair or biting your chest.
That's... your name. He never calls you your name. Why do you know he never calls you your name?
The troupe leader's smile grows brighter. She removes her finger from your mouth, leaving you whimpering, trying to chase it with your lips, while the glow fades from her eyes.
The fog fades from your mind like rising out of warm sopor. You wake up.
The world jumps into high-definition the moment you do. Everything hurts. The first thing you're aware of is that your legs are screaming with pain, especially around your hips. You feel like you've taken a whole hoofbeast in your chute, and your nook isn't faring much better. Your breathing picks, ragged, desperate, up as you're made aware of the pain in waves, and it's like every breath is laced with worse and worse and worse.
Your bulge is still writhing and swollen between your legs, though, damning evidence of how much your body craves more, and your nook clenches, cold and empty, hungry for something to fill it. Your mouth tastes of geneslime and you lick your lips, and when you realize what you're doing you can hardly look at Sollux from the shame.
Sollux looks at you like the scene of a murder, sparks curling between his hands and horns. He looks between you and every subjug in the room once.
And then he turns around.
"Sollux- wait-" He closes the door. You feel your voice break as you call out, as you try to push away from the subjug who's been raping you for what must have been the past two hours. "S-Sollux, come back, please! Sollux!"
If you didn't feel like you were breaking apart before, you do now. It's a relief when the fog returns, soothing the pain of loss and betrayal- so much so that you can't even remember why you felt so betrayed. You're still crying, but it's in joy now, a joy unmatched by any you've ever felt in your pathetic life prior to this point.
You arch your back again as the troupe leader lifts you by her grip around your waist, punishingly strong hands that could break you in half if she wanted, as is her right. You already feel the tip of her bulge squirming against your aching hole, licking against your taint like she's still choosing where she wants to go.
"You want it, don't you?" She purrs. You whimper, trying to guide her down, trying to get her in you. "Beg for it. Beg for us to break you so that pissblood will never want you again."
"Please! Ruin me, fucking break me! I want-" You don't get to finish the thought, the words are crushed out of you as she thrusts upwards while pulling you down, the full length of her bulge driving into your chute. You scream until you're hoarse, tears dripping down your face, until her hand closes around your neck and another subjug lines up his bulge with your nook, crushing his thumb against the base of yours until it feels chafed and raw.
She squeezes your throat as the subjug in front of you squeezes his bulge into your nook. He's not as big as Liacci or the other one, you think, but it's still enough to make your whole body quake. She only lets go of your throat as she starts rolling her hips into your ass, grinding you down like a toy, leaving you whimpering and drooling all over yourself.
The highblood in front doesn't move, just rubs your bulge in a way that makes you twitch and squeeze around him, your toes curling in pleasure and pain. Your hands are picked up and pressed against cool, squirming bulges again, and you don't need to be told what to do at this point, your fingers automatically closing around them and stroking, squeezing, up and down. You're freezing all over from exertion and all the slurry drying cool and sticky on your skin, the sheer amount of it pumped into you almost rounding out your gut. You're exhausted. You're going to die here, used and used up until you come apart at the seams.
But it keeps going, and you have no choice but to let it, drowning a sea of hazy, purple light. More slurry splatters against the side of your face, dripping into your open mouth, oozing down your neck, and you lick some off your lips and moan.
Watersports and vomit in this chapter. Sorry for the late post!
They use you for so long you can't even tell if it's been hours or minutes or the rest of that day cycle, maybe even well into the night. They're powerful and tireless, and there's so many of them that you're brought to your limit again and again.
At present, you're dimly aware that your head and shoulders are against the cool tile of the disposal block floor. You're looking up, sort of, at one of the subjugs, haloed by the fluorescent light while he thrusts his bulge into your nook from above. You're bent nearly double; he's holding your thighs down so your ankles are next to your head. The tip of your bulge has been dripping a steady stream of lubeslime onto your open-mouthed face as he fucks you, and your belly sloshes with so much cold, purple cum that it aches.
"Don't stop!" You gurgle around a mouthful of your own cum, trying to arch your back but the position won't let you do much more than tense up. You've figured out how to clench up your sloppy nook even with how thoroughly it's been abused, and you do so every few thrusts, trying to milk him into you. "Please, fill me more!"
Even swollen with so many loads that your genebladder can't take another drop, that it feels like you're nothing but their pail, you moan as he finishes inside of you. Your gut hangs stretched with the weight of their fluids, enough that when he pulls out, a spurt of pale purple follows his bulge, falling across your face.
When he steps away from you, you're too weak to even hold yourself up. You flop, lying with your limbs splayed out across the tile, breathing hard, and your body is so wrung out but you're still hungry for more. You whimper, writhing as you run a hand down your belly through the trails and patches of red and purple sticking to your skin. You can't even see your bulge over it, and it's too sore to do more than twitch weakly against your wrist as you feel the soft, wrecked entrance of your nook.
"F-fuck..." You moan again as you feel just how wide you've gotten. Your prongs slide right in, two, then three, then all four of them; the angle is wrong for you to get your thumb in there, too, but you probably would if you could. You hook it around the base of your bulge instead, smiling up at the highbloods as you feel just how stretched and pliant you are. "P-please, fuck me again..."
Something about that must've been hilarious, because a bunch of them start snickering, a few even outright cackling.
"You're something else, slut." The troupe leader says. She plants a foot on you just above your bulge, looking down at you where you're trying desperately to entice someone else into fucking you again. "Stuffed fuller than a balloon and you're still hungry for bulge. You pretty much drained us dry, too. What are we gonna do with you?"
"Pleeaaase..." You raise your hips as best you can, spreading your nook with both hands now. You can feel air where air really doesn't belong, geneslime dripping out of both your used-up holes, and you just want more bulge to fill you up, why have they stopped fucking you?
"Broken record, right here." One of the other subjugs laughs. "Though I guess we did go pretty hard on the little whore. Ah, this place should thank us for it."
"It really should." The troupe leader turns back to you. Her eyes bore into you, pin you in place almost more effectively than her foot does, as she smiles down at you.
She starts pressing down. You don't understand what's happening at first, but then you feel the first trickle of genetic material leaking out of your ass, and then nook.
"Nooooo," You want to keep as much of them inside you as you can, but she presses harder and it feels too good for you to care. It almost feels like another orgasm, leaves you gasping as your genebladder gives out and squirts across the floor, and then whatever cum they'd built up in your guts, but the loss of all that geneslime leaves you so empty it feels like you're burning, hollowed out with it. You whine as the pressure doesn't let up, a different kind of pressure building behind your bulge; it's too late when you realize what it is and you let go for real.
Warm piss arcs from your bulge with a soft hiss, adding to the growing puddle of multicolored fluid around you. You sob when you look up at the troupe leader, but she only smiles and presses harder.
"Damn, just look at that." She purrs as you struggle to hold it in, some part of you still holding onto the thought that you shouldn't just piss yourself in their presence, but something has to give, and the weight and strength behind that foot certainly isn't going to, even if you squirm under her, trying to hold it in with your hands. The subjugs talking among each other crowd around you again, and you look to them for help, like they're going to plug you up again like you so desperately need.
"Go on, let it all out." She caresses your belly with the end of her boot before she bears more of her weight down on you. "Everyone wants to see."
You whimper as the stream comes stronger now that you have her permission, before it peters out and you're just shaking and cold. Obeying her still leaves you so horny that you have to fuck yourself on your own hand, even in the middle of pissing yourself where you lie. Your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, heavy and fuzzy and warm. Her weight lifts off of you.
Even now, you strain to reach the nearest highbloods' bulges with your mouth or hands. They're always just out of reach, pulling away when you think they're just about to let you have what you need. Even with how much you burn for it, how hollow you are without it, they do little more than smile down at you, jerking their bulges while you've got holes waiting to be filled.
Are you really such used up trash that they won't even touch you anymore? You can't even look at yourself to confirm, but you must be if they won't take what you're so readily offering now, what they've stirred so eagerly in you.
"Captain just sent a message, says we need to get back to the ship. We should probably finish up in here and go." One of them, you don't know his name, but you hate him for suggesting they should just leave you now. He sneers down at you, almost like the feeling's mutual, though he hasn't put his bulge away yet. Most of them haven't. They must still want you, right?
Shouldn't they bring you with them? The troupe leader crouches next to your head and props you up with her hands, heedless of the sticky, smelly mess you've made of yourself. You could kiss her, if she'd let you, but she makes you face the others instead.
"We're just about done here, pupa, we just gotta get you cleaned up." She tugs at your sore bulge, slick with piss and the combined fluids of everyone here. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
It's more kindness than you deserve. You nod, as much as you can when your head feels so heavy, and feel her weight leave your back. You have to crawl onto your knees to stop yourself from falling over again, and even like this, your arms tremble as you look up at them, pleading, hopeful.
A bulge is pressed to your mouth and you open up for it with practiced ease, slobbering on the tip and as much of the length as your tongue and lips can reach. It's strange that they're leaking already, but you don't care, you just need them to fill you up again.
The first jet of piss hits your tongue and you almost recoil in shock.
Almost, because a hand catches your head and keeps you in place, bulge stretching your mouth, piss gathering in your throat and on your tongue as you squirm. The subjug pissing in your mouth just keeps going, pushing his bulge into your gullet, and even through the purple light throbbing in every crevice of your thinksponge, you feel sick.
You feel him twitch in your mouth as he finishes, and it's only then that he puts his bulge back in his spotted clown pants. You don't get any relief though; two more bulges crowd against your cheeks, fighting to be the next to piss in your throat, stopped only when a third shoves them out of the way and slides down your gullet, pumping you even fuller with salty, acrid piss. The other two content themselves with hosing you down, your face and hair and chest soaked now; you have to close your eyes to keep it from getting in there.
You're too weak to fight it when they let go of you, push you face down in the reeking puddle and hold you down. You can't even see who's doing it with their hand pressing down on your head, but you can feel the tip of a bulge licking across your nook, and then your ass, and then pushing inwards before holding still. You whimper, trying to push back and take them deeper, but every time you try to move they pull away.
You think you're going to get what you want, but it's no use. You scream in pain, not the divine agony crossed with pleasure from earlier, but raw, stinging pain that makes you sick, and you realize they're pissing in your ass, too. Your belly swells with it.
More piss rains down on you from above in cool, stinging streams where it leaks into your scrapes and scratches. When the highblood above you pulls out, a gush of piss and cum leaves with them, and you're in so much pain your vision starts blotting in and out. The purple light in your head can only do so much.
They turn your face up and the last of them piss on your teary cheeks. The troupe leader finally comes back.
"There we go, nice and clean." She purrs, stroking your wet hair away from your face. Her hand goes down to your lips and she pulls them open with her thumb, aiming her bulge at your tongue as you let it hang out of your mouth. You don't think you could do anything else in that moment, looking at her, pleading with her to have mercy and fuck you again, take you back to where everything was sweet and good and right.
But no, she holds her bulge just a few inches away from your face and pisses into your open mouth. You don't even swallow it; she just washes out your tongue with it until it's covered up whatever's left of the slurry from earlier. It dribbles down your chin, down your neck, all over your lap and the floor underneath you.
When she starts to slow down, she tilts your head up by her grip on your chin.
It's like she's taken control of your body, like when that threshecutioner had done it a couple days ago. Your eyes sting from holding back tears as you try to swallow, but it won't go down; you end up gargling it, gagging on it.
You gag harder when, a second after you finally do swallow it, it comes back up. She lets go of you, swearing in disgust and you retch all over the floor on hands and knees, your eyes wide with shock until you have to screw them shut from the strain. You can feel your guts clenching all the way to your throat, and the sheer volume of cum and piss that comes out of you doesn't seem like it's ever going to end.
You're still dry-heaving when it's over. You think the troupe leader says something, to you or to one of the other subjugs, but it's hard to tell through the buzzing in your head. You watch them leave, sideways, and it takes a moment to hit you, but it does hit you that they're not sideways, you are.
One second you're lying on your side in a puddle of piss and cum in a public waste disposal block, mostly naked and crying quietly to yourself. In the next, you black out at last.
When you wake up, you're alone.
You can still hear the club outside the block, and the cum, piss, and vomit you're lying in hasn't gotten much stickier, so you doubt it's been that long. Besides, if it had been, you assume you'd feel a lot worse.
You already feel like Hell, though. You can't move your legs without twinges of pain that make you grit your teeth, and your arms wobble when you try to get up. You lie there, gasping for air like a stranded fish. Your gills burn, from the scratches and the fluids probably drained into them. You've never even used them properly before, what's this going to do to them?
There's more to it, though, which you become gradually more aware of as you wake up further. Your chute burns, a low-grade ache that's only barely alleviated by turning over onto your belly, though you don't really enjoy that either because you're still lying in all this gunk. Your throat is dry and sore, and feels like your gullet's been scrubbed with a bottle brush.
You moan despite all of that, because your throbbing nook is begging for something to touch it, and your bulge is still out despite your exhaustion. You want- need- someone to touch you. You feel like you'll die if you don't get it soon, like you've been rewritten inside and out and the commands in your very DNA compel you to fuck.
It hurts too much to touch yourself and that only makes it so much worse. You settle for running the tip of one prong along the outside of your nook, legs spread as much as you can comfortably bear, but settling for that still doesn't do much for the ache, physical and mental. You need more.
The door opens again and your head actually snaps up to see who it is. You hope against hope that it's those highbloods again, but only one troll walks through the door.
"H-hey..." You probably look as pathetic as you feel, judging by the way he cringes when you call out for him. Croak, really; your voice sounds almost as wrecked as you feel.
He approaches regardless, kneeling beside you in the muck. His expression is unreadable, thin lips pressed flat across jagged teeth, brow creased heavily, hands shaking. You still try to push yourself up for him, still try to get his pants undone, but coils of red and blue light crawl up your arms and you're too tired to resist when they push your arms away from him.
"Please," You breathe. "Please, d-don't leave me like this,"
You barely know what you're saying. Your head is still full of cotton and purple light, only slightly diminished from earlier, and your whole body thrums with it. But all he does is shake his head and stand up.
"You probably can't understand a word I'm saying right now." He mutters, running a hand through his hair. You whimper as he lifts you up with his psionics, gets you on your feet; the block spins around your head but he keeps you up with that same red and blue light when your knees buckle again. He winces. "I should take you back to your hive."
You groan in pain, but you're too out of it to complain. You don't really know what happens next; you see him pick something up off the floor, and then feel him drape his jacket over your shoulders, and you're dimly aware of him guiding you out of the club through the back exit.
You clutch the jacket around yourself, shivering as he guides you out into the early dusk and into a shuttlebug. Coordinates are punched in and he doesn't even seem to care that you're a sticky, smelly mess as he holds you close against him, one arm around your shoulders while you lean against him. You drift off beside him like that, city lights a blur in the shuttlebug's windows, and the glow of a palmhusk screen illuminating the deep frown on his face.
Super duper late because I got con crud. Anyway, hopefully it passes quickly and I can get back to writing like 3k words a day.
The next time you wake up, you've got a fever or something, because your entire body is running so hot that it feels like your insides are going to liquefy. In fact, you aren't sure they haven't, because you're floating on your back in some kind of warm, heavy fluid that clings to your limbs.
Your bulge and nook are the worst of it. Your bulge is so hot and swollen you're aware of every slick ridge and vein as it rubs against your thigh, and your nook keeps clenching up every time you breathe, like the air is tainted with something that fills you with want.
The inside of your sniffnode stings with the smell of antiseptics, and the air on your face makes it sting even more when you take a breath, even as it makes you itch to touch yourself. You groan and try to open your ganderbulbs, blinking away slime and tears, but the light feels like being clubbed in the face if you keep them open too long.
You feel yourself rising out of the slime, cradled in nothing but air. Are you dead? You definitely didn't mean to move, so something else is moving you. You're still burning all over, but an arm loops under your shoulders and the rim of a cup is pressed to your lips. Cool water splashes against your tongue and you drink it down greedily, shaking hands coming up to hold the cup when that arm comes away.
A cloth swabs across your face before you can say anything, cleaning off sopor and who knows what else. The hand behind it is warm and you lean against the touch before tentatively opening your ganderbulbs again.
Sollux sits beside you, just out of the recuperacoon you've been lying in, his pinched face screwed up with some tense, quiet feeling you can't quite identify. He's less looking at you and more looking over where he'd cleaned your face. You're not in the disposal block anymore. You're also not in your hivecell. The walls are a different color, with faded, beige-ish wallpaper and a couple lonely apiary units stacked in the corner. Data grubs crawl across the wooden floor, or cluster around puddles of honey leaking from the apiaries.
Your limbs are still heavy and your head still feels like everything in it is stuffed and muffled with wads of cotton, and keeping your ganderbulbs open is a chore all its own. It gets easier as the cup is refilled, and you drink that down too. What doesn't get easier is the growing awareness of empty, coiling heat in your guts. The water sliding down your throat doesn't make the heat go away, and once you're done with it, it only seems to intensify. The third cup of water slips out of your grip when your hands try to squeeze it too hard.
Sollux picks up the cup and refills it, somber and silent. When he tries to push the cup against your mouth, you push it away and lean over the side of the recuperacoon, grasping prongs trying to catch him and pull him towards you.
Red and blue light erupts around your wrists, pulling you back into the slime, coiling around your body in loops of light almost too bright to look at. You whine, though it comes out more of a dehydrated croak.
"Sorry, that's probably not comfortable. Just focus on drinking right now." He presses the water to your lips again. His fingers on the back of your head make you shiver, and you spill most of the water down your chin but you gulp a couple mouthfuls anyway. When he pulls his hand away again to get more water, you renew your struggles against his psionics.
"Please touch me."
He doesn't even look up from the cup he's refilling. You try again, even though your throat hurts with every word; it almost feels lacerated in there, but you're so empty and needy that you can't bring yourself to care. Physical pain would be better. "Please. Anywhere you want. Fuck my nook, or my chute, or my fucking mouth; I-I need it, I'll do anything, please fuck me,"
You hate how you sound but you can't stop. You feel something inside you break at the look he gives you; a flash of anger, and then it melts into something pained and lost. His gaunt face looks more drained than you've ever seen, and you just want to make it all go away, or failing that, make him take it out on you like he clearly wants to. His hands shake and he puts the cup and pitcher down, and you think he's going to do it but he just doesn't.
He sits back on the floor and rubs a hand over his face. The light holding you flickers, then disappears, and you can pull yourself up again. Try to, anyway; your grip is slippery and weak, and you're distracted by every movement making your skin light up with pulses that go straight to your bulge. You manage somehow anyway, crawling out of the recuperacoon naked as the day you were hatched. The cool air on your skin makes you shiver, and you're even more aware of everything that hurts and throbs when you move. Your insides feel bruised, especially your chute and nook, and the memory of how they got that way makes you feel like filth.
You want to stop yourself, you do. You want to crawl out of your own body and leave it to burn in the sun, but you'll take the next best thing.
"Sollux," You reach out for him, cup his face in one hand. He doesn't move away from your touch, not at first, but when you try to rub your thumb over his mouth he takes hold of your wrist and firmly pushes it away. You could cry. "Please?"
"Get a hold of yourself." He snaps. You flinch, but a second later you try to pull him close again. You would settle for anything right now, his breath in your mouth or his fingers in your hair, you just need him to touch you so bad. Some part of you feels guilty about it but it's an afterthought compared to the immediate demands of your body.
"I-" He turns his face away from you and locks your wrists in that awful light again. But he's breathing hard now, his face flushed yellow all over; you whine and try to pull your hands from his grip but he won't let you move, and the angle is all wrong for you to get closer to him. You can feel a dribble of fluid leaking out of your nook. You close your eyes and try to center yourself, but you feel like you're falling even faster.
"I know you're pissed at me right now, believe me we both are." He still doesn't look at you, but the light doesn't let go of your wrists. You bite your lip, something bitter crawling up into your voice as you speak. "I want to make it up to you. I need to make it up to you, so just take it out on me for what I've done, you nooksniffer, I don't want you to have to hold back and just seethe because your best friend was a worthless sl-"
"What the fuck did they do to you?" His voice breaks at the end of the question, quietly, but with a fury that tears through you, dripping with unfamiliar contempt. When the silence stretches on between the two of you, he breaks it by laughing, softly at first, the kind of laugh you'd expect from his shitty jokes, and then it rises to a fever pitch that leaves him gasping for air.
Crackles of electricity burst between his horns, around his face in a sudden shockwave that sweeps the interior of the block. A phosphor node pops overhead. You're both plunged into softly-lit darkness, centered on the glow of his eyes. Tears gather under them, lit up like plasma trails before they run down his cheeks and go dim.
He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, still glaring down at his own hands. "I... that was really fucking shitty. But just shut up right now, okay? I'm fucking begging you here." His fingers close over yours, still buzzing with restrained electricity. "Just stop. Don't call yourself whatever they called you. I don't want to fucking hear it."
You do, but only because you don't know what else to do. When he lets go of your hands and stands up, you almost think he's going to fuck your mouth like you need him to; you rearrange yourself on your knees, back arched, tongue stuck out, looking hopefully up at him. He looks sickened. He looks terrified. Doesn't he understand what you're offering him?
He fights himself on it, you think, because he turns away from you again and paces for a couple steps before turning back to where you're still kneeling.
"It's fine, don't try to make it up to me. I need to take care of a few things anyway, so I'm going out; I'll be back in a bit. Take a bath or eat or something, feel free, really. Play some videogames, maybe? I managed to nab a few online and they're on my husktop. Just." He sighs. "Be normal again for a little while. I don't want to talk about... that, just yet."
It's not very convincing, except maybe to convince you that you've done some irredeemable wrong in his eyes and he's never going to forgive you. The light dissipates from around your wrists at last, but Sollux is already at the door, and you don't have the leg strength to follow him no matter how much you want to.
You're left in a dark room with darker thoughts, and the most you can do is crawl back into the recuperacoon like a sniffling wriggler.
You don't know how long it is until you wake up again, but you wake up in increments; you keep falling back asleep but getting closer to waking up for real each time. The sopor is warm and dense around you, buoying you up almost like something solid.
When you do wake up, you just stare upwards. For the first few minutes, your eyes on the ceiling with daylight crawling across the floor and across your face from the nearby window, you almost manage to convince yourself that the past cycle has been nothing but an elaborate, sexually-charged daymare. You met Sollux again and he invited you over to his hive, maybe to catch up or maybe for something more. You tell yourself that's why you're sore all over and aching with want.
It doesn't quite explain why he's not squeezed into the recuperacoon with you, though; or at least, the fact that Sollux isn't in here with you is enough of a hitch in your fantasy that you're drawn out of it anyway.
You turn over on your side and push yourself out of the slime. There's a towel left for you on the floor, and more water, and to your surprise, Sollux is sitting with his back to you next to the recuperacoon. The rise and fall of his chest looks even and untroubled, but his brow is furrowed even in sleep. There's a sopor patch on his neck, just under the sharp corner of his jaw.
He wakes up with a snort when you reach down to grab the towel. When he blinks and looks at you; he doesn't seem to be looking at you, almost just looking at a spot just in front of your face.
"Sleep well?" He asks, as he raises an arm over his head to stretch. His eyes still flicker around the corners, arcs crawling across his cheekblades. "I came back later than I thought I would, you were already in my 'cupe, so."
"You could've just come in." You say. Guilt twists in your gastric sac, and a heavy sort of shame. "I wouldn't mind sleeping next to you. You fell asleep on me a couple nights ago and all."
"I... didn't think of that." He peels the sopor patch off his jaw while you narrow your eyes at him, and when he looks up you look away, focusing on scrubbing slime off your bruised body. "Didn't seem like a good idea."
"Pick one. You either thought about it or you didn't." Most of the bruises are faded to a dull, greenish-grey by now, but they still ache when you move, and there's nothing to be done about how shit you feel on the inside. You step out of the 'cupe with the towel around your hips, gritting your teeth as your knees shake. If it hurts that he didn't want to sleep next to you, you try not to think about it too hard. You wouldn't want to share slime with you, either.
When you feel your bulge brush against the inner side of the towel and gasp through your teeth. Blood rushes straight to it and leaves you needing to lean against the wall for support, lightheaded with sudden arousal on the edge of pain. You have to fight yourself not to moan, not to touch yourself right in front of him, not to beg him to do to you
(what you deserve)
what your sick, broken psyche thinks it needs to get better. It won't. Deep down, you're sure it won't.
"Where are my pants?"
You berate yourself as the words come out of your own ignorance tunnel. You didn't come here with pants, you idiot; you barely came in here with clothes on, let alone pants. Sollux, for once in his life, doesn't needle you about the issue while you stew in it. He keeps his eyes on his palmhusk, typing at lightning speed with that annoyingly fake clicking sound going off seemingly every nanosecond.
The silence makes you feel like you're being punished for putting him through all that. Your mind calls up a memory, the look on his face when he walked in on what happened in that block, and the shame makes you sick to the pit of your guts because you can't stop thinking about what it would've been like if he hadn't turned around and left.
"Ablutions block's down the hall. Go for stall four, it's the only one with hot water."
He still hasn't looked up from his palmhusk. You want to slap it out of his grip and demand... you don't even know what you want to ask him. To say he's not mad at you. To say he is mad at you. You want him to hold you and say you're worth more than what happened in that block, or scream in your face and throw you against the walls until you're a bloody pulp; anything so you know he gives a fuck about you and isn't just tolerating you until you can put some clothes on and leave.
"Cool. Stall four, got it."
You limp out the door without a backwards glance. The floor creaks underfoot, and there's a couple arguing in hivecell 212. The communal ablutions block is empty at this hour, and you sit on the floor of the ablutions stall while hot water pours over your face.
I have no idea if I'm gonna be able to finish this fic on time. Wish me luck! It's been a rough month.
As far as misery ablutions go, you think you've had a lot of misery ablutions in your life and this one still manages to be more depressing than if you'd stayed out of the water. The temperature switches wildly between blisteringly hot and bitingly cold at a moment's notice, and occasionally the stream stops altogether. You also forgot to bring shampoo in your hurry to escape the oppressive silence between you and Sollux, so you're stuck with a sliver of soap someone left behind instead.
You still stay under the spray long enough to get puffy and wrinkly all over. Even when it feels like the water's going to slough off your skin, you stay in there, scrubbing at yourself with that little bit of soap and feeling like you're never going to be clean. It's only when the soap runs down so much that it slips down the drain that you give up, turn off the water, and start trying to dry off as much as you can with a sopor-stained towel.
The reflection panes are fogged with steam when you step out of the stall, all of them cracked and lime stained with neglect and age, but clear enough that you can see you still look like a bedraggled piece of shit. The splotches on your face, from lack of sleep or dehydration, look even bigger than usual. Your hair hangs limp and clumpy at once, and you can get a better look at your bruises now, which are a bit worse than you'd expected. At least the scratches over your gills have closed.
You didn't bring anything to polish your fangs with, so you just gargle the slightly metallic-tasting water instead, trying to get as much of the rank taste of your own stale spit out of your mouth as you can. When you spit it out, you peer at your face in the foggy glass and try to tell yourself the bright red irises looking back at you belong to someone else.
Get a hold of yourself. Sollux's voice, raw and sharp, rings in your memory. Other memories bubble behind him, mutant slut and freakblood and take my bulge, you trashblood whore.
You scrub your hand down your face, curled up over the sink and feeling a tremor of arousal that you want so badly to just chalk up to whatever influence you were under. Are under. Can clowns leave behind residual effects? That must be the case, right? You wouldn't normally be like this. You could never be what they said you are.
The door opens behind you, creaking on its hinges and letting in the cooler air from the hall. You don't turn your head as a yellowblood walks in with a towel and a little box of toiletries like he's coming in slow motion, but the world catches up with you as your eyes meet in your reflection. He's got short-cropped hair and mismatched eyes, one blue, one pink, his face is a lot shorter and his cheekbones a little more prominent, but you could still imagine he's Sollux if you squint. His fangs stick out mostly the same way.
He sucks on his lower lip, looks you up and down, and when he looks at your face again and presumably sees your color without your contacts, he backs up towards the door. You speak without thinking.
And he does.
You didn't think you'd get that far. He's still looking at you, one brow raised and a hand protectively clutching at his towel. You gulp, but it does nothing for how much you're drooling, like you're about to throw up but you don't feel any nausea.
"You better not be about to get me in trouble, trashblood; I've had enough shit from my moirail to last me all season on top of everything else I've been dealing with." His voice drips with venom and the kind of pain you recognize, brittle with tension. "I'm just here to get clean, and presumably you just did, too. What do you want?"
Your voice catches. What do you want? You've been told what you want. It's too easy to repeat it, eerie and wrong and still so natural you think you might believe it.
"I'm not going to get you in trouble." You look down, around the area of his crotch. Your bulge is already taking interest again, the first couple inches sliding out of your sheathe, and you can feel your nook starting to part and slick up as you look back up at him and lick your lips. "Trashblood, right? I want you to really treat me like the trash I am."
You clear your throat and walk closer, and he has the presence of mind to close the door behind him while you get on your knees. Some kind of recognition flashes in his eyes, or maybe it's his psi. You feel the static curling around your horns, making you moan, before you gasp as he pulls your head back with it.
"You're saying you want me to treat you like a trashblood whore." His voice has gone husky, and you can see his own bulges starting to writhe under his towel. You'd nod if it weren't for how he's pulling your head back, further and further until you've got your throat bared, your hands on your ankles for stability, your thighs spread. Your towel is falling off. "Is that right? Say it."
You shudder. This is insane. But you feel yourself mouthing the words.
"Treat me like a trashblood whore." You beg. "Treat me like I'm worthless. Fuck me like I'm just a fleshy hole actual trolls dump slurry into. Use me like a pail."
He shivers too, a grin twisting his face as he leans over you and rolls his tongue in his mouth. You open up as he hooks his thumb into your lips and pries open your jaw, and you watch in a mixture of fascination, disgust, and bone-deep want as he drools a thick glob of spit onto your stuck-out tongue, tilting your head back further so it slides down your throat.
You close your eyes and swallow, and hear him take a deep breath.
"Perfect." He lets go of your face, while you lick your lips and look again. You're still bent too far back to see what he's doing, but you hear him hanging the towel somewhere, feel him coming closer, the warmth off his skin before both bulges settle above your face. You finally get a better look at them as he holds them out of the way, your own drool building up in your mouth at the thought of getting to taste them even as self-loathing claws at your insides.
He pushes one of them downwards, towards your open mouth, and you look up at him as you tongue at the split. It's warm in your mouth, only a little cool instead of startlingly cold like the subjugs had been, and it's more flexible than those highbloods' bulges too, trying to twist around your tongue.
Or maybe it's just that it has more space to work. The size difference is more manageable like this, after all. When you feel his bulge working its way towards your throat, it feels almost shy, not at all like the way you'd been violated in that disposal block; you take comfort in the careful way this nameless yellowblood cradles your head in his hands, careful and almost familiar. It takes you a moment to realize he was only feeling you out, making sure this was real, before he suddenly thrusts into your throat and makes you gag.
You're slightly horrified to realize you aren't gagging all that hard, not at all as hard as you'd expected. It's an uncomfortable fullness behind your tonsils, especially when he shudders and his bulge squirms a little deeper, but it doesn't fill you up to breaking point. You moan and palm at your bulge, prongs slick with your own fluids as you touch yourself and bob your head on the bulge in your mouth.
"Ffffuck, yes," He hisses. His words slur together, even, like when Sollux is sleepy or distracted or high. You wish he was Sollux, at any rate; you know you do, and you hate that, too. You channel that hatred into looking up at him through your lashes, and maybe you can pretend it really is Sollux touching you, fucking your mouth with slow, deep thrusts. He groans again, petting your hair, your horns, taking hold of one and screwing his bulge into your mouth harder.
"Fuck, damn, maybe this is the universe making up for the shitty sweep I've been having." He mutters like you aren't even there, even as he looks down at you and humps against your lips. You squeeze them tight around the base of him, focus on the burn of oxygen deprivation in your chest and the flush of need curling in your nook. "Yeah, you like that, freakblood? Nnf, wasn't coming in here hoping for a blowjob from some weirdo ablutions block slut, but I'm not about to look a gift hoofbeast in the windhole."
Your other hand goes under your bulge, tracing the lips of your nook. You hiss in pain as you do; it's still sore down there, not stinging, but tender, especially inside. You still push two prongs into the hole as deep as they'll go, stretching them apart to feel the ache and rolling your hips down in time with the yellowblood's thrusts.
He starts thrusting harder, pulling your hair as he does so, his words slurring together more as he gets into it. His bulge tickles at the back of your throat every time the split curls back up to try and get more stimulation, the coils of it swelling tighter as he gets closer to filling you with geneslime.
"Been riding my ass about this quadrant all month when he could be riding my bulge instead like I know he wants to, well, guess what, asshole, you're not getting this until you admit it; I'm gonna fuck some mutantblood bulgeslut someone else brought in here instead." His grip twists cruelly around your horns, pulling you in close, grinding into your face so hard it squishes your sniffnode against the hard plate of his bonebulge. "You don't mind, do you, you little slut? Asking anyone who comes by in a public ablutions block to fuck you, holy shit, you really are a slut. Aren't you lucky Kamati's here to take care of that?"
You blur out his name in your head as much as you can, even as he rambles on and chokes you on his bulge. You feel him spit in your face again, and then feel him let go of one of your horns so he can lean back against the door, while you gulp around his bulge and squeeze your own bulge as hard as you can, even when it hurts, even when it squeezes tears out of you too; you need this so bad and you need it harder.
But he stops.
" You get the fuck away from him. "
Your only warning is the crackle of static and another rush of cool air across your face before he's yanking his bulge out of your throat so hard you start coughing, dry-heaving, gasping for air.
You look up. Sollux is standing in the doorway, arcs of psi flying off him so hard they singe the walls as he walks forward. Kamati is struggling against a band of red light twisted around his neck, holding him a foot off the floor while he tries to kick his way back down. Sollux actually throws him aside and sends skidding across the wet floor on his way to you.
You're frozen, watching them. Kamati gets up, cracking his neck and hissing in pain before slumping back against the far wall. The way he looks at the two of you, from you to Sollux and back, you're pretty sure you know what this looks like but you still cringe a little when he speaks up.
"I didn't know he was yours, asshole; he was the one throwing himself at me!" He rubs his neck, glaring at the two of you. "How about you watch your pet's wandering ass instead of blaming it on me immediately?"
"Oh, like I'm gonna believe that, you nooksucker. I could hear what you were saying through the fucking door. Now hold still so I don't miss."
He moves to take off his glasses, but despite the sparks still coming off him, you grab his wrist.
You bite your lip as Sollux looks at you. Kamati takes the opportunity to make himself scarce, muttering to himself all the while about his luck. You take a deep breath.
You can feel the sudden absence of psi in the air like a vacuum. Sollux tenses, sucks a breath in, and quiets down. He still glares at Kamati's retreating back, but he crouches closer to you now, going over your face, your hands, the stains of spit and tears and yellowy slime on your cheeks.
"You can say you want me to kill him." He says. "I'll do it, right now; I'll fucking kill him. This isn't- this isn't like the other times. I can snap his fucking neck."
You shake your head, wiping your mouth on your arm. You're the one who won't look him in the face, now.
"Don't. I'm not worth the trouble." Your voice doesn't shake, but you feel like you're going to crumble into dust. You keep your focus on your hands, little reddish crescents forming under your claws where you grip your thighs, and the world feels like it's spinning around the little slice of it that you can see, like you're in the middle of a hurricane. He puts a hand on your shoulder and you have to do your best not to flinch away from it. "If I wasn't worth it then, I'm not worth it now."
His grip tightens and you think he's finally had enough. You look up at him.
"Cut it out." He says. Sparks curl around his teeth. "This- whatever the Hell this is supposed to be- this is fucked up. You're Karkat motherfucking Vantas, aren't you? Would-be threshecutioner? Managed to get off Alternia with a cull order on his head? Managed to get all the way here in the first place?"
You don't know what to say to that, and when the silence stretches on between you, he lets go of you only to kneel in front of you, so it's that much harder not to look at his face and see how disappointed he is.
"I know you aren't like this. You don't have to be what they said you are, no matter who the fuck said it. I'll kill them, too, if you want me to." His expression goes stern, his voice a little quieter. "I would have as soon as I'd gotten in there if I thought they wouldn't kill you if I tried."
(You want more, mutant?)
You can taste the memory, can see how he looked at you like you were already dead. You remember how you called for him and he turned around and left, before everything went soft and purple and blissful all over.
You want this to stop. You want to go home. You want to tell yourself none of this happened and none of this matters.
(You want that mindlessness again, where it didn't matter.)
There's a ding. Sollux digs his palmhusk out of his pocket and squints at the screen, while you pick up your towel and try to wipe some of the drying, sticky mess off your face. If you didn't feel pathetic before, you definitely feel it now, with the distant drip of water and the cold air drying your skin. You still kind of want to crawl back into the ablutions stall and jerk yourself off to the thought of Sollux fucking your throat, and your own loathsomeness makes you sick.
He sighs and puts the palmhusk away, and you look up at him, his lips pinched tight, his brow furrowed, light flickering across his long, sharp horns. The way he looks at you, you think he might be looking for some kind of sign, though you don't know what it is or what it's for.
"I've been thinking about it, you know." He says. Softly, guiltily. Bitterly. "Actually even thought about it since we were on Alternia. You'd drive me up a wall and say some stupid shit on Trollian, all the fucking time, and I hated thinking about how much I wanted to just. Go shithive on you. I'd keep thinking about it and tell myself I never would, and now here you are telling me I should."
You feel a chill deep in your blood, all over your body. Why is he saying this now? You shake your head and look up at him, but that's not what you ask when you open your stupid mouth.
"Why won't you? There was nothing stopping you then and there's nothing stopping you now. I couldn't fight you off if I tried." You wouldn't fight him off even if you'd wanted to. "Won't it make you feel better to just take it out on me instead?"
"See, that's the thing." His lip curls up in something between a grimace and a smirk. "You're my best fucking friend. You drive me shithive maggots with everything you say and then you turn around and give a shit about a disaster like me who should've been culled right out of the caverns. We're both cullbait, but you're cullbait that I actually care about. Hell, you got me to admit I care, and it took this entire horrorshow to get it out of me. Even if some sick, crazy part of me thinks it's okay to think about that, I'm not here to hurt you."
He drags a hand over his face, under his glasses. His voice shakes, but he's looking at you, and that's more than you could have hoped by now. You gulp.
"I need to get back home." You say. He looks like he's about to stop you but you keep talking. "I need some time to think things over and maybe apply for a new job. I don't think my boss is going to let me walk into Haze ever again after what just happened."
You're lying, of course. You're not supposed to fuck the patrons, but nobody's going to say no to highbloods who want to fool around a little. Sollux looks like he knows you're lying, but if he calls you out you're going to double down and that'll be a waste of time for both of you.
He doesn't. You walk out of that ablutions block and back to his hivecell, dig your clothes out of the bag he'd brought back from work for you, and hold onto him as he flies you home. This high up, the air is thin and cold, and you can see the thin bubble of psionic energy that holds the moon's atmosphere in place. He flies slowly enough that you almost feel like you're falling, aside from the red and blue light that cradles the two of you just barely over your skin.
He lets you in through your window, and you almost collapse onto the floor when he does. Before you can say goodbye, he's little more than a streak of light getting further and further away.