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Untitled Homestuck Intermission fic

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=>Be Diamonds Droog

It's six in the morning, significantly earlier than you prefer to be awakened after spending half of the night digging Boxcars out of a partially collapsed building -- Deuce had gone a little overboard with the nitroglycerin -- and the other half trying to get Deuce to stop crying and reassure him that Boxcars was going to be fine, his carapace hadn't even been cracked, when Spades Slick comes creeping into your bedroom with what you're sure he believes is stealth.

Your hand is on your cue stick before you're fully awake, but you know without needing to open your eyes that it's him.  Only Slick walks like that, strides short and heels coming down hard, as if he's alternatively stalking and stomping his way through life.

He doesn't say anything, but you can hear him shrugging out of his unbuttoned shirt and dropping it on the floor -- where the fabric will wrinkle, the cuffs and collar will go limp, and where it will probably collect at least one footprint when he inevitably steps on it at some point, because not even Deuce is as hard on clothing as Slick is -- and then the edge of the bed dips under his weight.

There are only two circumstances under which Slick ends up in your bed.  After a successful heist, when adrenaline is fizzing through everyone's veins and demanding to be released, and after a heist that's gone spectacularly wrong, usually one where said "going wrong" involved Snowman.

Snowman didn't poke her damned cigarette holder into anything today, but there were a nasty twenty minutes or so when you weren't sure if Boxcar was alive or not under all that rubble.

You uncurl your fingers from around your cue stick, easing it gently back to the floor beside the bed, and slide over to make room for Slick.  You don't say anything, because actually acknowledging this would make him snarl a string of "fuck you"s in your face and leave, and because even within the crew, verbally admitting to a weakness - like actually wanting Slick's skinny body and sharp elbows in your bed - isn't a good idea.

Stretching an arm out to pull him down and over to lay against you isn't admitting that you welcome his presence there; it's making a concession.


=> Be Spades Slick

Fucking idiot Deuce.  And Boxcars is an even bigger fucking idiot for being too much of a  worthless moron to get out of the way when everything blew.  Droog and Deuce could have gotten themselves out just fine without him staying back to cover them, and if they couldn't, well, then fuck 'em, who needs a crew member who can't even watch their own back?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should have used the clay, only we didn't have any left.  Sawdust is always more explody.  Don't be dead, Hearts.  Don't be dead!"

Fucking idiot.  And you're an even bigger idiot for putting any form of responsibility in any of these jerkasses' useless fucking hands.

Sleep isn't happening.  Not when you had a fresh disaster's worth of rage to take out on someone's hide and no one to stab.  Whatever.  Five A.M. is a great time to go over the plans and the blueprints and the books and try to get something beside embarassing failure done before morning.

You're not angry anymore, though.  That was a couple hours and four or five sazeracs ago.  Now, you've come to terms with your crew's huge fucking screw-up, and moved on to planning the next job.  Not another bank job; not after just proving how completely unable to handle a simple bank job you all are.  One or two (or three, or four) of the casino and nightclub owners in town have decided that the Felt's ability to run rings around you and your crew means that they shouldn't ought to have to pay protection money anymore, and it's past time to disabuse them of that notion.  Boxcars won't even have to do anything to jar his busted arm - all he'll have to do is stand there at your back like the giant lump of potential violence he is, and half of those guys will piss themselves.  The rest will do it as soon as you smile at them. 

At least the bitch getting torture-happy on your face hasn't hurt your rep.  If anything, everyone who doesn't know how you lost the eye is even more scared of you now.  And rightfully so.  Maybe you can't kill Snowman, but there's nothing stopping you from killing everyone else who walks around asking for it.

What were you-  right, fucking deadbeat nightclub owners who think they don't need to pay you your cut.  The smug Prospitan jackass who never keeps his baby grand tuned can be first to get a little visit from the guys.  Then the bitch on sixth street who had the balls to cover her pool table with green felt instead of red.  She pays up on time, but Droog swears she's skimming off the top before she shows him the books, and dealing with her yourself is less of a pain in the long run than just leaving it to him.  Droog always gets rid of the bodies himself, and they're only found when he wants them to be, but she's hot, her joint is a major hot spot right now, and the accoustics are good, and anybody who can cook books well enough to keep Droog from spotting it for nearly a month is enough of an asset that it's worth trying to see if she's trainable.

Your head hurts.  Reading fine print - every report Droog ever hands you is written in fine print - always makes it hurt like a bitch, and all the whiskey and absinthe probably didn't help, anymore than the chunks of brick that were bounced off your carapace courtesy of Deuce's fucking sawdust do.

Deuce swears he gave you the countdown with hand signals, but Deuce still forgets about your blind spot, and his toys went off early this time, anyway.

Fuck this.  You're going to bed.  Some place where you can actually sleep.


=> That was twenty minutes ago.  Be Spades Slick now.


Droog scoots over silently, doing his best to make room for you while pretending you aren't there.  If he actually didn't want you in here, he'd either club you upside the head with his cue stick and throw you out, or shoot you and throw you out.  Probably.  Not that it matters if he doesn't; it's his fault you have a headache and can't relax enough to sleep, anyway.  He can deal with it.

You slide under the covers and tuck both your feet against his shins, and your face into his shoulder, which is covered in silk pajamas that he probably has ironed.  They smell like the scented oil he uses to buff scratches and scuffs out of his carapace, something ritzy-smelling that you recognize but never bothered to learn the name of.. 

He lies still and pretends you're not there, the same way he did when both of you were wearing rags and trying to snatch a few hours of sleep in the freezing cold of a desert night.  Now, though, you don't have Boxcar's bulk at your back or Deuce curled up behind you knees like a fucking cat, so you don't have to put up with it.

You nuzzle at the side of his neck, made easy to access by the way his head is turned away from you, and then kiss him there, opened-mouthed and careful to keep teeth out of it, because Droog's too slick and smooth and perfectly put together to scratch up.


=>Be Diamonds Droog


Slick kisses the side of your neck, open-mouthed, sucking on the skin there in the way that always makes it feel hot and over-sensitive, and then moves lower, curling his tongue over the sensitive spot at your collarbone where your carapace ends.  Under the sheets, his hand slides over your hip and between your legs, where your cock is already pushing out from inside your carapace.

You grab his wrist, not as firmly as you'd prefer -- sometimes, when you're alone, you imagine holding Slick down, forcing him to the bed with your weight and compelling him to follow your lead, gagging that loud, foul mouth and making him writhe and whimper and beg -- and roll onto your side, chestplate-to-chestplate.  Slick's cock is right there, the tip leaving a damp trail across your lower abdomen, and you let go of his wrist to wrap your hands around both of you at once.

Slick hisses something indistinct but probably profane and thrusts into your hand, his cock sliding against yours.  He wraps an arm over you, pulling you even closer together, and his fingers move over your backplate in small, slow circles, hand moving in time with yours as you stroke both of you.

Kissing him is like running your tongue along one of his knives; it takes care not to cut yourself on his teeth, which are wickedly sharp even for a Dersite.  It's worth the risk of that minor sting of pain to feel him suck your tongue into the wet heat of his mouth, thrust his own into yours, and hear him moan, "Fuck, Droog," when you pull back.

He's always gentle, strangely so in light of the way Slick behaves in absolutely everything else he does, so you do your best to be gentle in return.

He comes first, forehead pressing into your shoulder as he pants and shudders, and then his hand joins yours on your cock, helping you finish yourself off.

Afterwards, he curls into you so tightly that you're literally going to have to peel yourselves apart in the morning, because come is going to dry stickily on both your carapaces, and falls asleep in minutes, breathing the smell of whiskey and anise into your face.

You tilt your head up slightly to tuck his head under your chin and close your eyes.

When you fall asleep again, sharp knees digging into you and Slick already drooling on your shoulder, you don't dream about finding Boxcar's mangled body.

In the morning, you'll make him give you first crack at the shower if you have to knock him out to achieve it.