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The Taste of Hate

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You hate her.

You hate her clothes. You hate her hair. You hate her eyes. You hate her mouths. You hate her smiles, her bubblegum, her ease in class. You hate the way she sneers at you when she catches you staring, and you always stare. You can’t help it. She’s bright, bright in the worst way, and it makes your mouth water at the same time it makes you want to yank her hair back with all four of your arms.

Echo laughs at you when you tell her of your loathing for R. Ryder, primly sorting through her. It doesn’t sound as cruel as you’ve heard from her in the past, but she’s never as mean to you as she is to everybody else. You can be just as mean back, when she does decide to pull her barbs out on you.

“You need to get laid, Greyson.”

“Do not!” you spit back, gnawing on a bandanna. It’s not nutritious. It just tastes good. “I need... I don’t know what I need, I need her to suffer is what I need.”

“You know she thinks it’s hilarious, right? That you’re always staring at her. She thinks it’s flattering.”

“You’re fuckin’ lying.”

“Why would I do such a silly thing as that?” She lifts a hand, pointing at the burgundy ribbon tied around her middle finger. She’s flipping you off. “Right there, told me in the bathroom two weeks ago. Laughed as she did, combed her hair with wet fingers. She was wearing blue and yellow stripes.”

You remember that outfit. It’s synthetic and cotton. You want to sink your teeth into it.

“You’re drooling,” she warns as she takes the burgundy off and hands it to you. You hate yourself for shoving it in your pocket for later. Echo cackles at your misery, kicking her chair back and looking up. A thumb traces over the bitter blue around her fingers.

- x -

R. Ryder laughs at you when she catches you staring again, neck snapping gum obnoxiously. She’s got hands on her hips, tail coiled around her legs as she stands in front of you. The classroom is empty. You can’t even pretend to not be watching her.

“What?” You snap, ignoring the yellow-red heat flushing up your face. You look like a lantern when you blush.

“Oh, nothing,” Ryder says as she grabs her bag and broom. “You’re just cute.”

“I’m not cute!” You’ve gone even brighter. Her laugh isn’t cruel, not in the way Echo’s can be, but it feels like a slap to the face more than your friend’s could ever be. “I’m never cute!”

“I dunno,” Ryder says as she leans against the door. Her neck pops her gum. Her stomach drools lazily. “You’re pretty adorable when you can’t stop staring at me.”

“That’s your fault!” You snap. You don’t mean to let her know how much she works you up. She finds out anyway. “You! With your clothes, your bright, your face, your—“

“It’s my fault you can’t help staring at me?” Ryder laughs again, dropping her bag and broom. The door swings closed without any warning, without any prompting from you or her. “I don’t think so, sugartits.”

“It’s not my fault.”

“I think it is,” she purrs. She takes the gum out of her neck mouth, sticking it obnoxiously on the table as she passes it. It’s disgusting. “I’m not a fan of your attitude, sweetass.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“I can call you whatever I want,” Ryder leers with all of her mouths. Her eyes are blinking out of sync. Your eyes are drawn to one glaring at you from her shoulder, staring you down. “You’re a misogynistic little shit, jealous and petty and angry. I’m entitled, you stare at my ass.”

You find yourself stepping backwards, wings rattling, all four arms crossed defensively. “You’re despicable.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“You’re a cunt,” she returns. Her neck is grinning. You hit a desk with the back of your knees and sit down hard, waxen hair flopping. She looms over you, staring down with all of her eyes. You hate her. You tell her that – “I fucking hate you.”

“I wonder what brought this on,” she croons down in chorus. Her neck giggles. “You’re cute,” it grates out at you with a rich voice. You shudder where you sit, nails digging into your own chitin arms. She’s barely a few inches away from you, tail coiling around her body like a large snake. When she leans down you don’t move, don’t breathe, and just stare with your one working eye blown wide.

The both of you stay like that for half a minute, neither one of you making a move.

“I have to get to class,” she says suddenly. You’re cold as she draws away, cold and angry as she grabs her bag and levitates her broom. “Later, sugar cube.”

You hate her.

You hate her and something angry throbs in you.

“Get back here!” You demand, getting up. You have to set her right. You have to prove to her (to you) that you aren’t staring at her, or her ass, you’re staring at her clothes. She doesn’t turn back around, only stops, her largest eyes rolling back to stare at you. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong,” she lies. She sounds confident, sounds like she’s right, but she’s wrong so she lies.

“Tell me, now am I wrong?

“I wasn’t staring at you.”

“Then what were you staring at?”

“Your CLOTHES, your clothes are distracting and terrible and I stare at your clothes, not YOU.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.” Ryder turns, gesticulating to herself. “I can see what you’re doing, what you’re seeing, where you’re looking. You stare at my tits, you stare at my ass, and I’m flattered as much as I’m revolted. You’re only vaguely disgusting. Are we done here?”

No. No, no you’re not, you’re not done until she understands and she admits she is wrong. You hesitate for a second too long and she turns away again, reaching for the door and you panic, she can’t leave before you make your point, so you reach out and grab her wrist (the eye on her hand closes reflexively, you’re glad you didn’t touch it) and spin her around. She drops her bag in a maneuver that you hate to call graceful and knocks into you with the force of her turn, and your face slams into her cleavage.

Of course, she throws you back and off of her. There’s a tearing noise that’s somewhere between satisfying and nerve-wracking and you fall back with a mouthful of green shirt. Her top falls away uselessly, bright green hitting the floor.

She isn’t wearing a bra.

You chew and swallow, staring upwards at the sway of heavy, bountiful breasts. Your throat’s gone a little dry.

Laughably, Ryder doesn’t even look phased. She covers her tits with crossed arms, raising one brow at you. You’re flushed again.

“Are you going to apologize?” She asks, kicking the ruins of her shirt at you. You swallow.

Then you shake your head. You have nothing to be sorry for. “It’s your fault, anyway.”

“Really.” Hands on her hips again, boobs unblocked from view, she leans down in front of you until your faces are almost at the same level. She’s taller than you. “My fault?”

Her neck laughs at you. It’s thick and cruel.

You move without thinking, shoving your fingers into her neck mouth and yanking her all the way to your level with a grip around her teeth. She falls on you, hands slamming your shoulders into the ground, and somehow your mouths get shoved together. She bites you as she shoves her tongue in your mouth, you bite her back and suck her tongue hard enough that she makes a noise of anger and pain. Her stomach drools on you and you grab that tongue, hand fisting around the soft slime of it. Her hand fists in your hair and pulls. You shove your fingers harder in her neck until you feel her breath getting ragged around your face. She grabs your shirt collar and—

“Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare,” you snarl into her mouth. You feel two out of three smile against you, her hands getting a better grip, and she tears the buttons right off your shirt as she pulls. You spit and snarl, twisting her tongue with two hands. The fourth goes in her hair, grabbing her to you.

She pulls back, shoving you down and straddling your hips. She wiggles there, tail pinning you down as it’s long and heavy enough to. With a sudden start you realize that you’re hard and getting harder, and she laughs at your face.

“You’re cute when you’re angry,” Ryder leers down at you. “Are you sure you weren’t staring at my tits?”

Honestly, it’s hard to look away. Two of your hands are uselessly just there, grips gone from her hair and her neckmouth. You grab for them instead, getting two handfuls of soft velveteen skin. Her nipples stand out, pert and pink, lighter than the rest of her skin, and you roll them between two fingers. She just laughs, purring a little, letting you manhandle her breasts and tongue.

I hope you know that doesn’t do shit for me, ” her neck mocks you.

“Good for me I’m not doing it for you,” you spit.

“Oh good.”

She splays her fingers over your (shaved, hairless) chest, bracing her weight against your wax-filled ribcage and grinding down in a way that shoves your packer against your dick. There are sparks running up and down your spine, heat coiling in your groin. She laughs as you groan, hating how you love the friction and never wanting her to stop.

“Are you even into this, Ga Greyson?” She asks after a particularly hard press downwards. Her neck goes ah as she rubs something good on herself, tail thumping down hard on you. “You’re not even hard.

“I am, I fucking am, fuck you,” you snarl. You hate it, hate that she can’t feel it, hate that it’s so much for you that you already feel hot and precarious. She leans over you, holding her weight all on one arm, and goes for your shorts – not tearing them, thank fuck, you’re already down one shirt (you’ll have Rikku fix it later) – shoving her left hand down your briefs.

You jerk like a livewire as she slides her hand between your packer and your dick, palming the entire length with soft velvet. Something throbs in you.

You’re caught off guard when she starts laughing, first quietly, then louder. It’s haughty and mean, ringing from two mouths at once. Ryder kneads at your dick some, hand encapsulating the entirety of it easily, and then pulls her hand out of your pants. You groan, twitching in your pants, and ache at the loss of it.

“Really, sugar cube?” She holds her fingers up, mockingly an inch and a half apart. “That’s all? Did you absorb the rest of it into your terrible personality? You must have.”

You remember, belatedly, that two of your hands (sticky, slimy, covered in slobber slick enough to jack off with) have her tongue in their grasp. With a vengeance you yank, then let go and pull her by the large fist-sized teeth in her stomach until she’s close enough to violently kiss again.

“Shut up, fucking shut up, on my god are you ever done being a fucking bitch?” You groan, grabbing at her hair and back (you feel eyelashes and try not to think about it). She licks at your face and kisses it sweetly.

“Never,” her throat says as she reorients herself over you. You twitch a little as she brushes against your packer, which jostles against your (twitching, sensitive, probably drooling for all that it’s worth) dick. And then she drops her weight again, shoving her hips down against yours with a low purr and you—

you fucking

you cum in your fucking pants, shaking under her. Your breath goes backwards and your hands tighten in her hair. She stops moving, thank fuck, because you’re sensitive and aching and your briefs are gross and your extra dick is sticky.

“Are you done already?” she cackles, getting off you entirely so she can pull the band of your underwear back and stare underneath. You’re not sure why she does that, as she can obviously see the wet spot oozing through it. “You’re a gem, sweetcakes, really.”

“Fuck you,” you say. You’re out of breath, eye fluttering around, wings quivering under you. You’re glad she hasn’t stepped on them as they splay under you, delicate and weak. She stands up entirely, and your eyes fixate immediately on the bright yellow of her jeans as her hands go at the clasp.

“Thought you’d never offer,” she croons. You quickly reassess your situation as she kicks off her boots and shucks the pants, blinking three eyes down one thigh at you. “I hope you’re as good licking as you are chewing, sugartits.”

You blanch. She pauses, probably watching all the color drain out of your face.

“Scared, Greyson?” Her hands go to pick up her jeans. “If you’re not up to the challenge, I’m not going to make you get me off.” A two-mouthed pout. “Not that I’m even sure you could, anyway.”

She’s ribbing you. You fall for it, you know you fall for it and you fall for it anyway, forcing yourself to sit up and grab for her. There’s a twinge in your wings as you get her foot, knee, jeans, and thigh.

“Get the fuck back down here,” you demand.

She gets the fuck back down there, knocking you back with her (perfectly manicured) foot and straddling your face, spreading her lips with one hand. Her juices look the same as her slobber, wet and dripping ooze. You stick out your tongue, shoving it into her folds.

You didn’t know what you expected. You’ve never done this before. You’ve barely even watched porn of this. You did not expect the sour taste, bitter, tasting like nothing you’ve ever had before and you honestly don’t know if you like it or not. You make a gross noise underneath her, muffling your dissent into the pink fur around her pussy. She just grabs at your hair and grinds down, not as hard as she had been on your hips but hard enough to get her impatience across.

“Do you need me to walk you through it, sweetcakes?”

“I’ve fucking got this,” you lie. You lick a stripe from her vagina up, pressing your tongue up flat against the swath of slick pink skin. Her clit is supposed to be somewhere around here. Maybe she’ll think it’s purposeful that you haven’t gone for it yet, teasing her, mocking her the same way she mocked you.

Or maybe she’ll sigh, push your head back, and fucking point the goddamn thing. “It’s there. Right there. You can’t fucking miss it unless you’re completely stupid.”

You quietly chatter angrily in the back of your throat, not grateful for the help, and dig your hands into her thighs, her ass. You slide two fingers into her cunt, taking pride in her low purr as she rocks down. “Good boy,” she calls you. You suck on her clit and she moans nice and low from her throat, out her neck. Her vagina squelches messily under your fingers.

Your jaw gets tired. She doesn’t relent, thumping your entire body with her huge tail, the pom of it knocking against your knees. She takes so long to get off, for fuck’s sake, but you’re determined. She’s not going to win, god damn it, you’re going to make the bitch cum.

“You’re so bad at this, oh my god,” Ryder mocks you eventually, looking down with a lazy expression. “I can do myself in five minutes, what’s it been? Ten? Twenty? You’re not getting anywhere with this.”

“Fuck you fuck you fuck you,” You don’t even have anything to say, you don’t have the words to do it, your shorts are disgusting and your shirt is torn and you fucking dick is hard again what the fuck. You hate her, you hate her so much, you hate everything about her you hate that you can’t get her the fuck off what is even wrong with her—

“Hate you too, sugartits.” Ryder takes her weight onto herself entirely again, shoving you back away from her cunt. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

You watch as two fingers settle near her clit and rub energetically. You still have your index and middle fingers in her pussy but you don’t even need them, apparently, because she’s already shuddering and breathing in hard pants. Her cunt tightens around you suddenly, clamping down on your fingers in waves as she moans and purrs, thick blue tongue coiling around her forearm as she shudders. You can feel the wetness around your hand increase, sliding into your palm.

Gross.

That was good,” her neck moans sweetly, languidly, as she rests her weight on your face. You can barely breathe around her thighs and your own hand. “No thanks to you, sugarlips.

“Schtohp cahlng me that,” you grumble from under her. You can’t move. She’s heavy and you’re turned on again.

“Sugarlips, sugartits, sweetcakes, might as well, right?” Ryder shrugs, blinking lazily at you in waves down her sides. Then she stands with jelly limbs, stepping off of you and to her bag. You sit up and watch her pull out a new strapless shirt (electric blue) and shorts (sunshine yellow). She’s prepared. She planned this, the fucker. “See you tomorrow, Greyson.”

You stare at her retreating back, mouth slack. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Hmm?” She looks back over her shoulder, leering. Her neck pops its new gum. “What’s that, honey lumpkins?”

“You’re just going to leave?!”

A shrug. “Why should I stay, halfstack?” She raises an eyebrow at your shorts, sneering with two mouths. “Do you have anything to offer?”

Was that a joke about your fucking dick. It was, wasn’t it. You hate her so fucking much. You want to tell her that. You already have, though, so you won’t. “Next week I’m going to fuck you through the wall,” You say instead.

“Is that a promise?” She laughs at you. You expect it this time. “You can try, Ga Greyson.”

“I will. I’ll bring a fucking cock as big as you can fucking handle and I’ll fuck you through the goddamn wall.”

“Hmm.” She watches you with a bored expression in roughly twenty eyes. Then her neck laughs, a short, genuine, ugly sound. “I’ll be sure to teach you a thing or two, sugartits. You’ve got a long way to go before you can fuck me through the wall.”

She smacks her (clothed, bright, delicious) ass as she leaves, hips rocking dramatically left and right. Your cock throbs in your shorts.

You manage to slink into the bathroom undiscovered, clothes askew and step decidedly off. Your second orgasm feels almost as good as the first, salivating over thoughts of her tits bouncing in bright blue. It’s less messy than the fuckery in your pants but still sticky, still disgusting.

It’s her fault.

You hate her.