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Your databanks still contain the memory of the day you met him.
At the time you didn’t care. You didn’t care about him, or about the spreading fuchsia on the floor (she begged for help in the end, but you were too busy encrypting her distress signal before transmittal). You didn’t even care about the royal-blooded heiress that killed her. No, what you were concerned with that day was compensating for the damage you’d taken when they boarded you; preparing maintenance schedules, adjusting flight algorithms, and calculating precisely how much glass, titanium, and steel were required for repairs. Thousands of sweeps as a ship ensured that you were paying attention to everything that didn’t matter, all passive observation and blank judgments up until the precise moment they started prodding at you with claws and tridents, arguing over whether you were alive.
And then you screamed, harsh and raw and hopeless. A real, physical scream, routed through your remaining flesh, provoked by the presence of sensation in places you’d forgotten existed, places that even she hadn’t touched for sweeps. This was a shock to your exposed systems, a disaster that you hadn’t calculated for; how could you, when your miserable husk wasn’t tabulated and thoroughly explored like everything else aboard? No, you’d failed to prepare for this, because it wasn’t within the realm of possibility. You’d shut down your pain-nullifying compartmentalization routines long ago in favor of processing efficiency, so when that touch came it was purest agony, shattering and unexpected and beautiful.
You still replay this moment. It was terrible, it was overwhelming, unsurpassed pain—and your reluctant rebirth. It was the moment you first saw him, shoving his way furiously forward from the back of the crowd to hiss and push them away. You suppose they were trying to convince him of something, but he balled his hands into fists and sparked from the eyes and bared his fangs in blazing defiance until only you and your descendant remained.
He turned and crossed his arms, chewing his nails and staring blankly. After twenty minutes of silent contemplation he swallowed, shook his head, and left.
~
Your databanks still contain the memory of the day you began to remember.
You categorize him as irrelevant until the moment he begins to take you apart piece by piece. When the first camera ceases streaming input, you think nothing of it. Routine maintenance. But then comes a second, and a third, and another, until visual functions fail completely in all blocks but your own. You do everything you can, tripping the alarms and attempting to divert power to the empty electrical sockets as if the incident is simply a failure on your part instead of a complete hostile shutdown of your optic systems.
He storms into your block and snaps at you, lisping his sibilants and snarling in your face.
“Can you not? I was replacing your fucking equipment, Condesce obviously hasn’t upgraded you in the last hundred sweeps and you deserve better than that shitty fleet-standard gear. But you can forget that if you’re gonna be a brat about it.”
You shut the alarms off. When he switches the new cameras on hours later the images are crisp and clear, high-resolution and rich with color. They swivel. It’s the nicest thing anybody has done for you since Kankri’s pale, bittersweet goodbye kiss. You like him.
~
Your databanks still contain the memory of the day you realized he was your descendant.
He enters your block, carrying his husktop and gnawing at his lip nervously.
“Look, is there any way we can talk?”
You scan the network for his address, and message his Trollian.
ye2.
He deflates then, letting out a sigh.
“Good. I was worried…well, never mind. If we touched down on Alternia, would it be a nice rest or just boring?”
iif iit ii2 not an iinconveniience ii would liike two 2top. ii am overdue for maiintenance.
He grimaces.
“Fuck. What kind of maintenance?”
You consult the schedule.
my nutriient tube2 mu2t be checked for leak2 2oon, and ii am overdue for thiinkpan tii22ue removal by one poiint fiive 2weep2. ii mu2t al2o undergo a cla22 two clean2iing wiith biiowiire re2eatiing. thii2 i2 overdue by fiive periigee2 and wiill 2oon become a criitiical ta2k.
“Shit. What do we have to do for the overdue ones? We’ll do those now if we can, and do the rest when we land.”
you cannot remove the tii22ue whiile ii am iin fliight but the clean2iing ii2 a 2iimple proce22 of wiipiing me wiith the fluiid2 kept iin the maiintenance block two prevent iinfectiion.
He’s silent for a moment, then sets his husktop down.
“Fuck my life. Fine. I’ll be back.”
He returns soon, carrying the maintenance kit and wearing some sort of electronic attachment over a glasses lens. You watch with interest as he puts sterile gloves on and mixes the chemicals together; it’s been a few hundred sweeps since you bothered to monitor the process, but you find yourself interested now that it’s him doing it. Your camera watches him approach, stalking grimly forward with spray bottle and cloth in hand. His head nestles just below yours in the image frame as he exposes your face, and it hits you that you’re a visual mockery of him; the horns are the same, the fangs are identical, your face is even a hollowed-out, gaunt version of his. It’s a striking similarity now that you’re juxtaposed. A memory is triggered and retrieved from your databanks, and you realize that you used to lisp softly, just like he does, though it was long, long ago.
The maintenance cloth suddenly scratches at you, making forgotten nerves light up with distress. It shorts your system for a moment, and you lose vision. It’s a glorious moment of detachment, one that shakes you from yourself and reassembles you in an entirely new configuration, a shade closer to who you used to be. When optical input resumes he’s on his knees, cringing.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I can’t—can I even do this without hurting you? If that was too much, I don’t—I don’t know if I can do this because that was as soft as—the best I could do—”
iit’2 okay. iit feel2 good two be able two hurt agaiin. keep goiing. ii wiill try two learn two control iit.
He lifts his head with a shaky breath, and there are twin tracks of tears dripping from his eyes. He wipes them away when he stands.
“Are you sure?”
ye2. plea2e.
You tense, mind and body, when the cool cloth is pressed against you again; it still hurts, but it’s easier to bear when you’re expecting it. A line of fire burns over your cheeks and across your nose, leaving your skin raw and stinging. It takes several minutes for him to wipe the crust from your eyes after removing the goggles, and when he’s done he puts a thumb over an eyelid and slides it up. It’s like adding a malfunctioning camera to your array, his face coming into blurry view. Ah yes, eyes. You remember these. He lifts the other lid and rests his hand against your cheek. You’re surprised to find that you can keep them open by yourself, and even more surprised to find your lips quirking hesitantly into a lopsided smile. He shakes his head with a small grin of his own, and his hands roam tentatively over you as if he’s searching for something.
iit’2 2ectiioned. you can bru2h the 2maller electrode2 away and pull the panel2 apart two acce22 everythiing between the arm2 and leg2.
He works quietly and efficiently, and you shiver in the cool air as more flesh is exposed. The burning pain is slowly replaced by a staticky, fizzing sensation as you readjust input to appropriate levels.
“Do I need to put those little wires back in somehow?”
perhaps not, though ii am not authoriized two make the decii2iion my2elf. they are only there two punii2h me. they have not been u2ed iin a thou2and sweep2. ii am a good shiip.
He grits his teeth.
“You are not a fucking ship. You’re just a troll with shitty luck who happens to be strapped into one. Ships don’t have skin and eyes and personalities. They’re hunks of dull metal and glass, and they most certainly do not fucking smile at me. ”
ii’m 2orry.
“It’s okay, just—just try to remember that or else I’ve been doing this for nothing. Fuck. Is there anything else I can do before we land?”
no. thank you.
“Then take us to Alternia. And send me information on the other things I need to do so I know I’m doing them right.”
He snaps his gloves off and starts capping the bottles of solution. Watching the measured way he moves reminds you of yourself in your youth, memories and instincts that flooded back while he touched you. You can’t help but ask.
are you my de2cendant?
His movements slow to a halt.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. Is that a problem?”
no. ii ju2t wondered ii2 all.
He’s yours, and the feeling that the knowledge evokes doesn’t fit into any of your data pipelines. Even so, it spreads through your body and warms you long after he leaves.
~
Your databanks still contain the memory of the day you remembered your name.
It’s bizarre to be motionless, resting here on Alternia. You’re buzzing with excess energy and some of it even seems to be trickling its way into your physical self, hovering just underneath your skin in a constant chaotic prickling. Everyone else has disembarked, and the new Empress has raised the possibility of constructing a new flagship with modernized helmsman input—but your descendant has informed you that you’re melded here, body half-eaten by the ship, and you can’t be moved. If they leave you’ll be truly alone, your hallways silent for the first time since installation. Once, before he came, you might have welcomed that. Now, the thought simply fills a distant section of your mind with despair and loneliness, complex feelings that you’d forgotten you knew.
He’s already cleaned your nutrient tubes; once he saw the state they were in he’d thrown a fit and replaced your nutrient slurry with a more nourishing blend suggested by the jadeblood. There’s a noticeable difference in your body already—clearer sight, smoother lips, a fuller frame, and less-ashen skin.
He’s not happy about his job today, but he does it anyways, pulling down your hood and hovering in the air behind you as he removes the access panel’s cover.
“Holy shit, this is disgusting. They just leave you like this?”
iit ii2 ea2iier for everybody iif ii remaiin open for quiick acce22. note the conveniience of not haviing two create an acce22 portal your2elf.
“It’s still disgusting. How do I get these things out? The file you sent didn’t say anything about them.”
2queeze them gently and they wiill loo2en enough two take out.
Something rustles behind you.
“Ohhhh, fuck this shit right up the waste chute with a rusty culling fork, these are moist and they are pulsing and that is nasty.”
2orry.
“Fuck, I never really wanted to be a mediculler, but this little experiment has convinced me that avoiding the profession was the only good life choice I’ve ever made. Are you ready?”
ye2. plea2e be careful.
The sarcasm in his voice is almost tangible when he replies.
“Oh, sure. Please be careful when cutting off scarred bits of brain, he says. Please be careful while rooting around in my mind, he says. Your thinkpan is already screwed if you think this is even remotely a good idea.”
ii wiill concede the poiint but iit wa2 not my choiice two begiin wiith.
“That’s one point in favor of you not being totally insane. One, in the sweep since I met you.”
ju2t do iit.
Red and blue lightning flickers at the edge of your vision, and you assume he’s started. It’s a boring few minutes, waiting quietly so you don’t disturb him. This particular procedure doesn’t hurt, so you don’t even have sensory input to distract you from the boredom. He floats around to your front after letting out a relieved sigh that ruffles your slowly-regrowing hair. Was he holding his breath the entire time?
“Still in there? Feeling okay?”
ye2. ii2 that all of iit?
“I think so. Let me just—ugh, close you back up, and we can test things out.”
He fastens the panel and your hood in place again, then slips his fingers under the edges of the hood to rest on your temples.
Something in your mind twists and coils, and you slip into darkness.
There’s a slight pressure pushing your fingertips down into something that pulses sluggishly. Fingertips. You open your eyes and see yourself, but not from the cameras. You’re where he is—where he’s supposed to be—and it’s foreign and terrifying to feel legs and hands and an entire skull and the hum of the dormant ship beneath your feet. It’s all you can do to keep yourself (him?) standing upright, but you’re not given the time to obsess over it before the body suspended before you convulses so violently it threatens to separate wires from flesh. A sudden, foreign panic brushes past the edge of your consciousness. You chase it into your own head and he’s there, radiating worry as he thrashes and tries to find his way back to himself. You know where he is—you’re him now, and he’s you, and you want to help.
Not a millisecond after you process the thought you’re encapsulating him, the header to his packet. Source Address: Battleship Condescension. Destination Address: Sollux Captor.
You’ve been orchestrating this en masse for millenia now, moving data from point A to point B with mental maps and cached tables, calculating checksums and concatenating segments until you’re convinced the information is intact. The difference is that you’ve never transported something so vulnerable and confused, something so valuable. Your networking algorithms are screaming at you to avoid routing loops, but the two of you seem to be on a point-to-point link and there’s nothing left in his body to mess this up; once you start moving it’s like you’re already there, so short is the distance.
You release him slowly and retreat into your familiar self to let him get his bearings. Your gut wrenches with loss as you’re dumped back into your crippled body. He staggers forward until his head hits your chest, squeaking softly as sweaty skin meets synthetic material. Your suit warms where the air from his heavy panting is focused, and it’s interesting that you can even sense that through the attire.
“Holy fuck, that was stupid of me.” There’s a hint of manic laughter in it, self-deprecating and relieved all at once. “If your mind is usually that impenetrable fortress of logic, I think you’re okay. But I hesitate to call you okay if you feel like that all the time. How the hell do you deal with it?”
wiith what?
“Your brain’s a mess. Parts of it were crunching numbers and analyzing things even when you weren’t there, but they didn’t all seem to match up. Other parts were just…vast, and empty. It’s really disorienting.”
oh. iit’2 ju2t niice two have a place two re2t now that ii don’t have two run at full capaciity all the tiime.
“You made those blank bits on purpose.” It’s not quite a question, not quite a statement.
…ye2?
A ping sounds on his goggles and he sighs, pulling away from you.
“Remind me to bribe you into teaching me how to do that sometime. I guess I have to go now, KK’s getting his panties in a twist because I’m not there for some stupid coronation party. ”
you were ju2t iinsiide my thiinkpan. ii thiink our relatiion2hiip ha2 gone beyond the briibiing 2tage.
He flashes a tired smile.
“Is that a yes?”
of cour2e.
“Thanks. And—this is going to sound rude as all hell at this point, but do you have a name? It seems stupid for me not to know it after that.”
Another detail to drag from the archives.
miituna.
He mouths it under his breath.
“You lucky bastard, it’s got a two in it and everything. I’m Sollux.”
You know. You’ve known since the day he piqued your interest by replacing the cameras. It’s not hard to discover names, when you can hear everything in the ship.
The goggles ping again.
you 2hould probably go before he 2hiit2 a porou2 red con2tructiion rectangle or 2omethiing.
“He would, too, that’s the thing. I’ll see you soon.”
You miss him before he’s out of your block.
~
Your databanks still contain the memory of the day you realized just how pitiful he is.
It’s worrisome when he staggers in and collapses just beyond the threshold, curling into a protective ball and smashing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It’s not behavior you normally see from him. Or any of the passengers, for that matter.
can ii help wiith 2omethiing, 2ollux?
There’s no response. He arches his back until his head touches his knees, hands clenched in tangled hair.
2ollux, plea2e. anythiing at all?
He’s shuddering with gasping sobs now, and it dredges a horrible feeling from your archives. Memories flood back; memories of being in that exact position and screaming yourself hoarse as your head throbbed and stabbed in intense waves of agony, wondering what you screwed up so badly that your thinkpan declared war on your body. Your bloodpusher sinks with pity because now, now of all times is the one time you could help, could let him escape into you and be free of the wretched pain he’s in. The one thing you can think of to attract his attention could agitate him right now. He might hate you for it, but you take the chance. How could you not?
When the lights flicker on and off in the entry block, he groans. You cycle them again insistently until he heaves himself up and slowly moves toward your block, bumping into walls as he navigates the labyrinthine hallways. He stumbles in with flecks of psionic power crackling from his eyes, glaring blearily from underneath tension-knotted brows.
“Well, what do you want? You had sure as hell better not be asking me to—I don’t know, cut bits of brain out or paint your nails or whatever the fuck it is today, because I literally can’t and there is nothing I hate more than realizing I’m not good enough to do something.”
Shit, you didn’t think this through. You can’t even communicate with him, since he’s not wearing the Trollian attachment on his glasses. He’s not even wearing his glasses, they must have fallen off in the entryway.
You swallow as his face sharpens with impatience and anger. How did this go, again? First, wet the coarse lips, second, take a deep deliberate breath, third, move the tongue and teeth and lips just so—
“Did you even have a reason? Or did you just want to—”
“Yes.” It escapes your throat in a near-whisper, but he stops talking to stare incredulously.
“Did you just—what did you say?”
So you do it again. It’s a little louder.
“Yes, a reason. Here.”
He nearly trips into you when he gets close, but he catches himself and waits expectantly as you try to form more words.
“My mind, again. It will help.”
His fingers rise hesitantly to your temples. You’re not entirely sure if the physical contact is needed, but it’s not the time to experiment, not when you can help him now.
A deep breath and you reach into him, leeching his consciousness from his body to yours. The ship isn’t in flight, so most of you is at rest. It’s exactly what he needs right now, so you guide him to the quietest section you can provide. That section is significantly larger than it used to be; you’ve been defragmenting since his comment about your mind’s chaotic state, pushing together similar bits in their own corners and grouping empty space separately. It’s resulted in processing improvements, yes, but an unintended result is that your memories are being triggered—and thus restored—more frequently. You were a person, once, and that person is slowly coming back into existence.
—sogoodnopain—
Truncated bits of his thoughts fly by, but not everything. It’s like he’s speaking in another block and you’re listening through the wall, picking up only the loudest parts and trying to piece together their meaning. He floats aimlessly for hours, punctuating periods of deep thought with stretches of silence, and the things you hear are surprising.
—uselessfailure—defective—hatehatestop—stop—
He loathes himself. Worse than you hated yourself on your worse days, worse than you ever hated your owners, maybe even worse than you hated Meenah. Hates himself for his migraines, his prophecies, his failures. Maybe there’s some truth to it, a self-fulfilling prophecy—he’s stupid for thinking he’s stupid. It’s pitiful, the way he draws up into himself, the way he pushes people away, his headaches and even his worries for you; you’ve seen better days, but you’re not antagonizing any more about your next owner or where to find food or how you’ll subvert Meenah’s newest command. You only worry about him, about keeping him functional after these bouts of self-doubt, hiding him away from the world when it’s too much, ensuring he doesn’t hate you.
— worsethan—stupidpitiful—mituna—
Pity? Yes, pity might be—did he say he pities you? No, no, you pity him, you’re imagining what you want to hear because yes, he’s pitiful, and you want to keep him safe and happy and—no, no, you can’t do this, you’re a ship and it will never work, you have to forget—forget about wanting—
Something soft and warm touches your lips and you jerk reflexively, eyes flying open. Sollux’s fang cuts into you when you twitch in the wires, and he begins to pull away, but it’s instinct to follow and cover his mouth with yours before he gets out of range. A soft, thoughtless whine escapes you when his tongue darts out to lap up the blood, and it encourages him; his arms slide around to your back, painting a tantalizing trail of sensation that sends a tremor through you, whiting the world out and washing away everything but want and need and pity. It’s as terrifying in its own way as anything you’ve ever faced because it’s intense and overwhelming and a complete unknown. All of your subroutines and algorithms and life experience did not prepare you for mating fondness, and they most certainly are not helping you process it. You’re running out of air but you’re too stubborn to stop—it’s disappointing when he separates from you and rests his head against yours, emitting little puffs of air that ruffle your eyelashes and blanket your cheeks in unfamiliar heat.
“I really fucking hope I didn’t misread that, because I’m pretty sure I’m the only one around here qualified to pare away scarred bits of brain and replace biowires,” he mutters against you.
No, he didn’t misread that. If anything, he picked up on it faster than you did.
“I liked it. It was nice.” You’re still speaking slowly, clumsily tripping over your syllables and your sibilants, but you don’t have to consciously force it. Your body is remembering how it’s done.
“I just—I’ve pitied you since I saw you hanging in those fucking wires. Not because of the ship thing, but because you reminded me of me and I’m such a fucking mess myself. And then I flushflirted with you for a sweep and tried to convince myself that wasn’t what I was doing—I’m just really stupid, I’m sorry.”
“Pitiful is different from stupid.” It’s a cliche line, and it makes your face burn to say it out loud, but it’s true. He opens his eyes to look into yours, beautiful and unflinching and serious. The reflection of your red and blue in his make them look almost purple. It’s mesmerizing.
“Do you really mean that?”
“Of course.”
“Then does that mean what I think it does?”
You hesitate. This is new to you, and maybe he doesn’t realize what he’s asking for, hasn’t considered the implications of being matesprit to someone who is for all intents and purposes a battleship.
“Only if you’re certain.”
He lets out an incredulous laugh.
“Of course I’m serious, I’ve spent the last sweep doing things that would make me a fucking criminal if I wasn’t flushed to the tips of my horns for you.”
Your face must be gold by now. You wouldn’t have guessed he’d be such an unapologetic flirter. Fuck these wires, you want hands to hide your face in right now.
“Then yes.” It’s a whisper but he must have caught it because his lips are back on yours, fangs clacking awkwardly until you fall into the right rhythm. The depth of emotion conveyed by such a simple mechanical act is astounding; your bloodpusher is flipping and your entire body is burning with a nervous, fiery sort of energy and urging you toward him. You’re distracted when a group of his friends crosses the threshold of the ship.
“There are people coming.”
“So what?” he breathes. “Am I supposed to be worried or something? Because I don’t give a fuck if they know you’re my matesprit. I want them to know.”
You brush your lips to his because you honestly can’t think of words nice enough to respond to that.
“Crap, that reminds me. I’m sorry I didn’t make this official earlier, I was just being an inconsiderate bag of bulges as usual.”
You’re pretty sure you already made it official, so all this does is perplex you.
He places a hand over his bloodpusher. “Flushed with pity—” he moves it over yours. “Red for you.” His brows furrow for a moment as his gaze roams over you, then his claw unexpectedly scratches your cheekbone, drawing blood. “For you alone—” he holds his hand to your lips and mimics biting. It’s an odd request but you do it, leaving behind a streak of vivid yellow-green. “All I do.” He presses the hand to the cut on your face as he nuzzles you affectionately.
He wipes the mingled blood off as you blink in confusion.
“That’s…new for me.”
He rolls his eyes. He seems to do that a lot.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you need to get out more often.”
You laugh and nip at his lower lip.
“Impudent brat.”
Nobody seems particularly surprised to find the two of you kissing.
~
It works better than you’d thought, and despite your worries about compatibility he seems happy with you. His favorite thing is finding new pieces of hardware for you, making things run more efficiently so that you can spend less of your own power on navigating the ship. But he also likes to remind you that you’re more than that, to hold you close and ask questions that summon hidden memories from your archives. When you’re bored he writes you overcomplicated but elegant code as a distraction, deep nests of loops and functions that feel like challenges to be bested. (And you’ve beaten them all—so far. He’s getting eerily close to winning those games.)
You experiment a lot, too. You learn that you can ride along in Sollux’s body in a radius that barely extends beyond the doors of the ship, trailing a thin thread of psychic power as an anchor. It’s not a large distance, but it means you can see the moons again with your own eyes, and feel the grass under your feet. You pick up old hobbies that he’s helped you recall, most of which he likes. He’ll join you for most, although he’s instated boundaries for you ever since you flung the two of you into a wall while practicing rad tricks. Apparently, you’re not allowed to practice while the ship is in flight any more. It’s called a falldown slat, what did he expect? Sort of a buzz kill.
He does things that worry you, as well. Something suddenly piques his interest in troll-computer interfaces and wetware, and one day he just walks in, sits down, ignores your protests, and jacks into the ship. You try to shut him out, but he’s a natural at the system and you can’t push him back into his body when he doesn’t want to go. You eventually accept that it’s not hurting him and give up. After that, the tension dissolves and you eventually find yourselves chasing each other through the ship’s wiring and trying to hide from each other in obscure areas of the network until someone comes and complains about the network congestion.
And there are people around to complain, most of the time. The new Empress has spoken with you and Sollux, and you’ve all agreed that the Battleship Condescension will serve as her flagship only half the time. She’s stubborn, argued when you’d said you would be bored with that much free time. And she won. You would have kept arguing if you hadn’t seen the looks she directed at Sollux, like she believed from the bottom of her heart that she was giving him a good thing. There was something else to that look as well, something you never would have understood if Sollux hadn’t told you flat out that they’d dated in the past. He said that he didn’t want to be a figurehead for the new empire, didn’t want to be paraded in front of the public and mocked in the media for his low blood. But she required a strong, visible consort to help her stave off the highbloods uncomfortable with the change in regime, so they’d parted on good terms to allow her to find a more sociable mate. He didn’t regret it; although it was obvious he had been flushed for her once, he didn’t find her as pitiful when she was a competent, fully-ascended Empress.
You know all too well how feelings can change where Empresses are concerned. Your own was quite pitiful, in the end.
~
Your databanks still contain the memory of the day you fell apart.
Early in the evening, the troll named Karkat wrestles Sollux to the ground and punches him in the face. It’s not the first time it’s happened. If it goes on for longer than five minutes you’ll shake the ship to break it up, and—wow, okay, this is not the usual spat. Sollux has his teeth lodged in Karkat’s throat, and Karkat responds by pulling back and headbutting him so hard that Sollux’s head falls to the floor. Karkat takes advantage of the fact that Sollux is dazed to bite at his lip so violently that his mouth drips ochre, and Sollux…moans? Oh, crap.
You shut the camera off in embarrassment. It’s not polite to watch your matesprit make out with his kismesis—and that is definitely what is going on there. All of the not-so-subtle fights you’ve seen should have tipped you off, but you’re not even sure Sollux realized what it was leading up to until now. Well, there’s not much you can do but wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Eventually you download a movie from Karkat’s husktop to pass the time, but it ends up being a shitty blackrom comedy with jokes so stale you’re sure you heard them before you were installed. You settle for trying to remember if you’ve ever pailed in your life, and you’re pretty sure you haven’t. The scene with Karkat has made you irritable with unfulfilled desire, and oh, you want to pail Sollux, anything to make him moan like that for you. But he’s not here. It’s frustrating as all hell, so you distract yourself by organizing the ship’s archive of requisition forms by their keywords, crosslinking them to their purchase orders, and violently compressing them in the archives until they’re nearly corrupt.
Three hours past midnight, Sollux slides into your block with a playful grin on his face. It’s not the only thing on his face. His lower lip is in shreds, crusted over with red and yellow blood. There’s a scratch under one eye, a bruise along his jawline, and a bigger bruise on his forehead, plus a vicious-looking bite mark on his neck that leaves you wondering what kind of damage his clothes are hiding.
“So, it turns out Karkat can hate someone more than him—”
“I saw. Congratulations.” It’s a relief to finally see him again.
He drapes his arms over you and kisses your neck softly. He removed all of the biowires he deemed unessential last perigee, so everything except your extremities is now open to his touch. You appreciate it, because there is nothing more soothing than the feeling of his fingers against your flesh. You purr to show approval, and kiss his bruised forehead.
“So, does that mean you were watching us? Because I didn’t realize you were such a naughty little kinkster, MT.”
If you had a hand you’d be facepalming right now.
“I saw it start and turned the damn cameras off. I am not the naughty little kinkster you think I am.”
His grin widens. You have learned that it is never a good thing when Sollux is smiling like that.
“Oh, I see. You were just jealous, is that it? Well, honey, all you had to do was ask.” He punctuates the last statement by pressing his hips flush against yours and grinding into you. It is a damn good thing that he left some of these cables here to support you, because your body practically melts into him. It’s all you can do just to mumble.
“I—I don’t—”
He pulls back, worry written across his face.
“Shit, MT, I thought—we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, I’m sorry.”
You really do want to. The only person to touch you like that was Meenah, and it’s been hundreds of sweeps. She was only ever interested in the humiliation, wouldn’t touch anything but your bulge because she wanted to be able to use it as proof that she aroused you. She didn’t, though, and she soon tired of playing with you in that particular manner when she realized your utter lack of concupiscent interest. But you’re not even sure that you can pail after hanging in these wires so long.
“It’s not that, Sollux. I’m just—I’ve never—and I might not even be able to any more—but I do want it, I want you as close to me as I can have you—”
His hand strokes your cheek, and you can’t suppress an anticipatory shiver.
“We’ll never know unless we try. And I’m happy with what we have, so if it doesn’t work…” He shrugs. “It’s not like FF’s gonna cull me for not filling a bucket or anything.”
You whimper with pity. You’re having trouble processing all of these complex new emotions and the terrible, overwhelming desire that’s commanding you to stroke him, kiss him, pail him.
“Do you want to give it a go? I am definitely up for it if you are.” He wraps around you again, and you can feel the tips of two bulges pressing against you. It triggers a wave of violent throbbing in your nook, and your eyes roll back in your head as you press yourself against him.
“Oh fuck yes.” It’s half moan, half speech, but you’re pretty sure it was comprehensible. Maybe. Probably. If he didn’t hear you, he got the message from the way you’re panting and desperately tilting your hips into him. He draws his mouth over you from neck to ear, sucking lightly until you’re burning up, and you’re certain you’re radiating enough heat that you could power the ship on thermal energy alone right now. He pauses at the ear for a second, and you think that maybe, just maybe, it will be long enough for you to regain your senses and do something for him, but he touches his tongue to the edge and thought once again becomes a Thing You Cannot Handle. He draws it along agonizingly slow, flicking it back to tease at the pulse point near the bottom until you’re shaking so badly that you can feel the wires pulling at your arms. You almost don’t care. If you tear away from them and die, you will die happy and in his arms, which is more than you ever thought would go right for you. He cares though, because he stops what he’s doing and rubs your back soothingly, pressing scratchy, blood-flecked kisses to your lips until you stop trembling.
When he’s certain you’re calm, he slips a thumb under the panel of your suit and works the buttons off one by one, rubbing light circles into you as he makes his way to the bottom. It gives you the chance to duck your head down and lick at his neck; he tastes like sweat but you can only catch a hint of his natural scent under the musky intensity of the mating pheromones. You come across the bite on his neck, and something deep in you prompts you to suck at it until he cries out and stops unbuttoning your suit. You’re not sure whether it was pain or pleasure, but you’ll take it either way.
“Mine,” you growl.
“Yes, yours,” he breathes. “Always yours.”
Yes. Yours, yours, yours, the one thing in the universe that you’ve ever been allowed to want and have at the same time.
The last bits of your suit go flying as he slowly sinks to his knees, leaving a flurry of wandering licks and firm kisses trailing from chest to groin.
He throws you a wicked smirk before sucking suddenly on your thigh, and oh fuck there they go, your bulges are twisting their way out of their sheath and waving heavy and eager against his face. He licks a stripe up one of them, his forked tongue leaving a twin trail of dampness behind. It’s too much for someone who’s never done this, and you almost come then and there. You are apparently more than capable of performing this particular biological task.
“Nn, fuck. Stop. Stop, or I’m going to—”
He sucks impudently on your thigh again. Touches that light shouldn’t be allowed to be this frustrating.
“I’m serious, Sollux. Get the hell back up here if you actually want to do this because so help me, I will come on your face if you don’t stop in the next few seconds.” You’re whining, and it’s pathetic, but you want to do this right and it will take you a long time to forgive him if he messes this up for you.
He mutters against your fangs as he reaches between you to unzip his pants.
“On my face? You really are a kinky bastard.” You bite down on his shredded lower lip as a warning, suckling until the blood comes off in flakes, and he chuckles into your mouth as he kicks his pants away. His shirt is next, flying off into a random corner of the block, and then he’s up against you, skin to skin, blanketing you in warmth. It’s amazingly intimate—and it’s something you’d like to focus on enjoying at some point in time—but there’s a wet shlick as his bulges tangle messily together with yours, and you’re on the edge again before you have time to process things.
“Oh god, Sollux, this is—” Your bulges writhe past his, seeking out the wet heat between his thighs, and he cuts you off by slipping his tongue in your mouth and grabbing your ass to pull you toward him. His tongue twines around yours and tugs gently as his hands softly trace the dip in your back. God, this is too much. You’re about to tell him to slow down a bit when he steps back and frowns at you. Your bulges flatten themselves against your leg and slither around, looking for their missing mates.
“This is gonna look stupid as fuck, and it might not even work, but I am going to get your bulge in my nook one way or another.”
He links his arms around your neck and takes a deep breath, psionics playing over his skin and tingling where he’s touching you. He falls backward for a split second, and it seems like he’s about to bring you both crashing to the floor, but before he gets to the point where he’s pulling down on you he just…stops falling. Sort of. His arms are still around your neck, but somehow his bony legs have found their way around your waist and are linked behind your back. He’s not putting any weight on you though, and you understand when you notice him sparking erratically, random arcs of energy escaping his skin and jumping to you in humming threads. You’re suffused with him, so full with the sensation of his power that you’d be blackened and burning if you were anything but kin to him. There’s an echoing metallic ring as he drops a bucket beneath the two of you, and you have no clue where he even got it because you are so, so, utterly smitten that you can’t take your eyes off of him.
Your bulges apparently haven’t stopped to analyze the situation. They press forward until they find his nook and start to wriggle their way in eagerly, sliding against each other in some sort of bizarre competition to be the first to make it all the way in.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I can’t get them to stop—”
“No, no, this is good, this is so good. I can do this. Just—give me a second.” His glasses are askew and there are small beads of sweat on his face as he gingerly eases himself down with his psionics, nook fluttering around you inch by frustrating inch until both bulges are buried deep inside of him and pressing at his walls insistently. The way his mouth falls open and his head lolls back, psionic luminescence dividing his features into stark light and shadow, is pure perfection because you caused it, you’re the one that’s making him keen like this and pulse hotly around you. He’s almost painfully tight, so you have to wrap awkwardly around yourself to move at all inside of him. The world is going fuzzy around you at an alarming rate, the ship’s functions slipping away. He’s the only thing in clear focus.
“Mm, yes. Right there, Mituna, just like that.”
You do your best to twist in just the right spot again, and he purrs for you. While you’re trying to figure out how the hell to manually control these things, his own bulges loop around yours and between your thighs. It looks like he’s got the control down just fine. You’re going to have to ask him sometime. Sometime when you’re not deep inside of him, perhaps.
Something teases at the entrance of your nook, but it doesn’t quite make it in.
“Sollux, I’m not sure—”
“I know, I’m a fucking participant here too,” he grumbles. “Just a little too short without being able to spread your legs. It’s fine. Your thighs are more than adequate when you’re throbbing inside of me like it’s a Trollympic sport and you’re going for the gold.”
“Shut up and kiss me.” He’s ridiculously, endearingly exasperating at times.
He does, deep and intimate, and you know that despite his complaints he’s still completely flushed for you. The tips of his bulges slide against your nook again, and it is absolutely maddening the way they’ll slip in just a bit, stroke at you, retreat to the entrance, and tease the sensitive nerves there with their ridges until you’re sobbing from overstimulation. Your entire body is overstimulated. Your chest and lips are pressed to his, a hand is clenched in your hair, your nook is clenching desperately around nothing, and your bulges have discovered a higher plane of existence as far as you’re concerned. His psionics wash through you in relentless, glowing waves, claiming every inch of you for himself and you’ll give yourself to him, you’re his just as much as he’s yours—
“Fuck, yes—Sollux—”
“I’ve got you, I’m right here, just do it—”
His scent, his taste, the sound of him as he moans for you—the way his head is tucked beside yours now and he’s panting hot against your neck and chanting your name, begging you to give yourself up to him—it’s too much—
Sollux thrusts as deep as he can manage into your nook, and you constrict tight, tighter, ohfuck until you’re falling over the precipice and gasping against him, releasing tension and desire and stored-up bits of his power from your body in rolling waves. The ship shudders, the lights flicker, and your biowires thrum and pulsate with energy. Heat ripples through you as you flood him with genetic material. It drips obscenely into the bucket as you begin to resheathe, and he abuses his mangled lip again as he pleads for you, more, now, yes.
“Nng, I love that fucking sound—”
He clutches against you wildly, trembling and thrashing between your thighs with frantic, bruising force. You flick your tongue over his ear and run a red-hot current of psionics through him, pinging every nerve you can find that seems likely to give him pleasure. If he wants to play the overstimulation game, you’ll make sure to give better than you get. He snaps his hips forward with a choked-off whimper into your neck, and liquid heat spreads between your legs as he trembles against you. Some of his material actually makes it into your nook, but most of it spatters against your lower biowires, dripping down to the floor and pooling in a spreading ochre puddle.
It feels like you’ve just had a near-death experience. You’re gasping for breath and saturated with sweat and pheromones, it seems likely that your bloodpusher is trying to kill you by bursting its way out of your chest, and you are ridiculously glad that controlling the basic functions of the ship has become a mostly-unconscious task for you because if it hadn’t, you probably would have flown into a meteor at some point during all of that. And you love feeling like this because of him, it’s got you giddy and euphoric and relaxed like you’ve never been before.
Your matesprit has returned to the floor and is lazily making out with you, considerately not talking while you make a vague attempt to recalibrate your entire spectrum of sensation. After a dazed moment you remember that it takes two to kiss, but he pulls away and whispers conspiratorially into your ear when you begin to reciprocate.
“Between you and me, that was totally worth the time this is gonna take to clean up.”
You laugh, and feel his lips quirk into a smile against you. It’s all been worth it, to find him.