Archive of Our Own

[ i ]

     “Come on, Cantaloupe,” Terezi hisses in your ear, not letting the tip of her tongue touch skin, “You can do better than this!”

     Her faith in your capability is moving, considering the way she has your arms bound. They cross behind your back, each fist placed alongside a corresponding elbow, rope spooled around your forearms. The attention to detail is impressive: the rope presses tightly together but never crosses, skin completely hidden from sight.

     “Were I not on my knees while you stood over me, luxuriating in the knowledge that while you are a mere blind prophet, I am a god, and isn't the supplication inherent in our positioning ironic if ever you there was such a con—”

     “Shhhh. ” She thwacks you around the back of your head, pushes her fingers into your mouth. She kneels behind you and leans against your back, but you won't relent, won't slump against the wall before you, no matter how welcoming it seems. You bite on her fingers, and your flat human teeth never fail to make her laugh. “Court is in session, Lalonde, and let the record show that the accused stands – kneels! – guilty of a relentless case of oral fixation. 

     You try to ask her how an oral fixation counts as a crime, but she pushes her fingers deeper into your mouth, and it comes out as mmph. One day you'll discover how you always wind up in these situations with her, because for fuck's sake, this all started with a simple enquiry as to the state of Can Town. And now there you are, already assumed guilty of a dozen crimes you can't even pronounce with a human tongue, while your best hatefriend's hand slowly hitches up your sun-orange sari, fingers raking at your thighs, and you can't even order her what to do.

     (And when she finally does touch you, you know she won't even have the decency to finish you off. She'll leave you with your arms bound and a thrumming between your legs, and off you'll hobble to Kanaya, voice strained, muscles taut. You don't need to be able to See to know this; neither one of you will push the other over the edge.) 

[ ii ]

     Terezi's got her legislacerator's uniform on – the lower half of it, at least. Boots pulled up to her knees, thigh highs running further still, skirt scrunched up, slits in the sides serving to help to straddle Mindfang's lap perfectly. The vest only provided two buttons to work through and the shirt came away easily enough, after a few drinks, though Mindfang's no longer certain which one of them the alcohol was there to sway. Terezi shuffles happily in Mindfang's lap, arms wrapped around her shoulders, fingers idly threading through her hair as Mindfang brushes her mouth across her collarbone, down to her breasts, making her shudder with every kiss.

     She's a lot more receptive to such advances than Redglare. Looks like her too, which is a bonus. Mindfang works her tongue around a nipple and Terezi moans beautifully, head thrown back, brimming with every intention in the world of enjoying herself. Mindfang steadies her with a hand on her rear, whispers against her skin that they should hurry things along, because Redglare will be back any moment now; and wouldn't it be terrible to be caught like this? She knows what Terezi can do with that tongue of hers, and isn't particularly inclined towards patience. 

     Terezi hums her agreement, reaching for the bottle on the table next to Mindfang's chair. She's still got one hand tangled up in Mindfang's hair, so she works the lid off between her teeth and spits it to the floor, rum spilling over her fingers in the process. A few drops splash against Mindfang's face, and she scowls, suddenly, looking up at her. 

     “Careful,” she hisses, nails pressing against her spine as a warning. “That bottle cost more than half of this fleet put together. Waste any more and you'll be sincerely sorry you did.”

     “Oh?” Terezi asks, smirking so much that it spells disaster before the bottle even touches her lips. She takes a generous mouthful, and it runs between her teeth, out the corners of her mouth, thin streams spreading down the line of her jaw, her throat, pooling in her collarbone and trickling down her chest. She tilts the bottle, glug, and a few drops splatter against her thighs. “Then it would be a crime to waste a single drop!”

[ iii ]

     The best thing about having a girlfriend obsessed with fashion? The skirts. You've always been able to appreciate skirts from a distance, never on you but always there to be gawked at (an understated advantage of only having one eye: if anyone ever catches you staring, they immediately feel too awkward to hold eye contact, to say anything about it), but now, skirts are really coming into their own. They provide easy access, pure and simple. Easier than fumbling with the button and zip of a pair of jeans and trying to angle your hand down the front when you're caught in the heat of the moment, far too rushed to consider pulling the offending pants down.

     You're not in a hurry at the moment, though. Kanaya might be, from the strained glances she keeps giving you and the way she's biting on her lower lip, but you're not. You're loving this. The two of you are are sat on a sunny patio in a half-shaded corner of the café, and your hand travelling from her knee to the inside of her thigh hadn't been too much of a leap, so you don't see why your fingers making their way between her legs should be any different. 

     She murmurs something along the lines of thank god she brought a jacket, no matter how warm out it looked before leaving the flat, and you press your fingers a little harder against her. She promptly stops talking about clothing, straightens in her chair, and begins tearing up a napkin between her hands. Said jacket is currently sprawled across her lap, so if anyone glances your way, it just looks like your hand's resting against her thigh.

     Nothing wrong with that, you think. Nothing wrong at all. She whines – actually whines, Kanaya, out in the sun, another couple two tables away – and says can't you please, please go home? The sun's starting to bother her, it's really getting too much, maybe you could both move a little to the left, into the shade, the left, that's better.

     Her face burns as bright as a sunburn when you pull your hand away, licking at your fingers. You gulp down the last of your coke and say you could still head home, if the sun's bothering her that much. Not that she looks bothered anymore, far from it. She scowls and you flash her a wicked grin, patting the buckle of your belt. 

     Not so easy to get into a pair of pants in public and have people be none the wiser.

[ iv ]

     Your fingertips idly run up and down the inside of your right thigh as you're forced to listen to them murmuring through the walls. The only saving grace is that  you can't make out what they're saying, because that would be a mood killer; you've had a long day at work and want nothing more than to get off and go to sleep. But you can't do that, not while they're rambling away like a pair of flighty broads who haven't had their faces pressed together all day. 

     You sigh, fingers running across the front of your boxers. No harm in being prepared. It takes a few minutes more, but Kanaya and Rose finally quiet down. Your mind hums softly to itself, and now you're relaxed enough to not rush to the finish line. You work your fingertips in small circles, roll your shoulders against the mattress and sink lower into it, and everything's going just fine until you hear something from the next room. Rolling your eyes, you slow your fingers but don't stop completely, straining to hear what it is.

     And you only want to hear to confirm that it isn't what you thought it was; your mind is playing tricks on you, there's no need to linger over it. But then there it is, louder this time. Wet, breathy sounds that can't be anything but kissing, followed by a gasp that barely makes it through the wall. Their bed creaks, and Kanaya – it's definitely Kanaya, because she keeps murmuring oh, Rose– lets out a moan. Eurgh, fucking gross. You slip your hand down the front of your boxers, legs spreading apart.

     The hell are they doing, anyway? Not that you're trying to picture it, but from the way Kanaya keeps panting and gasping and the fact that you can't hear anything from Lalonde, your mind's drawn to certain conclusions. She must have her mouth on Kanaya, there's no other way she'd actually find it within herself to shut up for more than five consecutive seconds. Probably her breasts or stomach or thighs; Kanaya's not moaning enough yet to suggest Lalonde is going down on her.

     Either that or Lalonde is just shit, you think, laughing to yourself. You press harder with your fingers, figuring that Kanaya's probably laid out pretty similar to you, back arching when Lalonde manages to do something right. You curl your toes against the bed cover, heat building in the pit of your stomach when Kanaya gaps out please, would you just—. But she never gets to finish her point, because Rose chimes in with Can I what, Kanaya? Continue? You know you need only ask.

     Fucking Lalonde, you think. Your teeth worry your lower lip as you tug your boxers off completely, needing to spread your legs apart all the more, and you find yourself mumbling Just ask her, Fussyface, for fuck's sake, under your breath. You slow your fingers, knowing you're pushing yourself too far; if you're going to come, you're damn well going to do it while listening to something good. Kanaya eventually does manage to get the words out, and god knows what Lalonde's doing to her; probably running her nails down the inside of her thighs, sucking at her nipples, biting along her shoulders.

     Fuck Lalonde. That should be you. You've built yourself up pretty far now, and Lalonde's finally getting on with it, because Kanaya keeps whimpering and pleading for more in the midst of things, and you've no idea where you're mentally placing yourself. Maybe you're Lalonde, mouth between Kanaya's legs, or maybe you're fucking the sarcastic bitch into the wall. Maybe you're between them, did they ever think of that when they were blatantly flirting in front of you, did they ever consider that maybe they don't have to exclude you, maybe—

     Fuck. Godfuckingdammit. You grit your teeth, tug at your own hair, and them promptly bury your face into your pillow. You grab at either end of it, trying to cover your ears, because there you are, as done as done can be, and they're still going at it. Jesus Christ. Someone in this damn apartment needs to invest in soundproofing. 

[ v ]

     She's in her biking gear when she steps through your front door, and doesn't seem to be in any mood to change that. Meenah grabs at both of your wrists, pins them above your head as she backs you against the wall, and thank god your flatmates are all out. She grumbles something about having had a real fuckin' bad day, Serket, and then she's kissing at your throat before you can even begin to offer her any coherent advice.

     You shift against the wall, trying to get comfortable, and she takes this to mean that you're trying to worm your way free. Meenah retaliates quickly, pushes her leg between both of yours, and then there you are, skirt bunching up around your waist as she grinds her knee up against you. You almost melt into her at the contact, the tough, thick leather pressing against the underwear that's doing absolutely nothing to help you keep hold of your composure, and with a moan, roll your hips forward, working yourself against her thigh.

     “Goddamn, Serket,” she says in a low growl, biting at the corner of your jaw, “Didn't come all this way just to watch you fuck yourself against me, but I can work with that.”

[ vi ]

     “Serket,” Meenah whines, high-pitched and bratty. The noise does nothing to send shivers down Aranea's spine; she simply stares down at her, patient, waiting for her to continue. “For cod's hake, hurry up and get on with it!” 

     Aranea arches an eyebrow, and folds her arms across her chest. Meenah, in spite of her evident neediness, isn't doing much to convince Aranea to place her mouth back between her legs; which isn't to say that Aranea isn't finding it difficult to avoid absent-mindedly running her tongue across her lips, but she simply possess some degree of self-control. Something that Meenah needs to invest in.

     “No, Meenah,” Aranea says with a long-suffering sigh, shuffling up to straddle Meenah's stomach when she keeps trying to pull her down to her hips. “Not even if you ask nicely, though I doubt you're capable of that much. You need to learn that you can't—”

     Aranea's lecture stops mid-flow when Meenah grabs at her behind with both hands, grinning in a way that's just aching for trouble. With a hmph, Aranea pulls Meenah's hands away, dropping them down to the floor.

     “You need to learn that you can't pull me aside whenever you, and I quote, reely need a quick fuck, Serket, because—oh, for god's sake, don't tell me you're getting off on my recital of your own fish pun.”

     “Can't help it.” Meenah runs her tongue out across her upper lip, and stops futilely rubbing her thighs together. She spreads her legs, and moves a hand between them before Aranea can even stop her. “Fine. Guess I gotta take care of myself.”

     Aranea's very nearly tempted to let Meenah get on with it, because she has quite the view of her face up here, and surely it's not right to let her suffer quite this much; but in the end, she has to stick to her resolve. She grabs Meenah's wrists, both of them, and pins them to the ground above her head.

     “When you feel like taking some responsibility, Meenah, be sure to let minnow.”

     She's grinning even as she forms the word. Meenah snarls, arches her back and snaps her teeth up at her, grumbling “Coddamn land hag,” as she burns deep purple.

[ vii ]

     Vriska's neck is riddled with bite marks that quickly heal over but leave fresh scars for weeks on end, and though she claims the blood loss doesn't bother her – she's a god, after all! – Kanaya's reluctant to tear up too much of her throat. On some level, that is. Most waking hours of the day, there's little else Kanaya can think of that doesn't involve sinking her teeth into the yielding grey flesh of Vriska's throat, letting her tongue chase each and every drop of blue blood.

     But, from a practical point of view, she knows she needs to allow Vriska time to let her throat heal over. Vriska doesn't seem to agree: a few minutes of kissing, and already she's got her legs clamped around Kanaya's waist, fingers bundled in her hair as she tugs her head lower, trying to guide her mouth onto her throat.

     Kanaya doesn't deny her. Or doesn't seem like she's going to deny her, at first. She presses her mouth to her neck, leaves light kisses against her soft, warm skin, and then continues downwards. Vriska whines in a way Kanaya can't take pride in, tries to tug her back up, and huffs loudly when Kanaya mumbles something about not tonight, Vriska, give your throat some time to heal.

     “Bet you're hungry,” Vriska grumbles as Kanaya kisses at her stomach, one arm thrown across her forehead as she tries to frown, even through the gasps she can't help but let out. “This isn't just for my own good, Fussyfangs! I'm looking out for you, here. So come on, just—”

     Vriska holds her wrist out, right up against Kanaya's nose, and Kanaya doesn't know if it's the blood pounding so close to her lips or her desire to get Vriska to shut the hell up, but before she's even aware of her own movements, she's got her prominent fangs dug into Vriska's skin, blood seeping out between them. Vriska jerks, as if in pain, but then settles down, head titled back.

     Kanaya laps at her wrist as her fingers find their way inside of Vriska, and doesn't mind that this does absolutely nothing to get her to quiet down.

[ viii ]

     Vriska says she'd feel a lot better about things if you'd stop asking her if she's okay with it, but you can't help yourself. You're fussy by nature, you tell her, and she barely has it within herself to roll her eyes up at you. 

     You're not surprised that she wants this. She always squirms when you take hold of her wrists, relishes in trying to break away (even though she doesn't want her freedom), and when the subject of bondage tentatively came up, you'd responded by teasing her. You weren't sure how you felt about being tied up, you told her, and she shot you a glare, refusing to discuss the topic for little over a week.

     “Perhaps we should've started with your hands cuffed behind your back,” you mutter, eyes skimming over her. She's got her arms stretched above her head, wrists fixed firmly either side of a slat in the headboard. Maybe this is too much; you don't know, but you need to be certain.

     “It's fine,” Vriska practically growls up at you, and twists her wrists in the cuffs to demonstrate just how fine it really is. Only in doing so, she realises that she really is restrained, realises that you're the only one with a key for the lock. She frowns, more impatient than anything else, and with her eyes closed, breathes, “Come on, Maryam.”

     And so you do as she says. The fact that you were willing to go to painstaking lengths to ensure that this really is, as Vriska would say, 800% okay by her doesn't mean that you aren't aching to get on with things yourself. Head bowed, you let your lips trace familiar paths across her stomach and thighs, and no matter how well versed you are in all the right places to kiss Vriska Serket, everything about this feels new to you.

     It's new to her, too. She's reacting in different ways, twisting sharply when she'd usually just grab at a pillow, and you feel, for a moment, that you have more control than ever before. You're overcome by the simultaneous urges to have her trembling beneath you and to take your time exploring every last inch of her, until she's ready to break, and give into the former.

     You've got your mouth pressed against her, and she's warm and wet and not able to tangle her fingers in your hair or sink her nails into your shoulder. Vriska can't make you slow down or speed up, can't do anything but plead, though you know your control is an illusion, because any moment now she could—

     “Stop.”

     There it is. That's what you were afraid of. In a split second, your heartbeat makes the leap from distracting to uncomfortable, and you break your mouth away, eyes fixed up on her face. You're about to ask her what's wrong, about to fumble for the key, but she's smiling so widely that the muscles in your own face hurt to look at her.

     “This is great,” she murmurs hazily, pupils blown, and hooks one leg around the back of your shoulders, guiding you back down. “Just thought you should know.”

[ ix ]

     Sometimes, you're bored enough to pick up one of Kanaya's trashy novels. She has as many featuring caliginous couplings as she does flushed ones, and the over-embellished sex scenes are always the same: hair-pulling, biting, scratching, orgasm denial. Supposedly nasty stuff. 

     Not with Aradia, though. It's as if you're both still on opposing Flarp teams, facing off against each other, and everything's a game. She doesn't hold back any, doesn't make you beg for more; it's the opposite, really, and by the time things are really heating up, your body doesn't know what to do with itself. You're batting her hands away while you're wrapping your legs around her waist, gasping into her ear and telling her to fuck off, but not like that.

     “First one to finish loses,” she says, though there's no actual prize, nothing you earn by hanging on longer that she does. Other than pride, you suppose. Aradia puts her all into it, does the things she knows you like because she's taken the time to break you down and figure it all out – bites at your throat while her fingers are inside you, pushes you down on your knees and scratches along the ridges where your wings meet your back, holds you against the wall by your hips and lets you wrap your legs around her shoulders – and just as you're really getting into it, she reminds you that you're supposed to be playing to win, remember?

     But she always comes out the victor. That's what you get for fucking a God of Time; of course she's going to make you come as quick as anything, though that isn't to say you aren't going to keep trying to get the upper hand.

[ x ]

     “Jegus, Aranea!” Vriska says, taking two fistfuls of Meenah's horns as she settles down behind her. She'd be of much more help to Aranea if she grabbed hold of Meenah's wrists and held her arms down, but she can't resist tilting her head back, running her teeth along the edges of her fins. “Where the hell do you keep finding these chumps?”

     Aranea, knelt between Meenah's legs and busy trying to get her arms under control, doesn't answer Vriska straight away. After a fair deal of wrestling, Aranea manages to pin Meenah's hands to the floor, and leans forward, as if a kiss will wipe the scowl off her face. It does a little to calm Meenah down, but only causes Vriska's expression to sour in turn, so Aranea pushes herself up on her knees, and kisses Vriska, too.

     “On one of the moons, a few bubbles that way,” Aranea says, vaguely tilting her head to the side, much more interested in helping rid Meenah of her pants than discussing directions with Vriska. Meenah, having given up pretending that she was going to keep batting Aranea's hands away until her — well, not until her dying breath, seeing as they're all already dead, but for a really, really long time, slumps back against Vriska. Vriska releases one of her horns, slides a hand up the front of her shirt, and Meenah bares her teeth.

     “Never thought you fuckin' spider nerds would catch me in your fishnet like this,” Meenah grumbles, kicking her pants away when Aranea just doesn't work quickly enough. “Now I'm stuck in the middle of a coddamn Serket sandwich.”

     “Actually,” Aranea says, hands running up the insides of Meenah's thighs as she leans forward to kiss both Meenah and Vriska against the sides of their necks. Vriska does something with her fingertips beneath Meenah's shirt that makes her groan, and then try to elbow her in the stomach. “A Serket sandwich implies that the filling of said sandwich consists entirely of spidertroll. In this metaphor, we're diligently taking on the role of the bread. If anything, this is a fish sandwich.”

     “Krill me,” Meenah grumbles, covering her face with both hands. “She ain't ever gonna clam up, is she...”

     Vriska bites down on her fin, making it twitch, and says, “We're dead, fishbrain.” 

     “I'll be quiet, but only because you asked so nicely,” Aranea hums, bowing her head, lips grazing across one of Meenah's knees, “I'd be remiss to waste an opportunaty like this.”

[ xi ]

     All it takes is an unprovoked comment about Kanaya's current choice of blouse, and within three minutes, Rose is bent over the kitchen table, one hand tangled in her hair, the other hiking the back of her skirt up. The trolls outsize humans in a lot of ways, and Kanaya's taller than most trolls; her hands are huge, palms pressing the small of Rose's back down against the table when she shuffles too much, fingers long and slender, nails scraping across her scalp.

     It doesn't take Kanaya long to get to the point. She runs a hand down the backs of Rose's thighs, and doesn't hesitate to move her fingers between them, higher and higher, just because Rose gasps out. Rose is still reeling from the way Kanaya tugs at her hair with enough force to be unpleasantly painful under any other circumstances when she feel feels two of her fingers slide inside of her. She moans, tries to push herself up on tiptoes to work against Kanaya's hand, but Kanaya only pushes her back down, hips pinned against the back of her own.

     A desperate sort of confusion still manages to cloud Rose's senses, because she feels as if she ought be apologising for something; yet at the same time, Kanaya isn't making any demands of her, isn't holding anything back. She can hear Kanaya's breathing, heavy and ragged and just a little primal, can feel Kanaya drinking down every drop of her dishevelled state.

     Rose rakes her nails across the tabletop. Some part of her wants to laugh, because Kanaya always, always insists on placing coasters beneath glasses, mats beneath plates, and yet there she is, fucking her so hard into the table that she's liable to break it in two.

[ xii ]

     Vriska's vaguely aware that Terezi got up a while ago: the bed covers shifted, the weight of arms around Vriska's waist lifted, and a few minutes later, the shower began to run. There was a murmuring along the lines of I've got class at ten, but Vriska managed to fall back to sleep almost immediately. She's not working until this afternoon, and there's no need for her to drag herself out of bed yet. 

     Not that Terezi agrees. She's woken suddenly by Terezi throwing herself onto the bed, landing directly atop her, and not for the first time, either. Vriska groans, refuses to open her eyes, and pulls the covers up over her face. Terezi squirms above her, straddles her hips through the duvet, and grabs at her wrists, pulling them away.

     “You can sleep when I'm in class, Vriska!” Terezi says, ever the morning-person that Vriska isn't. “But look! I got you a present.”

     Far too easily swayed by material gifts, Vriska decides that she may as well relent sooner rather than later. She throws the duvet to the side, is about to snap What the hell is it?, but then actually gets a look at Terezi and oh. She's fresh out the shower, short black hair still wet, clinging to her face and sticking out at odd angles. There are few drops of water still splattered against her shoulders and collarbone, and Vriska would lean up to wipe or lick them away, if not for the fact that Terezi's idea of getting dressed begins and ends at the teal thigh-highs she's got pulled up past her knees.

     “Um,” Vriska says, or otherwise thinks it, pushing herself up into a sitting position. Sleep's suddenly the last thing on her mind, and her hands are already at Terezi's thighs. Terezi laughs, delighted, squirms in her lap, and Vriska decides that the duvet between them really has to go. She presses her mouth to the corner of Terezi's throat, eases her back, and once she's lying down, Vriska loses all interest in her neck. “Guess I'll forgive you for waking me up this time.”

     Terezi grins, really grins, because she knows that she's going to get exactly what she wants, and Vriska doesn't give half a fuck about how accommodating she's being. Hard to notice anything in Terezi's expression when Vriska keeps looking down to her legs, eyes skimming across the soft, silky material, transfixed by the way the edges of teal meet her warm, tan skin, really. Vriska presses both hands to Terezi's knees, and Terezi pushes herself up so that she's half-sitting, knees arched, both hands placed on the mattress behind her to prop herself up.

     Vriska's repositioning herself without even thinking anything through, placing herself on her knees, able to bow her head and graze her mouth against the inside of Terezi's knee. She hums against the fabric, runs her tongue across her lips as they tingle a little from the texture, still able to feel the warmth of Terezi's skin through the thigh-highs. She's probably more sensitive than usual from the shower, Vriska thinks, lips and nose bumping against the inside of one thigh as her fingers do the same to the other.

     Terezi stays still, other than spreading her legs more with the higher Vriska moves up, never quite reaching the tops of the thigh-highs, but Vriska hears her breathing hitch over the sound of her own heart pounding. It's not often Vriska takes her time like this, moving in slight, subtle ways, but there's something utterly fascinating about Terezi's thigh-highs; for once, Vriska's not trying to tear her clothing off her.

     When she finally kisses Terezi's skin, at the very top of her inner thigh, Terezi's fingers bundle in the duvet, and she murmurs, “My lecture's at ten.” Vriska opens her eyes to glance over at the alarm clock, sees it's already nine twenty-seven, and supposes that she can drag herself out of bed to drive Terezi in, worst comes to worst.

     “Don't worry about it,” Vriska mumbles back, mouth drifting between Terezi's legs. She'd like to keep running her fingers and lips across the thigh-highs until she starts tearing the fabric under her nails and biting through it, but she can't realistically hold herself back. She licks at Terezi, slow, broad strokes of her tongue, and Terezi lets out the most wonderfully shaky breath Vriska's ever heard. She murmurs her name against her in return, and Terezi decides she can support her weight on one arm; her other hand comes up, presses lightly to the back of Vriska's head.

     Vriska works her tongue inside of Terezi, movements still slow but heavy; there's a definite greed in how deep she goes, and when Terezi hooks one leg over her shoulder, Vriska feels the fabric of a thigh-high brush against her ear.

     Fuck.

     She's not doing much with her hands, other than supporting herself on one of her forearms, because there's no need to hold Terezi down. She knows exactly what it is she wants, and is patiently letting Vriska get on with it. Vriska's left arm moves down, bumping against her hipbone before reaching between her legs, and she rocks forward, easily sliding into herself. Terezi notices a shift in something immediately; her hand runs down the back of Vriska's head, across her shoulder, and she manages to get a feel for the where he arm's going.

     “You really like the thigh-highs, don't you?” Terezi asks, nails scraping across her nape.

     “Yeah,” Vriska manages to get out, and Terezi returns her hand to the back of her head, making sure she can't move too far away. “You should get more. Red ones.”

     Terezi, seeming to like this idea as much as Vriska does, hooks both legs over her shoulders, ankles crossed, and finally falls back flat against the mattress. Vriska tilts her head to the side, sucking on her as she works her thumb against herself; she's learnt plenty from Terezi these past few months, and doesn't see why she can't skip all her lectures and let Vriska keep doing this forever.

[ xiii ]

     Your office door has a lock on it. For private interrogations, supposedly. 

     You make full use of it, and return to your desk, not about to let Mindfang defeat you. You're so distracted that you can barely taste the words on the stack of paperwork you've got to make your way through, but there's no need to be a wiggler about this. You're a woman of action, and there's no reason to refrain from tending to personal business if it's affecting your work this much.

     Leaning back in your chair, you pull your skirt up into your lap – the slits in the side make it laughably easy to manoeuvre – and tug your underwear down. No reason not to get straight into things, no need to act as if this is all just happening, beyond your control. It's something that has to be dealt with, nothing more and nothing less, and if you're already this wound up, there's not much need to think of anything. 

     With your hand between your legs, you press up against yourself, and it feels – it feels like you expected it to. It's your body, you're well aware of what you're doing, and you tilt your head back, fingers working in circles. There's almost a spark of something, a warm feeling in the pit of your stomach, but with your mind blank, it's nothing beyond dully pleasant. You're never going to get anywhere like this. You're only prolonging the problem.

     So you try conjuring up some sort of encouragement in the back of your mind. The outlines of body parts, places to press your mouth, sounds and smells, but nothing does anything beyond strain your thoughts. Nothing helps. You bite on your lower lip, fingers rubbing harder, and something flashes into your mind: the smell of leather, tough and creased, above scarred grey skin, cool blue blood beneath that.

     Mindfang's boots. Old, rough wounds carved in above her knees. 

     You sneer, disgusted by the unwelcome thoughts, and pretend you don't notice your fingers working harder. Your hips rise off the seat, and you breathe out through grit teeth, making a deal with yourself: you know that you don't really want to think about this, and that's why your body is reacting so strongly. Your mind is playing tricks on you, but you're already too far into this to stop now; and the sooner it's over and done with the better.

     But the chair's uncomfortable. You can't get as much as you need, and then suddenly, you're on your feet, one hand gripping the edge of your desk as you lean forward. You've got your legs placed apart on the floor, toes curling in your boots, and you think about Mindfang's wrists in irons, the way the line of her jaw tastes, as you hiss at yourself to hurry up, hurry up, just get on with it. 

     And then Mindfang's behind you, pressed up against your back, causing the fronts of your thighs to dig into the edge of the desk. She'd push you down but tangle her fingers in your hair, and it's her hand between your legs, not your own, as she tells you that you're despicable for giving in this easily, and that she knows this is all you've wanted all along, of course it is.

     Looking back on it, you only imagine her to be hissing out the very things you think about yourself, at times like these. The thought of Mindfang brings with it haste, but once you're sat back in your chair, door unlocked, you find that your skin burns around your throat, and your temples pound; it's always worse than if she'd actually been there, because now you have only yourself to blame.

[ xiv ]

     Mindfang finds the tailor while at port one night, but is more interested in the way her skin glows than her skill with a needle and thread.

     In all her dozens upon dozens of sweeps on the face of Alternia, she's never met a rainbow drinker before. She offers her a place upon her ship, and the girl – Kanaya, she calls herself – agrees immediately. It's hard to come by steady work, she says, especially when you're undead, and from the look of Mindfang's outfits she's already seen, her hands won't often find themselves idle.

     The gamblignants are an unruly bunch when anyone but Mindfang is involved, and Mindfang promises to keep Kanaya safe while she's on her ship. She only has one rule: Kanaya isn't to feed on any of the crew. Mindfang says such a rare-blooded creature should have better tastes than the dirt and rust that makes up the lowbloods who work at scrubbing the decks, each more disposable than the last. Not that Mindfang is going to let her starve, of course.

     It doesn't take many nights for Kanaya to first end up in her private block. There's no pretence of needing some piece of clothing repaired; Mindfang simply has her sent for, and finds Kanaya wonderfully receptive to all her lingering gazes and wandering touches. She starts by asking to see the wound in her stomach that Kanaya's made mention of, sees to it that she's traced the faint-green scar tissue with her lips quickly enough, and within less than an hour, has her tailor naked in her lap, arching at every little touch and bite. 

     “Marquise, would you please—” Kanaya gasps out, and Mindfang finds it utterly endearing that she's saying please, even with her fingers between her legs. With her other hand, Mindfang tangles her fingers in her short hair, bringing her mouth down to her neck, every so often; and Kanaya whimpers, teeth scraping against Mindfang's throat, only to be yanked back every time.

     She has the most exquisite fangs Mindfang's ever seen. She pushes her fingers deeper inside of her, just to watch the way her lips part, prominent teeth gleaming in the dark of the block. She's hungry, Mindfang knows that, and Mindfang will give her anything she desires, so long as she asks nicely enough.

     “What is it, darling?” Mindfang asks, taking hold of the line of Kanaya's jaw, pulling her down into a kiss. She licks at her fangs, lets one of them cut her lower lip, and as the blood touches the tip of Kanaya's tongue, she feels her shudder and groan against her. 

     “If it isn't too much to ask,” Kanaya murmurs, sucking every drop of blood from Mindfang's lower lip. It stings, but the way Kanaya whimpers at even the slightest taste is more than enough to balance things out in Mindfang's book. “You are already doing a monumental amount for me, but if you would, I—”

     Mindfang flexes her fingers inside of her, and Kanaya digs her nails into her shoulders, completely losing her chain of thought. With a smile, Mindfang tilts her head back, and lets Kanaya bury her face against the side of her neck. 

     “I am in dire need of feeding, Marquise, it's been days, and though I think you'd consent...” 

     It'd be cruel in an unrewarding way to let her suffer any longer, and with a hum, Mindfang presses down on the back of her head, sucking in a sharp breath as Kanaya's fangs sink into her throat, cool blue blood flowing out against her lips and tongue.

[ xv ]

     Vriska's nobility, blood cooler than most of those on land, but there's nothing so goddamn cold as the presence of ghosts. They're there all the time, even when Aradia isn't. It's part of their kismessitude, one of Aradia's games, she knows that, and the fact that Aradia isn't going to have her end up like one of them doesn't make it any less terrifying. But what can Vriska do? She certainly can't back out, can't admit defeat.

     Aradia doesn't even have to touch her and she's already frozen. They're all around her, in Aradia's block, and even closing her eyes to them doesn't help. She can feel them pressing in on her, blank eyes watching her every movement, every shiver that runs through her body. Aradia watches her too, amused, and Vriska wants to tell her to wipe that smug grin away before she knocks it off her face, but her lips don't even part. There are chills running down her spine, and she feels like she needs to set herself on fire to rid herself of this.

     They're just ghosts, they're just ghosts, she tells herself, and why should she give a shit if they're there, watching? It's not as if they can do anything to her; she knows because they've tried before, reaching out to wrap translucent fingers around her throat. They just slip right through, but she knows who they are, even if she doesn't recognise them. They're the wandering spirits of trolls she's mutilated and run through, all to feed her lusus. Aradia calls to them on purpose.

     “Come on, Vriska!” Aradia says cheerfully, finally leaning forward to press her hands against her, palms splayed out against her thighs. Aradia's warm-blooded, now more so than ever; it's as if the rust in her veins has turned to molten lava. Vriska shudders with the heat, burning up more as Aradia works her fingers inside of her. She's almost surprised when she works her joints and they don't snap, and with her arms wrapped around Aradia's shoulders, she rocks against her, doing all she can to pretend that they're the only ones in the block. But that would be all too easy. With her breath hot on Vriska's neck while the rest of her shivers all the more, Aradia fucks her harder, and croons, “They're just ghosts! It's nothing to be afraid of.”

[ xvi ]

     Your moirail stomps into your hive, almost knocks the door down in the process, blood on her boots, her fingers, tangled up in her hair, half of her shirt missing. There are deep cuts across her bony ribs, running like claw marks, and you're not entirely sure whether it's the work of other trolls or the undead. The former, probably, as she isn't foaming at the mouth. You place your hands on her shoulders, physically having to stop her in her tracks, and you say her name loudly, clearly, trying to bring her back to her senses.

     The first time Vriska got like this, you weren't certain that you'd be able to deal with her. But from the way her shoulders shake, fists clenched, teeth grit together, you can tell that she's the only one who can't actually deal with any of this. Her eyes are burning in a way that makes the rest of her expression darken, like a scorching sunset eating away at the horizon. You tangle your fingers in what's left of her shirt over one shoulder and sink your nails into the other, pushing her hard against the wall when she doesn't stop trying to charge straight through you.

     “Fuck you!” she spits, grabbing at the front of your shirt, “Fuck you, Maryam, you're supposed to be my moirail. You're supposed to stop me from doing stupid shit like this!”

     “Calm down,” you hiss, and she bares her teeth at you. There's blood caught between them, but it's her own blue. For a second, her eyes narrow, but you know she's not heeding your words. That's when you feel it: a cool, creeping sensation, like ice thawing inside of your skull. You tighten your grip on her shoulders, pull her close so you can slam her against the wall, hearing her head thud against it.

     “Get out of my head, Vriska,” you say in little more than a whisper. Her eyes lock onto yours, challenging you, and you hold the contact for longer than she does. Her hold trickles away, and when you know that your mind is your own again, you press yourself up against her. Vriska's body, bloody and bruised, must be aching to the bone already, but there's something like adrenaline pumping through her, driving her on. There's only one way to calm down someone like Vriska Serket in this situation.

     Forearm crossing her collarbone to keep her pinned to the wall, you reach down to the waist of her pants. They come away easily, they're always too damn baggy, she never listens to you, and she tries to lean forward as if she's trying to bite your face off. You press your forehead up against hers, snarling, close enough to feel a low growl rumbling in the back of her throat.

     “Fuck you, Maryam. Fuck you, you shitty, useless, pathetic excuse for a moirail. You can't do anything, can't ever keep me under control—”

     You rake your nails down the inside of her thigh and she pretends that it doesn't sting. There's something in you that doesn't mind the way she speaks to you at times like these, because your heart's pounding away and you feel close to invincible, being the only one who can pin her down and drive reason into her. She's shouting and screaming now, but you know it won't take long for you to get different noises out of her altogether. 

     “Stop being such a petulant wiggler,” you tell her, keeping your voice level. No need to incite her into a shouting match. She knocks her forehead against yours, as if challenging you to prove her wrong, and your retaliation comes in the form of your fingers between her legs. She makes a choking sound, lets go of your shirt to scramble for purchase against the wall, convincing herself that her knees don't come dangerously close to buckling. 

     It's almost disappointing how well this always works. You keep your weight pressed against her, not wanting to give her the opportunity to realise that she can worm her way free, and she bucks her hips into your hands, cursing herself for it all the while. You don't build her up, because she's past the point of being able to comprehend or make use of any sort of preparation, and you press your forehead back against hers, unblinking, as if daring her to move.

     “... going to fucking kill you, Maryam,” she seethes, one leg wrapped around your waist as she tries to rock between you and the wall. “Then you won't be able to get in my business anymore. Going to get into your think pan and make you, make you—”

     But her delirious ramblings trail off when you move a hand beneath her shirt, running your fingertips out across the fresh cuts. She gasps, and you think the pain must do something to bring her back to her senses. Just to be safe, you bite at her lower lip for good measures, and she whimpers and hisses into your mouth as she comes, falling pathetically slack against you.

     “Fuck you, Kanaya,” she grumbles into your shoulder, shaking. You wrap an arm around her, kiss the top of her head, and she somehow finds the strength to cling to your hips.

     “In due time,” you say with a sigh, wiping your fingers against the inside of her thigh. “Let's get you cleaned up first, Vriska.” 

[ xvii ]

     “You'll have to help me understand just how sensitive they are,” Mindfang says over your head, fingertips tracing the tips of your wings. They twitch as your shoulder blades rise up, and you scrape your fingers across the fabric of your orange pants, trying to remain calm. Not that you could be blamed for flipping out, you decide; none of this is fair. Aranea has wings too, but they're both ganging up on you, doing all they can to make you squirm.

     Which, given, isn't all that surprising. From an initial glance at Aranea, she might look like you more than she does your ancestor, but when it comes down to it, they are the same person. Aranea's knelt in front of you, smiling in a way that's far too innocent for an incarnation of Mindfang, and she presses both hands to your knees. She's in her god tier get-up too, but for some reason, she's been allowed to keep her shirt on.

     “Of course, Marquise,” Aranea says, and her own wings spread out as she leans forward, planting her lips against your collarbone. Great, you think. She's blatantly getting off on using her alternate self's title, and as if her hands on your knees and lips on your chest weren't bad enough already, Mindfang pulls you all the more into her lap, one arm around your waist, hand splayed out against the inside of your thigh. Why the fuck do you have your pants on still? Jegus, if they're going to sandwich you between them like this, they should at least have the decency to make this comfortable for you. 

     Which it isn't. At all. Everything is eight times hotter than it should be, you can't keep still, and, fantastic, now Aranea's kissing at your breasts and you're moaning. Loudly. Loudly enough to make Mindfang rest her chin on your shoulder, so she doesn't miss the ridiculous display, which only makes things all the more unbearable. 

     “They're just—” you try groaning out, but then Aranea's sucking bruises up against your skin, and Mindfang's hand finds its way to the base of your wing while the other brushes idly between your legs. You lift your hips as if that's going to help with the barrier of clothing there, and murmur, “Nn, yeah. Along the base.”

     “Like so?” Mindfang asks, nails raking along the hard ridges of skin where your wings join your back. You jolt in her lap, almost kick Aranea in the process, and between the buzz that makes your vision flash and the tips of your horns burn, you hear them both laughing at you. They sound fascinated, maybe even fond, but they're laughing nonetheless.

     “Fuck you both,” you grumble, trying not to react when Mindfang does it again and failing spectacularly. “I didn't come to this bubble to be your play-thing.”

     As it turns out, both Mindfang and Aranea strongly disagree on this point.

[ xviii ]

     When brought before the Empress, Mindfang knows that she should profess nothing but love for the woman born with blood in her veins that elevates above the rest of their race. She knows this, but there is nothing warm or red about her feelings; knelt before the Empress, because simply bowing in her presence, is not, and never will be, enough, Mindfang cannot hope to touch her mind, but fragments of what she feels still ghost over her skin.

     Disinterest, mostly. A deep-seated boredom that Mindfang can't hope to douse in one meeting. Yet still, in spite of the way that Mindfang very almost goes unnoticed, though she's the only other one in the block with the Empress, she can't help but feel inky black respect for her. Here is a woman who's lived for thousands of sweeps, and will live on for thousands more, long after Mindfang and her legend are dead, the only troll who could presume to blithely order Mindfang around.

     Mindfang values her own life enough to know what she has to do. They dispense with the pleasantries, and Mindfang's boldness amuses Her Imperious Condescension when she moves forward, still on her knees. It is an honour, the Condesce reminds her as she presses the tip of her trident's central prong to her her throat; Mindfang knows her blood will be drawn if she swallows the lump in her throat or breathes in too deeply.

     There's a grim fascination in being the one on her knees, the one who's been stripped of any control. Her hands threaten to shake as she presses them to the insides of the Empress' thighs, body racked with anxiety, not quite believing that she's going to be allowed to touch her. When the Empress draws her trident back, Mindfang very nearly shudders for the first time. Her fingertips run across the scales at the Empress' hips, while her ears burn with praise; truly, this is a sign of her devotion to the Empire. 

[ xix ]

     There isn't much that Vriska can grasp onto at the moment: her wrists are tied to either corner of the headboard, putting her hands out of commission, and every time she tries to wrap a leg around Terezi's back or shoulders, she earns a quick, sharp slap against the inside of her thigh. Arching her back doesn't get her far, because Terezi clamps her hands down on her hips, and Vriska quickly learns that the only part of herself she actually has some semblance of control over is her voice. 

     Sure, it's Terezi who's making her moan out and swear incoherently, but if Vriska really concentrates and works out a desperate whimper, then Terezi works her tongue faster. It's almost like being in control, even if Terezi probably isn't aware of what she's doing. And so Vriska works on moaning and whining, even pleading, because it's getting her what she wants, and so what if the neighbours hear? So what if there are complaints, because she knows that this must be getting to Terezi.

     Because the sounds of her own voice, rising with every inch further Terezi pushes her, are enough to make even herself shudder. She screws her eyes shut, content to keep her body exactly where Terezi wants it, so long as she can hear her own gasps and groans pressing at her ears, utterly shameless, entirely unrestrained.

[ xx ]

     As far as Vriska's concerned, Redglare's fair game. After the  incident at the tavern , there's not much that could pass between them and be classed as inappropriate in any way, and if Redglare thinks that, well, screw her. It's her loss.

     Vriska's slumped in the corner, arms folded across her chest in an attempt to stop herself from fidgeting, and there Redglare is, scrawling away, wholly absorbed by her paperwork. Mindfang left Vriska with her as a sort of deposit, a show of good faith; she's hardly about to run off without her descendant in tow, now is she? And so Vriska's stuck waiting while Mindfang wraps up the last of her business, left in Redglare's care. It's fucking boring. Terezi's nowhere to be seen, which means Vriska's left to make her own entertainment.

     She gets up, paces across the block. Redglare hears every step she takes but doesn't look up, and even when Vriska grumbles under her breath, she still pays her no need. Swinging her legs out in half-circles as she walks, Vriska stands behind Redglare, hands on the back of her chair, and tries to see what she's writing. Redglare hunches her shoulders, leans forward, blocking the document from sight.

     Whatever. Probably wasn't that interesting, anyway. Vriska sighs, considers flopping back in her own seat and drifting off, but then decides to stick to her initial observation: Redglare is fair game, and she's not about to let her ignore her like this. Mindfang refuses to divulge too much information about her, saying that Vriska needs to learn some things for herself, and the way that Redglare's ears poke out from beneath her hair is kind of cute, in a really uptight sort of way.

     Bowing her head, Vriska bites at the shell of her ear, and to her surprise, Redglare doesn't roll her shoulders to push her back, doesn't elbow her in the gut; she actually shudders.

     “Hah—!” Vriska says, all too proud of herself, and steals a quick lick of Redglare's ear. “Man, that was waaaaaaaay too easy!”

     She sees the way Redglare sets her jaw, gripping her pen so tightly it might break in two, and it takes her a moment to turn and face her. “What do you think you're doing?” she demands to know, and in the back of her mind, Vriska imagines her saying You're as bad as Mindfang. Though she knows that she's only stroking her own ego.

     “I don't know! I'm fucking bored and trying to entertain myself,” Vriska says, goes to nip at her ear again, but there's a loud scraping as Redglare pushes her chair out, turning to face her. Vriska, emboldened by what she takes to be success, wastes no time in sliding into Redglare's lap, only to be met with Redglare's hands immediately wrapping around her throat. “—god, come on! It'd probably piss Mindfang off!”

     Vriska speaks as if the thought of angering Mindfang doesn't make her mouth run dry, and maybe, that's the best part of this all. Redglare huffs, seems to consider it for a moment, and as soon as her hands retreat, Vriska's got her mouth back against her ear. Redglare, usually the very picture of composure, tenses and tries not to gasp every time Vriska bites at her, and Vriska's rewarded with hands against her backside when she sucks down on her earlobe.

     “That woman will be the death of you, Serket,” Redglare says sternly, but who gives a fuck about that when she's tugging her pants down in the same breath?

[ xxi ]

     The thing Mindfang has to remember, in spite of the way that Terezi's willing to dress like Redglare and respond to her name, is the fact that she isn't Redglare. The physical similarities are startling, and it's not until Mindfang has Terezi in her lap, against the wall, on the table, legs around her waist, that she realises she's let her guard down once again.

     Because Terezi doesn't hold back anything. There's no stubbornness worked into her bones, and she doesn't measure or mute her own enjoyment, for fear of Mindfang enjoying herself in turn. Terezi lets Mindfang place her hands wherever she pleases, but more than that, Terezi manages to draw her in; Mindfang's got her hand up under Terezi's legislacerator's skirt before she even realises that she's playing directly into her head games. She gets what she wants, because Mindfang's too willing to give, aching to reduce Redglare to as much of a wreck.

     “Well played, Redglare,” she says, gaze narrowed, and Terezi bites at her neck, laughing and moaning, delightfully deranged.

[ xxii ]

     She's clinging to you already: her arms are wound around your waist, face buried in your shoulder, one horn digging into the side of your neck. You don't know what to do with her, but there's no pushing Vriska Serket away from you now. Creating space between the two of you would mean having to piece together how you got there, and you can't do that now.

     There have been a lot of bad choices made in the years since you recreated the universe, a lot of things said that you can't take back, and your head rattles with the memory of a you that you never were. Drinking would solve the immediate problems. Drinking would fix the present; and right now, your present is a dingy motel room that charges by the hour, with Vriska pressing you to a wall.

     She wants you. Or she wants you to want her. It doesn't matter, now that you're here. 

     You put your hands on her shoulders, easing her back as you edge towards the bed, and her lips curl, displaying her top row of teeth. She's feigning disgust because you're a human, soft and pink with bright red blood and white in your eyes, but you know you're as fascinating to her as she is to you. Vriska doesn't hate you, despite her half-hearted claims to the contrary, and you don't hate her, either.

     She falls down upon the bed when you guide her to it, digs her nails into the knees of your jeans when you straddle her lap. If not hate, then what is it that makes her eyes flash? Now isn't the time to think about that; now is the time to press your mouth against her own, to fumble and fail at unbuttoning her jeans when your fingers keep shaking, wrists as tense as the rest of your body. 

     Vriska grunts into your mouth, teeth catching on your lips but never cutting, and all you need in this moment is a warm body to press yourself against. But Vriska is just the opposite, as you soon find out — the blue blood in her system keeps her cool, even as she undoes her pants to give you the room to slip you hand down the front of them. The contact alone is almost enough for you. Vriska makes the sort of noises that let you believe that she doesn't just want you, she needs you, too, and her nails rake down your back when you either don't do enough or do just the right amount of something.

     You think about running your own nails where her wings meet her back. You think about tangling your fingers in her hair and scratching at the back of her horns. But all of that somehow seems more intimate than what you're doing to her now, and you need to push her all the way, need to make everything about this moment, about her. 

     Fucking Vriska Serket will do as much to improve your life as cartwheeling onto a landmine, but by god, you make sure to get the job done.

     And when you pull your hand from between her legs, she wraps her arms back around you, not letting you get to your feet and make your excuses. She pulls you down close, says there's room for improvement, and when you bury your face in her shoulder, she tells you that she thinks she has enough money to keep the room for the night.

[ xxiii ]

     “I ain't doing it,” Vriska says.

     She's got the phone pinned between her ear and shoulder, using both hands to tug her pants down.

     “We both know you're going to do it!” Terezi's voice crackles at the other end of the line. “I'm not going to be able to take care of you myself until the weekend, and you have your needs.”

     “It's weird,” Vriska grumbles, settling down on the sofa. “And you're needier than me. You've pulled me out of work on my lunch breaks before!”

     “Oh, don't act like you didn't enjoy it, Spidergirl!” Terezi says, and then sighs, far from exasperated. Vriska squirms on the sofa uncomfortably, every link in her spine shuddering out of time with the next.

     “—Christ! You're already doing it, aren't you?”

     Terezi hums her reply from the back of her throat, a long, low mmmm, and Vriska doesn't need to hear anything beyond that. There's no way in hell she's being left out, no way she's going to sit there and listen as Terezi gets herself off to – most likely – the thought of Vriska's discomfort. She doesn't bother tugging her boxers down, only pulls her pants off one ankle, and lies with one leg propped up against the back of the sofa, other foot flat on the floor.

     “Freak,” she grumbles, chewing on her lower lip as her fingers settle into place. She means to keep her mouth shut, but Terezi's breathing hitches, and she hears herself blurt out, “What the fuck are you even thinking about? Other than me, obviously.”

     Apparently, Terezi doesn't have any ulterior motives, for once. She really does just want to get off. 

     “Hmm. About—” Terezi pauses, inhaling sharply. There are lots of little pauses as she speaks. “About the time I worked you up so much that you were, were deliriously begging me to let you go down on me!”

     Terezi lets out a laugh at the end, and even that isn't enough to stop Vriska in her tracks. It's what she wants to hear, she knows that, Terezi knows that, but she has to be defiant, has to pretend that this was her idea all along.

     “Screw you,” she remembers to mumble out, lifting her hips as she presses harder with her fingers. “That's not what happened. That's—”

     “Isn't it? What did happen then, Vriska?”

     “Fuck. Make that noise again.”

     Terezi obliges all too quickly and Vriska's not ready for it. She tilts her head to the side, trying to keep her grip on the phone, and then has absolutely no idea of what she's saying. Something about creative ways to shut Terezi up, to which Terezi replies with every shade of yes under the sun, and throws in a few suggestions of her own.

     By the time Vriska's done, her hair's matted to her forehead, and she suddenly realises how uncomfortably her shirt's clinging to her. She rolls onto her side, lets out a groan of frustration into the phone, because it's just not the same without Terezi's bony body pressed up against her, without the nail marks raked down her thighs.

     “You'd better come over soon,” Vriska huffs, and Terezi only laughs, telling her she'll have time to call her before work, too.

[ xxiv ]

     The first mistake Aranea makes is complaining to Meenah about how long she takes in the shower.

     The second mistake involves confronting her while she's in said shower.

     She's nearly been late to work for the last three days in a row, and so she's calmly trying to explain to Meenah that they're going to have to save the sleepovers for the weekend, if things continue on in this way, when Meenah slides the shower doors open. Not to hear her better, as Aranea first thinks. 

     She's soaking wet, short hair dripping on the tiled floor as she leans out, and Aranea's only human. She can't help but glance down. While she's distracted, Meenah snatches hold of her wrist, tugs her closer, and says, “Better lose the pyjamas, Serket, 'cause you're about to get real wet.”

     Aranea wants to stand her ground less and less now that she's even closer to Meenah, and quickly reasons that Meenah really won't hold back. Best to do as she says and minimise the damage done; she can always lecture her from inside of the shower. Placing her glasses on the edge of the sink, Aranea tugs off her shirt and steps out of her shorts, and in a flash Meenah's yanked her into the shower and pressed her flat against the back wall. The tiles are cold enough to make her hiss, arching up to meet the warm water.

     Meenah presses her lips against hers, takes hold of her hips, and Aranea rolls her eyes, like she didn't see this all coming. 

     “You weren't listening to me,” Aranea says, palms just so happening to brush across Meenah's breasts as she reaches up for her shoulders. 

     “Sure I was,” Meenah says, and seeing as Aranea won't return her kiss, gets to work on her neck, “Blah blah blah, need to hurry the fuck up in the mornings. I get it! The hell do you think we're doing here?”

     “Oh, so this is how we save time, is it? I see,” Aranea says, unable to help but smirk to herself. And why shouldn't she? Meenah's as warm as the water, pressed up against her, exploiting the little weakness along her collarbone she discovered last night. “Then you'd better be quick.”

     Meenah looks up at her, eyes narrowed. “So fuckin' bossy,” she says, but slowly sinks down onto her knees, kissing Aranea's stomach as she goes. Sometimes, all Meenah needs to be given is the opportunity for defiance. She doesn't always have to take it.

     Aranea thinks that Meenah's starting to learn that sometimes, listening to her is really, really worth it. She hooks a knee over one of Meenah's shoulders, and Meenah licks her way up the inside of her thigh, as if she's trying to connect every drop of water on her skin in the process. Aranea grips her head with both hands, fingers caught up in her hair, sliding her hips down towards Meenah's mouth when she doesn't move quite as quickly as she needs her to.

     “Goddamn insatiable,” Meenah says, laughing, and kisses her between the legs. “As if bangin' me all night wasn't enough.”

     Meenah's utterly relentless with her mouth, entirely dedicated to the task at hand once she's started, and Aranea shudders, in spite of the heat all around her. She keeps hold of Meenah's head, tells her over and over again to pick up the pace, doing her best not to acknowledge how soon she has to leave for work.

[ xxv ]

     You know all the important words in their language. Yes, no, please, and, for some reason, keyboard. Your pronunciation isn't perfect, and you can't quite wrap your lips around Kanaya's name in the same way that the other trolls do, but it's a start. You've got a hell of a lot of time to kill on this asteroid, and you might as well do something useful with it.

     Like learn the tongue of a near-dead race. 

     When you hear footsteps in the corridor, you poke your head out of your room, and raise a hand in greeting to Kanaya when she passes. Your heartbeat quickens, but you tell yourself to think nothing of it; fear is healthy. Fear keeps you in one piece. Kanaya smiles at you, long, thin fangs that were probably terrifying long before she died on show, and comes closer when you beckon for her. Inside of your room, door closed behind the two of you, you sit on the edge of your bed, and hold a book up to Kanaya.

     She gives you a bemused look, takes the book, and murmurs something you can't hope to understand. But it's more for her own benefit, you realise, watching her turn the book in her hands. She sits down next to you, opens the book to the first page, and lifts it a little as she says a word, just one word, making it into a question. Read? you think she might be asking. You say yes: first in your own language, habitually, and then in hers.

     Kanaya has no objections. The two of you settle back down against the pillows propped against the wall, and you don't shy away from sitting as close to her side as you can without being in her lap. No need to second guess yourself when you can't possibly hope to engage in a conversation about the more complicated things you may or may not feel. You've kissed her, once or twice, reassured one another about the act afterwards with nervous smiles and averted gazes, but still, sometimes you're convinced you'll wake up and find your throat's been ripped out.

     Because she must get hungrier than she can bear, sometimes, and it wouldn't kill you.

     Occasionally, you'll log onto one of the computers and talk to her over Trollian, letting the system translate your words for you, but it doesn't compare to hearing her voice. You close your eyes as she begins to read, absorbing how wonderfully alien it all is. The are syllables you've never considered before, intonations that your vocal chords will never allow, and by the time you hear her turn the first page, you realise your hand is on her knee.

     Half a chapter in and you're in her lap. She keeps hold of the book, tries to read it over your shoulder, and you press your lips to her throat, wanting to feel the way it vibrates with every word she speaks. Turns out planting your mouth there only causes her to stutter. 

     Another three pages, and she takes mercy on you. You're rocking in her lap by then, and she gives up all pretences of reading, pushing you onto your back. Her lips are at your ear immediately, and she's talking about something you'll probably never decipher, but you don't care. She could be reading from an instruction manual, but as long as her voice still sounded like that, you'd keep grinding your hips up against her.

     You say her name, Kanaya, Kanaya, and want to apologise for not pronouncing it properly. But it does the job: she pushes up your sari, tears through the leggings underneath, and you think Oh fuck, because you really wouldn't care if this was the end of you. When Kanaya seems to hesitate, you say please, because your brain remembers how to shape that in a way she'll understand, and then her fingers are held against you.

     You whine, and she moves down the bed, lips leaving the shell of your ear, and your stomach ties in knots when you think she's going to put her mouth on you. You want it, gods knows you do, but you still hear yourself saying No, no, as you tug her back up. She frowns, but then says something else—slowly, uncertainly, against the corner of your jaw. Each word runs down your spine, flaring out to meet the pressure of her fingertips. Yes. 

[ xxvi ]

     “We are not fucking in your recuperacoon, Vriska,” Kanaya says with a note of finality, knee-deep in slime and idly wiping the remnants of it off her arms and stomach. “Take a shower, seat yourself on the sofa or your desk chair, and I will happily engage in whatever delights you have planned out that will no doubt benefit yourself more than me.”

     Vriska glowers over at her, and defiantly sinks back down into the slime with a squelch. She hasn't even attempted to brush clumps of it out of her hair. Kanaya honestly doesn't know what she's going to do with her.

     “For fuck's sake, Fussyfangs! The hell do you even want from me? God, look, I'll sit on the edge of the damn thing, okay? No slime up here.”

     Kanaya watches as Vriska goes through the arduous process of pulling herself from the sopor for a second time, perching on the edge of the recuperacoon. She holds her hands out as if to say That's 8etter, riiiiiiiight?, and then absent-mindedly wipes the slime from her inner thighs.

     “You're still bound to taste of slime,” Kanaya points out, and Vriska growls, reaching out to wrap her arms around her waist. She presses the side of her face against Kanaya's stomach, smearing slime all over her skin.

     “I don't want to move.”

     “If you don't want to move, then how do you expect to— never mind. Sometimes I forget who I'm dealing with.”

     Some part of Kanaya wonders how much of this she's saying to provoke Vriska. Most of it, it seems, when Vriska scrapes her teeth against her stomach, and tugs her back into the slime. She pushes her against the side of the recuperacoon, slides her hips down against Kanaya's, legs tangled together, and doesn't say a word until she manages to force a gasp out of Kanaya.

     “See? Not so bad, is it?” Vriska asks, and for someone who didn't want to move, she's certainly doing a lot to grind down against Kanaya, hands clinging to the edge of the recuperacoon for support. “All you had to do was use your think pan, and—”

     Vriska never concludes her point, because Kanaya decides that she's had quite enough of her bragging, and sinks her nails into the small of her back. Vriska's hips jerk in a way that absolutely shouldn't be so perfect, with the way the sopor slime slows her movements and causes her to slide around far too much.

     “This is disgusting,” Kanaya murmurs, leaning forward to press her mouth against Vriska's chest, suddenly not so bothered by the taste of slime.

     “Yeah? Well, you're my matesprit! Better get used to it, Maryam.”

[ xxvii ]

     The red and teal t-shirt comes equipped with self-loathing, and that's before you take the gaudy dragon-print into consideration. Rose straddles your lap, and when she pulls the bright blue lipstick across her mouth, you hate her a little, too.

     “Easy,” Rose warns you when you dig your nails in at the small of her back. She slides the red shades onto the bridge of your nose, tinting your vision. You regret not suggesting a blindfold for added realism, but though it's not too late for any last minute adjustments, you still don't make mention of it. “We're only playing.”

     “Shut up,” you say, not missing a beat, because you think that's what Terezi would say, if Vriska was already irritating her. 

     Rose grins widely, and you can't tell if it's the lipstick that makes it look so alien on her lips, or whether she's just really worked at getting into character. Either way, you want to knock the expression off her face. Perhaps with your own mouth. But before you can initiate what would barely even be considered a kiss, she's got her teeth at your throat, blue smeared across the underside of your jaw.

     “What next?” she murmurs against your skin, “Should I continue to whine and beg for attention, even while you're busy fucking me?”

     (It's probably around the point when you're on your knees, Rose's hands wrapped around your horns as she tugs you closer, calling you a blind moron, stretching all her moans and gasps out like aaaaaaaah, that it occurs to you that the pair of you may well have put just a little too much thought into your friends' sex lives.)

[ xxviii ]

     For the umpteenth time, Vriska Serket becomes too much of a mess for even your meddling to do any good. You tell her as much, and she shouts at you, giving you the usual spew about how you're the shittiest fucking moirail she's ever had, to which you don't bother pointing out that you're also the only moirail she's ever had. Vriska says she's done with you, and good fucking luck finding someone else willing to sit around and let you play dress-up, you sick freak.

     “Very well,” you tell her, “Seeing as you are too self-absorbed and utterly selfish to appreciate my guidance, then I will acquiesce. Dress as you like.”

     You conclude your point by opening up the wardrobe where you've been storing the most offensive of her clothes, intending to burn them when you have the time, and begin blindly throwing them at her. Vriska screeches for you to be careful with her things, tries grabbing them out of the air, and stomps her feet as she begins tearing off the outfit you put together for her just this morning. She snatches whatever she can get her hands on first, pulls a dirt-stained vest on backwards, tugs up a pair of orange shorts that are at least two sizes too big for her, and stands glaring defiantly at you, arms folded across her chest. 

     “Vriska,” you warn her, “Don't.”

     “Don't what?” she asks, holding her arms out to the side, “I look great.”

     “Vriska,” you repeat, body acting of its own accord as you take slow steps towards her and grab her shoulders. One shove and she's against the wall. “I am going to tear every abhorrent scrap of clothing off your frustrating frame.”

     “Yeah?” Vriska asks, arms wrapped around your shoulder, nails raking at the back of your neck. She doesn't think you're going to do it; still can't quite believe it even when you tear the front of her tank in two. The material snags at the back of her neck when you pull it, and she hooks a leg around your waist, as if that's going to stop you from getting at her shorts. 

     With both hands covering her breasts, you press your mouth against her throat, shuddering each time you feel the fabric of her shorts brush up against you as she rocks her hips. 

     “Calm the fuck down, Maryam!” she hisses, arching her chest up towards your hands, “It ain't feeding time at the zoo.”

     You bite down extra hard, just because of that. It's hardly as if fashion's about to suffer if her blood drips down onto her shorts.