For Momo & Grief Trapeze
~Pretty~
You shouldn't think the motherfucker what you've got your black intentions all tied up in motherfucking knots for is pretty. Leastways that's how your palest of brothers Karkat sees it. Should up right and feel the needs for your bilesack to be emptying at the sight of her. Want to paint miracles with her pretty blood. Fuck. That. Word. Pretty.
Karbro near had a heart attack when you first told of your intentions shadow-wise, face lighting up with the most miraculous of reds as his brows scraped the paint off the ceiling, "LISTEN HERE, BULGE-BITE, I SWEAR TO HUMAN KRIS-FUCKING-KRINGLE THAT IF YOU SO MUCH AS DARKEN THE DOOR OF THAT SPARKLING BLOOD PARASITE WITH CALINGULOUS INTENT I WILL RIP YOUR BULGE FROM YOUR NOOK AND CHOKE YOU WITH IT!"
Sometimes you wonder if your pale-bro is just motherfucking black for EVERYBODY. You winced, played it off, agreed and petted his little nubby horns till he was calm. Motherfucker's got a squawk-box like a purrbeast. Best sound on the meteor, hands the motherfuck down. Listen to that shit for hours. But, shit. You got some needs what need meeting urgent-like.
You settle tits deep in the horn-pile, your palebro grunting and fussing, calling you all a ' EGREGEOUS MESS OF ANGLES AND PAIN' till he found a shift what worked for him. He notches his head under your chin, butting up his little horns conciliatory fashion, voice quiet as a squeak-beast, "Promise me you won't try anything, Gamzee. I'm serious. I know she said she doesn't want to kill you, but, shit. I...fuck. I just can't, man."
Auricular clots done hear and understand his meaning right quick. Palebro don't want to lose you none, and it makes that shriveled husk of a pusher beat a little faster in happy thoughts. Rocking and hushing him, you do your best to avoid a straight answer, even if it makes you feel like the worst of sneak-thieves. "I'll not to be doing anything stupid, my sugar-sweet pale bro." You feel him flush through your thin shirt as he harrumphs and wiggles. Makes you grin like a carnival clown when you embarrass his ass with his sloppy romantic drama dreamings. Shit. Fuck the carnival. Ain't no...
A pap stops your thoughts cold as ice as your Karbro goes for admonishment, "Stop the growling, nook-stink. What is it?" You tell him of the blue-hot hate you got on for the Dark Carnival, and the fakey-fake Mirthful Messiahs what got you all...fucked the motherfuck up. He turns and crushes you against him like a lusus-doll when your voice cracks on talk of what all you're ashamed most of. Bless the motherfuck out of that brother's pump-biscuit for putting up with your ass. You feel any more pale for this brother you might turn into hard as hell compressed carbon, shining out your diamonds forever.
He paps you down till all the wriggler-noises in you up and leave your noise-maker. You pull him close, snuffling his hair like a hoofbeast despite his complaint shout poles about "EW!" and "CLOWN-STINK!" He only does it for not making your jams go too fast-like. Shouty brother got his serious on about not taking things too speedful.
Karkat takes his time, drawing out all the pain-thoughts till your blood-pusher could rest easy again, reassuring you double-like that there ain't changing what's past. He pushes you back till you're nestled up snug in rubber and metal, rubbing round your tines with clever fingers till you fall ass-backwards to dreamland. You make him promise to stay with you for the night, fearful want for closeness tearing your pan anew. He agrees with a huff, cuddling up to your trunk-side muttering about your 'Shitty Miracles.' Preach it, brother. 'Fore you know it, your traitorous shut-lids done did you in for the night, stealing sight from your precious gander-bulbs of your diamond.
He wakes you up all unthoughtful when he gets his moving on for having those tedious as all motherfuck 'strategy meetings.' You hold your tongue on the opinions wanting to make themselves known, on account of the love you got for your brother, but shit if you're gonna go back to the sweet bliss of dark soon as he leaves.
He scowls, "You really should come, you homunculus." He pulls his face when you look down and make for excuse-noises. Second-hand embarrassment-like, voice soft as velvet he says, "They forgive you, Gamzee. You really should come out of hiding. For the sake of all the fucks in the Void, quit acting like a dirt-tunnel mammal."
Apologies twist up that riotous mask of smile-lines and you shrug. A whistling hiss of give-up hustles between his lips as he ruffles your messy hair. "Fine. Fine. I get it." He holds out two splayed fingers, "Pale for you, Gamzee." You grin and return the gesture with fervor. Shame he don't blush no-more when he does it. It was cute as hell. He leaves after giving you a final critical eye, reminding you to get something to eat before he comes back.
Sleep don't come easy to the pans of wicked motherfuckers. Tossing and turning don't do no good. Keeping the bulbs shut all tight like shutters on a hive only shows you the most unmirthful of motherfucking murals. Olive and blue stain the insides of your gander-orbs something awful. Stains your soul, if you're right honest. Shame and self-loathing are a mantle most used to these days. Purple saline steals down your cheek like your moirails' bitchtits caress.
That's enough for dream-clouds, you guess. Groaning and honking, you roll out of the pile listening to the snap-crackle-pop of your marrow-containers as you do. Motherfucking pre-molt. Makes all your shit hurt so damn bad. You scratch absently at your jaw, noting a new peppering of pustules, as you decide what to do for the day. Could get your creep on in the vents, watching all your brothers and sisters at play. Maybe explore more of the dark mysteries of this rock you're done trapped like vermin on. The clatter of fancy footwear combined with light and lilting voices makes the choice all pressing for you. Dayglow bitch.
Hastily climbing up and slamming the grate behind you, your gander-makers trace greedily over glowysis' wicked motherfucking curves as she passes by the door to your room. Takes you some noticing that she don't look twice, but you can hear her sniffing. Know like that does funny things to your pusher...and nether-regions. Mouth tasting like power grubs what done popped, you hurry to follow after the slinking sisters, ears straining to make out their conversation at each vent grate and juncture.
Therapy sister talks in her soft monotone, always like to talk, she is, "I don't know, Kanaya. While I'm trying to be culturally sensitive of your needs, it just seems dangerously foolish. I'm also loath to admit I'm a bit jealous." Huh. Jealous of what, Seer-sister?
Glowy sis takes up that shine a few notches, you're guessing that's what passes for blush since her pusher don't move round her hemo-juice all that fast anymore. They stopped at a turn in the hallway, talking in hushed tones.
Your pretty shining sister speaks up all proper, (Oh shit. She ain't yours, motherfucker. Stop thinking like that.) "I Am Aware It Makes You Uncomfortable, Rose. Truly, I Am Most Remorseful For That." You unconsciously adjust yourself on hearing her voice. Something about the way that mint-blooded mother fucker talks. Sends shiver-shakes all up and down your nerve-column.
Vampsister keeps trying for explanation, "Despite My Best Attempts, There Is Something That I Could Only Describe As An Instinctual Need For Such Things." Rosesis hmms, glancing up at her miraculous glowing 'sprit. She sure as hell don't look happy. You fidget, tracing bolts with a twitchy finger while your bulbs run a motherfucking hoofbeast race up and down a sister's fine ass. All the fuck you want to do is jump down there and demand to know what instinct is up and shouting at your blood-sucker sister.
Her voice pulls you back to the ground, shaky and anxious as it is. "I Realize You've Had Discussions With Karkat On The Matter, But Black Romance Really Is Integral To A Healthy Troll Psyche. We Must Be Able To Vent Our Aggressions, Sexual And Otherwise. It Is Taboo To Do So With Other Partners, Though I Appreciate Your Offer Tremendously."
She goes near pulsar-bright for a split second, staring around the corridor before talking again, "This Is A Scandalous Topic, Must We Speak Of It Here?" Therapy chick laughs and drags Kanaya off, reassuring her. You can't motherfucking move one bit. Black. Romance. The urge to paint walls with who the fuck ever she's got her spades down for is overwhelming. You gotta find your Karbro and hug him.
Your best of bros is sitting in the library, shout-reading to Dave and Terezi from one of his trashy romance novels. A grin settles over your features with practiced ease, even if you're all tore up inside. Can't be letting motherfuckers set their see-bulbs on you, so you're stuck up in a vent staring wistful at your precious diamond.
Oooh! This story's your favorite! You don't remember the title real well, because fuck they're long, but you remember the basics. A Jade sister working in the caverns finds an tow-up Purple all got his recline on outside on account of a battle with a former red-partner who don't work in flushed or dark no-more. It's a steamy one if recollection serves.
You lick your lips and wiggle recumbent onto the floor of the vent and listen. "ALL RIGHT, SHITHEADS. THIS STORY IS ABOUT TO GET A LITTLE MATURE, SO IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE LITTLE WRIGGLERS THAT POOP THEIR PANTS HARD EVERY TIME YOU HEAR THE WORD BULGE OR NOOK, I HIGHLY SUGGEST YOU GET THE FUCK OUT RIGHT NOW." He pauses, glaring down harsh at Terezi and Dave. Those silly motherfuckers have their paws slapped tight over their wind-makers, snuffing out mirth but barely.
Seeming pleased with their reaction, he keeps reading in that familiar rasp, "THE JADE'S HANDS SHOOK WITH RAGE OVER WHAT THE IMPUDENT, CARELESS PURPLE HAD WROUGHT IN HER HIVE. SPLASHES OF COLOR, OF WHICH SHE COULD ONLY ASSUME WERE HER FORMER NEIGHBORS, DOTTED THE HIVE IN CRUDE FRESCOES OF CALINGULOUS EMBRACE." His voice drops as he tries to imitate the cavern-worker's voice, motherfucker is creative when he reads, 'That...wretch! How dare he?! I swear if I find him, I'll...I'll...'
The rattle of his palebro's chute picks right the fuck up again, "THE REALIZATION OF HER URGE TO HARM, BUT NOT KILL, SHOCKED EXPRESSION FROM HER POUTY LIPS. HER BOSOM SHOOK IN SELF-LOATHING, REMISS IN BETRAYING HER DESIRES. IT IS THEN SHE FEELS THE OVERBEARING PRESENCE OF THE HIGHBLOOD, MOLDING HIS CARAPACE BEHIND HERS WITH A MURMUR OF DARK INTENT." Dave and Terezi can't stop themselves anymore, howling in unison and collapsing on one another like motherfucking fools.
Feelings of wanting to jump down and choke the noise out of them both rushes your head and makes you dizzy. The only thing that stops you is your love of your Karbro, how guilty you'd feel after. You didn't notice when he was reading, but at some point your eyes got all expanded pink-moon wide, breathing heavy as a cloven-hoof beast dragging farming implements, skin all feather-beast pimpled. Burning need to touch yourself eats you up from the inside out. Fuck.
Ain't real nice to be doing that in public, nohow. Not to mention you've got a sharp-sister with a nose like a finned swim-monster a stones-throw away. She'd smell your grape wet in no-time. You crawl away in a mighty hurry to find somewhere quiet to think, and maybe relieve yourself.
Sitting in a juncture of air-vents is cold as motherfuck, which suits you fine. It's distracting you from thoughts that tend lower than you're wanting, anyway. You gave up sitting awhile ago, kicking your feet in the air like a pissed-off wriggler. Scrubbing your palms over your eyes, you fight the conflicting urges screaming round your pan with a groan.
You shouldn't think your black-intent is pretty. Shouldn't want to ghost your lips over that skin like it's a motherfucking temple to a lost god. Leastways not without a good bite. Should make to want her to scream. Should want to make her hurt a little, not cherish that shit like it's purest frozen water-drops from the sky. But you hate that she's pretty, and perfect, and so motherfucking proper it makes you want to puke. That's kinda correct-like.
Shit. Rolling sideways, you clutch your sides in most wrathful of irritations. Your bulge and nook are yelling one thing, and your pan another. Motherfuck do you need your palebrother. But then again...maybe not. He'd just say to stay away from her. You study the dull grey walls of the vents, the color reminds you of his walls of text when he messages you. Somehow that shunts a pang of doubt in you. All you want, all you've ever wanted...is some motherfucking attention. Don't care from who. Shouldn't he have the deep understand on that?
Motherfuck do you hate yourself. Claws dig into your skin before you remember to let up. It hurts good, so you do it again, hissing as your jagged-sharp nails dig and rend the piteous husk you call flesh. Fuck you, your pajama slitherbeast perks up out of drowsy sleeping. You try to ignore it.
You imagine it's her making you sting and cuss in all the right ways, dragging her perfect motherfucking clawtips down your sides spouting snideful on 'How Awful You Smell' as she pails you senseless. You curl in on yourself, a shitty pile of blackest motherfucking goo, slamming your head against floor with a growl.
Don't matter how many times you tell yourself no, you got spades near shooting out your waste-chute for that girl. Dropping trow and pailing yourself rough only makes the need a little less. Motherfucking hell. Your body sags like a limp puppet when you drop your wet on the floor with an angry whine. It isn't nearly enough for the itch that needs scratching.
The vents close in tight on you when you crawl back to your pile, tired and shook down to your bones. Karbro should be back soon to pap you calm. He don't need to know why you're all worked up none. Sliding out quick as a hop-bug, you land on your feet silently. Makes you a shitbit proud that you can still get your sneak on what with all the sleeping and eating you do near constant. Karkat's on a motherfucking mission to chub your skinny ass up. A lazy grin lights you up at the thought he cares so much.
Light. You spin on your heel, sucking in a sharp breath. Fuck no. The shining pillar of your motherfucking idolatry leans like she's part of the doorway to your respite-block. Fuck, fuck, motherfuck, Karkat is gonna kill you. You back up against the wall, hands up protective and pacifying, "Ain't wanting no trouble, sister."
Her eyes are lazer-cut, sharp and judging the fuck out of you as she stares you down. "So It Would Seem For The Moment, Mr. Makara." Her voice sends chills tundra-cold down your back. So motherfucking proper. Hateful bitch. She moves up to a stand, smooth as a predator waiting for a body to die. "You And I Have Issues That Must Be Resolved." You nod wide-eyed, fuck if you don't know what to say.
Kanaya glides forward, oil on glass, till she's near toe to toe with you. You instinctively snarl and shove, no-one should be that close lessing it's a quadrantmate. She grins dangerous, wicked sharps peeking out from their hidey-place. Shit. You snatch your hands back quicker than if they were on fire. Bitch has herself a chainsaw on wait, and you just gave her a reason.
But she just keeps grinning at you, fierce and beautiful. Pretty. Fuck that word! Fuck you for thinking it! Much as you'd like to curl up and melt down, she don't seem to be keen on absconding near future wise. Something in you makes you stare back defiant, even if it is a stupid idea. Time stretches indeterminate, til she tics her lip down and speaks. "I've Been Requested By My Matesprit To Consult You On An Issue That Affects Both Of Us."
Your lips flap before your thinkpan catches on, "And to what all pleasure does a motherfucker like me have to be discussing with a dayglow bitch?" Motherfuck! You're just asking for this blood-bitch to strike you down! You're kinda excited about it.
She spreads her palms openly, claws out to avoid invite. "It Has Come To My Attention That I Have Had...Less Than Platonic Intentions Towards You. While I Find You To Be A Vile Piece of Clown Refuse, I Cannot, For The Very Life Of Me, Erase You From My Waking Mind."
Your pusher stone cold stops for a full minute while that shit sinks in. Something breaks open in you, writhing and hot as the Alternian motherfucking sun, begging to be let out. She Hates you. Motherfucking merciful, she. hates. you. Your bulb-covers fall to the hazy half-mast you know she dislikes as you drawl in return, smirk in firm place. "Well, shit, glowysis. What can a clowny motherfucker do to get himself out your thought-maker?" Seductive talk ain't your strong-point.
She blanches a tidbit. Score. "I..." She hesitates. Your grin widens till all your sharps show. That's right, motherfucker. I'ma make you say it.
You prompt with a languid wrist-flick, "I?" Your pump biscuit is doing a motherfucking stomp-dance in your thoracic cavity. She furrows her brow, glaring at you and swallowing delicately. That's right, sister. Get your mad tied on right and tight.
Nothing in the whole motherfucking meteor matters more than the words coming out of those awful-perfect lips. They're way more hypnotic than any pinch of special star dust ever was. The ice-queen speaks, "I Promised Rose, After Lengthy Discussion, That I Would Be Honest With You." You lean in with quirked lip, but don't say anything. You'd fuck it up if you did.
She smells like mint and love, and it makes all the neglected parts of you ache and boil at the same time. Her words pull you in deeper, "As Much As I Despise Myself, I Am Loath To Go Back On An Oath." Motherfucker stop stalling! You can count her eyelashes, feel her cool breath play over your lips tantalizingly. When you make yourself eye-level, she whispers what you've been near to death waiting on. "I Hate You."
Her kiss is a comet, frozen-hard, fleeting, but so elegant. She steps out of your clumsy ass embrace with ease, sliding back to the door with a sneer over her shoulder. "Our First Hate Date Will Be In Three Days. Please Do Make Yourself Ready."
In an instant, she's gone. You touch your lip in wonder, hoping that shit was real. A light 'Ding' calls from your neglected husktop, and you pull it out after a few unsuccessful tries, ejecting Faygo and two-wheel device horns all the motherfuck over. A single message waits: "I Shall See You On The Roof, Gamzee." You wonder what you could roll in to gross her out the most. You got three days to figure it out. It ain't gonna be pretty.
Note: Thanks Miss Shaye! I know, she wants him. Don't even play.
Note: Thanks Chairisse! Awww, shucks. *blush*
Note: Thanks VampKimi! I know, right? Black love is best love.
Note: Thanks Luv Trolls! Yeah, he'll get his hate date soon enough. *juggles like, five other stories. Because my brain is a circus.)