Chapter Text
You stumble back to your ship drunk and aching. You feel half ran over. There's drying blood on the inside of your jacket, tacky and uncomfortable against your skin. When you arrive, you think its fair to say that you collapse more than sit upon your loungeplank—groaning and kneading at the juncture where your robotic arm meets the flesh of your shoulder. You still feel the sting along your lower back where you got slashed earlier, and you probably broke a rib. You've long since been patched up, but the medicalizer can only do so much for the pang you feel each time you move wrong.
It's been a long night.
You sigh. The reality of life as a Gambligant is a lot more hoofbeastshit and a lot less glamour than the stories made out. As it turns out… most trolls that someone is paying to get murdered instead of doing the dirty work themselves have something about them that makes the murdering inconvenient to get around to. The revenge cycles it all kicks off are nothing new, but this isn't kid stuff anymore. Ascension, like the brooding caverns, comes with its own set of trials. And the mass culling that follows ensures that anyone who actually makes it off planet comes out of a it a little bit tougher. A little bit meaner. It's even more true for the types you meet in your line of work.
The smug faced teal blood that you were tasked with taking down was fast and fought dirty, cornered rat vicious. You had taken great pleasure in beating the smarmy look on their face to a pulp, but not before they had managed to sneak in a few good beatings of their own. It very nearly wasn't worth the pay you charged for it! But that was par for the course. It wasn't unusual for clients to undersell how dangerous a target was. Or for you to run into bigger messes than you were actually looking for. Plans seldom liked to work out the easy way. But it wasn't anything you couldn't handle. You still prefer this kind of work, find mercenary work to be simple.
Your foray's into calculated bouts of treason against the empire, on the other hand, are a whole nother beast in their own right.
The Empire looms ever present, as wide and as awful and inescapable as the horrorterror royal lusus that Eridan used to feed. It's still the imperial network your palmhusk runs on, the parts for your ship all sourced from imperial factories. Your medicine and food rations mostly coming from imperial medicullers and military surplus shops. Things would be hard for you if you ever really pissed them off. It's a delicate balancing act, making enough trouble to make a name for yourself while not enough that the empire will actually bring its culling fork down upon you. You're cerulean, a raid here and there on a stray vessel is hardly worth the paperwork it would take to prosecute you. And plenty of your clients are trolls with perfect normal imperial jobs looking for a prong up on the competition with a bit of sabotage.
Or to kill their ex.
It's nothing new. But that doesn't mean it isn't still dangerous, knowing how hard you can push, how far you can take things. You won't be satisfied with mediocrity; you've never been the kind to keep your head down. But with more notoriety comes more eyes on you looking for the minute you slip up. Always trying to snare you in their webs. Everything has it's limits, and you have to be careful of when you'll run into the iron in the fire that burns you.
But, what the fucks the alternative? Being a good little slave for the empire and living your life in service to Her Glorious Fishbitch? Hah! As if! You could never do that, not now. Especially not after knowing who she—
Forget it.
You still grit your fangs with bitterness, recalling the game, distant enough now to feel almost like a dream. But you remember it. You played a game that ended the world and brought it back again after you all failed. Spat you out a week before it all happened with nothing but daymares to show for it. Most of your friends fell away after that, slipping into hiding or denial or whatever other shit. But you couldn't let it go. You were given a chance at greatness, just to have it all snatched away from you again. It wasn't fair. How could you ever go back to living a normal life after all that? No thanks. You'll still take the long nights spent dodging stab wounds if it means you get to do things on your own.
Not everyone is cut out to make their living outside of the scope of an imperial career path. Not everyone wants to. You have to be sharp to live like this, and you have to be lucky.
Guess its a good thing the lucks all yours!
Speaking of getting lucky…
You sigh. Another point of bitterness that the stories could have warned you about. You were promised a lot more trolls swooning over your roguish charms, a paramour in every space port, different trolls falling over themselves to get onto your concupiscent platform each day! Instead, you'd gone out after your handoff, hoping to pick up someone pretty to celebrate another job well done with, and instead you ended up being rejected by the busty green blood you'd met at the bar. Whatever, her loss. But it still left you wanting.
Groaning, you shift to lay back more comfortably on the worn in fabric of your lougeplank, and take a swig of the bottle you pilfered on your way out, still clutched between your bruised claws. Your head buzzes both from your drink and the last washes of adrenaline still running through you. And maybe your head's not the only thing that's still buzzing. You're always filled with too much energy after a job. You can feel your bulge twitch in its sheath, your pants starting to feel uncomfortably tight. You unbutton them on your way down to your pocket where you make a grab for your phone. If you can't find a new troll you can convince into showing any kind of mating fondness towards you, maybe an old one will do. You focus all of your squinting attention on sending out a message with minimal spelling errors.
-- arachnidsGrip [AG] started pestering caligulasAquarium [CA] --
-- arachnidsGrip [AG] invited terminallyCapricious [TC] --
AG: Hey 8oyyyyyyyys
AG: What sre you qearing????????
CA: oh god
TC: :o)
CA: are you drunk?
TC: My SiLlY cLoWn NoSe
TC: BiG sHoEs
AG: Just that?
TC: ;o) HoNk
AG: Hahahaha.That's cute.
Okay so maybe the spelling errors weren't quite so minimal after all. You snort at Gamzee's response, cringing when it reminds you of the ache you still have in your ribs. Fucking clowns. Dork. Still, you can almost imagine it. His drooping stare looking back at you with a big idiotic nose stuck to the front of his face. Nothing else on except for some stupid ass clown shoes. Honking seductively. It seems like the kind of obnoxious bullshit that he would get up to.
It's a start, you think, kicking off your own shoes and shimmying your pants further down your hips. But its still one idiot short of a party.
AG: Come on, you too Eridan.
AG: Tell meeeeeeee!
CA: do you know what fuckin time it is here
AG: Come on I had a roughj day.
CA: not sure what that has to do with me
TC: ShIt, ThAt GeTs My MoThErFuCkInG sAdNeSs On To HeAr It SpIdErSiS.
TC: WaNt tO bE tElLiNg A bRoThEr wHaT mOtHeRfUcKiN iT's Up AnD aLl AbOuT
AG: Doesn't matter. I took care of it. 8ut there iiiiiiiis somethinv you can help me with!
AG: Send nudes.:::;)
You figured Eridan wouldn't play along so easy. You snicker, thinking of the look of offense that's probably crossing his face right now. You know its all bluster. Eridan is clingy as a barnacle. He's been pestering you to visit for forever. He should be glad to hear from you! You add him into your fantasy alongside Gamzee, looking up from beneath his stupidly long fish lashes, trying not to seem too desperate, with his dark mouth pinched into a pout to contrast Gamzee's dopey grin. You cant your hips despite the sting, pawing at the slit between your legs that still hides where your bulge has started to quest forward towards the pressure. It's always been too easy to rile him up. A fish drawn to your lure.
CA: unbelievvable
CA: i dont have time for your vvulgar solicitations
CA: we dont hear from you in near a perigee and this is first thing you have to say
AG: Awwwwwwww, how sweet! It almost sounds like you miss me.
AG: Send a photo.Maybrn it'll convince me you're worth visting.
CA: maybe learn how to type out something intelligible before you decide to send it
AG: Whats them matter? Em8arrased
AG: Come on! It'll 8e great. It's not like it's anything I haven't seen 8efore.
AG: It'll be a trade. Show me yours and I'll show you mine?
CA: god damn it vris im not going to fuckin send nudes
AG: xxx( 8oooooooo!!!!!!!! You're no fun!
You tsk, hardly surprised but disappointed despite yourself. It's true you've seen it all before, but it's been a while. It wouldn't hurt to see again… And you've already had more than your fair share of being rejected tonight. Still, you won't be deterred so easily. You close your eyes, still pawing at yourself, and recall the last time you saw him naked.
Eridan was perhaps the first troll you ever saw fully nude. Washing the gore off after a particularly bloody round of FLARP. He'd been timid back then, unnerved by the way you stared at the slashes of violet that his gills cut across his frame. But that was ages ago, and the last time you'd seen him, "timid" was hardly the word you would use. He'd been in the middle of the physical portion of his imperial officer's course, close combat training. He'd come home from receiving and doling out beatings all day with classmates he barely tolerated, and basically pour himself into you lap, eager and restless. He'd arrive covered in blood, glistening with a sheen of salty ocean scented sweat, and try to kiss his way into your mouth, grind and rut against you—
Your bulge grabs and twists around your fingers.
—You remember his weight, the rippling of his muscles under skin. They were schoolfeeding him good up on the station, it seemed. He cut quite the figure, long and lean ever since his final subadult molt. The new definition on his frame made him look sculpted, the perfect picture of ideal seadweller proportions. And he'd drag those perfect proportions against your thigh, desperate as an animal, bite at your lips, press his chest to yours like he could melt into your frame.
You gasp. Yeah, thats right. You squeeze at the slippery mess between your legs. Your bulge has your wrist gripped tight. You can't stop moving your sore hips. If you twist just so, the tips of your fingers can press against the entrance to your nook. It's not enough. You're still buzzing. You feel a manic energy prickling across your pan, filling you with the need to tease him further.
AG: You know I should just go to your Trollstagram. I could probably pull one off to one of your slutty little work out pics.
CA: don't you dare wench
CA: I swear ill fuckin block ya
You're so busy grinning to yourself in satisfaction that you almost miss the notification from Gamzee, sent to you in its own window.
-- terminallyCapricious [TC] started pestering arachnidsGrip [AG] --
TC: I gOt YoU mY mOsT wIcKeDeSt oF sIsTeRs.
TC: JuSt GiVe A mOtHeRfUcKeR a MiNuTe. AnD i'Ll Be HaViNg ExAcTlY tHe mOtHeRfUcKiN MiRaCuLoUs ThInG yOu BeEn AlL uP aNd LoOkIn FoR.
TC: ;o)
You don't know what he could have planned, too occupied wrangling the squirming mess of your bulge for your brain to follow along to clown nonsense. But you certainly notice when they both leave you hanging after that. Long enough that you think they've forgotten about you, left to find relief in your own. Long enough for the sudden buzz of your phone to make you jump. You have to fish it out of the crevice in the lougeplank where it jammed itself, forgotten, while you had been occupied with better things.
You have to hastily rub your hand against your pants to give yourself a limb free from slippery pre-mat. But it turns out to be worth the effort. The reply Gamzee sends you is shocking enough to make you drop you palmhusk right on your face, slack jawed. You curse, but barely feel it from the second wave of adrenaline that crashed through you, almost enough to sober you.
Whoa.
AG: Wo8h!
TC: ;o)
TC: HaHa, I ToLd YoU. I gOt JuSt ThE mOtHeRfUcKiN ThInG yOu NeEd.
TC: YoU tHiNkInG tHiS wOrTh CoMiNg OuT fOr?
Makara wasn't messing around. The video he sends makes your nook clench almost painfully. You fumble to hit the play button, eyes locked onto the screen.
The view opens with Gamzee sat behind Eridan, his chin hooked over one shoulder so that he can stare you down through the camera with a dark look behind his eyes. He has Eridan spread open in his lap, his legs pinned back. The scene is lit bright enough that you know they must have used one of Eridan's stupid ring lights for it. It gives you a perfect view of Gamzee using the palm of one hand to pin back Eridan's thrashing bulge, his fingers spreading the lips of his nook as if in invitation. You could see his bulge, slippery and dripping, twisting its way deep into Eridan's wasteshoot. Holy shit.
AG: How in the hell did you convince Eridan to let you do anal?
TC: CoMe ThRoUgH aNd FiNd OuT mOtHeRfUcKeR.
TC: MaYbE hE'lL lEt YoU hAvE a TuRn.
You're too busy to respond. The sounds you hear from them play harmony to your own noises— your panting breath, their moans, your fingers in your own nook, each wet slap of their hips. You bite your lip.
You can see the movement of Gamzee's bulge from Eridan's dripping nook, the way the undulations push against his walls from the inside and make his frilly bits toss and roll. You wonder what it would feel like to be inside him right now. Eridan gasps and trembles with each movement, his gills flaring fitfully, a line of bright shoutpoles of violet that make you feel like you can see all the way inside him. Despite the even gaze he has pinned to you through the screen, you can see that Gamzee's hair sticks to his face with perspiration, can watch each time he tries to suppress a shudder. His fingers keep teasing at Eridan's frills, making his hips arch desperately into the contact. Just to press him back down and onto his bulge.
Your body feels too hot, burning. You grip your bulge too tight with your mechanical hand. Your fingers feels like they can't reach far enough inside you. Fuck. You want to feel the cool weight of their bodies against yours. You want so desperately to sink into that wet nook spread out all open for you, just for you. You want to feel the other bulge moving inside him, lean over him to kiss Gamzee's lips bloody until it hurts for him to give you that knowing smirk. Your bulge cant stop moving. You keep twisting, itchy and too warm. You wrench your way messily out our your jacket.
Suddenly you remember the bottle from earlier, discarded to the floor. You grope around blindly for it.
The glass is smooth and cold in your hand. You sigh, pressing it against your flushed face. It's too hard, no give, but the cool temperature feel soothing to your feverish skin. But there are better places this can be put to use.
You bring the bottle down to your bulge, giving it something besides your hand to wrap around. It's more like the stiff metal of your mechanical arm than the feeling of another troll's bulge, but the glass is blessedly cold where your arm is always body temperature. For now. You know you're on a race against time. But your hand is finally free to move and you can twist your fingers deep inside you, deep enough now to make your toes curl and your eyes squint shut.
You don't know how you missed it, but when your eyes return from rolling into the back of your skull they've changed position. Eridan lay chest down, back arched as Gamzee held tightly to his raised hips with one hand. His face pressed close enough to the camera so you could see each twitch of his fins, the way his pupils had blown wide. He was drooling around two of Gamzee's fingers, careful with his razor teeth. He his eyes shut and he moaned as he sucked on them, opened his mouth so you could see his tongue twisting against them. Your bulge twists around the neck of the bottle, still feeling a hint of wetness on the inside when your tip manages to twist into the mouth.
Fuck.
You can feel the burning in your seedflap that tells you that you need to grab a bucket NOW, hastily fumbling to de-captchalogue it. You're cumming messily the minute you feel the touch of the rim against your skin. The bucket probably ends up full of more liquor than you want to think about as the bottle falls to the bottom with a thunk. Not like it matters. It's a dud anyway, too empty of anyone else's contributions to be of any use to the drones. Something that you're poignantly reminded of as you hear the sounds of your two idiots finding their own release on the video that's still blaring out from your palmhusk.
You scoff, trying to catch your breath. You can already tell that your injuries will be resenting all your twisting come tomorrow. Maybe you should rethink this whole chasing lowlifes at the edge of the fucking galaxy thing. You think maybe Gamzee makes a compelling point. Wasting your time trying to seduce losers with bad taste at bars at the edge of shithive nowhere seems dumb when you've got a freaky clown serving up royal nook on a silver platter just waiting for you dockside.
You move to plug their co-ordinates into your ship's directional system when you see that Gamzee had kept messaging you earlier while you were distracted. You tap open trollian as you leverage yourself upright and pull your pants back on, stumbling on your feet. You need a shower and sandwich and the loving embrace of your coon. Your block feels too far away. You have to squint your eyes to make out what the hell Gamzee is saying past his obnoxious quirk, but you're feeling generous.
TC: YoU kNoW wE rEaLlY hAvE bEeN mIsSiN a MoThErFuCkEr. AlL tWo Of Us.
TC: DoN't Be AlL uP aNd AcTiNg UnFaMiLiAr On Us.
AG: I'm heading over.
TC: :o)
TC: HoNk