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It's a calm night. Day? It doesn't matter, you're all dead. What's time to a ghost? It gets dark when you say it gets dark. If you ever want to see those twinkly little stars, all you need to do is remember them. Nothing any motherfucker can do about it.
You've got Mituna beside you on a pile of game cartridges and skateboards, tucked nice and sweet against your side. So close you can feel his steady breaths against your neck, his pointy joints overlapping, mixing, and blurring with yours. If he moves an inch, you've got your know on about it. Last thing you need is him wandering off and getting himself all lost or stuck in a place you ain't never gonna find him.
He's lying heavy over you, even if he is only sticks and bones, with an arm curled around your waist like he's scared you'll leave. You can hear how deep sleep has got him under with all his soft as fuck purring in your ear. Real precious. You're not even gonna bother to resist touching this cute motherfucking moirail of yours. And why should you? He's yours.
You trail an ungloved hand up underneath the loose-fitting shirt he’s wearing. It's one of yours, but you've got no fret on about it; he can have it if he wants. Looks better on him anyway, just about drowns him in soft, cottony goodness and it gets your scent all up on him so everyone knows exactly who he belongs to. The knots of his spine bump against your fingers, all those pearly white bones hidden under a layer of flesh. He's not buzzing like he used to when electricity and power shot straight through his veins, as natural and slick as blood. It's been gone since his pan got fucked and fried. He smells the same, though, and that's something. Honey and sweat. It ain't a good stench, but it's all Tuna. Something about it calms you, sends sparks of that pale-feeling goodness all about your lungs, clogging it up like 'nip smoke. He's safe, and he's happy, which means you're doing your job.
Smell. That's the part of his accident you can’t fucking shake, even after an infinity of death. The burnt, metallic stench overwhelming everything. Charred flesh. Just the thought makes you want to gag, to choke up the black pollution caught in your thorax. But maybe it's easier than focusing on his limp body, bloody face, his screams when he woke up.
Mituna snuffles in his sleep like he's got a sensing that your thoughts are descending into darker territory. Motherfucker knows you too well. You let out a quiet trill to settle him.
He's been all kinds of troubled tonight. It's never easy getting a grasp onto what he says, but you gathered he'd had a run-in with Ampora. A real nasty one. Peixes rejected him again, no fucking surprise there, and left him burning mad, ignited. He'd got his heart set on hurting something as fiercely as he had been, and Mituna was the first unlucky soul he stumbled across. He felt it his right to spout his sordid frustrations at him, to touch him with his unjust hands.
You’d listened to Mituna's half coherent ranting, all patience and smiles, silently vowing to get a talk on with that hedonistic motherfucker. Brother needs reminding of his manners.
Mituna was real distressed by the end. The more worked up he became the fewer words you understood, but you don't mind; you're always happy to get your listen on. Most of what he says is garbled and delirious and pretending like you know what he's griping at ain't nothing new. You've almost forgotten what he was like before, back when he could talk a mile a minute about everything and nothing—good. That Mituna is gone. This sweet little motherfucker you've got in your arms is all you need to worry your pan about now.
When he'd exhausted himself out with all his talking, you’d pulled him into the pile for some well-earned papping. Fucker gets his vex on too quick, too easy. Like his nerve wires are all twisted and fixed to overwhelm him. But if you know how to soothe him, it's wiggler's play. He might run his mouth a tad or claw your skin until you're bleeding, but it ain't nothing serious and it certainly ain't purposeful. You just gotta be gentle, like you're clasping snow. Pyrope has her benefits; she's a sweet distraction for your beloved, but she's grabby. Doesn't know her own strength. When she reaches for him, she doesn't mind her roughness and ends up spooking him. Midbloods forget how different they are from your warm brothers and sisters real quick. You're a highblood; you've always got half a mind on how little pressure it could take you to break him, to crack his flimsy spine in half. It's the first thing they get to schoolfeeding purplebloods. Every touch needs to be careful, they say, stay vigilant. They're so much weaker than you.
Almost like their skulls were made for crushing, their blood made for paint. Maybe Alternia had some ideas right.
Mituna's breath catches. He's waking up. You watch him come round, dazed and sluggish, and hum to him in greeting. It's like a switch flips, click, and the tremors in his limbs re-surge like an electric current. His once calm breathing turns upside down into irregular puffs of panic and his eyes flit around the room in search of an imaginary danger. He grips your shirt, hand twisted and tangled in the fabric. You don't know what's got his agonise going already, it's like his pan starts all up in emergency mode straight out of the gate.
"Loz?" He's hushed, or at least as hushed as his squawkbox gets to letting him be. Tuna was never known for being quiet, but now his voice has one volume. Loud. It jolts the room's dead silence and has you wanting to shush him.
You bring the hand from his waist up to the back of his neck and squeeze all gentle-like. Nothing that could startle him any, just letting him know you’re there. He turns his face up at you, white eyes meeting yours.
“Tula feel– fell. Fell off her board. Is she okay?”
You're confused until you grasp what he means. He's talking about the dream he just had. Some make-believe Pyrope and her raucous four-wheeled device propelling face-first into the sidewalk. What a miracle sight that would make.
He's got a look on like an infant barkbeast, wide-eyed and trusting. There's a little crease between his eyebrows from how he's frowning. Cute motherfucker. Your stitches are in nice and snug, and you're missing half a tongue; comforting him with words isn't gonna work. You could wriggle your trapped arm from under him and sign reassuring bullshit as slow as you can muster, so he'll understand, but your chucklevoodoos are eager to be used. Why resist the urge? It's more intimate, anyway.
He doesn't even flinch as you prod at his mind, testing its resistance, so trusting. It's easy to slip into; you've had plenty of practice. Alight in a flurry of sight, sound, and sensation but can't focus on any one thing. No wonder he freaks so often. You settle the mass of stimulation for him, hide it away at the back of his mind, and hear him sigh in relief.
“All is A-motherfuckin’-okay, Tuna.”
“Cool.” His instant belief makes you all kinds of pleased. He flumps back to rest against you, twisting his legs with yours.
Silence. You wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. If you wanted, you could rest up some more, chill in this pile with your best bro until he gets himself feeling restless. There's not a lot to do when you're dead, but even if there were, you'd still be unwinding with your palest motherfucker.
You pull Mituna back against you and settle in for more shut-eye, expecting him to loosen up and do the same, but instead of relaxing, he gets more agitated, fidgeting like his system's all fired up. Nothing unusual for your twitchy brother, and you’re not concerned until uncomfortable whines start rising from his throat. You don’t know what his body's trying to tell you but chances are, given time, he'll tire and pacify himself, so you opt to wait it out. Habitually, he'll work himself into a frenzy for no good reason, those miraculous sensors in his pan going shithive maggots over nothing in particular. It’s best to let him get it out of his system unless he's really flipping.
His hand moves in aborted jerking motions until he grabs at the flesh of your thigh, clenching and unclenching his fist. It hurts when the pointy bones of his fingers dig into you, but it's all good, you're chill with it.
“Is all well, mine own sweetest motherfucker?”
He grumbles something, huffing and tearing at his own lips with his jagged teeth. All slow like, you send your voodoos deeper. Sometimes he can’t get the words out; you're saving a lot of frustration by helping him along. If he notices you digging around in his mind he doesn’t comment, keeping nice and unresistant to your search.
Before, his pan was shut up tight like a computer, viruses and code to keep you out. Since his accident, he's a pliable doll. Unfurled, defenceless, none of the blazing fight he used to have. Sometimes you nudge his brain too hard, bring up bad memories, boost sensations up to their max, so you can feel the fire surge again. It doesn't work much, usually just sets him up for one hell of a breakdown. But when it does work? All you can do is marvel. It sears you, turning your own powers against you until all you can feel is heat and volt after volt of electrical charge coursing through you. You come out feeling singed, having to remind yourself that he's burnt out and useless, but all you can hear in your ears is echoes of GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.
During these gentler moments, you work on pretending that your presence in his mind comforts him, that you don't feel the revulsion at having his thoughts probed and examined. Just gotta push past that shit. What kind of moirail would you be if you didn't help a brother out when he needed it?
And, fuck, does he need it right now. With his brain so open to you, it doesn’t take long to find what's bothering him. The feeling manifests as a heat surging through his mind and you feel his ache as if it were your own. Like you thought, it ain't nothing bad, not bad at all.
You slide your leg upwards until your thigh meets his crotch, and he gasps in response. He's startled into stillness, his body going taut, eyes searching yours until you press harder in encouragement.
“You know I’m all kinds of qualified in pullin’ those mystical strings in what up and make a bro feel good, so how’s about you relax and get your blissful chill on? Take your pleasure, brother.”
He whines desperately, head falling back and presenting his neck to you. Him getting all up and submissive for you; that's every kind of rapturous. You smile wider, even as your threads warn you to keep your trap shut. You’d bite him if you could. Mark him nice and pretty so that everyone knows he’s yours, trail your cold tongue over his skin until he shivers. No one would touch him then, no one would dare.
His hips move with fervent incoordination, grinding harshly against the layers of clothes blocking him. You can already feel the wetness of his nook, it’s soaking into your pants and leaving yellow streaks where he rubs. You consider letting him get off like this, watching him get more and more delirious, writhing against you until he spills warm, honeyed genetic material onto your lap. What a consecrated image that is. You'll up and do it another night. For now, you want to satisfy him completely. Besides, you love teasing that sweet little nook with your fingers, being able to stretch and fill his greedy hole. Getting to hear how he cries out and begs for more, mouth stuttering around the shapes of almost-words. Mostly, you want to shove your tongue so far up his nook you can taste him at the back of your throat. It's almost got you regretting cutting that incendiary fucker out.
“FUCK! Stupid, shitty clown,” he shouts impatiently. “Need more, you worthless fu-cking bulgejerk.”
Moving your hand to his head, you stroke his hair and give him a few tender paps. You know he doesn’t mean it, that he can’t help the putrid nonsense that spews out of him.
“Don’t be stressin’ thine own motherfuckin’ self out so much, brother. We ain’t in no rush here. How’s a mirthful piece of shit like myself goin’ to be pleasin’ his palemate if he’s got such a wretched squirm on?”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, the anger dissipating immediately.
You chirr at him to let him know you ain't angry. You could never be angry at him.
His hair covers a good chunk of his face and you’re forced to brush it away to reach his flushed cheeks. He grumbles and shifts, all insecure about his burnout scarring, but he lets you touch him. You wonder if he’s as complaisant with Pyrope as he is with you. If he lets her hold him close, as you do. Maybe she presses too hard, gets him all worked up from overstimulation. He's a sensitive motherfucker. You've got to know how he likes to get his pet on or he'll be hastening towards a meltdown. After an infinity of death, you've got all kinds of practice. You know how to caress him just right, to soothe him, to stop his mind from panicking. A slide of your hand on the right cheek and then the left, in that order specifically, mind how hard you’re pressing down, make sure you’re leaning away so he doesn’t feel smothered.
The tension in his body drains out real quick as you care for him, gentle and mindful of the trauma by his eyes, until he’s left boneless and sleepy. Once he’s placated, you reckon he's deserving of a reward. Adjusting yourself so you’re above him, you help him pull off his underwear. His hands slide against yours uselessly as he tries to help, his mind still fuzzy from your affections. You've got him in your old clothes. No need for all that tight shit constricting him when you're chilling in a pile with your best bro. They don't fit him, not even close, but it’s a pretty fucking adorable sight to behold.
You get his pants off of him and leave him bare for you. On purpose or not you don’t know, his legs lock together, the tendons rigid and unyielding. Probably a cramp. While you wait for his muscles to loosen, you kiss his bruised knees and draw hallowed symbols on his skin with your fingertips. It takes a minute of gentle kneading, but he eventually relents enough to let you part his thighs and look at his blushed and dampened groin. His nook is already leaking. You push his legs up to his chest for a better view and you’re rewarded with a gasp as his small hole flutters. Above his winking nook are his bulges, both tips just barely peeking out of his sheath.
“You’re already so wet, Tunabro. Were you enjoyin’ a most blessed nocturnal emission durin’ our motherfuckin’ slumber?”
He flushes beautifully.
“Ain’t no shame in that, my brother,” you coo. “Can you up and be sharin’ what happened with this curious motherfucker right here?”
“No! Gross. You’re fucking gross,” he shakes his head forcefully.
Despite what he says, he thrusts his hips up towards you, trying to bring attention to his emerging bulges. Real subtle. You thumb the tips and he shudders, garbling out an incomprehensible sound. They spill out too quickly to feel good, but your boy has always been a mite impatient. No worries, you'll fix it right up. Get it all slick and nice for him. You've got lifetimes of experience learning the ways to make his body sing. A twist here, a stroke there. Soon, they're fighting each other for your touch, wet and excited. You grip them loosely in one hand, letting them twine around your wrist and fingers.
“I ain’t feelin’ very obliging then.”
You let him squirm in discomfort while you refuse to help relieve him. His hips buck up into your slack hand despite the lack of pressure, but his movements are uncoordinated and awkward, his bulges unsure of where to go to find what they want, leaving them to twitch relentlessly against you. Tangling between your limp fingers, they wriggle around in search of a wet hole to sink into.
“Please, fucking, please. Dumb, nooksniffing, worthless fuck fucking—”
His voice cracks and you can sense the tears coming. Your other hand shoots up to his cheek, which you pap quickly.
“Shoosh, my wicked diamond, hush the fuck up. We only got our play on, no need for all this tormented noise.”
“I'm sorry. Sorry.”
You smile and stroke him properly, albeit slowly, so as to not overwhelm him. His eye’s half close in pleasure and although you can’t see his pupils, you know he’s staring at you. He’s slick enough that your hand moves easily over him, aiding your slide downwards to pay special attention to the sensitive split of his bulges, right at the base. It forces a whine out of him as you grasp him tighter and speed up your hand.
“You, you. You was—were in me, your bulge. We k-kissed so fucking pale and you used me like a bucket. Fucking. FILTHY.”
He's finally found a voice to get describing that dream of his. He'll never be a poet but his clumsy imagery is enough for your bulge, wriggling around all impatient like in your pants.
“Then Tula showed me some new tricks? And fell.” He’s scowling in confusion.
“Skaterbitch ain’t here right now. Just you and me, homie. Why don’t you and me get to makin’ that lewd ass vision a reality?”
Mituna’s frown evens out into a grin.
"Fuck yeah," he snickers.
Feeling all generous and warm, you decide you’ve held back long enough and glide a finger down to tease his nook lips. He jerks back at the coolness of your skin but adjusts quickly, pivoting his hips down towards your finger then back up to the hand stroking his bulges. You hardly need to get your move on, his erratic movements doing most of the work for you.
He’s wet enough that one finger enters him easily, swallowing it into his hungry nook. You don’t let him adjust before granting him a second and basking in his grateful moan. He's leaking around you, every quirk of your fingers makes a wet noise as more liquid dribbles out. His insides are alight; you’ll never get used to how much warmer he is than you.
Your bulge is real angry at you, squirming and eager to curl up somewhere hot and throbbing, but you've got to stretch Mituna out first or you'll hurt him. Nooks are made all stretchy-like and ready to yield, in case some highblood got their feelings on for a tiny lowblood, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. It's a hobby of yours anyway, to drag out Mituna’s pleasure as long as he'll let you.
“Loz,” he croaks, almost sounding like himself. “More.”
He almost looks right-minded, no drool or hazy eyes. Homesickness for the old Mituna surges through you, curdling in your stomach. Affection and resentment; he's Tuna but not your Tuna. Even so, he looks at you like you're every star and moon in this shitty galaxy, and you’re pale for him, so fucking pale.
You look away before he notices your eyes getting all soft and weepy. It's not the time for all that sentimental depravity. His nook flexes around your fingers impatiently, bringing you back to the moment, so you slide in another and hear him gasp. His mouth moves soundlessly, eyes scrunching closed as his legs slam together, trapping your hand between them.
“Is all feelin’ miraculous, my divine ninja?”
He nods fervently. You wait, happy and serene, until he loosens his legs and allows your hand to move again.
“Clown f-fuck! Want your bulge,” he spits.
“Settle your sweet self, brother. No need to be hastin’. We got ourselves all the time in the world, don’t we, sunshine?”
You wait for him to settle, tracing your fingertips over the roof of his nook while you wait. Just three fingers and he's already stretched wide, another reminder of how much smaller he is than you. It’s all-natural, highbloods just got their tend on to be bigger than lowbloods, but you still worry if he can take it. He’s even smaller to you now, after his accident. Fucker could've taken on the world with his shitnasty mouth and wicked psionics, but now he’s all volatility wrapped in fragile lace. Easy to tear apart. You could crush his throat with one hand, destroy his body along with his mind.
He hits you with his foot.
“Stop thinking so much, stupid nooklicker.”
Your pan has a habit of drifting to dark nirvanas if you don't keep it in check. You’re exalted to have him to keep you present, to bring you back to where you are, not where you need to be.
You've forsaken him long enough. He's been real sweetly patient for you, your angel delaying his pleasure for your deliverance. Your long fingers move in and out of him smoothly, feeling his soft walls clinging to you already. Your digits are long enough to circle the entrance to his seed flap, which is just barely opening for you, and he cries out.
“IN IN IN. GARBAGE SLURRY EATING WIGGLER.”
It's tempting to keep up your teasing game, but you’re making a severe mess in your pants.
“You got it, motherfucker.”
Removing your hands from him, you wriggle out of your pants. Mituna does his stupid nasal laugh when they catch on your ankle, the nerve of him, and you reply with your middle finger. Pants thrown to the furthest corner of the room in retaliation, you settle back on in the pile with your moirail.
His renegade hands have strayed between his legs, pawing at his bulges. You've got his head too distracted to stroke them properly; he’s only got to rubbing them with the heel of his hand.
“Where’s your patience? You know you need to be up and waiting’ for this blasphemous fuck before you go reachin’ your most sacred of endin’s.” You swat away his hand.
“Fuck patience, skank whore looking bitch!”
“Silence, my beloved. We’ll be all up and starting our most divine motherfuckin’ union shortly.”
You run your hands up the backs of his thighs, two long stretches of flesh and blood. The warmth from them seeps into your palms. His hair is a sweaty mess on his forehead, but you can see his pure white eyes peeking out from under it, watching you again. You take in his features, the sharp angles of his cheekbones to the dual sets of fangs peeking out from his mouth. You brush the black, fluffy hair away from his face so you can admire him without obscurement and smile when he nudges his nose into your hand. What a virtuous face it is, all up and grinning for you like you're something holy. He’s a perfect little moriail. Fuck what Ampora or any of the other godless motherfuckers have to say about it.
“Loz." You can barely hear him with how faint his voice is.
The want to keep teasing him is dissolved by his tender tone. You bring your bulge up to the opening to his nook, letting it dip inside him shallowly, just playing with him some. He shivers, from the coolness or the hallowed sensation you don’t know, but he doesn’t stop you so you press in further. Motherfucker has never been one to shy away from a challenge. Taking your bulge being one of them. He doesn’t make a sound besides shallow breathing until there’s one-third left, when he lets out a shuddering moan as a tremor racks his body. He’s so tight, no matter how many times you do this. His insides cling to you, all warm and pulsing, and you can see the skin of his entrance spread taut around your bulge. Even throughout the stretch, genetic fluid has trickled out onto the pile underneath you, its heady scent making you dizzy.
“Real motherfuckin’ miracle, aren’t you?” You murmur, your hand drifting back to caress his bulges. “My blessed fuckin’ sunbeam.”
He’s muttering something, but it’s unintelligible, broken off words. Just more bullshit. His hands grasp at whatever they can find. One clamps down on an old controller and the other wraps around your arm, nails digging into your skin. They draw blood when you finally bottom out, but whatever, you've never been shy to some pain. Your bulge explores his insides, grazing his internal walls, teasing the opening to his seed flap. His legs have drawn shut around your hips, keeping you locked against him. You'll have to oblige him into the trap for a soak or his muscles will be keyed up for nights.
“All still feelin’ divine?” He only whimpers in response. “Speak your righteous noise at me, brother.”
“‘S good, so fucking good.”
You circle your hips real slow like and smile as his eyes flutter, his head falling back while his body arches up to meet yours. In moments like this, it's easy to pretend things are normal. Mituna seems illuminated by pleasure. Even all muddled up in rapture, he's still grinning at you, breathing out confidence like his old self did. It drags up memories of 51CKN457Y 5K473R 7R1XXX, fucking with Kankri, flights through the clouds as red and blue crackle through your pan. Remembering them stings but it is what it is. There's no bringing him back.
Mituna's got his grip on you too strong to thrust properly so you let your bulge do the work, wriggling inside him and smoothing against his inner walls. Your body is urging at you to force your way into his seed flap and flood him with your fluid, but it’s barely open and you can't be hurting your moirail. He's taken so much already; the outline of your bulge presses patterns against the skin of his stomach.
“Look how motherfuckin’ full of me you are. How tight you are, mine own beloved, how warm. I’m blazin’ up a fuckin’ storm inside thy most blessed self, brother, burnin’ the fuck up. You make me the most favoured of the devout clowns. I got myself all sanctified by your saccharine bein’.”
You can see translucent yellow tears forming in his eyes. “Not worthy, not fucking WORTHY.”
He sobs and you press your forehead against his, your own eyes burning too.
“Now, don’t be startin’ with that wretched noise.” Your voice cracks with emotion. “So pale for you, Tuna, I be keepin’ all my softest pity for you."
“Pale f’ you too,” his voice shakes as he speaks.
You press your stitched lips against his as gently as you can, barely even brushing against them, rotating your hips in delicate circles. He's frantic as he moves against you, a pious juxtaposition to your calm movements, kissing and licking you with his forked tongue. He’s tasting your paint but it doesn’t stop him none; he’s too eager to have you close.
His eyes are glazed when you move away. From the pleasure, the crying, or your voodoos, who knows. You wipe away the drying tracks of tears left on his cheeks with the edge of your shirt sleeve. He’s beautiful like this and you tell him so, which gets him blushing golden yellow.
Genetic fluid dribbles down the inside of your thighs from your nook, purple streaks reminding you of how empty you are. His legs have relaxed enough for you to draw back, and you lead his bulges to your waiting nook. It’s difficult to wrangle them both at once as they spasm without control, but instinct kicks in when they pass over your hole. Alone, he’s not big enough to stretch you much, but with both of his bulges together, he fills you just right. They twine together inside you, searching for your seed flap with an inborn urge. He’s not coordinated but together you grind and rub, your motions making slick sounds as you move in and out of each other.
He’s drooling and whining, eyelids flickering and his blank eyes rolling back in his head as you thrust into him. His puffy hole is clinging to you, and you know you don’t have the willpower to leave him to get a bucket before you spill. You lean down to kiss his neck the best you can with your stitches, nuzzling his scent glands with your nose. The overwhelming smell of honey and sex surrounds you.
Mituna tenses against you, and you know he’s close.
“Are you approachin’ your wicked endin’s, beloved? Gonna come on my bulge like the desperate fuckin’ pail slut you are?”
He nods rapidly, eyes closed tight and bony knees digging into your skin.
“Fall apart. You know I've got you, brother, I'll put your miraculous self back together."
It takes one last sharp thrust to send him over the edge. His back arches, chest touching yours, as yellow genetic fluid spills between you. Your thighs are coated but most of it stays trapped inside, your bulge plugging him up and your hungry nook milking everything it can take from him. He moans pitifully like his pleasure is being wrenched from him without permission.
His climaxes last for less time than yours do, maybe it’s a lowblood thing, but with his condition, he’s left twitching for minutes after. You fuck him through it, ignoring your own rising pleasure to let him soak in his afterglow. His bulges retract before he’s even caught his breath, slipping out of your drenched nook and leaving you empty again. Your gene bladder tightens to keep hold of his material, only a few ochre trails escaping down your thighs.
You get your patience on and wait until he’s calmed before you increase the pace again, slamming into his sore nook with barely restrained force. He squeals and jerks. Sure, you should let him rest, but you’ve done this before; you know he can handle it. From the look on his face, you think he’s even enjoying it. Your horny motherfucker. Liquid hits your skin every time you reenter, you’re literally fucking the fluid out of him.
He moves his tired hands to pull your forehead to the junction of his neck, stroking his fingers through your knotted hair as you rest against him.
“You’re good, Loz. The best fucking d-diamond.” His hands trace tiredly over your face; your eyebrows; cheekbones; lips. Smudging your face paint. “Handsome. Like, hot as fuck.”
You snort, smiling fondly.
“No, for reals. Bitches dig the goth shit.” Your bulge brushes a part in him that makes him choke. “Really, asshole?”
“For such a blasphemous mouth, your dirty talk is motherfuckin’ disgraceful.”
He scoffs. “Oh, you want dirty? Greedy fu-ck. Want you to fill me, wanna drip purple for weeks. I’m your pail slut. Ruin me with your huge bulge 'ntil my nooks fucking K'loz s-shaped."
Your hips twitch despite yourself.
“Sinful fuckin’ words comin’ from such sugared lips.”
“Yeah. I’m k-kinda a sex god so...” He goes for a nonchalant shrug but only gets his horn snagged on an old shirt hiding within the pile. “It’s to be expected.”
You chuckle silently, your shoulders shaking. Such a fucking dork. You don’t know if you could feel any more pity for him if you tried.
He's lucid, what a rare treat, but your bulge isn't interested. You readjust yourself before starting back up with your fast pace, slamming your hips into his. With a squeak, his hands fly to your shoulders and cling on tight, letting you have your way with him. His nook is so warm, even warmer than Meulin’s, and you switch to grinding unrelentingly against him so you can stay within his hot confines. His angular knees and fingers dig into you, but you don't give a shit. You're almost there. The walls of his nook flutter around you as he clenches, tight and unrelenting undulations massaging your bulge.
“C’mon, Kurly. F-fill me.”
It’s him grasping your throat and squeezing that sends you over the edge. There’s a moment of nothingness before overwhelming pleasure floods you. You can feel the stream of fluid pumping out of you through the waves of dizziness. It runs down your legs in royal streams to stain the pile beneath you. Your ears pick up on the low, strangled moans oozing from your throat, but you can’t stop yourself from making them. Something breaks in your hand and you realise you’ve grabbed onto one of Mituna’s controllers. He'll get pissy about it later, but right now, fuck, who cares.
The burn in your lungs takes on a painful edge before he lets go. Sometimes you hope he won't stop, that he knows the atrocious shit you've done and will deliver some wicked justice upon you. He never will, though. He's innocent, made ignorant. Blind.
“Pft, look at that bitch ass bulge!” Mituna’s staring down at his stomach, where his abdomen has swollen from the genetic fluid inside him. He looks up at you, grinning, but sees your face and frowns. “Bleeb- bleeding.”
You touch your fingers to your lips and they come away purple. You must’ve pulled on your stitches and reopened the wounds.
“Ain’t nothin’ to worry your thinkpan about, homie. They’ll heal up real quick.”
He gives you a sad look, like he wants to say something, but stays silent. You know he doesn’t like the stitches, doesn’t understand why you have them, but he respects your choices.
You take a quiet moment while your bulge enjoys the sweetness of Mituna's nook, throbbing as it slowly retracts back into your sheath, coated with gold and purple. The pile calls to you to lie down, but you still have to deal with cleaning the both of you up, starting with getting a bucket. You could stop the memory, remember you both some fresh clothes and skip the tidying up. But you like the domesticity of it, and the Empress’ ruthlessly cheerful encouragement to fill buckets is a lesson that dies hard.
Before, Mituna would use his psionics, but now you go to retrieve one and help him hover over it. With two long fingers, you pry apart his walls, curling them against the delicate ridge that persuades his seed flap open. The slurry flows into the bucket, mixing into an unattractive brown. He buries his head in the junction between your shoulder and neck, panting, while you coax out the remaining liquid. Saving your genetic material is unnecessary, sure, but you like doing it. It's all kinds of satisfying to look after him like this.
As your fingers leave him, you stroke his puffy nook lips and he whimpers. They’re sore, well-fucked, and leaking purple. You slap them to watch them flush that pretty yellow you love so much.
“STOP! Fucking RUDE.” He nips the skin of your neck. “Wanna wash. I smell like mime cum.”
He squawks, loud as fuck and right in your ear when you lift him up.
“Let’s go get a motherfucker clean, then, shall we?”