“Bro?” you ask, reaching up to rap on his forehead with your knuckles. Somehow your hand just tangles itself all up in his fine-ass hair and you sort of yank and turn and then two of you are kissing. It’s sloppy and hot and awkward, the angle all wrong and neither one of you used to each other at all, but when he gets your lip between his dull choppers and bites until you’ll bruise it’s just about motherfucking perfect.

In which young Church ward Gamzee Makara is finally old enough to be officially initiated into the ranks of the subjugglators.

You're a late bloomer at nine sweeps, and you don't yet have a concupiscent quadrant filled. This leaves you alone and self-pailing for the duration of your mating cycle—at least, that was the idea. When Karkat bursts in on you, it sort of throws off your plans for the week.