He looks in the hotel room's full-length mirror and what he sees is...a girl he'd totally hit on if he didn't know any better. He tries winking at his reflection. It looks really flirty, and he sort of wonders if it always does.

"I'm not like that," Yosuke says, even though his dick isn't listening.

Making a dick joke was a strategic error. You put the subject on the metaphorical table. You're now thinking about troll dick.

Dave nods. "Most of the inhabitants of this sorry rock," he confides, "cry themselves to sleep at night at the knowledge that you beat them to the incomparable prize of Dave Strider's undivided affections." There's not enough irony left in this poor depleted universe to sustain statements like that very often, so he kisses Tavros again before he can talk himself into actual sincere confession time.

Gamzee sits there all to grinning, because he gets this by now, he does: Equius says Do you want me to when he means I fucking want to so bad I can't fucking stand it, like getting all close to what he wants would make it snap like one of his motherfucking robots. Seems like, if you pity a brother with a hangup like that, about the only motherfucking thing to do is take the decisions right the fuck out of his strong hands.

You're going to leave the toybox in the closet tonight, because you are fairly certain that you can ruin him six ways to Sunday without even a pair of fuzzy handcuffs to back you up, and you really don't want to give the poor guy an aneurysm or something.

Crackling quiet on the line for a second. "Are you serious?" Jake asks at last. "You've programmed that machine of yours to...?" He trails off but the question mark is audible.

Dirk laughs, presses his lips to the sweat-drenched nape of your neck, lets his teeth scrape the skin. "Don't worry, babe, I'm not going to leave you hanging. I've got something special for you. Get up."

Your afterlife groove thing is being visited by an underage crossdressing alien. Okay.

Equius agrees to bet on a robot fight. Dirk is gambling on what happens afterward.

This isn't a thing Equius does; surrendering to impulses is for other people. He has always been one to measure, to strategize, to rein himself in as best he can. It was a necessity. Even his liaisons to satisfy the drones were more matters of negotiation and restraint than unbridled passion, adequate but not exceptional. But as Strider follows him out of the hangar and down the corridor, it's all Equius can do not to turn on him, not to attack him right there, not to pin him to the wall with hands around his throat and knee between his thighs.

First snippet, for asukaskerian. Hell yes, I will write the cuddly after-porn bit for these two! Unf. I am picturing them probably in similar circumstances here as in Asuka’s Uniform Kink pesterlog. :3

It was so much easier to be celibate when you were dead.

Problem: the drones induce pailing via chemical stimulus that boosts concupiscent instincts and dampens higher brain functions. Problem: pinning your matesprit to the nearest available surface is a concupiscent instinct, and using psionic power is a higher brain function. Problem: pinning your matesprit to the nearest available surface is a concupiscent instinct...and controlling your freakish physical strength is a higher brain function. Problem: being anywhere near Equius come pailing time is 100% likely to kill you. Solution: apply higher brain function ahead of time.

"You want a motherfucking guide, chica?" "No," you say, and it comes out flatter than you meant it to. "I'd have to want to go somewhere for that." He doesn't pester you to get moving, like an NPC should. Instead he kind of laughs, and you want to believe it's sympathetic. "Well, here, then," he says. He stands up—and up, and up, jeez, he's like seven feet tall at least—and holds out the cigarette to you. "How about a sister up and joins me for a smoke? Good for chilling out all them head bees."

Karkat's a big stupid romantic, and romance is a language: sloppier than anything Sollux has ever programmed, but it still has its own grammar and its own important commands. This scar-trading ritual thing means, believe that I'm sticking around.

Having an alien boyfriend is a little like an adventure and a little like a science experiment. Fortunately for you (and for your alien boyfriend), those are both things you really like.

"On your three," Captor's voice crackles in his ear as Dave finishes putting down the last bunch of combat drones to come after him. "Already on it," Dave says.

"What do you need to rein this in?" you ask. Captor doesn't acknowledge the pun. He shrugs one bony shoulder, letting his head droop further.

You feel the shift in the air behind you as someone else approaches, but you don't get up. You'll waste anyone who tries to fuck with you right now. "Hot damn," says a voice almost but not quite like Terezi's. "Double trouble, huh?" Your dancestor snickers, and you look up as dancestor Pyrope swaggers around into view.

It's not a glamorous job, but you can set your own hours, the pay rate is good now that you know what you're doing, and it leaves you with enough free time to enjoy your hobbies. You like to think you're doing pretty well for yourself.

You push yourself up to a sitting position. "Bro," you say. "Long time no see." You manage to keep your voice almost totally steady, even. He's sitting cross-legged in the sand, his elbows on his knees, his katana planted point-down next to him. His horns echo the shape of his shades, jagged outward-facing points. You wonder what yours look like, but you think you'd lose points for reaching up to cop a feel of your own headgear. "Come on. We don't exactly have the high ground out here."

You sit down in your computer chair and try not to squirm or shiver too much when she brushes your hair back from your earflap. You've never had anything pierced, and you think it probably can't be worse than getting injured during the game, but it's hard to relax all the same. You weren't just sitting and waiting to get hurt then. "Aight," Meenah says. "Let's get this shoal on the road." "Do it," you say. You close your eyes.

You squirm your way between her thighs and suddenly her hand is braced against you, right below your belly button, like she's holding you at bay. "Dave," she says, and she's alarmingly likely to be serious when she uses your name, "let's do it the other way this time."

Karkat can match him at either end of his scale, balancing both highs and lows with this kind of frothing, incoherent fury that's...kind of attractive, in the right light. All that energy. All that drive.

He sits back, deliberately putting distance between you despite the part of your brain that wishes he wouldn't. "Okay. Freakout over? Good. Now how about some small words and short sentences to work out exactly what the fuck is wrong with you." You sniffle. "Yes. Good. Opening a constructive dialogue in order to put the oppressive apparatus into language so it can be engaged—" "Less theory, more practice," Karkat says.

Chapter 6: Sollux/Karkat, nook worship

"Vantas, you lucky bastard," Straterrorist Reikar says, shaking her head. "Going to see that pilot of yours?" You grin. "Only chance I'm going to have for the next sweep, so we better get our duty to the Mother done while we can."

"Okay," you say, your mouth dry, "okay. What the fuck is this supposed to be?" Bro smirks at you from the couch. "Dessert," he says. His eyes glow through the douchebag shades he took off some kid you guys ate last month. He pets John's hair absently and John does nothing, a puppet whose strings aren't getting pulled. "Can't tell me you don't want him, kiddo."

You'd thought your master's hive was grand, but it's nothing compared to the Imperial Palace. The building rears up before you, sweeping arches and high towers, black stone ornamented with garnet-colored tile. The banners snapping in the wind are brighter, though, a red so bright it looks unnatural: the banners of the Scarlet Emperor, newly risen, the first of his blood since the Signless Sunderer tore down the old empire and built the new one a thousand sweeps ago. Every noble in the Empire is coming to the Capital tonight, bringing gifts to demonstrate their allegiance and beg the new Emperor's favor. Your master is bringing you.

Your superiors think you are the best possible agent for the tough cases, and if they don't quite understand why you have, at your young age, enough skills for any two trolls—well. You tell yourselves that of course most people aren't clever enough to figure you out, and you try to be more smug than furious.

You've been... you don't know, study buddies, something stupid like that, for most of spring semester.

"What gives?" he says then, as he shrugs his way out of the gi and you watch the changing shadows under his collarbone. "Some chump at this party still has a turtleneck on." "Yeah, well, some asshole around here doesn't know how to shut up and let himself be spoiled," you say. "Get in the goddamn tub, Strider."

Remember the first time Kanaya cut Karkat's hair?

Honestly you don't give two shits what the kid looks like. Your audience will go for it even if you get someone who got beaten half to death with the troll ugly stick. The picture loads. You're going to make so much alien fetish money you're going to have to hire somebody to build a swimming pool on the roof, just so you can fill it with sleazy intergalactic flesh trade dollars and roll around in it like an asshole.

You are being the best boyfriend right now, right, and you're not even appropriating that word because you're only using it in your head instead of saying it out loud where Kankri could get upset. And it better be worth it, because you are so uncomfortable.

The sensible thing would be to get out of here and revert to plan "avoid everyone until we're through this bubble." You've seen how scary-violent trolls can get. On the other hand, Karkat. You've been increasingly aware of your own Karkat as a potential makeouts friend for months now, which might be just a lack of other options who aren't a) your ex, b) your sister, c) dating your sister, d) the Mayor, or e) COMPLETELY PSYCHO, but despite the poor reasoning it's still a thing. Your Karkat has seemed pretty oblivious. Evil Karkat, though....

"I got you this." He sets a tiny box on the table between you and nudges it in your direction with psionics. You stare at it. It's the right size to hold a human-style commitment-designation ring, which you sometimes think would be a cool thing to have but as far as you know he's never been interested in. "For those times when I'm being a jackass and you need to snap me out of it." A little smile, a hint of the smug asslord creeping back in around the edges of the apologetic matesprit. "Or when you just want a shortcut to getting my attention."

"Whatever nasty ideas I just gave you, go for it. I'm your kinky alien sex toy for the night or whatever," and with Terezi looming over you and Karkat's big hands on you that's suddenly a seriously, intensely possible thing. You are having a vision of the future and it involves a lot of troll junk.

"I need to—" you can't, you can't say it with Mituna there. "It's my mutation," you say instead. "There are complications." "Okay, dude, open the door," Latula says. The knob rattles, and you miss whatever Mituna says next. "Yeah, I know, but he's still one of us. We can't just let him suffer, you know?" (Kankri misses a social outing. Some of his friends come to check up on him.)

He leers. "Princess." Your spine stiffens. "It's Empress now." "Is that the motherfucking truth," he says coolly. "You takin' up everything my fine fin-sister had?" He levers himself up out of his throne, and up, and up, and your fins flare out defensively but you stand your ground. He's huge, a towering hulk of corded muscle and bone trophies and wild hair. But you grew up with Gl'bgolyb. It takes more than sheer size to intimidate you. "Everyfin worth having," you retort.

You were right about him being passive—well, receptive. Reactive. He doesn't start things, though he's always willing to stop what he's doing for a makeout session, and he puts himself in your orbit more than he needs to. You think that's his way of asking if you're in the mood. It's hard to admit it even to yourself, but you're grateful he's content to take it this slow.

In Which A Young Omega, In Defiance Of Both Stereotype And Politeness, Propositions An Alpha Of His Own Blood Caste, And Is Rewarded For His Daring; Contains Awkward Pre-Heat Negotiations, A Supportive And Extraordinarily Unconventional Clade, Heat Cycle Copulation, An Incidental Human Character With Attendant Barkbeast, The Brief Appearance Of A Tealblood Whose Flouting Of Convention Should Not Be Emulated, No Production Of Eggs Whatsoever, And A Hive Of Bees With No Actual Bearing On The Narrative's Outcome.

The dishes need doing. They're not the only thing.