The thing about Karkat Vantas is, he might be a pompous, noisy windbag with an inflated opinion of his own importance, and if he was suddenly struck down by some kind of vicious troll laryngitis the universe's total amount of chill and quiet would suddenly go up three levels... But turns out he's also a great fuck.
“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.
eridan is so tolerable when he can't talk
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.
Gon's unnatural concentration rears its head in unexpected places.
The problem is that you’re at the mercy of a useless, outmoded, ass-backwards mess of a biological process. The drones are gone. They’re never coming again. But your body sure thinks they are. It was— You wouldn’t say it was fine, but it was at least tolerable for a while. Realistically speaking, there was always a reasonable (ninety-nine percent) chance that you’d be culled the first time you tried to supply the drones with a pail, and you’ve been bracing yourself to deal with this since you pupated, for fuck’s sake. It feels like a kick to the shame gloves when your body betrays you and decides, whoops, no, it’s time to be all about filling pails for the glory of the empire.
Care and fucking of your lispy bipolar nerd.
Sollux just wanted a tattoo. He came out of it with ten piercings and a threesome.
