#hornb
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Sanjeev Phadtare
Rufous-necked hornb
Mahananda. W.Bengal -India
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Woohoo finished comic, in which Ketter's horns shed (like elk antlers do) around Sollux for the first time. Sollux is blind in his black eye and doesn't see what Ketter is trying to show him until he turns and looks. Sollux has never seen this happen before and is rightfully freaked out at seeing detached horns and bloody hornbeds. Ketter is a chucklefuck and thinks it's funny to hand some unsuspecting guy a still-bloody horn and then not elaborate.
Process stuff under cut if I can format this thing right
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some parts of handmaid are rough and dry and flaky (scalp/forehead, fingers, lower back, ankles) othe r parts toughhard leathery (forearms, legs) and scalysoft leathery (neck, upper arms, stomach) and her hornbeds are nigh constantly inflamed. btw
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rubs hands at your kiss drabbles
how about 13: Hair Kiss for Sipara and Pheres?
The first time you'd seen Pheres, sunlight had been pushing through the curtains of his closet of an apartment. You remember the way there'd been fingers of impossible heat stretching all the way across the clay floor, and for another troll, they would've been a warning.
But you'd been young, and dumb, and still practically wet from the egg. You'd been too young to know! You'd been too young to care. All you'd known was that someone was too close to your hive, and you'd hated it, and you'd hated them.
And back then, those fingers of light were practically beckoning you to action.
"You are getting entirely too much pleasure from this," Pheres tells you, sour, his eyes slit down to two sun-bright lines. There's a trickle of blood running down his forehead, just dark enough that it stands out against his skin.
When you swipe it away with your thumb, it smears.
"Can you simply put on the bandage -"
"Brah, who's the fucking mediculler here? 'cause, like, spoiler alert, loser, it sure as fuck ain't you." You bang your fist into the top of his head, and with a huff, he lowers it once more.
It's been nearly two sweeps since the two of you have lived together, but at times like this, it feels like you've never stopped. Oh, the environment's changed. This isn't your little shithive apartment, back in the deep Hanhai, and it doesn't have the smooth white tiles of your old place in Namsty. There's none of the white-hot smell of heat permeating everything, or the constant cloak of humidity here. Pheres's apartment in Ghoulisar doesn't look like anything you'd ever live in.
But it doesn't matter. Everywhere the two of you go, it always seems to come back to this: the sun-bright glow of his eyes, the rasp of your voice, and the familiarity enough that you can't always tell where you stop, and he begins. When you curl your fingers around the antiseptic bottle, it's not the sort of thing you think about. There's no conscious plan behind it! It simply happens, just as you know it will, just like you know to flick Pheres on the horn just a moment before his chin starts to pull up.
He hisses at you.
"Hold still," you tell him, shaking the bottle.
"It doesn't need antibiotics - oh! Oh, that stings - why are you laughing?" he demands, twisting to face you, but you've already dropped an elbow on the crown of his head to pin him in place. "I am going to bite you, if you do not hurry up! I'm not joking," he's saying, as you snatch up the bandage with your free hand. "I will - well! Perhaps I won't bite you. I'll just - oh - perhaps I'll just headbutt you! How's that?"
"You're not gonna headbutt me, dude," you say, "or else, like, I'm pretty for sure your horn'll just snap off, and then Hads'll be laughing, too."
"It won't snap," he says, and then: "- it won't! Will it?"
There's a fine line snaking across his hornbed, trailing like spiderwebs down into the velvet. Pheres's horns are as thick as a fist, but you can still see the exact spot he must've hit - there's a nick right in the keratin, a little inward bow like someone pressed their thumb into an eggshell. "Iunno," you say. The antiseptic had seeped in readily, but there's beads of liquid already peaking at the center of the crack as you watch. "The fuck did you do? Try to pap a fucking clowncar?"
It's just an incomplete fracture, you think. He's not sparking, and it's not bleeding. But you don't need to tell him that. "Or tryin' to fuck a clowncar? 'cause, like, eye-dee-kay your whole beeswax, dude, but I was pretty sure Hadean knocked that shit out of you -"
"Oh! I was not trying to pail anyone, thank you very much! Especially not - not -"
He takes a deep breath. You can't see his face, but you know what his expression must be: eyes hut, mouth pinched, brows knit until he finally exhales, and the mask slides back into place. "Apollo took my drink," he says, as prim as any rustblood from the films, "and I decided that his behaviour was uncouth. Because it had been made very clear to me the last time we went out that I was to purchase my own drinks, if you can believe that. After I had simply left my credit chip at home! And so I simply felt as if that was the new standard of behaviour on which we were operating. So he objected, and I was forced to -"
"Bite him?"
"No," he says.
"Pap him?"
"Sipara! He has a moirail!"
"Like that's ever stopped you before," you jeer, and tie off the bandage with a knot. "Here, loser." On a whim, you lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hair. "Try not to break yourself again, yeah?"
"Thank you," he says.
Then he slams his horn into your face.
You really should've expected that.
It's hard to tell who's shrieking louder. There's a flurry of curses, as the two of you tumble apart. Bennue wakes up all at once, adding his shrill cries to the cacophony of noise, and you can barely see at all for the way that Pheres's sparking.
"What the fuck, Pheres," you shriek, but he's already yowling back: "- don't shame me!"
"Saying you're a floozy isn't shaming you, dude, when you're a fucking -"
"Oh! Come here and I'll bite you! See if I won't!"
"How am I supposed to fucking see anything when you're going off --"
"Well, good! Perhaps you don't deserve to see!"
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You need to rest. I know you’re up late again. Always so on edge, always pushing yourself so hard. You don’t need to worry about all that right now. I’m here, I’ll take care of it. Or at least I’ll make sure it can wait until you get a bit of sleep. This is my job, I take care of you when you can’t take care of yourself. Look at those sore ganderbulbs, you’re making me tired just looking at you. Mm, come here you lovely, pitiful creature, let me rub your hornbeds and tell you about my day. I made you some food we can eat later, but for now it’s just you, me, and our lovely soft pile. Come on, put your auricular spongeclots to my rumblespheres and I’ll make sure you’re safe as you sleep.
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Iljvr bring amams little good dumb dill, so much j wish i could be it althe time just dumb and hornb for Mamq
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((I need to draw a none hornb version of cursed prince Aster. We'll see if I can.
My vibe is gore or hornb artwise apparently))
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how do psis work in your universe? where do they come from (in the body), how do they feel, what can they do?
Psionics- in the bloodline Captor at the very least- have glands along their bodies that produce psi as a byproduct of processing sugars in their food.
These glands are just under their ribs and connect to their pulsepoints through specialized veins. These points are the most efficient spots to channel psi through and will be seen used most often: eyes, hornbeds, palms, balls of the feet.
Depending on genes, psi abilities can vary wildly, from explosive psi to much more subtle pan control, though through training any psi can be hooked into a helmsblock for their Empire's glory
Base level psi will be a barely tangible tingling, like a light vibration in the air, but the more power is output, the louder it gets as the vibrations get more intense. It's a very similar feeling to electricity but it's entirely kinetic energy.
Hope this helped!
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Helmsman: Wake up somewhere new
Grand: You are doing more paperwork, fuckin kill you with a culling fork. More and more and more and you satisfy yourself by reading one, telling the sleeping psion the joke that is these assholes requesting aid, and write 'Fuck Off' in big spiky letters across the whole thing. That goes in the Done pile. Next paper, type a moment to research what the fuck they're even talking about, because you stopped hiring motherfuckers to know more details than you when they kept fucking dying or leaving. Getting exiled. Whatever.
Your typing hand leaves the husktop to run over the fuzz of the psion's warm fragile skull while you read some more shit, strike out some more shit, and sigh. "Motherfuck, I need a vacation," you mutter, and it's a joke because this is about as close as you GET to a damn vacation, but not a joke funny enough for you to laugh. You look up round the room, all the medicullers absent save the one you successfully disarmed (okay, that one you'll laugh at), and he's dead the fuck asleep. Everything's in white, save the floor which is a multihued stain down to the drain in the center of the room, though it is mostly subtle variations of purple. Not a lot of offcolor fucks that you consider WORTHY of gettin tended to, after all.
This helm don't know how lucky he has it.
Helmsman: Stirring, your hornbeds crackle with power as the sedatives start wearing off. The dull, fullbody pain makes you groan under your breath and squinch your eyes tight, before it fades and you can settle again.
It occurs to you that you're being touched, but you don't sense any animosity from it, which is strange and new. Along with this feeling of not-bad is the voice you recognize. The one that makes you feel. Not-bad.
Your blue eye creaks open to survey your surroundings, and you grimace at the white, zapping the troll next to you to get their attention.
"Hey. Can'ya turn off th'lights? Ssbright." Grumble.
Grand: The crackling of his horns takes a moment to register, the groan less so. You finish writing Fuck Off on this next illustrious waste of tree pulp, running your off hand down his nug til you get to the base of it before you withdraw--Just in time to get zapped. You let out a curse that's actually just a verse of your most holy of texts (elixirs 5:18; pour one out for you, your blood is paint yet to be spilled), and bare your teeth at him, eyes flashing with menace.
Oh. He's just waking up.
“Poor motherfucker," you croon, and it's a mocking tone that you speak in. But what the fuck ever, you can stand for a break. You turn off the lamp closest to him, shut your husktop with a finite click, and captchalogue the stack of important papers that you've filled out. ... Oh, and the not done ones too, if for no other reason than state secrets or whatever the fuck.
Helmsman: "Thenks." Your voice is rough from both overuse and underuse, and you clear your throat a few times before swallowing a little bit of blood. Gross.
Blinking your eyes open, you take a better look at the room around you, and then up at the troll looming over you.
"Oh sshit." Oh shit is right, because if you aren't mistaken, that's the fucking Grand Highblood. In the flesh.
"Sso. Are you the personification of the Angel of Death, or am I hallucinating?"
Grand: "You fuckin flatter me," you say, batting your lashes a bit. "Either that, or you're hallucinatin, cuz I ain't been called angelic in a while." Your hands are to yourself, but you know the sound of a fucked up voice when you hear one. You wonder if you'll have to shove a tube in his mouth to get him to take somethin from you, or if he'll take it just to make you stop botherin him.
... But you also take the chance to look him over. Mostly just his face, which has the capacity for expression now, and is therefore finally actually interesting. "So surprised to see me? I told you I'd help."
Helmsman: You look confused, and a bit upset, like you'd had a present ripped away from you. "Then... I'm not dead." Thin eyebrows furrow and you attempt to sit up, which is hard when your arms feel invisible. After a bit of struggle, you flop back down heavily, hissing at the pain. The light in your eyes seems to pulse, like you're trying to focus. "The- the data..?"
Grand: "Not a fuckin clue." This is definitely about to get spicy, and you don't grin. But you want to. You want to rub your 'i told you so' in his moronic fucking face. "You ain't dead. You're limbless and on my ship, after you tried to fire up a single fuckin cannon and immediately fainted. Whether you managed ta finish transmittin your entire self into the space between helms, i ain't got an iota of an idea. But I told you that you didn't have to shoot me, that i would wait for you to get your business done. So I don't know that I feel like that's my problem."
Helmsman: "Limbless." Yeah, that explains why your arms feel invisible. You failed. After everything you did.
After all that pain and hard work just for it to fail. You're silent as you process this, before your eyes grow damp. You can't even wipe the frustrated tears away, so you curl away from the clown so you can cry with a little bit of fucking dignity.
God your life goddamn SUCKS. The sobs hurt as they rip out of you but you can't make them stop, thin frame heaving. He should have let you die. You shouldn't have told him anything. God you're so stupid!
Grand: ... Oh.
You expected this motherfucker to fight. To flare up bright, like you saw he could do in the ship, like you know he could do as a ship. The fight wouldn't do much good, him limbless and you your powerful, merciless self, but you woulda had fun trying to take him out without takin him all the way out.
You look over him, crying, weeping and just barely able to turn away from you, and you feel
something.
Fuck knows what.
"For fucks sake, we doin this shit?" you snap, and you think it should have come out a little harsher, a little louder. Or maybe you should be laughing, perhaps. No motherfucker would be surprised to hear you laugh.
"Like I ain't the most powerful motherfucker this side of the damned universe. Where the shit are your files or what the fuck ever."
Helmsman: Shaking your head, you laugh through the tears, a mirthless, harsh noise. "Where the fuck do you think they are?"
Crying is such a relief, though. Like you finally can expell all the horrid feelings you've been holding close to your chest for so long. You've been ripped from your ship, sanitized, bundled up all careful in a medical cot, what more do you need to hide? What would it possibly change?
"I was always doomed. What difference does it make now."
Grand: You grit your teeth at that unrighteous sound, but what the fuck is it you can do? Where the fuck indeed. You keep your helms and your files separate, at the rate you burn through them, and why the fuck wouldn't you? But you've never thought about the logistics of how the fuck one would store themselves, never thought about how it wouldn't be in ship storage unless it was some place the fish bitch could see.
For a second, from the way you have trouble breathing, and from the way your pump aches, you think you're finally kicking it. It's only a breath, only a beat, but still enough to get your fronds all wound the fuck up in the soft silk of the hospital bed. Still enough to have you reeling.
"Well. Guess you're gonna have to stay lively long enough ta write your fuckin memoirs, ain't ya?" you say, and it's quiet, and not all that funny, and you don't know what the hell is going on. "So, let's see to that."
Helmsman: You half feel vindicated from seeing that conflicted look on GHB's features, but the other half of you feels really bad. The guy went out of his way to save your useless life, used his resources, time, and energy to pluck you specifically from death's door and sit next to you.
Memoirs he says, like that isn't a ridiculous statement to make this late in the game. How are you gonna write them without arms, you wonder. It makes you laugh again, and this time it feels better to laugh. Once the giggles have settled down, you look at the troll next to you, really look at him, yellow streaks run down your cheeks and staining the white pillow under you.
"You've been here the whole time, right?"
Grand: There you all in all your glory, thousands of sweeps old and not quite so young looking as you were when you first caught this motherfucker, wearing what amounts to your casual clothes and the tie you wear when you're feeling like you should get yourself in the head for business. Your hair has grey, your paint has a fine line or two in it, but you're still an unholy terror when you want to be, which is still fucking most of the time.
Your hands unfist in the covers, and you roll your eyes at him, recline in the chair you stole from your office because fuck if you're gonna use a visitor's chair, you're the fucking king. "Nah, motherfucker, I got shit to do other than tend to your pathetic ass." Your ankles cross and you look up at the ceiling, casual as you fucking please. "But I been here often enough. When I ain't preachin or doin other holy shit. Medicullers just ain't made like they used to be, and some don't know how to ask first instead of puttin their knives where they ain't wanted. Can't have them makin that mistake when I went through all the trouble to nab your scrawny ass, can I?"
Helmsman: "Well. Thanks, I guess. You've got your reasons I don't doubt, but." You avert your eyes, not that he can tell. "It was better than being alone."
Okay you need to sit up Now. Cracking your neck, you test your reach with your psionics, the energy roving over the whole room as you manually adjust the power. Ugh, that feels weird. It takes a negligible amount of thought to arrange yourself a bit more upright against the pillow, and it does wonders making you feel less like you're at the mercy of circumstance.
"... You haven't changed a bit, huh you shitty old man."
Grand: You roll that thought around your head, feel it shifting shit behind your eyes. It was better than being alone, he said. Ain't that a terrible weakness of his, that dislike of being alone? Feels like the fucking point of a wriggler's afternoon special, soft and sweet and weak as it is. Pathetic, is what it is.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye, watch him sit himself up with power that you still don't trust not to be pressed into the flesh of you, though the thrill keeps you from locking it away tight with something or another, and you are a little impressed that he even knows how to use those when he's spent so long being sucked dry of em.
"Course I've changed. I think I've gotten taller. Definitely gotten older. I think I've killed a few more thousands of fuckers, though I might be off by a decimal point or some shit. You gotta be more specific, motherfucker, if you want to get a particular answer."
Helmsman; Scoff. "It was rhetorical, fuckhead." The residual psionics definitely is filling the air with static, and now that you've tapped into them it's increasingly hard to tamp down on them. Guess you're going to be fizzing like a carbonated beverage for the next little while.
"I do have some questions for you though."
Grand: You bark out a laugh, as your head fills with static and your hair puffs up faintly like an angry cat. You're going to have to rub him down with fuckin drier sheets or some shit, just to get some peace and not have your papers stickin to you.
"What the fuck else have we got to do, bitch? Go on, ask."
Helmsman: You chew on your lower lip as you think of the right way to word it. "Does Survivor know I'm alive?"
Grand: "Yep," you pop the word sharp, rocking back on your heels and two legs of the chair. More throne than chair, really.
Helmsman: Would be a shame if he were to fall backwards and hurt himself... Someone's gotta teach this guy not to lean on the back feet of chairs. He could hurt himself. What a shame.
The front two legs slam back onto the floor, and you sneer at him. "The last thing I need is for you to suffer some kind of concussion right now."
Grand: You yelp, an unseemly noise, as your chair is forced groundways, making you a six legged shape once more. "My skull is thicker than that, for messiahs motherfuckin sake, ask your damn questions instead of fussin over my old ass, you motherfuckin limbless horror."
Helmsman: “It'd just be inconvenient, is what I'm saying. Like I'd bother fussing over you, nightmare fuel."
This fucking guy. You shut your eyes, exhaustion hitting you like a truck all of a sudden. "Will I see her anytime soon or am I just gonna be stuck in this glass bottle forever so you can keep prodding me with sticks?"
Grand: Nightmare fuel. You like that, and it makes you chuckle different, a low bass rumble in your chest.
"You'll see her when she comes up with a plan that her and blue think will keep me from wreckin their shit, and as soon as you can get jostled without openin up every scab you got from nose to nook, which believe me, are plentiful.. And maybe a little longer than that, dependin on your amusement ta annoyance ratios. Don't go tryinna manipulate em to your wantin, cuz I ain't gonna tell you which keeps you here longer."
Helmsman: "I'm going to be honest with you: I'm a doer not a schemer. I'd pinky promise you, but, well..."
Shrug.
"As long as I get to see her again." You forgot what it was like to yearn for someone, but right now it's all you can take to be away from Bastet. You were being honest earlier when you admitted you don't know how to be alone anymore.
Grand: You hear that, and you tip back in your chair again, arms crossed behind your head, and you smile. Fuck yes. "Ain't that sweet," you chirr, and it could be nice if it was anyone other than you. But you are, as he said, nightmare fuel, and you ain't particularly inclined to be anything else.
"Give it a week or two. A perigee, tops. You'll get where you wanna be. Think you can wait that long, motherfucker?"
Helmsman: "Only been waiting the majority of my life." Sinking back into the thin blanket. "If you're going to stick around, do it goddamn quietly, for fucks' sake."
You're starting to feel lightheaded, and want to sleep now.
Grand: A snort. "And here I thought you liked my company. You'll tolerate it or you won't, and it ain't my problem either way."
Still, when he nestles himself down, you draw the blanket up past his damaged shoulders so he don't catch chill and kill himself on something nothin much at all. And you go ahead and take off your business garb (the polkadot tie you wear when you're deep in the shit creek that is your backed up paperwork), twirling it around your finger before you captchalogue it. "Just fuckin sleep, you're gonna need it."
Helmsman: “Don't need your permission." You bite back, already fading off into dreamland. Geez, being a sassy sourpuss takes a lot of energy.
Grand: He falls asleep to the low rumble of your laugh at his expense, amusement in the face of his fucking spite. Once he's out, you realize you forgot to make him drink, and decide you'll get on with it when he's a little more conscious. No point forcing him if he's not around to make you work for it, is there?
You don't turn on the light for a good hour or so. You just sit back in your throne, the back legs of it worn away from just such play, and you think. And you speak a few more times, half thoughts that you don't bother to explain cuz he ain't around to ask. But mostly, you just think.
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How about, your Clown ocs, HoM, distracting eachother? :)
[I started this literal years ago and found it in my drafts yesterday. Warnings for: parental death, references to intoxication, references to clowns doing weird things with bones, death and grief.
This takes place maybe a sweep before the start of Hope of Morning, about a sweep after Gamzee was captured. Istmun and Kalton are fantrolls. You can see more of them in Lost and Found by me, and Ain't There, by @kravkalackin ]
I’ve been sitting on this prompt for a month I don’t even fucking know at this point (and you’re deactivated??? noooo) and this is probably not remotely what you were asking for but~
You’re focusing on paperwork today. It’s past noon, the numbers swirl in front of you and you have to start the calculations over again, these are supply orders, you have family depending on these. You need to focus. It's important you get this right.
Kalton comes in, of course.
He looks like shit. Face painted with an unadorned mask for mourning. He’s got something in his hands that makes him shuffle his feet like a scolded wriggler.
“Kalton.” you sigh, “Brother, I got shit to do, so-” he holds his hands out to you, and you go still. You know what they are, you’ve seen him using those cuffs, or letting them be used on him, the rare times you get yourself to a festival. You know what he likes, he’s not the least bit shy on it, but he knows you too, and he knows better than to ask this of you. “Kalton you know I ain’t-”
“Not like that.” he says, real quiet. “I know, ‘m not gonna ask that shit of you,” he takes a breath that shudders in his throat, “don’t want it like that right now. just.” he’s not looking you in the eye and his fronds tremble where they grip the worn leather of the cuffs. “Make me forget? Just for little?”
Your heart hurts for the pity of him. Gone is the headstrong smartass that guards the hive like a rabid barkbeast. Gone’s the eternal flirt, and all that’s left is a barely-adult troll who just lost the closest thing he ever had to a lusus. You take his hand and pull the cuffs away from him.
You set them on the desk and leave them there, pull yourself to your feet. “Not here,” you tell him when he goes to protest. You still have some standards when it comes to what you let your asshole idiot best friend talk you into. “Come on, my block’s not that far.” you tap his hand reprovingly when he reaches for the cuffs again. “nah, bro, leave’m.” His face twists, bitter under the paint, but you know him, and you know his limits, and he needs something more than that, and if you’re being real honest, so do you.
Your little set of blocks ain’t far from the office you share with Shatterd, (Lord, you ain’t even thought much on Shatterd, and her moirail gone like that and— you’re not thinking on it. Kalton needs you right now, you’re focused on him. You have to focus on him and not anything else.)
You pull him through the door, past your pile of soft things, holding firm to him when he makes like to stop there. “Trust me, you fucking wreck.” your voice comes out softer than you mean, and woven with pity.
You don’t use your ablutions block much. Mostly you shower off in the subadult dorms when you’re done training a class, or in the exertion clinic when Kalton drags you out to spar, but you got yourself a nice trap, and the hot water reservoir feeds in here as well as anywhere else, and it’s private, which is the only way you can think you’d ever be undoing your best friend’s armor and letting it slide off like you are, shooshing at him when he makes confused noises. “Trust me?” You ask.
He stares at you wordlessly, eyes wide and terrified, and it almost makes you laugh in the worst way. You’ve seen him tied up, letting one of the Inquisition sisters take a knife to him, but this scares him. This makes him pause. You don’t push. You never push, you don’t dare, but after a long, silent moment, he nods. You give him the best smile you can manage, which isn’t real good, and squeeze his hand before you let go and set the tub to filling as hot as you can stand. you allow yourself a full minute of fussing with scents and oils, gifts you hardly touch mostly, before you make yourself pick something that smells green and alive, and not at all of smoke.
You set a cloth on the edge of the trap, and a bottle of the light cleansing oil for your face. You pretend you don’t hear the silence behind you.
You’re not armored. You hardly leave your office, let alone the hive, but you take the time to fold your clothes instead of captchalogging them. By the time everything is ready, the trap is full, and you turn back to Kalton, who is standing, still wide-eyed and staring at you. You hold your hand out. “You can say no.” you tell him, even if you don’t need to. “You can get dressed, and we can go sit in the pile, if you need to.”
He hesitates, which is almost enough to make you call it off. You almost reach out to wrap him in a towel, go wrap yourself around him in the pile. It would be nice. He would feel better for a little while. But it wouldn't make him forget, and he asked for forgetting.
He takes your hand and steps down into the water.
The scented oils leave a rainbow shine on the surface, below the haze of steam. It's silent in here, other than the water against the lip of the trap. He sinks into the water up to his chin. Your trap is sized for the behemoth you will be someday, if you live long enough, with room for a partner besides. With the two of you just out your first adult molt, there's space enough to stretch your limbs out and not touch the sides if you were so inclined. You sit on the edge and ease Kalton back against your legs.
You start by working your fingers through his hair. He doesn't want to talk, you think. So you go in hard and fast. Your thumbs dig into the flesh of his hornbeds firm and smooth, and he goes limp against you with a noise that makes you blush to hear.
You slip into the water behind him, holding him up so he don't slide in and drown. You keep on his horns, pressing hard enough to ride the edge of pain. You take a breath, letting the heat of the water soak into your bones, and the scent of tree resin and citrus fill your head. There's something extra in that particular oil, you think. Family always trying to get you to relax some.
His body is limp and trusting in your hold, but the physical part of this isn't what has his pan trembling as you relax and let yourself expand beyond the tight-bound knot you keep yourself tied into. You hold him against your chest, hardly minding the nakedness anymore.
Not many trolls take the time to learn this. It's something Shatterd taught you back when she figured you were as best a regular palemate as Kalton was ever gonna get, and you all were sure that he took after Infernal in temperament. Most clowns work in fear only. Few have your delicate touch. You hold him in the jaws of your chucklevoodoo, press him all down into a tight little ball of grief and rage and terror. Fear about what comes next. Anxiety about the war. Terror on how someone so solid and eternal and ageless could just be gone. You twine around the roiling storm of his own power, and you bite. Precise as a scalpel. The part of his pan that holds his fear and grief shudders and writhes for a breath, then goes quiet. You reach for fear with a funny little mental twist, and grasp pleasure, and bless Kalton for being the kind of troll where pleasure and fear live ass-to-cheekbone.
The pleasure you tug to the fore. Kalton whimpers in your arms, a sound not quite unhappy. He's clinging to you, hands wrapped around your elbow, and you let him cling, claws rhythmically gripping and releasing. You pull at his pan again, catching the wispy floating feeling of the something extra that the oil put in the water. You weave it around with pleasure, wrap it with a sharp thrill of fear, and let it go.
You hold him up as he goes limp and floats out into the water. His breathing is shallow and fast, and you can feel the fear seeping through his limbs, but his eyes are open and vacant, and his face is slack and peaceful for the first time since he came home this morning.
You float with him for a while. Until the water begins to cool and you have to decide if you want the heaters on or not. You wash his hair, careful of his face. When the water has taken on enough of a chill to be annoying you herd him out. You can't puppet him in the same crude way as the lower blues, but you can herd him with little shocks and mental nips out of your trap and into a thick towel.
You bundle him into your pile and settle his head in your lap. He comes back while you are carefully squeezing the damp from his hair. It lies in heavy coils around his shoulders now, and you're wondering if you should twist it for him while you're at it. He hasn't had time since you lost Gamzee's whole squad, and you haven't missed he's been less polished since you lost your third yearmate. He blames himself for a whole lot of things as ain't his fault.
"Lv't." He mumbles, batting your fronds away. Loose it is. He comes back slow, and words come nearly last, the few times you've done this for him.
You wait until he blinks. Until pupils contract and expand and focus on your face where you lean over him. Not until he's aware enough to stop you do you catch his chin in gentle fingers, and pour a little cleansing oil on the rag. He doesn't stop you when you press the cool rag to his face. His paint was fresh enough, you could have left it. But he needs to be laid bare and taken down to his core, you think. So piece by piece, with a rag worn old and soft and thin by generations of trolls using it for just this purpose, you strip his face from him.
Beneath the paint he looks young. Afraid. His cheekbones are hollow and sharp from too much exercise and not enough food. You clean the paint from his thin lips. From the proud arch of his nose, the slight crookedness where more than one troll has tried to flatten it for him. You love his face, so you take your time. You press your fingers along the pressure points of his face as you work, and by the time you are done, he's gone again. This time his face is sweeter, eyes half-shut in relaxation. It's a gentler place you've sent him, now. When his face is clean of paint, you slide down and curl yourself around him, drag your heavy blanket over the both of you, the one weighted down with glass and steel beadwork so it presses you both into the pile like the lusus neither of you had. You settle against him, his face tucked against your throat, and pet his hair, and wait.
When you feel his chest hitch, and tears drip against your skin, you stroke the back of his neck and shoosh him softly. "I know, brother, I know."
He cries himself to dry, hiccupping sobs, and then to unconsciousness. When he wakes he looks better. His eyes are still raw and swollen from crying, the set of his mouth is still fragile. But he's not lost and shaken anymore.
"What are we gonna do?" He asks your collarbone.
"There's still wrigglers as need gathering," you say gently, like Shatterd didn't break the news by sending you the promotion paperwork. "I expect they'll need a troll on that as knows the work." You stroke your claws through his hair, careful not to snag his curls. "She wanted to go in the cathedral. New chandelier is what Shatterd said. Someone with good hands oughta shape her." That almost sets him off again, mouth trembling. "If you can't do it-"
"No!" He takes a deep, shuddering breath, "She always said she wanted me to do it. Joking, like. I want to. When the rendering is done. I-" he sets his jaw. "She deserves the best. But I'm all thats left of the lusus clade." He rubs an eye, makes a face. "Gimme paint. 'Nd a mirror." There's a new fire in his eye as you hand him the paintpots and hold your little hand mirror for him. Its not his usual hearts and spades paint. You see a little of Infernal in the inverted darts on his cheekbones, the painted fangs on his lips. He looks himself when he's painted again. Harder, more sure. You can still feel anxiety fluttering in him as you pull your voodoos back into their tidy little knot, but he's steadier now. He can do this.
You pull him down so you can press a kiss to his hair. "She's got the best, she knew that when she asked for you." The smile he gives you is shaky, but solid enough. He's ready. As long as the family sticks together, it'll come out right in the end.
#dramaph0ne#My Writing#Hope of Morning#assorted fantrolls#no editing we die like mne#Kalton Aerris#Istmun#i forget his last name#for the three of you in the know#Infernal is Sirrah#And Shatterd is Shel#theyre in lesbians#or they were anyway#happy 414#day late and a dollar short with fic only like four people in the world are interested in.
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Beside Me
Based off the song Mother Mother by Oleander
This story was a birthday present for @brinytrolls.
Faldur and Sarky both belong to Freddie
"Thanks for watchin dudes, seeya in the next video" Sarkan chirped, a bright smile on his lips before hitting the end button on his recording system. "Well....looks like another succesful run eh Sarks?" he asked himself, shaking his head and letting his ears droop a bit. He sighed and looked out the window to the storm before frowning. Out on the road closing in on his borrowed vacation house was a familiar shape, one of the only people who would know where he was spending the perigee in quiet solitude.
"Fal? What in alternia's grey biosphere are you doing out in the rain?!" he asked aloud, quickly pushing back from the desk his computer was stationed on and quickly hurrying his way out to the front porch. He looked around, panting for breath as he tried to catch sight of his Kismesis through the thick rain.
"Faldur! Where are you?!" he shouted with worry, trying to find the violet seadweller with the darkness being illuminated with a massive flash of lightning. His teal eyes went wide when he finally spotted the sea dweller, covered in mixture of rust and gold and cerulean blood and wandering down the road as though he didnt know where he was. It took just moments before Sarky had his shoes on and was pelting down the road in his pajama pants, his favored hoodie, and a pair of flipflops.
"Faldur! Terrors above what are you doing out here? I know your a seadweller but this isnt like yo-HOLY SHIT IS THAT BLOOD?!" he nearly screamed. Faldur's eyes were tinted a bloody orange, not even caring about the brightly colored blood on his suit jacket or the fact that his typical fedora was missing from atop his head. His hatesprit gave a soft little whine, the teal reaching out and carefully wrapping his arm around Fal to help support the seadweller as his knees buckled. Fal could be heard muttering things about what had happened, the dark growl in his voice causing the fur along Sarkan's back and ears to rise. "Lets get you upstairs and in bed" he said softly as he guided the seadweller back to the house.
The day was a long one, Faldur shattering plates and cups as he went on his angry little tirade. It wasnt like he couldnt replace the things in his own house, it was more the fear that Sarky felt watching the highblood destroy things and not bother with the damage he was leaving on himself. Dark fingerpads sliced open, jacket sleeves shredded by talons and glittering porcelain and glass pieces from what was just in the kitchen.
Faldur wound up falling asleep curled up in the corner of the large dining room, his thin form trembling lightly in the aftermath of his rage. Sarky sighed when he noticed this and gave a small little smile, moving over to drape one of his extra hoodies over his kismesis to try and help give him some comfort as the teal worked on cleaning up the shattered remains of what was once a set of dishes.
******
"Come on Fal, lets get you in a tub" Sarky sighed, having stayed up the entire day to make sure Faldur didnt wake back up and get hurt. The violet gave a confused little noise as he felt the warm hands under his arm and around one wrist as he was guided to his feet. "Sark..... when did.... why are you here I went home?" he asked, mostly to himself in his tired state.
"Well....I mean when you come wandering down the road half the town away from your place I'd guess you didnt go home" Sarky teased softly, not doing much more than that as they stepped into the downstairs bathroom and settled faldur on the closed toilet. "What happened last night man? You were shamblin around like a day walker!" Sarky commented, his long ears lowering. He worked quickly to get the water started and to the right temperature for the seadweller.
"I.....I went on a date last night....was supposed to be a possible matesprit" Fal replied with a shaky breath, tears starting to well in his eyes. "I....Sarkan I dont.....Why does everyone decide I'm nothing? Th-that I'm only good for my money?" he asked.
sarky was taken back by the question, a hand moving to rub at the back of his neck. "I....I dont think I can answer that for ya Fal.... Alternia's a cruel place, we all know this but the fact that you came home covered in blood is....more than what I guess was just a date gone south" he said softly, sighing and kneeling down beside his kismesis. "But no matter what I'm right here for you. Quadrants be damned for tonight, you need someone with a gentle touch" he stated, Faldur blinking and looking to his kismesis with a confused little chirp in his throat.
"you heard me fish face, now come on. Lets get you out of these bloody clothes and into a nice cold bath eh?" he offered, standing up enough to help remove the tattered cloth from the seadweller. It was a long process, Sarky taking extra care around the gills and fins and making sure to check the other for any cut or scrape that could have been worse than first thought.
"Sarkan.....why do you do this?" The seadweller asked, Sarky's ears perking up a bit as he looked over his glasses. "Why wouldnt I Fal? We may be kismesis, but that's just a rivalry thing more than anything else. Rivals can still care for one another and help them to be stronger than what we were before" he explained softly, tapping the other's hip lightly as he nodded towards the tub "Come on. Get in so we can get the rest of this blood off you"
Faldur pinned his fins back, turning his half blind eyes away. "did....did you find my glasses anywhere?" he asked instead, trying to get the old feelings to squash down enough for him to look Sarky in the eyes again.
"No, you didnt have them on when I found you last night" came the soft reply, Sark guiding the fish down into the water with careful hands as though he could break at any moment. "I know where you keep your backup pair at this place, so i'll grab them when I get you something clean to wear. " he hummed, grabbing a rag and starting to carefully run it over Fal's shoulders.
They worked like this in silence for a few moments before Faldur spoke up with a shaky, qiet voice "Sarky....you always stand beside me.....even when I'm out of my mind" Sark blinked and tilted his head a bit with a confused little pout. "Hmm? What do you mean by that?" he asked, Fal shaking his head and bringing one hand up to nervously fiddle with one of his fin piercings.
"I-i shattered all that glass...dont pretend i didnt, I saw it in the trash bin when we passed by" he muttered "Yea fal you did....but i'm right here to sweep it all up" Sarky hummed, shaking his head a bit with a chuckle. "Why are you smiling Sarkan?I-i made a huge ffffucking mess! I-i-i was acting obscene!" he blurted out, hand dropping into the water as Sark carefully cradled the fish's cheek in his hand "Yea...But I'll be right here to help you clean up and destress....You can be the anger and the rage, and I'll be all the rest"
What Faldur didnt expect was the soft kiss to his forehead, fins flaring out a bit as he looked up to the other with wide eyes. "W-what? What do you mean by that? Where are you going?!" he asked, hands moving to grasp at the side of the tub.
The teal just offered a small smile "I'm just getting you something to wear Fal, I'm not leaving you here alone" He replied softly, trailing his nails along Faldur's hornbed in an attempt to calm the others nerves. It worked for the most part, Fal letting his fins droop back into a comfortable position before sighing and closing his eyes.
"you know Sarkan.....If you leave me, I think it would kill me"
"I know fal.....I know"
*****
The two were bundled up in comfortable pajamas, faldur having been patched up from his wounds and now clean and cuddly against the larger troll. They were quiet as an old movie played, something the both of them would enjoy so as to not cause any major issues on the film choice.
A scene had the characters passing through a large garden and had Sarky perking his ears with a small smile as he broke the comfortable silence they had settled into. "You know....You're like a Wisteria Fal" he hummed, reaching up to trail his fingers through the other's lightly damp curls. "Bright petals, beautiful hues~" he cooed, fal blinking and turning up to the other with a pout. "A Wisteria? Bright like me?" he asked in reply, Sarky chuckling and nodding with a soft kiss to his violets forehead. "Yes like you~" he hummed.
"Sarkan....I'm more like a vile little child stuck in a farm sty!" Fal huffed, arms crossing over his chest as he turned his eyes away from the other. "So? you know I love playing with my vile little reptiles~" Sarky teased, sticking out his tongue at fal playfully and getting a swat to the shoulder.
"Difference is I'll burn you out!"
"So? I remember burning your diary that one time Higgins~"
Fal puffed out his cheeks and growled softly, turning away and just going silent as Sarky moved his hand down to pull the other into a hug instead of just lounging across his lap. "But, just like back then Fal, if you start to cry I'll work to put a smile back on that horrid face of yours" he purred.
Faldur smiled a bit at the memories he had with the teal that held him, his own arms moving around his shoulders to return the hug tightly. "Yea.....If you left me rest assured I'd perrish... it would kill me to loose someone like you" he muttered against the fuzzy ear next to his cheek.
Sarky just chuckled softly and shook his head, swaying along lightly to the music the movie was putting off "Your my little wisteria, bright beautiful petals" he hummed, fal pulling back and offering a soft little smile "A wisteria.....bright and beautiful" he replied with a happy little purr in his chest, Sarky touching foreheads with him
"Yes, just like you Fal"
"just like me~"
#faldur#faldur gemela#sarky#sarkan#sarkan nerdal#higgins (fal)#snerdal#moirallegiance#kismesis#blood#pining#pale/pitch flipping#soft touch#kind words#panic attack#?
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ಠಿ_ಠ everyone fav asshole troll
Don't let the asshole fool you! He loves having his hair played with and braided!! He just.... Doesn't trust many people to do it due to tender hornbeds
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okay but if I follow that headcanon and I, a sufferer of toothache and jaw stiffness, it means that hornaches and hornbeds stiffness are totally a thing too.
“Hey dude, wanna hang out?”
“Can’t. I’m having an awful hornache right now”
My next troll is going to be a horntist.
***correction, its going to be a hornthodontist, thanks to @p1dge-ocs‘s lovely addition.
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Hand Holding Drabble 20 - Gamsol
LOVE ME SOME GAMSOL
Homestuck | Gamsol Solgam | Gamzee Makara<3Sollux Captor
~
“You’re doing some motherfuckin miracles there my beloved sunspot.”
“Thhhut up,” Sollux groaned, pressing his face further and further into Gamzee’s shoulder in an attempt to block out all other sensation but the clown he was clinging to. God he must have looked like such a pathetic wriggler to everyone else in the room, needing to cling to someone so much bigger than him to deal wtih the pain he was in.
But you know what? Fuck what everyone else in the room thought because Sollux’s flesh was on fire where that teal’s sword had cut through it and Gamzee was there for once, being a big strong confident Highblood who was going to snap and snarl at everyone around them until Sollux could do it himself and fuck what anyone else thought about that.
“S’ok bro.” Gamzee’s claws sunk into Sollux’s hair, scratching at the area of scalp between his two hornbeds and melting Sollux just the tiniest bit more. “You can be losing yourself in your hurt a bit, I’ll be keeping ya safe. Promise you most beloved, most reddest of pitied hearts.”
“You...” Sollux panted, tightening the grip of his hand weakly around the large claws holding it. “Are the biggetht fucking thap ever. And I’m telling KK later.”
It was easy to drift into that dark, unhurting place with Gamzee’s chest rumbling with a laugh beneath him. Real fucking easy.
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Event Seven: Freezer Burn
Sleep came in fits and starts for the trainees, but they all snatched what little they could as their training continued. Despite this, they all spent the scant hour of free time the instructors allotted them in different ways. Zesaim studied, scouring books whose origins she refused to reveal for interrogation techniques. Rosmer baked in beakers, often coercing Sollux into using his psionics as a heat source. Ophlia worked out, Trisia ever by her side. Sollux himself dozed as he idly explored the limitations of his tablet, poking holes in the security to try and get his nose out for some news. Ualona often joined him, his maroon text a constant in the chat channels.
- actualizedClairvoyant [AC] has begun trolling twinArmageddons [TA]!-
AC: any progress on protecting a c-| |-annel?
AC: avoiding mics is cool and all but w-| |-at if t-| |-ey are monitoring everyt-| |-ing we type?
TA: no progre22
TA: they’re reportiing all thii2 2hiit two the empiire and the drone2ll be here iin liike two hour2
AC: D:
TA: who do you fuckiing take me for ii’ve coded liike fiive proxiie2 iin the la2t ten miinute2 alone.
AC: -| |-ell yeah!
AC: so can you send me t-| |-at new installment of sunspots and starship -| |-eresy you found on the net t-| |-en because i kind of need somet-| |-ing to take my mind off tomorrow’s private training
AC: i -| |-eard its gonna be some INTENSE friggin quizzes
TA: god ii don’t want two enable you gettiing your globe2 off two helmiing porn you know that riight.
AC: i mean
AC: w-| |-en you put it t-| |-at way…
TA: w/e iidgaf
-twinArmaggedons [TA] has sent file [kiinkyba2tard.xml]!-
TA: porn ii2n’t trea2on anyway we don’t need protected channel2 for that.
TA: 2o who’2 goiing two be your traiiner tomorrow niight??
AC: that pozoia guy that oversees the p-| |-ysical training :[
AC: im freaking out!! -| |-es going to eat me alive!
AC: w-| |-at about you?
TA: rapard.
AC: O-| |- S-| |-IT
TA: w/e
TA: he doe2n’t 2care me.
The next night when the morning alarms went off, however, Sollux hesitated as he squinted at his schedule for the day.
Sollux Captor: Report at Training Block A13 - Rapard - Dress Code: Swimwear
“Swimwear?” Zesaim’s puzzled voice came from her bunk just as Sollux read the words on his own schedule, and he looked over. “What happened to quizzes?”
“I don’t see how having a personal trainer’s going to help us swim better,” Sollux said, sitting up on the platform. “God, I don’t give a shit if I have to chase a wader through open sea, I’m drowning regardless.” He ducked, just in time to avoid a pillow getting thrown at him by Mercuo at terminal velocity. The seadweller glared at him from his bunk.
“You’ll need the fucking practice if you don’t want me to drown you,” Mercuo said, climbing down from his own bunk.
Sollux snorted, flicking Mercuo’s fin once with his psionics before stripping down. They filtered out to their assigned blocks after that, and it seemed the coolbloods didn’t receive any alteration to their dress codes for the day. Sollux found walking alone to a lesson disconcerting, and the halls seemed so much chillier and ominously dark without someone at his side. The faint fizzle of the lights above him served as the only background sound apart from the faint paps of his own bare feet on the metal tile.
He stopped in front of block A13 after a few minutes, looking up at the door. The metal seemed thick and reinforced, and a card reader sat adjacent to the heavy handle. A hand reached past Sollux, sliding a card into the reader and causing Sollux to jump. He hadn’t heard Rapard coming. “Quit flinching, helmbait,” Rapard said, hauling the door open. The door hissed, steam rushing out of the dark block in a billowing cloud. Sollux took a step, paused, and then moved forward only after Rapard shot him an unimpressed look.
The cold had given Sollux pause, an almost physical wall of frigid air that only intensified as the door behind him closed with a heavy thud. For a brief moment only the natural illumination from Sollux’s own eyes cast any sort of light, before a single, dim bulb on the ceiling flicked on. It didn’t really help. A metal chair stood fixed in the middle of the room, and Sollux felt a prickle of fear skitter up his spine as he spotted manacles on the armrests and near the legs. “What kind of quiz--”
“Emotional endurance is the topic today,” Rapard said. He gestured towards the chair, one eyebrow arching up. “I don’t have all night, recruit.”
Sollux gritted his teeth, glancing from the chair to the door and back again. Rapard stood between him and the door, and somehow he doubted he could overpower a fully matured seadweller in such a cold environment. Sollux’s own limbs felt stiff, and his teeth already chattered. He had his pride, but he also had an ounce of self-preservation in his bones. He sat down in the chair, jerking away too slow to avoid the manacles snapping shut around his wrists and ankles.
“I get the physical training, I get the mediculler shit, but what the fuck is up? Sir,” he added at the expression on Rapard’s face.
“How slow do I have to speak to drill something through your pan, recruit?” Rapard said, starting to pace, a shark circling through icy waters. “Welcome to emotional conditioning. The goal today is to learn control. The moment you emote, your quarry loses faith in your resolve to hurt them.” Rapard stopped off to Sollux’s left, shifting his weight from left to right before settling back on his heels. His expression remained as blank as ever. “This also serves as a practical demonstration of your schoolfeeding. Recap what you learned about temperature moderation and interrogation, grublet.”
Sollux took a breath, trying to settle the sparks already settling around his hornbeds that had triggered out of anxiety. “Temperature. Short-term temperature shifts out of habitable zones can lower reaction time and inhibitions. Long-term it can influence the immune system and wear a troll down.”
Rapard snorted, reaching into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulling out a small remote. He pressed a button, and fans lining the walls kicked on with a furious intensity. Sollux yelped, turning his face away from the sudden blast of cold air smacking against his face. “Temperature drop, two degrees,” Rapard said. “Watch those sparks-- I can read you like a fucking book. Get it together.” He started pacing again, and Sollux tried to resist the urge to follow his movements with his head. “What temperatures can the average lowblood withstand?”
“Average?” Sollux worried his lower lip with his teeth, scrambling to answer ahead of Rapard’s impatience. “Hypothermia takes place at an internal temperature of 97 degrees, and we can survive with an external temperature of 140 with enough water.”
The fans whirred again, and Sollux gritted his teeth. “Watch those ears,” Rapard said. “In the interrogatormentors, your emotions are a weakness. If you can’t turn them off like the husktop you are, then what use are you? You can’t be caught at the mercy of your own instincts.” He shook his head, still pacing in a wide circle around Sollux. “What will affect a lowblood’s internal temperature more, cold air or water?”
Sollux faltered, looking up to the fans. Well, that seemed like the proper answer right there. He couldn’t think straight, really, his thoughts coming to him in sluggish waves as he shivered in his bonds. A red light blinked in the corner of the room, a camera watching this entire affair. What did they even need this footage for? “Cold air,” he said finally.
Rapard hummed. “Interesting answer,” he said. “This isn’t about the immediate effect, this is a matter of thermodynamics.” An odd click came from above Sollux, and he looked up just in time for a set of freshly revealed nozzles protruding from the ceiling to unleash a deluge of icy water. Sollux sputtered, gasping and choking against the spray. The water left him a shuddering mess, each breath an agony stabbing into his lungs.
“I gffkfk- got it,” he said, coughing hard. “Cold. Cold’ssss good.” His lisp had worsened due to the chattering of his teeth, and he found himself biting his tongue more than once. “Fuck. Fuck.”
The fans came to life again, and Sollux screwed his eyes shut. “You’re cursing out of an emotional response,” Rapard said. Sollux felt cold hands grasp his jaw, and he peeled his eyes open to meet the seadweller’s own. “Turn off your emotions, brat.”
Sollux took a breath as Rapard released him, schooling his response back. He tried focusing inwards, fixating on the thought of warmth, of his bunk and fresh food and summer nights. Turn it off, turn it off, turn the emotions off, think of something else. His expressioned slackened, smoothing out into an expressionless mask despite the way his muscles spasmed due to the cold.
The quizzing continued from there, and Sollux did his best to answer each question thrown at him. The temperature kept dropping despite his efforts, until he felt icicles gathering in his nose and his eyes felt swollen from how much tears streamed down his cheeks from the cold. The lesson continued even after Sollux started hacking blood onto his legs and the floor, his entire body quaking. He couldn’t hear his own voice. He didn’t even know what he said in response to Rapard’s questions, and he knew at least half of his answers were unintelligible. He couldnt even begin to imagine what warmth felt like anymore.
Eventually Rapard looked at his watch and hit another button, and the manacles around Sollux’s limbs popped open. Sollux couldn’t have moved if he tried, and it took careful prying and warm water to loosen him from his quite literal frozen position in the chair. Sollux struggled to remain conscious as Rapard swung him over his shoulder, gasping as they emerged into the relative heat of the outside corridors.
Rapard deposited Sollux into a communal block, into a flock of suffering recruits. To the left side of the room, where Sollux tumbled onto the ground, lowbloods clustered around each other in bundles of blankets, heated mats underneath them. To the right, highbloods all seemed intent on drowning themselves in ice baths. Sollux couldn’t bring himself to move, and remained face down until he felt a blanket settling around his shoulders.
“Hey, Sparkles,” said a weak voice above him. Sollux looked up to see Trisia, her face flushed a brilliant teal and her dreadlocks hanging limply around her cheeks. “You look like shit.”
Sollux let out a ragged laugh, fingers curling around the edges of the blanket. “You do too. Did they stick you guys into an oven?”
He heard shuffling behind him then, and a sniffle. “I want to die,” Ualona said, voice very small. “They didn’t warn us it’d be like this. We’re the interrogatormentors, not- Why are they torturing us?”
The door opened again, revealing a petite purple with a massive collar of spikes framing the back of her head like a matured daywalker. She pushed a stumbling Ophlia into the room, tittering and wiping a little smear of purple from the corner of her own mouth before shutting the door. Sollux caught a glimpse of the back of her neck then, which revealed that the spikes were indeed protruding from her skin in a uniform circles of daywalker bruises along her spine. When Ophlia lifted her head, Sollux saw her ear was bleeding. Sollux swore, shivering. “This place is fucked.”
Trisia got up again, and Sollux heard her murmuring to Ophlia before supporting her up to an ice bath. Ualona scooted closer, and Sollux saw an ominous darkness to his nose and the edges of his fingers. “What did Rapard promise you?” he said.
Sollux tried to think of what Ualona meant, but nothing came to him. He only shrugged, his cheek pressed up against the floor. “Nothing. But I'm not waiting to find out what you're talking about,” he said. “Let the others know.” He closed his eyes. “We’re getting out of here.”
#homestuck#homestuck au#sollux captor#interrogatormentors#illustrated fic#fic#come get yalls juice#got a cool refreshing treat for u#thanks everyone for ur patience!!#interrogatormentors event
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