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His bulges are flushed violet and twisting around each other, dripping with lubricating material and making you swallow; you can feel the weight of the collar around your neck, and his grip on the leash, how it's folded up in his hand right behind your head. You want to lean forward, you want to let his bulges push past your lips, you even sort of want the pressure on your throat from pulling against the leash, but, as you've learned in the past ten minutes, your actions are not without consequences.

If you started without him telling you to, he'd probably just cum on your face and never let you touch him, and while even that'd be really hot, you've been imagining opening yourself up for him for far too long to put it off now.

God, though, your nook aches and your bulge is rubbing itself enthusiastically against the front of your pants, and you can't help leaning forward just a little and licking your lips, so that the pressure on your throat is just enough that you feel it in your face too, so that, if his bulges reached out towards you, the tips would make it to about a centimeter away from your face. You swallow, again, and moan softly, and just look up at him, begging with your eyes, speaking with the blush you feel as heat across your cheeks, the way your ears twitch when you make eye contact, the small space between your lips that's barely wide enough to hold the words, he'd fit into you perfectly.

He swallows, then, too, and you can tell because it's audible; his scarf covers his neck. His fins flare out and tremble as they flush, and his gaze freezes you in place because, gods above, his eyes.
"Wwould you like to suck me off, Sol?"

You can't hold back the whimper that tumbles through the space between your lips and barely makes it out before you're forming them into an affirmation, into,
"Yeth, god, yeth. Pleathe." You almost fall flat on your face when he lets some slack into the leash, but you catch yourself, physically hold yourself back because he hasn't said the word yet, hasn't explicitly said--
"Go ahead." You chirp, and surge forward like you're meant to be here, in his block, wearing a collar with his sign and color, on your knees between his legs, lips parted, face flushed not from shame but from arousal,
glad, and when his bulges push past your lips and linger lazily in your mouth, you chirp again and marvel at how you can feel your pulse in your nook and his in your mouth where he's wrapped around your tongue. He tastes like almost-salty nothing, thick and slick and smooth.

You suck in a breath through your nose and duck further down against him, letting his tips venture together into your throat and make your eyes close halfway because you feel him dripping, and if you swallow, you'll choke. He lets go of the leash, and you hear it fall to the floor, but his fingers in your hair are much more important, because he's doing that thing like he can't bear to not move, stroking through your hair and tucking it out of your eyes and just touching you. You look up at him, and his glasses have slipped down his nose enough that he has to scrunch it up a little to look through them, and it'd look ridiculous in any other situation, but it's honestly just cute, and a little flattering, that he wants to watch you that much. His fins are fluttering without any kind of rhythm, and then they flip back against the sides of his head and his glasses are pulled back up his nose only to slide down again when his fins tilt forward.

You keep eye contact with him as you slide further down his bulges, dipping your tongue into the seam between them right at the base, and his mouth parts into an O and he makes a noise like you've punched him in the throat, breathless and shocked. You take that as encouragement, and do it again, licking back and forth between his bulges, and his grip on your hair tightens.
"Nggh, Sol, I'm gonna cum if you keep doing that,
shit."

Your entire face heats up even more and it's probably bright yellow right now, but you don't even care because he's so gorgeous, violet and trembling and holding onto you like you're the one in charge, so you keep doing it, and suck harder, trying to wrap your lips all the way around his base. Your eyes try to shut, but you force them open, because his are shining, tilting downwards to keep pointing at you as his back arches and his head tilts back and his hand pulls you closer against him, and he just gets steadily and steadily quieter until he bites his lip and holds his breath and then the material dripping down your throat makes you shut your eyes and swallow around him, and it's-- it's good.

It's good, the way it feels when his bulges lash around, the material dripping down your throat and his hands holding onto you, and the collar, the way his legs have closed around your head and the way he trembles, his pulse which you still can feel and is faster. It's even good when he pulls you off, and his material goes onto your face instead of in your mouth, and it gets everywhere except in your hair which he's holding out of the way (your hair, he's holding it out of the way), spattering across your closed eyelids and getting lifted up in your eyelashes when you open them, some landing by chance in your open mouth, most of it just landing, and dripping, and you feel gross for maybe two seconds before you notice his facial expression.

He likes it. He loves it, especially when you clean as much of your face off as you can reach with your tongue and swallow, like your nook isn't squeezing down angrily around nothing right now, like you're in no hurry and don't particularly care when or how you get off, you can tell he really likes it when you blink, because his fins twitch and his hand spasms in your hair.

His hands travel down to your neck, stroking your jaw and petting around the collar, and you start to purr.
"That wwas... good, that wwas amazin', Sol, wwoww." Your face arranges itself into a display of pride but your nook is dripping and your legs are starting to feel numb.
"...Pleathe."

 

He’s banging on the door to your respiteblock, and you’re tangled up with him in the sheets (weren’t you just on your knees?), no, just with the sheets. He’s outside, several meters from you and the bed is too big without someone else. You rub at your eyes even as he’s calling your name in his snobby voice, fuck him for waking you up, that was a good dream, ugh. You traipse blearily over to your door and just open it because dammit, you’re tired and it’s too early for this.

You realise that might have been a mistake because you’re still really fucking horny and, surprise, you didn’t bother to take off the collar before collapsing into bed, but you decide none of that matters because the way he’s looking at you is pretty Good, like his material is actually all over your face and you didn’t just dream that.
“...Wanna come in?”

He swallows, and nods, fins flaring out, so you step to the side a little and he strides in like he fucking owns the place, which you’re only not angry about because it’s hot. He decaptchalogues the leash and doesn’t bother to grab it out of the air, so it just lands on the floor as he’s scoping out a chair.

You stand there frozen as he spins around idly in your desk chair, and finally he says,
“If you’re wwantin’ to use that I’d rather you fasten it on yourself,” and no matter how nice it’d feel for him to make you, you have to admit it’s so much better this way, when it’s a decision you consciously make and that you have to feel in the tips of your ears and your wrists when he finally starts doing things to you.

You pick the leash up from the floor and fasten it to the ring on the collar. He smirks at you, and you walk over to him to sink to your knees in front of him and offer the leash sans eye contact. The way he takes it out of your hands is careful, calculated, and you want those same fingers tracing the shadows on your throat and making you shiver. You glance up at him for what’s meant to just be a split second, but his fingers touch your chin softly, carefully, and hold you.

Your voice cracks in half, but you get the words out anyway, and that’s what matters.
“Fuck me.”

A sudden tug on the leash, and those careful hands, guiding you up, up into his lap, and holding you steady when the chair spins just a bit and then keeps spinning when you lean right in against him and then finally stops. His face is just next to yours, and perfect.

His hips buck up to meet yours, and you’re afraid to press your lips to his, you want to kiss him, but you want him to be in charge.

You stop needing to worry when he pulls on the leash again and your head ends up on his shoulder, his lips just under your jaw and your breath in the open air, straddling him, and squeezing with your legs because the room is spinning and you don’t want to fall.

His tongue traces over the top edge of your neck as his hips begin a slow rhythm of up and back down and back up, and you let your mouth do what it wants and close your eyes to memorise this feeling. He’s so sweet about it, about everything, and you hate him, you really do, but you love how he’s being decent about this, and not just trying to copy off porn, which. Porn is not a good teacher.
“Mm, god, I hate you.” He smirks, his fins twitch out just slightly.
“The feelin’s mutual, Sol.” You shudder, and grind your hips down out of rhythm, because you were horny as shit even before he woke you up and that verbal confirmation of what you hoped he felt was. Good, it was good, it sent shivers down your spine and a moan through your lips, so it was good.
“What are we, how far do you wanna take thith?” You lift your head off his shoulder to look him in the eye because it’s not like he can give you a hickey while talking. He shrugs, and stares back at you, hateful but still acknowledging the fact that this can’t work if you can’t agree on some things. It’s nice, it’s everything you didn’t learn from porn but instead learned through reading a lot of smut, starting with iffy, poorly written, only-r*pe-if-you-squint fics, and slowly working your way towards the gems that contained actual, functioning relationships instead of ones where everyone magically knew what was and wasn’t okay (and if they were about troll versions of various programming languages, well, that’s nobody’s business except yours).
“I’d be alright wwith fuckin’ you.” The way his fins tilt kind of down and back when he says that tells you he’s kind of embarrassed to say it outright, but he still said it and it was hot, so. “Is there anythin’ additional you’vve been wwantin’ to do, or...”

Well. Shit, now he’s asking, and he’s going to be able to tell from the way you’re hesitating and flushing yellow that there is something, so you may as well just say it, because if you can tell him to fuck you, you can tell him to keep on going after you cum and go for an even number.
“Well. I’m probably not going to latht thuper long, tho. If you wanna jutht keep going after I finiths, that’d be fine.” He grins kind of sideways at you and you get the feeling you’re going to almost regret saying what you just did, but it’s fine, because his hands are on your ass and his lips are on yours and he’s pressing you down against him. You gasp into his mouth and wrap your arms around his waist. God, you’re so fucking wet and you ache all over, you just want him to fucking get on with it already.

But he takes his time, capturing your attention with his mouth (god, his mouth), making these little approving noises in his throat whenever you go halfway limp in his arms or moan or anything, tugging on the leash occasionally enough that you can’t just forget about it, it’s enough to drive you crazy. At this rate you’ll end up cumming in your pants.

A hand at the base of your spine makes you shiver, and he smirks against you and trails his claws up your back, making you arch against him and shudder, and you let out a clicking noise into his mouth that makes him tense up just slightly underneath you; at least, you assume it’s the noise that did it. He breaks the kiss, and his eyes slip shut at the completely lost sound you make. You’re gone, falling, it’s too much, but he pulls you back into the thick of it when his eyes open and he looks at you like a dream, all hot and wild and desperate to keep going (you want his material on your face and you want him inside you, and you don’t know how to choose).

He tugs at the waistband of your honeycomb-patterned PJ pants (hexagons are your favorite shape), and you flinch, because it put extra pressure on your bulge and you have to close your eyes to hold on.
“Let’s get these off, mm?” You nod, and take a moment to catch your breath before squirming out of them like your bulge has been struggling to do for the past you don’t even know how long at this point, albeit more successfully. When you sit back down you’re just looking at his mouth, so you don’t notice until you’ve pressed up against him that he’s undone his pants and let his bulges out to tangle with yours through your boxers, and it’s a weak moan that you thank him with as you press yourself as close against him as possible, but he pulls you back by the leash and you can only tell yourself it’ll be better if you follow, because you want him now (you want him always).
“Pleathe, pleathe god ED I need it,” you’re babbling, letting him pull you back but holding on with everything else, you’re pathetically desperate and you’d hate it if you weren’t so caught up in hating him.
“Calm your fuckin’ tits, okay, it’d be kinda difficult to fuck you wwith those monstrously tacky boxers in the wway.” You bite your lip like oh yeah and start into a spiel about how bees are the best thing to ever have on boxers and you bet his have something dumb like seahorses or nuclear signs and he just sighs and lifts you up with a single arm supporting your stomach and pulls them off of you with an eye roll that almost makes you imagine him trying to convince his lusus to approve whatever this is (“But daddy, I hate him!”).

You realise you’re still talking and it’s kind of a train wreck when he pulls sharply on the leash (thankfully towards him, you don’t want to fall on the floor but falling against him is pretty nice, you could get used to it), and you shut up when your bulge meets his two and you can’t pull your eyes away because there’s. Two of them. and they’re twisting and curling around you like they just can’t get over how great it is to finally meet you, Eridan’s told them so much about you-- you need to stop because if you imagine him talking to his bulges you’ll gigglesnort so loudly they’ll hear it in another universe.

Anyway. There’s two of them, that’s definitely a thing with a boolean of true, damn. You do your best to fondle that seam between them with your bulge because hey maybe your subconscious is a genius and he actually is hella sensitive there.

This just in: your subconscious is a genius. His fins flare out even more somehow and start flushing this delicate shade of lilac that you’re thinking is the exact color his chittering moan would be if you mapped it to a hex code. Hell yes. And now over to Sollux’s nook, for the weather report.

You’re pretty moist down there! There’s a ninety percent chance of orgasm in the next two to the third minutes, actually! Hell fucking yes. You are so fucked, this is the best thing ever.

You gloat over your amazing supah H4X discovery that a sort of tucked away part of his body is sensitive (wow, how revolutionary, the voice in your head says, with a subtle sarcasm you pretend to completely miss. You know, and isn’t it great, you reply back, doing the best you can to imitate the snobbiest person you know, who happens to be the same person about to fuck you, what a coincidence) in the few seconds it takes for him to recover, and at that point he’s apparently decided he’s done leaving you hanging, what a surprise, you knew he’d come around eventually. Heh, come.

He lifts you up with two hands on your hips and you let him, because you’re too busy trying to pretend it’s not hot to protest. His bulges reach up after you, and one of them brushes over the folds of your nook, making you close your eyes and whimper, because the ache has returned with double the force it had before and your legs are shaking (you just want). He doesn’t let his bulges press into you like you were expecting, and you open your eyes to look at him questioningly. He clears his throat.
“I don’t wwanna go too fast--” You make a sound almost like a growl and grab his shoulders for leverage, pressing yourself down onto him and not blinking because you don’t want to miss a single second of his face slowly morphing from way too composed to just wrecked enough, you are taking all of him in and not even giving a fuck, fuck him for implying you can’t handle it.

You. Hmm. Upon further examination, you really shouldn’t be surprised that you couldn’t quite handle it. You got about a third of the way before it started to be too much and the just-barely-controlled-enough-to-count-as-careful twisting of his bulges inside you tore a just-barely-unbridled-enough-to-count-as-desperate moan from your chest, because it was too much and you still wanted more, dammit.

He stops you with a tug on the leash before you can really get frustrated with yourself, and his bulges begin a sort of stretching, pulsing motion that makes you tense up all over and cry out, but he slows before you can actually get over the edge, and you sob, dig your claws into his shoulder, duck your head and curse him, but he doesn’t pay you any heed, just keeps going at that leisurely pace that’s not enough for you to get anywhere soon. God.

God.

The twisting of his bulges speeds up again, and you draw in a shuddery breath, relaxing into him and letting go of his shoulder, whispering “thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou” into his ear and waiting for it to overwhelm you, waiting for the just enough to swell into too much and then slowly abate (and he’ll keep going). Your gasping moans are just starting to have an edge of desperation to them when he quirks one of the tips against your front wall, hitting a spot that makes you see stars, and then slows down immediately afterwards, and you hate him, you hate him, you see what he’s doing now and you hate him for it, because your nook clenched around him, yes, but if he had kept going it would have turned into a ripple and then a wave and he has no reason to keep you on the edge like this because you told him he could keep going!

You rage (rage) against the dying of the potential orgasm, but in a poetic way because you’re a nerd. A dramatic nerd, the best kind of nerd, and how dare he do this to you. Tears well up in your eyes and refract your anger onto his face, where it burns his skin in a pattern of loss-- okay no screw poetry, there’s no poetic way to say that you’re crying like a fucking wriggler about this, but it’s so intense and you can’t help but feel like it matters, so of course you’re crying.

He grins at you, sharklike, and you sob again, fling your fists against his chest even as it occurs to you to use your psionics and you realise you feel like that would be cheating. You’re a wreck, but you’re still doing it, you’re still here, you haven’t kicked him out yet. You may be crying, but you’ve risen to his unspoken challenge, because even though you have like four ways out of this, you haven’t taken any of them. You’re doing it. You can handle it.

You do a pretty good job of convincing yourself that’s true before he nudges your hips down a little more and you follow without thinking about it and end up doubled over in his lap, unable to make yourself breathe in for a few seconds because of the stretch, but they keep twisting around inside you in the meantime and you find yourself able to lean against him and hold on to his waist with shaking hands.

After a long moment he hooks his finger in the metal loop on the collar and pulls you away from him so you have to support all your weight with your legs, and that’s what does it in the end, his hand so close to your neck, pulling and somehow also pushing, the feeling of slipping down further because your legs are shaking and you can’t, how it stretches them further apart and to the side and the barely there ache in your groin that tells you your legs just won’t go much farther.

It starts in your nook, but the pressure on your neck from the collar makes your vision blurry (or maybe you just like it so much your eyes unfocus, because it really isn’t enough pressure to inhibit blood flow) and you can only feel the way it surges through you, dead-ending in your bulge and doubling back, the bottleneck at your neck and the way your head swims as you feel your globes pulsing and about then is when it slams into your kneecaps and your legs give out and you slide down, down, down on his bulges and collapse against him, clenching around him like it’ll help anything and trying to ignore the asymmetrical way your toes twitch as the wave surges through your feet is nothing sacred, with his sign at your neck and his color inside you and around you and god you want it everywhere, you want it everywhere, and that’s the real reason his name is on your lips; you can’t find the words and you want him to just understand, that even though everything is burnt out and sort of fizzled now you haven’t stopped hating him with all your heart.

His hands are gentle as he places one on your upper back and the other at your waist and carefully, so carefully turns you around so you’re sitting in the chair where he just was and he’s perched above you, bulges just over halfway in your nook, sliding back and forth past each other in a slow way that you’re able to get used to a little bit at a time, and his voice, rolling over you and providing a nice background to the buzz in your head, is nice. It flows.

He pokes you in the stomach, and you jerk in surprise and glare at him.
“Wwere you listenin’ to a single wword I said just then?” Your blank stare effectively answers his question, you think, so you don’t bother to respond verbally. He heaves a sigh, and rolls his eyes again. “I said I got you off pretty good, so it’s my turn to go all out.” That sounds kind of doubtful to you, and he evidently realises from the look on your face that his wording made him seem like an asshole (which he is, but it made him sound like the unattractive kind of asshole). “You can still tell me to stop, obvviously, and I’m not plannin’ on anythin’ that’ll hurt you, and if I wwas gonna just take wwhat I wwanted do you really think I’d wwarn you about it or ask you to confirm your consent? Honestly. Use your thinkpan, pissblood.” You’re getting kind of pissed, so you just spit out,
“Whatever, athhole,” without really thinking about it, because his voice isn’t exactly nice anymore, just grating, and he’s killing your buzz.

He pulls on the leash to the side and presses against you, with an amount of pressure that stretches you just barely too much, and you squeal. His bulges aren’t moving slowly anymore, but whipping from side to side and insistently tapping the place where your shameglobes can just barely be felt on your front wall, and every time he does it your nook clenches down and it makes him feel bigger inside you than he actually is. You try to cover your face, but he grabs your wrists and presses them to the back of the chair on either side of your head, and you squirm against him, not trying to get away, just wanting to move, because you can’t keep still, he can’t expect you to keep still.

Apparently he can, because he puts his knees over your thighs to hold your hips down and uses his body to keep you from arching away from the chair, and when he makes eye contact with you it’s like another weight on your chest that’s holding you still, and the look in his eyes says, ‘I’d be asking how you’re doing so far if it weren’t so obvious that you love this,’ and you hate him for a lot of things, but right now, you mostly hate him because he’s right. He pushes further into you, and you gasp, trying to tilt your head back or forward or anything so long as you don’t have to be still, and his lips press against yours in a way that’s not a question or a choice but still smugly reminds you that every second you don’t push him away, you are actively deciding to be here. You want to duck your head or hide your face but you’re pressed back against the chair and he’s staring a hole right through you as he takes you apart from the inside with his tongue and the incessant twisting of his bulges. You can’t even look away.

He presses the rest of the way into you in a smooth motion that breaks you completely, and you can only breathe and look back at him and let him do what he wants with you, because no matter how much you hate him, you can’t stop yourself from trusting him, and that just makes you hate him more. Your back tries to arch as his bulges spread apart inside you, and the fact that it can’t makes you more breathless than you already were from everything else, and your face is probably so yellow right now because he’s finally right there, and you’re finally right here.

You don’t think this ever was a choice, not really, because there was no way you wouldn’t end up here, under and around him and his. Not ‘his’ because he owns you, but because you’re letting him act like he does and you like it.

He crosses your arms behind your back and presses back down against your chest to free up his hands, and he grabs the leash again, pulling you towards him at the same time he’s holding you down, which is probably your favorite thing in the entire world. He knows it, too, because you moan, long and high, into his mouth, and he quirks an eyebrow at you even as he’s losing composure himself with little rumbling groans whenever he prods your nook into clenching.

You realise you’re shaking, and barely on the edge, and look at him almost in panic because you don’t think you can stand to cum right now, and he understands, you can tell by the look in his eyes, but he blinks back at you obstinately, and you realise that, unless you stop him, he’s going to act like he has no idea how intense it is for you. He gives you a moment, a long moment, in which you don’t do anything but whimper and stare resignedly back into his eyes, and then he speeds up, tugs harder on the leash and uses his free hand to press down on your stomach; you let out a strangled version of his name against his lips because you feel it so much stronger than before and it’s powerful enough to make a spark jump between your left major and minor horns as your entire body shakes and you shiver through a second orgasm. Your eyes go out of focus again, and when you finally manage to make them look at Eridan, he’s wrecked, finally, on the point of letting go, and your nook aches and the twisting his bulges are doing inside you is honestly too much, you mean it this time, and he breaks the kiss to take a deep breath, and carefully pulls out of you, not quite letting you up, but letting you rest.

Those careful hands grip his bulges, and there’s something less charming about them when he’s not using them to touch you, and if your chest twinges a little with pity, well, that’s none of his business, and you can explain it away perfectly well with the fact that it’s much too cliche to make your partner take care of himself when you can look really hot doing it for him instead, and the fact that you really liked it when dream Eridan came all over your face also maybe has something to do with it.

You slap his hands out of the way and take the fused base in your hand as you tell him,
“Thit your athh down and thtop looking at me like that or I’m not thticking around to argue when I’m done.”

Unsurprisingly, he sits his ass down and stops looking at you like that, and even though your legs are weak and sore and the floor is cold, you get down on your knees between his thighs and press a kiss to the base of his bulges and pump him up and down a couple times before attempting to take him into your mouth; you’re a little too enthusiastic, and you keep forgetting that the first time you did this it wasn’t actually real. You almost choke, and have to slow the fuck down because it’d be embarrassing as fuck to gag on him. You distract him from the minor difficulties quite easily, because you know his weakness, and when you stick a finger between his bulges and rub over the seam, he chokes on air and you actually see his nook clench around nothing. Hehehe, yessssss.

You think you could probably give that whole not choking thing another go, so you do. This time you’re more careful about it, pulling back whenever you have doubts, and it’s a lot more rewarding when you reach the base than in your dream because it was hard, it was really hard. He’s staring down at you slackjawed, his face is so much better in real life, and you realise you’re purring, you’re fucking purring while deepthroating his bulges, you’ll never live this down.

Neither will he, because he’s purring too, a deep rumbling in his chest that you slowly match by lowering the pitch of your own purring. He shudders, suddenly, and doesn’t cum, but you kind of wonder how close he is. You blink up at him and then force yourself to swallow around him, and the look on his face when he cums is worth the distress you feel instinctually and the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes. You swallow some of it, and then pull off him and let the rest go onto your face, and he makes a helpless sound when you let your eyes slip shut and mouth over the tip of one bulge, and you’re too exhausted to feel turned on at this point, but you sure can appreciate how hot he is and how it feels to have his material all over your face, for real. You like it. You like it a lot.

He likes it even more than you do, you’d guess, because the leash is slack in his hand and he seems completely flabbergasted at the sloppy grin on your face, and his reaction is the same as it was in your dream when you blink and his material gets all caught up in your eyelashes, except better, because his fins twitch, yes, but so do his bulges, and that’s not something you would have expected after he came.

You wonder if the porn trope about material staining someone’s face actually happens in real life, and you honestly don’t really care at the moment how much violet he puts on you, because no matter how hot you find it, he’ll find it even hotter.

Apparently, anyway.