You look down on him, most of the time. His lisp, his blood, his ridiculous eagerness that’s also somehow hot. You look down on him for all of it, because he lets you, and because it makes his cheeks flush yellow and pulls submissive noises out of his throat. You look down on him, mostly, but you also reward him, some of the time. He never protests, never tries to stop you, never makes you regret it, so yes, you reward him.
You look down on him, his eyes half-lidded and face tinged with yellow, and smirk. The collar you gave him rests perfectly on his neck, and you tug on it, just a little, to watch his face turn yellower and maybe hear him whimper. His mouth drops open, jaw slack, and you reach in between his lips and hold his tongue down with your thumb. He drools, and you let enough of your disgust show on your face that he swallows and tries to stop, but you don’t give him the privilege, because he hasn’t done anything yet to earn it.
You nudge him forwards, in between your legs, and smirk down at him as he squints up at you, and you let your fins flare out. He bristles; this has been going on for long enough that he’s learned a somewhat adequate amount of seadweller-specific body language, and he correctly interprets this gesture as the challenge it is.
You take your fingers out of his mouth and wipe his saliva off on his face; he snarls at you, and you grab the remote from the daystand (you almost think of it as a sleep-time-accessories-holder, because of him and his lowblood vernacular) and turn the wheel about thirty degrees, pi over six radians. He shudders, back trying to arch, but you keep his face turned towards you with your hand on his chin, and he smooths out a glare within a few moments of its appearance. Good, he’s doing good, he’s gotten better at the whole respect thing.
“That’s right, Sol.” Submit, you almost add, but he really would lose it if you said that, and you’d like to actually get somewhere today.
He edges forwards, ears twitching at the praise, and presses a soft kiss to your swollen sheath. Your smirk grows, spreading out across your face like a shadow, and his mouth spreads open across your skin. He sucks, with a sort of squelching sound, on your sheath, and it’s nice enough that you don’t stop him. You just let go of his chin and grab onto one of his horns instead.
He sighs against you, and you feel his breath on your skin, warm and wet. Your hips buck, just a little, and he leans in, opening his mouth over your sheath, moaning low in his throat as he dips his tongue into the slit that your bulges are starting to push out of. He’s gotten very good at this, you’ll give him that; he knows what you like and how much of it you want at a time. You’ve trained him well. You tug on his collar again, gently, and then trace your claws over his neck, and he shivers, eyes slipping shut; you know he likes this, the thrill of having you close enough to end him.
“Good. Good boy, Sol.” He chirps, and his breath catches in the middle and splits it in two.
You look down at him, his face now flooded yellow, eyes closed, completely trusting even though he knows you hate him and hates you back, and, like every time, you feel the urge to take this opportunity to actually do it, to actually kill him. And even though you know you never will, it’s fun to entertain the thought of it, if only for a moment. You could do anything to him, and he wouldn’t protest until it was too late, he’s so caught up in giving up, giving himself up to you. You let go of his horn and clasp your hands around his neck, over the collar, not exactly tightening your grip, but squeezing for a moment when he starts purring, and your bulges push out into his mouth.
He’s good at this, better than when he started, and it only takes a few minutes for him to let you into his throat and he opens his eyes, then, heterochromatic and overwhelmed. You squeeze again, and he shudders to life, arms straining against the rope around them, eyes closing halfway as he half sobs, half moans around your bulges, and he’s good at this.
“Mmmng, Sol. That’s, yeah, keep at it.” Not like you’re giving him much of a choice. He whimpers around you, and you feel it in your thighs and your fins and your toes. He drags his tongue through the join between your bulges, and you let out a groan and pull him off you. He looks at you shocked-like, confused and generally uncomprehending. You take a deep breath, and tell him, “Sloww dowwn a bit.” He nods, or tries to, and it doesn’t exactly work since you’ve got a good grip on his horns. He looks wrecked, and you take the opportunity to actually check in. “Howw’s the rope feelin’?” He shrugs minutely.
“Fine. It’th fine.” You nod, and then release your grip on his horns. His ears twitch, and you remember that you’ve got a vibrator up his nook and smirk at him, which brings a pleasingly intimidated expression to his face, especially since you grab the remote again.
“Continue.” He shivers, looking curiously affected by something, and you realise you said that in the language of the seas, which you grew up with, and which has a warbling, lilting tone to it and is accompanied by voice cracks on about three quarters of every syllable.
You’d heard stories about lowbloods being driven crazy with infatuation just by some purpler-than-you, hardly-even-seadwelling girl’s voice, and you concluded after five minutes of deep thought that they were bullshit, but maybe all of your efforts to quit warbling at everyone when you spoke actual Alternian were somewhat of a waste, since Sol obviously likes it. You tell him, in Alternian this time,
“That means you can keep goin’ noww.” He nods, and swallows, and you watch his throat because it makes you think of having your bulge down it. His lips part and he presses his mouth over your nook, and you say something enthusiastic in shhhwhWWhhsv (That’s how it’s spelled, and although you see how from a landdweller’s perspective it’d seem ridiculous, you aren’t in the habit of caring what alternians think) and place a hand on the back of his head to keep him there. You also twist the dial on the remote about ninety degrees, which is maybe a little overkill, but it got him to moan against you, so you’re having some trouble really caring. His eyes slip shut, and you watch his face, saturated yellow, as he licks over your entrance, dragging his tongue slowly across the ornamental fins that totally look so much more gorgeous than what he’s got around his nook. He opens his eyes again, and gasps, in a way that you’d expect more from someone who just realised they were about to fall over a cliff, and then you’re suddenly aware that you’re bioluminescing.
“Honey, I knoww I’m gorgeous, get on wwith it.” He heaves a frustrated sigh, and you turn the dial one-twenty degrees the other way, reflecting that your voice apparently cracks more when you’re turned on, and you’re pretty sure you warbled behind that too.
He swallows again, and dips his tongue in between the fins on either side, not really pulling you apart but threatening to, and he isn’t moaning anymore because you turned down the vibrator, but he didn’t really deserve it anyway. You spread your legs a bit more, scoot closer to him, and tell him,
“Khhh’wmmhvnnnn,” which is just a way to say ‘let’s go’ or ‘hurry up,’ an essential vocabulary term for anyone who’s dating a seadweller. (The apostrophe basically means there’s a voice crack, and there’s seven or ten varieties of voice cracks in the language, depending on whether you talk to R’-ffdlh-- H’rdnn or Vr’n’mhh Klkkh’gck, but the Alternian alphabet sucks and is basically inadequate in every way, so you’re stuck using an apostrophe.)
He infers your meaning, and dives right in, for lack of a non-cliche. You find it progressively more difficult to keep your back straight as he flicks his tongue up and down about two centimeters deep in your nook, and you gasp out your approval,
“Ghhhrk’’thdh. H‘’e’iiyhhha’.” He whimpers, and you feel it in your soul.
The door slams open, and you flinch, looking over to see Fef standing there, looking extremely confused. You feel Sol trying to pull back from your nook, and you let go of his horns to let him (you don’t even remember grabbing them).
“I don’t remember you knockin’, princess.” She looks uncertain, and you look back at Sol and see him looking like a deer in the headlights, so you roll your eyes and nudge him back in with a hand on his collar, because he really doesn’t need to worry about this, you can handle it. He shudders, and resists at first, but you warble wordlessly at him and he relents, eyelids fluttering shut, letting you pull him in against you. Heh. He thought you were actually saying something to him.
You look back at Fef as he starts up with a slow pattern of kissing at the fins flanking your nook, aware of the violet flush across your face but supremely disregarding, and imperiously demand of her an explanation in shhhwhWWhhsv, and you feel Sol leaning into you to hide his face even more throughout the conversation.
“Hhy’wwv rrrrhnv ffrl’ rrhhh’’’hr?” Why are you here.
“Hssssk’ kuirsskhr lhh’br h’h S’ll’ks.” I wanted to talk to Sollux.
“E‘strrfy’ ‘k’prhr.” He’s busy. You pull him back out from between your legs and say in Alternian, “Aren’tcha, Sol.” He looks up at you, looking really confused, and you roll your eyes and turn his head so he’s looking at Fef. Realisation dawns on his face, finally, and he stutters out,
“Oh, h-hey FF.” Nerd.
“She wwanted to talk to you.” He furrows his brow and looks back towards you, almost like he’s asking for help, like he expects you to tell him what to do. You look back at him expectantly, and he turns back to Fef and says,
“I’m buthy.” Then he ducks back between your legs, and you have to stifle a laugh at the put out look on Fef’s face.
“Wwhy don’t you come back later, Fef.” She nods, seeming like she’ll take any excuse to just leave, and turns on her heel, walks briskly out, and slams the door behind her. You’ll have to do damage control on that later, but Sol’s being pretty insistent about sticking his tongue up your nook, so you decide it can wait.