breathe...you'll pull through.

Based on this.

Dirty, dirty dancestorcest for seascribbles.

You’re desperate to deliver
Anything that could give you
A sense of reassurance
When you look in the mirror

The ancestral bond between them is undeniable, an intense blood chemistry that flows between them.  Kankri has taken note of this, especially in how Karkat responds to him.  They circle each other like they’re sizing each other up, like at any given moment the tension will snap and they’ll be at each others’ throats.  They pick their words wisely, walls erected around them—even their eyes are guarded.  They are decidedly neutral, but it does nothing but amplify even the most menial of actions.  Kankri has the advantage, his gaze undetectable, undiscernible; only the twitch of his eyelids could give away the direction of his stare as it flicks and rolls, but Karkat has trouble with it since Kankri is deliberately meticulous.  Kankri watches Karkat closely as Karkat tries so hard not to stare blatantly at his lips as they move, tries not to acknowledge how full they are and how fluidly the words spill forth.

Something is going to break between them, but what will be the catalyst?

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And for the Vantascest babies - sweater bondage and nook eating.

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“Of all the atrocities you could have committed, this has to be one of the most uncreative and degrading—”

“Shut up or the next thing to be bound is your mouth.”

Kankri flinches and wiggles uselessly about.  He’s bent over, pantsless, his bare bottom exposed; there’s a pillow for his face but that’s about all he’s got in the way of comfort.

He’s donned in his usual sweater, but it’s a few sizes too small; Karkat has repeatedly washed and dried it until it shrunk.  He’d led Kankri to believe that’d he launder it for him, but the only reason he wanted to procure the sweater in the first place was to inevitably get him in this situation.

The sweater clings to his contours, riding up over his hips, the turtleneck encircling his throat like a collar.

It’s agonizing to be wearing the thing, and to feel it smothering him, its presence unmistakable.  That dumpy sweater of his allowed him to hide; it acted as a deterrent, at least in Kankri’s mind, to fend off lascivious intent.  He does not want to be seen as desirable or attractive, and any such attention is nothing short of counterproductive to his lifestyle as well as his teachings.  It’s just one less thing to use against him.

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For those who have been anticipating nook-eating - enjoy.

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The game they were playing has long since returned to the menu screen, playing the same infinite 16-bit loop but neither of the previous players notice.

Karkat is much too busy playing his favorite game: Make Sollux Captor Come.

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Karkat<>Gamzee<>Eridan, pale threesome. Gamzee comes across Eridan in the dreambubbles, in pieces emotionally and perhaps literally, decides he needs the shooshpapping of a master, and drags him home to Karkat.

Hope is a dangerous thing to lose.

A fallen prince roams the memories of those he’s killed, passing through them like a ghost haunting the halls.  They see him but they don’t really believe their eyes.  Eridan has lost everything and he regrets his actions.  He regrets so much.

He doesn’t expect to encounter Gamzee in his aimless wanderlust.

“What’s with the codpiece?”  He wrinkles his nose in disdain.  Gamzee laughs uproariously and throws his arms around the tattered highblood.

“Aw, motherfucker, you’re worse for wear then I ain’t never seen ya.  I can see right through you, and your soul is singing the dirge of infinite sadness.”

Eridan’s shoulders sag miserably.  It’s bad enough that he feels so hollow, but Gamzee taking notice just hammers in the reality.

Gamzee’s wide mouth stretches into a jovial grin that nearly touches both of his ears.

“I have the cure for the wicked heartsore.  We need us a fine dose of some nubby loving.”

Before Eridan can retort, he’s been transported to one of Karkat’s memories.

Karkat’s there in the horn pile and looking quite surly about it.  He scowls up at both of the trolls.

“Alright so let’s do this.  One feelings jam.  Just ONE and then I’m fucking out of this uncomfortable pile of honking crap.”

one

With your heart stuck in your chest, you scramble around your flat, a dagger in your hand like you’re some maiden of old fending off some night prowler who’s stole into your castle.  You’re ridiculous, but it doesn’t matter how you look or act when you’re this terrified.  You’re naked and wide-eyed, sharply rounding corners and stabbing blindly at the dark.

“Who’s there??  YOU get out before I call the police!!”

But after a thorough sweep (or three) of your surroundings, there is no one.  You check the windows. all of them locked, and peer out your door for any sign of retreat.  Nothing.

Suffice it to say, you sleep with the lamp on, clutching your blanket a little tighter and facing the window.

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inspired by this

If she 9nly knew 
H9w I felt f9r her
Then, may6e it w9uldn’t hurt 
As much as it d9es
When I see him with her.

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could youuu write me some PALE spankings dahling? Hurt/comfort uvu Maybe with fingering too.

i might have lost track of the hurt/comfort?  but i think i brought it back around. <3 

—-

Karkat is being difficult again.

He’s refusing Eridan’s advice, giving him lip, and running his mouth like he’ll lose his voice at any moment.

It’s nothing new; it’s in Karkat’s nature to be obstinate for no good reason.  Still, when he rejects perfectly sound advice because he’d rather throw a temper tantrum, it tests Eridan’s patience.

“Kar, you’re taking a self-defeatin’ stance again.  You know why?  Because it’s the easy way out.  I know you better than this and you’re not lazy.  So stop takin’ the coward’s route and man up.”

Karkat sneers at his recently appointed moirail, the heat of his glare scorching.  Eridan holds his ground though; he knew taking this plunge would not be a joy ride.  They wouldn’t always be playing in shallow water, and both of them would have to be strong for the other’s sake—even a bit rough.

They promised each other that they would be tenacious and not allow the other to slip.

Karkat is challenging Eridan.

He’s pushing, and Eridan isn’t going to like the results.

“Fuck you.”

So be it.

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This was a lot harder to do than it looks.  There are 50 in all but I have to be done with this.  One word one sentence prompts are challenging.

So if you guys end up liking this reblog/let me know, and I’ll suck it up and do the second set.

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♋♊

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#01 - Comfort

Karkat refuses to accept any form of comfort as it could easily be mistaken for pity and Karkat is not pitiable, but when he knocks his knee hard on Sollux’s desk he isn’t so opposed to being consoled.

#02 - Kiss

You’d think after being together so long that they’d refine the art of kissing by now, but Sollux’s fangs still catch on Karkat’s lip and Karkat’s tongue never ceases to tickle the roof of Sollux’s mouth until Sollux not so unintentionally bites him.

#03 - Soft

Karkat lives for the soft moments when he’s got the psionic cuddled up underneath him far from the harsh light of computers where he can hold and touch him and admire how serene Sollux’s face naturally looks.

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When you passed on, your soul sighed in relief.  Lifted from a body that has endured too much agony for countless lifetimes, you were carried away from it hanging there in its iron bonds.  You can still hear the echo of your own voice screaming vehemently out into the ages.  The persecution, the betrayal, all of the anger and the pain is left in that sagging husk of a man, that wonderful man who dared to stand against a world hellbent on his destruction.

That man was, IS, you.

You turn away from your planet, from who you were, and look ahead.  None of it matters anymore now that you’re gone.  You do not feel like you failed nor do you feel even an ounce of regret.  You did everything you could and if your words meant anything they will carry on.  You lived a life of love, tolerance and honesty.

“You did so well.”

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chapter one


Proposing moiraillegance to Cronus will not be so cut and dry.  You’ll have to approach this with a casual air lest he misconstrue your intent.  Pale bonds are not forged like a business agreement, you know this much.  Moirails are called to one another by a higher purpose, a drive to protect, to mitigate and complement each other’s emotional profiles.

You aren’t so presumptuous as to believe that you could potentially be his better half, but Cronus could certainly benefit from your unique brand of attentive care.

Afterall, who wouldn’t want you as a moirail?  You are the ideal palemate: nonjudgmental, unbiased and fair.  You have a lot of fine qualities to bring to the table and it would behoove Cronus to accept your offer.

But what if he doesn’t?  Is it appropriate to push?  Is there such a thing as pale courtship?

You find him sweaty and shirtless working on his two-wheeled device the humans call a motorcycle.  He’s polishing it with a greased up rag and judging by the sweat sheen on his back he’s been at it for some time.

That’s good.  It’s nice to have a hobby.

You wander over to him, arms crossed and wait to be acknowledged.

He catches the flash of red in his periphery and looks up at you with a lopsided grin.

“Hey, Kan.  Like what you see?”

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grimdickness replied to your post: three sentence thursday

porrkri d/s, mama kink, maybe over-the-knee spanking or coaching him through sex or holding him against her chest and shushing his moans and whimpers?

“Kanny, what did I tell you about tracking mud into my hive?”

Kankri looks affronted and scowls at Porrim.

“What did I tell you about treating me like a wiggler?”

She arches a pierced brow and laughs out loud.

“Act like a wiggler and you will be treated like one.  And might I add, you’re particularly sassy today.  Did something happen with Karkat?  Or Latula maybe—”

“Porrim, we are NOT doing this again,” he cut in as he crossed the threshold, shuffling his feet across the mat as he did so.

When it was just him and her, all pretenses are gone, and Kankri lets himself be less restricted.  She knows it’s only because he can’t get through to her and he isn’t buying any of his preachy rubbish.

He storms into her hive, pulling faces at the provocative paintings that decorate her wall.  He is so uncomfortable with nudity that she can’t help but be enticed by his indignation.  She wants to pick at him, shove him out of his comfort zone and desensitize him.  But he’d squeal about triggers and make her out to be some kind of insensitive monster.

Kankri has a way of running circles around victims of his righteous spiels and coming out smelling like roses.  He can be such a judgmental snob, and Porrim sees right through him.  She sees his uglier side, and that is what makes her fit to be his disciplinarian.

“Kanny, don’t backtalk me.”

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for the anonymous who gave me this prompt: “Can i see one depressed Sollux that is going to jump off the bridge or sth but was then stopped by a passer by asking for directions ? This happen for several times and when Sollux told that passerby that stop it you are.. The passer said he knew what Sollux was going to do, and the only reason why he asked for directions or some shit is because he wanted to help? I know this sucks okay”

i guess this could be considered sadstuck; it’s also humanstuck and i left a lot of it open to interpretation

this is mostly a self indulgent ficlet

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Every day is exactly the same: he gets up, drags the nightmares with him out of bed (they would follow him anyway), fights his own losing battle inside of his head and winds up cycling his neverending loop of thoughts until he stands at the same bridge down the street from his sad little hovel of a home.

He could end this any second, but it’s never so easy.  He toes the edge of the bridge, gazes down at the dingy concrete below and loses himself in his thoughts and in the din of the city.  Cars whir by, people pass below, life continues on regardless of where Sollux Captor resides in the universe.

Life goes on with or without him.

He braces himself, closes his eyes and takes a step over—

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Commish for IZfan

—————————————-

They don’t know your name, and you never disclose it.  Even if they asked, you would not tell.  All they know is what you stand for, who you represent to them, and the uncanny resemblance that unquestionably bonds the three of you together by blood.

But it’s that blood which promises understanding, that doesn’t judge, that courses soundly through all three of you.

But it’s more than off-spectrum blood at work here.  It’s your pride as a Vantas, and your love for the two boys seated in your lap, balanced on each of your knees.  There is no need for talk of tragedy, oppression, or shame, not when you have such little time together.

You never knew you could feel so surreal, but watching your pre-scratch self and your post-scratch self coming together right before your eyes is definitive proof that life does not end with death.

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