
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/236766.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Eridan_Ampora/Sollux_Captor
  Character:
      Eridan_Ampora, Sollux_Captor
  Additional Tags:
      Crossdressing, Corsetry, Xeno
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-08-08 Words: 3651
****** Such Deliberate Disguises ******
by roachpatrol
Summary
     You look back up at him and he's just staring down at you, like just
     for this one moment you're beautiful, in this strange secret place,
     where no one else can see you're beautiful and he wants you.
Notes
     My contribution to the homesmut kinkmeme's thigh-high_challenge.
It's the duality that gets you. Maybe that's all it is, just one more duality
to engage in: all the cutesy little divisions he displays, red and blue, on and
off, they're nothing like an affectationand everything like a symptom. Dark and
light, pitch and pale, hating you and hating himself. 
Thing is, you do what you want, and only what you want.
You're royalty. The game remembered it, even when all your so-called friends
were more than happy to laugh it off and name you failure, name you loser, the
game named you prince and prince you were and prince you still are and no one
is ever going to forget it again.
You go where you like, and your password trumps any amount of encryption a
lowblood like him can afford, no matter how brilliant his modifications, no
matter what clever tricks he can eke out of his little beehives. It makes you
well up to the tips of your horns with smugness, each fancy lock that clicks
open at a tap of your rings, as you go up, up, the endless empty rooms of his
hivestem. The elevator hasn't worked since your second trip up, after which
he'd torn the wiring out. He likes to make you work for him, likes to think he
can make you struggle and ache and persevere. But you, you just like the
anticipation. A hundred flights of stairs from ground to roof, and you with
your swimmer's legs, trailing your fingers along each empty room and humming to
yourself.
Up and up, your footsteps like paired scars through the dust, carving yourself
into all his corridors. You know his hive better than he does, by now.
You don't break a sweat.
The eightieth floor, the dust fades away. Only the top eleven floors are
actually ever even incidentally inhabited by their architect. The ninety eighth
floor he keeps his workroom and respiteblock, and spends probably ninety eight
percent of his time there. Karkat's been there, often. Aradia, too, and Terezi
even a few times. Maybe others. Maybe Fef. You don't care.
The eighty ninth floor, only you and he know about.
They eighty ninth floor he keeps his soul in.
"I'm wwaiting," you call, softly, into the crushing darkness.
He can hear you. Of course he can hear you. The whole place is rigged up so
that every little bit of it reports right back to him, sight and sound and
humidity and pollen level, probably he can hear half a hundred of his
neighbors, too, wired up half the city bit by bit, in his maniacal drive for
more and more information, more and more control. Serket was never the
webmaster of your little gang. 
It's dark on this level, all shadows and choking gold-green dust, smells like
wax and water-damaged cement, pitch-black the way he likes all his nasty little
secrets to be, the way he'd like them to remain.
You don't care. You make your own light, white as death and twice as pretty. A
snap of your claws and it sparks, a soft twining scarf of light just for you
and you send it shimmering up to hang just below the ceiling. There are the
dessicated remains of feral hivecombs, up there, depressing little baroque
skeins of circuitry that remind you of your pale cathedrals, all that glorious
pomp and circumstance rendered just for you and all of it utterly meaningless
till you came and signed your name on top with holy fire.
You make things mean what you want, anymore. This world you are lord of is an
empty stage, a blank book, a dream without a dreamer, and nothing means
anything until you say so.
You do what you want.
A wardrobe, in the middle of the floor, big and boxy. Not even automated, not a
wardrobifier, just a lowblood's rectilinear costuming receptacle made out of
big slices of wood, and it is to this you go with steady steps. You've worn
away the dust in a wide track, by now, your steps from the stairs up to this
box, and the carver of the other set of steps from the stairs down should be
entering stage right soon enough.
Your cape drops to the floor in a whisper of rich fabric; your glasses follow,
and the world slips into soft-focus. Your scarf, your shirt, each of your fine
rings. You toe off your sneakers, peel down your crisp tight trousers. The air
feels good on your bare skin, warm and thick and still in a way you don't get
at sea.
You lean against the side of the wardrobe. It's heavy, solid. Doesn't budge an
inch.
Your partner in this whole delicious little drama finally deigns to make an
appearance, treading wearily along his little rut towards you.
"Wwell hello there, stranger," you drawl, low and vicious, and if looks could
kill your ancestors would be dead.
"Shut up," he hisses at you. He comes in close and you can feel his radiant
heat, the prickly buzz of his telekenetics.
"Gladly," you say, and tilt your head up. He sets one small, perfect hexagon
cell of honeycomb on your tongue, and you lean back, closing your eyes and
savoring the way the mind honey burns through your mouth, the way it makes you
feel light and loose and careless.
He lets you peel his t-shirt off, his baggy jeans. Cheap fabrics, utilitarian,
skirting the shameful edge between worn-soft and worn-through. Even a shit-for-
blood like him could afford better, but he doesn't care about these. You've
seen him with holes through his knees, sleeves like punchcards from stings and
sparks. When he's naked you drop easily to your knees and lick his bulge,
getting him wet before he even starts going hard. He pushes away from you when
you try to slip a finger up his nook, already breathing a little hard through
his teeth, like this hurts him, like he doesn't love it just as much. He opens
the wardrobe, two violent snaps of motion as each door swings out.
This is what he spends his care on, these frothy little shameful secrets he
keeps locked up tight. Your rings could open that door for yourself, but why
would you ever bother when he's so beautiful like this? Sweeps ago you'd seen
him locked in death's dream kingdom and he'd been gorgeous even then, twisted
up in silk and shame and coming into his own lonely claws, and you'd already
known you'd had to have him. But that had been the crown on top, your eyes
meeting across the memory and the way he'd taken too many aching seconds to run
from you.
Things are better, here. Now. When it's real. You turn your gaze to the
twisted-up cieling, watch the hexaform patterns double and rebound in your
vision, everything sparkling at the edges. Mind honey does strange things to a
troll's head. It sets you free inside yourself, and everything just goes
sailing off and away for a while.
He pulls out bright satin skirts and stockings in crimsons and golds, blues and
violets, pulls out a skein of vividly ultramarine ribbon and snaps it between
his fist like a garotte, like he could ever raise a fucking hand to you. You
lick your lips and roll your hips, watching him watch you, watching him prowl
back and forth, taut frustrated arcs that sweep closer and closer to you, their
axis. He's going to touch you: it's only a matter of when.
His hands are rough, through your hair, when he finally snaps. He hates your
hair, hates that royal streak of purple through it, hates that your mutation-
- harmless, cosmetic-- only bolsters your unassailable position above him
rather than courting a culling like his fleet of abberations do. He twists it
out of its carefully tousled updo, runs his nails harsh across your tender
scalp till you've got a soft mess of tumbled waves around your face, hanging in
messy curls around your fins, and you're nearly purring from the stimulation.
He hates your fins, too, but there's nothing he can do about that. If he left
marks on you, you might get asked questions, and you might answer those
questions, too.
He wraps the ribbon around your neck, a wide blue band to hide the masculine
angle of your throat, and pins it with a needle that'd stab if you weren't so
very careful. His fingers linger too long on your pulse, the slow tidelike beat
of a troll who's going to comfortably see his way outside of millennia, and you
smile real sweet and run your tongue over the soft warm skin of his bony wrist,
the overclocked feverish heat of filthy piss-colored gutterblood. All his fancy
mind-powers and the swill in his veins is hardly befitting an animal: he will
be dust one day, dust underfoot, and you will forget him.
He kisses you, all helpless fury, and you think giddily that perhaps on that
far off day you might finally be free. Sollux kisses like he does everything
else, hot and cold in turns and no follow through, all his devastation turned
inwards, and it's the best thing you could ever possibly taste. You run your
fingers over his bulge again, pleased to feel it hard and wet, already wanting
for you.
He breaks away, trembling, and picks the handsfulls of red and blue. He wants
to act like he owns you, tonight, like he's marking his claim. You are allready
far away and flying and have no complaint, have less than any complaint. He has
a corset in his thin gray hands, violently red and blue, and you hum in
approval, even though this is no longer your show: even though he could give
less of a fuck about what you like and you, you like that. You let him turn you
around, lean your forearms on the hard cool wood of the wardrobe and roll your
ass up against his bulge while he wraps the stiff fabric and sharp boning
around your ribs and laces you in, tight enough to strangle. You'll have welts
for nights, now, long thin lines crossing your gills in diamond-patterned
fishnets. You peer over your shoulder at him as he works, his face distant with
concentration, pulling the laces through the eyelets with all the reverent
precision a programmer can muster, his hips moving just a little more up
against your flesh than they might have to. You squirm against the bindings,
testing him, and whimper when he gives the stays a punishing wrench. 
"Begging for it tonight," he mutters, and deigns to run one contemptuous finger
along the stiff upthrust line of your own bulge. He licks his finger, a flash
of your violet on his dark lips, and you whine with desire. "God. Look at you."
You huff, breathless, your pulse rate finally starting to rise up to meet his
with every passing breathless moment. Caged up like this you have to take short
desperate little breaths with just the very top of your airsacs, your primary
torso gills pinned-down and useless, and the secondary filaments lining your
face-fins starting to flush with futile desire. It's a strain, all through you,
and it makes you feel caught and held and helpless and good.
He pulls stockings up over your legs, soft as a dream, red on one leg, blue on
the other, up over your thighs till the back of his knuckles are nearly
brushing your nook. You breathe hard and fast and admire the way he looks
between your trembling knees, run your hands over the twin pairs of horns and
watch his long eyelashes sweep over the red and blue spill of light from his
psyonically filmed-over eyes. They were black, once, you'd knocked the glitter
right out of him and underneath there'd just been nothing, an endless blind
void and so very pretty. You press his eyelids closed and he lays a soft,
strange little kiss where your legs join, his wet tongue brushing against you
just enough to make you cry out for him.
He pulls away, laughing to himself, leaves you to sag to your knees and run
your own hands across your body, the slippery constricting satin and the
burning damp heat of your sweat-prickling bare skin. Some nights you spend
hours doing up garters and petticoats, eyeliner and lipgloss and boots and
bodicies but he doesn't even bother giving you a skirt, tonight, he wants this
quick and dirty, wants you whorish and filthy as a gutterblood selling himself
for sopor.
You can do that. You can more than do that. The honey's all through you now,
all the spaces your air isn't anymore, and you're hot for him and sloppy
desperate. He doesn't do more than draw stockings up his own legs, the black-
and-gold striping making them go on forever and ever before you're on him,
pressing him up against the mirrored inner door of the wardrobe and palming
handfulls of his suprisingly soft ass as you swallow down his bulge to the
root. Your hands are hungry along his stockings, nails digging sloppy gorgeous
ladders from pinstripe to pinstripe, coy little windows back to his trembling
gray vulnerable flesh, fraying that line between the merely obscene and the
truly impermissible. He can't stand for you to fuck him naked, needs the
reminder that all this is happening in some kind of separate, sacrosanct space.
A dream, he likes to tell himself, likes you to tell him, and you do.
It's all lies, though, lies as pretty as the shape his slackening mouth makes
above you as you suck and swallow and snag your claws on his silk, lies you let
him tell himself. The bows are bindings, the lace is just leashes he puts on
himself for you, wrapping himself up pretty as a present. But then again,
you've got your own chains, and he reminds you of this when he digs his fingers
into the taut ladder of binding up the back of your spine and makes you work
for every last scum-colored taste of him.
He doesn't taste like scum, is the thing, he doesn't even taste of mustard. He
tastes rich and vibrantly alive, tastes salty and physical in a way you don't
think you're ever going to be able to find words for. You slide two fingers
through the wetness spilling down your fluttering throat, spread the moisture
slick over your fingers and drive them deep and eager up into him. You get
fireworks at that, and again when you curl your fingers and drive in farther
his mouth coming open in a rough snarl and his eyes blazing with a glory of
optical pyrotechnics, red and blue so bright they fade to violet, so beautiful.
You spare one hand for yourself, but before you can even reach down to where
you're aching for relief he's grabbed your horns, wrenched your head up close
to his stomach till you can't even think about breathing, just working your
throat desperately around the burning-hot intrusion so as to keep from dying.
You choke again and again, riding through as best as you can, and when both of
your hands are clamped tight to his thighs, one still dry and one wet with two
colors of fluid he lets you go. You tilt your head to the side and breathe as
fast and hard as you can, grateful for the reprieve but so distant from
everything, drifting lost with wonder and need in your own honeyed-up head.
Everything is painless, even the building pressure inside you, even the way
your knees grit against the harsh floor, and you want nothing more than to
cling to him forever.
"God," he breathes, and drags his bulge across your turned-away cheek, painting
a slick dark golden trail from your jaw to the bridge of your nose. You look
back up at him and he's just staringdown at you, like just for this one moment
you're beautiful, in this strange secret place, where no one else can see
you're beautiful and he wants you.
"Finish me," he says softly, and runs one set of nails, gently, through your
hair.
 
You slip your wet fingers back inside him, twisting till he sighs and sinks
just a little down, and then you work him just the way you've learned he loves
as you let his bulge slip back inside your mouth, minding your teeth so very
perfectly. He makes a small, wrigglerish sob, and bites down on his bony
fingers to stifle his cries as he climaxes, blazing with perfect true-violet
light.
With the corset in place it's a stretch, swallowing all of him down, half a
pailful and it doesn't seem like it's got enough space to fit but you manage.
You feel strange and tight all through, by the time he's done, dizzy and
utterly decadent.
"Eridan," he whines through his teeth and the blood of his bitten-through
fingers, holding on hard to one of your horns like he's going to die, his head
bowed and his face so loose, so beautifully empty, the optics faded to a dark,
worn-out smouldering of twin coals. You settle carefully back on your heels,
feeling like a thin shell filled utterly to the brim, so close to coming apart.
Still breathing hard, he draws the softness of one stockinged toe over your
neglected bulge, and presses down. You cry out and clap your shaking hands to
your face, your screaming mouth, as you shudder and release torrents of useless
fluid across your stomach and thighs, soaking the thin silk of his stocking and
your own. Nothing like a pail, not any little thing like a pail, coming off
into nothing more than a dark oilslick across the floor, and it's this final
blasphemous obsenity that has you weak and wanting, sprawling undone in your
own puddle of wasted violet. Your color is nearly as rich as it's possible to
be,so rich it's nearly red again, and it soaks into the dust to be just one
more stain in this warm and shameful little cell of a room.
There's not much of the floor here that isn't painted your color, anymore.
You crane your arms behind yourself, fumbling for your corset's ties, and he
grabs your wrists.
"Keep it on," he says, and his bony thumbs dig hard into your pulse points,
intent. "Keep it on till-- till you die."
You sneer, and kiss the corner of his mouth beside one snarling fang. He's only
the boss of you when you let him, and he knows it and he knows you know it too.
But it's enough.
He picks up your shirt himself, pulls it roughly over your head. You almost
feel like you slosh when you scramble to fit your arms through the sleeves. You
hang on to his bifuricated horns for balance as he pours you back into your
trousers. Your head swims and you're little more than a sagging arc of
exhausted desperation, fighting for every bare sip of air, and it makes you
feel utterly insane. Why did you agree to this, why can't you at least ask him
for a little mercy, a few inches of slack?
You crack open your mouth, as he slips your sneakers on, and you're still
wearing your stockings under the trousers and he grins at you and it all just
dries up in the back of your throat. You let yourself be primped and posed like
a doll, a sharp little seadweller action figure, and he kisses your forehead
when he stands back up, this strange tender gesture that makes tears prick the
corners of your eyes and you couldn't even say why.
The corset's so tight, so fucking there, a nearly-unbearable pressure that
makes you step with so much extra caution, makes you breathe with so much extra
effort. The world ripples when you take your first step away from him, wavering
like everything's underwater, and you've got eighty nine flights of stairs down
to go, with the rising nausea of your mind-honey comedown welling up through
the bellyfull of genetic material like a poisoned tide. You'll be lucky to make
it two flights before having to find some nasty corner to vomit in, to curl up
in your own sick second-hand filth and shake and cry and want to die, Sollux
listening to every wet and miserable hiccup and likely palming himself into
another climax through his ratty gray jeans.
You turn your back on him, and walk out with your head held high and proud,
your back straight as a mast. You take the light with you as you go; it's his
hive, he can skin his own nose getting back up his own stairs. No concern of
yours, not now that you're done with each other.
 
God, you feel so sick.
 
Why do you do this to yourself, every perigee, every single fucking perigee?
With one snap of your royal rings you could have and have had a dozen
seablooded nobles all fighting each other like sharks at a chumfest for the
chance to lick your feet but instead you're here, each turn of the tides, you
come and you go like this little room holds your soul, too. It's nothing pale,
this thing you two have between you, it's no color at all but the sick void of
loathing, filling the both of you up from the inside out. Nothing pale could be
such an exercise in mutual self destruction; nothing black could excuse the
reverent tenderness with which the two of you go about it.
Maybe it's about what you need to get along.
You've only ever hated everyone else to give yourself enough contrast to see
by.
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