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Prisonstuck XI
[The invitation comes to the hive in drapings so rich, the Psiioniic knows it is worth more than the lives of some trolls. With it comes bad news.]
[Things up until this point have been... Well.]
[With her wiring removed, their little Helmsgirl has learned to move with her own limbs again in short time. She'd not been a Helmstroll long, after all, before they'd taken her away from it all. She clings to his side like he's a pillar or a shield, more often than not, only harder when Dualscar is about however muuch the Psiioniic tells her he's no threat to them, not right now at any rate. He stays patient best he can; it was a lesson he needed time to adjust to as well after all. There's the lusus too, fetched from its plains, and he's seen it poking its nose out from its den some nights to snuffle suspiciously at the smell of the sea.]
[Those same nights have him wishing he's not so used to it himself.]
[Yet he is, and only part of it is because he was raised in a port town where the smell of the ocean permeated even past the scent of blood and sweat in the factories. The other part is in the form of the handsome seadweller troll he takes to pail whenever he returns from his seas, that same scent flowing deep into the Psiioniic's lungs as he presses his mouth to Dualscar's throat as welcome.]
[Funny, he thought he'd have to worry about pain and humiliation only the first time he laid eyes on the lightning-horned troll who had stepped into his cell with a cold violent slash of a smirk and eyes that glittered malice. Some days as the two of them lay in the same recuperacoon and he's tracing literary quotes against Dualscar's spine, he wonders if maybe that weren't more preferable. Pain and humiliation from highbloods, he knows that well. All those in the slave caste do. It's being treated so carefully, so tenderly and with those violet eyes gazing at him in trust, that's new and he wonders if maybe this isn't a trap of its own.]
[Because he keeps making excuses. They both do. He pours through all of Dualscar's books and takes advantage of that royal station and blood to get access to information he'd have to work for if he were out and free, and he keeps telling himself This is all for when I leave, it'll be useful then. Except leaving never happens. He needs to make sure Sonica gets better, he needs to make sure the lusus is fine, he needs to make sure Dualscar will be fine when he inevitably sets off. He needs to do this, he needs to do that, and he knows it's just bullshit, so much bullshit, and it's terrifying.]
[Tomorrow. I'll leave tomorrow is what he's telling himself for perhaps the 52nd time when Dualscar enters the library with that envelope with its ocean purple seal and gold stationary and pretty handwriting probably written by a domestic slave whose life was worth less than the price of the ink used. It puts him on edge even without seeing the look on Dualscar's face.]
[It's an invitation to some fancy highblood party, which he would normally not even give two shits about save for the fact that he's mentioned. Politics amongst nobility aren't something he's care for but it's impossible to not see between the lines here. This is some reputation bullshit- to see that the great Orphaner Dualscar really has done his job correctly, to see that he's really broken the runaway-slave-turned-rebel. Maybe there's really some genuine curiosity there too. He'd known that taking a title like his was both a boast of power and also a pair of big middle fingers to the Empire where the word "psionic" also meant "battery". There has to be some vague interest in what sort of mouthy little lowblood would do something like that... and how far he's fallen.]
[Finishing the letter has his mind screaming at him leave leave right the fuck now because the prospect of being paraded (however acted out) like some glorified prize in a room full of highbloods and seadwellers with his only protection being Dualscar makes him want to vomit pure acid.]
[He says no and nearly refuses to budge on it at first. The entire affair nearly puts him on the tipping point of a manic swing, fingers jittering with energy and eyes bright. He comes around within the hour, reluctant and nervous, but what can he do? Highbloods and their goddamn reputations- failure to provide is humiliation on a best case scenario and culling on worst. He can't run away with that possibility weighing heavy. Logic says it's because Dualscar is their best link into the system, but really it's because the idea of him dying makes him want to set an entire fleet and maybe a few major cities on fire.]
[At least the invitation leaves plenty of forewarning, because fuck knows he needs to get into the act of being a slave again and also figure out how to act the part of a domestic slave. There are apparently a thousand and two utterly ridiculous rules a domestic slave needs to follow and know. They get into an argument about forks. Everything is ridiculous.]
[But he's clever and a goddamn genius, so it's not as hard as it could be. The night comes for the whole affair. Dualscar looks fucking resplendent, as they both know he should be, and him, well, he gets clothes good enough to not be an eyesore but drab enough that it's clear as moonlight he's property. He shakes, violently, when the seatroll pins his sign to his clothes to mark who he 'belongs' to. The quiet apologies can only help so much.]
[For blatantly obvious reasons, he's never been inside a proper highblood estate during one of their little get togethers. Read about them in books, seen glimpses of them in advertisements for movies he never had money to see, things like that, but nothing more. It's nothing like seeing it for real and even when they're still approaching, he's hit with the sudden painful feeling of being outclassed and surrounded. Thank god he's not in a manic swing- he gets the thought to jump out the window and haul ass the opposite direction and in a swing like that he'd probably do it.]
[But he's stable, he's stable and he can do this, and he does his best to remember all the bullshit he's had to stuff into his mind on the short amount of time they've had. He does his best to act a good slave for all he wants to scream at it all, obeys Dualscar's curt orders and follows quietly just behind him with his head bowed. Living with the seadweller, he thought he'd be used to riches but the sight of just the entrance hall is... Shit. Holy shit. He just barely catches himself before he can swear that sentiment out loud. It's obnoxious extravagance, that's what it is, and he can't properly articular why it terrifies him.]
[Good thing no one wants him to fucking talk. He just sticks to Dualscar's side, or at least as close as he can manage under this farce of theirs, and tries not to scream at being surrounded by so many hues ten times as high as his.]
[No one touches him, is the good thing, or at least no one touches him much, Dualscar the protective bastard he is, but there's enough words and actions that Psii knows it's only because of his immediate presence there that it hasn't happened yet. It's both a relief and a worry when he's finally dismissed to go assist the other slaves, and he hopes his hurry is seen more as an eagerness to please. At least he can do the other thing that had encouraged him to attend: put a finger to the pulse of the collective slaves here, see if there's any trustworthy, see if there's any other followers amongst the collection.]
[It keeps him busy for most of the night, doing what work he can and getting a feel for the other lowbloods here. But eventually, inevitably, he's regulated to simply standing at the side and trying to play invisible while something deep inside him won't stop trembling. He's left hoping that another lowblood will have him work and keep his hands (and his mind) busy, or that Dualscar will give him some form of a break from all this.]
[He tries his best not to think about what he might have to do if another highblood comes to fetch him for whatever reason first.]
[Things up until this point have been... Well.]
[With her wiring removed, their little Helmsgirl has learned to move with her own limbs again in short time. She'd not been a Helmstroll long, after all, before they'd taken her away from it all. She clings to his side like he's a pillar or a shield, more often than not, only harder when Dualscar is about however muuch the Psiioniic tells her he's no threat to them, not right now at any rate. He stays patient best he can; it was a lesson he needed time to adjust to as well after all. There's the lusus too, fetched from its plains, and he's seen it poking its nose out from its den some nights to snuffle suspiciously at the smell of the sea.]
[Those same nights have him wishing he's not so used to it himself.]
[Yet he is, and only part of it is because he was raised in a port town where the smell of the ocean permeated even past the scent of blood and sweat in the factories. The other part is in the form of the handsome seadweller troll he takes to pail whenever he returns from his seas, that same scent flowing deep into the Psiioniic's lungs as he presses his mouth to Dualscar's throat as welcome.]
[Funny, he thought he'd have to worry about pain and humiliation only the first time he laid eyes on the lightning-horned troll who had stepped into his cell with a cold violent slash of a smirk and eyes that glittered malice. Some days as the two of them lay in the same recuperacoon and he's tracing literary quotes against Dualscar's spine, he wonders if maybe that weren't more preferable. Pain and humiliation from highbloods, he knows that well. All those in the slave caste do. It's being treated so carefully, so tenderly and with those violet eyes gazing at him in trust, that's new and he wonders if maybe this isn't a trap of its own.]
[Because he keeps making excuses. They both do. He pours through all of Dualscar's books and takes advantage of that royal station and blood to get access to information he'd have to work for if he were out and free, and he keeps telling himself This is all for when I leave, it'll be useful then. Except leaving never happens. He needs to make sure Sonica gets better, he needs to make sure the lusus is fine, he needs to make sure Dualscar will be fine when he inevitably sets off. He needs to do this, he needs to do that, and he knows it's just bullshit, so much bullshit, and it's terrifying.]
[Tomorrow. I'll leave tomorrow is what he's telling himself for perhaps the 52nd time when Dualscar enters the library with that envelope with its ocean purple seal and gold stationary and pretty handwriting probably written by a domestic slave whose life was worth less than the price of the ink used. It puts him on edge even without seeing the look on Dualscar's face.]
[It's an invitation to some fancy highblood party, which he would normally not even give two shits about save for the fact that he's mentioned. Politics amongst nobility aren't something he's care for but it's impossible to not see between the lines here. This is some reputation bullshit- to see that the great Orphaner Dualscar really has done his job correctly, to see that he's really broken the runaway-slave-turned-rebel. Maybe there's really some genuine curiosity there too. He'd known that taking a title like his was both a boast of power and also a pair of big middle fingers to the Empire where the word "psionic" also meant "battery". There has to be some vague interest in what sort of mouthy little lowblood would do something like that... and how far he's fallen.]
[Finishing the letter has his mind screaming at him leave leave right the fuck now because the prospect of being paraded (however acted out) like some glorified prize in a room full of highbloods and seadwellers with his only protection being Dualscar makes him want to vomit pure acid.]
[He says no and nearly refuses to budge on it at first. The entire affair nearly puts him on the tipping point of a manic swing, fingers jittering with energy and eyes bright. He comes around within the hour, reluctant and nervous, but what can he do? Highbloods and their goddamn reputations- failure to provide is humiliation on a best case scenario and culling on worst. He can't run away with that possibility weighing heavy. Logic says it's because Dualscar is their best link into the system, but really it's because the idea of him dying makes him want to set an entire fleet and maybe a few major cities on fire.]
[At least the invitation leaves plenty of forewarning, because fuck knows he needs to get into the act of being a slave again and also figure out how to act the part of a domestic slave. There are apparently a thousand and two utterly ridiculous rules a domestic slave needs to follow and know. They get into an argument about forks. Everything is ridiculous.]
[But he's clever and a goddamn genius, so it's not as hard as it could be. The night comes for the whole affair. Dualscar looks fucking resplendent, as they both know he should be, and him, well, he gets clothes good enough to not be an eyesore but drab enough that it's clear as moonlight he's property. He shakes, violently, when the seatroll pins his sign to his clothes to mark who he 'belongs' to. The quiet apologies can only help so much.]
[For blatantly obvious reasons, he's never been inside a proper highblood estate during one of their little get togethers. Read about them in books, seen glimpses of them in advertisements for movies he never had money to see, things like that, but nothing more. It's nothing like seeing it for real and even when they're still approaching, he's hit with the sudden painful feeling of being outclassed and surrounded. Thank god he's not in a manic swing- he gets the thought to jump out the window and haul ass the opposite direction and in a swing like that he'd probably do it.]
[But he's stable, he's stable and he can do this, and he does his best to remember all the bullshit he's had to stuff into his mind on the short amount of time they've had. He does his best to act a good slave for all he wants to scream at it all, obeys Dualscar's curt orders and follows quietly just behind him with his head bowed. Living with the seadweller, he thought he'd be used to riches but the sight of just the entrance hall is... Shit. Holy shit. He just barely catches himself before he can swear that sentiment out loud. It's obnoxious extravagance, that's what it is, and he can't properly articular why it terrifies him.]
[Good thing no one wants him to fucking talk. He just sticks to Dualscar's side, or at least as close as he can manage under this farce of theirs, and tries not to scream at being surrounded by so many hues ten times as high as his.]
[No one touches him, is the good thing, or at least no one touches him much, Dualscar the protective bastard he is, but there's enough words and actions that Psii knows it's only because of his immediate presence there that it hasn't happened yet. It's both a relief and a worry when he's finally dismissed to go assist the other slaves, and he hopes his hurry is seen more as an eagerness to please. At least he can do the other thing that had encouraged him to attend: put a finger to the pulse of the collective slaves here, see if there's any trustworthy, see if there's any other followers amongst the collection.]
[It keeps him busy for most of the night, doing what work he can and getting a feel for the other lowbloods here. But eventually, inevitably, he's regulated to simply standing at the side and trying to play invisible while something deep inside him won't stop trembling. He's left hoping that another lowblood will have him work and keep his hands (and his mind) busy, or that Dualscar will give him some form of a break from all this.]
[He tries his best not to think about what he might have to do if another highblood comes to fetch him for whatever reason first.]
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[It's nice, and he likes it as he wraps his fingers around one of those lightning horns.]
Then what are you waiting for?
[And with that, he pulls him in close to press their mouths together.]
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[He ducks his head, though, when Psii grabs his horn, ignoring the clench in his stomach and the way his nerves still tingle with a fight response, and sticks his hands under Psii's slave garments.]
Hey... I wwant to showw you something.
[He lifts off his breastplate, setting it aside. He's wearing a skin tight shirt underneath, one with his sign stitched over the left side of his chest in purple thread. Or normally it does, because today, he's carefully pinned a slip of paper with another sign over it.]
See? I thought, maybe...
[He trails off, looking at Psii with hopeful, woofbeast eyes.]
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[Okay]
[That's]
[a thing]
[It takes him a second to realize how yellow his face is getting, at which he promptly releases Dualscar's horn so that he can cover his face at least a little with an awkward laugh. No one's ever been red enough for him to wear his sign anywhere. His other hand comes up, sweeping across his face and into his hair like he can somehow wipe away the flush that's only getting stronger on his face.]
[He might actually have a very vague idea of how Dualscar feels now sometimes.]
You. Uh. Been reading romance novelth?
[He is smiling and blushing like an asshole. This is hell. Hell is having a handsome seadweller look at you with the cutest look on his face eager to please you and wear your sign over his. The absolute worst.]
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Maybe a feww.
[He bends down, brushing his lips against Psii's, and gathers him close.]
I wwish I could showw all of them. I wwish I could wwalk back out there wwith your sign on my chest and let them all knoww.
[Fantasy, drawn into the air with words. That would be suicide, and they both know it. But it paints a lovely picture.]
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You only get to do thomething ath idiotic ath that if I can take the helmet off. [His lips brush against Dualscar's with each word, fingers rubbing against the back of his neck.] I can't let you be the only one doing thomething dumb, after all.
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[That sounds even better, and Dualscar bows his head so Psii can reach his neck more easily, lightning bolt horns lightly touching double paired ones.]
We can be stupid, bravve fools together.
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[He laughs a little bit, quiet, as their horns softly bump and rub against each other. Beneath his fingertips, he can feel that cold skin warm beneath his touch and knows it could get warmer still.]
[Stupid brave fools... Yeah, that about sums it up.]
You know, I could have thwore you thaid thomething about not having a lot of time...
[But he can't complain too much when it's nice to be like this, fingers starting to wander up into Dualscar's hair.]
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Yeah. Not a lot.
[But he’s finding it hard to move things forward, more interested in running his hands down Psii’s narrow sides and letting them settle on his hips, brushing their lips together and nipping very gently at Psii’s lower lip.]
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[But here in some other seadweller's home, the threat of it is all too pressing, and he knows that even as he sighs contentedly against Dualscar's lips.]
22, c'mon... [His thumb strokes against the back of one fin.] What am I gonna do with you, athole...
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The gods only knoww.
[He sighs, softly, wishing they could take their time... before sticking his hand down Psii's pants and pawing for his bulge.]
I knoww wwhat I wwant to do wwith you, though...
[Never let it be said that Dualscar burns with a long fuse.]
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Theriously? [He's breathless and still laughing a bit.] God, you're tho- what do you want to do then?
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Wwouldn’t mind getting my mouth around those bulges.
[Guess who has discovered the wonders of reciprocal oral sex? Go on, just guess! But that wouldn’t be a good idea here, not with the way they both spray everywhere. Psii can get away with some purple on his face, but Dualscar can’t do the same with yellow.]
Can I do that wwhen wwe go home?
[He manages to get his hand in the right position, and teases one finger along the slit hiding Psii’s bulges.]
Stick my tongue right up in there, taste you from the inside.
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Right ath we get home? [He rolls his hips into those fingers, slow and easy. Already, he can feel his bulges shifting in their sheathe- but maybe it's been a while coming, ever since Dualscar pulled him so protectively into his arms.] Do you think you'll even have the energy for it, all night talking and whatever it ith you do out there...
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[It might not be great, athletic sex when they get home, but it’ll definitely be sex. Dualscar keeps teasing at Psii’s bulge slit, trying to coax him out.]
Don’t really havve time for it noww, though. I could givve you a handjob, if you wwant.
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[Before he can make anymore comments on that, however, a low moan comes from him as his bulges finally slip out in an effort to twine around Dualscar's fingers.]
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Take your pants off.
[Purple fluids on Psii’s pants won’t draw any attention, but yellow will.]
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If you weren't tho impatient, I could've gotten them off before you thoved your hand down my pantsh.
[And now he doesn't want to move that hand off his bulges. He swears, his stupid and ridiculous seadweller doesn't think ahead sometimes. Shifting his grip around Dualscar's shoulders until its just one arm clinging tightly, he tries to shove his pants down his hips with just one. If only he didn't have to wear that stupid psi-canceling piece of trash- this is exactly the sort of situation you want psionics for.]
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[Instead, Dualscar tightens his arm around his waist and boosts him up, lifting his scrawny nerd matesprit off the table so he can push his pants down on his own.]
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Wouldn't mind you lifting me up more...
[Nice to see that fit body at work. Very nice.]
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[Dualscar likes hoisting Psii around! He waits until he gets his pants off, and then settles him back on the desk, dropping down to his knees in front of him. Time is short, and he needs to get to business here, so he gently pushes Psii’s knees apart and licks a long stripe over one of the bulges curled around his fingers.]
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[The words are accompanied by the rake of his claws through Dualscar's hair, just lightly scratching at his scalp. They dig in just a bit when that tongue makes contact, and he bites down on his own moan to muffle it. Can't have anyone hear and get curious, after all. His bulges tighten around the fingers trapping him.]
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Damn straight I do.
[And now it’s back to business. He tries to uncurl one of the bulges from around his fingers a little bit, the better to stroke up its coiling length, and devotes his tongue’s attention to the other one. Sexual multitasking is hard, but never let it be said that Orphaner Dualscar is a quitter.]
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C'mon, 22, thow off that mouth you're tho proud of...
[Dirty talk, just to encourage him because he knows how much his partner loves praise.]
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God, 22, look tho hot like thith, on your kneeth with your mouth full... The thingth I'd do to you to make you thquirm...
[The dirty praise gets cut off by each particularly skillful twist of Dualscar's tongue or his fingers, but he presses on regardless even as his teeth dig into his lip from the shocks of pleasure.]
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