Chapter Text
Leaning against the wall of the alleyway, you hitch your burden up on your shoulder and try to catch your breath. Holy fuck, he’s heavy. You’re streets away from where you started and you don’t think anyone saw which way you went, but you can’t be sure, someone might be catching up and you can’t flashstep nearly as well carrying this much weight. You’d like to set him down for a moment, rest enough to be able to fight if necessary, but Dave should arrive any minute now and he’s honestly your best chance.
You’re just pulling out your phone to check the time when a familiar truck goes by the mouth of the alleyway and stops in the middle of the road. Thank Christ. Adjusting your shades with your free hand, you leave the alleyway.
Dave steps out of the truck, flashy red waistcoat completely out of place in this part of town. You can’t help the tiny smirk tilting your mouth up when he sees the guy on your shoulder and his pokerface goes to shit.
“What the fuck,” he says. “Guess this explains why you wanted a blanket. So, care to explain why you’re carrying around a gigantic naked unconscious troll?”
“They were having a sale. Couldn’t resist picking one up.” If your deadpan is a little strained, you’ll put it down to the weight.
“Hope you kept the receipt,” he mutters. He hands you the blanket, which you throw over your involuntary companion before starting to manhandle him into the truck. There’s not quite enough space, you have to fold him up a bit before he fits, and you hope he’s not too uncomfortable. His long twisting horns are particularly awkward to situate. You really fucking hope the submission reflex doesn’t wear off before you get where you’re going. “No seriously,” Dave insists, getting back in the driver’s seat. “What the fuck, Bro? We’re gonna have to wash that blanket, he’s kind of...dripping.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.” You climb in on the other side and Dave is driving before you’ve even closed the door. Nice that he’s clear on the urgency of the situation.
“So what, you’re starting a new career in abducting porn actors? Or is his bulge being out a total coincidence? And why the hell is he out of it, he’s a purpleblood, do you have any idea what kind of a mess it’s going to be if he wakes up on us here?”
“Yes, Dave, I’m pretty clear on that. I'm assuming he’ll figure out who was on his side in this whole debacle and not flip out on us.”
Dave shoots you a sideways glance. “I’m gonna take a wild guess and say no new partner for the puppet porn biz today.”
“That would be a fair assumption.”
“Goddammit, Bro, if you don’t spill I swear--”
“He flipped out on set, someone grabbed him by the horns, he went down," you say flatly. "I figured fine, he’s out of a job it looks like he didn’t want anyway. Then they were going to keep filming.” Your lips tighten. “He's low caste, it's not like anyone else would care. So I took out all the lights in the studio, grabbed him and left. Needless to say, I didn’t have time to locate his clothes first. Or save my hat when it got knocked off.”
“There’s a fucking tragedy. This guy better be worth it if you lost your hat for him, I mean that’s like a third of your swag right there.”
“Nah, just a little irony. Maybe you depend on your accoutrements for your swag, but mine is inherent to my being.”
By the motion of his head, Dave is rolling his eyes at you behind his shades, and you smirk a little. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to do dumbass things to save people’s asses,” he says, “I’m the Knight, right? You’re a Prince, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Eh. Figured I’d take a page out of your book for a change. Cut out the page, made some creative edits, scrawled some notes in the margins, owned it.”
“Pasted the words ‘DUMBASS STUNTS’ across the text, more like. Goddamn, Bro.” He’s quiet for a while, eyes on the road, then says, “You think he’s safe to take home?”
“You got a safer place to stick a naked, incapacitated coolblood while the reflex wears off? There’s two of us and one of him; we’ll be fine.”
“I just hope when he gets out of it he's not still jolly and squirming, because I don’t know about you but I personally had a packed schedule tonight without any xenological sex shenanigans included.”
“What’s wrong, you don’t feel like being the schoolgirl meeting her first tentacle monster?” The quip comes automatically, but now that you think about it it’s weird that your rescuee’s bulge was still out. As far as you know the submission reflex should counter a troll’s libido. He was pretty revved up, though, maybe that’s why it’s taking longer to cool him down.
“It’s too early for my birthday-- what the hell is that smell?”
Your mouth quirks up slightly on one side. “I do believe those would be troll pheromones.” It’s not an unpleasant smell, kind of like cinnamon, but a little overwhelming in these close confines.
“Fucking fantastic, so after this my truck’s going to smell like ‘come and get it’ to entirely the wrong species. Dammit, when I say pimped out ride, this is not what I mean.”
Yeah, he may be complaining, but you’re the one with cinnamon-musky purple slime on one shoulder. That’s going to leave a stain.
By the time you reach the apartment building, the troll’s recovered enough to twitch a little and when you glance back to check on him, his eyes mostly track your movement. He’s making a weird noise, a kind of clicking, growling whine that grates and rasps against your nerves. Judging by the orangey glow to the yellows of his half-open eyes, he’s not much happier making it than you are hearing it. He may be twitching, but he’s not nearly together enough to be any help as the two of you maneuver seven feet of limp troll out of the truck and up nine floors to your apartment. That’s assuming he would want to help you in the first place; you’re pretty sure he doesn’t trust you and you can’t exactly blame him.
Finally you get him through the apartment door and wrestle him onto the shitty sofa, where his feet hang off the end. With the blanket wrapped under him you can hope he won't drip through it, but it's not like those cushions are a bastion of cleanliness to start, so no big either way. Dave lets out a long breath and goes into the kitchen muttering to himself. He comes back out with a bottle of AJ and tilts his head at you.
“So what’s the plan? ‘Cause I got a soundtrack to tweak but if you need me to stick around -”
“Nah, go make sick beats. I’ll kick down your door if there’s trouble.”
He snorts, shrugs, and heads past you for his bedroom. “Your call, Bro.”
You sigh and rub your hands over your face under your shades. Yeah, your call. This was all your call. What the fuck are you doing? It’s not like you’re a teenager anymore; these days you can handle life running over the tidy plans you make. Doesn’t mean you have to be gracious about it though. You were going to go in there, throw out some numbers, and hopefully get your content up on a wider network. Instead, you’ve got a bunch of new enemies and an out-of-work, highly distressed troll porn actor on your sofa.
Speaking of whom, he still looks pretty out of it, but that growl is a lot steadier now. There’s a twitch under the blanket where one hand is, and another where - huh, his bulge is still out. Yeah, that should definitely be tucked away by now. What is the deal with this guy?
He should be able to talk soon, so you duck into your room to change your shirt while you’ve got time. What you really want is a shower, but that’s going to have to wait.
When you get back he’s still lying there loose-limbed and slack under the blanket, but his narrowed eyes are fixed on you. Sitting down on a stool a careful distance away from him, you give him a nod and wait. You’re pretty sure that rumbling sound isn’t a purr, and it seems like a good idea not to crowd or press a giant troll when he’s already edgy.
It’s a few minutes before he speaks, but then his growl spikes and rattles under his words. “Well, motherfucker, here you wanted me and here I up and be. Now what?”
You give him a minimal shrug. “Depends on what you want. You can borrow some clothes and I can take you to your place or a safe location of your choice, or drop you back off at the studio if I misunderstood something and that’s where you need to go. You’re the one that seemed to be getting the short end of the stick back there, so whatever you need.”
His growl breaks up and goes choppy and after a second you realize he’s laughing, the angriest most mirthless laughter you’ve heard in a while. “Little enough motherfucking good that will do me, any of it. Ketradax they gave me, shoved it down my gullet. No safety for me while that lasts.”
Behind your shades you blink and stare at him. Well shit, that explains why his bulge is writhing around underneath the blanket and beginning to stain it purple. “What the hell, your contract allows that?”
“What motherfucking contract?” he snarls.
“The contract I assume you signed to work for them as an actor. I assume they wouldn’t hire you without some kind of contract, although granted I haven’t done much work with troll studios.”
“No contract and no hiring had I, all taken unawares by their atrocious wicked mind-bender,” he hisses. His lip curls to bare fangs before he closes his eyes for a minute. Then he takes a breath and says more steadily, “Two of my buyers get their work on in that place and I was all to be closing some deals tonight. Then one of their pail players showed absent without warning and they had the heinous gall to up and ask at me if I’d earn some fame and get at being a temporary fill.” His fangs are showing again, and as he keeps talking his eyes are shading distinctly more orange. “Well and clear I made it that I had no need or desire to be doing such a thing, until the motherfucking mind-bender started in and spoke words of agreement out my mouth as I had no thought to do." A seesawing whine picks up in his voice, winding through the rumble underneath and making your skin prickle. "All docile I was made to be, all motherfucking placid until they gave me the drug, and then I had no thought to be fighting until it went too far and pain recalled me to myself.”
Okay, wow, you're no stranger to the less than salubrious details of night-to-night troll interaction, but this is worse than you expected. Unfortunately, you can also see how they expect to get away with it. If this guy is a typical small-time dealer, it’s unlikely that he’d have the kind of connections that would protect him, and in this city his bloodcolor sure as fuck won’t do it. Maybe in the capital, with First Minister Signless preaching equality to the masses, he’d have some sort of recourse, but not here.
“Goddamn, dude, that is sicknasty levels of disturbing. Like, legitimately off the chart levels of gross and wrong.” Too bad you didn’t get there sooner, that mind control shit doesn’t work on humans. You shake your head. “So you can’t go home,” right, if the pheromones give any neighbors the wrong idea, he’s in no shape to fight them off for long, “and you sure as fuck can’t go back to the studio. I assume you got no kismesis or matesprit or you’d have mentioned-- ”
“Nor would I take this to them if I did, this unnatural, coercive motherfucking trickery, all to shattering reason and control till every thought’s on pailing.” The snarl under his words has changed pitch, taking on a keening edge, and his voice sounds breathier. Dude’s in bad shape, and not getting any better.
“Moirail?”
He huffs out a brief laugh that actually sounds genuine this time. “No diamond to my name, and none I’m like to find. No pale-bait, I.” You would swear he’s totally sincere, even sounding like he can barely keep from moaning aloud.
“Dunno about that, bro,” you drawl. “You’re looking pretty pitiful from here.” Wait, shit, did you just hit on him? Shit, you did, that was totally a pale come-on. Well, everybody knows humans are easy in the pity quadrants.
Purple eyes go sharp on you, sweep over your face before he snorts. “You hornless could get at pitying the moon and stars if it pleased you.”
“Moon and stars, huh? Good to know low self-esteem is not one of your issues.”
Fangs gleam in a brief smirk. “That it is not-- MotherFUCK! Time, what’s the fucking time all to being?”
You check your phone. “One-twelve am. You got somewhere to be?”
He shifts under the blanket and after a moment pulls one arm free, shaky and uncertain but at least under his control. Clawed fingers dig into his hair and pull as he hisses to himself. “Can’t, I can’t go, he can’t get on his view of me like this, but it was meant to be a short run, I should’ve been back by now. Wiggler will have anxiety all up in him, wiggler does worry when he’s left alone--”
“Wiggler?” you say sharply. “You’ve got a wiggler in your hive?”
Going still, he looks at you for a moment before answering. “Descendant. Sign-kin to me and chosen clade, I took him from his worthless, wastrel, careless, cowardly lusus as never stayed to watch over him. Brought him to live safe with me.”
What you want to say is Holy shit, what? but you keep it behind your teeth. “Shit, how old is he?" you ask instead. "Is he safe to be left on his own?” As far as you know, trolls do occasionally have descendants in their own lifetimes, but they certainly don’t hunt them down to come live with them. By the sharp eye he’s got on you, your guest is well aware the situation is abnormal and he’s wary of your reaction. For the kid's sake, not his, you're pretty sure.
“Eight sweeps,” that’s way older than a wiggler, what the fuck? “and safe enough if he’s given warning, but I left no word.” He’s tugging at his hair again, restless, fangs partly bared. His hips shift underneath the blanket, and shit, if he’s not leaving stains on the sofa yet he will be soon. “If I don’t make return as what I said I would,” he pauses to breathe a minute; the whining snarl he’s making keeps edging closer to a moan. “--He’ll get the fear all on him and thought could enter his pan to go back to the slime again. Hard enough it’s been to wean him off it once.”
Damn, you thought you knew something about elliptical speech, but this dude is opening your eyes to vast new expanses of linguistic fuckery. “Are you saying he sleeps too much?”
“He eats sopor is what I’m all at telling you.”
...So, essentially he’s got a little bro with a substance abuse problem. You think of Roxy and then stop yourself. She was never your responsibility, and she pulled herself out of it on her own anyway. Hells of impressive, that girl, you love her unironically. “Alright, so your little dude needs a chill word dropped his way that something’s come up and you’ll be home late. If you want to give me his handle I’ll message him.”
That is not a friendly look he's giving you. Apparently he has not yet been overwhelmed with bountiful trust of your person. You raise your eyebrows enough he can see them over your shades and tilt your head meaningfully. “Dude. Be reasonable. How the hell is it gonna hurt your bro to have me know his handle?”
“Not a thing I can get at knowing,” he growls at you, and then gasps and shudders. Looks like he's losing ground, feeling the drug more insistently the more the submission reflex wears off.
“How long ago did they give you the Ket?” Pulling out your phone, you look up the usual dosage and duration of Ketradax.
“Motherfucking-- ahhh-- hour ago.”
Aw, shit. This is looking less than fun for everyone involved. You tighten your lips, looking up at him. “Sorry, dude, looks like you’ve got another one to three hours of entertainment ahead of you here at Casa del Strider.”
Goddammit, you could happily go a long time without seeing an expression like that again. Before his face closes off from you he looks gutted. Then it shuts down and he just goes lethally blank. “And you’d have me entertain belief that you’ll be all to offering me motherfucking sanctuary in your own hive and no hidden cost?”
The statement was out of your mouth before you really thought about it, but honestly what else are you gonna do? Drop the guy naked and drugged on a random street corner?
Because you’re an asshole, you pretend to consider, which also serves to hide your reaction when you realize what "hidden cost" he’s expecting. Yeah, no. You’ve committed your share of morally reprehensible acts in the past, but hell if you’re taking advantage of some poor roofied bastard. “Hmm. Yep, that’s about the shape of it. Chrissake, it’s not like I asked what you could do for me before I rescued you. Human, pale for everything, remember?”
He glares at you a minute, then closes his eyes. “TerminallyCapricious is up and being his handle. Tell him… some unexpected business rose up on me but I’ll be at returning by dawn. Tell him keep the faith, I’ll play him no motherfucking goat’s tricks, and he’s to find his meals in the thermal hull.”
“Got it.” You’re careful to use his phrasing exactly, just to reassure the kid it’s really him and this isn’t some kind of scam, even if you’re curious as hell what exactly “goat’s tricks” means. A moment later an answer comes back in purple text that flips case like a juggling typesetter.
“‘Ok, bro,’” you read out loud. “‘Got no problem up at that, but can a motherfucker be hearing your voice?’”
“Motherfuck, NO,” the troll on your sofa snarls. He’s breathing hard and his voice is shaking, so you can understand his dismay at the idea. “Send him this: Wiggler, sit your ass the fuck down, study your schoolfeeds, and keep your mirth on as blessed Messiahs do decree, I got no time to be calling at you.”
Blessed Messiahs? Holy shit, that’s what he meant by “keep the faith”; he and his descendant are members of the old subjugglator cult. The religion itself was only recently decriminalized and most of the trappings are still hells of illegal, so making reference to it around you when he doesn't even trust you ain’t exactly the smartest choice. Assuming it’s just one more sign of how out of it he is, you keep your mouth shut and tap out his response.
A minute after you send the message, your phone chimes with the kid’s reply. “Ok, he sent you a sad face, so he’s either fucking adorable or a little smartass, followed by: ‘Why you ain’t being to type yourself? Wrong color, no motherfucking quirk, I’m all manner of confusion on it.’”
He snorts. “Oh, all confusion, is he? Scheming little brat, suspicion is what’s on him, and little wonder for it.” Purple eyes narrow, fixed on your shades. “So? There a reason I can’t be up and typing for myself?”
That’s... a difficult question. Of course there’s a reason you’re typing for him; you’re not comfortable with it any other way. He doesn’t trust you, and however bad his situation, you don’t entirely trust him either. You’d definitely prefer to know exactly what he’s saying, and to whom, on your phone, while in your apartment. Unfortunately, it has become apparent that your attitude reeks more strongly of hypocrisy than a conservative carapace politician sneaking into an all-species strip joint. You’ve got all the power here, and he’s pretty much at your mercy.
Shrugging a shoulder, you breathe out and lean over to offer him the phone. “Nah, not really. Feel free.”
His arm is steady this time when he reaches out to take it, and if his breath keeps hitching and catching with tiny noises in his throat, his fingers are nimble enough. For several minutes he messages back and forth with his descendant, mumbling to himself and smiling a little once or twice. Finally he hands you back your phone and you scroll up to read over their conversation. Yeah, it's nosy, yeah, you're a control freak, whatever - you’re out of your depth here and it only makes sense to be careful.
Unexpectedly, they’re cute, aside from the bizarre typing quirks. There’s clearly affection between them, and from the small amount you can glean from a five minute conversation, your guest makes a genuine effort to be a good substitute lusus to his descendant, who is transparently concerned about the situation but trusts him enough to believe his reassurances. (All of which are true, if cleverly avoiding mention of most of the pertinent details. Dude would rather refuse to answer than lie to this kid, which you can’t help but find interesting.) The kid’s name is Gamzee, apparently, which reminds you of the obvious courtesy you’ve overlooked.
“Bro Strider, by the way.” You got out of the habit of handing out your given name a long time ago, and no one uses it anyway except Dave when he's really pissed off.
Your guest looks at you a long moment before he answers. “Kurloz Makara.”
“Cool. So hey, it sounded to me like you’re not gonna feel safe much of anywhere, but if I got that wrong and there’s any place you’d rather be than here, I’ll get you there. At least at Chez Strider no trolls are going to be coming around to investigate the pheromone situation, though. I figure you can hole up in my room for the next little while if you want, I’ll get you a bucket or a basin or something, you can take care of business and I’ll be out here when you’re done and ready to go.”
He’s staring at you. His eyes look much darker than they did to start with, his pupils blown huge, and his cheeks are flushed purple. “And it’s all to being that motherfucking simple.”
Goddammit, you’re fucking this up. You ran right over the part where you’re giving him a choice without letting him answer, of course he doesn't believe you. When it comes to being a thoughtless dick, you are simply the best there is. Defaulting to habit because what the fuck do you say, you stare back, deadpan through your shades. “Sure, dude. Why not?”
After another long pause, he shakes his head. “Motherfucking hornless, who’s to even understand them.”
All right, Strider, try it again, and get it right this time. “So, think you’ll go ahead and stay here?”
His eyes flick over your face again, calculating, evaluating your motives. Your poker face is undisturbed, but you hope that the careful looseness of your limbs comes across as unthreatening at least. Open and friendly is probably too much to ask for from your body language.
He does seem to relax after a moment, so maybe it worked. “Seems as how I will.”
“All right. Next question up; are you hurt?” That wins you a flat stare and no response, so you take pity (hah) and elucidate. “Not like I was paying close attention back there before everything went to shit, but from what I saw, they weren’t exactly being gentle with you.”
“And if I said as I was, would you be all at tending my wounds?” His tone is surprisingly biting, considering the rattling, hitching keen that runs under the words.
Right, boundaries are a thing people have. It may seem dumb as shit to you that even asking about it is too close to quadrant territory as far as trolls are concerned, much less the implied offer of assistance, but that doesn’t give you a right to ignore his preferences. Obviously it should’ve occurred to you that he might respond just as badly to being taken advantage of in a pale way as any other, but somehow that angle escaped you. You were just trying to be a good host. Aggressively.
...Again, for the people in the back; you’re a dick.
“Nah, bro,” you say, hitching one shoulder up in a lazy shrug, “not unless you wanted the help.”
Slowly, he relaxes again. “Can’t get any certainty on it, being as the ache’s too widespread to know what’s want and what’s true hurt, but nothing worth to speak of.”
“Got it. Just let me know if you need anything, and in the meantime, can you walk?”
Taking a deep breath, Makara struggles up into a sitting position, sways once and catches his balance. That cinnamon scent wafts towards you with his movement. He grabs the damp and purple-spotted blanket and keeps it around his waist as he carefully pushes himself to his feet. Eyes on the ceiling, he cautiously straightens to his full height and his horn tips nearly brush the plaster.
You haven’t actually seen him standing before. Everyone knows adult coolbloods are huge, but you don’t usually have them at such close range. He’s most of a foot taller than you, and that’s not counting the horns or even the wild mane of hair.
He’s shaking. Barely enough to notice, but you can see the control that goes into steadying his limbs, see the tension in his jaw and the faintly purple sweat beading on his face. It’s weird to see such a big, plainly dangerous dude looking so wrecked. It makes you feel odd and a little bit sick.
“Hey, how old are you?”
...Where the hell did that come from? What the fuck does it matter how old he is? Like this whole situation would be any better if he was some weathered old guy.
Although he’s not. Now that you’re looking, you notice that there aren’t many scars on the dark gray skin of his chest and arms, and given the evidence, you’re pretty sure he’s not the kind of guy to live a safe and harmless life. Either he's hella younger than he looks or he pupated recently enough that he hasn't had much time to build a new scar collection on the fresh new skin.
From the look on his face, he’s just as puzzled by the question. “Eighteen sweeps all up on me.”
Alright, so his second pupation wasn’t exactly yesterday - but it wasn’t that long ago, either. He’s not much older than you, which makes him pretty damn young as coolbloods go. (For a second “young for a coolblood” wins out over “older than you” and your gut tries to compare him to Dave. God, it’s so fucked up he has to deal with this shit-- You catch and correct it. Nope, Makara’s your age, he can handle this. Your stomach twists and you do your best to ignore it.) Interesting, you don’t think you’ve ever heard of trolls having descendants at such a young age.
“Room’s down this way,” you say, and turn to lead the way, listening closely for the sound of any stumbles behind you. Waving him in first, you start flashing around the apartment fetching things: a stack of towels, two buckets, a bowl of water and a washcloth, and after some thought, the plastic bin you use to store plush fabric and other puppet construction materials. You’re unsure how much genetic material one troll can possibly produce in a matter of hours, but there’s no way that won’t be more than enough storage space. After another minute of thought, you fetch a pitcher of water and a mug as well, because there’s nothing like a sex marathon to cause some mad dehydration.
Then you turn to him. “All right, can you think of anything else you might need?”
Thick black brows arch at you and Makara looks pointedly around the room at the bountiful supplies you’ve brought him. “Not unless you’re all at having a proper concupiscent platform hid somewhere.”
Yeah, your bed ain’t exactly what he would be used to. “‘Fraid not, but the bed’s probably more comfortable than the floor, anyway.” Assuming your bed can even hold a seven foot troll, that is.
He glances at the bed, nods and looks back at you, saying nothing. The tremors running over his body are making the blanket around him shiver, and you briefly wonder just how much self-control it takes to stand there watching you instead of collapsing into a moaning, writhing heap. Even without speaking, his message is pretty clear. You’ve never been so firmly signaled to get the fuck out of your own room.
Flashing to the door, you turn to look back at him, jerking a thumb at the water pitcher. “Make sure you drink plenty of water, and yell if you need anything.” Then you step out and close the door before the irritated look finishes forming on his face.
For a long moment you just stand there, trying to analyze why you're handling this so badly. Naturally, you’re interrupted before you can get anywhere.
“Goddammit,” comes a mutter from down the hall, and Dave stalks out of his room, shoulders slumped, focused on the screen of his phone. “Remind me again why I decided to hire live actors instead of using CGI?”
“Didn’t you decide real people had far superior options for irony?”
“Yeah, yeah, shitty acting beats shitty animation by a mile, but it wasn’t supposed to go along with shitty behavior and a total fucking absence of professionalism.” He looks up from his phone and registers you standing in front of your closed door. The next step takes him past you and into view of the empty sofa in the living room and he turns to look back at you, eyebrows up. “Tell me you’re not having comfort sex with the troll, Bro.”
“Fuck. You,” you say softly, suddenly so angry it takes effort to keep your face and body still. He’s joking, you’re fully aware he’s not even partly serious right now, you know the difference, but no. Just no.
“Whoa.” He stops walking, hands lifting in a “chill” gesture as he stares at you. “What the fuck?”
“They gave him Ketradax. He doesn’t even fucking work there.”
“Oh, holy shit.” His head turns to look at your door and back to you. “So, uh, what’s the plan, you need me to stick around? I was gonna go down to the studio and yell at some people in person but this sounds pretty serious--”
The anger leaves you as quickly as it came and you sigh. “Nah, go on and do your stuff. He’s taking care of it and I’ll be here if he needs anything.”
“Gonna try to call in the law for him?"
"For a low caste drug dealer? How well do you see that turning out for him?"
Dave grimaces. "Fuck, I know, I know, but I can dream, right?"
“Yeah, you and Signless.”
“Right, so, hit me up if you need a hand with him or anything--”
That one’s too good to let pass. Pressing your lips together, you raise your eyebrows at him just enough.
“ --goddammit no not like that, I didn’t even mean that, you fucker, okay, that one’s on you, resting squarely on your weirdly hatless head, it’s building a nice nest and everything, gonna raise up its babies good and proper and they’ll all be your responsibility, a whole family of nesting asshole innuendos.” He’s wandering towards the door as he speaks, muttering at you over his shoulder. He pauses in front of the door. “Seriously, hit me up, I’ll come back, not like this is direly important to my livelihood or anything-- anyway, I’m gone.”
When the door closes behind him, you take the opportunity to roll your eyes. Yeah, you need your hat. Fortunately you’ve got several spares, so you head for your room-- and stop after half a step because right, logistical problem here. Bad manners to walk in on Makara just because you want a fucking hat. You’re kind of glad Dave wasn’t here to see that, you’re not used to forgetting key details like a drugged troll in your room trying to pail himself senseless. Clearly you’re off your game tonight. In case you hadn’t already noticed.
After a minute of standing there like a tool, you wander over to the sofa and sit down at one end, safely away from the surprisingly small sticky purple spot in the center and the much larger sticky tan spot where someone spilled soda and couldn't get it out. God, you're gonna have to do something about this sofa, it's getting gross. Pulling out your phone, you look up Ketradax again and start checking around for any ameliorating factors. You’re not expecting an antidote or anything, but finding ways to ease the worst symptoms would be pretty damn helpful right now.
Nothing. At least it looks like you were right about the water, dehydration is a known issue, but nothing you can find has any useful suggestions for what might counteract the intensity of the Ket’s effects. Most of the sites you find are geared towards trolls who’ve taken Ket as a pailing aid, or just for some kinky fun, though a few are more in the nature of warnings and assistance for those dosed involuntarily. None of them can tell you anything new.
Until you scroll halfway down a comment section on one of the kinky sites. The commenter is complaining about chafing and soreness, as common sense would expect, but also a killer horn ache that spread across her head and face and caused enough discomfort to end the festivities early. Apparently it was enough to almost flip her matesprit pale with concern, which seems like a healthy dynamic to you, but given that she had a moirail already, would have been an issue. Having chased her matesprit out and called her moirail over, the commenter persuaded her palemate to rub her horns, but unfortunately as the discomfort subsided the desire once more came to the fore. The moirail stormed out in disgust and the desperate commenter was forced to beg her matesprit to return, which she did, flipping pale, and they vacillated happily ever after.
Holy shit, it’s like a fucking soap opera in here. The flame war that starts in the comments below over quadrant smearing is classic, too, and the schadenfreude is almost enough to distract you from the drop in your gut.
You check back over the other sites, and yeah, intense muscle and horn aches are a pretty common symptom. Sure, staying hydrated will do a lot to help that, but not as much as getting a massage from someone he trusts.
Problem is, there’s no one around that he trusts. He said straight out that he doesn’t have a moirail.
Raking a hand through your hair, you blow out a long breath. Goddammit. Trolls and their stupid fucking quadrant system.
You want to help this guy, if he’d let you. (Fuck help, you want to wipe out this whole night, make it not have happened, save him from all this painful, humiliating bullshit-- ) The difficulty is, he’d not only have to trust you, he’d have to be willing to let you tapdance all over his pale boundaries. More than you’ve already done, that is to say. That’s a pretty tall order, given what he’s already put up with tonight. Unlikely he’d agree, unfair to even ask, you know, but your stomach’s in knots at the thought of him refusing. You want to ask, you want to push him into letting you help him, which is coercive and inappropriate and just fucking bizarre.
This is stupid, you don’t even know the guy. What the hell is wrong with you?
Sitting up straight, you concentrate on taking long, slow breaths until you feel a little less like you’re about to fall apart. Then you try to reason this whole thing through.
Granted, he’s raising someone who pings as a little brother.
Dave is only five years younger than you, and at your age no one’s counting anymore, (you will never stop counting), but given that you were always the one with the plan, the one who knew how things worked, who took care of him-- and you know, the fact that there were no parents in the picture-- the parallel stands. Of course Makara’s a grown-ass adult and must have been even back whenever he got the kid, rather than being a dumb teenager trying to look after a nine year old. They’re also trolls, so presumably it’s different. It doesn’t matter; on a gut level it feels the same.
Granted, all your instincts are telling you this guy’s a badass. Even drugged, there’s something in the way he moves that telegraphs careful control and leashed power. For that matter, you may have missed seeing the fight when he flipped out, but judging by the damage he did to the set it must’ve been something.
Granted, you did some seriously stupid shit when you were younger and got yourself into more than one bad situation.
Maybe that’s the problem-- maybe you think you know what this would feel like from the other side. In that case you’re full of shit, because you were never in this situation exactly, but maybe that doesn’t matter. It’s close enough and bad enough that you can extrapolate with ease.
The suggested conclusion that you’re identifying too closely with him doesn’t ring quite true, but you can’t think of a better explanation for the way you’re feeling. It would explain why you’re trying to unravel at the seams, anyway. Fuck that, though, you’ve got shit to do.
Rubbing a hand hard over your mouth, you lean forward and look around the room. You have roughly twenty different projects that could use your attention, everything from updating your website to finishing those three half-sewn smuppets staring accusingly at you from their box in the corner. Unfortunately, your attention is not cooperating. As soon as you try to focus on something, even long enough to figure out where you left off and what you needed to do next, you find your eyes have wandered back to your closed bedroom door and your thoughts are going in circles again.
Is he okay in there? That probably wasn’t enough water for a full grown troll, but you should probably wait to get him more until he asks. What if he needs shit you can’t provide? What if the stupid forum myths are true and it turns out he needs someone to pail him? Ain’t no way you’re up for that. Even if he asks, he’d never forgive you for it, and that thought bothers you a lot more than it should, more than sleeping with someone you’re not into that way. You want to help him, make him feel better, and right now sex is the last thing that’s going to do that. Not to mention telling someone yes when you don’t mean it is a shitty thing to do to both of you.
You can’t hear a damn sound coming out of that room. All things considered, shouldn’t he be making more noise, or is silence a good sign? Like he’s still got it under control. It would sure be nice if you had a clue how he was doing.
Eventually you realize in disgust you’ve been staring at your computer screen for twenty minutes without having even turned it on yet. Maybe you should just give up for the night, take a nice long shower and bed down on the sofa. After covering all the sticky spots with a sheet or something, obviously.
Although if you’re in the shower, you won’t hear him if he calls for help.
Goddammit. You’re not getting anything else done tonight, are you? Because you’re tying yourself in knots worrying about a guy you just met.
Seriously, fuck that. If he needs your help he’ll call out, let you know, and in the meantime you are going to sit your ass down mentally as well as physically and get some fucking work done.
With grim determination you buckle down and manage to focus well enough to get your website updated, two new videos started uploading and several orders acknowledged. You’re distractible as hell and it all takes way longer than it should, but you get it done. You consider getting started on processing the orders just received, but you’re low on boxes and you don’t need the turnaround to be that fast anyway. Your business model is to alternate working your ass off with being kind of lazy. It seems to work.
You’ve managed to keep yourself occupied for almost an hour and you’re trying to focus long enough to start on the next item on your list when there’s a snarl from the bedroom, loud even through the door, and a thump that shakes the floor. Holy shit, what the hell is he doing in there?
As you flash over to knock on the door, part of your mind is pointing out that it’s two a.m. and if he keeps that up your diurnal neighbors are going to be really pissed. Honestly though, at the moment the neighbors are not your top concern.
“Yo, Makara, sup?”
The only answer you get is a growl, quieter this time but still dangerous sounding. Not cool. Not helpful at all, actually, you kinda need a verbal response here.
“Hey, I’m opening the door, all right?”
That might be another quiet growl, but if he was planning to attack or some shit he’d be a lot louder about it. Probably as close to an invitation as you're going to get, and you need to make sure he's all right, so you open the door.
A gust of cinnamon scent hits you in the face. He’s not on the bed like you expected and it takes your eyes a moment to find him. Leaning his back against the wall, he’s sitting on a sort of broad cushion of folded towels. It should really not be a surprise that he’s completely naked, the stained blanket long since discarded in the middle of the floor, but somehow it startles you. Or possibly it’s the fact that his purple bulge is tangled around his fingers and he’s glaring at you, fangs bared.
“Yo,” you say. “There a reason you’re snarling and thumping and shit?”
“It hurts,” he growls. “Pail and a half and still unsatisfied, and there’s an ache and a soreness up on me now and yet I can’t motherfucking stop.”
“Well, shit.” Now that you’re looking, you notice that both the buckets you brought are in use, so that was a good decision. “Can I do anything, I mean, get you anything that might help?” Yeah, you need to phrase that carefully.
No surprise that he’s still suspicious, despite your change of wording. Eyes narrowed, he flashes fangs at you again. “Don’t you motherfucking touch me,” he says in a low, grating rumble.
That stings more than it probably ought to. You feel you’re justified in raising eyebrows at him. “Did you miss that I’m standing over here in the doorway? Chill out, I’m not interested.”
He frowns at you, but some of the tension goes out of him, which is something at least. Trying to think, you look him over again and realize that the hand tangled with his bulge is purple and dripping while the other is mostly clean. Not that you're any expert on troll masturbation techniques, but it seems to you it’d make sense to use one hand for the nook and the other for the bulge. On the other hand, with the claws he’s sporting, messing around with his own nook is probably a no-go.
“If you’ve no interest all at it, why up and make the offer?” Makara says.
Sure he’s paranoid, but he could put a little more effort into hearing what you actually say. “Dude, I didn’t offer to touch you,” you say patiently, “I offered to get you something. Be helpful to give your bulge a break, wouldn’t it? I got some things you could use, if you want.”
“Things,” he says flatly.
“Things, toys, stuff for your nook.” Normally you enjoy shoving what you do for a living in people’s faces, but you don’t actually want to make Makara any twitchier than he already is. Instead of smirking and saying it like a challenge, you turn your head so he knows you’re looking away, shrug a little and try for matter-of-fact. “I sell sex toys. I can get you a selection of sizes and everything.”
There’s a long goddamn silence while he glowers at the floor and you pretend you’re not anxious about his reaction. Waiting, you glance around again and realize the water pitcher you brought him is almost empty. Gotta refill that before you leave again.
Finally he speaks. “And all glee and mirth will you be that I’m at using your toys? The mere thought a motherfucking pleasure to you, or do you plan to get your watch on of it too, Strider?”
It hits you like a punch to the teeth. Which is stupid, the intensity of your reaction is totally irrational, but even knowing that you can’t control it. Hurt and anger surge up and come spilling out of you. “What single thing have I done tonight to make you think I’m that kind of sicko?” you say tightly. “I may not be the most approachable host or the friendliest guy out there, but I am working my ass off trying. If I could wipe this whole thing out, fix it so this never happened to you, I would, but since I can’t, I’m doin' my level best to make up for it. All I want to do is help you, jackass. I get why you’re twitchy and angry, but name me one fuckin’ thing I’ve done to make you feel not safe and I’ll change it. Otherwise stop treating me like an asshole who’s only lookin' to take advantage of you.”
He’s still frowning but his expression is strange for a moment. His eyes flick over you up and down and his frown deepens. “One thing, is it? Motherfucker, I’ll spell it clear. Here I sit grub-naked, stripped even of self-control and all but helpless in your block, in your hive, by your means and will. And there you stand full-clothed and at your ease, dictating terms and making free with your gaze, without even the courtesy to show your face for truth.”
Dictating terms. Your stomach drops. You didn’t even think, you didn’t realize how it would look to him, didn’t see this coming and make appropriate adjustments. Maybe in your first conversation you convinced him to trust you provisionally, but then you walked in on him like an arrogant prick, got your fucking feelings hurt and snapped at him. Not to mention blatantly staring at him the whole time like it was your right to invade his privacy that way. Of course he doesn’t fucking trust you. Self-loathing comes slipping in after the wash of shame, but you stave it off trying to work out what he means that you're not showing your face--
Sensing your puzzlement, he growls. “Your eyes, Strider. All the power in your motherfucking hands and still a need in you to up and hide your eyes from me, brought low as I am.”
Oh. He wants you to take off your shades.
Not because he’s intimidated, it sounds like, but because he wants to get a better read on you. Pretty easy to understand with him all too aware of his vulnerable position.
You could strip down to the skin and be less naked than taking your shades off in front of him. At this point, though, you owe him that much and more.
“All right,” you say on an exhale. “You got it.” Sliding them off, you fold them and hook one earpiece in the neck of your shirt. Fuck, it’s bright in here. Without your accustomed shield in place, meeting his gaze is hella uncomfortable, and you only hold it for a moment before casually looking away again. “As requested, the flawless Strider visage bared before you.” It’s meant to be flippant but comes out sort of toneless.
He doesn’t respond, and when you glance back at him his eyes are sharp and intent on your face. There can’t be much to see there, it’s not like your face is expressive even with your eyes showing. Looking back to the wall across from you, you try to ignore the pressure of his gaze and focus on what you have to say. “I’m sorry. I honestly wasn’t trying to do the powerplay thing, but I guess it came out that way because being a dick is sort of my default.” Your gaze slides down the wall to your bed, wanders off the bed and over the floor to settle in front of your feet. “Tell me,” you say in a lower voice, “what I need to do to make you feel safe. You need clothes or something to cover up with, I can get you that. You need me to shut my face and get out of your way, I can do that too.”
“Certain doubts up on me on that count,” Makara says, and your head snaps around to look at him. His eyes are narrowed, face unreadable. “When my way is all at being in your respite block, who’s to say a motherfucker can’t come wandering in as pleases him?”
Returning your gaze to your feet, you nod. He has every right to be pissed. “You’re right, barging in on you without permission was invasive and rude as fuck and I need to cut that shit out. On the flipside, when you need help I… really would appreciate it if you’d let me know. I’m not saying you have to, I get it, I know you don’t trust me. I just... want you to be okay. All right, I’m-- I’ll get out of your face.” You grab the door to pull it closed and shut yourself out, then remember you meant to refill his water pitcher. Before you can open your mouth to mention it, he speaks.
“Bring in that toy you were telling at me,” he growls. “Then go.”
“Right,” you say instead. “Okay.” Pulling the door nearly to, you go to rummage through your supplies until you’ve located three of your standard dildos, one in each size. A warning tap on the door before you push it open and then you hold the toys up for his perusal.
He seems to be having trouble focusing and he barely glances before jerking his head for you to bring them over. You do, keeping your eyes off of him as much as you can, and he grabs them, growling quietly.
“Looks like you need more water,” you say, picking up the pitcher.
“Leave it filled outside the door and let me motherfucking be,” he snarls, and you flashstep out of there.
Okay. Okay. That did not go well. Breathing slowly and carefully, you fill the pitcher from the kitchen sink and leave it by the closed door. Then you try to remember what you were going to work on next. Your concentration is split and faltering, but what else is new tonight? Just because you can’t focus for shit doesn’t mean you get to slack off for the rest of the night.
After a while, the door opens enough for a big hand to retrieve the water pitcher, then shuts again. Well, at least he'll stay hydrated. You've done that much to help, however inconsequential compared to everything you've screwed up.
Before, it was difficult to focus because you were worrying about him; now it’s hard because you can’t stop going over all the ways you fucked that up. Because, yes, you fucked up in some radical and impressive ways just now.
Sure, you got the guy out of a bad situation, so that makes it ok to walk in on him, right? It’s your bedroom after all, no need to be deferential or courteous. Why not gawk at him while you’re at it. Make it clear yours are the only rights that matter here; you rescued him so you practically own him, right? What the fuck did you think you were doing?
Ten or twelve years ago, at this juncture you could’ve looked forward to spending the rest of the night in a tightening downward spiral of self-hatred, anxiety, and hypercritical analysis. Fortunately you’ve matured a certain amount since then, and while you can’t stop the critical voice from ranting on about your shortcomings (how would you? It’s telling the truth) you’ve found you can eventually shunt it to the back of your mind instead of devoting all your mental energy to it.
When you finally manage that, the other issue comes to the fore. He’s not going to trust you after this. Even if he registered the stuff you said about wanting to help him, even if he somehow believed it, you behaving like a grade-A jackass will have counteracted that pretty thoroughly. It doesn’t matter if he starts to need help, he’s not going to call you. That’s his choice, he’s fully competent to make it and you have to accept that like a fucking grownup.
It’s stupid that it bothers you so much, a quiet ache in your chest that you’ve got no idea what to do with.
You leave your shades off.