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"With all due respect, Your Wickedness, sir, that verdict was a complete farce." Terezi Pyrope, Legislacerator Neophyte Second Claw (though she acted as though she had already achieved Sixth Fang), had opinions about the execution of justice. Strong ones, which she was determined to have answered. Although, as the Grand Highblood (Sick Wickedest of the Subjugglators, First Among the Laughsassins, Tyrant Above Tyranny) swung his twelve-foot frame around to look upon her tiny and impertinent self, it occurred to her that impulsively following him to his private apartments to air those grievances may have been unwise.
He gave her an indulgent look. It was exactly of the kind a lusus gives to a young wiggler about to do something unwise, when the lusus believes the wiggler could learn from the benefit of hindsight (and that whatever is coming is going to be extremely amusing). Terezi frowned nervously. She was hardly an expert, having only seen her lusus in dreams, but it seemed to her that the expression was more appealing on his face than it ever would have been on a lusus. “And?” he asked, at length.
“And,” she sputtered, taken aback by his lack of reaction. She felt herself at a loss for words and bristled. Nothing put her at a loss for words, not even the trickiest courtroom puzzle! “And,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose, then pausing. Well, in for a bite, in for the banquet, as they say. “And, you know just as well as I do that that brownblood was not guilty!”
“I do?” he said, evincing mild surprise with a raise of his painted eyebrows. He spread one dinner-plate paw before him, inviting further explanation.
She had been expecting a display of his legendary temper, and was beginning to find his amused disinterest frightening, more so than if he had snapped or snarled (at least then she would have been on solid ground, losing her temper back). This, however, this had the smell of a trap to it and she didn’t like it one bit. Although, he was almost attractive like that, all relaxed, even with all that paint. She sqashed the thought. There was justice to fight for, and maybe she stood a chance of convincing him, as long as he didn’t lose his temper. “I showed clear as night that the blueblood pirate was the real criminal, so how could you have let His Honorable Tyranny find the lowblood guilty?”
He snorted then, a derisive bull-snort that left her with no illusions about how little he cared for her notions of justice. “Little girl,” he boomed, “did it up and motherfucking occur to you,” and he was in her face so suddenly she jumped, “you mighta been defending on entirely the wrong goddamn charge?” He grinned, vast and wide, and his breath smelled like rotten sugar.
“Excuse me?” She was halfway between fear and fury now, shaking a little. She couldn’t have told you which it was from.
The Highblood cackled, right in her face. It sounded like gravel in a blender. “You motherfuckin’ all got to forgetting, sister, he was guilty as shit of bein’ a worthless rustblood, a crime,” he said with finality, “for which there ain’t no scapegoating.” He dropped one enormous hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze, laughing.
Huge he was, and highblood strong; nevertheless she bared her teeth (not thinking) and (oh, Empress, no) slapped at his hand. He quit laughing and narrowed his eyes, appraising her from head to toe. She squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze, but refused to avert her own. Her pump sponge was beating so fast she thought it might burst. Then he grinned again, and she swallowed nervously. It looked surprisingly good on him, that smile. She felt her cheeks color, and from the way he raised his eyebrows at her, it was obvious he’d seen.
“Oughta get to discussin’ at this in motherfuckin’ private,” he rumbled in her ear, and began to walk her into the apartmentblock. She shivered. It was impossible to escape his grip. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to, and that scared her more than anything. But despite that, she couldn’t deny how much his touch had turned her on.
As he steered her through barely-lit halls adorned with circus silks and lavish paintings of famous subjugglators, she began to recall nervously whispered rumors of his sexual appetites. His lust was said to be equalled only by his temper in both intensity and capriciousness. Terezi ran her tongue over her lower lip. She’d known all that coming here and she’d still come. She thought of his huge form pressing her into a wall, enormous hands squeezing and touching all over, and felt herself grow wet. Deep down, she knew she’d come here curious just as much as furious.
“Fine-looking little lawmaker girl,” he remarked, as they entered the softly-lit inner respiteblock at last. He reached down and squeezed her ass possessively, eliciting a squeak and a deep teal blush. He grunted, amused. “Little bit scared,” he purred, “good.” He made to shove her towards the blanket pile. Incensed (at her fear, at his presumption), she turned the momentum into a clumsy tumble and came up facing him.
“I am not afraid of you,” she lied, in an effort to preserve her crumbling dignity.
“What heinous kinda hoodwinkery you gettin’ to pull at me?” He shoved her again, harder. This time she fell, and he dropped down astride her, pinning her. She could already feel his bulge, heavy and hard, pressing into her. Leaning down, he took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her. “Got fear all on you like perfume, girl.”
“I am not afraid of you,” she insisted, and grabbed his mane and pulled herself up and kissed him. He tasted like sugar and flaking greasepaint, and she could not honestly have said which of them was more surprised.
He bit her lip sharply, moving down to her jawline, then her neck, hissing revelation in her ear between bites. “You’re gonna fear me girl, I’ll show you, motherfuck! The spirit of gods lives up in me, a miracle of terror and sicknasty exaltedness.” She could see the glint of prophecy in his wide dark eyes and felt a sudden urge to see if she could shatter it.
“You’re not a miracle,” she said, court-practiced dismissiveness covering a tremor in her voice, “you’re just a product of Faygo fizzing up.”
He roared, flung her glasses aside, grabbed her chin. She’d never felt chucklevoodoo before but she knew it by the panic rising in her from nowhere palms sweating mouth dry hard to breathe couldn’t look away from his flashing eyes until suddenly they stopped and it was over. She took a breath that felt like a death rattle in reverse, and he grinned at her, all fangs. “Tell it at me, girl, tell me fear what’s all like that ain’t bein’ a miracle.”
Panting, she leaned forward and kissed him again, pulling his hair as hard as she could. He didn’t flinch, just snorted. Reaching down, he ripped open her uniform in one swipe of his sharp and ugly claws, tossing the scraps aside. She’d never realized how truly erotic that kind of unpredictability was; her caliginous partners thus far had been unsatisfyingly considerate. Here, she had no idea what the Highblood would do from one moment to the next, and the uncertainty made her wet.
He flipped her over in one easy motion, lifting her hips to expose her nook. She tensed, expecting a smack, but instead felt his long tongue deep inside her, licking and teasing. He took his time playing with her, bringing her to the edge of orgasm and then distracting her with a slap or a knife edge of chucklevoodoo fear; always just enough to keep her from coming but never enough to bring her down completely. It was expertly done. She lost herself in a litany of begging and moans, pleasure hovering on the border of agony, until finally he permitted her to come.
Throat raw from screaming, she lay there panting, wondering what was next. She didn’t have to wait long. He flipped her over with one hand and (when had he shed his clothes? He was so huge and muscled, looming above her) pushed his enormous bulge into her. It hurt, but she didn’t want him to stop. “Go on and lie,” he hissed in his preeacher’s voice, “go on, lawmaker girl, get to pretending you motherfuckin’ don’t love the goddamn miracle what terror is, the agony and the ecstacy of the motherfuckin’ thing.” His eyes flashed and suddenly she was afraid to the core of her being that he might stop that he might walk away and leave her here wanting and she wanted to cry but mostly she wanted more so she arched her back and moaned, afraid that if she hid one whit of pleasure (as if she had been shy before, with her lust, but fear precludes logic) from him he would leave her and she would be alone forever.
“That’s the motherfuckin’ spirit,” he rumbled, holding her down with one vast hand, digging his claws into her. “In the name of lust and of motherfuckin’ holy fear, girl, we do this thing,” leaning down and biting all over while he fucked her. She thrust back against him, working herself on his bulge, wanting to come, wanting to make him come, wanting it to never end.
The moment stretched out into forever and then, when they were both on the edge of coming, he dropped the chucklevoodoos and took her over the edge with him and even as she came, in the rightness of her own mind she was still a little afraid, and he knew it, and loved it.
“I’ll come to you again,” she said, afterwards, as they lay in the darkness.
“If I fuckin’ say so,” he said, and relished what he had built in her, the miracle of fear that he might refuse, which would keep her coming back again and again, fearful that he would stop wanting her.