#crozee

Still, you’re here, your legs spread, the youngest of the Makara boys between your thighs and pressed right up against you and your business, a doped up grin on his face as he rubs himself all over you, dazed and slow. You’re not entirely sure he’s all there, but he seems to be into it well enough, if his soft noises and wandering hands are any indication. 

You’re already having trouble breathing, fins low and fluttering softly as he dips his head to mouth at your throat, tongue laving over your gills; it’s a lot to take in so early on, and you have a feeling it’s only going to set the pace for the rest of the night. 

Hands tremble as you reach up, reach out, intending to do something, anything, but your movements are swiftly arrested by Gamzee’s hands around your wrists, grip tight despite his apparent faineance. You think you might have severely underestimated him.

“This motherfucker is gonna make a cute little fish brother feel all up and good in every way possible,” he mumbles, mouthing up your neck, lips grazing your jaw, “So how about a fish brother just lay himself back an let me handle everything?”

He pushes you back, and slides onto the bed with a sort of sinuous grace that has you jealous and also highly aroused; you only grown more so when he straddles you, long limbs folding in like spider’s legs, thin and brittle but strong for all their supposed weakness. You’re pinned, well and good, and if you weren’t too busy trying not to ruin your fucking pants you’d wonder how someone so skinny could weigh so much. It’s like being sat on by a bunch of bricks, albeit sexy bricks, and with the way he rests, knees on either side of you, legs bent over your own, there’s no way you’re going anywhere unless he moves to let you up. 

You don’t particularly mind being pinned, but the way he stares down at you is a bit unnerving, like the way a mewbeast would stare at a trapped rat. You’re dinner, and that thought floods your mind as he leans over you, teeth gleaming int he dim light of the room. He bares them in a lazy smile, eyes hazy and drugged, and presses them to the skin of your shoulder, soft and barely there, delicate pinpricks that leave you a shivering, shuddering mess. 

It’s not enough, no near enough, and you know he knows it; you need sensation, you need touch, you need something, and you can’t actually help the way your spine arches, your body desperate for more contact. Your hands reach up, and you grab at his shoulders, try to pull him in close- which was a mistake. 

His hands grip your wrists in a flash, and before you know it he’s looming over you, your hands pinned to the bed in a grip far too tight for someone supposedly drugged just moments earlier. There’s a flash of something in his eyes, a reddish tinge to his sclera, but it’s gone before you can catalogue it or even decide whether you give a shit; he’s back to lazy dominance not seconds after, pressing a little kiss to your nose with a drawling, slurred boop.

You just stare at him, too incredulous to really react- had he just booped your nose during sex? Or, foreplay at least- the actual sex hadn’t happened yet. He grins at your expression and does it again, slower, teasing, and you jerk your wrists in his grasp- whether to smack him or tug him closer, you don’t know- but his grip is strong and you’re left immobile, at his mercy. 

He ducks his head and presses his lips to yours, and you lose all thought but those of lips and tongue and teeth, your own clashing with his as you fight for some form of dominance. You don’t win, of course, but any bruised ego you would have had is somewhat soothed by the attempt, if not the success, and you allow him to take control of the kiss and the soft, uncontrollable motion of your hips, grinding up against him without your say so. 

You throw your head back with a gasp as he grinds back down against you hard, your pants suddenly soaked and definitely in the way. 

“Pretty faces, fish brother,” he murmurs, his lips dragging over your skin, his hips rolling against yours, and goddammit you should not be this riled up, this fast, but… you just can’t help it. 

Your face, of course, flushes violet at the compliment. He laughs and licks your cheek, his tongue flat and broad and wet and you can’t help but imagine it elsewhere, on far more sensitive parts of your anatomy. 

“I’ll make prettier ones if you just hurry up an fuck me already,” you say, and your voice shakes so much at the attempt you make at sounding demanding, rather than just needy, falls flat. 

“Is that so?” he drawls, and the sound goes straight to your fucking nook. You didn’t think it was possible to get any more aroused than you already were, but call you a liar because here you are, almost in pain because your nook is clenching on nothing, and you so desperately want to be filled that you can hardly breathe. At this point, you’ll take anything, and god, he’s hardly even been touching you; you just want something, his bulge, his fingers, god, even fucking air against your skin will do at this point. 

He’s merciful, though- most likely the most merciful out of all three of them. He transfers your wrists to one hand and uses the other to claw away your pants, nearly ripping them in the process; you’re glad he has at least a modicum of self restraint left, because you would have been pissed if he’d ripped your favorite jeans, mind-blowing foreplay or no. 

But he’s good, and your pants make it from your waist to around your knees without any fabric tearing. Your legs part as much as they can, as trapped as they are in the tangle of your jeans, and you know you’ve gotta be just dripping everywhere, but his fingers press against you, then inside of you and you really don’t give a shit. 

It’s like… you can’t even describe it. His fingers are inside of you, barely filling you, long and thin and fucking perfect, and you can’t summon the energy to keep your mouth shut anymore; your jaw falls slack, and your hands clench the sheets underneath you, still trapped by his grip on your wrists even as you writhe and thrash, letting out a choked, stuttery keen. 

He pulls you up and against his chest, and gravity pulls you further down on his fingers; your head lolls back, and you can’t help the needy, wanton groan that spills from your lips, or the way you rock down on his hand like you’ll die if you don’t get him further up into you. 

It’s shameful, how out of it you already are- how do you expect to handle the other two if you can’t even handle the first one? Gamzee alone has already reduced you to a moaning, drooling mess; you can feel the slip slide of saliva as it drips from your lips, a thin string gleaming in the light as your spine arches and your thighs quiver. Gamzee stares up at you with something akin to lazy affection on his face, his fingers working you slowly, and it’s all you can do not to spill all over yourself right there. 

He picks up the pace, then picks it up more, till you’re quaking with the effort it takes to hold yourself together, face flushed, tongue lolling between your lips. 

“S-slow down-“ you gasp, rolling your hips into a particularly hard thrust, one that hits almost everything you need it to hit; he just laughs at you and speeds up, driving you to climax much, much quicker than you’d prefer. 

“Now why would I wanna do a stupid motherfuckin thing like that?” he says, and he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow down, he fucking speeds up and you think, for a split second, that death by fingering is a legit thing and you are going to die, “Your faces are the shit, my fishy brother. Why’d I do something as stupid as to stop the thing that’s the cause?”

You can’t answer him, not with anything but desperate, choked off noises, because his fucking voice is driving you along further than even his fingers and you are about three words away from coming all over yourself like an inexperienced virgin. You don’t think you’ve ever gotten so much out of just simple touch before, and you know you’ve never gotten so close to coming off just fingers, not even your own; it’s fucking ridiculous is what it is, and when he leans in close, his breath ghosting over your fin, you can’t help the way your breath hitches, the way your fist clenches in the sheets of the platform, the other tangled in his hair. 

“I wanna see that pretty color of yours, fish brother,” he coos, and his fingers thrust up and up and god, how long are they? “I wanna see you spill.”

And oh, you’d said you were three words away from coming but you hadn’t thought you were literally so; you’re spilling violet all over yourself the second he says I wanna see, the rest of the sentence lost to you as your hearing goes tinny and your world narrows down to his breath on your fin and his fingers in your nook, bright white-hot points of pleasure driving you far beyond your tolerance. 

You think you make some stupid noises, choked off whines and wordless pleas, but you honestly can’t be fucked to care right now. You collapse back onto the bed with a whimper and a buck of your hips, his fingers still working in you, keeping you from just basking in the high of orgasm. He teases you, stroking his fingers against the walls of your nook and dragging everything out till it’s faded and dull and you want more, need more, and you whine high and loud, arching your back and trying to get his fingers in deeper, more, again. 

“And such a pretty sight it was,” is all he says, and then his fingers are gone and you think you might be driven to murder, if something isn’t in your nook again in exactly five seconds. 

Hands touch your thighs, splay them, and they’re larger and smoother than Gamzee’s, with filed claws and no calluses on the pads of the fingers. Kurloz is touching you, and as per usual he remains silent, guiding you with pushes and pinches and prods until you’re laid out and vulnerable, legs spread, nook bared and dripping. It’s all you can do not to shy away, for multiple reasons; Kurloz, as hot as he is, has always frightened you in ways that you just can’t seem to figure out, for reasons you either don’t know or don’t want to know, and you can still feel the eyes of the other Makaras on you, watching. 

His hands dance across your skin, pushing and pulling till your pants are off and on the floor, but he leaves on the thigh highs and boots; you sort of regret wearing them, because now that you’re in nothing but them you can’t help but feel… well, silly, but your thoughts fade to something a bit less coherent when you feel the ghost touch of his hands through the filmy fabric, his fingers tracing the stripes. They’re in his colours, and you know he likes that- he’s signed as much before, after all, and you were sort of hoping that he’d go easy on you, if you wore something like this. Or that he’d lose control of himself and finally fuck you already, but neither of those options seem to be in the cards for you, tonight. 

No, instead he teases, he teases worse than he’s dancestor had ever managed, dipping his head to breathe over your nook, his stitched lips barely grazing the needy flesh. Your legs hook over his shoulders, your hands grab his horns, but he’s steadfast and strong and all your tugging does nothing but make him laugh in that creepy-silent way of his. 

He looks up at you and even though his hands are occupied keeping your hips pinned to the platform, you know what he wants. He never gives you anything till you beg him for it, the bastard, and as much as you hate to admit it… it turns you on just as much as it does him. You’re sure of that. 

Still, though, you’ve been teased and teased already, and if you’d had a bulge it would have slapped him across the face; as it is, you rock your hips up and tug him down by the horns, trying to get something, anything out of this without having to open your mouth, even though less than a minute later you’re begging for him anyways. You’ve never been too good at restraint.

“F-fuckin- please-“ you gasp, gritting your teeth, fins flapping in irritation and arousal, “Stop teasin me already!” 

His lips press against your nook and you sit up, curling over his head and pulling him close as your hips buck and stutter. Fuck, his mouth feels good, the stitches rubbing against you but there’s just not enough sensation, not after your first orgasm. You need more, you need something inside you, goddammit you want to be filled, and you tug on his horns and grind your nook against his mouth, whining and pleading and utterly, despicably desperate. 

“C’mon boss, just do me already, p-please,” you whimper, tossing your head back with a moan as his long, thin fingers ghost over the base of your nook, “Fill me, c’mon I just want somethin’ inside a' me, please, please-“

Is that not good enough? He wanted you to beg, and here you are begging, mouth open, words spilling from your lips like water as you rock your hips against his face and plead for him to fuck you, but apparently it’s not enough. He’s just fucking staring at you, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed to your nook like he’d be tongue-fucking you if he could, but those goddamn stitches are in the way. They’re always in the way, of everything, and you groan, tilting your head to the side so you don’t have to watch yourself smear violet across his face like lewd paint, your legs tightening around his shoulders. 

“S-stop starin,” you mumble,and you aren’t even sure who you’re talking to; all three of them are staring at you like you’re something to be stared at, like you’re something on display, with your leaking nook and your torn thigh highs. Fins flush your blood color, freckles standing out as your face brightens in embarrassment and arousal; you’re so needy, so wanton, and it embarrasses you that they're all staring, watching as you fall apart for the second time. 

Kurloz smiles, and you moan aloud as his mouth presses against you, shifts and moves and brushes up against things that have yet to be touched; his fingers dip into your nook, broader around and longer than his ancestor’s, and you’re stuffed with two, then three, then four in quick succession. It’s a hard stretch, and it aches, but it’s a good ache, an ache you want to feel more of. Your body trembles in anticipation as you curl over Kurloz’s head, so, so fucking close-

He thrusts his hand forward hard and you’re spilling again, significantly less material than last time but still enough to stain his face. You twitch, shudder, moan, and fall back; your hands aren’t strong enough to keep you upright anymore, your body weak and trembling as Kurloz rubs his cheek against your thigh, his fingers coaxing you through the second climax, two of three. 

You’re floating, sort of. It’s like… you can hardly think. You’re just being dragged around by all of this feeling and Kurloz isn’t even giving you a chance to recover, he just keeps spreading his fingers and rubbing up against the walls of your nook till you’re sure you’re gaping open and positive that you’re dripping again. 

You weren’t even aware you could come this many times in a row, but apparently it’s possible, though fuck if you know how. Your pulse is a steady tattoo in your ears, a rhythmic drumbeat that drowns out everything else, even the words spoken by the deepest voice yet; large hands grip you by the waist and lift you up, and you flop uselessly against a heavily muscled chest, your eyes heavy lidded and body lax. 

This is the last one. The last Makara, the biggest one, the Grand Motherfucking Highblood, and he handles you like you’re made of glass and tissue paper, his claws barely touching your skin as he arranges you to his liking in his lap. Your pants are gone, dragged off your body and discarded, and you think you hear tearing fabric but you are far, far too dazed to care. 

You think you can put up with them ripping up every pair of jeans in your closet, if it means you get laid by this behemoth of a troll.

“Little motherfucker all worn out?” he murmurs, voice echoing in your ears, but all you can do is blink and trill in response, spreading your legs wide enough to feel the stretch as you straddle his hips, one of his broad palms covering the majority of your upper back. 

“Too tired to finally get filled up like you’ve been begging so pretty for?”

It’s a monumental effort, but you manage to shake your head, grinding down against him weakly; you came here to get fucked, dammit, and you are not leaving or passing out until you’ve been fucked hard enough to keep you from walking straight for at least a week.  

He laughs at you, a deep, rolling chuckle that vibrates in his chest and rattles you to your bones, and his hand smoothes down your spine, fingers wrapping around your waist. He’s so much larger than you that he can lift you with one hand, and the thought sends shudders through your body, a soft whine trickling from your lips as you realize that by god, his bulge has got to be proportional to the rest of him. 

You’re not sure he’s going to fit. You’re pretty damn sure he’s going to wriggle up into you anyways. 

You have no objections to that. 

The tip of his bulge presses against your nook, and now you know why Kurloz and Gamzee had been so hell bent on fucking you with their fingers; without that preparation, there’s no way you would have even been able to fit even the first quarter of his bulge inside you, but it slides in without difficulty, the only sounds in the room being your own gasping, moaning pleas for more. 

After that, the stretch gets kind of hard. Halfway down, you’re aching, three quarter of the way down, you’re crying, body lolling limply in his hands as he pushes you further than you’d ever imagined possible. His bulge has to double back on itself because there is literally not enough room for it in your nook, but that just adds to the feeling of being full. 

Because god, you’re full. 

By the time he hilts himself in you, the skin of his thighs warm against the cool of yours, you’re incoherent with it. You can hardly breathe, with how much he’s got stuffed in you; it feels like you’ve been hollowed out, like you’re nothing but bulge and god, does it feel good. 

You think you moan, but you’re not sure. Everything is washed out, tinny and faded and your eyesight is half gone but that just makes the focus on the pleasure sharper, sweeter. He pulls you close, cradles you to his chest, and you lay against him, unable to move, unable to think; all you can do is rock your hips and plead wordlessly for him to fuck you, dammit, and when he finally does it’s like all your prayers have been answered. It’s like fucking nirvana, and you want to scream and cry and never let it end. 

When he moves, you can’t make a sound, your mouth open but drool the only thing spilling from your lips; he’s so soft with you, so gentle, and you’re grateful because you think he’d break you in two if he weren’t. One large hand wraps around your shoulder, claws just barely pricking your skin, and his chest is warm under your cheek, your head nestled right under the curve of his jaw. You fit perfectly. 

His hips buck, and you draw in a breath even though the air feels thick and syrupy; you think you say something, but with your tongue lolling from your mouth the way it is, you don’t think it was anything coherent. 

Every roll and curl of his bulge lights new flames of pleasure inside of you, and you feel like you’re being burned up from the inside out, but god, if this is how you die, you can’t imagine a better death. Your hands are too weak to even cling to him, and they scrabble uselessly at his shoulders, your fins low and quivering, your eyes heavy lidded and full of good tears; you’re exhausted but you want more, you want more forever, you never want this to stop. 

There’s a touch to your back, the hand smaller and thinner than the one wrapped around your shoulder, and he snarls, his bulge lashing inside you; you feel the hand pull away in the haze of helpless noises and desperate little hip rolls you give in response to the harsh movement, and you tremble, gills spread wide to try to suck in more air. 

“Mine,” he growls, deep and low and animalistic, and god, if you’d thought Gamzee’s voice was enough to make you come… 

“H-holy fuck,” you say, as if in agreement; your voice is strangled and high, bubbling with wanton desire, but you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. You can’t find it in yourself to be anything other than well-fucked, and the Grand Highblood is doing a pretty good fucking job of that, in your opinion. 

Holy shit. You are getting fucked by the Grand Motherfucking Highblood. You must have been crazy, to agree to this. You must have been flat drunk when Kurloz convinced you this was a good idea, when you’d convinced yourself it was a good idea. You’re going to get pounded to oblivion and you’re probably going to have to make the other troll carry you everywhere for a week.

When he rolls his hips again, his bulge twisting around and giving every inch of your nook a fucking caress, your mind blanks and you can’t remember why that’s a bad thing anymore. 

You moan, high and ragged, the sound full of whorish need but you don’t have enough of a brain to be embarrassed anymore; everything is just- it’s- fuck, it’s just perfect, everything is fucking perfect, and as you get used to the stretch and the overwhelming feeling of fullness, you start to rock your hips down, unsteadily fucking yourself on his bulge. 

“Motherfucking fish brother looks like he’s all up and enjoying these miracles,” the Highblood purrs, his chest reverberating with the noise. You let your head fall back to his chest and drift, almost lulled by the  motions of the two of you moving together. His hand cups the scruff of your neck and you trill in response, thighs trembling as you take everything he deigns to give you. 

It’s heady, and your mind is hazy with fullness and exhaustion and pleasure, numb to pretty much everything. It’s the best feeling you've ever felt, and already, you’re wondering if this can be a recurring event. 

His tongue darts out and drags against one of your fins, and you keen, claws scratching weakly down his chest as you rock your hips down against him. Everything speeds up- your breathing, your motions, his motions, the beat of your pulse and the throbbing of your nook, the outpouring of sound from your lips; his thrusts jostle your body, and you move limply with him, tears and spit mixing on your face as you wordlessly plead for more. 

You’re close, again, already. You’re not sure how they’ve consistently driven you to new heights, consistently blown your limits out of the water like fucking cannons aimed at a toy ship, but they’ve done it, and you’re close, again. It almost hurts, this slow buildup of pleasure; you’re oversensitive, overstimulated, but it feels so good that you wouldn’t stop for anything. 

And then it's over. It’s over almost too soon. You breath in, and he thrusts up, his hips slapping against yours as his bulge thrashes hard inside of you; with a choked, raspy cry, you spill a pitiful amount of material into his lap, then flop uselessly across his chest, patterns superimposing themselves over your vision as he grips you tight in his claws and fills you up, dumping his material inside of you. 

Of course he wouldn’t fucking use a bucket. 

No, instead he uses you as a bucket, without even the decency to ask first, and he laughs about it even as your gene bladder sucks up the excess, your gut slightly swollen from the volume of his release. He laughs, and caresses your stomach with hands wider than your face, holding you steady as his bulge retracts.  

“…Y’d better help me get that out later,” you mumble, drifting lazily in the high of climax; you feel loose limbed and well fucked, doped up on pleasure hormones and the good, deep ache in your nook. He laughs again, his chest shaking with the force of it, and adjusts you to his liking like you’re a toy to be arranged, a doll to be positioned- you end up cradled in the crook of one arm, resting against him as you slowly, steadily come down from the haze of feel good chemicals flooding your brain and body. 

Someone presses a bottle to your lips, and you drink without thought, fins fluttering at the sharp taste of cool water; someone else gives you food, a bar of some sort, sweet and sticky, small bites pried apart by thin fingers and fed to you bit by bit. Kurloz curls up against your other side- you’d recognize that bony ass of his anywhere- and Gamzee sprawls out over your lap, his head resting against your stomach. It’s comfortable and familiar, and you’re dead tired, exhausted by rigorous exercise. 

Someone coos to you, and you croon back, raspy and dazed. Kurloz presses a stitched kiss to your cheek, but you’re out before he even pulls away, too tired to bother staying awake even for the lovely- and appreciated- cuddle pile they've formed, warm bodies piled around and pressed against your own.