Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11436066.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      The_Condesce/Dirk_Strider
  Character:
      The_Condesce_(Homestuck), Dirk_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Bad_Ending, villains_win, Fight_Sex, Pre-Alpha_Session, Xeno
  Collections:
      Nonconathon_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-08 Words: 3145
****** )(IC: Land a new recruit. ******
by Laylah
Summary
     You toss your fork aside—one of your drones catches it before it can
     hit the floor—and saunter over there to stand over your little prize.
     "You got perchtential, buoy," you tell him. "So I ain't aboat to
     krill you just yet. But you betta make it worth my whale."
You been in the planet-conquering business a hella long time by now. Ain't a
whole lot that still catches your attention for long, honestly, which is more
of a drag than it sounds like. So you take your entertainment where you can get
it.
Like Earth. Where there are all of two survivors of the race that resisted you,
and they're only survivors because you've let them live. They seem to think
it's because they've been strong and clever enough to resist your drones, but
really you just don't have much use for wigglers. Wigglers are clumsy and
pathetic and it's terminally boring. (There's a reason you outsourced all
larva-raising to a planet you don't ever have to set frond on anymore, right?)
They're not such wigglers anymore, though, and that means it's time to see what
they can do. You've sent out actual battle parties this time instead of just
friendly scouting patrols. You're about to have guests.
The first drones to make it back to your ship are the ones you sent after the
male. Dirk. They drag him into your throne room and push him down on his knees,
and you can feel how bad he's trying to not react to you—all stone-faced and
shit, but you can hear the desperate escape plans getting formed and trashed in
his little mammal thinkpan and it's delicious. His clothes are torn up from
resisting your invitation, there's a purple bruise high up on one cheek, and
he's got that nasty red blood trickling down from his nose.
"An audience with Fish Hitler herself, huh?" he says, and if you didn't know
better you'd be impressed at that bravado tone. "To what do I owe the honor?"
Dang, but you can see his Ancestor in him, that smug asshole who gave you so
much shit when you first came to this little trash planet. That's gonna make
this so much better.
"Give the buoy his little fangpick," you say. You get up from your throne and
snag your fork in one claw. "We're gonna dance."
"Seriously?" he says, but he takes his dumb sword when the drone holds it out
to him. "You're really going to do this supervillain bullshit?"
"Ain't nebber been a villain more super than me," you point out, and you whip
your fork around in a wide arc toward his face.
He's pretty fast, gets out of the way before you can rip open his soft mammal
skin. Good. Maybe he won't bore you too soon.
He ducks in low and tries to skewer you, but you're pretty fast yourself, and
you drag a claw across his cheek as you get out of his way. You didn't even do
it hard enough to make him bleed more, but he's still baring his silly dull
teeth at you as you face him again.
His Ancestor looked just like that when he killed your toy Presidents. You hope
he's watching this from a dream bubble somewhere.
"I like that conchfidence," you say. You lunge forward and Dirk jumps back, so
your fork catches his shirt instead of his belly. The fabric tears straight up
the middle as he wrenches away from you. "Little moray training, little moray
ruthlessness, I could sea you being useful."
"I'm plenty ruthless," he says, shrugging out of the tatters of his shirt. "And
I have no interest in being useful to you."
You show him all your fangs. "I don't care if you're interested or naut."
His shoulders hitch up tense like he might have figured out just how many ways
you mean that, and he launches himself at you again. You move to block and he
flips his blade around, past your guard, point angled in at gill-level—and you
slide just out of the way, letting him skim past you harmlessly. You palm his
glutes as he goes past, just for the fuck of it. They're nice.
His cheeks are turning pink when he spins around to face you again, but he's
doing his damn best to keep his voice level when he goes, "I'm flattered that
you've noticed my irresistible charm, but you're really not my type."
"You'll change your mind eventually," you say. They usually do, once they
really get how few choices they have.
His mouth hardens into a determined line and he tries for a low crippling
strike. It's a good move, fast, and you bet it'd work on most people, even a
good number of trolls. But it means he ain't figured out this is a shell game,
and all the shells are in your hands.
Fuck it. You grab hold of him with psionics and slam him down on the floor. He
makes a little angry noise and tries to struggle, but nah, you're not having
any of that. You got a point to make here. And you wanna have a good time.
You toss your fork aside—one of your drones catches it before it can hit the
floor—and saunter over there to stand over your little prize. "You got
perchtential, buoy," you tell him. "So I ain't aboat to krill you just yet. But
you betta make it worth my whale."
"Fuck you," he gets out through clenched teeth, still feisty when you got him
flat on his back. Yeah, this was a good time to collect your new subjects.
You straddle him and drop down to your knees, sitting on his chest. When you
pluck off his sunglasses and toss them aside, your drones don't bother to dive
for those. His eyes are bright orange, like he's halfway to murder mode, except
that human eyes don't change color so they must just do that all the time. He's
still trying not to let you see him make an expression.
"You ain't dumb," you say. "You know where we goin' from here." You let your
control of his head go and he shakes it no, like somehow he still thinks you're
asking.
Your bodysuit unseals easy at the touch of a claw, and you open it up along the
crotch seam now. Your bulge is a little slick, a little plumped up, but that's
for later. You snarl your claws in Dirk's hair and rock forward, bringing your
nook down over his face.
"Every second you're not licking my nook is another second I'm making plans
what to do with your little gillfrond," you say.
It's the right angle to take. You can feel that instantly, how all that mad
gets shoved down the back of his thinkpan underneath waves of what-I-gotta-do
bullshit. He still hates this and you but now he's got an argument for
cooperating, and that's his hot mammal tongue tracing a path through the folds
of your seedflap.
Ain't like he's good at it. You know he's never done this before, never pailed
with anyone unless he built some really freak-ass features into those robots of
his. But you've had the best courtesans the Alternian Empire ever produced, so
there really wasn't any chance he'd impress you with his skills. The novelty's
what you're here for. That and the lesson he needs to learn.
So he licks you, this weird mix of grudging and desperate, and you grind down
on him to make sure at least some of that friction is hitting good spots. He
makes muffled wet sounds like he can't get enough air and you don't let him go,
don't let him struggle. This planet's yours and its last survivors are gonna
get that through their pans, gonna be your new soldiers, whether or not they
got the sense to know what an honor that is.
You picture his Ancestor watching from a bubble for this, too, and that makes
it a hell of a lot better. You ride Dirk's mouth and picture that in detail:
Dave motherfucking Strider watching impotently while the Descendant he put all
his faith in eats you out, neither one of them able to fight you now.
That's what makes you come, that hot nasty so there satisfaction, and Dirk
coughs and sputters under you helplessly as you ride out the waves of shivering
heat.
You sit back, resting your glutes against his chest, looking down so you can
get an eyeful of him wet with fuchsia. "Niiiiice."
He turns his head to the side and spits, like he could get the taste of you out
of his mouth. "I beg to differ."
"Denied," you say. "I own this entire galaxy, buoy, and ain't no-one in it
gives a flying fish what you want. You wanna change that, you betta troll up an
learn how to take." He looks mad. Good.
You get up off him, seal up your bodysuit again, and then let go the psionics
that were holding him down. He climbs to his feet and you expect him to go for
you again right away, but instead he picks up the rags of his shirt and wipes
his face clean. Kind of a shame. You like him in your color.
"Next round," you say. "Let's sea how you do in unarmed combat."
"You're acting like this is some kind of fucked up job interview," he says.
Nice to know he can put the pieces together eventually. You throw a punch. He
dodges and throws one of his own. You don't bother to dodge, just tense so when
he connects—right in your middle, about level with the bottom of your
gills—you're braced for it and it gets him nowhere. You backhand him, just to
be rude, and he staggers, his head snapping back.
Oh, that's made him start bleeding again, nice.
He wipes his face with the back of his hand and doesn't attack you again. The
jangle of his thoughts is pretty bad right now, loud and conflicting. "Look,
this is trite as shit, but I'm beyond caring about that right now," he says.
"Do whatever you want to me, just leave Roxy alone."
"Why?" you ask. "You got nofin to bargain with."
After that he tries to kill you like he really wants it, not just like he knows
it's important shit that needs to be done. It don't make him better at it
exactly, but it gives him a lot of passion you can appreciate. He throws
punches in quick combos, steps into kicks with a lot of force behind them,
keeps moving steadily even when his breath comes quick and harsh and loud. You
might actually have some bruises. He definitely does, purple splotches rising
up on his thorax in the shape of your rings.
And he's being real careful to stay out of close range as much as he can, like
he knows he can't take you on straight-up. He's right. He just also can't take
you on like this, not with the skills he has right now.
You go on the offensive, pressing him back with one strike after another until
his back's to the wall and he's got nowhere to go but through you. Bless his
little pump biscuit, he tries.
You catch his arm and throw him over your shoulder, dropping him with a meaty
thud to the floor. He rolls onto his stomach and you're on top of him before he
can push himself up, scruffing him and holding him down with your claws digging
into soft flesh. With your other hand you reach down and shred his pants,
fabric ripping with loud, satisfying sounds.
"No," he says, fighting your grip, trying to get the leverage to push himself
up off the ground, "no, no."
It's kinda cute, how he thinks he has a shot at fighting you off. You might say
so as you kneel on one of his calves to make it harder for him to kick. He
doesn't even waste breath sassing you back, he's so busy struggling. Nice
priorities, good sense of what really matters. This is some prime raw material.
You get your bodysuit unsealed again, and this time your bulge is getting
interested, between the way he tries to fight you and the way he smells, all
blood and fear and fury.
He don't have a nook, just mammal bulge and globes and then the weird smooth
seam leading back to his waste chute. But that's fine. Still got one hole you
can put to use. Frankly, you might have pailed his chute even if he had a nook.
Maybe you'll do the girl like that, let him watch, see if you can get both of
them to hate you enough to really make good warrior material.
You hold him down hard, spreading his glutes with the hand that's not locked
around his neck, and when your bulge traces its way up through his crack he
makes the best miserable sound. So you push, forcing your way past the
resistance of that tight little hole, your bulge squirming in one coil at a
time. He pants, trembling under you, sweat covering his whole body.
"Eels good," you tell him, mostly just to make him madder. He's real tight and
a little hotter than you actually prefer, but the defiance is something you
haven't gotten for real in a damn long time. "How much can you hake, hmm?"
He's trying not to make noise. You reward him by pushing in deeper. There's
basically no way he can take your whole bulge but if he's going to be stubborn
you're going to see just where the limit is.
You actually get maybe three-quarters of the way there before he breaks, his
defiant silence collapsing in a rush like a flood smashing a dam. "Fuck, you
don't have any restraint at all, do you? Trolls don't believe in being gentle
for a guy's first time, it's just full speed ahead, monster dick express, like
this is the way you've decided to execute the prisoner."
It'd be a decent attempt at flipping mid-pail if you hadn't seen that shit
thousands of times before. Dirk's far from the first one to realize how much
trouble he's in once he has his pants off with you. "This is me being gentle,
guppy," you croon. "Takin' all the mercy I got to keep from splitting you stem
to stern."
He shudders hard under you, like he's picking up what you're putting down and
he knows that shit is true. "What do you want?" he asks, real quiet like
that'll keep you from noticing how bad his voice shakes.
When people ask you that what they really mean is How do I get you to stop? and
they never want to hear that the answer is You don't, but it is. Your bulge
eels in the hot tight confines of his chute and you think you could get to like
the way he feels. Not the first time you've used a conquered alien as a pail
and it won't be the last, either.
"Buoy, you know what I want," you say. "Everyfin your little crap planet can
cough up for me." You flex, working your bulge in that tight little hole,
letting the friction build toward something good. "Everyfin you got." He's gone
quiet under you again, but it ain't real surrender. That's a long way off yet.
This is just the next step, where he tries to keep his head down and roll with
the punches he can't dodge to save his strength. You won't really be getting
somewhere until he realizes that the punches he can't dodge are all of them.
But you can handle that being a ways off. You got plenty of time, and you got a
nice new toy in the meanwhile. You use him good and hard as you dare—wouldn't
want to break him for real, not this fast—while he pants and shivers under you,
hands scrabbling at the floor with no claws to even dig in. It's pitiful as
hell but you got no pity left in you, not for smart-mouthed aliens, definitely
not for the Descendents of losers who defied you.
You fuck your new boy, stretching him out and getting up in him as deep as you
can. His breathing is all short and shallow and what you can hear of his
thoughts is a jumbled mess, going nowhere at top speed. Feels good. Feels like
winning, and you ain't had a new victory in a damn long time. It sneaks up on
you, the way the tension builds, like the sea pulling back from the shore, and
back, and back—and then rushing in, roaring, a tidal wave that sweeps through
your nerves and spills out your bulge and makes Dirk swear and sob and writhe
under you like he can't take being pumped so full.
Well, he'll get used to it. You bask for a minute, just letting yourself enjoy
the comfortable, floaty satisfaction of trouncing somebody and then pailing
him. You're not totally sure if Dirk's going to try to keep fighting you when
you let him up. He's freaked out and hurting, sure, but sometimes that just
makes an animal want to bite more.
"So, what is this?" he says before you can relax too much. His voice is almost
steady again already. "You got some kind of dog knotting thing going on here,
and I'm going to have to sit around bloated with spooge until you can figure
out how to corral your junk again?"
"Coral my junk, nice," you say, because you can appreciate a good pun
opportunity when somebody hands it to you. Your bulge is starting to retract in
defiance of Dirk's rude suggestions, and you rock your hips back to encourage
it a little.
"Ugh, fuck," he says, squirming as some of your slurry spills free, and of
course the squirming just makes it worse.
"Have to train you not to let that spill," you say. That's dumb decadent
highblood shit, for trolls who only get to lord it over a few people and have
to make a big deal out of it. But you have been pretty bored these last few
hundred sweeps.
You're dredging your memory of assorted violet-blooded douchebags to add some
more suggestions to that first one when one of your sentry drones beeps.
"Recruiting party number two has returned," it reports. "Fishion
acconchlished."
"Sweet." You pull out of your boy the rest of the way and let him go, standing
up and tucking back into your bodysuit. "Bring my gill in to say hi."
Your boy climbs gingerly to his feet, his hands doing this thing like he's
trying to convince the remains of his jeans to function. "No," he says, flat
and hopeless, "don't. Please don't."
"Shoosh, guppy," you say, grinning with all your fangs as the door hisses open.
"This is where the reel good stuff starts."
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