Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/496709.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Aradia_Megido/Aradia_Megido
  Character:
      Aradia_Megido
  Additional Tags:
      Sex, Mild_Kink, selfcest, Dreambubbles, Prompt_Fic, Xeno, non-fanon-
      standard_troll_genitalia, Happy_Sex, Sexual_Experimentation
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-26 Words: 3654
****** Milk and Honey ******
by Elizabeth_Culmer_(edenfalling)
Summary
     You've met yourself hundreds of times during the game: both alternate
     future selves coming back to fix your teammates' failures and your
     own future self from the alpha timeline running through stable loops
     to prevent even more catastrophes. But that was business, nothing but
     ghostly fatalism and cold mechanical logic tick-tock-ticking away.
     Now, though. Now you are alive and time is more than a spare, somber
     beat of compulsion. Time is music and you are dancing. Every cell in
     your body, every breath in your lungs, every wisp of will and desire,
     in every iteration from every timeline. All of you are dancing.
     And it's no fun to dance alone.
Notes
     This fic is a response to the following kinkmeme_prompt: i do not
     care about the context or the plot or anonymity or anything - there
     is only aradiacest now
     theres plenty of hot dave-on-dave action around and about, but i can
     find no such aradia-on-aradia action! i feel all time players should
     be given an equal chance to mack on themselves, and if anyone agrees
     i would be delighted for any kind of fill
See the end of the work for more notes
You've met yourself hundreds of times during the game: both alternate future
selves coming back to fix your teammates' failures and your own future self
from the alpha timeline running through stable loops to prevent even more
catastrophes. But that was business, nothing but ghostly fatalism and cold
mechanical logic tick-tock-ticking away.
Now, though. Now you are alive and time is more than a spare, somber beat of
compulsion. Time is music and you are dancing. Every cell in your body, every
breath in your lungs, every wisp of will and desire, in every iteration from
every timeline. All of you are dancing.
And it's no fun to dance alone.
You leave Sollux arguing with a pair of dead Karkats and seize your other
self's hands. They are warm and thrumming with the pulse of blood -- rust
blood, warm blood, living blood, for all that she's a ghost of a dream of a
memory -- because when you died and woke and transcended, all of you were
freed. You don't have to be a puppet anymore. You can do whatever you want.
And oh, you want.
Your other self smiles back, as wide and happy-painful-bright as the expression
you can feel stretching your own face, even if her eyes are a blank white glow.
She leans in, her breath hot against your ear, and whispers, "Do you want to
have sex?"
"Yes," you say, because you do. A sweep and more of delayed hormones are
fizzing through your veins, mingling with the effervescent joy of life, and you
want to shout and laugh and celebrate and share -- you want to make more life,
as impossible as that is, to hurl a declaration of hope against the beat of
despair to which you marched for so long. Who could understand that better than
yourself?
"Let's go home," your other self says, and you blink your eyes together,
thinking of your cozy hive in simpler days. When you open them, you're there.
Dreamlight spills through the windows, emerald and amethyst mingling on the
floor and walls, and you don't bother switching on the electricity. You tackle
your other self to the floor, banging your knees against the cold construction
blocks before she imagines a pile of whips and hats underneath you both.
"Kinky," you tell yourself, laughing, and she laughs too because you both
remember the time you tried to illegally download the whole Troll Indiana Jones
movie series and accidentally downloaded the porn versions instead. It turns
out you can do a lot of things with whips! You can do some pretty crazy things
with hats, too, if you have a little imagination.
"Why not?" your other self asks, tugging one whip's handle out of the pile and
offering it to you. As you sit back to untangle the length and coil it up, she
shimmies out of her blouse and sets a slightly battered fedora on her head,
perched precariously between her horns. It looks ridiculous combined with her
bra and tattered skirt, but you don't care and neither does she. You like hats,
so why not wear one? You're through letting the rest of the universe order you
around.
Which doesn't mean you can't order yourself around, a little, just for fun.
"Take off your bra," you tell yourself, trying to sound stern and commanding.
It's a little tricky when you're still on your knees in a pile, but Flarping
with Terezi was a good introduction to the basics of freeform roleplay.
Your other self grins and tilts her head, sending the fedora sliding to rest
against her left horn. "You're gorgeous, honey, I'll give you that, but I don't
pail for just anyone. Show me what you've got."
"You have no idea the kind of things I've got," you say, barely managing not to
giggle. You raise your hand, aim carefully across the room, and crack the whip.
Glass panels shatter as the tip draws a vicious line down the center of the
window.
"Ooh, Ms. Megido, ooh," your other self says. "Was that a threat?"
"Just a demonstration," you say. You snap the whip again. This time the tip
wraps around a plastic bottle of honey on your computer desk -- a gift from
Sollux, who kept regular bees as well as mind bees -- and you catch it neatly
as it flies back toward you. "And maybe an offer," you add.
"Guess I was right to call you honey," your other self says, and then neither
of you can keep up the façade anymore. You both dissolve into giggles and the
hat falls off her head to land unnoticed on the floor.
"Give me that and let's both get naked," your other self says. You toss her the
honey and close your eyes for a moment, imagining your God Tier outfit away and
your wings into the nothing where they wait when you don't need them. Suddenly
fabric hits you in the face. When you swipe away the bra and open your eyes
again, your other self is pouting at you.
"I like the wings!" she says, crossing her arms over her naked chest. "They're
pretty and sparkly and I want to find out if they're ticklish."
"Okay," you say, and shrug them back into place. They spring from your back and
shoulders like gauzy drifts of spidersilk, thin and light as imagination but
with the tensile strength of steel. Other you leans forward and runs her hand
along the top edge of your left wing. Her fingers tangle in your hair, claws
catching on a knot for a second, and you shiver at the sensation of flesh on
insubstantiality.
"It's like you're touching my ghost," you say.
"It's like touching a dream," she answers.
"Neat!" you say, accidentally in chorus.
Then your other self sits back and starts unlacing her shoes. "Can I help?" you
ask, and lean forward without waiting for her answer. You know what it will be;
she's you, after all. You toss the loosened shoe over your shoulder and run
your hands up over the red-and-white striped sock. "Leave these on," you
suggest, and your other self nods in agreement.
"But not the skirt," she adds. She closes her eyes, face tight with
concentration, and the tattered black cloth is gone like a fading dayterror.
Dreambubbles are the most fun ever.
You bend down to kiss the smooth gray rise of your other self's bulge before
she can open her eyes. She gasps when your lips touch skin. Her hands bury
themselves in your hair, tense and flex, unsure whether to push you away or
pull you closer. You kiss her again, then lick your way down toward the slit
where the two halves of her bulge meet, hard cartilage guarding the softness of
her nook.
"That feels so weird," your other self says, her voice high and fast, but her
hands are steady on the back of your head now, her fingers making tiny
encouraging twitches near the base of your horns. Good weird, you assume. It
makes sense! Tongues are very different from fingers!
You brace yourself on your right hand and reach up with your left, fumbling
blindly along your other self's side until your fingertips catch on the tiny
dip of her grubleg socket. The dimpled skin is smooth and soft and you can feel
her pulse thrum close to the surface. You scratch one claw lightly around the
rim of the indentation.
"Oh," your other self gasps. "Again." You oblige.
The lips of her bulge are starting to unfold, and you trace them with your lips
and teeth, kissing and coaxing. It's hard to see -- your hair and the angle
block most of the light -- but you can feel a gap opening and you slide your
tongue inside, licking along the inner edge of the cartilage shield.
A frond taps back, tracing a slick line up the bottom of your tongue.
You jerk back, eyes nearly crossed, and swallow the familiar-unfamiliar taste
of your own arousal, direct from the source without the trace contaminants of
your fingers or a pailing aid. "That feels so weird," you say, echoing
yourself.
"Good weird?" your other self asks, reaching forward to rub your shoulders the
way Sollux used to do before you died.
"Weird weird," you say, sticking out your tongue. "But I bet it gets better!"
"You think we have all the luck?" your other self asks with a wicked smile.
"Who cares! We certainly have all the time," you answer. "I might even say
we're made of it."
You grin at each other. Then you bend back down and bite, ever so gently, at
the rim of her bulge. This time when a frond sneaks out to play, tap-tip-
tapping over your lips and teeth, you don't pull away.
Your other self leans forward, her chest pressing your hair down between your
horns, and runs her fingers along your sides, traces slowly decreasing circles
until her clawtips brush the rims of your own grubleg sockets. You make an
unintelligible noise into her opening nook -- she shivers, a full-body twitch,
and her fingers spasm against your sides. One claw breaks your skin and a
trickle of blood runs hot and thick down your side, like molten honey.
Her hand sweeps up your skin, smearing blood on her fingers. You hear her lick
them, swallowing a piece of you that might as well be a piece of her. Same
blood, same life, same powers, same dreams. The only differences are a handful
of memories, your wings, and the blank white glow in her eyes.
You close your lips around a mouthful of fronds and suck.
Your other self keens, high and sharp like a vengeful ghost, and a rush of
salt-sour-sweet coats the back of your throat, each frond leaking drops of
diluted genetic material in preparation for the flood. Her bulge is fully
retracted now, her nook flushed bright rust as the fronds swell with blood and
fluids, twining hungrily in search of something to grasp and squeeze. They
wriggle over your face, tracing damp paths down your cheeks and under your
chin.
You close your eyes and push your nose into your other self's nook, breathing
your own scent. It's hot and wet and somehow musty, like meat and bones and old
books all mixed together, with a hint of lightning in the distance. You sniff
again, and wonder what colors Terezi would see beyond the basic rust, whether
she would say you smell of time, or regret, or joy. Or maybe she'd just smack
you on the head with her cane sword and tell you to pay attention to the person
you're pailing, not to might-have-beens.
A frond is doing its best to slither up your nostril. You wriggle back on your
knees and scrub at your nose, trying not to sneeze.
You can feel little streaks of fluid seeping down your legs as you own bulge
retracts. Your fronds are twitching against the inner creases of your thighs,
where your legs meet your torso. You feel empty, aching, as if you were
reaching out to Sollux and he turned his back and couldn't see.
You're glad you couldn't feel emotions as a ghost. They would have hurt too
much.
"Your turn now. I have an idea," your other self says, and you look up in
curiosity. She holds up the bottle of honey and the handle of a whip. "You get
three guesses and the first two don't count."
Your breath catches -- you remember this scene as well as she does, and how you
could never decide whether you wanted to be Marion and give the orders or be
Jonezh and obey -- and your tongue darts out to lick your rust-slick lips as
your other self drizzles honey on the hard leather handle until it gathers in
pendulous drops and falls onto her upturned wrist. You want to lick it off,
want to trace her tendons back up to her elbow and chew until blood mixes with
the sweetness.
Maybe it shows on your face. Maybe your other self just knows what you're
thinking because she's you -- though you never knew you liked blood in your
redrom until now, so how could she when she's playing the other role? Either
way, she smiles and sets her tongue against the inner bend of her elbow, rough
gray muscle against smooth gray skin, and licks a broad trail up to the heel of
her palm, weaving back and forth to obliterate every golden drop. Then she
grins.
"Open wide," she says, and thrusts the whip handle forward to hover in front of
your hungry mouth. You don't even think about refusing.
"Good girl," your other self says as you bite down, blunt teeth digging into
tough leather. Honey pools in your mouth, thickening your saliva and dribbling
around the edges of your lips where the handle shoves them open. Your other
self licks up from your chin -- left, right, left again -- then plants a
ridiculously delicate kiss on the tip of your nose.
You snarl wordlessly at her and imagine the honey bottle into your hands.
"Oh, right," she says, and squeezes a glob of viscous gold between your
breasts. It descends rapidly, its mass enough that the force of gravity
overcomes stickiness and friction, slowing only when it reaches the top of your
retracted bulge. The convex mound of cartilage is just enough to make it puddle
for a second, and another, and a third, before the surface tension breaks and a
sticky thread seeps between the retracted halves of your shield into the
dampness of your nook.
It tickles.
But you don't have a chance to concentrate on the sensation because your other
self is licking her way down your body, her tongue following the honey trail.
She bends nearly double at the waist over her folded knees, the same way you
bent over her, then makes a dissatisfied noise and flops down on her stomach to
get a better angle.
You sink your fingers into the thick tangle of her hair and massage the base of
her horns. She hums, and the vibration pulses from her throat to the point of
her jaw on your bulge into the waiting, clenching emptiness of your nook. You
swallow convulsively around the handle of the whip, but your other self refuses
to move lower until she's cleaned every drop of honey from your stomach, with
the same patient, thorough attention to detail you used to apply to
archaeology, back when Alternia existed outside of half-remembered dreams.
You snarl at her.
She laughs.
The sound quakes through you and your fronds clench helplessly around each
other, the touch of self-on-self so far from what you need but still better
than nothing. More honey has oozed into your nook, mixing with your own fluids
in an uneven jumble of sticky and slick. You squirm when a pair of fronds get
trapped up against the underside of your shield, tensing and clenching every
muscle around your nook and butt in a helpless attempt to free them.
Finally your other self takes pity and moves down from your stomach. Except
then she just lies there and breathes on you, little lances of warm air blown
through rounded lips, tickling you without even the tangible pressure of water
to ease the way you ache.
You buck your hips, shoving your nook up into her face. The edge of your bulge
mashes your other self's nose and she sneezes, barely managing to duck and
muffle it in a handy fedora.
"Bad girl," she says when she catches her breath. You dig your claws into the
sensitive skin at the base of her horns and tug her back toward your nook.
The honey on the whip handle is nearly gone now, swallowed or slipped out of
your mouth with the little trails of spit you can't quite manage to stop. The
leather tastes old and stale, like meat burned crisp in the midday sun and then
oiled with shoe polish, but you bite down harder and refuse to speak. You don't
need words now anyway.
Your other self kisses her way around the edge of your bulge, pausing when your
fronds slip out to tap her lips. "Oh, that is weird," she says. You rub circles
around her scalp and hitch yourself a few inches forward on the pile. "So
impatient!" your other self says, and continues her work -- open-mouthed now.
You can feel the heat and dampness of her tongue with your fronds, so different
from the touch of your own fingers or a whip handle, and so much better now
than before you died.
Your fronds flex and curl, trying to weave around your other self's tongue, but
it's too thick and short and moves away instead of twining back. Your other
self is laughing almost continuously now, little bursts of breath and twitches
of skin as your fronds brush back and forth over her face, and the vibration
only makes the empty, aching need grow deeper until you think every nerve in
your body is gathered in your nook.
You buck your hips again, catching strands of your other self's hair in your
questing fronds. They slip and slice, the texture all wrong, but they're
something to grip and you can't help pulling. She hisses and tries to raise her
head, but you press down and hold her close. If she wants you to let go, she'll
have to make you.
And she does.
She slips her fingers into your nook and begins untangling her hair from your
fronds. You twine around her skin and sigh in relief at the touch. Her hands
are exactly like yours, down to the funny knob on her thumb, but this is
nothing like touching yourself. You can't feel the contact twice over, and the
idea that someone else is between your legs, stroking your fronds, seeing the
most private part of your body, is almost as tantalizing as the physical
contact.
You need her to touch more, to press deeper, to stroke along the inner fold of
your nook where the glands that hold your genetic fluid are swollen and tender,
ready to release.
She withdraws her hand.
Your jaws spasm around the whip handle and you keen in frustration.
"Shhh," your other self says as she props herself up on her elbows despite your
best effort to keep her face down where her tongue can do the most good. "I'm
not teasing! Not much, anyway. But I need this as much as you do, and you can't
touch anything but my horns with me lying down like this."
Which is a very good point. You raise your eyebrows, asking what she plans to
do about the situation.
"Spit that out, kiss me, and let's do this the old-fashioned way," your other
self says, wiggling her fingers at the whip handle still clenched in your
mouth.
It takes you a moment to loosen your jaw muscles, but you slide the leather out
from between your aching teeth and work your mouth to moisten the dry bits and
swallow the excess spit. Then you flop down beside your other self, press
yourself against her -- chest to chest, thigh to thigh, nook to nook -- and do
your best to devour her lips.
She's already tasted your blood. You want to return the favor.
Your fronds tangle with hers, twining and clenching as you grind your hips in a
circle against each other, the longest tips reaching deep in and back and up to
stroke along the inmost folds of your nooks, coaxing the sensitive glands. You
taste blood in your mouth -- yours or hers, no way to tell -- and you breathe
desperately through your nose, unwilling to let go. Her hands clutch your
shoulders, claws digging furrows over your bones, and you cling to her waist.
Your fingers press one of her grubleg sockets -- she gasps into your mouth -
- and you shift up to dig your thumbs into the dimples -- press and release,
press and release, out of rhythm with your teeth and her tongue and the frantic
writhing of your fronds, not the spare beat of predestination but crashing
harmonies, everything to do with life -- life which is messy and glorious and
raw, a sweeping, swooping, spinning extravagance nothing like the marionette
steps you followed for far too long until you woke and rose, and your wings
snap open and you meet your other self's white eyes like the promise of
eternity and you rise and you rise and you rise and--
The memory of your hive shatters into a thousand moonlight sparkles as you
come.
Later, you roll onto your back under a banner of stars never seen in Alternian
skies and sigh at the stickiness slowly drying on your thighs. The hats and
whips are soggy underneath you -- funny that you or your other self remembered
to dream of that when you both forgot your hive and everything around it.
"I don't think that would fill a whole pail," your other self says idly.
"We're only six sweeps," you say. "Adults are a lot bigger."
"I'll never know," she says. "That'll be weird -- every time you visit, you'll
be older and all the rest of us will still be six sweeps, no matter how long
our afterlife lasts."
"But we'll all still be Aradia," you assure her. And every one of you is
important, every Aradia a link in the chain that stitches the alpha timeline
together, sending your friends on into the future.
You have at least another hour before Sollux gets tired of arguing with two
Karkats at once. You tip your head sideways to rest on your other self's
shoulder and lace your fingers between hers. After a second, she squeezes back.
You name the alien stars together.
End Notes
     ...I still cannot believe this fandom is actually inspiring me to
     write porn. So. Freaking. Weird.
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