Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/169838.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Dualscar/Equius
  Character:
      Orphaner_Dualscar, Equius_Zahhak
  Additional Tags:
      Dom/sub, Comeplay, Face_Slapping, Humiliation, POV_Second_Person,
      Homestuck_Kink_Meme
  Collections:
      Claimed_Fills
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-03-12 Words: 1024
****** Rightful Places ******
by Laylah
Summary
     You should feel hate right now, you are nearly certain; overt cruelty
     and domination fall within the black quadrants. You don't hate him.
     You crave this.
Notes
     There is a line in urbanAnchorite's breathtaking "and I shall be
     dumped where the weed decays" that suggested this pairing. Then
     somebody else on the kink meme requested the story that line
     suggested.
     I was glad they asked for it so I didn't have to. XD
  This work was inspired by
      and_I_shall_be_dumped_where_the_weed_decays by urbanAnchorite_(t_ZM)
You should not be here. It is presumptuous of you to intrude on him; he is
highblooded and unlike most of the company you keep he knows what that means.
The idea that he might take offense to your presumption makes you already begin
to sweat, a faint prickle of perspiration at the nape of your neck and beneath
your arms. You knock at his door anyway.
"Enter," Dualscar says; the door does not open. The casual arrogance—you
picture him not bothering to rise, not condescending to tender a polite
invitation—thrills you. You obey his command.
Orphaner Dualscar reclines on the stacked boxes of his makeshift room as if on
a throne. It is an affront, that there is nothing better for him, but he knows
what he deserves. He sets aside the book he has been reading and gives you a
look that is half smile and half sneer. "What brings you here, boy?"
You swallow hard. Saying these things—no. The others will not respect their
duty; you will not be too ashamed to point that out. "Sir. You have seen the
behavior of the highest blooded among us. They are hesitant to take their
rightful places in the hierarchy."
His gills flutter once, an acknowledgement. "You want me to school the other
children?" he says contemptuously.
Heat flushes your skin. "No, sir." This is what Eridan could be, if he had any
dignity. Any certainty of his place. Things would have been so different, had
Eridan approached you with a demeanor like this instead of that sniveling,
pleading need for attention. "I-I want...I want you to show me my place."
"Is that right?" Dualscar drawls. He rises to his feet. At six sweeps, you are
already as broad-shouldered as he is; you are nearly as tall. He doesn't look
intimidated by your strength for even a second. "You're asking me a favor.
Spell it out."
He is perfect. "I want you to hit me," you say hoarsely. "As hard as you can.
I'm strong, I can—"
He backhands you before you can finish your sentence. Your glasses go flying.
His heavy rings make it a brutal blow, and the casual delivery displays perfect
contempt. You barely resist the urge to sag with relief. He cuffs you again,
open-handed, on the other side; your cheekbones will bruise.
"You want to know you're beneath me," he says. He sounds amused. "You want to
be reminded I could crush you under my boots." They aren't questions, but you
nod.
Dualscar strikes you again. You taste blood where the points of your teeth cut
the flesh of your mouth. "Highblood," you say.
He sneers. "I didn't tell you to speak." Your heartvalves clench, and you
swallow your own blood. Dualscar laughs when you offer no protest. "When you
have an audience with your betters, boy," he says, "you should kneel."
"Yes, sir," you say. You sink to your knees. You should feel hate right now,
you are nearly certain; overt cruelty and domination fall within the black
quadrants. You don't hate him. You crave this.
He swaggers closer, and you are uncomfortably, deliciously aware that you are
at eye level with his bulge. He strokes it through his breeches. You can't look
away. "The princess ought to keep you for a pet," Dualscar says. "Like a tame
attackbeast."
You whimper. Your own arousal is a slowly building ache that you make no move
to relieve. When Dualscar begins to unlace his trousers, you lick your lips.
"Sir," you say. "My strength—"
"Quiet," he says. "Your strength isn't a threat if you aren't allowed to touch
me, is it?"
You wish you had a towel. "No, sir," you whisper.
He pleasures himself in front of you, an outrageous insult, a display of pure
contempt. You watch him, avidly, hungrily, and what you feel for him is easily
as strong as hate but it isn't hate. You don't have a word for what it is, but
you want it to never stop. The movement of his hand is slow and even, like he
wants to draw this out, wants to make you keep watching this for as long as
possible. His fingers are long and elegant, his bulge perfectly ridged and
flushed a regal shade of purple. You want him so much it's hard to breathe.
His pace quickens slightly. "Open your mouth," he says.
Those words strike you at least as hard as his hand did. You do as you're told.
You can't bring yourself to look up and meet his eyes.
His release is forceful and copious, filling your mouth, bathing your face,
splattering the front of your shirt. You swallow what you can, thick and briny,
but his fluids drip from your face onto the floor between your knees. You've
never been so humiliated.
You wish he weren't done.
When you raise your eyes to meet his—does he have any last orders for you?—his
obvious amusement makes you squirm. "Hands behind your back," he says. He nods
at the mess on the floor. "And clean that up."
Your face burns. You're soaking wet, between his fluids and your own
perspiration. You do as he ordered, crossing your wrists at the small of your
back and bending down to lick the traces of him from the floor. He rests his
boot on the back of your neck, and that's nearly enough to finish you.
Dualscar releases you when you've licked up every drop you can. He turns on his
heel as if to walk away, as if you bore him now. Your arousal is a steady,
demanding ache.
"Please, sir," you say, your voice thick with him. Asking will give him the
chance to deny you. "May I see to my own needs?"
He looks back at you, lip curled in a perfect, dismissive sneer. He knows
exactly what you've just done. "Ask me tomorrow," he says.
The ache of your desire redoubles. If you weren't already kneeling, you might
be brought to your knees with this combination of need and gratitude. "Sir,"
you say. Acknowledging. Agreeing.
Dualscar walks away.
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