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Your hands tighten around her neck, thumbs pressing into the so soft, so vulnerable hollow of her throat. You could end her reign of terror and press your claws in just a little, and she knows it, but you don’t detect the slightest stink of fear radiating off her delicious skin. You taste a bitchy little smirk as you roll your tongue over her blueberry lips.

Her lips. You are never quite sure you can taste them properly, even when she forgets to constantly change her lipstick color ever so slightly. There are simply too many variables. Her lipstick, the smudges of bare black lips when you lick off the blue, her warm breath all over your face, pearly white teeth and sloppy tongue. You could, you have, lay all night and all day pressed together tasting her mouth, licking, sucking, listening to her breathy moans. It is fucking decadent to kiss her.

It is even more decadent when she bites you, sinks those sharp spider teeth right into your tongue and lets your blood squirt into her mouth, moaning with satisfaction. The noise makes you rattle inside, need arcing in bolts down your spine and electrifying you to your center. You need her right now but of course you’ll never tell her or even let it show. Instead you shove your knee against her crotch, feeling her hot and wet and hard there, just like you expected, just like you wanted. She tongues your bottom lip and drags the tip across, tasting the corners of your mouth. Your hands drag down her sides, ripping her shirt, raising intoxicating welts of luscious dripping blue. She grinds on your leg, rolls her hips back and forth, tilts her head back and pants loud enough for you to taste her pleasure. And then you take your hands away for just the barest moment, and she shoves you down the stairs.

 You keep falling down all these stairs for a little while, and it’s almost a relief when you hit the wall because now you know where you are. Your head hurts, and you’re even more desperately hate-horny, but you know where you are. Little does she know that this is the perfect trap. You lay there and pretend to be dead, and in about half a second you can hear her shoes, red splattered with teal, thumping down the stairs. She laughs harshly and jabs you with her foot. You don’t move, and she laughs again, slightly less harshly, and punts you right in the ribs. You don’t move, even though you want to moan as she bruises you. She bites back a gasp that you taste anyway, and her warm-cold hands come to your face, she kisses you again and again and you taste yourself on her tongue and then you cannot resist anymore. You bunch your hands in her shirt and slam her against the wall before she knows what you’re doing. Suddenly your mouth bursts with sweet hot rage, like biting into a grenade, mollified with syrupy relief washing over your tongue and drizzling down your throat. You can’t resist kissing her again, you can never resist, and this time it’s soft and really as tender as she ever gets, her hand cupping your cheek and claws biting into your skin. You can, after all this time, practically feel the quadrants flipping. You press against her warmth, your chest, almost flat, nestling against hers.

Her hands trace down your sides without cutting and hook under your shirt, and the two of you have to part for a moment so she can pull it off, your lips separating like torn fruit. The cold air washing in between you is almost unbearable, but you’re right back there a second later with her claws tracing along your bare back and finding your spine, slicing just the tiniest line of teal. You feel the cold metal of her left arm, and she presses it down, just to the top of your pants, and your body arches against her without your permission. She laughs huskily into your mouth, satisfied with her clumsy win. You slide your hands up under her shirt, wanting to drink in her laughter and gasps and keep them inside you forever instead of letting some stupid cloth tear your mouths apart again. Her breasts are so familiar that you can practically taste them with your fingertips, but you slowly, slowly map them out again to the tune of her groans, drawing your claws in tightening circles around their tips.

She brings her hands around between you and palms your bulge with one hand while she fucks with the zipper of your pants. She is so predictable, still set on getting you naked and writhing and begging underneath her, but you certainly aren’t complaining when she gets the zipper down and your bulge swells into her hands. She strokes it up and down with shaking hands, and now you’re the one moaning for her, your hips rocking into her kneading, squeezing, teasing grip. Fuck. Teal is dribbling all down your length, you can smell it, you know she can smell it, she’s making little mmm noises against your lips like she can taste it too. Finally she pulls her juicy lips away and a strand of blue-teal spit connects your tongues for a moment, before it snaps and wraps around your aching, throbbing bulge.

You don’t have to endure long before she ducks down and licks the saliva away, tracing her tongue over the cooling skin, then presses full-mouthed, wet kisses from your base to your tip. She sucks on your head oh-so-gently, pressing her tongue flat, sliding it out and down against you, tickling your soaking nook and spreading you a little. And then she pulls her head back, making sure you feel every last inch of her moving along your bulge, and gives you a smug, disgusting, shit-eating grin with teal smeared all over her mouth and teeth and flop.

You grab her by the neck again, and, as usual, her response is to laugh, with the stink of your need all over her breath. She slaps you away with insulting ease and stands, one foot on your stomach so you can’t rise with her, blood-stinking canvas in your face and laces tickling goosebumps onto your bare skin. This time her smirk is so loud you can taste it. She takes her shoe off you and grabs you by the horn, wrenching pain shooting through your skull and joining all the hatelust and just plain lust trembling through your nerves, to haul you up to her pants. You unzip her with your teeth, and she grabs her bulge and smears it over your face, marking you with dripping cerulean. You deign to lick your lips, but when she tries to stuff herself in your mouth you duck the strike and nuzzle your nose in, smelling slick blue. You lick inward, you suck at her lips and bite, pushing your tongue in, and you can hear her blood rushing in your ears.

For a second, at least. She doesn’t let you finish either; it’s only fair. She pulls you up again, by your horns, again, and you taste her sniffing your face. She snorts, and suddenly you start to walk. You don’t have your cane, she threw that down the stairwell an hour ago, so to prevent you from lagging behind she picks you up and puts you on her shoulders. You don’t have to duck; all the doorways in her hive are high enough for His Honorable Tyranny to move through comfortably if he wanted. While she takes you to whatever sinister plan she has, you pull on her horns to return the favor and press your face into her mane of hair so you can lick the carroty-orange bases. She grunts at you, reaches back to palm your skinny ass, pulls your unzipped pants down so they dangle against her back and you’re left hard and wanting with her hair tangled around your bulge and juice dribbling down the back of her neck.

You know you’ve arrived when the cold night air hits your bare skin. You taste the blackcurrant blotches of all the hives under and around hers, the pinprick lemon lights, but mostly the tongue-burning, soul-aching wind that swirls around the top spires of her hive. She starts to toss you down; you can feel her muscles bunch as she thinks better of it and keeps you against her, kissing you hungrily for long stretching moments and plumbing the depths of your throat with her tongue. She puts your feet on hers and shuffles the two of you forward, forward forward forward and then she turns you around and shit your toes are dangling over nothing and just wind and canyons beneath. She laughs. Again. You try not to look terrified, have no idea what your face is doing, and then you feel her strong metal hand encircling your wrists, holding them together and back so you’re just teetering on the edge of certain death.

You are hard as a rock.

She spreads your nook open to the cold air with her free hand, slicks her fingers up with your wetness, then slides her bulge into you like it was born to be there, and just like every time she fills you, you think maybe it is. Her fingers draw a line from your crotch up your side over your tits to your mouth, and you suck them clean because you want to, not because her hips slapping on your ass are driving you absolutely crazy and you’d do anything and mmm you can feel it building up in you, all white heat and deliciousness. She slides her hand down again and wraps it around your straining bulge poking like a mast over the ledge, and she milks it with her fingers, opposing the motion of her thrusts until you almost literally cannot think for pleasure. You are somewhere vaguely aware, aching and happy, of her  panting in your ear, of the fact that you were cold a minute ago but now everything is unbelievable lush warmth and the rainbow scent of desire. Her claws draw teal on your shaft as her fingers spasm, her moans turn into loud growls, you hear a voice and are suddenly aware that you are openly, needfully begging for more, for her, and as you are filled so utterly with hot sticky jets her grip loosens and you think she’s going to drop you. And then you don’t care, because you’re screaming her name to all the hives around and you don’t care who hears, all that you care about is the sunbursts between your legs and your jerking bulge and the familiar but still mouthwatering scent of teal-and-cerulean streamers spurting out into the night air.

You eventually come back to yourself to find your legs wobbling, sending little drips off the end of your slowly-softening bulge. You are glad you already can’t see, because you would certainly be reeling and toppling by now even with her hand on your wrists. Glittering sprinkles of undiminished pleasure still assert themselves now and then, especially as she shifts out of you with a wet slurp. She pulls you back with one simple tug, and then you’re safe in her arms, the scent of satiated spidertroll filling your head to brimming. She rocks on her heels and the two of you are falling until she lands on her back on the battlement, her arms sliding around you, your head tucking up under her chin and your legs all tangled together.

 You start to say something, but she’s already asleep. Typical.