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i.
Aradia's new body was stronger, faster, and more durable than the flesh she'd been forced to abandon. Equius constructed her with precision, fitting each joint to the next with taut grace; he siphoned blood from his own veins to power the vessel, hoping that she might someday appreciate his sacrifice. All dreams aside, he was unprepared for the strength of her hands on his wrists and her metal knees around his waist, and when her mouth met his, breaking another tooth on her lips, he nearly wept with joy. She had been perfected by his hands, and he in hers.
ii.
Tavros lay on Vriska's floor, tears prickling at his eyes. She had kissed him a few times before falling asleep draped over him; her mouth tasted of bitter metal and salt and her fangs punctured his lips. She was still wearing that white dress, thin cotton and fakey-fake wings and he wanted to pluck them and tell her that he never believed in fairies, he never, he never, but he couldn't. His gut churned, dim anger and resentment throwing his digestive sacs into turmoil. She shifted in her sleep and his arms tightened around her unbidden. sHE, wAS THE WORST.
iii.
It pretty much always started with a fight, some bitter exchange of insults and 'No, I hate you more' nonsense that led to blushing for both parties. Later, though, in the silence of one respite block or the other, Sollux would reach out and grip Karkat's shoulders to pull him closer. He'd whisper, "Yes, we're still friends, stupid," and then cover Karkat's face, now crimson with embarrassment and childish vague interest, with awkward kisses. Their fangs always clattered together and they were too young to pail properly, but there was a quiet promise that perhaps later there would be more.
iv.
Karkat's mouth tasted like whatever he'd been eating most recently. Some people tasted like themselves: sugar or copper or saltwater or the remnants of a sweeter life, but not him. He covered his personal scent in soap and fangpaste and it was possibly the least satisfying thing Gamzee had ever run across, at least in terms of kissing. It made him want to hate Karkat; made him avoid his fervid papping and shooshing in favor of skulking the lower corridors and brooding over the deceased. He knew that Karkat would never return those feelings, but there was another who might.
v.
Moirails didn't usually pail, for which fact Nepeta was often grateful. It wasn't furbidden or anything like that, but with one like hers, a STRONG guy who broke and bruised and bent things accidentally-on-purrpose, it was probably for the best. She sometimes regretted it, especially when he let her groom him, papping him gently with towels and massaging him into stillness. At such times, gazing at his handsome features, quiescent because of her kind ministrations, she would kiss the top of his broken horn and the corner of his mouth and wish that she had pitied him a bit more.
vi.
Kanaya was not exactly in love with Vriska. She wasn't entirely sure she knew how to manage a flushed quadrant; if she were being honest with herself, she wasn't sure how well she was managing a pale one. Her stern words didn't seem to make much difference in the amount of havoc Vriska wrought on her fellow flarpers (Spidermom's needs notwithstanding), and nothing she said prevented her from constructing doomsday machines for her erstwhile kismesis. But she dreamed of the taste of cerulean blood and Vriska's wiry limbs and tangled hair and woke with her name melting on her lips.
vii.
cherry cherry cherry, bright as red chalk, the best chalk, on her tongue. it might have been a secret from silly noseblind people, but for someone with a nose like hers, it was simply too obvious. his skin was a thin wall tasting of pale gray skin and soap, concrete karkat, the same on the outside as everyone else, but the blood beneath was different. it was the best flavor, the tastiest type. no silly chocolate-scented hoofbeast; no mustardy meh psionic (it made her want to spit, ugh sollux you taste gross!); just sweet mutant red oozing through his veins.
viii.
She suffered his inept kismesissitude through a combination of amusement and intense fascination with their ancestors' shared quadrant. It wasn't that eridan was the worst starter blackrom she could have found, but it was honestly more fun to imagine him as an adult, imposing, deadly instead of reedy, demanding instead of whiny. She spent more than a few nights entrenched in a sick fantasy of meeting Dualscar as herself, not Mindfang. She could imagine his height, his strength, the way he'd be able to just overwhelm her with presence -- and then how she would destroy him piece by helpless piece.
ix.
Loneliness was not precisely a problem for him. His skills kept him in demand, so his pesterchum client was often a symphony of chirps, all requesting his able assistance in some matter of robotics. The difficulty was that he was in the midst of hitting his full adult growth with all attendant awkwardness and none of his friends -- or his moirail -- were. So while he was beginning to develop obscene urges and sweating bullets at the least provocation, all his comrades were finding him even weirder and more disturbing than usual, with the predictable and awful exception of Gamzee Makara.
x.
Pestering Tavros made Gamzee feel slow and easy, warm inside like a freshly baked sopor pie. Seeing his bro's sweetly faltering brown text on the screen of his husktop meant strict rhymes and fierce slam battles and a few vague fantasies about swapping spit and touching a particular soft underbelly.
--
The body on the floor chilled him beyond bone and blood, through and through like the fuck that bitch she used his own lance He tried kisses, licking the blood from cold lips, knowing that they sometimes worked miracles, but Prospit was already gone and Tav's eyes were empty hallways.
xi.
Only Eridan's effortless arrogance prevented Karkat from considering him a really good friend. The way he tossed off lines about his natural superiority and how shitbloods oughta just get culled, an maybe there was somethin he could do about that rankled, but he was otherwise a congenial chatbuddy.
Gossip was their barter: who was palecrushed or flushcrushed or in the grips of baby blackrom among their friends. Eridan bragged endlessly about his relationship with Vriska, even though he (with some pressing) acknowledged that their kismesissitude had never been consummated, except by pesterlog and then only in-character as their flarp personas.
xii.
Kissing him alive had been the best thing she'd done in ages. It'd been sort of icky, shore, and blood wasn't her favorite taste ever, but knowing that she was the one responsible for his life continuing, well, that brought a bubble to her heart that would buoy her up during these rough tides. He was just the type of troll she'd been hoping to someday meet; maybe a little bit of a jerk sometimes, but honest and self-sacrificing and cute as a cuttlefish. He'd shorely make a great companion in the game, and perhaps, if they were lucky, after.