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dolla bill in my frond, you know where it's goin (it goin in your pretty lil thong)

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Your Nubby Shouts is the hottest fucking ship this side of the planar divide.

You ain't even talking aboat his blood right minnow, just COD DAMN.

Also, it's good to be the fucking Empress. Moby you'd culled his ancestor real fucking quick and real fucking loud, but up until he'd been identified at the adulthood ceremonies for wigglers, Karkat Vantas had never caught no official fucking ocular ever. He was a model fucking citizen. Tuned in for all mandatory broadcasts - including the ones that weren't, like your cooking shows (you do a mean fucking cake, what of it. You got skillz, ain't like conquering and warring is all you're aboat). He even had a little fanfiction aboat you in his confiscated husktop when your agents crawled all over his hive to find out what anybaydy knew aboat him and who manta hidden what the fuck he was from the appropriate authorities - cute ship. Mainly him playing Thresh Prince to your Imperial might, and surfin' you forever and ebber. Even had a little death scene where you found out he was a mutant because he heroic as fuck threw himself in front of some dastardly alien's death ray and spilled his disgusting scarlet blood everywhere and died in your fucking arms. He'd even wrote that you'd cried.

Cute. Fucking. Shit.

That's all you gotta say aboat that.

Your clownfish is still mad at you aboat the fact that you didn't give this fingerling straight to him for paint and mirthful slaughter, but he can go stuff his cavernous nook with one of his glubbing clubs and spin. You're the Empress. If you wanna keep him alive and court sedition and a resurgence of the Sufferer's cult, that's your own fucking bayness. Betides. Ain't like you haven't flattened the ship otter all those fuckers before, even when they departed from their usual pacifistic waves to try and fork yoar Empire right in the gut. Shitbloods. Either they were menial as fuck, or they got a reel squirmy on for wrecking ship the FUCK up. The Summoner had been one of the ones with a bulging wriggly in his tight tight pants (cod, he'd had a nice bass, what a fuckin waste) for a littoral ultraviolence on the regular, even if he'd painted it up wave reel nice wave all these aims of righting wrongs and makoing people be all kind to all other fuckers. HA. Pike it woulda turned out like that atoll. You got yoar fucking doubts, that's all you're spraying.

Trolls be trolls, after all. And you know trolls, like the back of your grasping frond. That's why you're on top, and your heel is square-firm on the throat of all these other motherglubbers, and he is fucking dead DEAD DEAD.

Saving this guppy from the culling forks on yoar own whim had probubbly been kelped a great deal by the fact that he had an ass (your biggest whelkness) that you could write your own fucking fanfiction to. Haha, fucking fanfiction indeed. If he'd been an ugly littoral cuss, you wouldn't have lifted one glimmering frondstub. But nah. Buoy had been cute as ship - you'd thought the preacher he'd spawned from was cute too, it was just that your overfuckingwhelming rage at the shit that had flowed out from his chirpbox had override yoar bulge. For once. That damn old anglerfish with the hideous paint he likes to splash over his face, the fact that he's still amonkfish the living and the breathing, is testament to the fact that sometimes yoar bulge overrides your outrage. Just gotta know how to tickle your fancy (and your shameglobes) the right wave.

Cunning old anglerfish. Creepy fucking clownfish. If he didn't fucking amuse you so, didn't surf you and all yoar aims so swell, you woulda knocked him off long ago. He's as much of a fixture as you are now, trickles fear through your Empire like a shadow underneath your gloaming moon. You got your clownfish. You got your Admiralty. Got your Nobility. Got your ruffianihilators, your cavalreapers, your archeradicators, your legislacerators. Got your motherfucking mirthfulicious subjuggulators. Cod, you love you some clowns. Got your Empire just how you want it, jiggle it and shake it, bounce it, break it, do wharfebber the fuck you want wave it.

Rayght now you chilling, you got your shit on ice. All reclining and lazy, leaning back in your chair and watching your pet mutant slide his sweet shellf around a pole like he was fucking hatched to do it. Move that bass that Mother Grub gave him like a pailstar, and you know just how sweet he sounds when he's packed full of your bulge. Coulda done that for a career, moby, if you were willing to let any motherfucker in the Empire get a peek at what you got on tap. You ain't. You one shellfish fucking beach, and you know it. You love it.

He got stars in your colour on his ittybitty 'spheres and strings along his hips, and twines around the pole like weed, spinning. Leg up, the material he's got coating him like a second skin metallic gleaming. You lick your lips, and take another sip from your glass. You barely taste what you know is damn fucking good booze, sight-orbs fixed on the sight of your littoral candyfish shaking his booty like it's done him wrong somehow. Fuck. Smallfry had been cute when you snatched him up, shore; now he'd grown into his moult and learned how to move, he's fucking dynamite. Last one mighta been able to sway the gullible wave his words, but this one. This one... He'd get them by something a fuckload baser. Grab them by the globes, make them feel that tickle at their sheath - he'd get them, alrayght. Get them good.

But ain't nobaydy gonna follow a stripper down no path to a revolution. That ain't what your candybait is for.

He takes this ship so serious, face too solemn for wharf shoald be a bit of fun, but you like that he concentrates so fucking hard. He wants to surf you rayght. When you'd told him what you wanted him to do, he'd almost exploded. You'd watched him swell up, your lil pufferfish, and then deflate. You'd kissed him for that agreement to your wishes, even though you barracuda just made him fucking do what you wanted - but it's betta this wave. It's betta like this. You pike how he does what you want, becrayse he wants to sea you happy.

That's power, right there. That's some fucking power beyond life and death.

He'd do anyfin for you.

You pity him, just a bit for it. Just a littoral, tiny bit. Just enough to make his eyes shine, and his mouth smile sometides and in that tiny part of your pusher where you pity him, his smile makos your expanding-collapsing aquatic vascular system flip like a grub in spring. All fucking frolicksome and shit. Fuck. If he knew what he could do to you...

Your clown got an inkling, you think. Fear's his trade, it's his fucking calling card. He knows the fears of trolls, inside out backwards and right ways round again, and he knows you, which may be remora to the point - but he just winks at ya sly and pinches your gillslits. Makos you flinch and hiss and slap him, grab his horn and wrench it to the sound of his ghoulish chuckles but you can wear it, as long as that sort of pointed fucking remark only comes from him. Your nobles ain't gonna spray one single fucking word aboat how you like to amuse yourshellf in your off time. If you wanna, you could have fucking thousand thousand pole dancing beaches.

It's reel good to be the Empress.

He finishes as the song's last notes chime away and reverb into quiet, and leans against the pole, panting for breath, he done so good. Looked so nice. He's looking at you, and you curl your frond at him, beckoning him over. He comes with a frown, that mouth that you wanna kiss turned upside down. Takes himshellf so fuckin' searious, this buoy (makes your pusher ache, he's so young and you're so fucking old) (old as balls, ha!) (anywave, you're still alive - which means you win). Pull him up into your lap, and smooth your graspers over his glorious bubblebutt, pull him right up against you. So warm. So alive, so young.

"Hookin' pretty, angelfish," you hum against his auricular clot, you get your hands on him him, span him across the small of hsi back as you feel his head rest against your shoulder. Alwaves wants to know he does well. He craves your praise - your affection - your least fucking attention - and you think only a part of it is because as long as you're amused, he's safe. You don't think he holds his life that dear. Mostly he reelly, reelly, truly and honestly wants to make you happy. Pitiful as fuck. "Love the way you move for me."

Before he can say anyfin, you tip his mouth up and kiss him like you could devour him. You're careful with your fangs and his hands come up to your hair to stroke, he settles in closer. The first tide he'd seen yoar bulge, he'd just aboat fucking cried. He'd insisted it wouldn't fit, not all a that, not in him, no wave. He'd squirmed and yelped and wriggled around before he'd settled to it and gritted his teeth to beg you for it, and you'd shown him just how whale you could fit your bulge anywave it wanted to go. He can take it a lot betta now. You'd been a littoral concherned yourshellf the first tide, but you'd all persevered. You ain't concerned no remora, he can take anyfin you want to put into his tight little nook, and he'll fucking love it betides. When you'd actually put it in his sweet lil candynook, he'd cried big pink fucking tears. You shoulda waited a bit longer, just a littoral moray to let him grow to size but he was so sweet and he sweated it out and he cursed you when you made a move to pull back. I can take it, he'd told you, fangs gritted and glaring at you with the red starting to swirl into his eyes, swore at you like he thought he desurfed to and you'd been so amused you'd let it pass, again and again, I can take anything you throw at me, you ancient bitch, don't fucking stop, we're just getting started. He's such a fuck up, pity's the only red crimson feeling you could feel for him, hot as his blood. Brief and bitter as it is, fleeting as fuck and twice as uneasy.

You drag your claws down his back too soft to draw the blood you could and suck at his throat with your fangs pressing against his soft skin, he lets you. Tips his head back and moans for you. You make a hungry sound, rasping in the back of your throat and grinding guttural down somewhere between your rumblespheres, and crush him closer. One night, you're not shore when, he's gonna push you too far - want ya too much - you're going to want him too much - there's a boundary that you're gonna fucking cross - but it's not tonight. Tonight you cuddle up your sugargrub, and peel him outta those tight clothes as easy as you'd have gutted a fish back when you'd stood on your own home surf, when you'd been young like him.

Fuck. Hadn't that been a long tide ago. Seasons and seasons unnumbered since you'd been what you woulda called young - and you remember your mother-monster, how She sang to you. Sang of dreams, sang of daymares mostly, moray than anyfin. You hadn't found your dreams of conquest from Her though. You'd made them yoar own fucking shellf. Made them and anchored them, in blood.

Right now though, you got one hot littoral number squirming in your lap, and he desurfs more than you acting on auto-pilotfish. You dig your claws into his sleek little sides under his grubscars and he moans, and ain't that the most fucking precious thing that you've ever heard. Even moray praycious than the sounds he made last tide. You groan and growl and rip his briefs off him to his affronted yelp -

"What the fuck, you just bought those-"

"So I'm the one who gets to breaker them, cuddlefish," you purr, and rake your claws down his sides until he's twisting, gasping in your lap like a fish on the line. A fish outta water, your sweet little fucking abomination. You jostle him on your knee, feel him gasp as your patella hits his nook in a glancing blow, off-centre - but still enough to make him groan. He's soaking your knee through the material of your bodysuit, and you grin terrible at him. "And you gonna get me outta mine. C'mon, you know what to do with yoar littoral grasperstubs. Don't shell me you fo'c'net already, sugargrub..."

He scoffs and rolls his eyes and curses at you while you goose him, getting one finger, two into his nook and jiggling them aboat while he tries to undo your suit. Do shore love to distract him, he gets the cutest motherfucking cross-oculared look. Cursing you with every inch of breath he manages to drag into his aeration sacks, those ittybitty little 'spheres he got heaving as he pants and his chest expands to take in breath in heavy sounds. Slicking scarlet right down your wrist, fat little bulge wiggling against the soft curve of his stomach. Did you mantaion cute? Becrayse this is cute as fuck.

"Ok, fuck, your imperial fucking majesty," he exhales as he settles so smooth into your lap, taking the main part of your bulge into himshellf. You coo, the subsidiary tentacles squirming uselessly against his thighs for now as your subsonic growl of pleasure vibrates in the base of your rumblespheres. You'll get it all in him in a sec, you just fuckin adore to feel that tight tight pressure almost to the root of you, so fuckin hot on your bulge. He got the hang of it minnow, for shore.

"How you pike that fuckin' imperial majesty?" you cackle, and jolt him on your lap to feel him clench and hear him swear a blistering tirade of oaths at you while your bulge squirms in his nook that you've made to stretch to fit you. That's the whole point and prerogative of having an Imperial bulgewarmer, ain't it? Lucky yours is so cute. And so fuckin resilient. You grab at his ass and press him up, and sigh while you furl your bulge into one coherent thrusting force. He's luck you know what you doing now, hate to think of some of the ship you got up to when you were young and dumb. The hoarse little gasp he makes when you're all in him, every part of your bulge and all squirming inside to lick his pleasurenodes just the right fuckin wave - it's a motherfucking

(fucking clown rubbing off on you, wharf the fuck is that ebben)


You bury your face against his throat, feeling your earfins flush and fan with arousal, spread out wide and flick over and over as he moans in your lap. Ain't like he's some fucking fuckdolly either, he moving on you. Got those muscular little thighs clenching around yours as he rides you, up and down like a parade perfect Cavalreaper on his pretty little hoofbeast. You growl into his skin, low wanting, low need, and let him curse and swear into your hair like the filthymouthed little lowblooded motherfucker that he is. Got a filthy facegash to beat your clownfish, and that shore as fuck is saying somefin. You ain't never heard Kurlz make the kind of motherfucking weak and wanton sounds that you've gotten out of your littoral pailbait though.

Spread him open with your fronds, grasperstubs digging into that plush little bass and bite him. Just reel light, you don't want to make him lose too much blood. Enough to mako him bleed just a littoral bit and gasp, and tighten on you even more. Perchfect. Nofin moray than a taste. You don't want to weaken him, you want him strong and you want him wigglin', you want him squirming in your lap.

He squirms. He moans. He takes your bulge so sweet it's fucking illegal.

Or it would be, if you didn't make all the fucking laws. More or less. The ones you don't make ain't worth mentioning.

He sobs, beautiful and broken against your hair, and you feel the moment squirm. Feel it ripple like a stone's been thrown into water as you 'encourage' him to move faster, your hands under his ass and boosting him up before letting him drop. Taking your bulge, main tentacle and all its wriggling subsidiaries, over and over again. Feeling the rasp of those stars on his chest press against you, a low rasp in the pleasure. He bites you, nubby little teeth gnawing at your shoulder as you stuff him almost to the point past bearing. He whines, breathless, needy. You love the sound of him. You love the feel of him. You could do this, for the rest of your fucking long life. Almost the rest of his.

He's low, he's hot. He's bound to go sooner. But you can give him a little boost, you can give him a top up. You're the boss, the motherfucking beach in charge - you get what you're fucking want, even if it's to strain a troll's body past breaking. Keep it going long beyond what it should. You got a battery you keep topped up, for example, you got a ship shuddering around you because you fucking want it that way.

You wonder.

If he can see.

If he sees, wave his motherfucking burned out oculars and the ship's datafeeds sliding it all to him direct without need of actual motherfucking eyes, with the mustard tears streaming past his mask as your biowires fuck deeper and deeper into his flesh, if he can see this. See the descendant of his precious Sufferer, his Signless, his Kankri motherfucking Vantas, if he can see how low the blood has fallen. From heretic, from rebel leader, to this. Whore. Pailtoy. So loyal to you. He calls himself filth, freak, mutant, all these nasty names he spits at himself, you ain't even need to make a noise. He says all the things every troll knows to be true. You ain't even need to prompt.

One of these nights, you're going to have to see if you can find a replaicement for that helmed up motherglubber.

Everybaydy else has had one, a double, a baby, a fucking descendant. Your battery got to have one, somewharu. You just gotta get your fronds on it, somewhale, out there. Some double-horned pissblood with psionics fit to rip the universe asunder. Waiting for you. Ready for you, to meet the needs of you, and your motherfucking empire. It's all for you; even if the replaicement doesn't know what he's for, you fucking do. And when you find it, you're gonna plug it right in betide your other motherfucking battery. Back up.

His nook tightens around you, and you moan, low and glubbing deep, like you're not the Empress. Like you hadn't had centuries - fucking millennia - of pailing. Like you haven't fucked trolls of every colour, size and glubbing situation. But he brings you to fucking ruin. And if he ever knew - if he ever - you'd have to cull him. No questions. No hesitation. But he's so fucking enamoured of you. He pities you, like you ain't never known no one to do before.

Ain't even know who you are, not really. But he pities you.

This fucking wiggler. Pities you, even knowing who you are. Wave just a glimpse of what you've fucking done. He ain't soothe you, but he is a motherfucking balm. He ain't shoosh you, but he's somefin. He's somefin alrayght. He means somefin to you. You'd never tell him so, of course, but he does. Mean somefin. Remora than just the tightness on your bulge, the sound of his helpless gasps in your ear. Moray than sprat. More than you would ever tell him. More than you would shell the one other troll who's close to you in anywave, who you trust to have your back in just aboat anyfin, any sitch.

Just not this one. You don't trust him here. His bias makes him compromised. He's too keen to cull a threat that ain't a threat. Just becrayse his blood is scarlet, it's fucking incarmine, doesn't mean he's a fucking call of catastrophe for your empire. Your cuddlefish - he's no threat. He's a fucking tight grip on your bulge, he's glorious fucking wantonness on a pole. He's gorgeous. You love him, you pity him, you fucking want to pail him through the wall.

You make him scream.

You buck your hips up, you pail him rough and fast, you drag him up and down your bulge like the toy he is for you while he pants, rough breaths buried against your skin as he moans. Your nook leaks onto your seat, craving somefin in it. He's too short to reach. His bulge drips scarlet down yoar belly, it stains you wave red. You're fucking seas and ocean, you're so fucking wet. And he's tight - ahhhhh he's so fucking tight. You love that ship. You could live for this shit.

Flex the muscles in your core, you buck your hips and hear him make weak whining noises. You feel him clench, hear him make rough chirring trills. He sounds much more dominant than you think he is. Than you know he is. You know. He couldn't fucking ever think to dominate you. He couldn't ever think to ever take your plaice. Your position. No one would let him. Means you can be weak around him, Means you can let yourshellf go.

You bite him, deep. You sink your fangs into his shoulder as he screams, curses you and grabs at your hair, your flesh. He curses at you, while his blood fills your mouth and his claws try to bite into your chitin. Skating off your armour pads as you feel him twitch, his nook pulsing around you as he spills red into your lap. You don't let him off that easy. When have you ebber let anybaydy off that easy? You fuck him through his orgasm, to the point where he's begging you to stop, your pretty lil pailbait. You fuck him through it, past it, until he's begging for you again.

"-please, Empress, please, ah fucking - please -"

"That's it, pretty buoy, show me, c'mon - c'monnnn - shell a beach how you want it -"

"Ah!" He wails, and you bounce him on your bulge. Harshly now, seeking your own fucking pleasure. He's hot flesh and tight clench on your bulge, it's glubbing glorious. You're so close, so close now. He screams, and you snarl. Your voice brings down empires, you rule worlds. Galaxies. You chirp and trill like a motherfucking wiggler as you get closer and closer to spilling, but he's so lost, he ain't hear you. He just feels. Experiences. "You - FUCK - I want you, fuck - PLEASE - "

Fuck he's so young.

So young.

So fucking tight on your bulge. So deliciously fucking hot. And just like you have before, you fill him. You fill that motherfucker full. You pump him full of Imperial colour, and you imagine - you conchsider, in a very fucking lackadaisical way, in a way that don't mean nofin - what his ancestor would think if he could sea him now. Your toy. Your fucking pitypail. You gotta wonder, how he'd take atoll. This, that fucking arrogant cavalreaper that you'd ground into the dust and made a trophy on your wall in your concupiscent chamber. You reelly think he'd have been fucking pissed about the way the cavalreaper had twisted his teachings about equality, and kindness. Hilarious as fuck.

You're the one that's lasted. You're the motherglubber that rules the 'verse. He's the one that lost. You'd stick it to him, if you cod - see what noises he'd make when he was full of imperial bulge. You grab at his descendant's ass, and rock your hips, bulge pressed through his seedflap and knowing just how you can do whatever you want to him, fill him, make his genematerial sack fucking full. Full to bloating, full to exploding. Until he fucking cries. Pink and crimson trickle across your skin, and you make your own noises of pleasure. He's lost, he's gone, his nook flexes around you until he spills crimson across your lap and stomach again, and you purr, rocking him slower and more gentle in your lap. Bulge still pressed in tight inside him. Keeping him whale stuffed up as you finish up. Letting that tight hot nook milk your bulge until you've got no more slurry to give.

You're both alone, so you let him collapse against you and kiss his forehead, smooth those tight little grubcurls he's got back and cuddle as you lie back in your chair. Treat him soft, like moby you ain't even Empress atoll, like maybe this was more than what it was. It was just nofin. A littoral motherfucking picnic, nothing that meant anyfin atoll.

"Ready for the ablution trap, fingerling?" you murmur, and laugh lowly as he groans into your rumblespheres. Somefin to be said for a partner this much smaller than yourshellf. It's just so fucking cute. He's your best toy. Ushoally you'd make him get on his own stubs and walk, but you're feeling fucking generous. It's the orgasm talking, but he done whale. You're pretty happy with him, rayght now.

Scooping him up and letting him pepper soft tired kisses over the slits on your throat, somefin there ain't no fucking other troll you'd let do, you groan as fuchsia and scarlet slurry drips over the floor. Right on your walking fronds too. Trolls are the messiest fuck you've ever known to exist. There's a rayson y'all use buckets, after all.

"Computer, call maintenance and get this plaice shipshape again," you call out, and hustle you both kinda slow into the trap. It's huge and perchfect, salty water and just warm. Cold for him, and he shudders in your graspers but he don't complain. Good buoy. "You doin' reel good, angelfish," you murmur in his auricular clot, and he perks right up. Pleased and somehow flustered, like he is ebbery tide you ever say somefin nice to him. He'd rather have you call him a good buoy than anyfin else. Not trinkets, not gold, not power. saying nice fucking ship. Even your ole clownfish, your reef creeper, he wants from you. Moray than just your regard.

You suppose reelly, you gave your littoral scarlet bubblebutted sugargrub his life. After that, anyfin's a bonus.

Kissing him, you squeeze his ass and hit the recycler button on the side of the tub so the dirty water fouled with slurry drains out and new water rushes in. He jumps a little, suprised every tide it harpoons but settles again soon enough. You kiss him, and think aboat getting ready for another go. Moby in a little bit. Rayght now, you're gonna enjoy this quiet time when you've fucked him almost literally dumb. He's loud all the way through and to the end of pailing, but after he gets reel fuckin' introspective.

It's good tides.

You decide to liven things up a bit by nipping him, claws digging into his bass and take the surprised cursing as your glubbing due. You're dolpinately in the mood to mako your littoral sugargrub ride you until he's sore. He's gonna love it too, and that's almost the best thing aboat the whale situation.

The best thing though -

The absolute best -

Is his nook, and you make no fucking mistake aboat that.

It's reel good to be the Empress, you've said it before and you'll say it again anytide.