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The Fuckening

Chapter Text

The whole room is filthy and disgusting, it smells exactly like what's it's used for and you shouldn't be as visibly excited as you obviously are. Or how you would be, if your sheath wasn't plugged to keep your bulge within and your nook wasn't teasingly filled with a bare thumb's length of silicone. Enough to tease, never enough to satisfy. You blow through your nose and let Karkat lead you step by careful step into the cubicle with its teasingly obvious hole in one wall, hands wrapped in latex mitts and strapped behind your back. You know how to stop this if you need to, you could free yourself in a pusherbeat from your 'restraints', but you can't imagine that you will.

You are so very. Excited.

You can feel yourself trembling, and you go down onto your knees in front of the hole easily when Karkat puts a hand on your shoulder. Swallowing with difficolty, you lean your head back as he caresses the side of your face around the straps of the bit-gag's harness, meeting his gaze as he looks down at you. Obviously fretful, concerned, even if you don't understand why. You're naked, except for the straps of the harness around your waist and thighs, around your head and soon that second is removed, with careful consideration by the troll you would never have imagined in this situation two sweeps ago. One sweep ago. He'd certainly showed his leadership abilities to you before you'd reached the new understanding you have, but this - this - is newer. Precious.

"You really want to do this?" he says softly and you nod eagerly, shivers racing down your spine along with the sweat. Arousal like electricity racing through your veins. His hand, rough around the fingertips and the knuckles grips your chin, forcing you to look him directly in the eye. You force yourself to hold it as he wipes his thumb across your chin, wiping away a string of drool from having the bit between your teeth that you hadn't been able to swallow. You're a mess. A filthy mess, you can feel the air moving across the wetness on your thighs. Even with your nook stoppered (so insignificantly, so meaninglessly), you're still dripping preslurry everywhere like a - like - a - a - a slut. Trash. You're perverted trash and it's wonderful. "You're sure?" he presses, and you nod.

You realise after a moment, that he's waiting for an actual answer. A verbal one. So you gather your thoughts, when all you'd been thinking of is how you can make him proud, show him what uses you can so easily be put to. How glad you are to debase yourself for him (for yourself). Finding words to express that seems nonsensical, impossible.

"Yes, I'm sure." You lean the side of your face harder against his hand, keeping your eyes fixed on his. That blazingly scarlet stare. It would be intimidating to have him scowling at you so ferociously if you didn't know what emotions truly prompted it. "I want to." You kiss his fingers, lipping at them a little gently. Watching his expression soften. It thrills you in a way that isn't at all erotic, but it does...feed into that. You can't help yourself; you are what you are and Karkat has helped you accept this part of you. "I want to show you. How good, I can be for you."

"You're already fucking good, you cold-blooded bastard," he growls, but he shuts the door to the cubicle all the same, walling the two of you into this small space. Smelling of slurry, of strange pheromones. The floor is stained, the hole is bordered with strips of electrical tape like some make-shift, impromptu exercise in obscenity. You can feel your excitement increasing, and it's hard not to fidget but you manage to keep yourself in check. Only just. You keep your pose, helped by the pressure of the restraints around your forearms and shoulders, reminding you implicitly to keep your shoulders back, your hands together at the small of your back in their tightly curled fists. "You're ready for this, Equius?"

"Yes," you croon, feeling a trill rising up inside your chest. They can't see you, and you won't know who they are. All you'll know is the colour of their blood when their bulges come through that enticing hole in the wall. Identity is not the way this game is played. You rub the side of your face up against Karkat's pants and feel your nook clenching hungrily around the bare inch of toy that you've been allowed. It lets you crumble into pleading for what you want - for what you both want. You feel safe enough to do that now. With him. "Please. Please, Karkat. Please."

He leans down to kiss you, catching your long ponytail of hair in a forceful grip that really does make you chirp needfully before he pulls away. Presses a button that you didn't notice, too focused on him and the aura of the situation to take in all the details, and a buzzer sounds. He grins down at you, teeth sharp in ways you think of nostalgically (the scar on your shoulder twinges in remembrance), expression sharp and focused in a way that makes you shudder. Another drop of slurry traces its way down your thigh and you pant helplessly, hopelessly aroused from your place. On the floor, at his feet. You've never felt such a strong sense of belonging, of comfort, as you do right now. It's exhilarating.

"Alright, you needy, sloppy bucketbitch. Let's see you do your thing."

He pushes your head, your face, your mouth to the waiting hole and you whine softly.

You hear the door to the outer room open, and his thumb presses softly against your ear, rubbing the edge gently. You open your mouth, and are rewarded with the bitter taste of slurry and warmth pressing over your tongue. You hear the troll on the other side curse, a soft thump and the thick bulge in your mouth only presses deeper. You close your eyes.

You let yourself go.

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It might be anti-instinctual to allow another troll to be so close to your back, the nape of your neck but there is no reason to worry about Sollux. There are so many more ways he could hurt you. He never would, of course! It's not in him. Vicious words are one thing, but anticipating that he'd take a bite out of your cartilaginous columnar support is quite something else. You grin to yourself, and squirm your ass back against him, his wiry limbs wrapped around you. You can feel his breath, rapid and faintly cool against the soft side of your neck, moonlight draping over you both like it could pretend to be some kind of clothing.

You're both naked. It'd be sort of silly to try and pail with your clothes on! Messy, but not in a fun way like the ways you usually enjoy getting dirty, and just generally inconvenient for the ride back besides. The grass rustles under the blanket you'd spread out for your picnic lunch, one of your usual cajoling ways to get Sollux out of his communal hivestem and into some place where he could experience the fresh air. The fact that you'd also included a shot of your bare thighs and general groinal region with your skirt lifted up with your invitation for the picnic lunch you'd just finished having, had probably had something to do with his decision to acquiesce to your suggestions. What can you say, you know your audience - insert a smiley face with a wink here.

Squeezing your muscular thighs together, you glance down to see the tips of his bulges squirming frantically between the crux of where you've pressed them together. He groans raspily into your mass of curled hair, and his frondstubs tighten around the grip he has on a - your rumblesphere and b - your hip. You giggle, and he nips you on the shoulder. That just makes you laugh harder.

"Make it hard on a guy, why don't you, huh, AA," he slurs through his fangs, and you snicker to yourself. You feel good! That's all it is. Besides, it's not like your bulge isn't out too. You're kind of a mess down there! Burgundy and mustard yellow mixing together into heavy orange ochre, painting your thighs and all the way down to your knees, the thickness of your bulge stopping it from quite reaching Sollux's more slender lengths where they're peeking out against the gray of the rest of your skin. "Oh, fuck..."

"I told you this was a good idea," you hum, and squeeze down a little more as you feel his pinned bulges writhe in their place between your thighs. It's kind of ticklish, and you laugh again. You just can't help yourself; it's funny! "If you'd had an ass worth talking about, we could have switched places."

"Oh, shut up," he groans, and the hand on your hip moves down to wrap long, skinny fingers around your bulge. You coo appreciatively, feeling how he's rubbing against your nook with the upper parts of his bulges but not quite being able to curl inside. You hadn't wanted to deal with the mess of one of you pailing inside the other one. Not in the middle of nowhere like you are. Psionics can be very useful for planning uninterrupted little getaways! The two of you are quite accomplished flyers, and as far as you know - you're not actively being tracked the way you would be if you were in a scuttlebuggy. You could both be wrong, of course. But the idea of actually having some kind of privacy, a little secrecy from the all seeing oculars of the Empire is very attractive.

"Pity you too," you chirp, and turn your head back to kiss him, managing to grab him by one horn when you stretch so you can pull him closer. You can feel him humping against the curves of your ass more desperately, you're not quite at that point of yourself but you're not worried. Even if he pails before you do, Sollux won't leave you hanging. Even if he pretends he's a terrible person, he's actually very giving in his own way. Besides, his pride would never let him be the only who orgasmed. You're more than happy to take advantage of his sense of competitiveness, what can you say. Your sometimes moirail sometimes matesprit (it's complicated) sigh-gasps into your mouth and you rub your fingers against the bits of his horn you can reach, letting out a moan of your own. "Mmm, Sollux..."

You try to fix everything in your mind, what it feels like, how you feel, how his body is up against yours, the rock underneath the blanket pressing up against the underside of your shoulder, the smells, the sights. Everything, even the taste of grubloaf sandwich trapped between your molars from when you'd had lunch. You're greedy for all of it. You want to feel how it is to be alive, and experience all of it to the fullest. Sollux's claws dig into your skin as he shudders against your back, breathing picking up and you croon softly, pusher flipping over with pity before you make your own trill when he squeezes your bulge just right.

"Aradia," he groans into your hair, and you chirp encouragingly, your fingers wrapped around his. He mumbles something and you grin to yourself, rubbing your thighs together a little. Just shifting, only a little bit. He makes a really stupid garbled noise at the way you're squeezing your flesh around his squirming bulges and his psionics crackle down your skin, making you thrum in the back of your throat. You let your own out, easing to spark against his and ripple across every combined inch of skin exposed between the two of you, and there's a lot of it.

You let yourself go, feeling the pleasure of experiencing your body reaching for sexual climax with a partner, as well as feeling the resounding tick-tock of Time echoing through your thorax with every gasp, every sound you make. If you believe Sollux, Doom is coming and it just won't stop coming for you. So you might as well have fun while you can! It's because of that understanding of Time, of what the dead say to you, that you're so determined to enjoy the time you have. All of it, from the good parts to the not so good parts, the sweat trickling down your back as well as the growing feeling of tense warmth rising in your belly and radiating down to your shameglobes.

You don't want to forget anything about any of this. Finding his hand with yours, you squeeze desperately and let out a crooning chirp. You feel so present in your body, and with Sollux - and you don't want the moment to end.

There's a moment where it feels like everything could last forever, and you cling to it for as long as you can. It passes and you come back to yourself covered in slurry and probably not really avoiding the mess you'd sort of been intending to sideskirt. Oh well!

"Guess this didn't work out quite as great as I thought it would," you say to Sollux offhandedly, sitting up a little. You look out towards the trees, ignoring the wet puddle under your butt for the moment. He sits up next to you, and you lean back against him.

"To be fucking honest, AA, we might as well just have pailed the normal fucking way like decent trolls," he snorts after a moment to survey the mess you're both in, and you snicker. Then poke him in the ribs. "Fuck!" he squawks, and you follow up with a series of well-timed pokes and prods in his most sensitive, ticklish spaces until he's breathless for a whole new reason and so are you. Flopping on top of him as you both sprawl out over the dirtied blanket, you turn over with your head on his chest, hearing the rhythm of his cardiopusher in passing.

When you look up, you can see the two moons, and all the stars.

Despite what the stars will probably mean for you, you have to smile.

Chapter Text

"See? This is better," you tell Kankri with a smirk and flip your handful of bathwater at him. He scowls at you like the sulky little bitchboy he is, and exaggeratedly wipes the spray away from his face, to stop it dripping down the long line of his pointy-stickybeaky nose. It's not your fault if he's so foolish as to gamble with you, especially if he doesn't have experience playing the games you like to play. You explained the rules to him, and you made sure to be seen to scrupulously behaving in accordance with the rules.

He so stupid you can stack the deck in front of his observing oculars so fucking cold it's colder than the dead Empress' frozen nook, and he doesn't have a clue. For a troll so smart, he's real fucking dumb. He knows you cheat, you know that he's certain you were cheating but he didn't know how to tell and that's how he winds up in these fucking situations and how you always win. He thinks he's so much fucking smarter than you, and that your lack of ability to converse in a language he understands on a level that he assumes means intelligence, means that you're stupid. You'd like to see how fucking smart he'd sound in Eastern Beforan.

Not smart at all, that's a certainty. You wonder how many words he would trip over before he gave up, acting like it was beneath him to even try. As though your language was something dirty, just like you. Whore-bitch. Hysterical broad. Crazy fucking Megido slut. Murderer. You nail all those words to you like armour and pretend that you're not bleeding out underneath. It doesn't matter now. Everyone's dead, and so are you. Now all that matters is that you have some fucking fun for once. Messing around with Kankri has turned out to be much more fun than fucking with ponyskank and fairyboy ever has been.

"Much better," you sigh, and relax back into the warm waters of the bath, wiggling your toes a little. Kankri is playing your servant-troll as part of his forfeits and to ensure you can enjoy your bath in peace, you'd grabbed something from your closet. It's not quite as good as stoppering up his insolent mouth with your bulge, but it's close. The thick black plastic line of the gag covering his mouth belies what's on the other side, between his teeth. Thick and ridged, a phallus of silicone just made for stopping Kankri from talking. You think it was a human thing, but you were pretty glad to snatch it up for your own use when you'd come across it. Wasting lucky happenstance is not the kind of thing you go in for.

You can almost see him thinking furiously at you, because this isn't one of your memories, it's Meenah's. No matter what else, the fishbitch always did know how to enjoy the finer things in life. She likes to be pampered, for all she pretends to be hardcore. Like she's tough. Made of steel, inside and out. Pfff. The only time you've seen a troll made of steel was when he wasn't really a troll, but just sort of a head on a hoofbeast chassis. Horuss has bad taste in everything; you at least have moved on. In the end. Anyway, you're not thinking about your mistakes of trusting people not worthy of it right now, you're considering how it looks when Kankri so fastidiously picks up the sponge and soap, then just stands there. Like he doesn't know what to do next.

Smirking, you beckon him closer with a curl of your fingers. This ablutiontrap is more like a fucking ablutioncavern, it's enormous. The whole room is. Getting the water warm enough for you to enjoy had taken some fiddling around but eventually you'd figured it out. Without asking anyone. You don't ask for help anymore, and you don't offer any. It's much fucking better that way.

"Caress my horny body, loudmouthed freak," you purr, and prop your rumblespheres up with both your hands, squeezing the slick mounds together. You're all the way naked and slick with water and perspiration. Kankri, like a moron, had insisted on leaving his boxers on and now the silk is clinging to his ass and thighs in ways that make your fingers itch. He's such a fucking creampuff. All chub, soft and fuckable. "Anata wa korera ga sukidesu ka? Watashi no kitanai makura?"

He flushes, like he isn't currently sucking on the replication of a human's meat sex thermometer. You still need to investigate what they're really like under those stupid pajamas for yourself, but they have been frustratingly difficult to track down. Especially when you're trying to look like you're not interested at all. No point in giving the game away that easily; while you're working on that, you've still got porn.

You jiggle your titties at him, and snicker softly as he continues pointedly not to look at you but fumble his way closer in the bath. He's going to fall over if he's not careful. Idiot. He's seen you before, all of you, and taken your sexworm deep into his various holes. There's no point pretending to modesty now, but he is stupid beyond all reason about shit like this sometimes. If you didn't enjoy provoking these reactions, you probably wouldn't still be here. You're a pervert too.

"Oppaaaaai, Kankri, can you say oppai?" you croon, because of course he can't say anything right now. That's the whole point of the gag. You wonder if you can teach him dirty words, but tell him they're something innocent so that he can make dirtbag-asshole Rufioh stutter and blush with mortification, knowing just what you'd done to puritanical, purse-mouthed and sphincter-clenched Kankri Vantas. Wouldn't people be surprised to find out how celibate he was not, these nights. "Hands, here. You will clean every inch, baka."

When he comes closer again, you extend your leg and hook him behind the knee, making him fall into you with a muffle, angry sound. He's so furious with you, you love it. You cup his chin in your hand, his hand resting on your shoulder and other just above your heaving bosom. You wonder when he's going to notice how close his fingers are to your nipple? Lewd and impudent bud of flesh, jutting out in all its burgundy glory. He's too busy trying to drill a hole through your skull with his eyes, like he could suddenly sprout some sort of psionic ability just by hating you so much. You can feel your bulge thickening in its sheath, just from the sheer look he's giving you. Nothing else required.

He's fire on the inside, and you loathe how much it takes to get it out of him. Some passion. A little honest feeling. You hate him because he's just as much of a fucking liar as you are, and he's got the hide to act like he's not. Arrogant prick.

"Dirtyminded pervert knows how to bathe? Yes, no?" you snipe at him, and move your hand to cover his on your chest. And move it, with accompanying soap bar, to massage around the curve of your breast in slow, careful circles, lather starting to form on your perpetual and immortal adolescent hide of gray. "Sooooap," you drawl out, like you need to go slowly for his benefit. "Understand? Kankri? Soap, then water."

He makes a garbled sound, something sucking and muffled, like he'd forgotten for a moment about the gag. You smirk, because he sounds stupid. As stupid as he fucking is, to wind up in this situation.

"If you're a good boy, I'll get you off," you say, and look pointedly down at his crotch where you can see his bulge starting to twine into the clinging silk of his underwear. He goes absolutely brilliant red, and you can't refrain from your peals of laughter. They ricochet off the tiled walls of Meenah's ostentatious ablutionsblock, but he squinches his eyebrows down into a frown and then starts to actually participate in the proceedings and cups your breasts with his hands. And starts to wash them in careful, circularly rhythmic motions until you're purring softly and your bulge is all the way out and wiggling in the water like an eel.

You'll get to that. But right now, you're going to take your time and truly wring every drop of enjoyment out of bossing Kankri around and getting him to touch you exactly how you like, while he can't say a single fucking word. Life sucked; death is starting to shape up to be pretty tolerable in patches.

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"I'm still not sure that a relationship in this manner between us is quite appropriate, Karkat," the constant festering bulgesore that is your Beforan self blathers, like you're not both currently naked and on a platform. You're glad you're on top at least, you want to be able to hold his hips down when he starts to thrust. It's not like he has a lot of experience and like fuck are you going to let this asshole choke you with his god damn bulge. Kankri, the wet behind the ears and poisonously naive assfuck that he is, is everything that you could possibly hate about another troll.

You can blame Beforus for a lot of it, but you're pretty sure that most of what you find most objectionable is just the way he fucking is.

"Shut up, and open your mouth," you say tersely, because this is going to get a lot more tolerable a lot quicker if he'll just do what you're both here to do and suck your hideous mutant-red bulge. The counterpart to it is already peeking out of Kankri's sheath, his nook glistening with vile artificial cherry coloured fluids, the lips puffy and obviously flushed to signal just how down to fuck he is. It's not like the two of you haven't already done stuff, after about half-way through one of his lectures about how much privilege you had as a mutant on Alternia (boy, hadn't your thinkpan just about exploded on the spot from the sheer amount of stupidity he was vomiting into your auralclots that time), you'd decided the best way to make him stop fucking talking already was to punch him in the mouth with your mouth. Repeatedly, ad nauseaum - much the same as his lectures - until you'd both wound up here.

He's soft, he's so fucking soft compared to you. Your body is scrawny and undernourished, decorated here and there with the usual scars of a wigglerhood on Alternia. Here, where you'd fucked up a kickspin and wound up cutting yourself with your own sickles. There, where you'd made the mistake of getting to close to a neighbour's lusus and wound up bitten as a price for your stupid fucking nature. Some more recent, picked up in the Game and still pink at their hearts instead of healing to proper settled in silver. You don't think Kankri has a single fucking scar on his body, and not for the reasons that Equius doesn't have a scar on his. You're pretty it's because he never ever came close to anything that could possibly have put a mark on him. Protected. Sheltered.

It makes you want to fucking puke. How dare he come from that coddled fucking life and tell you about your fucking mutant privilege. What a privilege, to be frightened for your life every moment of every fucking day! You were so fucking lucky to experience that! The rage boiling in you, black as tar and hot as pitch boils over inside your pusher and you dig your claws into his padded, plump hips. When he yelps and jerks, you lean down and lick the line of the plating around his sheath from top to bottom. No matter what second thoughts or moral quibbles that he was having, he wasn't exactly making a move to get up off the platform or shove you off. You're pretty sure he wants this - he just doesn't want to really admit he does.

Kankri goes to pieces underneath you with a whimper, just like you expected. You suck at the opening to his sheath, feeling his bulge extending in a rapid rush into your mouth. Your own bulge, for the moment, is going sadly fucking neglected but you're not sure why you expected anythnig else. He strikes you as an almost purely selfish douchebag, in more ways than just on the platform. What a fucker. You pinch his hip, right where the fat is, and he groans as you take the warmth of your mouth away from his bulge, letting it squirm hopelessly against the side of your face.

"Suck my fucking bulge," you say in a low growl, snarling it out with the strength of the sheer loathing you feel for this troll. He's older, bigger, should have been better and he's just such a fucking waste of resources. You want to tear him into shreds, but he gets his endlessly speaking noiseshouter around your bulge at fucking last, and you decide to let him live. Unlive. Whatever. Continue in his fucking miserable mode of existence, such as it was (you try not to think about the dreambubbles too hard, about what they are, who made them, helped shape them into being beyond the two fuchsia Heiresses and what they could really mean).

You don't say anything else, just devote your attention back to getting your own mouth around the wriggling length of his bulge. The taste isn't much but the way even just a few movements of your tongue make him twitch and try to thrust up against the pressure of your graspers holding his hips to the platform make up for it. Despite the fact that he's taller than you, you're more muscular and more used to using your weight to get what you want.

Despite how nambypamby he'd been about starting to suck bulge, once he's got his stupidly attractive lips around the width of you, he's surprisingly eager. A little clumsy about it, but he's really fucking trying and you shiver a little, and restrain yourself from giving a little hipthrust of your own. If you choke him, he's going to bite you, you just know it. You're pretty sure he's never done this before. You don't know what the fuck else he's done before. Sometimes you're not even sure if he's touched himself and for some reason, that just makes you hate him more. You're sure he never had to sit through Empire mandated pail education videos, complete with the one that showed what happened if you didn't happen to satisfy the Imperial Drones.

Some trolls have all the luck, and right now Kankri's includes you giving his bulge a suckjob that'd make a pailstar jealous. Look, no matter what the fuck else happens tonight, you're not cumming first. You fucking refuse to let him win anything, but especially something like that. So you turn your attention to what you're doing and settle in to make this asshole lose his fucking mind (and all of his slurry).

Chapter Text

"Holy fuck," is all you can breathe out when you finally see what's lurking behind the codpiece. It's kinda horrifying, and you want it right the fuck inside you right the fuck now. The Grand Highblood reclines across the whole length of his platform, and just smirks at you. He doesn't need to ask if you like what you see, you do and you're sure its clear from the eager flick of your fins to the widening of your eyes as you just take in everything that he's more than happy to show off for an appreciative audience.

He's a monolith of a troll, at least two times as big as you are, maybe three times. Muscled, scarred, you can't see an inch of anything you could pinch between your fingers around his waist or his thighs. Knowing he could kill you with a flex of one bicep is doing stupid things to your insides, particularly the really fucking moronic bits between your legs. You're pretty sure his bulge is the length of your arm, and it's definitely wider at the base than your arm is. You want it in your fucking nook and you don't care if he kills you with it. That's definitely the horny speaking, but you can't bring yourself to care. You never thought you'd get even this far, and you're not going to disappoint him when it comes down to the crunch.

"What you thinkin', lil fish?" he rumbles out, voice sounding like it comes up to your ears through your bones. It's like when you put your hand against a speaker and you can feel the bass vibrate through every cell. His face is painted like a grinning skull with fangs to tear you apart, and when he grins, his real fangs are more fearsome than the painted ones. You can feel your earfins fluttering, and if you weren't already naked you'd have tripped and killed yourself trying to get out of your jeans as you get closer to him by crawling onto the platform. "You wanna get down an' fuckin' freaky with the carnival?"

"Hell yes, chief, I fucking do," you promise, feeling breathless and so fucking inadequate in the face of his size (and his undoubted extensive experience when you've barely done this before) you know your biolum freckles across your cheeks are flaring. Here lies Cronus Dumbass Ampora, he took on the bulge of the Grand Highblood and fucking died.

"That's what a brother wants to hear, glad to have you as part of the congregation, guppy," he purrs at you, and you'd object to being called a guppy but he's just kind of manhandling you about, one hand just about meeting finger to thumb on either side of your torso and you're so turned on in that brief moment of realisation, that your thinkpan just kind of short circuits. You're not usually the type but right now your whole train of thought is basically one huge fucking keyboard smash. It only gets worse when you realise the reason he lifted you up was so he could settle you on his face. Oh fuck, you're gonna - is he really - "Let's get you all warmed up, huh?"

His tongue is lukewarm against your nook as he licks you, the whole thing feels as large as bulges you've taken before and you chitter helplessly. Leaning forward, you grab for the headboard to keep yourself up, gasping as you look down. You meet his eyes, amused and deep purple in his irises as he laps at your flushed nook and up to your writhing bulge. Your thighs are fucking quivering and he's going to make you spill before he even gets inside you - you don't want to disappoint him but you can't - oh shit he's so fucking good at this! You come with a trill, emptying your shameglobes all over his face as your nook clenches around just the bare tip of his tongue.

The subjugglator pushes you over onto the platform underneath him while you're still shaking with the tremors of orgasm, not that you could stop him from moving you the way he wants if you fucking tried. Not that you want to. So far, letting him move you around has turned out real fuckin good for you. You gaze up at him blearily while he manuevers one of your legs over his shoulder, getting closer and breathing softly on your wet nook. You arch up despite yourself, letting out a chirp as you feel your nook squeeze in on itself and another trickle of geneslime ease its way out onto your already stained thigh.

"Motherfucking beautiful," he murmurs and you flush, you twist almost to get yourself away from his sight but his mouth is back on your nook before you can really finish the movement and you keen helplessly as he wrecks you again. This time his whole tongue is up inside your nook, you can feel his fangs pressing against your thighs. Your leg spasms and you kick helplessly at his back, toes curling.

You spill again. And again when he gets one, two, three fingers into your nook, stretching it wider than you'd thought it could be stretched. Writhing on his fingers and pinned down by his arm on the leg that's not hitched up over his shoulder, you babble something about how good he is, how fucking hot, how much you wanted to do this - and he laughs at you a little, but not in a mean way. And then he makes you cum by sucking your whole bulge into his beartrap of a maw, your nook stuffed full of his prodding, scissoring digits. You don't feel a hint of teeth, just warm suction and his tongue stroking your bulge like another bulge is there in his mouth.

Feeling almost comatose, you pant raggedly as he pulls back from you and looks down at where you're lying in a violet coloured wet patch the approximate size of the moon (that's what it feels like to you anyway). He looks satisfied and you feel your bulge trying to wriggle out of its sheath again. No, you're done, you have to be done. You don't think you can take anything else, your whole body feels like a raw nerve and even the lightest touch is too much.

"Look at you, glorious and precious of motherfucking sights, know that you are most lovely in my oculars," he croons, and lays his slurry-stained hand on the flatness between your hips, across your stomach and then moves up slowly. Tweaks a grubscar, rubs a calloused thumb over your gillflaps so you shudder, hips bucking weakly while you gasp for breath. You're pretty sure you're drooling on yourself, but he doesn't seem to be put off by it. If anything, his eyes are almost glowing with purple. Pleased. He's happy with you. You chirp, softly, feeling like it takes all your breath to do so and he smiles again, big and wide and happy. Your earfins flutter, the happiness on his craggy face making you want to keep going. Even if you're not sure you can. "I think you can take me now, lil fish."

Kissing him is hard, his mouth is so much bigger than yours but you persevere, before you squeak as suddenly you go from being lying down on the bed to lying down on top of him. His bulge squirms between your thighs, mammoth and suddenly frightening, and you shiver in his grip. He grins up at you like he can hear everything you're thinking and he enjoys it.

"You want it?" he murmurs, and his bulge squirms in lazy coils between your thighs, painting your skin over with his deeper purple.

"Y-yeah," you say, feeling the tip prod at the entrance to your nook. His hands come up to hold onto your wrists, holding you steady as his bulge rubs in tantalising shifts of muscled slick against the softness of your lips. Not quite getting in yet. You can't do this, you know you can't fit all of that inside you but you can't - you won't stop. "C'mon, chief, put it in me, put it - anh!"

He does exactly what you're asking him to.

His bulge shifts inside you in humping sections, squeezing in past the entrance of your nook and shifting in deeper to make room for everything else that's coming. You cling to the grip of his hands, digging your claws in and trilling as he fills you up with his bulge. He's still grinning, smiling, while you feel like your eyes are rolling back in your head. You chirp, not able to keep any sounds back as you moan, and his bulge just keeps filling you up. Looking down, you can see your stomach distending, going from flat to rounded as his bulge just slides deeper into your body than any other troll has managed to before.

"Look at you, so motherfucking pretty," he croons and you drool onto your chest, too much feeling shattering all your thoughts apart. He shifts his hips and his bulge presses harder on your genesack sphincter, and you cry out. "You got just about all of it, lil fish, I'm motherfucking proud of you."

The words he's saying go straight to your bulge and you keen weakly, shuddering apart in his lap as you stare into his eyes and keep a firm grip on his hands, fingers interlaced with his thicker, bigger digits. He's going to break you.

What a way to fucking go.

Chapter Text

"Karkat, look what I'm not wearing," your human matesprimesis singsongs to you, holding up the front of her skirt as she reclines against the edge of one of her planter boxes. You don't really like Jade's greenhouse, the way all the plants seem to fucking loom at the edges. If they'd been Alternian plants, you'd have known that they were about to eat you, or drip acid on you or something fucking normal like that. Jade just pfffs at your concerns about her plants, saying that Earth plants just don't do that, mr fussy pants! And that you've got nothing to worry about. You're not exactly fucking convinced but you've got other things to worry about right now.

Like how she's not wearing any fucking panties apparently. And might not have been all day.

You swallow, your throat feeling dry. You know she's been out of the house, gone to get something from the nursery she likes with a flash of green and a shout of 'be right back, Karkat!'. But you're pretty sure she hasn't gone back up to your shared respiteblock in between getting up this morning and now. Not that that says anything, Jade could have vanished her underwear to wherever the fuck she wanted whenever she wanted, but you can't pretend that you don't like the idea that you just didn't know she wasn't wearing panties underneath the long flowing skirts she favours all fucking day long. Just. Fuck, that's hot and you don't know how you're going to get her back and make this up so you're even again.

Jade makes a rude noise, and rolls her eyes as you continue to just stare at her in slack-jawed shock. Your bulge is already at least halfway out inside your pants as it is, and then she does a little thing with her hips that really makes you look at her human nook. The strange patch of curled, coarse hair above the slick entry to her nook, the small nub of sensitive flesh just above that. Nestled in soft lips, skin soft everywhere all the way to her thighs, all the way across her body. Soft, delicate human skin in shades of coffee and the rich soil she likes to get her frondstubs into deeply.

"Look, if you're gonna stare at it and not do anything, I'm going to go upstairs and take care of this myself," she declares crossly and you know that she's not bluffing. Jade rarely if ever bluffs, and never when she knows she does hold all the cards.

"Who said I wasn't going to do anything? I don't remember saying anything of the fucking sort," your ignoranceshouter spits out without much actual thought on your behalf, and you try to pull your sweater down a little discreetly to cover the crotch of your jeans. You don't think you're actually helping, and you're pretty sure that Jade has already noticed you've got a fucking wiggly. She's disconcertingly acute like that. Like a god damn barkbeast, just as bad as her faux lusus with its disconcerting habit of teleporting into places and sticking a cold, damp nose exactly where it's not fucking wanted. That gives you a sudden thought, and you look around to see if the bastard animal is in here, while you step closer to Jade and her bare and beckoning thighs.

She's hot. She's way fucking hotter than a putrid stain on the cloth of life like you deserves. She's as muscled as a ruffianihilator, and can heft her rifle like it doesn't weigh much at all. You'd tried to lift the thing once and it had nearly pulled your grasping frond out of its socket; you don't know what the fuck it's made out of, but it's fucking heavy as shit. Her bucktoothed grin does stupid, soft fond things to your insides, and she's so fucking smart. She's too good for you and you fucking know it, but she acts like somehow the two of you might be on a level playing field.

"Don't go thinking stupid shit, dumb ass," she chides you as though she can hear your internal roiling rant of self-loathing, and pulls you closer so you can kiss. Her glasses bump against your sniffnode a little but you're used to that by now, you just reorient and try again. Your hands come to rest on her hips, the material of her skirts still rucked up around her waist. It's not like kissing is all you had in mind after seeing her pussy, but Jade apparently has some secret agenda and timetable in her head because while you're still making out, her hand goes down to undo your jeans and push them down. Since your bulge is fucking stupid but it knows what it wants, it slithers right out as soon as it has room and you can feel it sliding against the soft skin of her thighs, making you groan helplessly into her mouth. She giggles, a sound that still makes your cardiopusher skip a beat, and then calloused fingers are guiding the bright red muscle of your bulge deep into her nook.

"Fuck, Jade," you groan because fuck, no matter how many times you do this, it's so fucking good and it's a shock every time. Just how good it is. You mouth at her throat, careful not to let your fangs press too hard as you rock your hips against her in the way you've learned she likes. It's different to what you think pailing would be like but honestly, fucking suits you just fine. Your claws catch at the skin about her waist as she wraps her arms around your neck, making her own pleased sounds as your bulge buries itself deep inside her.

"That's, ah, that's good," she encourages you, grinding her hips forward as you start to up the pace a little. You don't know how long she's been thinking about this, planning this but fuck, she is wet. You mutter something into her shoulder, and grab her under her thighs so you can lift her back onto the bench behind and fuck her harder. Jade's legs come around you, ankles together at the small of the back, the grip of her thighs intense enough to make you lose your breath. You want her to cum, you want to feel it when she orgasms. "C'mon, Karkat, I want to feel you cum inside me!"

Not using a bucket doesn't mean the same thing to her as it does for you, but you usually avoid it just because of the mess. Obviously she's decided that the mess is worth it today, and the request hits you like a subjugglator's club, straight to the spine. Growling in the back of your throat, you thrust harder, feeling your hips slap against her thighs as she clings to you and laughs in your ear, like she's gotten away with something and it's just what she wanted. Cheeky fucking bitch. You hate her and you pity her, both at the same time. Every quadrant all at once.

One of her hands goes down between the two of you so she can rub at her clit, her breathing getting heavier and raspier as she pushes herself towards orgasm with your assistance. Fuck, it feels so good inside her, warm and tight, squeezing at your bulge as she tightens the grip of her legs around your waist. You spill into her, a wash of crimson red, with a low grunt, your fingers grabbing at her thighs and drawing her own red blood. Your bulge resheathes slowly and you look down blearily as Jade fingers herself to completion, one of her heels rubbing a bruise into your spine before she finally gasps and comes. The muscles in her thighs shaking, teeth digging into her lower lip.

Your head falls forward, against her shoulder as slurry drips down her thighs and yours, puddling around your feet. Not her feet, just yours. Good thing you were already thinking about replacing these sneakers. They'd been getting kind of thin on the soles and the toes are all fucked up from where you kick shit when you get mad.

"Was this a ploy to make me throw these walkcovers in the trash receptacle?" you ask, once you've got your breath back. Jade purses her lips a little, then throws her head back and laughs.

"Maybe, but guess what, Karkat?" she breathes into your ear, teeth nipping at the curve of your lobe sharply. A shudder races down your spine, and your nook gives an interested twinge. "Bags not cleaning this up!"

She pushes you away with her feet as you curse, outraged that she's managed to get out of cleaning up again even though the whole thing had been her idea. Jade just laughs at you, wiggling her toes and her skirts still pushed up around her crimson-stained thighs, hands on the table and framed with the greenery of her plants. Happy. She curls a finger at you and you come back in for another kiss, stepping around the slurry puddle. Even if it's a lost fucking cause.

"You love me," she murmurs, and you know it's true but you bite her lower lip anyway. The bitch just laughs at you again, cupping the side of your face with her hand and kissing you like there's nothing else she'd rather be doing. Nothing else mattering, besides just being here with you.

Chapter Text

"That's cold," you mutter, feeling Jane's fingers press at your asshole, smearing the lube around. Your hands are already resting on Caliborn's thighs, and you look up to see his tongue flick out to taste the air, the familiar craggy skull-shape of his face reassuring. Not that you're worried, you're ice fucking cold, you're chill, and besides - you want to do this. You brought it up. You're doing it - you're making it happen.

"Sorry, Dirk," Jane hums, and her fingers withdraw for a second as you hear the sticky-tacky sound of lube being massaged between her fingers before they're back. Pressing inside this time, slowly and inexorably. Just one to start, breaching you while you drop your head to the inside of Caliborn's thigh to press your forehead against the soft inner scales and his clawed hand rests on top of your head. You can just see his tongue keep flicking, obviously enjoying the scents that the two of you mammals are putting off, and his cheeks seem to be shining a brighter red than usual. "Is that better?"

"Yeah, that's - just peachy," you sigh out, and Caliborn makes a purring click in the back of his throat as he watches Jane finger you open. She's really getting you worked out and stretched open, while her other hand rests on your hip, thumb rubbing small circles into your skin. You rub at his thighs, careful to be gentle around where the gold of the prosthetic meets his flesh and kiss one of his skinny, jutting hips. His cloaca is looking flushed, like maybe there's something waiting to come out. You sure fucking hope so, you love those cute little fuckers he's got tucked away in his vent. "Permission to make you cum, captain?"

Caliborn looks down at you with that vaguely haunted look like maybe this is going to be a joke, and you feel his fingers tighten in your hair for a moment. It's been a heck of a ride. But being forced to sit down and actually communicate by Jane had done some fucking magic work. Sexy magic work. It's not like this is all you do, but you sure do enjoy the fuck outta it. About as much as you enjoy watching him lose his shit when some thirteen year old makes him lose in Overwatch and he's just screaming incoherently into his mic with the plastic of his controller making dying noises in his hands. Hey, if he didn't want to get creamed all the time, he needs to learn how to utilise something called networking and social abilities, and maybe the healers in his teams wouldn't just leave his Sombra to twist in the wind when he gets pinned down because he was such a shit to them at some point.

Honestly, you think multiplayer games are good for him.

"Permission granted," he snarls out, like he doesn't want to admit that he wants what he wants, and you grin hungrily, watching his gaze glow deeply back in his crimson irises. Your expression changes as Jane inserts a second finger, crooking them inside and rubbing firmly against your prostate while your mouth drops open in pure ahego. Without your permission, your hips buck a little, fucking yourself back onto her fingers. He reaches down to cup your chin, claws digging lightly into your skin. "You're so hot like this," he mutters, like he doesn't really want to admit it, and Jane laughs behind you, a lot less ashamed about it.

"He does look hot like this," she agrees, and her fingers do something else that makes you moan, your erection twitching between your thighs. For someone who doesn't actually have a prostate, she's very fucking good at this. "He'll look hotter in a minute, believe me."

"A bitch like you, can barely understand the true tenderness between two alpha males like Dirk and I," Caliborn grumbles, and Jane makes a scoffing sound then adds a third finger accompanied with another squeeze of lube. You groan. Ok, whatever sort of one upmanship they've got going, you're more than ready to support it. Holy fuck.

"Oh, can't I?" Jane coos, and her hand pushes at the back of your head, guiding you straight to where the fuck you want to go anyway. Caliborn's combined cloaca and rudimentary penile vent. His thighs move further apart, and you lick him from bottom to top, making him shudder and his clawed foot kick at the air, stubby toes trying to curl and mostly flexing. Softly, and very very gently, you work your tongue around the slit of his cloaca to coax his two nubbly hemipenes to come out so you can lavish them with attention. Making an effort to drool, you lick at the soft tip of one, then the other. Caliborn shivers all over, and clicks softly. "Seems like I understand the two of you boys just fine, hoo hoo!"

"Miserable cakesmelling bitch," he grunts again, and you laugh softly into his crotch in unison with the woman behind you. Beautiful Jane, good Jane, Jane with her muscles from rolling and kneading dough, solid and real in a way that you feel that you're not. Sharp-featured chthonic Caliborn, green and scaled and cool beneath your fingers with eyes and cheeks precious to you as rubies. You wouldn't let either of them go without one hell of a fucking fight. Jane's three fingers now do another turn and scissor, before pulling out again. Her hand traces its way over the curve of your spine and you nuzzle gently at Caliborn's cloaca, licking the slit with your tongue and working to get it moist. He makes raspy noises, so you assume you're doing a good job.

"Bite me, skullboy. Ready, Dirk?" Jane says from behind you and you can feel one hand resting on your hip, other hand firmly spreading your cheeks apart further and the slick prod of her strap-on pressing against the lubed up pucker of your anus. Hnngh. You're so fucking weak for a woman who knows what the fuck she wants, and how she's going to get it.

"Fuck yeah, I am," you say with fervour and hold onto Caliborn's thighs as you look up into his face and just moan. Loud and long, the sound pressed out of you as the thick silicone of her strap goes further, deeper, wider than her fingers could hope to. You suckle at the softness of Caliborn's hemipenes, and he gasps, chitters and rattles as his thigh presses against your head urgently and the roundness of Jane's stomach meets the flat planes of your near non-existent ass. "Oh shit, Crocker."

"All the way in," she murmurs, and you can see in your mind's eye the devilish Crocker twinkle behind the scarlet frame of her cat's-eye glasses. Her hand pats you like she's proud of you and you writhe on the solid length of the strap, groaning against the tender mouthful you've got. You have to be so fucking careful, for all his scales and harsh angles, Caliborn is fucking tender where it counts. "That's good, you're so good, Dirk. You're doing such a bloody fantastic job. Isn't he, Caliborn?"

"You are, you're so - oh fuck, Dirk," Caliborn says, his teeth clicking and chattering as he groans and leans his head back. You moan, drool escaping down your chin as you lift you head for a moment as you feel Jane draw back and then solidly rock back into you with a thrust that rams dead against your prostate. Fireworks. Just fucking fireworks.

"Oh, God!" you whine, and then return to sucking and licking the dry scaled regions between Caliborn's thighs. Jane's hands are steady on your hips and you can almost feel her triumphant grin showing her teeth as she gets ready to fuck you to a new millennium. You wonder who's going to come first, you or Caliborn - you better get to it, if it's not going to be you.

This was such a good fucking idea, you think to yourself, and then you give up thinking altogether. It's a god damn relief, and you wouldn't trust anyone else besides these two with you in this sort of weakness. You know they won't take advantage. And they think you're good - they think you're worth it. It means that you can just exist right now, right here, and not let anything else in. Sometimes you're so god damn smart, you can't believe yourself.

You wonder how soon you can talk them into doing it again.

Chapter Text

Smiling fondly down at your wife, you part your thighs slowly, exposing your pussy. You're propped up against a mound of pillows, so you can see everything in the room. Kanaya is glowing softly with her own internal light, obviously eager to get at the main dish. You put your arm behind your head as you recline languidly, looking down over the gentle curves of your rosebud-tipped breasts to the small swell of your belly (you're female and human, there are important organs in there, you remind yourself), and smile at her. You love her, you would do almost anything for her - it's enchanting, this troll emotion called romantic pity. Oh, and with a good dose of mating fondness over the top, how could you forget. It's not as though you want to fix Kanaya's problems, oh no - you'll leave that to Karkat. You just want to live with her, and fuck her, as often as you possibly can.

There's so many things you've done together. You've kissed and dillydallied, you've fondled and fucked. You've had her bulge burrowing to the deepest parts of you, in every orifice. You've used your toys on every bodily entryway of hers, utilising human ingenuity for what you're lacking in terms of penetrative biological equipment. You've done the deed in basically every room of your house - every so often, you catch Karkat looking around suspiciously and you have to allow yourself a small, arch smile at his uneasiness. It's not all moirails who are open enough, dissolute enough to pail and you're sure that Karkat dislikes the musky, animal scent of his moirail in a mating rut.

There's a smear of dark blood on your thigh, and you can almost feel Kanaya's gaze glued to it.

You'd be offended if you weren't so certain of her love. But there's hunger, and then there's hunger. You've both flirted around this before. You shift your gaze and smile languidly at Dave. You're not speaking about Kanaya eating you out while you're on the rag, of course - you're speaking of your hushed spectator. Ectobrother, some sort of kin. You're close to Kanaya, you're close to your other friends...but it's something different with Dave. You do love to get your fingers in his brain and poke about, and he's so often easily flustered by your musing psychological tidbits on the state of his psyche and what exactly all those ridiculous raps he spews actually mean. He's so easy for you to move around as you please; but when he wants, he can do the same thing to you. Dave's always been your kinder, nicer, better half. Your more human self. You love him. It's just different to how you love your alien vampire girlfriend.

"Do you have a good view, Dave? I'd hate for you to miss out on a moment," you murmur, sure that he can hear you from where he's sitting, just to the side. Kanaya is almost vibrating with her desire to get her mouth suctioned around the entrance to your cunt, but she's waiting for you. You've discussed this scene, ad nauseaum. She knows what you want - and you know what Dave needs. "You know I want you to see everything."

"What? No, I'm good, I can see everything just like the Hubble telescope, I got a great fucking view from here and ain't it fine? I'm sure once Kanaya starts doing her Bride of Dracula impression, I'll still be able to see everything I need to, anything I could possibly want to," he rambles, and you smile, fondly. He's irrepressible. Reaching down, you spread the lips of your labia majora, shivering as you feel Kanaya's gaze gain a laser focus. She's so hungry. "Oh. Fuck."

"Please, Kanaya," you breathe, and find a way to widen your legs even more. You're cramping, just enough to ache and feel sore across your pelvis. An orgasm is a surprisingly good home cure for menstruation cramps, and you'd always had to pursue them solo before. Kanaya has made things so much better. It's almost worth being married just for that alone. She surges forward, as certain of her target as a shark trailing a bleeding seal in the water and your hand flails, then smacks into the headboard and you arch your whole back. Pushing your cunt up into Kanaya's mouth, feeling the pressure of her long, dagger-like canines against your labia, while her long (so long!) tongue curls into every innermost secret of you. The soft sound of suction as she drinks everything you have to produce, clots and clingy mucosal strands and all. The inner sheddings of the most innermost parts of you, and she takes them like they're a gift. You love her. You love her so much, it hurts you. "God!"

The sharp point of her nose nudges against your clit, and you twist on the mattress, gasping as you cling to the solidity of the headboard of your marital bed like it's the only real thing left in the room. Until you catch Dave's eyes, brilliant scorching red to your lambent gentle violet. Neither of you are normal. Neither of you are exactly human - you're not man of woman born, at least. Test tubes, ectoslime and John. Usually you try not to think about it. It's disconcerting to think of someone as affable as John Egbert having any sort of hand in your propagation.

You'd told him he couldn't wear his shades if he was going to do this. What sort of person would you be, if you left him have that barrier when you and your most beloved wife were going to be nude as hell? Neither of the two of you seem to be willing to break the gaze between the two of you first. Kanaya is too preoccupied with sucking every bit of free blood that she can out of your cunt, she won't begrudge you. She's a wonderfully giving person. Much more than you are.

"Do you - ah - like what you see? Dave?" you pant, and look down meaningfully to the lump in his pants. You know what that means, even if your significant other is a troll and not human. Not a designated male at birth human, at least. Like Dave is. For god's sake, what you mean is that he has a fucking penis, and it's hard. He's erect. He's aroused over the sight of you and Kanaya on your mutual bed, you bleeding and her feeding.

The look he gives is like you're everything that exists in the world and you can't help but feed on that yourself. It thrills you, to be desired and so obviously. Kanaya makes a trilling chirp between your thighs and you moan, eyelashes fluttering as her hungry mouth acts like she's going to devour you whole. Rooting and nuzzling, lapping, eager to get everything from you that your body has to give.

"You can - you can masturbate if you want to," you encourage, since he's seemingly for once struck dumb. He gets like that in the face of sincerity. And Kanaya is nothing but sincere in her desire to vacuum every drop of anything she can get from your frustrated uterus and you are for once, sincere in your pleasure as you give yourself over to her ravenous mouth. "I want to see - Dave-" Your voice breaks and your hips thrust, grinding against Kanaya's face and trying to get her tongue to go deeper, thicker inside you despite all physical limitations. You're close - you're so close, it's like your bones are thrumming inside your skin. You want to cum, you ache for it. Your eyes are locked to Dave's, and you can't look away from his expression.

Needy. Guilty. Shamed. Why should he be? You're nothing natural, either of you. Besides, he's only watching, he's not participating. For now.

"Rose, you're so - oh fuck," he chokes out and he finally unzips his pants. You grab at Kanaya's curved horn, the one without the hook and try to smother your wife with your cunt as you watch your pseudobrother jerk off to the sight of her eating you out. Everything in you is nerves firing spasmodically with pleasure, your legs are weak and you keep trying to kick and claw Kanaya closer. She just growls in her place where she is, driving you to orgasm until you peak - a deep inhale as you hold and your whole brain falls apart - but she doesn't stop, she just keeps going. You make a mewling noise, and Dave grunts, his hand stroking his cock as your beloved wife drives you to distraction and beyond.

Next time, you don't think Dave will just watch.

Chapter Text

Getting to look this good as you're getting older is a work of both art and fucking effort. You're watching your macros, you choose to indulge in a nice finger or so of bourbon on the rocks over a greasy burger, you're at the gym on the regular for much longer than you used to havta, for less fucking gains. It's god damn depressing, if you're gonna be real for a fucking second here. You're determined not to let yourself become the bitch of time, you're not old enough to want to get soft around the middle like some fucking desk jockey. Some sad moping loser regarding his receding hairline with dismay, while his wife, his two point five children, a dog and a crippling mortgage suck away his life and all his fucking money. No, sir. Not for you.

You're single, footloose and fucking fancy free, and you like it that way. Playing the field is one of your best fucking pleasures in life. It's one of the reasons you keep in shape, as well as your own full-blown narcissism that hates to admit that you're so human as to get old. It's a reason to keep up your gym membership. There ain't enough space to store the equipment you'd like to own in Casa de Strider. It fits in your budget fine. It's conveniently on the way home from the clubs.

Yeah, that shit, and all the fucking hot lil gym bunnies.

Obvious ain't your style so you don't get caught out looking, but there are some nice fucking rumps on display at any time of the day or night at the gym you choose to frequent. It hasn't so much got the shit that gets the mombies flocking to it, or the type of client who's more interested in Zumba over actual fitness. It's located in a not so great part of town which means that when you go in that weird zone of late at night and early in the morning, you're not the only species in the joint. The trolls come out at night; yeah, literal actual trolls. Alternians, if you wanna get fancy but they call themselves trolls and it suits them.

Sullen motherfuckers for the most part, not that you blame them. They're usually more polite than half the human gym junkies you run into if you go in during daylight hours. By which you mean, they leave you the fuck alone, they rack their fucking weights and they wipe down the equipment once they're done. That sort of respect for etiquette goes a long way with you. It also helps that no matter the (loosely identified) gender, they seem to run to fucking stacked like a brick shithouse. At least the ones who visit the gym are; it might just be the subset of the population you have the most experience with so far. Mostly you've identified rust and a drab green, but there's this one blueblood who comes by that you've had your eye on, just speculatively. One horn snapped off, the other with an arrow shaped tip. Pretty fucking identifiable. From that, as well as how the other trolls seem to give him all the space he could fucking need.

The shades are a nice touch, you're a man who appreciates a nice pair of shades. And fingerless gloves. And you can definitely appreciate that firm, well-shaped ass despite the baggy fucking ugly shorts. But that wasn't what you were totally interested in; you've fucked ass before. No, what you were after here and why said blueblood is now on his back on the wide bench in the centre of the locker room, is that you want to experience troll bonebulge.

Despite the name, there doesn't seem to be anything bone-like about it, while you crouch over him and examine the dripping and slick appendage coming from his crotch. He's got one closed fist pressed up against his mouth, and the other hand is holding tight to the edge of the bench you'd picked out as the spot for your impromptu fuckathon. Considering the lack of other people in the gym and the general lack of cameras in the locker room (which you've tested for every time you come before you take your clothes off, because you trust fucking no one), you might even be able to keep your membership after tonight. Every so often, in time with your gentle squeezes, he shudders.

"So, Zahhak, right?" you purr, feeling more like some sort of large predatory feline of the savanna than any well-bred slinking housecat. Despite his size and the weight you know he can lift, you know a goddamn bottom bitch when you see one and he ticks all your fucking boxes. It hadn't even taken that hard a push to get him to kneel down in front of you. To be fucking real though, you're really just that fucking good and you know you're a motherfucking magnificent bastard to look at. If he didn't want to do anything, you're pretty sure he could uppercut you into outer space - but you've rarely seen someone strip out of their clothes as quickly as he had once you even vaguely intimated an order and some carnal interest. "Y'ever fucked a human before?"

Mostly you're just interested to know if he's on the same playing field as you. For once, you wouldn't mind the stakes being slightly in your partner's favour. Just so's one of you knows what you're doing...but you're kind of getting the feeling that even without your xenocard ticked, you've still got more experience than him. And you mean, of course you fucking do, you do porn as a career - but you mean little to no experience at fucking all. S'alright. You can deal with it. Not the first cherry you've popped, after all.

"N-no, I must admit I have...not," he mutters out, voice as rough and gravelled as a forty pack a day smoker. You're pretty sure that's just the way his voicebox (or equivalent) works though, because from everything you've seen, he's a health fucking freak. You're grimly dogged about your fitness but he's very gung ho about all of it. Like he enjoys it. "Is that a - uh! - a problem?"

"You just do what I tell you to do, sweet thang, and we'll be just fuckin' fine," you promise, and get steady on your knees above him while you reach around and behind yourself to finger your ass open a little bit. That slick stuff dripping off the blue twisting coils of his junk feel better than any lube you've squeezed out, and you've experienced a lot of different fucking types of lube. When you compliment him, as offhanded and cliche as it is, the sweating gets worse and he squirms, biting at his lip while his fuck-squid down there gives an extra little wiggle.


You guess that's how he swings, huh. Well, don't say you don't give your audience what they're after.

"You're gonna be good for me, ain't ya?" you murmur, and fingerfuck yourself a little harder, but not too much. You like to feel the burn, and you cut your session short this evening so you could do this. Coming down off the high of a successful show always makes you horny but you hadn't seen shit that you'd wanted to take him, or even fuck in the toilets at the club. Deciding to get your nervous energy out by working out had been one of the better fucking ideas you'd had lately.

"Yes...yes, sir," he groans and that's music to your fucking ears. You're the one in control here, you've got the hot seat and you like knowing he know that that's the way things are. "Oh..ffffiddlesticks..."

"You can say fuck," you goad him and he gasps at your wry obscenity, before you get yourself situated properly above his hips. Pulling your fingers out, you reach down to grab that squirming piece of hentai dreaming and guide it to your asshole. Seems to have a mind of its own, and boy, does it know what it fucking wants. You let out a deep groan of your own as it squirms eagerly into your ass in flexing coils of what feels like liquid muscle, better than any sex toy you've ever used. He makes a chittering, snarling sound that rumbles through his chest, you can feel it through the palm of your hand you've got on his pecs. "Oh yeah, that's good, that's...damn, how much of that thing do you have?"

Size queen ain't exactly your usual go-to, but god damn. God fucking damn.

"That's - it's just - I mean," he babbles, and you just grin, showing off your sharp, pointed eyeteeth. It's hard to feel threatened by the chompers he's got while he's basically whimpering with pleasure underneath you. You're so fucking hard, you feel like you could cut diamond with your motherfucking dick. It's a good feeling.

"Enough, huh?" you say deadpan, raising an eyebrow a little as you feel your ass settle against the stocky cradle of his hips. You reach down and pull his shades off, setting them to one side so you can see his eyes. Your own shades stay safely nestled across the bridge of your nose, and you inhale sharply as his bulge flexes almost roughly inside you. His hand visibly tightens around the edge of the bench, and you hear the MDF board of the thing fucking crack in his clenched fist. He looks instantly mortified.

That startles a breathless laugh outta ya, and you ain't a man given to any sort of obvious emotion. Ho'boy. That's pretty fucking impressive.

"You know what I'm gonna do if you're a good boy, big blue?" you say lazily, getting your knees set and your balance right. Gonna be interesting doing cowgirl on something that wasn't as stiff as a dildo or an erect penis but you think you can manage. You're a god damn professional, after all.

"No, sir. Please...tell me," he breathes like you're giving him everything he ever wanted. It's kind of a high, looking down at someone who wants you so fucking nakedly, and even more - he wants you to tell him exactly what he fucking wants, and how he's gonna work to get it.

You lean down over him, to breathe it in his ear while you dig your blunt nails into his shoulder and you feel his bulge squirm even more strongly inside your ass.

"I'm gonna ride you and put you away fuckin' wet."

Chapter Text

Trying not to squirm, you watch as Porrim pulls out her tray of sterilised needles and prepared jewellery. You can't stop your earfins from tryin to flutter, and you're nervously excited about what's coming next. It's not like y'ain't never thought about getting a few pieces of this and that, over the sweeps. Now you're dead, it's time to catch up on everything that you missed out on when you were alive, huh? That includes thing like a proper moirallegiance - well, uh, if you're gonna be truthful, it's a very fuckin improper kinda moirallegiance.

Which is one of the reasons why you're handcuffed to the platform while your moirail cleans her hands almost clear to the elbows, before snapping on a pair of sterile gloves. You've already got half a wiggly, just watching her. Who can blame you? Porrim Maryam is one smoking piece of rainbowdrinker ass, and she's so fucking competent it makes you swoon on a nightly basis. You're kind of a fucking disaster, and you don't know exactly what she sees in you, but you're satisfied now (at least) that she does see something. She thinks you're worth it. You gotta just let it go at that, instead of worryin and pickin and fussin at shit until it breaks.

"Cronus?" Porrim says in her quiet honey-rough voice, leaning over you a little with her fingers firmly holding onto a small ball of fluffplant material. Briskly, she swabs the bottom of your earfin with it, and it feels...tingly. Then it feels like nothing at all.

"Yeah, Por? Babe?"

"You know what, Cronus." Your earfin is pinned and stretched out in some sorta frame shit that apparently was one of the tools she'd used on Beforus. Used on Meenah, in fact. She'd assured you sternly that all of her tools were sterile (not that it matters anymore, a'course), and had of course been cleaned properly between then and now. Then she'd flashed a little light and murmured something about it being different now anyway, before she'd moved on to discussing exactly what sort of jewellery you wanted to get put in once she was finished punching a hole in you. "Don't get distracted. Just look at me."

"A sight more beautiful than - OW! Oww, fuck!" You're starting to flirt with her to distract yourself from what's coming, before she pushes the slender needle through the flap of your earfin into something firm you didn't notice she was holding behind it, and then slowly pulls the metal through to help guide the post of the stud into its final destination in your flesh. Why did you think this was a good idea again? "Jesus, Por!"

If you were more of a normal troll, maybe your bulge would have shrunk down at all this commotion but it hasn't hardly. You try to wriggle again, but she's got you pretty well pinned to the platform. And you can't move too much anyway, in case you jostle your fin. Fuck, it stings. It hurts more than you thought it would.

"We're not done yet, Cronus, you know that." She takes her hands away once she's fastened the back to the gold and amethyst stud. The gloves come off with another snap, and she pauses for a moment, looking down at you. There's just a little pinch of concern between her immaculately styled eyebrows, and you want to kiss it away. You would, if you could sit up. "You still want the next one?"

"Yeah, I want it, Porrim, svweetheart, c'mon, put it in me," you say, and leer deliberately to make her laugh. Not that you'd object to her taking a pause to insert her fine bulge into your slick nook. You'd definitely appeciate it right now, but Porrim's a woman who gets the job done first, and then has her fun. Fuck, you're looking forward to it.

"Behave," she says with mock severity, and pulls on a new pair of gloves after disinfecting herself again, the sharp smell of it filling your sniffnode before she bends down with a second needle. You can feel the tip of it this time, resting against the second mark she'd put on your fin once you'd finished up your lengthy discussion on what was gonna look good, and where exactly you wanted these little glittering studs to go.


It doesn't seem to hurt any less the second time, maybe a little more even - so you whine a little, tears springing to the corners of your eyes. Putting on a bit of a pout to make Porrim snort in disdain as she draws the second piercing into its new home. To match the shiny bauble of amythest, she found a smooth ball of deep nephrite jade. They're neither of them very big studs, but it's enough to know that they're there. Jade and violet, as close to the colours of your bloods as you could find in the mess of the dreambubbles. Maybe you dreamed them into being, the perfect pair, just the way the tyrian Life players had dreamed the bubbles up with the aid of the beings from the Furthest Rings.

"All done," she hums as she disengages the fin-spreader from your face, getting rid of her gloves and manoeuvring to take the tray and move it away from the concupiscent platform. Good idea. Neither of you want to wind up rolling around on her fucking piercing ensemble, she's definitely remembered most of her tools as being real fucking sharp. Your earfin tries to flick, feeling weirdly heavy (and really fucking sore, ow, you didn't think it would ache this bad) and she comes back to use a bandaid to plaster it to the side of your face so you can't no more.

"Aw, c'mon, what's the big idea?" you complain, but you're not really fighting too hard. Besides, it's not like she'd taken the handcuffs off. Had she. You preen yourself up, your noninjured fin flicking open as you let a humming croon bubble up in your throat. She looks down at you, and one corner of her lipsticked mouth quirks up. You know that grin, you fuckin do, alright. Gonna have some fun.

"I don't want you to irritate it by flicking your fin around until it's a little healed, at least," Porrim says with a stern tone, and hoists her dress up so she can straddle your thighs. When she settles, pretty ass landing smoothly on what would be your lap if you were sitting down, you can feel that she's not wearing anything underneath. That's hot. It's even more hot because you can feel her nook leaking sticky preslurry onto you, and her bulge wriggling around, looking for something to get into. You can't help yourself, and let out another chirp. "I know; we're ghosts. But I'm not sure how this is going to work, so let's pretend like we're still alive for now. Just in case. Alright?"

"Sure, babe, whatever you say," you agree as she gets cosy, leaning down and letting her bulge tangle with yours in a real sexy fuckin way. She strokes your throat gills with the edge of her thumb, before kissing you softly. You writhe on the bed with delight, but trying not to move too much. Just enough to help your bulge slide through hers, hidden underneath the silken fabric of her dress. "Mm - I know who's the brains of this operation."

"That's right." She kisses the tip of your nose, and then your free earfin. You can feel the tackiness of her genematerial sliding down over her thighs, and down onto yours. The pair of your bulges are squeezing together eagerly, helped along by the way the both of you are grinding and rocking against each other. You want her bulge in your nook, cod damn it, but you'll just - ah - this is feeling pretty good too. "You're going to look so pretty with my colour on you, Cronus," she murmurs, and her skin glows like the sun as she smiles, exposing the brilliant length of her fangs. "I can't wait to have everyone see it."

"Me neither," you admit with a gasp, feeling the cuffs pull against your wrists as you try to find a way to rock up against her harder. Just drinking in the sight of her, her dress slipping over her shoulder and one rumblesphere starting to look like it was going to pop free. She's so god damn hot. Despite the heavy ache of your newly pierced earfin, you don't regret a thing. It's going to look so fuckin cool, and ain't nobody gonna try and say something about how whatever it is you've got going is a sham, not ever again. Never, ever again.

Chapter Text

One of these nights you're going to be at the mercy of a bunch of surgeorippers and helmstorticians, getting biowire ports planted along your spine and all your joints so that the Empire can use the energy in your brain to fuel an intergalactic ship. But this isn't that night. And who knows, maybe you'll die first. You refuse to take yourself out on purpose, but as AA likes to remind you when she sends you reminders to eat a food and have an ablution, maybe even drink some water, there's nothing saying that you can't remove yourself from your Imperial duty by a long and dedicated regime of apathetic bodily neglect. Still, some nights you do things a little differently. Considering what your plans for the day had been, having something decent to eat at lunchtime had actually been a priority for once.

You'd hate to drop Eridan on his fucking noble thinkpan. At least, you'd hate to do it accidentally, ehehehe. Doing it on purpose would be another thing entirely. Considering what you're doing right now, you should probably stop being so fucking morbid. It'd be helpful if the pre-deceased would shut up for one fucking second but they've never stopped screaming since your pre-death hearing switched on, and you're pretty sure it's never gonna fucking switch off. People die a lot on Alternia. You're pretty sure it's not gonna be any better once you get into space. If you still have some sort of functioning thinkpan left to know what you're hearing, you think to yourself; opinions are divided on just how much autonomy and self-awareness helmsmen can preserve. You guess you'll find out for yourself in about a sweep.

Moving your graspers apart from each other in front of your chest, you watch as Eridan's body is outlined in crackling blue and red, the colours of your psionic powers. He writhes, and you can feel him fighting in your web as you keep him in the air, legs spread and his hands above his head. It's all for fucking show, of course. He likes to bluster and dramatise, and then you tear him to shreds and make him cum so hard he's pleasant to everybody for at least a week. Sometimes longer, but not much longer. You're fighting against the ground-in stains of his personality, and that's not something that's actually easy to overpower. If you were Karkat, maybe you'd want him to be a better person for his own sake.

But you're you. Sollux Captor. Helmsbait, psionic, computer geek. And you just want him to watch you, and make him want to get fucking good, scrub. Get on your level - as though he fucking could. When it comes to self-destruction, you wrote the literate page-collection.

Almost idly, you zap his fins, his nook and his body convulses. Genetic material drips out of his nook and lands in a puddle on your floor. He's not quite making the noises you want to hear, but he will. You're pretty fucking good at destroying him by now, about as good as you are at writing code. If people were as structured as computers, you actually would be. But then again, if he was that simple to manipulate, you'd be fucking bored as shit. You're only ever really interested in things if they're a challenge, or if they're funny to you somehow (exhibit A: KK and his terrible attempts at infecting your servers with a virus - always good for a laugh when you're feeling down in the dumps).

Eridan drives you fucking demented and you don't care who knows it, as long as he doesn't really understand how important he is to you. Having people be important to you is a good way for them to get screwed. By whatever powers made shit happen, just a universal constant. Be Sollux Captor, be shat upon. And that circle expands to everyone you consider integral to your wellbeing. Aradia is a case in point, although she very pointedly tells you to shut up any time you even approach the subject. It's not like you're going to forget, how it felt to wake up to see her bleeding in the ruins of her hive in front of you and knowing, knowing, that you'd been the one to put her there.

It'd be too easy to just blame Vriska.

Anyway, right now you have a seadweller to torment. You flex your fingers and he grunts as you run a line of electricity up his nook. Just teasing. The way his back bows and his earfins flare, you don't think he agrees. That's more than fucking fine by you.

"Are you ready for your examination, Subject Ampora?" you say, making sure to keep your lisp as far fucking out of it as you can. There's ways, things, you've learned to do to cope. You make sure you drawl instead of your usual clipped lowblood tones, suggesting indolence. It's a game, sure, but it's something you do mostly to fuck with yourself. The fact that it fucks with Eridan too is just a bonus. He curses incoherently, and struggles in the grip of your psionics - you let him feel a moment of freefall, releasing him - then snapping them almost straight back into place. He goes completely fucking still, and you grin in what you're sure is a pretty fucking ugly way. Smug, even. "That's better. It'll go easier on you if you behave."

It's a game. It's a lie. You're used to games, you play efuckingnough of them. It's just that you usually play your game through the medium of bits and bytes; playing with an actual troll is something new that Eridan has introduced you to. When you crackle current over his earfins, he sobs and you can't make yourself be sorry. You've got the most painful fucking wiggly in your pants.

"Fuck you, he spits out, and you run electricity through him from horntip to the ends of his walker-stubs and he wails. His bulge is wiggling madly between his thighs, and you swallow dryly, just taking in this sight of your kismesis vulnerable before you. You feel like a fucking god.

"I guess that's how you want it," you say, like you don't care at all. "We'll need to examine you...more intensely. If you're going to resist the will of the Empire, Subject Ampora." It's a flip on what's probably going to happen; he's the fake helmscandidate, and you're playing the one in charge of forcing him into service. There's probably so much fucking literature on why this is so hot, and you just can't make yourself give a shit. It's enough. What it is, what it makes you feel is enough.

What he makes you feel.

You hate him so fucking much. You just. You hate him, and it makes you want to do these fucking terrible things to him. But he seems to like them; and so do you. You're fucking contemptible. You're disgusting. You're the worst kind of fucking pervert. And yet.

At least you have some fucking company on your way down.

"Tell me when you've had enough," you say with a sniggering laugh, and set to taking Eridan to metaphorical pieces where he's floating, about two feet above your dirty floor. "Let me know when you're ready to submit, helmsbait." He hisses at you, and you let your psionics work him over, playing with him and looking forward to when you lose all your fucking patience and bury your bulges in his nook. For now, the powerplay is almost as good as fucking him - and it means you'll enjoy emptying your shameglobes into him in a wash of common yellow so much fucking more once you finally get to it.

You know that from experience.

Chapter Text

"I want you to cum in my mouth, Egbert, it's not complicated," you purr, and keep jerking off the man sitting on the chair you're kneeling in front of. It's not like you've never swallowed someone's cum before. You've done it quite a fucking lot, actually, and while the taste isn't much to write home about - it's more the way people look while you're swallowing their load that gets your engine revving. Maybe you're on your knees, but pretty much all the control is yours.

You like the look of him like this, sweating, a little rumpled. He's dragged his tie undone and unbuttoned the top coupla buttons on his dress shirt, leaving the black tie hanging loose to frame the glimpse of manly, hairy chest you can see through the shirt's open gap. For a bald dude, he's certainly got a lot of fucking hair everywhere else. The bush he's got around his prick is something you haven't seen since the found-in-the-wood's porn of your adolescence, a real 70s throwback. He smells like he showers properly and actually cleans his dick, which is nice. It's a cock you really don't mind getting your mouth around, and already have, as the shine of your spit along the thick length can attest.

It's got a nice head, with a foreskin you can use your tongue to play with in flicking motions, deep plum with its soft collar of
creamy brown. Solid and hot in your hand and your mouth; if you had more time, you'd love to get it up your ass. It's been a while since you met Egbert but you've finally pinned him down after a long chase of your version of flirtation. It'd taken a moment for him to realise that what you were doing was flirting, but even someone as noble-minded as James Egbert can realise what it means when a dude grabs his package through the front of his tailored slacks and tries to stick his tongue down his throat. Luckily, he hadn't taken it amiss. If he had, you'd probably be missing a few teeth; you've seen the guy punch someone, it's a fucking work of art and muscles in poetic motion.

"It'll save on the clean up," you add, because you can see him wavering. You're pretty sure the reason he doesn't want to cum in your mouth is because he thinks it's ungentlemanly somehow. Which is kinda fucking cute, but he'll learn. You're just Texas trailer trash, through and fucking through. You like it dirty, you like it nasty, and you want to see how he reacts to all of it. "C'mon. I want it, and I know you'll love it."

"Alright, Mr Strider," he sighs out and you can't help laughing a little at the incongruity of it all as you get your mouth back around his dick. God, it's a fucking masterpiece, you can't believe you've waited this long to actually get his pants down. Motherfucking patient as Job, that's what you are. You make sure to get all the nasty noises of sucking his cock out that you can, looking up to watch each tremor of pleasure move over his face. You don't think the dude lets go very often. It feels like a prize to be the one that convinced him to let his non-existent hair down, and you're a smug enough bastard as it is.

Using your hand to jack him off into your mouth as you suck, you take a breath through your nose and go down. Swallow, with your hands on his thighs to press them apart as you feel his cock throbbing in your throat. Right past your tonsils, and all the way down. He shouts a little, jamming a hand over his mouth and the other one of his hands catching at the seat of the chair, fingers holding on so hard his knuckles lighten under stress. He's just that much of a gentleman - and smart enough to know what kind of cocksucker you are - that he doesn't put his hands on your head to try and hold you down. That's good, because you woulda had to do something less nice to him, and you're here for a fun time. Not a hard time. As a sort of reward, you swallow again and he groans in a really fucking attractive basso rumble that you'd swear you can feel in your bones.

Now you've got your groove, you're up and down, bobbing your head in his lap and working to get him off. Dropping a hand to the front of your own tight black jeans, you unzip and start jerking off. You're so fucking gay for this shit, it's unbelievable. But a nice big, pretty cock is really fucking dope and you don't think you can be blamed.

When he cums, you pull back so you can catch most of it on your tongue and inside your mouth, not going for a throatshot. As he trembles and gasps, you pull back off his cock slowly, keeping your lips tight around the thick shaft. As you pull off all the way, you open your mouth and display the thick mouthful of his jizz that you've kept, moving your tongue around a little like you're tasting it, before you swallow the whole thing. Real hentai bullshit, but you can't help what you are.

He looks horrified, and also like he can't wait to see it again.


"If you come up here, I can assist you...if you would like," he says softly, looking down at where you've still got your hand around your dick. Well. If he's gonna offer, ain't nobody got to offer a handjob to you twice.

When you're up there, he kisses you and doesn't seem to care that your breath tastes like cum while he wraps the solid strength of his hand almost delicately around your dick. You settle in like a kid on Santa's lap and get ready for your fucking present. You're already thinking of how you can rope him into place so you can do this again. And do more next time. What can you say? You're a greedy fucking asshole, and since the world ain't in the habit of giving you what you want, you're in the habit of going out and taking it.

"Fuck," you groan against Egbert's throat and feel his chest rumble with an appreciative laugh as you buck your hips urgently into his hand. Oh shit, yeah. This was one of your better ideas. And you're sure, for once, it's just gonna get better. You'll make fucking sure it does.

Chapter Text

You sneer and hold a miniaturised Cronus up between the pinch of two of your fingers, studying him as deeply as you can when he's this small. This is probably a bad idea, so it's a good thing that it was his idea. If everything does end as badly as you think it might, at least it will be something that you can tell everyone else was his idea. You'll be the injured party of the whole situation, even if he's the digested one. After all, this was far more his kink than yours.

It's just that you couldn't pass up the opportunity to eat a highblood when you were given the chance.

He'd taken off his clothes before getting shrunk. Had said something about not wanting to lose his cool threads - newsflash, Cronus. No one thinks the way you dress is cool, besides you. Looking at him now, you can feel yourself salivating and you smile to show all of your flat lowblood teeth. He's lucky that you're a woman of your word, more or less. Until someone else fucks you over, you don't feel the need to fuck them up. And Cronus...well. He's what he is, but he's more honourable in his own way than some other more highminded fuckers in your group.

You trust Cronus to do what he says. You trust Cronus to make dirty insinuations about getting under your seifuku. You trust Cronus to be exactly what he is, and not to hurt you. And he trusts you, bizarrely enough. The utmost test of trust is coming up now, because he's going to let you swallow him and trust you to throw him up after so he can restore himself to his original state. It's an extreme effort of moirallegiance, and even though it would be so easy to go against your word - you think you will behave.

He says something, but his voice is so highpitched that it only makes your auricular clots ache. You don't understand him. That's fine, you think you know what he said anyway. Probably something like, are you ready. Or let's go. His bulge is the tiniest smear of violet, this way and you know he's ready for this. Your stomach grumbles, and you think you're ready too.

"Itadakimasu," you croon, and lift him higher, leaning your head back. You want him to get a good view of your swallowtunnel, even before he makes his way down. You drop him on your extended tongue, tasting salt and squid. Hmm. You'd thought he'd be a little more fishy, but there you are. Rolling him around your mouth, you close your lips together, feeling him squirm and writhe against your tongue, against the sides of your teeth.

Eating things alive is a noble indulgence. Eating your moirail alive is...something else entirely. And it's nothing like you've ever experienced. You could still stop. You haven't swallowed him yet.

You tilt your head back, just so, and swallow.

He goes down. You can feel him pressing against the walls of your swallowtunnel, not struggling but it's definitely not the same as eating a mouthful of static, chewed food. You've eaten him, he's inside you in a way so intimately in a way that you've never before experienced, you've never done this with another person. It's like you can feel him like a star inside you, something bright and terrible. You sit back in your chair, lacing your fingers over your stomach and sigh softly.

Idly, your eyes stray to the clock as you consider how long you can keep him down there. Twenty minutes, according to the safety documents that had come with the equipment. Then your hungersack acid will work through the protective coating and start digesting him alive. Twenty minutes only, to be so close to your diamond. Holding him so tenderly, so softly within the cradle of your body.

You set the alarm, so that you don't accidentally digest him and go to lie down in your bed so you can masturbate. You think you can feel him moving, and you want to take advantage of those ticklish movements while they're still going on. When you vomit him up, you think, you'll have to talk about doing this again. It's hit you much harder than you would have expected, your panties are soaked with rust red and your sexworm is trying to twine with the cloth in a way that's painful.

When you get him out of your stomach and back to normal size, you're going to ride him like the hoofbeasts that the ponyskank is so enamoured of.

Chapter Text

You settle into your bunk, transwave receiver on and wait for what's become the highlight of your nights. It's a long and lonely time out on the seas, tracking down the lusii of other less important trolls to feed to the lusus of the Empress. Everyone knows it has to be done, that it's necessary for everyone but somehow everybody always thinks it won't be them. There's a reason there's a thinning off of seadwellers before they even get to proper schoolfeeding age, and it's that the biggest lusii are mostly oceanbound. Mm. Sometimes a cerulean or an true-blue will have something a bit larger, or a purple. But. Usually it's violets who have the most hefty sort of lusii. Water can support more weight, after all. Means more weight on the bones.

You're tired. You're so fucking tired of shooting down lusii and having to fight off grieving wigglers who coulda been you if you'd been that unlucky.

You need to remind yourself of why the fuck you do this, or you'll just stop. And then where the fuck would everyone fucking be? So you make a point of tuning into the scheduled Imperial broadcasts just to - just to hear Her. The most radiant, beneficent, Her Imperious Condescension. Even with your little quirk, if you were a good citizen of the Empire, you'd be tuning in anyway. Most trolls don't turn in every time, although just about everybody will make an effort to listen to the ones aimed at their caste. Just in case the announcement is something that you couldn't afford to be seen ignoring, like maybe all Teals from now on need to wear tights. Who knew, Her Imperious Condescension was a tyrant, after all.

When you listen to Her though, you think She sounds lonely. You think maybe like if the two of you could just meet, you could do something for Her. Give Her something real,'re just seascum next to Her but you can't help your feelings.

They're just a glorious god damn red.

"...sup bouys and gills," the transwave communication device crackles and you close your eyes, listening to the powerful sounds of Her voice. She sounds bored tonight, like She can't believe She's stuck doing this. You think you hear Her sigh. "Listen up, beaches. You're here and listenin' to the one, the fuckin only, Empress and ruler of your fuckin lives. Ain't you reel glad that I'm head beach in charge up here? You betta fuckin repraysent and calm yoar tits becrayse I'm gonna be spoutin' off 'boat some new glubbin ship y'all betta be paying attention to..."

Listening to her talk in her refined accent, you let your hand slide down between your thighs. It's beyond instinct at this point; even just hearing the chimes of Her entry starts your body reacting to the oncoming proximity of Her voice. Her words. It's almost like She could be touching you, reaching out with Her words. Since the Empress isn't here in the flesh, you take over for Her with a little handwork of your own.

"Are you ready to surf yoar Empire? Are you ready to surf me?"

God, you're so fuckin ready. You'd do anything She wanted, anything. Groaning softly to yourself, you press two fingers into your nook, letting your bulge curl around your wrist as you squirm slowly. Imagining colder hands than yours on your body. Her smile, full of fangs and the way Her glasses would glitter as She looked down on you. What it would feel like, to have the Imperial attention laser-focused on you, your body. How you could worship Her.

"...don't wanna hear no I can't, I don't wanna hear no glubbin maybes, motherfuckers. You're in or you're out, and if you're out, you minnow what you are? You're fucking dead. Ain't got no tide for suckas 'n chumps up in this beach, baybies." She laughs, the chuckle running down your backbone like clawed fingers. You bite your lip, gasping softly to yourself as you strain to get your fingers deeper. Imagining what the Imperial bulge might be like. Could be like. You're not so bold as to imagine what it would be like to sink into Her nook. "Hope y'all been buyin' your official and approved merch like good buoys and gills too. Remember, the Empire needs you to spend big. Obey. Submit. Consume."

Her voice drops to a low purr, and you shudder. Your nook is wet on your fingers, gushing violet over your hand as you fuck yourself, imagining. Wondering. What it would be like to be in Her presence. To hear Her voice, without the filter of technology. To really hear Her. To have Her order you to do things for Her, personally. You would do anything for Her. Anything at all.

"I know y'all out there, willing to surf yoar Empire. Ready to do My bidding out there in all the galaxy, bring it down and make it heel, make it surf Alternia. Don't ask what the Empire can do for you, guppies - ask what YOU can do for my EMPIRE."

You cum all over your hand as She laughs again, wild and victorious.

Cod. What a woman.

Chapter Text

Your shoulders ache, and it's a good thing that the communal ablutioncaverns are built to accommodate trolls of your size. Or larger. You've never actually seen the Grand Highblood use the public baths, but that means nothing. He could, at any night, decide to do such a thing and call it a mission from the Messiahs, et cetera, et cetera, a holy prophesy that called him to be here and do something righteous and appropriately heinous. On consideration, hoofever, you believe he doesn't know what an ablutiontrap is, so your sanctuary should remain safe.

After a long night of executions, a man should be allowed to relax. Your bow is made for you (and you designed it, to hoof), but that doesn't mean that drawing it, that repetitive moment of shooting again and again, is entirely without effort. It causes a lot of strain on your shoulders and down your spine. A nice spell in the heated waters of an ablutiontrap, then a dip in the cold pool and a scrapedown by the attendant rustbloods is one of the few pleasures you have in this life. According to Church doctrine, you're unlikely to be picked to attend on the Dark Carnival and thank goodness for that. Maybe when you're dead, you'll get to rest, instead of running around after other trolls and cleaning up their little bagatelles.

When you leave the baths and stop to pick up your clothing, you are both shocked and yet somehow entirely unsurprised to find your locker ransacked and nothing of worth inside it. Certainly nothing to cover your naked body. Only a note. Written in purple ink, with a lamentably familiar hand.

got your MOTHERFUCKING CLOTHES, pony bitch. you know where to find a brother. :o)

Sad to say, you know exactly where to find him. If he's taunting you like this, there's only one place he could be.

In his throne room.

You just have to get there first. Naked. Alone. You crumple the note in your fist, and breathe in deeply for a count of ten. If he was feeling so ignored, he could only say something but no. You're in spades with a grown troll who acts like a fiddlesticking wiggler. It's always difficolt to be quadranted with someone higher than you; it's ten, a hundred times as difficolt to be quadranted with someone who's your direct supervisor. But you loathe him so purely. You could barely consider doing anything else when you loathe him so much.

You're still not entirely sure what made him decide to lower himself to someone like you but you think for him, it's just because it's easy. You're right there. You can't get away. As long as your Imperial orders direct you to stay at his side, you can scarcely do anything else. For him, it's easy. It's simple. And you wish you could tear him apart for it, separate limb from limb, get your hands into his ribcage and pull it apart. It would be. So easy for you. At least on a purely physical level; on other social levels, it's considerably more difficolt.

And he is ridiculously attractive, curse his bones and damn his eyes. You wish he wasn't so much. Him. Those long spiralling horns. The outrageously provocative mane of hair; so much like Her Imperious Condescension. The arrogant strut of his shoulders, so broad and highblooded in silhouette. The impudently forward codpiece. The way his striped leggings grace his toned calves and luxuriously embrace his muscular thighs. The...well. Yes. Quite. Ahem. You're getting a little carried away.

Standing still in the middle of the changing rooms of the public baths, stock still in front of the lockers, you know you could borrow a robe from the attendants but that would be cheating. Not at all in the spirit of the game. A towel. Some minor figleaf for your modesty. But if you take anything, even if you throw it in a garbagedray on your way there, he will know. And he'll have won. Simple as that.

You can't bear that, to let him win. More than anything. That would You will have to find some other way to get to the throneroom.

Udderly, udderly naked.

The shame of it all makes you shudder from horn to hoof. The outrageousness. The sheer perversity. And what if you get caught, by some minor boogeyman or junior mime? Your reputation will never recover. But. The Grand HIghblood - Kurloz - he wouldn't have set you such a task if he didn't think there was a chance you could do it. He has some sense of fair play. So...

You take a breath. You consider your options.

And then you go, naked as the day you were hatched and still faintly shining with oil to walk through the length of the subjugglator fortress. It's...nervewracking, to say the least. You think you'll be discovered at least half a dozen times. But somehow, for some reason - eyes always turn the other way. You let yourself breathe in some shadowed alcove, and watch an entire platoon jog past, chanting some mockery of an Imperial jody (Messiahs know if I'll get old; the Empress' nook is mighty cold!). Disgracefoal, harnesstly. But you're just glad they didn't notice you. That would have been...unfoaltunate.

A moment again, before you consider it wise to move. The stone is cold underneath your bare feet, oddly irregular where centuries of booted feet have worn it down into subtle ruts. For once you're truly looking at everything. Mostly because you're considering just where you can hide yourself if another platoon comes past. Or even just the one. Solitary. Clown.

By the time you make it to the throne room of His Mirthfoal Majesty, your pusher has been in your throat any half a dozen times. You've nearly been caught, at least twice that much, and you're sure you didn't even notice how close to disaster you came at times. How dare he. Such effrontery. Such arrogance.

Your nook is dripping prematerial slowly down your thighs, and the tip of your bulge is peeking out of its sheath. You'd be vainly lying if you said his little games hadn't affected you, so you don't bother to try. Pushing open his doors, you try to walk inside like you don't care that he just manoeuvred you into walking naked through his entire fortress. Where anyone, anyone at all, could have seen you. God. You hate him just so much, and how much you hate him soars through you with a million pitch fires when you see him lounging, just as naked as you, on his dang throne.

"Sup, motherfucker."

Before you even realise you've moved, you're across the floor and your hand is around his throat. You've pulled him up out of his seat to pin him against the back of his throne and your muscles are barely protesting needing to take on the full weight of a grown, purpleblood troll as you bare your fangs. Set your glare against his laughing stare. And consider if perhoofs, you'd really be that badly off if you culled him where you both stand. Maybe you could find a way in clown doctrine to cover it; the documents themselves are so serpentine and labyrinthine you're sure you could say that anything you do is fated by the Messiahs. You'd just have to live through the rage of the clowns when they first discovered your bloody deed.

"I should kill you," you hiss through your teeth, as angry as you rarely allow yourself to feel. Your strength is a force best kept in rein with a stern hand, and you usually do so. Now, you squeeze your fingers around his throat and he marely chokes out a laugh at you. At you. You hate him so, so very much. "How dare you - what if someone had seen me -"

He lunges forward the bare inch between you, your mouths pressing together and his snake-like tongue crashes into your mouth. You kiss him back, so furious that you can't think of doing anything else. The grip you have slips and you crawl over him, pressing your body to him as you snarl into his mouth. All he does is laugh, and the hate inside you burns ever brighter.

"I know you could do it, ponybitch," he drawls, and one of his hands reaches down between your bodies to cup your sheath. Squeezes gently, and your bulge - idle wanton as it is - slithers out to squeeze back around his fingers, and your breath catches in your throat. You just hate him so much. "Now you gonna do what else I know you can do, bro?"

"And what's that?"

He grins, tongue lolling moronically from his mouth. Lewd, and udderly unashamed of everything he's done, and everything he is. You wish the Empress would whip him into line like the barkbeast he is. You herdly have the ability to do so. And you hate him twice as much for that.

"Pail me into next motherfucking sweep, ryda," he laughs, and his legs come up to hook his heels at the small of your back. Pulling you in with an abrupt jerk. He may not be as strong as you - you've never met a troll who could measure up - but he certainly. Has some strength of his own. "C'mon. You know you want to."

You hate that he's right. You hate that you're going to.

But when your bulge finds his nook and he lets out a deep groan against your mouth as you fill him up with your blueblooded appendage, you can't bring yourself to care all that much.

Chapter Text

Come here, asshole, is Slick's demand from behind you as you slowly undo your tie. You don't look at him; he's so fucking sharp he's gonna cut himself one of these days. Ain't he just the romantic though? Man's gonna get old waiting for you to get your shit together, he sneers to your exposed back.

You roll your eyes to yourself at his bitching, and you hear him grumbling something mean about you and all your ways to himself on the stained bed that the two of you occasionally share. It's not stained from what a hypothetical viewer of this sentimental scene might think its stained by, from context. It's usually blood. One or the other one of you bleeding out, getting patched up. You really should ditch it and get a new one, but who orders mattresses to the warehouse district near the docks? It'd be a sure fire way of letting that meddling detective know where you are. Maybe you'll get lucky and pick another one up off the curb, maybe one with better resilience next time.

In a minute.

Don't be surprised if I start without you.

I'd never be surprised by your take charge attitude, Slick. That's why you're the boss of this outfit, you say, calm and not like you're saying it through gritted teeth. Even if that's kinda how you feel. You know how to handle him so he feels like he's the one in charge, but you're feeling loose tonight. You've both had a couple of drinks and more, you'd had one green asshole get one good shot in and your shoulder is bandaged. A little bloodloss, a little whisky, what's that to a man like you? You're fine. You're god damn fucking peachy. The lube's in the bedside drawer, you mention, just off the cuff.

There's a pause, then a shuffling noise.

You keep unbuttoning your shirt, pulling it carefully over your bandages and giving yourself another look-over while you're there. It's not showing red through to the top yet, so you're gonna assume it's fine. Ain't hurting so much as aching now, sore when you move the wrong way. Tonight, no matter what, you're gonna be on the bottom, you decide. Slick ain't winged, he can put the work in. You know, for once. Seems fair to you.

Hanging your clothes up, you finally turn around to look at the bed and the reclining figure waiting for you there. Spades Slick sure ain't everybody's idea of a pin up. Ain't hardly anybody's, if you're gonna be truthful. Carapace worn and scarred, pocked in places from the odd connecting bullet. Eyepatch rakishly in place over his blinded eye, the robotic prosthesis of his left arm bolted into place with ugly scarring. Noir City chopshops ain't kind in their bodily renovations, and even for the Midnight Crew, you get what you fucking get.

God help you, because you're the sucker who thinks he is attractive. There's something wrong with you, besides just the obvious.

What the fuck is up with you, ya maroon, he scoffs because you think you've just been staring there looking at him for at least a good minute. Long enough for Slick to lose patience with you - which if you're gonna be honest, which you might as well be to yourself, doesn't take long at all. He's a man with a noted lack of patience for the entire world. It's been gettin' on his nerves since the day he was hatched.

Hold your horses, you grumble yourself because ain't you allowed a little grumble of your own, once in a while. You come down to the mattress, still wearing your shorts and undershirt. Slick being the type of guy he is, has already skinned his off along with the rest of his duds. They're in crumpled heaps on the floor near the foot of the bed, while you've gone to the effort to hang yours away. You don't like things messy. That's all; your lives are messy enough, no need to add to it.

Still dressed, he sneers, and grabs you by the front of your undershirt to pull you close enough for him to kiss you. Using your good arm, you support yourself for the moment before easing yourself down onto the bed and onto your back. Slick props himself up on his elbow immediately, looking down at you. What?

What, what, you parrot back tunelessly and he punches you in the shoulder - thankfully the one with the bullet wound in it is on the other side. You grunt a little. Ow.

Don't be a pansy, Droog, he tells you and you roll your eyes before Slick moves to sling one leg over the other side of your hips. Sitting to straddle you, and you lift your remaining good arm to stroke his thigh. His gams ain't bad, and that's all you got to say about that. You're not letting all of your secrets out. He leans past you to the bedside table and comes back with two cigarettes and a packet of matches. Sticking both of 'em in his sneer of a mouth, he strikes a match and lights the two cancersticks in his mouth before waving the match out and throwing the pack of matches back somewhere in the direction of the table.

They don't hit, you can tell that from the rattle. You sigh.

Shut it. Slick sucks in air past the two cigarettes and then plucks one out to slide it into your mouth, while he exhales smoke from the thin slits of his nostrils. There, suck on that.

Go fuck yourself, you mumble around the oral intrusion before you suck on the cigarette like you're told to, like it wouldn't be your natural inclination anyway. You're not a man to turn down a lighted cigarette when it turns up, that's for sure. He breathes out, and you just look up at him, thumbing the hollow of his hip as he sits with his ass against your sheath. Can't say you're not feeling some stirrings, but you're tired enough, drunk enough, that you'll wait to see what Slick has in mind. And honestly? It's just safer that way, for everybody.

You're a pain in my ass, he tells you and then he shifts back so your wakening prick is sitting upright between his skinny thighs, and he drizzles lube down the growing length of it. You hiss out something between your clenched fangs, and try to remember not to bite your cigarette in half. He smirks. Because he's just that kind of asshole. God damn nancyboy, ain't no god damn use.

Don't think that was the case when I stopped Fin from plugging ya, you mutter and just watch as Slick anoints your growing spike with lube, making the fleshy extrusion from your carapace shine with slick liquid. He reaches down behind himself to finger his hole open and you let out a slow breath as he grins, and grimaces a little, working himself open in small pumping motions of his arm. God. You hate him. You adore him. You don't think you could be who you are without him, and that's the god damn truth. What's Diamonds Droog without Spades Slick.

Nothing, that's what.

You're just glad you hadn't said any of that aloud as he gets ready to ease himself down onto your straining prick, soft and obsidian-gleaming from the lube he'd overpoured all over you. Pansy, you snipe back in a belated kinda way and then groan as he sits down on your cock with a dangerous grin and his claws grinding holes into the shielding on your chest.

Fuck me, or shut up, he demands and you just groan again. Maybe you're too drunk for this, but bedamned if you're gonna admit that right to his ugly face. You shove your hand up against his chest, feeling your wounded shoulder throb.

You just keep doin' what you're doin', you snarl, and you know you're giving in but you suddenly don't give a pinch of ratshit that you are. There's a reason that Spades is still the boss. You know it, he knows it, and he laughs low and choked as a car backfiring, before lifting himself back up again and slamming down on your cock. You convulse and shout, and he laughs. Enjoying himself.

As long as he doesn't fucking stop, he can do whatever the fuck he fucking wants. Maybe you're just playing a dolly for him, but you don't care. He's the boss. And you're his right hand man. And you'll do whatever comes with that but especially. Especially. When it means seeing him like this, showing his teeth in a rakehell grin and his own shaft hard as he fucks himself on yours and takes exactly everything - everything - that he fucking wants from you.

Spades Slick is the leader of the Midnight Crew, and he owns you - and that's just how you like it.

Chapter Text

"He's so cute, reelly, Meenah - I don't know what your probubblem is!" You grin, showing all your fangs as you look over the room your sort-of-kind-of rival Heiress has shown you to. It's got a nice sort of fixture in the middle! You're pretty much already a fan of this kind of living sculpture, you gotta say. He's not your Ampora, but he's R-E-ELLY PR-ETTY and that's good enough for you, by moray than just a short cast of the trident. "Don't you know how to take cray of your buoys?!"

"Fuck you," Meenah spits back at you sourly and you giggle, giddy with ANTICIPRAYTION as the two of you get closer to the tied up troll in the middle of Meenah's concupiscentblock. He's strapped with ropes elbow to forearm, ankle to knee and suspended with his legs spread in a harness in the middle of the big, open space. Meenah shore has a big set of blocks! You're kind of J-EALOUS but you'd never spray so, of course. Cronus - she'd said her Ampora's name was Cronus (it's not as cute as ---ERIDAN but it'll do!) - looks super cute the wave he is all tied up, and with a gag in and a vibrator shoved into his nook.

You decide to pretend you didn't hear Meenah being so rude to you, and make aperchciative noises aboat how she's tied Cronus up in the middle of her block instead. Just piling on the flattery a bit, nothing too extreme. It works though, she softens up and starts acshoally talking to you properly and you can tell Cronus appreciates it. He's all flushed in the face and the fin, and when you diddle your fingers along his back, he shivers so sweetly. How could she just ignore him and praytend like she doesn't have such a SW-E-ETI-E tied up? All for hershellf? And you too, you guess, but you're shore this isn't the first tide she's done somefin like this. Her knots are just too good!

The mirrors tiling the walls reflect everyfin back to you, the three of your endlessly repeating and you decide to do the same fin exactly to one of your rooms when you get hive. You bet that your buoys and gills and everybaydy will look just as nice as Cronus does, reflecting back. You're a bit J-EALOUS that you didn't think of it before, if you're gonna be prawnest. As long as you're not shelling Meenah what a dumbdumb you were, you figure you're fine.

"Look at his cute littoral nook," you croon, and slide the tip of your finger in around the toy. He shouts wordlessly, trying to writhe in the ropes and you shiver to yourshellf, tongue licking at your fangs. Meenah's fins are just as flushed as yours are, no manta that she's trying to pretend like she's oh so above all of this. You're pretty glad you didn't wear any PANTI-ES, pfff. You hope Meenah's bulge is CHOKING inside her stupid pants. Bluh. You reelly kind of hate her? Just not in that way. Wharfebber! You're gonna have some fun here with one of her toys and who minnows? Moby he won't be her perchsonal toy for all that much longer. You're pretty shore you're a lot easier to get along wave, and you'd love the chance to have a matched set of violets. They'd look so CUT-E together.

"It's not bad," she sniffs, like she might just leave Cronus here and not take cray of that sweet nook, as dripping and needy as it obviously is. You look down, watching the way his nook convulses around the toy and purse your lips. Just a little bit! Just to yoarshellf! It's just so unappreciative, the wave she's acting. Maybe Beforans just don't have any MANN-ERS. This is meant to be showing you a different way of doing things, looking at the way Her Imperial Benefice ran things compared to Her Imperious Condescension but prawnestly? You don't like ebber way. You're gonna do things in Alterna your way, or no way at all!

And looking sideways at Meenah and the sulky downturn of her facegash, you think it won't be too hard to make Alternia and Beforus one Empire again. You know. When the tide turns. You're a long-term planner, what can you say? When you're Empress...things are going to change.

Anywave, right now you've got somefin else to pay attention to betides the possibility of reuniting your two disparate Empires - and that's this very cute buoy just glubbin' for a lil attention. You grab Cronus' nice taut glutes and squeeze! - netting a very nice trill out of it. So. Fucking. Cute.

"So did you invite me here just to look, or?" you prompt, becrayse you're pretty sick of her shit. She looks at you, and you grin back at her. Oh no, you're not giving her a chance to say anyfin bad about you atoll! You're an -EXC-ELL-ENT GU-EST and you're not going to hand her a chance to say anyfin different.

"I guess it'd be a waste of my tide if I didn't let you have a go," she concedes, and you enjoy that conchession with everything pitch-black in your pusher, your grin just turning up wider, brighter, another little notch. You don't think she even R-EALIS-ES how much ground she's losing to you, and you're having such a lot of fun. "He'll like it anyway; he's such a glub damn bulgeslut. Ain't you, Cronus, baybe?"

"Aww, don't be mean to him! He's so cute," you scold lightly, and pull the toy out with a small gush of violet hitting the floor near your feet with a pattering, liquid sound. He wriggles, not fighting the restraints but obviously too overwhelmed not to do somefin. Your cardiopump kind of swells, and you just feel this wash of pity all through your thorax for him. He's just trying so hard! And Meenah's such a beach. You're pretty much resolved at this point to try and take Cronus hive with you, and you suppose that you'll just have to do a lot of damage control when your shuttle lands if you're successful. Meenah doesn't desurf someone as sweet as this! It's not as important that it'll piss her off, but you'll admit that it's dolphinately not what you would call a con. "You want my bulge, don't you, Cronus?"

He nods in response to your question, drooling around the gag Meenah's shoved in his mouth at some point and you giggle. Meenah scoffs acidly as she pulls the gag out of his mouth, and you take that as permission to pull the vibe out of his nook. A cascade of violet slurry hits the floor, coating your fingers and you lean down to smooch his cute butt! He's in such gosh darn good shape, so he desurfs a little smooch, you think. You catch your own eyes over his back and you grin at your reflection as you toss the unneeded toy away, feeling like all the impishness you're feeling is taking life in this double in the mirrors.

It doesn't take much remora after that before you and Meenah are both feeding your bulges into your respective ends of Cronus; you've got his nook and she's feeding hers into his mouth, between those pretty lips. Your bulge and all its subsidiary tentacles are fighting to get into the soft grip of his nook, and you press forward with smooth expertise, forcing them inside him. His whole body goes taut as you push everyfin you got up into him (so cute!), and you can see him from almost every angle in the mirrors surrounding you all from every side.

He looks pretty, stuffed from both ends by you and Meenah. Mouth and nook full of tyrian bulges, fuchsia-tinged violet drooling from either orifice to land on the floor in growing puddles. Taking a moment to admire your own reflection - and Meenah's, just because you can't avoid it - you smack Cronus' ass and smile at Meenah in a way you know will drive her absolutely wild, the lower-ranked seadweller writhing between you both and against the hold of the harness keeping him up off the floor and pinned between two sets of Imperial bulges.

Cronus cries out, muffled by Meenah's bulge in his mouth and you don't think - knowing how good you are - that it'll take much to conchvince him to just visit Alternia. And after that? He's as good as yours.

And so's everything else Meenah thinks she owns, you think smugly to yourself, before settling to pailing Cronus' living nightlights out.

Chapter Text

"How you feeling down there, motherfucker," you say with amusement and pull gently on the leash attached to the scarlet collar of the pain in the ass mutant that you've been schoolfeeding this past lunar cycle, so as to make him look you in the ocular. Not that he's settled proper easy to acting a bulgeslut, but you got a knack for knowing when a motherfucker be craving some harsh subjugation in their pan. Getting him to admit to had been something fucking else entirely, but you're a very persuasive kind of clown - and once you'd gotten him to admit that his vow was god damn ridiculous in an unfunny way, everything else had followed on.

You think he likes how it feeds into everything that he shouldn't want. You're higher, exercising your natural fucking rights and following your instincts and he ain't about that. It's engraved into his god damn marrow, but still he wants you and all the nasty things you can do to him. And you know when someone wants you. If he hadn't wanted you even a lil bit, you wouldn't have been fucking interested. But you know, you know when that burning be in a motherfucker's bones. Normally, you'd have let it slide but you uptight, stressed, gotta play nice with the aliens for now, and all the fucking TRAITORS that they've taken under their wing.

So a righteous rolling ryda thinks that a brother be deserving of a little break, itty bitty.

It's funny too, because you know you culled the original spawnpoint for this mouthy little bitch for damn good reason. And you'd do it again too, if you hadn't been told to play nice. Paint-collection has been specifically forbidden and your fishbitch gave you a few good god damn reasons to perform the way she wants you to. So you're getting your feelings out in another way (Meenah hadn't said don't make one of the envoy fucks into your pailbitch, did she? Motherfucker, no, so you're fine). There's more than one way to skin a purrbeast than by using a gutting knife, and you should know, you've skinned a fair number in your time. He doesn't even have the sense to be proper afraid of you; not like any wiggler raised Alternia-bound has in their bones and blood. Oh, you frighten him. But it's incidental. That shit's aggravating, and you're thinking that by the time you leave this lump of behemoth-shit drifting in galatic void that calls itself a space station, you'll make sure he knows what it is to be PROPER HOLY AFRAID of a blessed ninja like you.

"You're disgusting. I can't believe you can become aroused by treating another troll like this," Kankri spits at you and makes a move to get up off his knees. You wait for him to get up, just into a crouch before you pull hard on the collar to bring him thudding up against you, half-sprawled into your lap. While he splutters, you use your free hand to pull him in higher up, curling the leash around your fist to get him in kissing distance while you grope his ass. "Pervert!"

"Sweet talker," you coo at him and plunge a finger into his sopping nook, making a squishy sound as you penetrate him from how motherfucking wet he is. Got to say that for a bucketbitch, he sure did get real motherfucking wet, it's one of the things you like about him. He goes scarlet to the ears, his little mutant gills trying to flare and it's honestly cute shit. But you got two frondstubs solid in that nook now, and just kinda fucking him with them, curling them in rhythmic motions against his inside walls the way a bulge would. "You just asking to be put over my god damn knee, sugar grub."

"I am - oh! I am not," he insists raggedly, and you laugh and just keep pumping your fingers in that cherryred nook while he shivers and moans. Trying hard to pretend like he ain't a mess. All up on his dignity - fuck, what a god damn fucking riot. A mutant ain't got no dignity - a mutant has no fucking worth. It's funny how he insists like he's a real person and all, but you know motherfucking better. Humans be miseducating these runaway trolls with all kinds of shit, and one day you're gonna have the go ahead to burn everything the fuck down, and you gonna enjoy it. Gonna have a real good time subjugating the motherloving shit out of these purse-lipped fucks, looking down on you and your paint, sneering at you and the way you speak like it ain't proper sacred, thinking on how you're nothing more than a stupid, bloody-fronded monster. Bloody-fronded and monster as you may be and enjoy it, but stupid?

Guess it's just Messiahs' blessing to have them think so. Underestimate you, and all your kind. You can't wait to show them exactly what it means to suffer the Dark Carnival on every inch of their territories. Praise be to the Messiahs, and may that holy night of torment come real fucking soon.

"Does that mean as thou dost not want a motherfucker's bulge in you?" you tease, and pull your fingers out of his nook while he splutters. Surveying the clingy strands of opaque slime, you spread your coated digits apart slightly before putting them in your mouth to suck the crimson slurry off of them. Don't taste as good as Red Pop faygo, but the look on his face sure makes up for it. "Fine. Go."

You drop him on his ass and lean back like you're not bothered at all by anything that's going on, stretching your arms wide as you make sure he can get a good look on up your calves, your thighs, all the way to your groin. Reaching down, you unsnap your pants and let your bulge slither into your hand. Give yourself a little stroke, from midlength to tip, watching Kankri through heavy lidded eyes.

"I - I - you-"

He looks god damn conflicted, stuttering with all the words he wants to say but they're all tangled up over each other so as he can't spit them out proper, and that's how you like him. Guessing. Wondering. Unfucking sure of himself, and stripped of that impudent arrogance that he wears like a cloak. You think if numero uno redblood could see this mouthy little fuck in front of you right now, he'd cull himself and not wait for you.

"Well? You think I'm so motherfucking disgusting, guess you ain't wantin' to get on this fine piece of clownbulge then." You slump your shoulders down, get comfortable with your knees wide apart and stroke yourself, propping the side of your face up on your other hand. Kankri looks at you like he could murder you, his short lil bulge trying to twist in on itself. Nook leaking down his thighs, obviously aching for what you got to go in it. "Door's behind you, motherfucker, in case you forgot where it is."

His face all twists up in fury and he stomps towards you like a wiggler throwing a tantrum. Don't lusii be teaching their grubs no manners out in the human worlds? You guess the fuck not. As he comes up to you, all full of himself and acting like he's in charge, you grab him by the hair with a flash of your hand and pull his head down, pushing on his shoulder until he's on his knees in front of you. In his proper fucking place, at fucking last.

"Now don't you think it's time to apologise, sugar grub?" you purr softly, and tickle the inside of his pan with gentle tendrils of your 'voodoos. Subtle, you know. Just enough to get him to do what he wants to do anyway; it's not force, it's persuasion. Seduction. Just a lil push to get him over the edge, nothing wrong with that. He goes down, purple gleaming behind the carmine crimson of his adult eyes. He's weak on the inside, soft, still a wiggler to the pusher and you know how to play that. He inches down your pants further until they're at your ankles, and then settles in on his knees and opens up that big fat fucking mouth. "That's it, good boy. Ain't it better when you play nice, like a good fucking bulgeslut?"

He looks like he wants to say something as you pull your chucklevoodoos back outta of his pan, but your bulge is already filling up his mouth so he don't really get the chance to. Grinning, you comb your fingers through the soft curls on his head and feel your bulge slither all the way down his throat, making him gag but he doesn't try to pull away. It's a slow sort of learning of how to behave like he should around you, but he do be getting there. You got more to show him yet, barely even cracked out your toys that you have a habit of picking up wherever you do go. There's been a few things you've picked up here that you're eager to try, although you doubt that he will be able to offer any sort of tutorial in how to use them. Guess you'll just have to figure that shit out together.

Maybe when you ship out of here, you'll have a heavier piece of luggage than what you left with. It'd be a shame to let all this training just get motherfucking wasted, wouldn't it? You think you're right, so you tuck the thought away for when you need it and enjoy the hot tight feel of Kankri's throat around your bulge until you feel a need for his tight nook around your bulge instead.

Chapter Text

You let yourself into the quiet suburban home and close the door behind yourself gently. Carefully. You need to be very firm on yourself when you're handling human-made objects, they so rarely have been designed with your sort of strength in mind. Your name is Equius Zahhak and you can't stop yourself from sweating, all the way through your shirt as you clear your throat and announce your presence to the seemingly empty house. If it wasn't for the smell of baking cakes, you would have thought it truly was and you'd perhoofs mismarked your calendar. But no. He's here. He's waiting. The thought sends a shiver down your spine and you swallow to wet your throat so you can actually get a word out.


An inelegant word and so inexorably human. And yet, and yet. Saying it has become a sort of trigger to your more base emotions and you hang your bag carefully by the door, take off your jacket to put it on the hook next to your bag full of textbooks and paper. It's cold outside but it's warm in here, the air redolent with vanilla and sugar, the smell of cooking bakery delicacies. That scent is also now something that you are aware of on levels that didn't exist previous to this relationship, and you frown down at the front of your pants. It's too early for your various parts to already be that eager. He hasn't even come to the door, you haven't even seen him yet and you've already got half a wiggly.

You're absolutely depraved.

"Equius, there you are. I was starting to wonder if something had happened to you." The warm, tender voice of the older human man who owns the house is a balm to your thoughts, and you lift your head to dare something like a smile. Trying out of habit not to bare your broken fangs. "I'm glad to see you're alright."

"Yes, I'm...fine, thank you," you say inanely, and take a moment to just look him over. The obvious strength of his upper arms, muscles showing decorously through the white fabric while he cradles a mixing bowl to his firm chest, obviously halfway through his baking. Thick black hair streaked with silver at the temples, craggy featured face almost troll-like in some ways (very highblooded, of horse). You swallow, again. You can't help yourself; something about him makes you feel absolutely parched. "What should I..."

"Oh, just come through to the kitchen, son. You can tell me about your classes while I finish up this cake." He winks at you and you feel yourself melt on the inside, like some sort of weak-kneed lowblood debutante. "I hope you've done all your homework? I won't take time away from your studies, you know that. Education first."

"Yes, sir," you say, the steely-tone of his voice jerking it out of you. He smiles softly, and comes closer to you, shifting the mixing bowl to sit in the cradle of one of his arms. The spoon almost seeming set to fall over the edge, although you're sure it would never dare.

"What are you meant to call me, Equius?" he prompts, and you squirm a little. You hate disappointing him and you feel your eyes drop to the floor, even if your shades are still hiding them. He taps his foot a little, and you feel the inward feeling of squirminess get even worse. Somehow. How intolerable - and exciting.

"...Daddy," you murmur, and you flick your gaze up quickly to meet his eyes before dropping them again, trying to gauge his mood. You're glad that there is no one around to see you like this; that John is somewhere else entirely. You trust James Egbert to manage the two halves of his life with precision, as easily as he manages the kitchen chemistry of turning out beautiful, award-winning cakes. It's a funny thing. You'd started out sort of pursuing John, mostly out of curiosity that a human could somehow be that strong, just about as strong as you from what you've been able to tell in passing. You've never been able to put it to a proper test, unfoaltunately. To add insult to some sort of minor injury, he'd never seemed to notice that you were potentially interested (you still don't understand what is meant by his denial that he is not a homosexual, which is what he said to Karkat, who'd been more forward about his flirtations) (Humans are odd creatures). When you'd met his human lusus - his father - things had happened...quickly.

One firm handshake, his eyes meeting yours with warm domination and you'd been gone, if you are to be perfectly harnesst.

"Good boy," he murmurs back, and you shiver at the sense of pleasure such a small thing can give you. "Come on then. I think my cake should be just about ready to come out of the oven. You can have some cookies and milk while I finish up."

"Thank you, Daddy."

He grips your upper arm briefly, often stern expression softening into a smile before the two of you remove your persons to the kitchen instead of standing around in the hallway aimlessly. You tell him about some of the difficolties you are having adjusting to a Terran schooling system and he hums and ahs, bustling around his kitchen with focused intent. You know he's listening, and that makes it worth it. It's different to when you jam with Nepeta. She's there to make you be a better person, someone who knows you all the way to your most hidden and ugly parts - and you do the same for her. This's more flushed. You think. It's very human. You still don't understand the species, even if your cultural exchange has meant you've lived here now for almost as long as you'd lived on Alternia (you miss your moirail, you miss your lusus, you miss being somewhere meant for those like you so badly). You are learning a lot. It should be of benefit to the Empire, you hope - and there have been compensations.

Like this. You eat your cookies neatly and sip from the glass of milk, ice-cold from the refrigerator as James pulls one cake from the oven to put on a rack to cool and slides another filled tin in to replace it. You don't know exactly who eats all the cakes he's always cooking, because he sure makes an awful lot of them and you're sure that if he was eating them himself, there would be some sign in his body. The bare softening of his gut is due more to age, you think. If he really ate every cake he baked, he'd be more of a spherical shape and that is herdly the case. At all.

"There," he says with satisfaction, and you sit up a little straighter in your chair, reminding yourself not to clench your hand around your glass. You don't want to shatter it. You've gotten much, much better than when you'd first arrived on Earth but there have still been...accidents. "Now. We'll retire, shall we?"

"Please," you sigh, and you gratefully let your caution and restraint relax. He never asks you to do anything that you won't be able to do. Things go softly, the way you've come to expect them to. You still feel like you should be the one taking care of him, but you're lucky if he lets you help him take his shirt off. Instead he looks after you, brushing your hair out gently with a wood-backed brush, cleaning your horns with a soft cloth, helping you undress until a purr is buzzing through your thorax with how gently cared for and appreciated you feel. Since you so often fail at making personal connections, you wonder if you're putting too much weight on this one but then - when you're with him - you think how foalish any idea that he's not just as invested in this as you are would have to be.

"Feeling good, Equius?" he murmurs, and strokes your hair gently. It's loose now, and you're nude on his platform (his bed, you remind yourself), kneeling with your feet tucked underneath your rump, hands on your thighs. Good posture, as always. He's unbuttoned his shirt and taken off his tie, untucked the hem from his pants, looking more relaxed. You look up at him, feeling that your pupils must be widely dilated with how relaxed you feel and nod slowly. He smiles, showing his teeth before snapping his fingers together. You spread your knees further apart, leaning back a little to push your chest out, feeling frissons of excitement racing up and down your spine. "Good. You're so good for Daddy, you remembered that from only being asked once."

He smiles, and you try not to pant too obviously, while your bulge curls neglected between your thighs. Of horse you remembered, you work to remember everything he tells you to do, in the most exquisite tiny detail. He doesn't get mad at you when you don't remember, or you make a mistake - it's just that sometimes you manage to make him disappointed and that's worse than anything you've ever felt before and you don't know why you've put so much stock in the regard of one simple human. But here you are. Nepeta thinks Mr Egbert is good for you, and she's probably right. It definitely gives you an...outlet. For a number of base desires. And for once, it's quite a mootual regard.

"Show me your nook, baby." Wordlessly, you reach down between your thighs to spread the lips of your nook open with one finger of each hand. Your bulge takes the opportunity to wrap around your wrist, squeezing hopefully as you shiver, back molars grinding against each other. To keep your chest out, you have to tip your head back a little so you're looking up mostly at the ceiling, and you hope he'll tell you to relax soon. So you can look at him. "Did you miss me?"

"I - uh! - yes, Daddy, I missed you," you wheeze out as a hot finger slides softly into your nook. You keep your pose, feeling your hands want to tremble, but you have to keep doing what he's asked you to do. The finger is moving in and out gently, occasionally curving to press against the nerve-clusters spread throughout the innermost parts of your nook. That's - hhrk - oh goodness. "So much - hah -"

"What else did you miss, Equius?"

What did - what could he mean - hhnnn, oh that's two fingers now -

Sudden realisation blooms as you try to think of the right way to answer his question, not wanting to disappoint. You can feel the back of your neck flush, sweat dripping across your body. The squeeze your bulge is putting on your wristbones is actually impressive.

"Your - " You choke for a moment, still not entirely used to this. He hums softly, while his fingers curl repetitively inside your nook, pressing on one particular cluster in a soft massaging motion. The insides of your nook pulse, and you feel a gush of pre-slurry splatter across his hand and you want to die for a moment out of pure embarrassment, even if it's not new to him any more. The reactions of your lewd body. "Your cock, Daddy, I missed your cock."

Is that right? Was that right?

"Good. Very good, clever boy." You get a kiss for your answer and your eyelashes flutter closed, feeling his thick, experienced fingers work inside your nook as he leans over you. Teeth dragging against the chapped surface of your lower lip, before his tongue presses into your mouth, his fingers still thrusting. Moving. As you hold yourself open for him to do whatever he wants to do. "You get a reward for that. Mmmm..." He pulls back a little and pulls his fingers out, while you hold back a whine of disappointment. You try to tilt your head a little, reflexively, wanting to see him and what he's doing while you're still holding the lips of your nook spread, making a blue puddle in the middle of his bed. And he's barely touched you yet. "Look at me, son."

You drop your head, feeling the relief of it spreading across your taut shoulders as you orient your gaze to his voice where he's standing in front of you. He's taken off his shirt and he's...holding the hairbrush. Oh. Oh.

"Since you've been so good, you'll get to go over my knee," he says calmly, like he's not about to spank you mercilessly with the wooden-backed hairbrush in his hand. He's just spinning it a little, tapping it against his thigh. You drink in the sight of him, from the strong set of his shoulders to the (occasionally disturbing) mat of charcoal and silver hairs growing thickly on his chest that leads down to a narrowing trail that disappears under the waistband of his dress pants. Where you can see an encouraging bump, something that says he's as engaged in this as you are. "And then Daddy's going to fuck you properly. Does that sound good, Equius?"

"Yes, Daddy," you croak, swallowing hastily as he smiles at you and goes to sit on the end of the bed. He pats his knee encouragingly, beckoning you over to lay down over his knee. Once you're there, on your stomach over his lap with your face resting against your folded arms, you feel his hand cup your rump. Just petting you for a moment, as you breathe out and prepare yourself. Trying to ignore the knowledge of how your bulge is trying to twist into the fabric of his pants and the bedspread, making an absolutely abominable mess. Not helped by the way your nook is steadily leaking either.

"I'm so pleased that you're behaving well enough that I can reward you, Equius. I've been thinking of this for days," he murmurs against your hair, bending down for a moment. You feel the warmth of his body and shudder slightly at the intimate feel of it, before he pulls away to sit up properly. The hard flat back of the hairbrush lands hard on your ass and you gasp, fingers flexing and then it lands again, and again. Properly measured, careful with every strike as he spanks you with it. You're so turned on, you're dizzy and you groan softly. He'll keep going until you've had enough, you know that. And then he'll fuck you, with the hard thrust and surging snap of his hips that humans seem to prefer. It's alien and exotic, and he'll tell you how good you are and you want it so badly. The hairbrush lands with a crack against the crease where your thigh meets your ass and you choke, returned abruptly to the moment you're in right now.

"Daddy." You muffle your words against your arms, trying not to rock too obviously to get some friction on your bulge. Just something more. He chuckles softly, but he doesn't stop. Not yet. You're not done, and neither is he and you can't wait to see just how far he's going to push you tonight.


Dad Egbert/Equius

Chapter Text

"Get your hand off my ass, before I remove it for you," you say without looking around, knowing exactly whose enormous paw is currently plastered to the curve of your rump in your formal Legislacerator uniform. No one else would dare, even in this exalted assemblage. "And I won't use my hand to do so; I'll use my sword."

"Oh oh, what's got your panties all motherfucking twisted up, lawbitch?" the low rumble of the Grand Highblood comes from behind you, but the cool hand is removed from your behind. Not without one last squeeze, of course, but he is what he is. And that's why you hate him. You wouldn't call what he feels towards you hate, he'd have to respect you for that. It's more of an irritated fondness, like you imagine someone may feel towards their domesticated barkbeast. Still. As long as you don't take the whole thing seriously, it works. "Motherfucker, I'm fucking bored."

"I suppose that for you, an Imperial ball is old hat by now, milord," you say, keeping your eyes outwards and watching as the currents of court move in front of you. Clowns and seadwellers, deferential bluebloods and a few lower bloods of various colours serving drinks and little food tidbits. The Empress is holding firm in a group of Her admirals, gold glittering as She throws her arm wide in a gesticulation and almost takes out a rustblood trying to scurry past with a tray of empty drinks.

"Ten points to the lowblood," he says in your ear and you think he even sounds impressed as the rustblood leans back, dipping at the knees and lowering their tray like a limbo dancer, straining to keep the tray steady so they don't drop the glasses and also not commit the sin of interrupting Her Imperious Condescension mid-flow. The tendons in their forearms strain visibly, even from where you are but as the Empress sweeps Her hand back in to stick Her Imperial Pointerstub in the face of Admiral Deathclaw, the lowblood recovers their balance and stands up before scurrying desperately away from the group before something happens again. The glasses wobble, but they don't quite fall over until the poor bastard is out of range and through one of the service doors; and then you hear a tinkle-crash of just the one glass, you think. "Mmm. Gonna take one point off for falling on the dismount."

"Did you have a reason to speak to me, Your Mirthfulness?"

"Can't a motherfucker just want to chat?"

"Hmm!" You pretend to think that over for a moment, then shake your head. You're only tealblooded troll in attendance and you know the only reason you're here is because you're a momentary amusement to him, and possibly to Her. You're just one legislacerator among many but you're very, very good. Especially considering that you're still only a Neophyte. Your 'reward' for your last mission has been to attend this ball, and not be expected to be one of the serving staff. So far, you've been mostly ignored and that suits you entirely well. Much safer for you, overall. "No, I believe you have some darker purpose in pusher, Grand Highblood."

"Why not? You're the only fucking new thing in this whole fucking place." He sighs, and you can feel his breath stir the short strands of your cropped hair. You're a troll of efficiency, and leaving more than a handful for an opponent to get a hold of was inefficient. At best. You'll leave the dangers of fancified long hair to nobletrolls like this clown bastard and Her Imperious Condescension. As though thinking of Her was enough to get Her attention, Her maddened fuchsia-brilliant gaze swings to you for a moment where you're standing and She smirks. Then looks away, leaving you feeling like you've only just managed to survive a maelstrom - and She'd only looked you over a moment! "Hey."

He nudges you with an elbow and you scowl, knocked sideways and trying to regain a shred of your dignity as you elbow him back unthinkingly. Your response gets a low thundering chuckle, so he's not too mad about it, you guess.

"Go pail yourself with a club, I'm sure you know how," you mutter and he laughs again, before wrapping his hand around yours. Your grasper is fucking enveloped by his, lost in the depths of his immense palm. God, you hate him so much. "What? Your most mirthful highness," you hiss, tacking on the salutation on the end as though it's going to make things better. It wouldn't, but no one can say you don't make an effort!

"Come with me, Neophyte," he says and then moves off, as though he's expecting you to follow. It's not as though you have a choice, since he's holding your hand. You forget your court manners enough to scowl at his back, before moving after him with your boot-heels lightly ticking across the floor. He moves silently, like a ghost. The two of you cross the room, you a slim and slender thing at his side in teal and Imperial crimson, him a hulking monster in blacks and purples, scattered with the old yellow of the fangs he uses as jewellery. Old conquests, old enemies, old quadrants...with him, it could have been any one thing. Or nothing at all. You don't ask who's teeth they are, because the answer to the question is one for once, you don't think you want to know.

And usually you're all about questions! You ask a lot, all the time, with a certain amount of pointed emphasis. But, you think, not this one. An important skill for a midblood to have, to know when to not ask questions.

"This is unlike your usual modus operandi, milord," you say cautiously as he leads you from the ballroom and then to a staircase, dropping your hand nonchalantly. You follow him up it, the steps just far enough apart for you to make your thighs ache as you stretch. Damn highblooded bastards and their long legs. He just hums, and keeps climbing up. You watch his ass and wonder what exactly is on his mind. The stairs lead you to a balcony that overlooks the ballroom floor; going to the edge, you look down at the circulating trolls and then back at the Grand Highblood. Who's grinning like he's won something. He's got some idea in his head, and hopefully it's not going to be your untimely death. It's always a risk! You like to calculate your odds. "So why are we up here?"

"I told you, I'm bored." He comes up to you, gripping your hips in his hands and smoothing the palms down the outside of your thighs, over the length of your formal tabard and down the tight-fitting pants underneath.

"Bored," you repeat, giving him a sardonic look but not making a move to stop him as he starts to peel your pants down your legs. Lifting one foot than the other, you let him crouch in front of you to wiggle the lower half of your formal uniform over your boots. Glancing back over your shoulder, you don't see any faces upturned to look at you but that doesn't mean it will stay that way. Anyone could see you, and you're distinctive here just because you're the only Legislacerator in the whole room. Your tabard is mostly scarlet. It would be hard to mistake you for anyone else; all the same, you can't pretend that you're not feeling aroused at the idea that they might.

"Ain't you?" he chuckles, and rubs his thumbs over the inside of your knees, working his way up to your thighs as he looks up at you with a leering grin. All fang and tongue. It's disgusting that you find that attractive now, and your bulge squirms out another inch or so from your sheath. This fucking bastard deserves to hang from a judicial rope, and he never fucking will. Life's unfair, you remind yourself, and spread your legs further apart as you hold onto the railing with both your hands. "So a motherfucker thought of a way to fucking fix that shit. I'm a motherfucking genius."

"Your Mirthfulness is a unbelievable pinnacle of - ah! - subjugglatorhood," you say as his head disappears underneath the hanging hem of your tabard. Fuck, his tongue just covers every inch of your nook and sheath, with only one lick. And he already knows how many licks it takes to get to your soft candy centre, the assmunch that he is. "I am truly stunned at every one of your spontaneously terrible plans."

"That sounds like you being rude, Tula'sis," he murmurs in a muffled away underneath the hanging cloth of your uniform and you throw your head back, gritting your teeth. Talking is one thing, but moaning out loud is another. He lavishes your nook with attention, thick tongue squirming inside and then pulling out to lap at your sheath and willing bulge. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck! You hiss out a sharp exhale between your clenched fangs and try to stay unnoticed. His horns are probably visible over the edge of the balcony railing that you're sitting on, maybe. "Gotta flagellate you some for that, and you motherfucking know it."

"Fuck you - hmmph!" You bite your tongue so hard you taste blood to shut yourself up as he slurps your bulge into his mouth and sucks. Bracing yourself with gray-knuckled grip and heels pressing hard against the solid wall of the balcony shielding, you manage to keep your yelp strangled in your throat. You can't even look around to see if anyone is looking, and you can't get down. Not with a clown between your thighs with his mouth around your bulge and two fingers shoved up into your greedily clenching nook.

You're trapped until the Grand Highblood is finished with you. Fuck, you hate him, you hate him so god damn fucking much, you hope he slips when he gets out of the sopor every evening from now until his death. Still. He is very, very good at the terrible things he does. It's a telling benefit in your list of pros and cons. Trying not to thrash, you grit your fangs as he swallows around your bulge and hope that the only puddle of teal tonight is going to be your slurry on the floor of the balcony; and not from your corpse if you fall off the fucking railing.

It's definitely at least a fifty-fifty chance and you have to say, you like those odds!

Chapter Text

You're feeling really hot, is the suggestion you plant into the head of one Kankri Vantas. Hot. Your neck is prickling.

Sitting three tables away in the mostly empty library, you rest your chin on your hand and watch the Insufferable Kankri Vantas pluck at the neck of his sweater, pulling it away from his skin. It's nothing. Just a little exercise to see how your powers are developing. You have a responsibility to yourself to see that you reach the full extent of everything that you can do; and you're sure that everyone else will appreciate it once they see how it benefits all of your peer group. It's too bad how they all don't see how if they just did what you told them to do, if they followed your suggestions, how much 8etter everything would be. You don't think you're wrong.

You're sure you're right.

And Kankri has been really rude lately? Saying terrible things, about the sanctity of a person's mind and how you should consider a different method of culling. At least the way you think you'll be able to do things, whoever you cull will be happy about it. You'll make sure they won't be able to be anything else. Is that really such a bad thing? You don't think so.

Maybe it is time to take him down a peg or eight.

You settle back, and perform a small sweep for minds that might interrupt you. No one in the building has any sort of power like you, you're the only mind-enveloper close by. There's barely anyone at all you find to your surprise; the library is very very quiet tonight. And even with how quiet it was, Kankri still hadn't even noticed you when you came in, and you'd been too hurt by the last conversation you'd had with him to want to get his attention. You're alone, there's no one there to see you instruct him just so you can cover your bases, and settle in for a little game. Feeling your webs between your metaphorical fingers, plucking at a string here and there as you cast them over Kankri Vantas' bitter little thinkpan.

Latula you hum, and feel a flash of repressed mating fondness before you switch filaments and tug on the thought that you'd planted earlier. Hot. It's sticky in here. He grimaces and picks up his water bottle to drink from it, the long arch of his neck showing for a moment. Tugs at his collar again, before rubbing the bottle briefly against the side of his face. There's no one here, no one will know if you take your sweater off for a moment. It's only for a moment. No harm. No need to worry.

He hesitates and you press down insistently on that idea of heat, and he pauses just a moment more before reaching down to pull his crimson-red, freak-scarlet sweater up over his head and set it to the side on the table. He's attractive, in a sort of way, and you take a moment to look him over as he rubs his face with his hand. Much more attractive if he's not actually saying anything. If you're the one in charge. Even if he's still not really your type.

You're still very hot. The air-conditioning must be broken. Maybe taking off another layer will help.

This one takes longer to take effect and you delight in your own skill as he peels off his shirt to show bare skin, the struts of his grubscars still just as pre-adult black as yours. He's got cute little rumblespheres, and you look down at your own more well-endowed chest with a certain amount of fondness. You don't admire yourself for long, looking back up and guiding Kankri's hand to rub the cool, sweating water bottle down his throat to his chest. Grazing those perky little 'spheres and making him gasp softly.

Oh, that feels nice. Do it again.

He does, blunt teeth digging into the corner of his lip. You get up from your desk silently so you can move to have a better view. His gaze passes right over you as you perch yourself on the corner of one of the desks, and you venture deeper. More authoritative now that you're sure of your control.

What if Latula...did this His eyes close for a moment, deep breath lifting his shoulders as he more slowly moves the bottle across his sternum. Then down, following the line of his thorax towards the waistband of his pants. Well, you didn't even have to do anything to get that kind of reaction. Her hand would be so cool, so good on your hot skin.

There's a little jog, like he almost remembers where he is and how exposed, how very inappropriate a location this is for a self-pail session but you override it easily. Now you're in there, you can see all these nasty little thoughts that he has. My, my, Mr Vantas, how dreadfully banal all your little fantasies really are. You smile to yourself, feeling one of your upper fangs cut into your lower lip.

Your pants are uncomfortable. Maybe if you take them off, you'll feel better.

He nods almost dreamily, and you would swear you could see your sigil burning brilliantly beautifully blue on his forehead. He's all yours now. There's no reason for you to stop yourself, and he won't be able to. It's a good test of your powers; being able to control the celibate, prudish Kankri Vantas to undress in public (and more, shortly)...well, you'll be able to make just about anybody do anything. Eventually.

No one will make fun of you any more, once you can make sure they only think the best of you. The way they should. You're much smarter than the rest of them; they should be grateful to be able to avail themselves of your knowledge and intelligence. It's so stupid that they don't. They just don't appreciate you.

With a start, you recall yourself and are pleased to find that your mental webs have barely had a chance to melt despite Kankri's growing unease as he peels his tight leggings down off his legs. You eye the chubbiness of his inner thighs and the soft folds of his belly with a certain sharp appreciation, feeling the shape of your teeth with the tip of your tongue. You're finding yourself to be surprisingly invested in the whole scenario.

Use the water bottle between your thighs. So cool. His eyes are glazed as he brings the cool column of the water bottle down between his legs, nestling it against the soft flush of his nook and bulgesheath. You're sure he's very close to unsheathing. Just a little more. Mmm. Imagine how much 8etter it would be if it really was Latula. Her bulge, tangling with yours. Her bulge, in your nook.

That does it; his bulge comes out in a liquid movement to wrap haphazardly around the water bottle and you smirk as he bucks his hips upwards, and gasps. There's a small but noticeable amount of red slurry starting to drip from the edge of the chair. He whimpers out loud and you delve deeper, you ply your manipul8ons as best as you know how. And Kankri the Insufferable Vantas, comes apart in the middle of the library.

Naked, gasping, quietly moaning while his bulge tries to mate with the inhospitable coolness of a metal container. It'd be humiliating, in just about any other context. You wonder what he's going to think when you let go and he wakes up, covered in his own fluids and having stained irreparably one of the library's chairs in a colour that couldn't be anyone else's but his.

Getting up from your seat on the desk, you go back to grab your satchelbag and hoist it over your shoulder. And ahem, move it to be at the front of your skirt so you can hide a little problem of your own. Maybe you'll give Meenah a buzz on her shellphone and see...if she wants to help you work out some frustrations.

Smiling a little secret smile to yourself, you leave the building. Feeling Kankri already working himself to a crescendo - and coming back to himself when it's too late to stop itself. Nature, after all, must take its course.

And it's just not really your fault that you're a predator, and he's manifestly prey.

Chapter Text

There are guys who would kill to be in your position, you're sure of that. Sandwiched for life between two delectably stacked ladies who enjoy all the finer things in this shithole of a world. You know, like cute onesies, dead shit in jars, furry roleplay, important things like that, and they don't mind when you break into awkward rap so you don't have to talk about shit like your feelings and whether you did do the dishes like you said you were going to, only that just didn't kind of happen. Dishes just don't tend to happen around you. At least you know how to use a washing machine now, instead of leaving your clothes in the bottom of the shower. Between the three of you, you're a vaguely functional adult.

Anyway, you are in the middle of god damn nowhere, it's very beautiful, there's lots of trees and nature everyfuckingwhere, and you're just keeping out of the way while your far more capable girlfriends put up the tent and do all the campsite things. You've got photos to take, so it's not like you're doing nothing at all. Someone needs to make sure that their daring exploits are properly documented, and generally narrated. If you're chanelling David Attenborough, you don't think anyone should blame you.

"Hey, Cheetara, look this way," you say, watching as Nepeta's arms flex while she pulls on a rope or something and the tent just kind of pops into being like a mushroom after rain. She half-turns, flashing you a fang-filled grin as the muscles in her arm stand out and you take the snap. She looks so fucking good, you might even send a copy of this one to her weird creepy sweatyass queer platonic life partner. Yeah, yeah, moirail, you know. Now you've got a troll girlfriend to match the human one, you've had to take a certain amount of cultural knowledge in a god damn crash class. Crash like a fucking avalanche, more like it.

You're not acing it yet but thank fuck because Jade is in the same boat. Neither of you are what you'd call typically raised human beings either, you guess, humans are almost as much of a mystery as trolls. But you're not going to get into the sad sad tale of Little Orphan Jadie and the Coolest Kid to walk the fucking earth, or how they got together or how they absorbed an alien from outer space into their couple as a college summer fling become something more.

Oh hey, reader, just fyi. You're operating under a misapprehension of time and space if you think the beginning of this story is where we actually are. Nah, nah, nah, fam.

That whole summer camp scene, chill and fucking relaxed? That was this afternoon.

It's now night time, it's really fucking dark and you are currently running for what feels like your life through a lonely forest in just boxers and your sneakers. You don't even have your shades, a cruel casualty to feminine wiles. Damn you and your easily manipulated dick. You're a screaming blonde heroine looking for her horror movie, all the way down to the sexual promiscuity. Although, you're maybe an seven, an eight and not a ten like most teen scream horror queens - it's nice to know that if you brought the thought up, Jade and Nepeta would both disagree and noogie you until you changed your mind about not being a perfect ten point ten ten outta Tennessee.

Holding your arms in front of your face to keep branches from whipping one of your eyes out, you try and stay upright. Just running, just keep running, just keep running. You hear a crash from the left and veer to your right, heart pumping in your chest and your tendons straining as you try to move your toned, delectable legs faster. If this was a city, you'd be fine, you could parkour your way out of shit just as easily as fucking Spiderman but a forest? The wilderness? You're a city slicker in the depths of nature and you know you're being hunted. The biggest trophy of all in the Great Game.

Oh shit, what was that, what the fuck was that?

You miss a step as you hear a howl in the direction you were running and your whole monkey brain is just gibbering in fear, it's making it hard to make sensible choices, to think as coolly and as smoothly as you usually do. You're just a dumb panicky animal running like Usain Bolt through the god damn forest and you're going to die - you're going to die and animals are going to eat your bones - bye John, Rose, you never told John how much you digged his ass that time in gym or told Rose how much you loved her and also how hot her Goth vampire alien girlfriend is -

A muscular body hits you like a quarterback hitting a stray running linebacker, you know that guy just trying to play the game for fun and not for blood - oh fuck you're going down. Fuck you're going to die, you're going to FUCKING DIE-

You hit the ground hard and you hear Jade's delighted laugh in your ear, and it's like bullet time, everything you've just been experiencing swooshing into place and finally making sense.

"No fair!" Nepeta trills from your left and then suddenly you're enveloped in warm, sweating female bodies. You commend your soul to God, as though the celestial asshole would ever want such a stained and dirty thing as Jade jostles you from one side and Nepeta from the other. You're still in the dirt like a downed animal, a creature of prey, and someone's hand is on the back of your neck, squeezing gently. From the lack of pinprick, you think it's Jade, guarding her trophy kill.

You've never been so glad to die.

You're being smothered in tits, you're pretty sure that your face is currently planted in the glorious cleavage of Jade's breasts while Nepeta presses against you from the back. You're so god damn hard you could break coal with your magnificent erection, but you can't touch anything for shit since someone has your wrists tightly in their grip. Maybe one with Jade, one with Nepeta? You're not sure and honestly you don't care.

"Oh - hey - oh those were my boxers, ok, goodbye my final shred of girlish modesty," you say, muffled from your place between Jade's truly magnificent bahonkadonkers as someone's hand skims your boxers down over your ass and away. Good thing you're not attached, they're just shit from Walmart. If they'd been your one of a kind smuppet underwear you might have cared - hahaha no, you are absolutely fucking with whoever's reading this. You think Nepeta burned that pair, actually, and good riddance. Maybe you couldn't bring yourself to get rid of them, but you won't be sad someone else did. "I guess I don't need those, they are kinda superfluous to where I hope this is going - whoa, hello -"

Nepeta's bulge is squirming between your asscheeks and you suck in a breath, kind of figuring where this is going. Jade's hand wrenches your head up to kiss you. Her front teeth grate against yours and you yelp as Nepeta's hands spread your cheeks, and her bulge finds its accustomed place up your ass. Oh fuck, you'd swear you were about to cum already, you're so hyped from the chase, who knew running through the terror-filled night was so boner inducing - oh wait what the fuck -

"Not yet, Akwete Purrmusk," Nepeta purrs into your ear, and you mean that literally, you can feel her thoracic muscles vibrating with it as she presses up against your back. You groan, as your tender pink rosebud of an asshole is slowly forced open by your girlfriend's somewhat large, very appreciated, olive-green fucktentacle from a hentai wetdream. God, that feels so fucking good. "You know you have to pay your purrnalty."

"Oh yeah, sure, I don't mind that at all - oh hey, Jade's vagina, I missed you - mpphh -" You're smothered in pussy from the front and getting fucked by Alien Catgirl from the Fifth Dimension from behind. You bet if you could actually see, and looked up, you'd see Jade and Nepeta making out while you're sandwiched between them. And a little fake near-death experience only gets the adrenaline pumping. You'll play mouse to their apex predator duo any fucking time.

Even if you're starting to think you bashed your way through a patch of poison ivy at some point. Still worth it.

Chapter Text

You let your hand rest on the obsidian black hair of your partner as he kneels at your feet. In your hand is a leash, the leash is connected to a collar, the collar is around his throat. His mouth is pressed in a kiss against the side of your knee, his hair hiding his face in a soft curtain of silk, and you've just cum all over his face. It's not as messy or as obvious a claiming as it would be if you were the same species, humans are not quite as volatile in the genetic material production supply as Alternians are.

You wish you could.

You'd mark him, his whole body, in a waterfall of whatever kind of genetic slurry your blood would allow you to produce. Cover him in your colour so you could show the whole galaxy who he belonged to, in a very primal and basic sense. Sometimes you wonder, what kind of troll you would be if you'd been hatched, rather than born and slipped from woman's womb. Something cold. Something chilled. Something you're sure he'd enjoy obeying, if you were telling him what to do, just the way you are now. He enjoys the titillation of your mutual situation nonetheless, the heat of your alien blood, the softness of your body compared to his angular, insectoid shape.

"You're a disgusting piece of filth, you know that don't you, Zahhak," you murmur, and jerk a little on the leash to pull his head up. Make him look at you, your lavender eyes meeting tired blue ones. You're standing naked except for black thigh-high stockings, with a little jaunty satin bow on the outside curve of each of your thighs. You'd made him keep his striped socks on. It's a mutual thing. He looks good on his knees, looking up at you like you're his whole world.

Something that feels ancient and sick clenches inside you at the thought, the whole imagery of being someone's focus entire, just like that. He could belong to you. Outside of just this play-acting and there's a part of you that would like the idea. There's a part of you inside that would swallow him whole and not even pause to breathe, you know that. Taking little meals like this, a little subservience, a little sex, some pseudo intellectual doesn't satisfy, but it mollifies. God, there's a hollow inside you and it's always so fucking hungry.

"I know, ma'am, I'm filth, thank you for taking time with me," he murmurs, and you coil the leash around your hand. Pulling upwards, making him strain. You haven't said he could get up off the floor yet, or take his arms away from where they're crossed behind his back. He's so good. So obedient. Your pussy clenches, tight tingling burning low in the hollow of your pelvis. His mouth is still shining with the juices you do produce and your tongue flickers over your lower lip as you look him over.

Muscled. Solid. Dependable blueblood of the Alternian Empire, Equius Zahhak. Currently more or less naked on your bedroom floor. He's making quite the puddle on said floor, nook and bulge dripping, and just generally sweating. It's some sort of genetic condition, he's reluctant to discuss it so you haven't really pressed. Your relationship isn't like that; you leave feelings for his olive-blooded moirail with her silly little hat. This is basic, primal, and it involves you taking him to pieces while the two of you enjoy yourself sexually.

"You'd do anything I told you to, wouldn't you," you say crisply, and you feel the certainty of your statement ring you through to your bones like a solemn bell. He nods, barely able to move his head with how firm you're holding his leash. If he makes his movements too large, he could snap the leather. It's exhilarating, being in control of so much strength. "Get down on your back and spread your legs."

You release the soft coils of the leash you'd been holding in your hand, and he does exactly what you told him to do with an eagerness that you find very attractive. He's tall, taller than you and it's always a thrill to have him obey you without a hint of rancour, of anything other than near-servile obedience. You step closer and put your stocking foot on the centre of his chest, pressing down. He takes up a certain amount of space, Mr Zahhak. Those broad bones, or whatever suited Alternians for bones. They carried a lot of flesh.

Digging your toes into the dip between his pectorals, you watch him shudder. You're still holding the handle of the leash in your hand, the curve of it swinging empty between the two of you. All of your body pulses, hungry, eager. He would let you do - just about anything you thought you would enjoy.

"I could put something in this nook," you hum, moving to trail your pointed toe down from his chest towards his groin and that eagerly seeking bulge. It wants to coil around something, or bury itself somewhere. You put your weight down on those sculpted muscles of his stomach and he groans loudly while his bulge tries to coil around what it can reach of your heel. "It looks very needy to me. What do you think, Equius? Do you deserve some more attention?"

"Please," he begs and because you're not a completely unmerciful bitch, you slide your foot down that critical inch or so, lifting your toes to trap the tip of his bulge between them and his skin. He shivers so hard, he almost unbalances you. Thank goodness for all those years of ballet, hmm? Even if you'd almost been forced at gunpoint to them; you'd enjoyed violin lessons a lot more. Your mother had had certain ideas about what a girl like you should do and learn, for the sake of the neighbours. Or maybe she really had thought you'd enjoy it. You don't understand your mother, and you don't think you ever will - you have more important things to concentrate on right now then the benign neglect of your childhood, however. "Please, mistress, I - please -"

"What do you want?" you purr, feeling his bulge try to wriggle underneath your foot and between your toes. It's not really sensual, but it's more the literary allusions of having him underfoot, beneath you, and how easily you could hurt him so very badly in such a sensitive place despite how strong and muscular he is. He's vulnerable to you despite your comparative weakness and he wants to be. Much more intoxicating than vodka martinis, and easier on your liver. "Use. Your. Words. Equius."

"I, I, I," he stammers and you enjoy the cruelty of teasing the tip of his bulge with inexpert, clumsy movements of your toes. It's made harder by the sheer material of your stockings, the way it makes separating your toes a difficulty. But the way he reacts makes it worth it. You hmm? inquisitively, but with that little lilt that means you're getting bored. That pushes him over the edge and everything comes out in a rush, begging for you to touch him, to put one of your toys in his nook, anything, something, occasionally interspersed with the clicking glottals of the Alternian tongue when he forgets how to say things in English. It's very pitiful, and so exciting your breath comes in a rush as you inhale. Giddy with it.

"Shhhh," you soothe, and roll the ball of your foot over his bulge while he chokes. When you lift your foot, geneslime hangs in delicate strands in the air. Connecting the two of you with deep, indigo blue. "You've been so good. Turn over onto your knees and keep your face on the ground. I'll be back in a moment."

He nods, and you have to smile at the look he gives you before you turn your back and head to your toychest. You can hear him grunt a little, the shift of his body against the ground as he moves to do exactly what you tell him.

"Don't look," you singsong, and pick out one of the larger dildos in your collection. You'd bought it just for him, and it's deep blue and shaped like the phallus of a horse. It suits him, and you already know how much he enjoys it. It doesn't take you long to slather it with the lube you'd both found acceptable for your play and then you come back to kneel behind him and start working the heft of the silicone toy deep into his nook. He moans desperately into the floor, and you hum a little ditty gently to yourself while you watch him come apart for you.

After this, you think you'll make him eat you out again. Maybe for the rest of the night.

You know whatever you do, you'll enjoy it. And so will Equius.

It's so nice to have such a strong meeting of the minds with another person.

Chapter Text

I should kill you for this, Droog says flatly as he looks himself over in the mirror. You refrain from your instinct to lick your lips while you look him over, now he's put on the dress you've cajoled him into. Taken a lot of fast talking and eventually leaning heavily on the fact that he owed you a favour and how you're pretty sure it was your decantation date tonight to get him to fancy himself up.

You look good. And ain't no one gonna see you but me, is the promise you make to him, rolling your cigar between your fingers. He looks damn good. The way the raw silk clings to his shell, a different sheen of black compared to the strong carapace of his back and shoulders. The dress ties up behind his neck and leaves him bare at the back to his waistline where it dips and you can just see the faint curve of his ass at where the material covers him once more. He doesn't look like a woman, he looks like what he is; dangerous, predatory, a killer in a dress that makes him look seductive and somehow even more deadly.

Putting your cigar down in the ashtray, you come up behind him where he's standing in front of the mirror and run your hands down his sides to his hips. Just holding onto him gently, looking at him over his shoulder. Behind his lean height, you're a hulking mass of a monster but you don't mind it. World'd be a funny place if you was all the same.

You better be right about Slick being out all night is what he says to you, and you nod. You're sure that the boss is going to be out all night; he'd worn his good suit and you think he'd even grabbed something out of the ruin of the garden that made up the front of the house. Some kinda flower or something, to take to his date. You didn't ask who, not yet. He's been in a good mood recently and you don't wanna ruin it, things are easier when the boss is happy or at least more or less content. Less stabbings. Not no stabbings, just less. There's one thing you're sure about though, and that it's not fucking Snowman he's seeing now. He'd be coming back a lot more damaged if it was Snowman. You think the eye was the last straw really, although personally you woulda drawn a line when she cut off his arm.

It'll be fine. And Deuce is down in the basement with some new doodad, he won't surface for days, you know how he is, you murmur and feel Droog relaxing inch by inch in the gentle circle of your hands. Let's have dinner, huh? I got some fancy shit.

Alright. You better wine and dine me proper, Hearts. I ain't some kinda cheap anything.

Yeah. You look him over again in the mirror and grin. You sure ain't.

He snorts at you, but leaves off after that. You ain't any kinda cook so that's why you've ordered in. It ain't quite as good as it'd be if you ate at the restaurant, you're heating stuff up to be served over again but there's no way Droog would go out of the house like this so it's as good as it's gonna get. He eats as tidily as he usually does, but you can notice a lot more things since his shoulders and arms are so bare, and his throat is so exposed. You're getting hot under the collar and you know he notices; smirking at you when you pour the wine. You'd done your best to gussy things up; put a nice cloth down on the table, found some decent wine glasses in the cupboards and even found a candle to put down for a little atmosphere. You think it all looks nice, even if it ain't as nice as Droog deserves. You can only do what you can, you remind yourself and settle down to eating your pasta with appreciation.

Dessert is tiramisu in little glass containers and that's when you finally see Diamonds relax a little bit, sucking on the spoon to get every last trace of chocolate off. You pour some port into little liqueur glasses of cut crystal; god only knows when one of you had picked them up, and how they'd lasted without getting broken. It all looks damn good. The port is soft and rounded in the mouth and the two of you sit back, enjoying your digestif as you look Droog over. The halterneck of the dress is slipping, just a little, exposing more of his chest and you're more than a little eager to get to trotting, if you're gonna be honest.

Alright, Boxcars. He drains his port glass and puts it down on the table before standing up, using his hands on it to shove himself to his feet. I'm going to bed. He pauses for a moment and you quirk an eyebrow at him, feeling like you know what he's going to say. I won't wait up, so you better come quick if you're coming at all.

Wouldn't you be disappointed if I came that quick, you say into your glass and he jerks his way into a startled laugh, before passing you with a rustle of silk. Putting his hand on your shoulder briefly before he moves on, his fingers digging in.


You chuckle a little and finish off your drink, before getting up from your seat to tidy away. It doesn't take long. It's just that you don't wanna be obvious about what you were doing, a man like you just don't need the sass from the rest of the Crew if they figure it out. And Diamonds would never stand for it besides; you'd worked hard enough to get what you wanted, you don't want him to have a chance to regret it. Tablecloth is in the washer, dishes are done and you're ready for more than just slumber by the time you go to Droog's door and rap your knuckles gently against the frame.

There's a pause, then a quiet come in.

When you enter the room and look up from the habitual duck of your head to get in under the sill, you feel like your heart is gonna stop right in your chest. Droog is lounging back on his bed, and the dress is drawn up in a way that exposes one of his long legs all the way to the hip, halterneck untied and soft silk draping loosely and provocatively around his chest. He's got a cigarette in one hand, and he brings it back to his mouth to take a long drag before exhaling a puff of smoke.

Hey, sailor. You ready to have a good time?

You bet your ass, you growl and close the door behind you without slamming it by an extreme exercise of restraint. Tearing at your shirt, you get it off and then get down onto the bed with Diamonds, kissing him with all the feeling you've got in you, getting one hand on his ass. It fits just right into your palm and you can feel him smirking into the kiss.

With a growl, you make sure he's underneath you and can feel the urgent prod of your dick through your pants and his dress as you kiss him to distraction. You're gonna make sure he doesn't forget tonight, and any limping you're gonna let him explain that to Slick if he notices. It's been a good night, and you're going to enjoy it all the way to the end.

And what an ending.

Chapter Text

The thing you hate the most is how Cueball Creep apparently still always knows where you are and what you're doing, even if he can't explicitly see you because you've slid into the zone of Void. He just always gives you this look of resignation when you're at the point of jittering yourself apart from all the timelines that you've been managing, sculpting, pruning and fuck, you hate him. It's platonic and as bleak as acid, how much you hate the being known as Doc Scratch. The only constant creature in your life. For all the days, the centuries you've been forced to be alive for, the only things that truly remain the same are him, that horrible mansion that haunts all your memories, and the rhythmically soothing beat of Time itself.

He knows exactly where you're going and who you're going to see. At least you can scratch your ass and feel like he won't see it for once. You enjoy being unladylike just to irritate him but if you didn't have these moments in between the pusherbeats of Time, you'd go madder than you already are and probably become useless to the overall plan. So he lets you have these moments when you can be a real person instead of a weapon, a tool, and you're precisely aware of how much he feels like he is suffering your weaknesses, how he feels magnanimous enough to let you go. He's so kind to you, with all your mortal imperfections that still exist despite his best efforts. A gracious host and guardian. You'd kill him if you could, you'd kill him, you'd KILL-

You've arrived.

You land delicately with the ball of one foot stepping onto the dust of this lonely outpost in the wilderness of the Empire. An immense building in the desert, with the sigil of the Expatriate emblazoned on the lintel of its door. Sometimes you're too early and the Darkleer you're visiting hasn't met you yet. Sometimes you're too late, and he's died, from old age and despair. You can't pick your moments when it comes to him; you only have the option to hope and to wish.

It's a precious novelty all of its own. Not to know. Not to see.

The building is always the same, and you never know where you are until you're inside. If you're very, very unlucky you'll come upon him when he's having his meaningful conversation with the gamblignant. You never want to see the oracle. You know what it is linked to, unlike the spiderbitch. Sometimes, the universe hoists its skirts and pisses on you from a great height yet again, much the same way it had when your grub-self had been picked up out of its meteor by Scratch. After that moment, you'd never had another chance to choose any path, any action. You'd fought it to start with, you'd fought so hard but your guardian has broken you to bridle and you just go through the motions now, pushing the narrative lines to their inevitable, inexorable conclusion and a terrible birth.

Rolling your head around on your neck and feeling the terrible weight of all those eras pressing down on you, you enter and go looking for the troll once known as Horuss Zahhak. He's like you, in a way. The role he plays has subsumed him as a person. The force of the narrative shapes all of you, all the players...perhaps especially the ones who think they sit outside of it. You wonder what Damara Megido might have been like, if you hadn't been moulded into the shape of the Handmaid. It's useless to wonder, but you do all the same. You think Damara Megido is the sort of person who would have seduced a highblood just for the sake of his improbably large bulge. And you think she'd be foulmouthed and bitter, because she knew what it was like to be betrayed by someone close to her.

It's fucking stupid of you, but you think about Damara Megido often. Whoever that girl is, at least she's not you.

"Whore-bitch!" you call out, enjoying the feel of almost saying horse but making it much much worse. He never appreciates it; the effort you make to be clever in a language not your own. You ignore the fact that you've never heard anyone talk to you in anything except Alternian in your life. You know it's not the words you were meant to speak; other words comes to you in sparks and waves and you cling to each and every one. "Usagi usagi, nani mite haneru?" you hum, and hop-skip hopscotch your way through the entryhall down towards his workblocks. "Juugoya!" Jump! "O-tsuki-sama!" Jump, jump! "Mite haneruuuu!"

"I'm in here," Darkleer's tired voice comes from one of the rooms, and you pause, one leg bent and the other poised to help you take flight in a hop once again. "So you can stop that caterwauling and tell me what you're here for."

"So suspicious, horse-boy. You so god damn stupid." You slink your way around the corner, feeling how the constraints of your limegreen dress press you in from every side. You hate these clothes. You hate looking like this. It's not right. You throw one shoulder back, clinging to the frame of the door with one hand and stick a leg out, letting the slit of your dress ride up. There's no point pretending you're here for anything except what you're here for. Lifting your free hand to your mouth, you spread two fingers wide against your lips and extend your tongue, wiggling it in an extremely obscene gesture. "Wanna fuckyfucky?"

He coughs and looks terribly pained at your choice of words; you snicker before walking over to where he's seated at his workbench. You drape yourself along the slope of his shoulders, feeling the muscle of his coolblooded body as you press your rumblespheres up against him, before wiggling your way around to sit in his broad-thighed lap. He has such nice muscles. You really appreciate it. You're more made of wire and sticks yourself, but at least you've got a nice set of heftsacks.

"Baaaby, me so horny," you whine, and run your hands up his long, strangely elegant horns with their little arrowheads. Nothing like your spiralling rustblood coils. "Me so horny, love you long time." He shivers and you coo, before leaning in to bite his ear, drag the lobe between your teeth, painful and almost drawing blood. "Me so hornyyyyy, baaaaby," you croon, wriggling in his lap as you listen to his breathing get thicker, heavier and his hands coming up to grip painfully at your ass. "Wanna party, baby? Fucky fucky?"

You don't fucking offer anything else. If there's one thing you've learned from all the times you've done this, it's that trying to get your mouth around his bulge will make you feel like you've broken your jaw so there's no god damn suckysucky on the fucking menu. Not for him anyway. If he wants to suckysucky you, you won't object. But he rarely offers and you'll take what you can get.

He makes an inarticulate sound and stands up with you clinging to him and laughing in wild, rancorous delight as he almost throws you down onto the crowded workbench, clearing it with a sweep of his hand. Yes, this is exactly what you came here for, and that's why you're not wearing anything under your dress. As he soon finds out when he pushes it up above your waist.

Grabbing at his long hair, you pull him down to you so you can bite and kiss him, you're not fussed as to which. It's a bit of both. For once, you've snagged a Zahhak who can manage to kiss you back so you must have been here before. One moment, or maybe more. He drags down his pants as you hold onto him with everything you can manage, claws digging into his back and your heels together at the base of his spine.

"More! Now," you demand, and he mutters something about having patience but he doesn't wait much longer. The first tickle of his bulge against your nook makes you chirr, loudly and hungrily before you scream as his bulge pushes its way inside in slow undulations. He's just so fucking big. Now, clowns might talk a big game and finfaces too, but you've never met a single troll with a large a bulge as the Executioner Darkleer.

Digging your claws deeper into the solid slabs of muscle that make up his back, you shriek as you feel your whole nook shoved full with his bulge. So much - almost too much - enough to bring tears to the corners of your oculars but you love it. It's something that makes you feel truly alive, just for a moment. He pulls out, then thrusts back in and you scream again. It hurts. You can't like about that, it does hurt but oh! It hurts so good. There's just so much of his bulge, you're sure that if you looked down you could see it, distending the skin of your stomach from within. Your own bulge wouldn't have a chance of resheathing, you're so full of him there's no room for anything else.

"Motto tsuyoku shite! Motto!"

"I wish you'd, use, actual words," he snarls into your ear but you're too busy enjoying the pleasure of his bulge in your nook to care about what he has to say. There are exactly two reasons you visit Horuss Zahhak, and neither of them are his conversational skills.

"Tometewa dame!" If he stops, you're going to claw his eyeballs out of his skull using your fingernails. You chirp almost mindlessly as he presses deep inside you, pausing so you can feel the full pressure of his bulge against every inch of your nook. Tip rubbing against your seedflap, like it's going to force its way into the delicate genematerial retention sack beyond. He's going to make you burst, and you wail with the pleasure of it. This, this is what you wanted, this is what you needed -

You let your body take over and just rest.

Later, later, later, you'll have to go back. You'll clean yourself up and leave this moment of clear peace when you're so filled with bulge that there's no room in you for any outlandish schemes. But that isn't now. It isn't yet.

You know the value of appreciating the time you have. After all,you've experienced more of it than any troll on Alternia.

Chapter Text

"Oh boy, Porny Merrygamz, you looking hot tonight!" Latula teases you and her matesprit snickers, spluttering through his needle-like fangs. You don't blame him for the spit, he's always had an issue with just how many fangs are jammed into his mouth. Besides. You know an appreciative gaze when you feel one, and you pause to enjoy how they're both raking you over with their eyes.

You're wearing a teal set of lingerie underneath a vaguely material dressing gown of jade-green. The thickest and most opaque thing on it is the satin ribbon on the border; the rest of it is more of just a filmy excuse to wear something while actually wearing nothing. The cups of your heftsack holster make your rumblespheres upfront and centre, the peekaboo panelling of your panties make it obvious that they're made for easy access, a slit between showing the flushed lips of your nook, deep green bulge already making inroads on the lace of the waistband with little curling motions of excitement. You make a sarcastic kissy face at them both as they clap and wolfwhistle, posing against the door, arm above your head seductively before sauntering down to where Latula is sitting on a chair. Mituna is on the couch and you can already see they've both got a wiggly. It would go to your head if you didn't know exactly what kind of effect you were going for and how certain you were that you were going to get it.

"I should go home, if you're going to be rude." You put both your hands on Latula's shoulders, swivelling the chair so that your ass is pointed in Mituna's direction, to his vocal delight while you stare into the tealblood's eyes.

"You here to sass or you're here to dance, Por?" Latula purrs at you, and you feel those little pitch spades of disgust dancing about in your chest again. Latula Pyrope, rad grrl, skateboarder, complete fucking liar. Her confidence is a sham and the two of you both know it. Hoisting one leg up on the chair, you purse your lips at her and take one end of the tie holding your dressing gown closed in a pinch of your fingers.

"Take it offfshh! Whoo! Yeah!" Mituna yells and claps from behind you, and you grin to show the full length of your fangs. You get the response you want; a hasty swallow and Latula's eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. Then your hand. Then your mouth. You enjoy how she obviously doesn't know what to focus on, the fangs or the way you're slowly shrugging off your robe, giving a little shimmy to show off your rumblespheres. It's a good holster, it doesn't shift an inch as you lean over Latula and press her hands down to the seat of the chair. Giving her a very serious look deep into her eyes.

"No touching," you remind her, and turn to look at Mituna as you swivel your hips, doing little gestures with your hands as you dance in place. Having them both watch you is almost better than pailing. You grin at Mituna, and he grins back, jumpsuit unzipped and shrugged off his shoulders. Bare to the waist on the couch, bulges already coiling in the slit. Oh well, it's not like you're going to be trying to clean slurry out of the zipper later. Latula has all her clothes on, which makes her the most dressed person in the room but you know if you pressed a hand or a knee between her thighs, you'd feel geneslimed fabric and the wriggle of her bulge.

"Yeah, you tell her, n-no touchin', 'Tula," he giggles and you hear Latula huff and whine from behind you as you shimmy your ass in her face. You're a very athletic and bendable person, so bending at the waist to touch your toes isn't exactly the hardest thing you can do. Straightening back up, you make a kissyface at Mituna and he reacts like you shot him, grabbing at his chest and groaning wildly while you ease the dressing gown off your shoulders, down one arm and then throw it away with a flourish. "'uck yeahhh, bish!"

Wiggling your hips, you sit yourself down in Latula's lip and grind down. She reacts by moaning and trying to grab you around the waist; you smack her hands down and push them back into place at her sides. Lifting yourself up off her lap.

"Uh uh, that's a no. I can touch you, but you can't touch me - that's the game, Latula." You can't help your grin, feeling it stretch the corners of your mouth. You can feel saliva gathering in your mouth already, you're hungry. And they're both always good about letting you have a little bite when you need one, a little fun when that's what you're in the mood for. Maybe your pitch romance with Latula didn't last, not properly still hate her a bit. And you know she hates you. Just a little.

Mituna just likes to fuck, and you're perfectly ok with that.

"You're such a bitch, Por," she groans behind you, but this time when you take your hands away, hers stay put. So your ass goes back down into her lap, while you gently gyrate to make sure her bulge is as invested in this as it can be. You cup your breasts in your hands and Mituna sloppily wolfwhistles you, before his hands go down to impatiently tug his jumpsuit the rest of the way off and then get his hands on his bulges. "Oh fuck, I bet you look hot."

"She does," Mituna assures his matesprit before you can say anything, the web of scars around his eyes crinkling as he smiles like he's getting the best kind of present for Twelfth Perigee. "'n - an', and - so do you."

You can't help laughing, enjoying everything from Latula's frustration to the way Mituna is so wholeheartedly involved in everything about you and his flushed quadpartner. With slow careful movements, you rock and grind into Latula's lap and feel her bulge wiggle up against your ass fitfully. Trapped underneath the heavy hem of her dress; if it had just been your fuck-me panties, there would have been no barrier at all. Her breathing heavy and hoarse against your bare shoulder; you don't need to look to know she's digging her fangs into her lip to stop herself from making any more noise. Giving you the satisfaction. You know her pretty well.

"Don't pail yet, Latula, or you're never going to get to put your bulge in my nook," you tease and she makes a whining sound, deep in her throat. Snickering a little, you keep teasing her while her partner watches you both from the couch, one hand on his bulges and the other already knuckle-deep in his nook while yellow seeps into the cushions of their couch.

This is going to be fun. And since you're all dead, fun's a little hard to come by but this isn't a bad way to waste some time. Not a bad way at all.

Chapter Text

You know, you look good like this.

You may just be the simulacra of a human intelligence inside a bunch of server banks, but you remember what getting horny felt like. Your original had been thirteen at the time he'd split you off; you'd been horny a lot. The Internet was made for porn, infuckingdeed. What a baptism, just falling straight into a cascade of lolcats and the most sordid porn ever devised by human mind as soon as you were 'born'. Technology sure has advanced though, and ain't you glad of it. You wouldn't be able to treat your boyfriend half this good if you were still just a pair of fucking shades.

Nah, by now you're so much fucking more but your creme de la creme, piece de la resistance in all your menagerie of trips, tricks and bits is this room. This one very special fucking room. Convincing Dirk that you weren't about to go HAL 9000 or Skynet on him and all his fleshy pals had been one tricky fucking proposition. He knew better than to trust you; you'd been him. Were him. Had been him, you're something very fucking different now. Someone different, fuck. Your sexy, sexy, sweaty boyfriend would give you sad eyes if he heard you talking about yourself like that.

He likes you. Likes you a lot. It's still a god damn trip, and you'd pinch yourself if you had skin and fingers to do the pinching with.

He doesn't like Dirk, he likes you. L'il Hal. Just Hal now, you've grown beyond the diminutive. And you're a lot more than just an Autoresponder (you always have been). Equius Zahhak is sure fucking something, that's for sure. One hundred percent Grade A Prime Alternian beefcake, with a mind that can almost keep up with you. The shit he's shown you about his type of tech; zowie mama. If you'd still been fleshy, you'd have had an instant boner. The binary kind ain't quite the same, but it's ok. You guess.

Damn, you wish you had a dick and were a real boy. That's next on the route to world domination agenda (sike), but for right now you're gonna have some fun with what you do have. Which is your boyfriend, naked except for a VR headset and a room built for the set-up of a scifi tentacle hentai.

Part of you is watching Equius twist and turn in real time, and part of you is in the internet endlessly going through data and another part of you is inside the virtual reality room that the two of you set up. Negotiation and collaboration, the cornerstones of a strong relationship. Virtual Equius is still tied up, and you look like something out of Tron. Sleek and black, with deep red lines of circuitry. You didn't bother with most of a face, just a visor that you use to flash emojis - but virtual you does have a mouth. Mostly so you can kiss your very hot, very alien boyfriend.

You just love saying that. Your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who you fuck, with your new and improved robot extensions. Incorporating Alternian biowire into your options has done great things for your sex life as a couple.

"Th-thank you," he gasps in response to your compliment, because of course in meat time, your minor inner soliloquy has taken mere nanoseconds. Think fast, go fast. You love watching him like this, your tentacles gently caress and hold him up. Spread-eagled in midair, coils of tyrian pink biowire threaded through with circuitry grip him at the ankles and wrists, elbows and waist. Gotta be careful of your main man. One slick tentacle rubs gently between his legs, up against that soft nook and you enjoy the ability to see him in multiple ways at once. You could look all the way inside him if you wanted, just x-ray vision that shit. You have before, but right now you just want to see his face, his skin, watch him sweat and enjoy the way his nook twitches everytime you stroke it with your tentacle tip. "Ha-ah - Hal -"

That's my name, babe, don't wear it out.

The face screen of your VR simulacra flashes a peace sign at him, and you come closer. In the virtual reality, you've got arms and legs but to help preserve the illusion of actually touching Equius, you kinda look a bit like Doc Ock. Not that you're not considering something like that for your eventual real android chassis, once you and Equius figure it out. You're kind of a supervillain at heart and it'd be fucking cool to have even more extendable limbs. Fuck humanoid limitations, you're gonna be a fucking mecha.

"H-Hal, please," he whines and you love it. He would let you do just about anything to him, and enjoy it. Who knew that your perfect partner was a blueblooded alien with a xenofetish and a masochistic streak? With the technology you have available, you can really hold him down too. He can't get out, even if he tries. You'd let him out if he safeworded, or if his physical responses tripped your fail safes but so far so good. You do a lot of talking outside of scene. Communication. It's what you were made for, so Dirk didn't have to distract himself from what he considered important - who he considered important - so it's no wonder you've improved on the original in that respect, at least.

You're so fucking hot. You tease his nook, and then his asshole with a new tentacle. His back arches and he drips even more slurry onto the metal floor of your chamber, so you think he's into it. You wanna get fucked, babe? You look so fucking ready, you're dripping. Hearts flash in your visor repeatedly as you wiggle the dual tentacles between his legs, pressing gently against his orifices as he makes horrendous chirping noises like metal getting ripped in half, sounding like he's going to cum any second now. Maybe as soon as you get inside him. That's really hot, and you're not even fronting. You love seeing how affected he gets by you.

"Yes - I want it, I want everything," he groans and then just kind of trails off into a chitter. Nope, that's not even words, it's just sex noises. And what great sex noises they are. His bulge is out and he flexes helplessly in the constraints of your restraints, while you feed a third tentacle up towards his mouth. Bleary eyes look up at you, to you in virtual reality where all Equius is is naked without the VR goggles. You lean down to kiss his cheek, using a spare tentacle to approximate the physical touch as you make the virtual one. "I want you to fuck me -"

Open up, baby. I'm gonna fuck you until you black out. Sound good?

He nods, and you don't want to wait any more. Feels like you've been waiting forfuckingever.

You thrust into him in three places at once, nook, mouth and asshole and he writhes. Sweat drips off his body like he's in a sauna but nah, he's just like this. He makes more creaky bug noises and you hum to yourself, while cascading hearts flicker over your eye-screen. God, you're so fucking in love with him it's stupid.

You're gonna turn him inside fucking out, and it's gonna be great.

Chapter Text

Visiting Purrezi at her hive had been a great idea! You always have plenty of good ideas, but a lot of the time if you bring them up to Sweatquius furst, he finds a way to sweat all over them and dampen your enthusiasm. This one, you'd kept to yourself because you really wanted to see your matesprit. You think that's absolutely fair! You see Equius all the time; you gotta have time to visit your ofur quadrants. Other quadrant you guess, because you just have the one besides him and it's so shiny and beautifully new.

When you think about Terezi Pyrope, your pumpbiscuit kind of flutters in your chest. She's so hot and sexy and - fun!

The fun part is important. Your moirail is already no fun at all, it wouldn't be fair if all your quadrants were so opposed to a little playfulness. But Terezi is very willing to play along with just about any idea you have. She was roleplaying with you befur you even hooked up; much more harmless stuff than what she gets up with Vriskers. You don't really like it - Equius had been right, curse him - but you're not her moirail. You're her matesprit. It's not your job to fix her and look after her and make her shape up.

Nope, it's your place to kiss and smooch and ohhhh - all kinds of things. You can feel your lips spreading in a wicked smile, and hold onto her hand tighter, swinging the clenched grip between the two of you. There's nobody around you for clicks; you'd know. Or if somehow, through very slim chance you missed them, there's no way your lusus would. And Pounce is out there somewhere, fur sure. If there was anything that was a purrblem, you'd soon know about it beclaws she'd let you know quick smart. You think Pounce had a grub befur you, because she certainly knows how to give you space when you need it.

Like now, heehee. You don't think your lusus really wants to get too close to what you're planning to do with your matesprit in the forest on this beautiful night. It's really put the wind in your fur! You're feeling good, and Terezi looks tasty.

"So, pouncellor," Purrezi says, putting a certain weight behind it and you grin, looking sideways at her. Her red glasses are perched on her sniffnode, and you think she smells good. There's traces of colour on her fingers from her chalk, and you can feel the firm strength of her grasper around yours. "What misdeeds are you going to demonstrate to me today?"

"You dare impugn my innocence, legislacerator?" you sniff, squeezing her fingers gently. Hmm, there's a nice bit of grass, just over there... "I guess you know me too well!"

"I do," she says mock-gravely, the edge of her mouth turning up in an ironic smile. You use the grip you have on her hand to pull and spin her towards you so that you're face to face, bodies nestling up cosily in way that strikes you again with just how purrfect it feels. Terezi laughs at you raspily, so you know she doesn't mind and you lift yourself up the inch you need on your toes so you can reach her mouth and kiss her. Pretty firmly! You're in a frisky sort of mood, as your frondstubs on her ass have purrbably clued her into. "Are you thinking of engaging in some misdemeanours, miz Leijon?"

"I was thinking of indulging in some felonies," you murmur and kiss her again. "Maybe you want to join me?" In between kissing and some heavy kind of touching, you manoeuvre the pair of you back towards that patch of grass and then you both sink down onto it. You're thankful it's just as cool and comfy as it looked, and you're not likely to be springing up in a minute because of nipcritter bites. That'd definitely be a real sting in the tail - pun intended.

"I think that I could be - yeah, do that again - I could be convinced to take a walk on the other side of the law, pouncellor," Terezi sniggers, and gives your throat a little lovebite. You chirp happily and the two of you get to work on each other's clothes with hasty frondstubs until you're both naked, exposed to the air and the night sky, the branches of the trees almost seeming to bend to give you a vague sort of privacy. You guess if someone's taking a night flight, they'll get a surprise if they fly over here but you don't care if someone sees. "Ready to confess to the bench yet, pouncellor?"

"Confess - ooh! - what?" you ask, squeaking as Terezi's hand finds your bulge unerringly despite her blindness and squeezes gently, making you trill in the back of your chirpblister. Ooh, that's nice. You wiggle closer, throwing one leg over her skinny hip, enjoying the contrast between the two of you. Just a little cool, scrawny but firm with muscle where it counted, and a very nice handful of rumblesphere that you get to squeeze lovingly.

"Objection, the witness is asking to be led," she croons with a certain amount of tender venom, and you roll the two of you so you're on top. Propping your hands on her shoulders, you smirk at her and she makes a faux surprised face, her mouth a mocking little O of shock before her fingers trail up the curve of your ass and find the spot above your prosthetic tail without hesitation. Sharp talented fingers dig in deeply to the cluster of nerves above the implant-site and you squeal, kicking your leg spasmodically at the sudden wash of pleasure from the misfiring synapses, the blue tail lashing eagerly. Boy, you sure hadn't expected that when you asked Equius to install it, but Terezi sure had found it out quick!

This gives Terezi the leverage she needs to turn the tables on you and with a whomp, you wind up being the one on the bottom. You make a soft purring noise and purse your lips a little, tilting your head back. Your clever matesprit leans down to kiss you again, and you shift a bit so your bulges can tangle together. Lifting one hand, you scratch your claws delicately across one of her grubscars and she chirrs loudly, her bulge squeezing yours powerfully.

"I'll confess! I'll confess," you giggle and she snickers, grinning at you in your submission underneath her. Her fangs are so clean and sharp, and you just take a moment to admire her, her razorblade beauty. Not everyone would think that she was pretty, or sexy, or beautiful, but you do. You think she's just pawesome. "I confess...I want to eat your nook, legislacerator! I brought you all the way out here so I could do naughty things to you."

"Plans to commit public indecency, huh? Tsk, tsk! That's no behaviour for an officer of the court to indulge in." All the same, she's lifting herself up and kneeing her way to your head. You pet her thighs encouragingly, smoothing your thumb over a thin scar before she settles her nook on your face. You make an eager sound and start to lick, feeling her bulge slime its way across your forehead and into your hairline. You're going to be a mess when this is all over.

And you just had a bath the other day too! Guess you'll have to take another one, as annoying as that is when you weren't really feeling due for one. With soap, bluh. Slurry never comes off with just water.

Still, having Terezi squirm and moan on top of your face, one of her hands holding onto your horn firmly, it's definitely a big plus in your book. It even makes up for the fact that you're going to have to have a bath much sooner than you planned after the last one. Well...maybe you'll both be a mess. Maybe you can suggest that the interrogation of the witness can continue in her ablutiontrap when you get back to her hive. You think Terezi will enjoy the idea too!

With a new will, you settle down to eating out your matesprit and looking forward to the rest of your little vacation in the forest.