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Bobsled Hostage's Quick Fic Orphanarium

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Before the game one of the many, many things that you would have gladly exchanged were your malformed sex organs.

Your diminutive twin-bulges, all but useless for inserting into waiting orifices, would ordinarily have placed you firmly in the category of nook troll.  Unfortunately, in keeping with your consistently grotesque set of mutations, your bifurcated nook guaranteed that in the supremely unlikely event someone ever expressed mating fondness for you, the most you’d be able to take would be the tip of their bulge.  Orally your prospects weren’t looking much better, with your snaggly mess of foreteeth functioning as a veritable abatis to any intruding genitals.  You hoped to whatever cruel deity had seen fit to spawn you that if you ever did find yourself a concupiscent partner, they’d be content with either your hands, your waste chute (a fantasy you regularly fondled yourself to) or watching your pail yourself with your undersized, bifurcated bulge, the only thing you could reasonably accommodate.

Little did you know fate had other plans for you.

 

You sit, naked and blind, listening to AA shimmy out of her skirt.  The room is warm and humid the way you like it, the pile soft (and maybe a little pale, but then your relationship always blurred the lines in that regard).  The air smells like horny rustblood (in both senses of the word).  Past you would be crackling with static and nervous energy, thinking of two thousand ways this could go wrong and inevitably making one a reality.  Present you sits placidly, waiting for his matesprit to make him useful.

open wide!

Lips parted, mouth wide open, you lean forward and let her push her bulge past your empty gums, all the way back into your throat.  No useless fangs getting in the way.  No voices of the soon-to-be-dead howling in your ears.   The room is mercifully quiet save for her soft cooing and the wet sounds of you guzzling bulge.  Tiny yellow tears seep out of the corners of your scorched ducts, the blasted sockets of your empty ganderbulbs scrunching up.  She digs a blunt claw into the base of one of your horns and you hum contentedly around her fat, red tentacle.  With a free hand you push your bulges down, lining them up to penetrate your very-excited double cunt.  You press something like a kiss to her sheathe.

 

When it’s over she bundles you up against her, face pillowed on her heavy rumblespheres.  You’ve got a belly full of her material (hot and bitter as always, but then you didn’t have to taste most of it) and a genesac full of your own.  You feel very full.  Very relaxed.

D0 I get t0 pick when I die?  Because if s0 I’d be 0k with right n0w

She laughs.  Strokes the back of your neck.

shoosh, sollux -u-

You can hear the smile in her voice.

Chapter Text

Clover danced a merry jig, as he was wont to do. The Knight of Time, who had proven trivial to subdue, strained against his bonds, complaining loudly and continuously. The Knight of Blood thrashed helplessly, trying his best to escape the frisky, capering leprechaun. My, but the grey boy was a comely lad, thought Clover. He’d never work in charms. But horseshoes, ah, there was potential there.

Wasting no time, clover reached down and undid the zipper on Karkat’s pants, prompting a surprised

WHAT THE FUCK?

And a corresponding yeah i gotta go with karkat on this one. what the fuck, guy. The human was already straining against his bonds, sweat dripping from his face.

Clover gave the boy’s pants a tug downward to find his bulge firmly in its sheathe, with no plans to emerge any time soon. Ah, but wouldn’t it be fortunate if somehow, the lad were to find himself sexually excited? Within no time at all the troll’s slimy, red tentacle was twisting and squirming in his hand, against the wishes of its owner.

WAS ‘WHAT THE FUCK’ NOT ENOUGH TO INDICATE THAT YOU SHOULD STOP DOING THAT? BECAUSE IF SO I’LL BE THE FIRST TO CORRECT YOUR MISCONCEPTION THAT I WANT YOUR GRUBBY GREEN MITS ANYWHERE NEAR MY- FUCK!

The leprechaun hadn’t the slightest idea how to properly pleasure a troll, he simply did whatever struck him as best, sucking Karkat’s bulge with wild abandon. The troll bucked his hips and moaned as Clover gave him what was far and away the best blowjob he had ever received. Dave squirmed and thrashed, watching the tiny green man pleasure his boyfriend. His shades could hide his eyes, but he just had to hope neither of them could see the raging erection tenting his god-tier trousers.

With a strangled cry, Karkat blew his load, squirting a stream of cherry red seed at Clover. Of course, a thick load of troll jizz splattering all over him would have been enormously unfortunate, and as a result Karkat’s bulge twitched left just far enough to miss the lucky leprechaun, instead coating Dave’s shirt, shades and face.

dude not cool

Clover scampered away, giddy at having successfully consummated a horseshoe with such a strapping young fella. Karkat collapsed backward, wondering what the fuck just happened. Dave continued to struggle, stained, embarrassed and still erect.

Chapter Text

It was not a good day.  It was not even an acceptable day.  It was a stay-in-bed-and-crawl-to-the-edge to-puke-every-so-often day, if that.  Ms. Paint shivered violently, swaddled tightly in every blanket  within reach.  If only she could just give the thermostat a little bump…  But that would mean standing up, walking down the hall to the living room.  Even the idea of standing made her nauseous.

 

She assumes it’s a fever-dream when Slick sits down on the bed next to her with a tray, bearing soup.

“Come on, ya gotta eat something.”  He lifts her into a sitting position, tries to force the spoon into her hand.  Her head spins.  Everything aches.  After a failed attempt to grasp it, or five, he despairs.  Rather than lift the spoon to her lips he holds the whole bowl up for her to sip.  Slick is an absolutely godawful cook, perhaps the worst, but it’s steaming hot and right now that’s exactly what Ms. Paint needs.

When he’s satisfied that she’s adequately fed for the moment he empties out the wastebasket she’s been puking into, cursing and grumbling to himself the whole time.  This is the most housework she’s ever seen him do at once.  Next he carefully unwraps the sweaty sheets from around her.  While she shivers on the bed he procures fresh blankets from the closet, tossing an enormous comforter and several assorted sheets over her pale and naked body.  After a moment fussing over something in the other room he returns, stripped to his boxers and undershirt, and climbs into bed with her.

She’s worried he’ll lay a hand possessively on her hip.  Nibble on her shoulder or press his cock up against the curve of her ass, or stick his hand between her legs.  None of which she would mind, ordinarily, but right now sex is the last thing she feels ready for.  At least let a girl shower first.  Instead, he spoons her, pulling her warm and tight against him.  She murmurs something about him catching whatever she has.

“ ‘m not gonna get sick.”  He mumbles from behind.

It isn’t a good day, but it isn’t quite so unsalvageably awful after all.

 

(Later, when she’s recovered and he’s convalescent, she does the same for him.  She proves, as usual, a much better chef.)

Chapter Text

Nixon had been undercover with Frank at a society function of all things when yet another crisis came thundering down atop Mega City One, the latest in the long string of catastrophes which had steadily chopped the megalopolis’ population again and again.  The two had done their best to bring order out of chaos, getting as many citizens to safety before the building came down, shouting over the din of explosions and the drone of emergency sirens and aircraft overhead.  When that had failed they’d fled through the streets, Nixon discarding her heels and Frank’s ridiculous tie flapping wildly over his shoulder as they ran.

 

At the moment they sat on the floor in one of his many bolt-holes, door barricaded and windows covered, swapping stories to paper over how scared they really were that this would be it.  That this time they’d be among the millions of Meg One cits vaporized or crushed or shot or shoveled into mass graves.

“-and he didn’t even look up, the gruddamned door was open but-” a series of low concussions outside.  A bright flash of light, visible through the blackout curtains over the window.  Nixon sat back, rubbing an aching foot.  “Anyway, I ran out and called it in, bare-ass naked.  SJS even had the balls to try and put me on a charge for sleeping with a perp, if you’ll believe that.”

The bearded man looked pensive.  He wrung his hands together and quietly muttered to himself, “...Dirty Frank has never had sex.”

That wasn’t as surprising as it should have been.  Yes he was the undisputed master when it came to surviving in the low life, with an eye for trouble and an almost feral sense for danger.  But this had to be weighed against the fact that he was a paranoid madman who ate garbage and bathed only when forced to.

On the one hand he was cleaner than she’d ever seen him (courtesy of their abortive attempt to infiltrate an organ legging ring run out of the Meg One Opera House).

On the other hand, he was brain damaged and the closest thing she’d ever had to a father.

“Ah, drokk it.”

If they survived, she could live with it.  If not, it wouldn’t matter.  

Nixon reached into his slacks and grabbed his dick, sitting forward on her knees to kiss him.  Frank’s eye went wide.  He tried to scoot back for a moment before realizing what she intended.  She jerked his prick to attention, pressing a soft thumb (her crude bionic arm having been replaced with a sleeker bioplastic model for the case at hand) to the head.  Frank whimpered and clutched at her, unsure of where to put his hands.  Aimee’d had more than her share of stupid, pathetic men pawing at her, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been someone’s first.  

As romantic as it was, she had to pry his fingers loose to actually undress for what came next.  She slid her underwear down her long, long legs with practiced ease until they dangled around one of her ankles.  The wonder on his face when she hiked up her dress and straddled him made it hard not to laugh as she lined up his dick.  Spreading her lips with one hand and balancing herself with the other, she sank onto him with a sigh.

He lasted all of half a minute before squeezing her tight and cumming.  Inside, no warning or anything.  Something else worth worrying about only if they survived.  Another minute before she managed to wriggle out of his grasp and climb off him.  He murmered something to himself and grabbed hold of her hand, and she did have to laugh a little at that.  There was a pack of Meg One Menthols in her purse somewhere, but she didn’t feel like a reward after that particular performance.  She thought for a second.

“Ever eaten pussy?”

“...Dirty Frank has never eaten a cat.”



Later, with the occasional dull boom from somewhere above still shaking the floor beneath them, they end up sharing a cigarette after all.

Chapter Text

New Serket’s r-eely layin’ into your bay-b.  Like, seariously rip-tiding her a new one.  You fin-k about jumpin’ in an’ helpin’ her out, but you aren’t shore you ray-ly want to.  The more you watch New Serket the more you reel-ize she’s A: right about everyfin she’s sayin’, an’ B: way betta lookin’ than your current catch.

You’re a little surf-prised when Vriska grabs her shaved and pierced counterpart’s horn, shoves her down onta her knees.  The gil blubbers somefin aboat reefin her abalone, her counterpart backhands the beach with one hand, undoin’ the zipper on her jeans with the other.  Shell yes.  Shell shucking yes.  This is your kinda scene.  Weenie Serket sniffles an’ looks up, blueberry tears seepin’ otta her rapidly swellin’ eye.  When she gets a bulge pressed against her face she starts whalin’ for reel, but the lady just raises a hand again and she gets to shuckin like a good little guppy.  Serket’s rough with her in a way what you reely shoulda been, stuffin’ her throat full an’ tuggin’ on her braids, swearin’ at her an’ tellin’ her she’d betta get used to swallowin’ a whole lotta her own spunk, an’ fast.

It’s been way too long since you an’ the gils last got together to pass Kankri around.  You gotta gene-bladder fulla slurry are all aboat gettin’ your bulge wet right glubbin’ now.

yo serket

She looks up from her blowhole job at you, and you pointedly avoid lookin’ at her snivelin’ bulge cozy.  Real trolls are talkin’ here.

she got room for another tentacle or three, gil-frond?

Your pants are down around your knees, lettin’ weenie Serket get a good view a your leviathan bulge as it slithers out, peircin’s an’ all.  Vriska grins, grabs a horn an’ tells her she’d betta raise her rump if she knows what’s good for her.

You slip the rest of the way out of your jeans, feelin’ more alive than you have in sweeps.

Beach had her chance, now you’ll do it y-oar way.

Chapter Text

The Mighty Monarch, Level 10 Archvillain, cackled as his henchmen sacked Doctor Tara Quymn’s mansion.  He hadn’t exactly been looking forward to arching yet another C-lister while he waited for Venture’s docket to open again, but now that he was here, he found the familiar lust for conquest overtaking him.  While his loyal Henchman 21 kept the good Doctor’s monstrous bodyguard Ginnie occupied, his wife plundered the mansion’s priceless treasures, and the pupae twins rounded up her two daughters (he noted that sending them after children might have been a less than stellar idea), the Monarch had located and subdued Quymn herself.  She knelt in the bedroom on an enormous tiger-skin rug, hands bound at the wrist behind her back.  He stood over her, gloating as he was wont to do.

Please, Monarch, do what you will with me, but spare my daughters.”

He laughed.  “Your brats should be the least of your worries, Quymn, for the fate that awaits you is more horrible still than-”

“I simply couldn’t bear the thought of harm coming to them.  I’ll do anything if you’ll let them go”

The doctor crawled toward him on her knees.

Anything.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time, you ever think about- hey, HEY!”

---

“Sweetie?”  Doctor Mrs The Monarch’s voice rumbled from the hall outside.  “I couldn’t find a Hand of Glory, they had a couple dried fingers, but- WOAH!”

“Oh hey honey,” the Monarch waved, balls deep in the lady adventurer’s mouth, “Shut the door will you?”

His wife crossed her arms.  “Oh no.  If you think you’re going to sideline me while YOU get your rocks-”

“What?  No, shut it behind you.”

“Oh.  ...Turn her around.”

Quymn gurgled something around the Monarch’s dick.

---

Some time later, Doctor Mrs The Monarch stood on somewhat wobbly legs, followed shortly by her husband, hopping on one foot as he pulled his boots on.  The two stole out of the bedroom, leaving behind a messy, humiliated and very well-used Doctor Quymn.

“Jeez, a guy could get used to that.”

“She’s good with her tongue but her fingers could use a little work.”

“Don’t look at me, you’re the one who untied her hands…  Think we should ask 24 if he wants a turn with her?”

“No!  Her contract clearly stipulated she welcomed sexual contact only from the Primary Arch, which includes me as part of our duoship.”

“Come onnnn, the guy hasn’t gotten laid in ages.”

“You have to be careful with these things.  I’ll put in a request after we file the after action report.”

“But she was into it!” the Monarch whined.  

The two bickered and fussed all the way back to the cocoon, stopping only to knock over a vase or two and argue over whether a particularly nice set of curtains was worth stealing for their dining room.

---

---

---

 

“Get that shirt off, lemme see what I’m workin’ with here.”  

Ginnie grinned down at the stout, muscular minion whose pelvis she currently had pinned to the bed between her massive thighs.  The henchman had been instructed to ‘keep her busy’ while the Monarch dealt with her employer, and after a brief but vicious fight this seemed to be a viable alternative.  He obligingly stripped out of his protective vest, baring his stubbly chest and distinctive tattoo.

“Well ya ain’t the choicest slice a’ prime beefcake, but beggars can’t be choosers.”  

“Took the words right out of my mouth” Gary wheezed, slapping her wide ass with a gloved hand.

Chapter Text

It’s your last trick of the night.  You’re face down in the sheets, wrists held down by a pair of meaty, clawed hands while an enormous demon dick plows you senseless.  He’d started things off strangely maudlin, grabbing your hand, running his fingers through your hair.  Tried kissing you around his gigantic, silly tusks.  He was drunk and probably doing what he thought a human would.  You wasted no time fishing his massive cock out of his pants and going to work.  Ordinarily he’d be exactly the type of john you like: burly yet oddly sensitive, but it’s been a long night.  At the moment you’re ready to towel off, head downstairs for a margarita and a pint of O negative, flirt with the bartender, then crawl into bed for a solid day’s sleep as the first searing rays of the sun creep out from behind the skyline.

The pulse of the music and the bestial thumping of the bed are loud enough that you don’t hear the door open behind you

They aren’t loud enough to cover up the boom of the shotgun, or the spray of warm blood that drenches your back.  

You turn, panicked, just in time for the enormous red bulk of the Patriarch to topple forward, pinning you to the bed.  You scream, unable to get out from under the massive, now-headless body.   Is it the Kingz?  The Dredged?  Have the mortals found you out?

A skeletal figure glides into view on a pair of spindly legs, extending from under a thick, heavy coat.

The Reaper

You can’t move.  You can’t breathe (you couldn’t even if you wanted to).  If you could you’d piss yourself.

The skeleton walks across the room to the painting on the wall, takes it down to reveal a hidden safe.  He leans the SPAS against the wall and goes to work on the combination.  You imagine you can hear the tiny gears turning over the thud of the bass, still seeping through the walls.  The dead demon’s cock is still stiff inside you.

The safe swings open.  The Reaper reaches inside to pull something out.  In the dim, pink-tinged light you can’t see what.  He stuffs it into his coat, stands.  Picks up the shotgun.  

This is it.  No more distractions, this is where you die.  He looks right at you (you think), empty orbits pointed squarely in your direction, ridges of bone looking something like a scowl, even in the absence of a lower jaw or any other articulated components of his face.  You want to close your eyes but you can’t.

The littlest version of death (you thought he’d be taller) tucks the gun under his arm, turns and leaves the way he came.

You weren’t important enough to kill.  Not worth a shotshell that could have been spent on a more worthy target.  With concerted effort you manage to wriggle out from under the dead demon.