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Chapter Text

You've got your hand around a jagged horn and your dick down the throat of a creature that looks a bit like the Creature from the Black Lagoon (especially since the movie was filmed before technicolor), and talks like a lisping version of Danny Zuko. Not sure if you should call it a lisp or not, a stutter? Some sort of fuckin' speech impediment, anyway. Gives him something else that makes him a little unforgettable, even for you, if you weren't going to address the way he's taking your dick like some kinda champ. Especially since you don't think he's ever seen one for real before.

Not even his own, and how fucked up is that? Aliens. Fucking. Aliens. You're interested in finding out exactly what he's hiding in those tight black jeans but he'd offered to suck you off and you're not the kind of guy who'd refuse such a tempting offer from a pretty face with lips that looked made to have a cock between them. Even if they'd come paired with a mouth that looked as full of teeth as a vagina dentata nightmare - maybe especially because of all the teeth. He's good though, he hasn't brushed you with them even once.

His tongue wraps around your cock in a sinewy caress, somewhere near the base and his throat has just enveloped the rest. Like a lamprey eel sucking down prey. Except you're pretty sure no fish has felt as good about being swallowed as your dick does right now.

"Come on, bro, you've almost got the full enchilada," you tell him, using that useful fucking grip on his horn to pull him in and down further. Moving your hips as violet, translucent tears pool at the corners of his eyes. His throat moves and you groan, black lips still an inch from the base as the fanned out fins on the sides of his face flutter. "You don't wanna be some kinda quitter, right?"

Knowing how to motivate people to do what you want is kind of your thing, and Danny Xeno (Cronus, you think he'd said his name was Cronus - even if you don't care much) swallows the last inch with a surge forward of his own accord. You pet his hair, those weird yellow eyes looking up at you like this is all he's ever wanted. Well, shit. Might as well give a guy what he wants.

"Just hold on tight, babe," you tell him, putting your other hand on the horn that's not got your nimble digits on it yet. He just lets you, tears on his cheeks and mouth open, throat cool and tight, swallowing around your dick. Damn. You shoulda set up a camera, this is something worth recording. Next time. If you hit this more than once (you're gonna hit this like Beyonce hits the top 40 and you know it). You don't think he's gonna object much when you bust a nut in his mouth, so that's exactly what you're gonna do. Idly, you wonder just what kinda face he's gonna make. You're kind of a fan of the one he's making right now. "I'll steer from here."

Chapter Text

"Babe, are you singing to my butt?"

"Sh-shshoosh. Butts don't talk."

Latula laughed, feeling her matesprit's hands roam over her ass and thighs, face pressed to the seam of her leggings and right up against her butt. Rubbing his cheek up against her cheek, humming a little as she kept her thumbs moving while she concentrated on the video game she was playing solo on. Apparently her butt was now the topic of conversation! She was super cool with that.

"You k-know I fnucking love your ass," he purred and Latula almost shrieked this time, just managing to bite it back to a little yip, because he was basically purring right into the crease. Now that was a feeling and a half, boy howdy. She gave her hips a little wriggle, kind of encouraging him even if she was on her way to beating her old high score. It was so close she could taste it, but some things were really just more important than even a new high score. "Permission to raxage teh booty?"

"Aye aye, permission granted, Helmsman, go ahead 'n pillage that booteh. You don't mind if I keep playing though, buzzybee?" she asked, because she could always pause it. Like yeah, of course! His thin fingers pressed into her thighs, and Latula helpfully spread them before shivering as he started to work her tights down. Pushing her tunic up over the curve of her butt and baring her butt and most of her thighs to what she knew was an appreciative gaze. Hellz yeah, she brought the buns to the party.

"Yeah, thass cool, Tulip. Wreck tha' funking top score, babez." Warm lips pressed kisses over what felt like every inch of bared skin, and Latula groaned as he used his thumbs to bare her pucker and proved her prior assumption wrong, putting one last kiss right on her 'chute. Oooh fuck, how had she picked such a kinkster for a matesprit? Just lucky, she guessed. So very, very fucking lucky, she was so heels over horns for this rad boi right here. "Ehehe. You know, teal is just about my second favourite colour..."

"MT!" she squeaked as his forked tongue pressed lower for a second, passing over her nook and making her suck in a breath as her bulge swelled in its sheath. Ooof! Look, no matter what people could say about the way Mituna spoke, but oh to the em to the eff to the gee, he could really use his tongue. And it was all hers to cherish. Best loot box reward, good matesprit. "Oooh..."

"C'mon, you gots to cunchentrate, 'tula."

"You're such a shithead..." Letting out a breathless groan, she cursed as his tongue flicked over her chute again and she jerked on the controller. Just missing out on a streak of golden rings. "Nngh fuck, honeybee, come on."

"Nah, youse gotta try and play, or - or Imma stop," he insisted from behind her, and she felt the gentle indent of his fangs against one cheek. Then the other. Nipping at her barely hard enough to leave a mark, and then him going back to rubbing his face against her butt and thighs. Tongue nowhere near where she wanted it to be! "That's the rulez, yo. Sux to succorz, LT."

"Rude," she accused, guiding her player character around an obstacle and jumping a ravine. She was rewarded with his tongue flicking back and forth over her pucker again and Latula let out a whimper completely unbecoming for a rad grrl like herself. But damn! That felt so fucking good. She could feel the muscles in her thighs shaking, trying not to move too much as his tongue moved just over and over her 'chute. Teasingly not going any fucking deeper, the bastard.

"If y-you beat it, I'll pail you right here on the floor," he hummed, in between licks. Latula moaned, and kept her thumbs mashing at the buttons, trying to make up ground she'd lost. Trying to listen to what he was saying with half an auricular clot while his fingers pressed and massaged at her ass, tongue leaving trails of warmth wherever he let it lap. "'N I r-really want to fuck you right in the butt, Tulip, so try hard. Ok?"

"Uh huuuuuh," she groaned and he pressed his tongue right up her chute. Her hips lifted into it as she whined out breathlessly, feeling her nook dripping onto the comfortnubs on the floor and bulge tangling with the front of her top. Oh boy oh boy, she was hella down for this! "Oh shit, you're not making it easy."

He laughed, that nasally highpitched snicker that made all her insides clench.

"Wouldn't be fun if it was easy, Tulip."

"...yeah, ok, I'm gonna mark that down one to MT - oooh fuck!"

Chapter Text

The moment you realise that the Highblood has stepped back into the room is when you feel the cool edge of a knife against your skin. Gliding between the two lowest sets of grubscars on your left side, a trailing caress that hinted at being able to cut deeper if the hand holding it willed it so. You hold yourself so perfectly still on your knees, back straight and picture perfect in your posture, and it almost feels like your stoppered ears ache, blinded eyes strain as the blade leaves your skin tingling in its absence as it's pulled away. Your hands are behind your back, fingers wrapped around each wrist, the material of the mask clinging almost wetly to your face as you breathe. Trying to calm yourself, breathe deeper - difficult, with the gag blocking your mouth.

You could get up at any time. You could leave. You're not tied or bound in any way. But you don't want to go, you want to stay here and let the Highblood do what he wants to do to you. You can feel the sweat dripping down the back of your neck, a tension singing through your nerves even as you consciously relax your body. You don't want to know what sort of picture you must make - and you do. You want to see how depraved and lewd you must look, naked on your knees in the middle of an empty room. Head tilted up so, the thick collar around your throat not letting you drop your chin. Even if you'd wanted to. Faceless, almost anonymous behind a black mask, if it wasn't for your distinctive horns.

The collar has his sign on it. You'd loved it from the moment he'd given it to you, and never wanted to find out who exactly could have helped him alchemitize it. Never ever in your whole life.

You don't want to fail him, he'd said in his lazy slurring way just exactly how he wanted you to be when he came for you and you had done exactly what you'd been ordered. For all you know, there's been a parade of other trolls in here - looking at you - witnessing your utter disgrace - you feel your bulge swell further in its sheath at the mere thought and let out a sigh around the gag as the knife graced you with its edge again.

A trickle of blood works down your abs, you can tell it that it isn't sweat. You're very familiar with how sweat feels when it slides down your body. The cut stings and you shiver all over, and wait for the next cut. Thin fingers cup your chin, and lean your head back even more before you feel a mouth press against yours, against the rubber of the gag. It is the Highblood, you'd know that set of mismatched fangs anywhere and something in you totally loosens, leaves you floating, breathless, waiting for the next moment. The next cut. Claws tickle down your throat, skating over the stricture of the collar and down more until there's another sting, a hurt that makes your nook start to drip. You're blowing hard breaths around the gag, nostrils thinning as you inhale desperately, skin shivering in twitches and still holding yourself still. Perfect.

You get another kiss like a benediction, and you quiver on your knees.

The next knife cut is much, much deeper.

You know what it is; it's a reward. A hand wraps around your horn as the knife cuts and blood joins your preslurry on the floor. Pools and drips of the most noble blue, and you know, you know with everything in you that you're pleasing him. That you're giving him what he needs, and he's giving you what you need. So much. It's perfect.

His fangs close on your ear and bite, and it's very easy to quickly stop thinking about anything at all besides serving (servicing) the Highblood. Finally, everything is just the way it should be.

Chapter Text

You minnow for shore that one of the fins you love the most about your lil crabsnack, is how pretty he is when he cries.

He's got this pretty lil way about him. Pinky pearls welling up in the corners of his crimson sinful eyes, and spilling down his cheeks. Sometimes he just get so mad, he bursts into tears for no reel rayson atoll. When that happens, you ushoally have to clear the room so you can pail him right there. You don't know whether you like to pail him the most when he's crying from rage or from the sad thoughts he gets sometides, or when he's grateful for somefin you got him special-like but if you're gonna be reelly, reelly prawnest with yourshellf - you love the way he cries when he's packed full of your bulge the most.

Like right now.

You like doing it this way too, reelly tickles your globes the wave you like. Sitting on your imperial throne, him in your lap and you with your suit pulled just down enough so he can squat and sit on your bulge. Ride it like a hoofbeast. MmmMMMmmm. You've got an Empire to run, but sometides a gill just got to treat herself. Which you have done, about three times already today. Which is why he's squeezing out these tired little tears, packed full of bulge and so fucking wrecked in your lap that got you shivering with a need to soothe and conciliate.

Smoothing your thumb over his cheek, you kiss him and make empty promises about how he's nearly done, just one moray tide, that's all, no more after this. And he knows you're lying; and you know that he knows. But he still makes brave for you, letting out these exhausted whiny moans as he rocks his hips. Lifts himself up and down on your bulge with the guiding help from your graspers, that cute lil bass coming to harbour on your thighs in between lifts. Sliiiding down and gripping your bulge so tight in his sweet nook. Fuck. You love his nook.

Heated tight and silken, the perchfect bulgewarmer. A rasping chitter rises up in your throat, and you kiss his face all over. Smooching those rounded cheeks, almost still wiggler-smooth, tasting salt. Licking up those tears, so pusherfelt and damn, he so fuckin weak. You grip under those banging thighs and use your strength to bounce him faster than his body can make him do himself, feeling your gills gape and flare, earfins pricked out wide. He can't even think to hide his face, head thrown back and his throat all open just for you.

Orgasm is a familiar welcome sensation, and you snarl, fangs gritted as you fill your pretty lil shouty buoy with tyrian colour. Feeling the muscles in your thighs shake, frondstubs grabbing tight at what you've got in your grip. Leaving more bruises no doubt and so? He's your toy to bruise, if you wanna. Slumping back to the steadiness of your throne, you let him collapse against you with a grub-like whimper. Tilting his head up a little so you can see his face, you brush his tears off his cheeks as he looks up at you and lick the taste of his despair and surrender off your fingers. Leaning down, you kiss him on the forehead and rub at his back, relaxing against your throne and let out a deep sigh.

Fuck. You do love it when he cries.

Chapter Text

It's not like it's a kink, you tell yourself firmly. It's perfectly normal to want to feed your moirail. Taking care of your moirail is practically the entire fucking point of the quadrant, nagging and shoving and meddling and fussing. Gamzee just lets you fuss and it all rolls right off his back, that's what it feels like. Sometimes you don't even know what kind of impact you're making at all. You know he appreciates it though - the walking case of gangling panrot is so fucking affectionate, it's sickening (you don't know what you've done to deserve this - you're such a freakish piece of shit).

You're not a great cook, but you can manage to corral your unwieldy frondstubs to the point where you can dial the grocery drones, or arrange a flavour disc delivery drone and get them to deliver food to Gamzee's hive. Highbloods get those kinds of perks (you, on the other grasping frond, have to schlep your walknubs down to the store and dodge Imperial drones in a game of red robberbeast and long-eared hopcritter). You know he can use a husktop - it's how you met, and how you communicate most of the time. But for some fucking knuckle-dragging idiot clown reason, he can't remember how to order food. Or maybe it's just that he forgets he has to, or he should. Like he forgets he has a body and it needs fucking nourishment, or he's just going to drop fucking dead - FUCK. It's a good thing you're around, a good fucking thing.

He frustrates you to the point where you could shit on his lawnring, a big serve of spiteful fuck you rage in one disgusting heap, right in front of his entry portal, just to see if that would get any other sort of reaction. Obviously, you won't. You're a degenerate, but not that kind of degenerate. But sometimes, it's just very fucking tempting.

You're talking over Grype like you've been doing for the past hour, as face to face as you can get considering the distance between your two hives. And since he disclosed earlier that he couldn't actually remember the last time he ate, you ordered a fuckton of food to be delivered tout de fucking suite so he can stuff his cavernous snaggletoothed maw. He gave you his credit account details ages ago, so it's not like you're using your own money here. Thank fuck for that, because you're subsisting on - you wanna say midblood of some kind, but you're not one hundred per cent sure - midblood? Maybe a lowblood allowance, and he's a fucking purpleblood, so he's god damn loaded and he barely spends any of it. Such an unthinking, ridiculous asshole. He's lucky that you're so god damn pale for him, or you could really take advantage of his forgetfulness and general stoned nature.

Right now you're trying not to seem too invested in the fact that his food's arrived and he's spread like five flavour disc boxes over the side of his adminsupport block next to his husktop where you can see the corners, along with the couple of boxes of sweet fried cerealtubes with grubsyrup on the side that you added to the order last minute at check out. Limp sweaty boxes stained with grease propping up the side of the hexagonal food disc box tower. The only thing you didn't order was soda, because you know he has an abundance of sickly sweet disgusting Faygo - a fact he proves by pulling one out of somewhere and taking a deep swallow from it, the muscles in the long column of his throat rippling as he swallows before putting it to one side and opening the top box with a hum and a pleased exclamation at the sight of what's inside. The food you ordered for him, chose for him, and made sure that he'd eat in front of you.

You swallow in anticipation along with him, graspers frozen above the keyboard as you watch him bring the first slice to his mouth.

Fuck, it looks revolting. Cheap nasty curdled milk-product almost sliding off the slice, rainbow beetles bursts of colour that almost swim in your eyes as you watch his mouth open wide. Bite, chew, swallow. Ahaha, fuck, it's more like bite, inhale. There's barely any chewing involved that you can see. Like he's remembering that shit, he's really fucking hungry as soon as actual food hits his flavourslab and he just goes to town. Something like Troll Godzilla decimating the helpless metropolis spread out before his sharp fangs, hinge of his jaw moving as he jerks bites off into his hungertrap with sharp, vicious movements.

You're transfixed by the utterly revolting sight.

"Damn, this is motherfucking miraculous, brother," he says with his mouth full, food almost dropping out before his tongue sweeps back inside. Swallow, chew. You put your hand in front of your mouth, leaning your chin in your hand and elbow on your desk as you watch him eat. Fuck, you better not be blushing. He's just eating, for fuck's sake. It's nothing worth blushing over.

"There's nothing miraculous about ordering you some fucking sustenance, you misbegotten pile of behemoth leavings," you say automatically as he ploughs through the first box. "I'm sure you could do it - if you remembered that you need to do something so mundane as eat, nook for brains." Oh sweet mother grub of fuck, second box. This is the one with oinkbeast strips on it, and some kind of gelationous grubsauce drizzled over the top. You try to breathe steadily, keep to seeming unaffected. This flavour disc gets all kinds of little groans and sighs of pleasure out of him, oh god oh god. Ok, you're definitely remembering he likes this one, shit.

Fuck, you're so fucking disgusting.

He licks his fingers clean of grease, sinuous grey tongue wrapping around each digit as he cleans them off before finishing off by sticking them in his mouth one by one before pulling them out with a pop. Of course he doesn't bother with a disposable wipesquare, the mannerless fuck up that he is. You swallow back a reprehensible purr - he's just eating, it's a perfectly normal activity. It doesn't warrant this kind of response, you disgustingly perverted fuck up. What the actual fuck is wrong with you. But. You want to be there though, you want to watch him eat, and pet his stomach and massage the rounded bulge when he's finally stuffed himself to the point where he's groaning from how full he is. You want to see him put on some god damn fucking weight, instead of just being the ramshackle collection of sticks and stringy muscle that he currently is.

Just pile him and pet him and feel how he's getting heavier, and bigger. Not just taller - just bigger all over. Fatter. Feed him with your own hand (oh god, it's perverted and romantic and you want it so fucking bad). Rub his cheeks and horns and god. You're finding it hard to keep your stubby little frondstubs off your own fucking face, just watching him. You don't want to freak him out, not when you've finally managed to convince him to eat. To stuff himself. You take a deep breath.

"Try the cerealtubes next," you suggest in a strained voice and you reach for your drink, not tearing your gaze away from the screen as he nods. Reaches out to pull a box closer and pulls out one, crystallized sugar dusting off onto his fingers and his desk in sticky crystals. "Good?"

"Yeah, Karbro, real good."

Wallowing in a mix of satisfaction and guilt, you watch as your moirail stuffs his face. Maybe you've got some ulterior motives, but it's good for him. You'll make it up to him later. You swear you will. Right now, you just want to watch him eat junk food until he tells you he can't swallow another bite. You're pretty sure he's going to eat most of it though, and you settle in to watch Gamzee eat and the worst thing is, he's gonna say thank you later. You're a festering nooksore on the swampy and diseased genitals of trollmanity, it's true. Still.

It's not like you can stop, more than just the fact that you like to watch him eat.

So you'll just find a way to live with it. One way or another.

Chapter Text

Trading up was one of the best ideas you've ever had.

Eridan? Eridan who? The place where the pedal really hit the metal was with his father. You're on your knees in front of him, that thick cock in your hand and pillowed against your cheek as you look up, and you've rarely felt such power in your life. The look in his pale eyes is molten, and you can tell that he's trying to seem like he's not really affected by the way you look, and what you're doing. Suuuuuuuure he isn't. And you know how to work what you've got, so really, he's getting a good fucking deal! And you like this feeling of letting him think he's in control, when it's you all along.

Man, couldn't you just fucking wreck his life if you wanted? Or at least make it pretty uncomfortable for a while. You don't want to, he hasn't given you a reason to, but you like feeling like you can. When you've gotten everything you want out of this, and he hasn't pissed you off too much, you might even leave Mr Cronus 'Dualscar' Ampora in one piece, instead of eight.

"Can I suck your cock, Daddy?" you hum in your sweetest little butter wouldn't melt in your mouth voice, and kiss the side of his dick. Yep, definitely much more fulfilling than Eridork. Maybe you'd both hit 18, but Eridan was still a boy and his father was a man. A real man. Suits and ties, expensive cologne, good taste, knew exactly the sort of tribute that you deserved. Just because you give him a little bit of attention; you like the feeling of jerking him around on your strings. Men. So fucking simple.

"Let me see how much you want it first," he exhales from above your head like he's in control of the situation. You pout, knowing how much he enjoys the expression. His hands stay on the arms of the chair, which you prefer. You don't need him messing up your fucking hair. You kiss his cock and lick, giving it slow careful attention with your mouth while you stroke it with your hand, blue marks from your lipstick soon marking up his skin. He's twitching in your grip, and you loll your tongue out of your open mouth, letting your painted lips provide a perfect frame to the way his cockhead rests against the pink of your tongue.

There's a deep sigh from the man above you, and you bat your eyelashes, knowing just how that looks behind the sharp frames of your glasses. He really digs the schoolgirl thing, even if you left high school just a little while ago, and it was never the kind of place that demanded a uniform. Maybe you'll have to buy one. Maybe you can steal one off someone. You much prefer the second idea.

"Please, Daddy," you murmur, and kiss his dick. Giving him big eyes and a pleading expression. Seriously, you should have gone to Hollywood, you're one hell of an actress. "Please, please, please, please, please, please, please..."

"Yes, fuckin' Christ, baby girl," he groans, and you grin. Flash him your sharp-toothed smile, and sink your lips smoothly down over his cock.

You're getting a diamond bracelet out of this at least.

Chapter Text

Watching your kismesis try to concentrate on the bot he's building and pretend he doesn't want to pail you into next perigee like a desperate woofbeast is basically pretty much making your entire fucking night. You don't even really have to do anything at this point, if the way the rate he's sweating is increasing is anything to go by. You're willing to swear that he's making a literal fucking puddle of it at this point (gross) (like you're not wearing the exact same jeans you've been wearing for a whole cycle straight). He's only suffering through his just desserts for being a huge jerky douchewad. This had all been started by you in a chain of events that after some pretty scathing fucking commentary on your part had led to him to saying of course he can manage a lowblooded party drug, it would be no problem at all, he was too STRONG to give in to his impulses, and eating it on the spot. You're not a huge fan of sitting by and letting events take their course, but sometimes people do deserve the natural consequences of their actions.

Only to a point though.

Especially when you're looking forward to the pay off. Pretty sure that the puddle he has to be sitting in isn't just sweat by now. You have to admit that the way he's so obviously ignoring you is going straight to your nook. You're not the one pretending to be a troll of stone though. He fucking bugs you, on two hundred and twenty two levels. Guess that's why this works so well.

"You know it's only been about twenty minutes, right?" you decide to mention out loud, and his hand clenches around the tool he's holding just at the sound of your voice. You goad him further with a nasal chuckle, and make sure to stay out of charging distance. Instead, you zap at the base of his intact horn with your psiioniics, blue-red sparks crackling between your skinny fingers as you click them. He straightens bolt upright, but doesn't turn around. You sigh noisily, and flick one of the screws of the bench you're sitting next to off the smooth surface, onto the floor.

"Don't...do that."

"Do what? This?" You flick another screw and it goes pinging off somewhere into the depths of one of the botpiles, never to be retrieved. His workbenches and tools are set up immaculately - and then he has these huge chaotic piles of broken bots in every corner and stacked up against the walls. You don't get this guy (the fact that you can wade through trash piles of your own accumulated nerd filth without it bothering you an ounce and yet all your network cables are immaculately tied and tagged is not the same thing at all). His shoulders narrow as he visibly holds himself together and not swinging a fist towards you and your spindly body, head dropping down dangerously. "Or this?"

You aim your zap at the seat of his pants. It's really unfair, he has a magnificent ass. All that working out has to be good for something, besides just making him sweat disgustingly. What it's done has lead to a pair of glutes and thighs that the Empress would flip Her Imperial shit about, you're sure of it.

He leaps to his feet and you grin, showing all your fangs as he advances on you in a storm of highblood fury and utter disgust. And need. You can see that wiggly in the front of his ugly shorts - far be it for you to malign anybody's fucking clothing choices but seriously. They're some ugly ass shorts. Nice knee-highs he wears with them though. You click your fingers and pop a zap right on the fly; he almost collapses onto the ground with a groan, hands and knees and the tip of his intact horn lowered almost to the floor. Shuddering with the effort it takes to breathe and - whoa, holy shit, he's dug his fingers into the actual floor.

Wow. This is gonna be good.

Even if he's stupidly strong and muscular, your psiioniics can still hold him down, even now. So you do - for the sake of your pelvic integrity if nothing else - as you come over. And use the toe of your dirty sneaker to lift his head, lifting his shades up and off his face with a very careful and fussy application of kinetic power, hovering them safely out of the way and onto a table. Just so you can see his eyes. Fuck, he is furious. You're not sure you've ever seen Equius this angry before. It's a good look.

"Ehehehe. So what happened to 'if it's for lowbloods there is no possible way it could affect me' bluh bluh bluh I'm a big strong blueblood?" you say mockingly, and flex your fingers, ripping his hideous, sweat-drenched clothes right off his body and scattering them to every corner of the room - let's face it, he can afford to buy new ones, a million times over. You leave the knee-high socks. You're kind of fond of them. He's opening his mouth to spit something at you, lip curled up to expose broken fangs and you zap him right on the nook. His eyes basically roll up in his head and a torrent of blue just gushes like a waterfall from between his thighs and his elbows give out, leaving him facefirst on the floor in his own spreading slurryspill and you with the most swollen sheathe you can remember having in your life.

"EQ?" Did you fucking kill him? He kind of groans, so you guess you didn't, and besides, his ass is still up in the air. You thoughtfully unzip your way too tight jeans and then pull his head up by a grip in his long hair. Your dual bulges are eagerly wrapping over each other, but you're way more invested in getting them into the broken-fanged razortrap that is your kismesis' mouth. He's pretty dazed, but a thumb at the corner of his mouth makes him open, and he's already moving his tongue around, so you guess he's not that out of it. Besides, the glaze in those bloodshot eyes says he's still tripping on the Red Hot you gave him, so he's going to be begging for you to put your bulges somewhere besides his mouth in a hot minute.

He tries to lift a hand to grab at your hip, and you slap it back down with a crackle of scarlet and blue sparks before pulling him in closer to your crotch as he sucks on your bulges. Hatefully looking up at you, recognition coming back into his eyes, but working your split bulges between his tongue and mouth like a concupiscent pail for hire. Fuck, he's so fucking nasty for a dude who looked like he sucked on sour foodglobes as a profession and talked like an etiquette handbook. For someone so scandalized by your obscene language, he sure can suck bulge.

You slither a wisp of electricity down his back to his nook and the way he's working his mouth on you gets a whole lot more hungry, he groans. Oh yeah, back in the game. You take a firm hold of his intact horn and grin down at him.

This is going to be a night to remember, and you can't wait to see what he's going to do to get you back.

Chapter Text

Hating Meenah is a very very easy thing to do, you decide.

Maybe too easy.

You've backhanded her into a wall and she's wiping fuchsia from the corner of her mouth, offering you a cocky smirk. After what she just told you, she deserves it. Everybody knows that the bearers of bad news get stitches, and you're ready to give her more than a few reasons for Porrim to fetch out her sewing kit.

She is laughing at you, unrepentant of her crimes.

"しね!" you shriek, and it's so satisfying to let go of the good rustblood girl you're pretended to be, to let yourself feel all the things you've been feeling all along. Witch of Time? When all you've felt for so long is anger? Kurloz got the wrong aspect, as far as you're concerned. You've been quietly simmering along, soft and restrained, the good girl on Rufioh's arm, all sakura and no storm. Now you're going to erupt. It feels like something similar to an orgasm, and its oh so good.

With your hairsticks clenched in your hands, you aim for Meenah's eyes and she stops laughing at you rapidly, no longer finding the careful casting of Rufioh's perfidy at your feet amusing. The grinning cat-like nature of her, so proud of her rueful trophy, cast into disarray as she shrieks when you score a deep furrow down her shoulder. Nobody thought you could fight, and you pivot on the square heel of your shoe, and kick at her. Sending her scrambling.

"Damn, you crazy?! Beach, you just atrout fucked up my shirt!"

You don't say anything, just get ready to launch another attack. This time, she fights back, throwing your vengeance seeking whirlwind off with a grunt and a shove from her 2x3dent. Catching your forearms on the bar of it like a pole arm, keeping your hairsticks from plunging through her personal visioncorrecters through to her sight nubbins. A hiss is all you let out as she curses at you and reorients herself and her weapon. You're at a disadvantage...but only as long as she can keep you out of range and you are so very. Very. Angry.

Needle-sharp tips gouge her skin with lines as she tries to flail and bat you off, you keep moving, skirt twisting and rising with your movements as you try to give her something more than superficial damage. You're bruised and battered, her fist has caught you in the eye when you finally both sink down together. And something in you makes you reach out and snatch at her long braid, winding hair around your fist as you pull her in tight and close to smash your mouth on hers.

The floor is already decorated in burgundy and pink, drops of blood from one end of the corridor to the other as you claw at her to get her closer to you. Hairsticks dropped somewhere to the side, her 2x3dent rolled to a clattering halt against a wall as you get your nails into her shirt and rip it off her shoulder. She tears your blouse open in return, buttons pinging haphazardly in a dozen different directions as the tone of the way you're making each other bleed shifts. Darkens into pitch. You still want her dead; you just sort of want her to die choking on your rust-flavoured sexworm now. Or fuck it right through her socket into the meat of her thinkpan, you don't mind.

You'll settle for her nook.

Wrestling back and forth on the floor, you hiss in triumph as you force her down underneath you and use the side of your foot to claw her loose pants down over her thighs, baring the rounded curves of her ass. She's hissing back, buzzing rattle reverberating back at you but your cresting croon is deeper and more threatening. Flatfish flounder needs to grow some rumblespheres if she wants to sound as alpha bitch as you. One of her earfins is hanging ripped clean, and you lick your way up the blood dripping down her neck as you hitch your hips up, press up against her ass as you keep her under you. Belly to the floor like the crawling dangernoodle in the grass that she is.

You hate her you hate her YOU HATE HER -

Somehow sinking your bulge into Meenah's tight highblood nook in the middle of the bloodied battlefield you've turned this public passageway into is much more satisfying than any tender love scene you've played out with Rufioh on your shared platform in the privacy of his hive. The realisation makes you sink your flat teeth into her shoulder until she screams, silken and icy muscles clenching in an undulating ripple around the thickness of your bulge. You pull back and slap her on the ass, before thrusting back in and she shrieks with a rage as bitter as what you feel. She won't forget this feeling of being bested by you any time soon.

You won't forget what she's made you feel either, from beginning to end.

Chapter Text

One of these nights, he wonders if he should ask the accountortician who manages all his finance japery just who they think he's buying all this fancy shit for anyway. He wonders if they got some kinda betting pool going. If he knows teals, then that's a hearty fuck yeah, they sure as motherfuck do. But never in a million fucking sweeps are they gonna guess who he's buying it for. That he'd put his own money down on. Maybe he should find out and lay a bet, just in case and then he could really sweep it up.

Mooootherfuuuck, but his Executor looks good like this.

God damn fucking miracles.

This is a blessed fucking sight, and it's reserved for his fucking viewing orbs only. This shit locked up tight. This ass, those thighs, the broad expanse of his shoulders. All bound up for his delectation and motherfucking delight. Got this muscled motherfucker bound up like a dream, and all ready to bend the knee, bare his throat, all for him. Allow him to tread all over every motherfucking moment of reserve he had, reach in deep and find his nastiest, most depraved and wrongful fantasies, pull them out and give them an air. Roll them around his tongue and taste, swallow, take all of that and make it happen for real. Nobody knows how kinky the purse-mouthed chutesphincter could be. Never would guess from the way he conducted himself and all his affairs, his attention to his duty that he showed for every moment when he wasn't bound grasper and walking stub to Kurloz's big, wide concupiscent platform. It's got to be big, to support him and Darkleer both. Neither of them were what any motherfucker could call a small troll.

Taking a knee on the platform where he's bound, Kurloz has to take a moment to appreciate just how his stoic Executor, prim and proper hatched-with-a-stick-up-his-wastechute-instead-of-a-spine Darkleer Zahhak looks like when he's just being Horuss. The Grand Highblood's most wanton fucking bucketpet. Muscles all visible, straining, skin gleaming black with the blue on the undertone, and oh yeah. Like he could forget.

THOSE MOTHERFUCKING SCANDALOUS LACE PANTIES.

That is some shit, that is the best shit. Those wide hips and solid thighs graced with purple motherfucking lace, sheath and nook barely hidden by the centre panel holding all that shit together. Felt like if he breathed too hard on the strings on the hips, they'd come unmotherfuckingdone in a hot second. It's just about as good as the sphere-holster he's got up on up top. Honestly though, Kurloz is pretty sure he likes the panties better. Next time, he might stick to just them. Make a sternfaced honourable chump wear them under his motherfucking uniform; no one'd be able to tell. But they'd know. Oh, they'd both know.

That's for later; got the real breathing Horuss shuddering under a brother's graspers right now. No need to put it off and think of a hypothetical fucking future Horuss. They'd get to it.

Undoing the central tie keeping the gauzy cups together, he kneeled above Horuss and pressed the shallow curves of his near-flat rumblespheres together. Thanks to tying him up and some of the petting and playing they'd been getting up to before this motherfucking beautiful sight, his bulge is already way out. Not that he's ashamed, ain't like Horuss ain't already staining those holy blood coloured panties a pretty shade of blue. With walking frond hinges on either side of his thorax, Kurloz reaches down and presses the other troll's pecs together, with his bulge between them. Hissing through his fangs and grinning as Horuss groans and throws his head back at the debauchery of it all, those elegant arrow-tipped horns describing a near visible arc through the air as purple preslurry dribbles down across his skin. Rolling down shoulder, to throat, down to the comfortslab to stain it.

Oh yeah. Ohhhhh yeah. Spill one out for the Messiahs, motherfucker, and praise be to Their Holy Spirals.

"I'm gonna spill all over you, motherfucker," he murmurs, and starts to move just a little. Letting his bulge do most of the work, squirming between the channel he's made to fuck using the muscles of Horuss' chest. Feeling how solid his body is underneath him, all that strength shuddering away, tied down, locked and turned to his purpose. Not even to a purpose, nothing more than pleasure. His pleasure. "Gonna paint you up proper..."

All he gets from Horuss is a whine. Hellacious motherfucking bitchtittery. That's the way he likes his Executor; so turned on he can't even think to spout one single angel-forsaken hoofbeast pun. Kurloz feels his mouth curl up in the biggest grin, and thrusts forward, pulling Horuss' head up by his hair so his bulgetip can find his mouth and groaning as he felt Horuss try to suckle desperately, get anything in his mouth. More.

Damn, such a thirsty fucking horse. Neither of the pair of you have anything on the schedule, so Kurloz reckons maybe he'll just keep Horuss like this. Right here. Until every grubleg width of him is coloured like a nebula, purple and blue and nothing else. He doesn't think his Executor is rightly going to object. Besides, is this needy ponybitch going to tell him no?

Kurloz didn't fucking think so.

Chapter Text

Pulling Eridan's hair is way funner than you'd thought it would be, the first time you'd done it.

He gets absolutely spitting mad about it. Just completely off the wall raging blah blah blah Nep get your filthy fuckin lowwblood fingers out a my coiffure, how dare you blah blah blah I'm a big highblood poophead who thinks he's furry impawtent! Much more impawtent than someone like you! Somehow he brings up how much he spent to get his hair cut, like you should care? You hack off your hair with a knife when it gets too long and starts falling in your eyes. Sometimes Equius trims it a little, tutting about how unkempt you are, but he's a fusspot and your moirail, it's his prerogative to meddle with these things. You're pretty sure that the way you keep your hair and generally dress yourself is something that Eridan finds purrsonally offensive on a number of levels.

It's furry funny! You don't think he understands how funny he is to you. Which really just makes him even funnier! And that gets right up his sniffnode - which is good, because there's a lot of things he does that really makes your fur stand on end. Which is how you've wound up here again with both your grasping fronds in his hair, twisting slowly as you pull his face in towards your crotch as he licks your nook and your bulge coats his face with olive geneslime.

Hey, it's not your fault that you beat him! Well, it is your fault, you guess, but you did tell him that you were very sure that you could get a higher prey count than him. Meowbe he should practice more at sneaking and really hunting! Instead of just relying on his (you gotta admit it) supercool superdeadly laser rifle and a furry nice scope. You're a little jealous of the Crosshairs, but not really. Sometimes a troll should just get their claws dirty and really get down to it. Like you do. And he knew what the prize was before he agreed to the bet; he really oughtta know by now that you really only do things when you're just about certain of the outcome. If he wasn't such an arrogant chutesphincter, then he would have realised that of course on land, in a heavily wooded area, you were the one who was going to have the advantage! Your whole hunting style is designed for that. But if he wants to be stupid and think the diffurence in your bloodcaste meant that he was automatically going to be the victor, you are not going to stop him!!! Especially when it means you're going to be the one getting your nook licked, your rough fingers kneading and teasing knots into his hair.

Cholerbear ichor coats you to your elbows, soaked into the cuffs of your jacket and splattered up the legs of your pants. The hollow of your ocular socket aches, you've got bruises from horns to tail. Eridan doesn't; he keeps himself above all of that, riding on his lusus. Just means he's dirtier now while you enjoy your triumph, usually disdainful sneering face covered in your colour while you grin down at him and show all your fangs. Pull on his hair, while you grind your nook down onto his face, breath starting to come quicker as he uses his tongue for something a lot more useful than boasting about just how many great beasts he downs a day.

Eridan Ampora, noble Orphaner, still sitting at zero on the scoreboard in the games you've been playing with each ofur. You should have thought of this ship sooner! If you'd had even thought about how good he'd look on his knees, you meowght have. The laser glare he's throwing up at you from behind his glasses makes you smirk, hissing through your fangs as you pull on his hair. With the right tug, he lets out a little whine that goes straight to your bulge, long olive tentacle trying to coil around his visioncorrecters and sliming its way across his nose and cheeks. You're thinking next time, you should suggest a higher stakes prize. His pride won't let him say no; and you've gotten pretty good at teasing him into a corner where he makes the suggestion himself. It's easy when people think you're stupid. You don't mind, pawnestly. You're kind of used to it, so you just found a way to make it work fur you.

He might be the aristocrat, but when it comes to hunting, you're more than happy to show him that the most furocious and skilful huntress still knows best!

Fur just as many times as you need to, until he learns his lesson about underestimating you just beclaws you've got olive blood and live in a cave. Somehow, you're confident that it's going to take a furry, FURRY long time.

;33c

Chapter Text

It's amazing what people will pay money for these days.

The only things that you've still got on are your hat, your shades and your gloves. The rest of you is meteorite bare, and you know what they're seeing. All these chumps out there in the electronic wastelands, the dingdingding of cybercoin hitting your servers in a crescendo that makes your hole wet and your dick oh so fucking erect. You're surrounded by screens, you can see yourself in three different viewers from three different angles, reflecting what your loyal fans are tuning into.

Body toned to fuck, littered with old scars and healing cuts. Self-inflicted, paid for and other fucking wise - you've seen some shit, that's all it is. One thigh pulled up so, thumb rubbing across your pec and down your sternum, other hand holding a smuppet in between your thighs. Lurid violent green, something unnatural (it reminds you of something that you know you've never seen). The lights you've got up wash everything out more, gives you that high contrast. Nipple rings glinting, the hard line of scar underneath making a point of just how much of your body you've manufactured to give you something you can feel almost comfortable with. You're set up just like one of those French girls, only no one is watching you to do something as clean as draw you. With your hand coming up, you stick your fingers in your mouth and suck.

Working your tongue around, you make some good nasty fucking noises for those nasty fuckers watching you, and rub the nose of the smuppet up and down against your cunt. You're already prepped, so it's easy to start working in the long, curved proboscis of the puppet. Slick lube dribbling down your thighs. A tug on one of the rings in your nipples, and you squeeze the bulbous body of that pert little fuck you've got rooting between your legs, and you let out a stuttered groan as it starts to shudder and shake. Rock and fucking roll, baby.

Closing your eyes for a moment, you press the smuppet deeper and then start to fuck yourself on it, rubbing a thumb briefly against the solid nub of your elongated prick, poking out perky from beneath its hood. Yeah, that's the shit, dawg. Smuppet nose pressed deep inside, the smooth rumble of the lil off-balance motor you've put it in giving you the good vibrations. Not quite soft feel of the fabric you've made the puppet out of rubbing rough against your insides as you grunt through your teeth, biting at the tip of your tongue.

More jackpot sounds crescendo and you let yourself coast, thinking about the money you're making off the lonely fucked up perverts who are in tune with your particularly niche fetish. Puppet parts shoved up inside pussy. Feeling tight and hot in your chest, something building down low between your hips. Somewhere around the base of your six-pack. Grinding down onto the penetrating nose, you hiss and suck air through your teeth, clenched tight in every muscle across your body. Feel the meat of your thigh shaking, getting closer and closer to the edge.

Everything's running tighter and tighter, like an overspun top until it all finally comes undone. Your hips arch up, thighs wide and shout FUCK loud enough to raise the roof.The one thing you've said since you monologued an opening rap to your fans. Not that they appreciated the fruits of your lyrical genius, they just wanna see this lewd shit. Your breath is heavy as you fall back, and the cracks in the ceiling mock you silently as you reach down to pull the smuppet out of the grip of your body and kick it tiredly to the floor. You're all over sweat, slick and lube tacky on your thighs and down the crack of your ass, and you take a moment to catch your breath. Hand swiping tiredly at your bedside table until you turn off the cameras and leave every screen black and blank, like holes in the periphery of your vision. Fuck, this is disgusting. You're disgusting.

You'll clean up in a minute.

You know that tomorrow you're going to do it again.

Chapter Text

You're pretty sure that Jake really doesn't appreciate how cute he is when he's acting like this. You almost wish you could tell other people but uh, you're not dumb. Despite popular opinion. He wouldn't want anyone else to know, and you're careful about respecting important boundaries. You've had enough people do things to you without your consent, you're kind of very fucking over it so you're not about to go and do it to someone else. Being fused with GCat has been one of the better things for you even if you would never have asked for it, because meowbeasts really do not give a single fuck and the part of you that is GCat gives even less, but seriously though, you still think Vriska can eat a bulge. Even when you were dead, she was still thinking of ways to use you. You sincerely, honestly hope that she's lost forever; hopefully everybody else has her luck, and that's just the way things are going to be from now on.

Man, Vriska doesn't even need to be here or be relevant and you're still stuck ruminating on her! Fuck that horrendous noise, you're going to concentrate on Jake. Much better idea.

Besides, he's really fucking pitiable and you like thinking about him, and looking at him. Touching him. You're not sure whether this is flush or pale, the way you used to think of things when you were an embodied troll. It doesn't really seem to matter. If it was pale, it's uh, a really kinky way of doing pale. Considering some of the shit you do.

But you do focus a lot of it around him being comfortable, and resting and having a way to shut off. You can't pretend you don't do it too though; you've both earned some time to relax. You're both coiled up on the couch, some movie playing and you keep your fingers carefully scratching behind his ear. You both double-checked to make sure that the doors were locked, and you had Roxy's solemn word that no one would be able to teleport inside your shared hive through the power of the Void. You trust her; she's a good friend. So far so good, anyway. It's not like anyone's come bursting in at the wrong time to see how Jake likes to spend maybe a few hours a week wearing a dog collar and not much more. Sometimes he puts on the headband with the ears, but mostly it's just the collar. A signal for the two of you. Just like hey, it's time to let go. Let you both relax without anyone judging. No need to worry about anything outside the door, or any of the people you've known before. Or even ones you still know.

The GCat part of you doesn't really feel one way or another about woofbeasts, but the Tavros part of you always pretty much liked them. Sometimes you pail, but mostly you just curl up like this, together, and go higher functions free for a while. Yawning, you nuzzle in closer against his dark hair, your trailing tail wrapped around his calf. You think it's his calf, it's somewhere on his leg anyway and it's comforting to squeeze. Firm, muscular.

There's a lot of skin against your skin. Soft warm real against the firm electric static of your sprite body. You put your hand with its softly furred digits (they're uh, not really fingers now? You don't know what to call them) on his shoulder and nudge his head back so you can nuzzle in and start to lick. He lets out a stuttery sigh, and you lose yourself to the mind numbing routine of it. Lap, lick, lick, lick, lick. Up his throat, along his face, the shadowy stubble along his jawline, up his cheek. Roughness of your tongue dragging as you lick his soft and curling hair into cowlicks, little spikes.

The feeling of his breath in the room is soothing, you can hear how relaxed he is (feel it in the core of you, all spark and knowledge you don't know you know). You murmur something about how good he is and shift, tail pulling him in closer, almost on top of you as he shivers. Warm calloused hand gripping somewhere around your shoulder, holding on.

You rub your face against his and breathe in. Territory marked with the cool icy cat-sprite-troll smell of yourself, Jake calm and collected and happy with you. If sometimes he needs to be a woofbeast, you don't mind. It just means you get time to indulge the more animal part of you too, and it's just. It's good. If you need it, and it's not hurting anyone else, you don't see why you both can't do what you like. You kind of like that no one knows about it. Makes it just your thing.

You're something close to a thing that's at least a little bit like sleep when you realise you're purring. Glancing down at Jake and noticing the half-grin he's got on, you guess he noticed too. Laughing a little bit, you hump and coil some of your body more comfortably on the couch and rub your fingers up the column of Jake's throat, blue-white contrasting oddly with soft brown skin. It's a warm day. If you have a catnap in a minute or two, you don't think Jake will mind.

Maybe things didn't finish anything close to what you thought they would (you're dead) (you died) (you're not alive anymore) (you're not a troll anymore) but it's not all bad. Not with someone who gets it around. Maybe it's not pale-pale, maybe things aren't really fine for either of you yet, but. It's not all bad.

Chapter Text

If you don't keep quiet, the both of you are going to be caught.

And then the culling will be on for one and all; even you are too low to be in this sort of building with no reason, which you don't have a way to lie about. Especially if they figure out who Kankri is, not just another rustblood. Something different, and more. Special. Unfurtunately, sometimes he can get a little dumb about spreading his ideas, and you don't think that the legislacerators who are after you, with a subjuggulator in bloody clothes in tow no less, are really going to be open to some evangelization about the benefits of kindness and grace towards your fellow troll. But you know him, and you know you, the way danger and excitement affects the both of you, and you press your hand over his mouth and roll your hips against his ass. Letting him think about the fact that you've got half a wiggly already. You think he only saw the lead legislacerator before you pulled him into this storage closet? So you do have a chance.

If you can distract him propurrly.

"Meulin is this - mmph - really the time? Darling?" he murmurs against the palm of your grasping frond, and you lick his ear as he kisses your fingers softly. Nuzzle up against his neck. And your other paw is furry carefully engaged in tugging his leggings down, fingers sliding carefully between his thighs. You pull the cloak out of the way, and nip his ear to hear him grunt a little. He really does make the cutest noises!

"We might be here fur a while! And I don't think a little fun is out of the question...mm? Purrlease say yes..." You can feel him thinking about it, and then he nods slightly. Phew! Just meowbe it'll be alright after all. You decide to put the decision of explaining efurrything behind your sudden need to pail right meow to Kankri to later. Maybe you'll tell Psii - he'd understand, and might give you the proper way to explain it. But you'll settle for getting out of here alive furst. "Since I don't think you can mewnage being quiet by yourself, I guess I'll just have to make sure you are," you breathe in his ear, and fumble in your carry receptacle until you find what you know is a clean sniffnode wiper. Balling it up, you shove it in his mouth with his cooperation, and hitch his leg up to expose his nook. Him leaning forward and holding his weight up by putting his forearms on the door.

It's not hard to hoist the skirt you're wearing up and out of the way, making it easy for your bulge to slide and slither against his skin, tip wiggling around to find the entry to his red-hot nook. He makes a muffled gasping sound around the cloth in his mouth, and you pull him back into you a little, your battle-scarred hands heavy and sure around his thigh and hip. Giving him some more support, something to steady himself against. You like this feeling of being bigger than him, being able to protect him if you need to. He can look after himself just fine! If he has to! But something about the way you're joined, the secrecy of hiding in the closet, hearing the wet soft sounds of his pleasure muffled by the cloth of your makeshift gag - it makes you feel like you could kill for him.

You have to keep things slow and careful, and you can hear trolls outside the door talking. You know how to be quiet, even in the most extreme of circumstances and you just breathe heavily, feeling the need to chirp heavy in your thorax. Kankri isn't quite as restrained, mewling around the gag and then from behind your hand as well when he got a little too loud when some footsteps were a little too close. It's a slow, careful thrust and roll you keep up, your hips bumping almost gently against his ass as you pail him silly while outside your pursuers try to find you. Look, if they didn't think to look in here, then they deserve to lose you. You're pretty sure that it's beclaws they don't think you'd have the wit to hide, and also a little bit because they're kind of highblooded and probably think that things like cleaning closets are beneath them to search, and haven't found a janiterrorist to do it fur them.

If castist nonsense is going to work for you, you're glad they're castist assholes! Pawnestly! Possibly they just have no idea how big a cleaning closet is on the inside, so they have no idea that two full-grown trolls could fit inside one. Which is both hilarious and pretty sad. You pail Kankri until he's squirming, nook rippling around your bulge and trying to milk you for your release. There's already two loads of candy red slurry painting you both to the knees - boy, 'Rosa is going to flip when she sees the state of your clothes. Worth it though, because you're sure you can't hear the legislacerators anymore, and haven't for a while!

With a low hum, you push forward and pump him full of slurry, leaving him slumping between you and the door. With careful fingers, you hook the now sodden cloth out of his mouth, and use it to clean up the worst of the slurry on his thighs before pulling his leggings back up and giving him a fond pat on the butt. You do really like his butt. And letting your eye roam over the chemicals and cleaners on the shelves, you've got an idea about how to get out of here without getting caught on the way out...

He's still jelly-legged when you pull him out of the supply closet and hoof it quickly. He's not moving fast enough for your liking, so you pick him up and heft him over a shoulder. He's kind of complaining, but the BOOM from behind you shuts him up. He just sort of clings to you, wide-eyed as you use your hunt-trained body to use the huge and fiery distraction you've just engineered to draw attention away from a way out of the adminterrorist hive and back out to the city at large.

You were right though; his lusus is supurr mad about the mess you've made of both your clothes. But she's glad enough to see you both back safely that Rosa keeps the scolding to a minimum. Catching Psii's raised eyebrow over her shoulder as she turns to focus on Kankri, you drop the other member of your group a solemn wink and he grins, knowing you'll explain the full story to him later. You're pretty sure that that means that there'll be a second round rather shortly after with an extra participant.

There are defurinatly a few perks to being a traitor to the Empire, and you're in love with two of them. It's more than enough for you.

Chapter Text

It's a wonderful thing to see a motherfucker so grateful for all his god damn blessings. Little motherfucker had had your back up at the first (you've got one hell of a memory and you know motherfucking exactly who'd supplied most of the material to make the muscular little fuck) but he got under your guard. Deferential little blueblood bootlicker. You think it was about the third cycle after he'd joined your attache staff when you'd realise just how eager he was to jump to any order you'd give him, and emotherfuckingxactly how he took it when you did give him an order. And you'd almost let your paranoia get the better of you, brother, and sent him away. You're glad now you decided to keep that potential traitor-get under your motherfucking sniffnode just in case something happened, or you'd not have been able to experience this MIRACLE you got right now.

Him straddling your lap as you lounge on your throne, hands wrapped around his solid column of throat and squeezing while he looks motherfucking beatific. Like he's been blessed by the Messiah's themselves, tongue hanging out and face going dark blue while you choke him to the point that angels could come down to lift him into Carnival. If you move your bulge just right, you can see it writhe against the stretched skin of his belly. You up and packed that nook fit to burst, and he loves it. He'd do just about any motherfucking thing if it meant he was serving you.

Ain't no lie, this Zahhak is even more of a fucking bulgebitch than his Ancestor was. He sobs, choked off with your grip on his wind-strut, and you let him have a moment to breathe so you can rub your hands over his thighs, that swollen belly. Feeling your own motherfucking righteous bulge writhe from the fucking inside. If he wasn't such a strong fucker, you'd be worried about breaking him. But sometimes you think that's what he wants. You're more careful than that with your toys, especially when they're this fucking bitchtits.

You bounce him on your bulge a few times, glorying in each whimpering plea for more, more, MORE. Greedy ass motherfucker. He's lucky you got so much to give. Wrapping your hand back around his throat, you squeeze while his eyes roll like playspheres in his head, digging your claws into the solid meat of his thigh.

"SPILL, bitch. That's a motherfucking order-"

You've barely got the words out of your mouth before he's spasming in your lap, nook milking your bulge for what your globes are holding, so you just trail off into a groan and let go. Fingers tight on his throat, feeling how the muscles move as he tries to gasp for air, holding onto his life in your grip. All you'd have to do is...not let go. Something darkly hungry in you shudders, and you watch his eyes as you pump slurry up into his nook, bulge shoved in deep past his seedflap and filling him up even more. Like to pop, so full is he going to be.

Worshipful is the only word for the look in his teary, bloodshot oculars and your fingers spasm. Let go. He takes a whooping hacking breath and collapses on top of you, weak in the moment. Leaking slowly around the thickness of your bulge, usually flat stomach swelled all up to fuck. Your throne is a ruin of blue and purple slurry and you trace your grasperstubs over the expanse of his back and - you let him. Most casual bucketfills you'd just kick out the way they motherfucking were, but this ain't the first time you've let him have time to get himself together and composed before he leaves your company.

Well.

Shit.

Guess you ain't over that thing you got for blue.

Chapter Text

It's all night long that you've been doing all your Empressly duties. You're being very, very diligent! You're being the very B-EST -EMPR-ESS that you could possibly be! It's just the way you shoald be doing fins, and that's the prawnest truth. You rub your fingers over the curve at the end of the arm of your throne as you listen to the petitioner in front of you pleading their case, and don't look sideways and to your right, where your Chief of Security is currently standing.

And sweating. Buoy! He shore is sweating. Just gallons of the stuff.

Most people are used to it by now and just ignore him, but you and he both know why exactly he's sweating so hard right now. It's because of a special littoral somefin you'd helpfully (very helpfully!) inserted into his nook before you'd both come out to the judgement room so you could hold court with him in his usual plaice by your side. Yes, of course you could push more work towards the actual courts, but you feel like somefins need a perchsonal touch. And you make shore to take just as long as time as each dispute demands.

It's been a long night.

"That's it for tonight's court, everybaydy will just have to come back tomorrow if I didn't net to you this tide," you say brightly as you finish off with a decision in favour of a rustblood wanting orcharding rights, and clap your hands together, before gathering yourself to get to your feet. The diaphanous mass of skirts cloaking your legs rustles as you rise, and the whole room bows. Or curtsies, according to their preference. You've never minded much. Equius' forearm is there waiting for you, you don't even need to look before laying your hand down over the top of his. You know you both look very stately as you walk out together, him in his black and blue trimmed uniform with that very special fuchsia badge on the chest over his pusher, and you in your Empress-y gown of silks and your body all layered with gold and pearls.

Flimflumflammery, that's what it is! But APPAR-ENTLY you have a reputation to uphold. Who even gave you that, if they'd known you when you were, oh, three, or even six, they'd have given you a very different sort of rayputation indeed - your private thoughts are cut off by the way that Equius curls over onto you with a helpless deep groan that comes from somewhere deep inside as soon as you're even in just a little bit of privacy, his hand spasming underneath yours as he curls it to a fist. You grab him by the waist and hold him up and pretty much just shove him sideways into a wall with a small giggle. He's sweating so much, and he's so very V-ERY desperate! Just the way you like him.

"Empress," he wheezes and you can feel him shaking underneath you as you press him up against the wall. So adorable. You undo the clasp holding that long mane of hair back, and wrap it around your hand to pull his head back so you can smooch that long expanse of throat and leave fuchsia lip prints all up and down it. All that smooth skin unscarred, except for your odd scarred-over bitemark or two. Mmph. You're feeling pretty -EAG-ER to get going yourshellf! You've been dripping steadily into your knickers since the start of the evening - it's not like this hasn't been difficult for you too! There's a reason why you picked tyrian pink for the colour of your gown tonight - buoooy you betta leave some sort of tip for the janiterrorist staff, conchsidering you probubbly left a discreet puddle on the cushion of your throne - "Feferi, please!"

"Shh, shh, you're SUCH a good buoy for me, I'm so HAPPY with everyfin you've done tonight," you soothe, and he makes a sort of very deep, basso rumble whimpering sound. Glub! He's so well dressed (over dressed) and looked so put together all night long, just for you. You're pretty sure no one realised he's had a nookworm stuffed up inside him for the -ENTIR-E court session. You kiss him a bit more, because you're honestly just so PL-EAS-ED wave him. "You're so good, so good, such a good buoy, so good for me..."

You fumble with his belt buckle and tug those outstandingly tight pants down to his knees with a hard yank - they DO make his bass look AMAZING but they can be hard to net off if you're in a hurry. Which you both are. Something tears, but you don't pay attention to it as you scrape your skirts up and out of the way, your thick bulge trying to tangle with your underwear and the lacy scarves that make up the body of your skirt AT THE SAM-E TID-E, GLUBBING H-ECK. This dress is dolphinately going to be a complete write off, you're not even going to ask Kanaya to TRY. Bumping your hips up against his ass as he puts his hands against the wall, head turned enough to offer you his throat and legs widening. He's SUCH a good buoy. And so very, V-ERY pitiful. <3!!!

You slide your bulge between his muscular thighs and press them back together, one hand in his hair and the other one going to pull the plug out of his sheath. You'd had to have some wave to stop him from makoing a spectacle of himself out there - because wow, he sure does have a lot of bulge! It'd be pretty obvious through the pants if you hadn't used the celibacy harness. Poor guppy, he needs this so much. If you press your fingers down a little further, you can feel the tail of the nookworm, wiggling between his thighs. Your bulge makes a slick sound as you press forward, fucking the firm grip as he presses his legs together and moans into the wallpaper.

"Empress - my Empress - please, I n-need to, I need -"

"I know," you murmur and guide your bulge up to tangle with the base of his. Probubbly not quite as satisfying as he'd like, but you start to move your hips anyway. Fucking his thighs as he holds them together for you, claws scratching and dragging marks into the wall. There's fuchsia and blue running down the inside of his legs, dotting the floor as you aggressively rut up against his ass, sinking your fangs into his shoulder through the cloth of his shirt. He yelps, and goes almost limp under you, surrendering to everyfin you're gonna give him. Your bulge is rubbing back and forth between his legs, and you've got no doubt that the nookworm is feasting inside his nook, trying to drink down every drop of slurry he's producing. It's going to be fat as a seacucumber by the time you pull it out, you're very certain of that.

He's stopped making words, just crooning gasps and sighs as you reach down to stroke your combined bulges. His doubled back and trying to constrict around what of yours it can reach. You kiss the side of his throat, and hump harder against his thighs, wanting to utterly and completely ruin his pretty, pretty uniform. And him, of course.

Ruining him and making him insensibubble is your idea of a very good time. You pull on Equius' hair again and he makes a sort of gasping scream, body shuddering and thighs tensing around your bulge, and it's delicious. You like it when he really lets go - somefin he can do wave you. It's not like he's gonna breaker YOU in a hurry.

You think you're gonna keep the pants as a trophy and put them up in your respiteblock, just so you can see him blush in that way he thinks you don't notice, every tide he enters it from now on.

Chapter Text

Gonna talk about some banging tiddies, gonna go on all about these motherfucking RUMBLESPHERES, these marvellous hellacious heftsacks your pretty kittybitch has all up and going on. You smother your face between her tits and sigh happily, while Meulin giggles above your head. The hazy scent of nip and stardust is all around a RIGHTEOUS BROTHER, you two getting on your CHILL. You catch the hard bud of her nipple between your teeth as she lies back on the comfortslab and laughs at you, your greasepaint getting ALL THE FUCK OVER everything.

Shows where you've been giving your devotions right and proper. A more purer form of WORSHIP for the BODY INCARNATE yet to be devised, your graspers and mouth all over the curves of your wicked little flushcrush. You'll admit to spending a lot of time between her cleavage, or just playing with her nips but you don't think any motherfucker could blame you. She got some reallll nice fucking titties. You like her plump ass, her thicc thighs, the sweet curve of her stomach where it was cradled between the pendulum of her hips, every bit of her from her rounded horns down to her painted walkstub claws, but you really really really fucking love her rumblespheres.

You roll one olive-tinted nipple thoughtfully between your fingers and sit back, while Meulin looks at you questioningly. Joint held adrift between her fingers, the coal of it gleaming at you like an ocular. She looks like a GODDESS.

GOING TO GET SOME THINGS, I GOT SOME WICKED NOTIONS BOILING UP ON ME, you sign at her and Meulin gives her eager assent to the suggestion, and you manage to loft your husk to its feet despite the fuzziness swirling self-inflicted on the inside of your pan. Kicking away an empty Faygo bottle, she gets comfy and you know she's watching you go. Both of you as bare-hide as the motherfucking proverbial grub, and what of it? Ain't like there's many motherfuckers who are gonna bust into your hive with no word of warning or notice. And if they did show you such MOTHERFUCKING DISRESPECT, you'd have ways of ensuring that they did not do so the fuck again. Ever.

You load up some shit into a handy box and bring it down. Now you and kittybitch, you like your toys. She's a real playful bitch, and you're some kinda tricky motherfucker. So you got SOME SHIT, that's what you're saying here. Right now, you feel like concentrating on her pretty titties, so that's the kind of shit you grab.

Meulin reclines, stretching out as you come back, swinging your walking strut up and over so you're straddling her hips and sitting up proper while you look down at all that motherfucking expanse of beauty and sinful flesh below you. Hands on her hips, thumbs pressed to the swell of her stomach, then up, up, up to cup her bounteous breasts. You heft them in your palms and feel her thorax shaking as she laughs at you while you rub and tweak her nips, and then delve into the box to pull out some decorations.

"Mmm, so it's like that, nyahh?" she purrs, and you lean down to kiss her. Sloppy makeouts commence, and you feel her hands come to rest on your ass. Squeezing at the sparseness that you got, both of your bulges coming out to get real friendly. That's some REAL WICKED SHIT. You get your fondle on with her heftsacks, and lean down to suck one of her nipples into your mouth again, leaving a black and purple smear on the skin around it. Looks like your stitches are leaking again, but Meulin just licks her lips and lets out a cute motherfucking little mewl.

THAT'S EXACTLY HOW IT IS, MY MOST MOTHERFUCKING FAITHFUL NINJALETTE. You sign to her then pause, so you can put a clamp onto one nipple, and then the other. She squeaks, and the flush rises up in her face as you pull on the chain between them, and shoot her a nasty little grin. You ain't getting all pitch in your flush but your kittybitch likes some harshness in her pailing and you ain't mind at all dishing that hellacious shit right the fuck out. If that's what a lady likes, it's what a motherfucking lady likes, and so she shall fucking get.

"Fffuck, Purrloz, mew are such a tease!" she accuses, back arching up as you rock in her lap. You're getting her all proper painted in holy colour no doubt, the odd muddy colour of your purple and green combining as your bulges get their squeeze on together to drip all over your thighs, her luscious belly. You tug on the chain again and keep up your facegash's mirthful curvature as she shudders and sighs, nipples stretching just a bit.

TEASE, IS A MOTHERFUCKER? Signing one-handed is a MIRTHLESS BITCH, but there's reasons why the two of you have worked this shit out. LET'S SEE HOW MUCH OF A TEASE A BROTHER CAN BE.

Chapter Text

You were not expecting this particular shade of fuckery when you came back to your respiteblock. You don't know what you did to deserve this, for once you're sure that you really fucking don't deserve this. All you'd really wanted to do was fall into your soporslime receptacle and go to sleep. Just. Sleep. You like sleep, you think you do anyway - you think fondly about it at least. Since your rambunctious and hideously unorganised clade took over the Empire, somehow you got voted in as voice of reason. You don't know how, you don't know why, but you wished you'd had a chance to refuse the nomination that someone (probably Sollux - or maybe it was Eridan) put you up to. It's done you no favours, only ensured that despite your inclinations otherwise you get dragged into every problem, romantic or otherwise, that every one of your known peers has (it's not like they're all what you would call friends).

You've made so very fucking many bad choices in your life, and the prize of several of them is cackling at you currently. Fuck your life. Fuck your past self and all of his hideous decisions that you're now left to deal with in terms of nuclear fallout.

"Mister cherry candy, I'd like to inform you that this is a seduction," the bony and toothy-smiled hag that is your kismesis declares from her place so carefully arranged on top of your concupiscent platform. You're not saying you don't have fond memories of her in that exact place, and more than a few of them as well, but fuck no. Not this dawn, no sir.

"And what exactly makes it a seduction?" you ask with a sour tone, pulling off your uniform shirt so you can put it in the laundry chute. You are not getting undressed to pail. That is not what you're doing here. You're undressing solely to get into your recuperacoon and you are going to sleep. Not pail. Don't think about the fact that she's naked - god damn it you're fucking thinking about it you shitheaped moron!

"I'm glad you asked, Karkat! As you should be able to see; I'm naked," she says with gleeful and vicious intensity. You hear the rustle of sheets, and keep looking resolutely away from her as you drop your shirt into the chute. You're not looking. She can't make you look. "I can taste the delicious liquorice of your uncovered back from here, Karkles." A ghoulish chuckle greets your continuing silence, and then you hear her sigh and then.

Then.

Sweet fuck, is she already stroking her bulge? You are, at least, a little fucking familiar with what it sounds like when her bony fingers wrap around someone's bonebulge and stroke. Slick, a little too quick - rougher than you like. It seems to work for her though. You grit your teeth and wonder if this sort of frustration is how Zahhak wound up with half his dentition broken before the age of seven. You suppose you're lucky you've only encountered it when you were (hollow laugh) old and mature enough to deal with it. That's what you're meant to be anyway. You don't turn around, hand clenched around your hatred for this whole situation, and for her in particular.

"You know, it would save a lot of time if you'd stop beating yourself up over the fact that this wasn't your idea, realise that a good pail would really make you feel better, and come over so I can get my tongue on that delicious cherry red bulge," she coos, and you shudder. Terezi's fascination with licking things carries over pretty well to...well...licking everything. And you know how good it feels. You scowl down at the emerging wiggly in your pants; traitor. She's getting to you, and you're sure she knows she is too. Cantankerous and obstreperous witch. "And if you're really not interested in the fact that I'm naked and touching myself on your concupiscent platform, bucket in place - I brought food for after. Which if you don't hurry your cute butt up, I'm going to take back to my block to devour between tears of rejection."

"...what sort of food?"

You make the mistake of looking at her and swallow drily. Suddenly feeling like you're about to choke on your spit at the sight of Terezi naked, one knee drawn up and thighs spread, her hands busy and covered in strings of teal slime. Ridged bulge wrapping around one hand, long fingers pushing deep into her nook through the courtesy of the other.

"Deep fried cluckbeast parts and tuberscrapings with oinkbeast slivers and curdled milkproduct," she answers and you toe out of your boots, watching as she fingerfucks her nook and strokes her bulge. Head thrown back onto the comfortnubs and she makes a trilling moan that has your bulge squirming the rest of its way out of its sheath. You wince as it tries to tangle with your underwear, constricted by your pants and you undo the belt and push them off hurriedly. She laughs at you, razor-edged and hoarse as you almost trip on your own garments en route to the platform. She's won, and she knows it - well what the fuck ever. "It's keeping warm, don't worry. I don't think you'll last long enough for that to be a problem!"

"Shut your festering facegash, Pyrope," you snarl, and you kiss her, looming over her and feeling her mouth open up to yours with a sardonic grin. "Just consider me seduced already."

Chapter Text

You don't want to be attracted to her.

All your life, you've known what was coming. A lot of it you'd seen imperfectly, some parts had been filled in later by Dave, by Jade. You miss that old woman. She wasn't like what you were used to, straight forward and blunt, oddly comforting in the middle of what is a kind of collective despair. It's hard to say how many people exactly have died because of the Batterwitch and everything she's wrought - there's not really anybody organised enough to keep count any more - but you know exactly how many of your friends you've lost because of her. Jade was one of the best.

Your books had shown everything, if anyone with the wit to understand them had opened their pages and read your words. Everything projected in exquisite detail, only twisted to one side. You know how much it's infuriated her. You sometimes don't know which of you and Dave she hates the more. And sometimes, you're certain that it's you by the pricking in your thumbs.

Covered in blood and slime, you climbed out of the reservoir waters with your knitting needles firmly clutched in your hand. You had of course, retrieved them from the sockets of Guy Fieri's skull, once you'd ridden his body down the falls. Your survival had not actually been in question, no matter Dave's deadpan anxiety-ridden rapping as you'd left to take on the High Chaplain, leaving him to accost the clowns posing as dual presidents of your once great nation. Some things need to be paid for.

It's something like a birth.

And like any birth, you're not alone when you emerge from the waters of death. Bloody and - well, not naked, at least - blood-covered and gasping for breath, your clothes clinging to you in a sodden mass as you hear a slow clap to the side. You turn, knowing that this can't be the end, not yet - the ending to this story has long since been foreseen. And she's very, very powerful, the Batterwitch. But she's not that powerful. She's as much a slave of the narrative forces that drive your universe as you are. Even if she would never admit so.

Still, even knowing that it's not that time, you fling yourself at her. She catches your forearms in her hands, and pushes back, an Amazonian figure of a woman. Or something like a woman. She's not making the slightest amount of effort to hide what she is anymore, every alien feature of her is on display, encased in slick black latex that outlines every muscle, each curve of her body. A creature from the deeps, made bipedal and intelligent, thrown onto shore and come rampaging for everything it could sink its teeth into.

She's vile. Not anything like any sort of human notion of beauty - completely inhuman. And something low and despicable in you wants her. The fluttering fins on the sides of her face, the bug-eyed glare behind ludicrously outdated and hideously pink neon cat's-eye framed glasses. Face skewed from what your instincts consider true, jaw too long, cheeks too hollow, everything just so very, very wrong. She looks at you like she wants to eat you alive, and your lips twist in a sneer before you throw yourself back, breaking her hold on you. The physical one, at least.

Keeping your hands up defensively, you take a stance and wait for her to aggress. Even if it isn't that time, this could still betoken battle. You don't think that she knows that in the end she loses. Despite how much she's stolen from Earth, you're sure she's never delved into the classics. If she'd read Faust, maybe she'd understand what sort of end you're sure is waiting for her in the end. Not now, not from you - but one day. And one of the people who will bring it to her, is someone you've never met but feel very fondly towards all the same.

Oh, Roxy!

"Sup, gill." Her voice is a croaking nightmare, and she steps away from you to the shore. Kicking at the corpse that's come floating in on the ripples that had borne you just as surely. Strong currents, in this body of water. "Damn. You minnow how long it took me to net this mothaglubba on side? He was pretty useshoal," she laments, and then turns back to you, dreadful maw split in a grin. "Guess it's nettin' on to that tide though, huh? Rrhose?

You don't like the way she says your name. You don't. It absolutely does not seem to sink metaphorical claws into your belly and twist. You're shaking with exhaustion from the battle you've just been through, not just with the Master of Flavourtown but also from your swim to shore, but you keep your needles up high. Ready.

"I'm excited - you excited, baybe?"

"I think 'excited' would put the wrong emphasis on my feelings," you say drily, a feat considering that you're still currently dripping with squalid lake water. And blood. Yes, can't forget the blood. You can still taste it in your mouth, copper and rank. She laughs at you, crass and too loud on this quiet shore. Some bird makes a break for it, vegetation rustling and a lonesome sound as wings climb for the sky. She ignores it, sly gaze coming around to linger on you.

"This has been fun, yanno? I don't think I coulda felt the same wave aboat it without you, sugar grub." Your lip curls with distaste, feeling her eyes on your body almost like a caress without hands. Raking you and the way your clothes are clinging to your body from head to toe, taking it all in. Almost like she can see through the cloth to the body underneath.

Unbidden, your cheeks burn like you were the delicate and retiring maiden of some Gothic romance, come upon by the village rake. As though you hadn't just killed a man by jamming knitting needles through his eyes to the back of his skull, and then ridden his twitching corpse down waterfalls of blood. And as though you weren't currently leading what remained of the rebellion, as tiny, pitiful and ultimately futile as it would seem for many centuries to come. You've seen that. You know that.

Not one of your visions had prepared you for a Batterwitch that looked at you as though you were something delicious to eat.

Not one.

You're frozen into place as she saunters closer to you, grabbing you by the chin and forcing your head up so you stare her in the eyes. Something silver and filmy slips across her fuchsia eyes, before retracting again. Your fingers tighten so hard on your needles that they ache, reminding you of how it felt to have them drive through flesh to grate on bone.

When she kisses you, you expect it. You've been kissed before, but it was nothing like this. Her mouth is too wide, teeth too sharp, too straight, tongue too long. With her other hand at the base of your spine, feeling claws flexing against your skin as she devours your mouth, muscular body plastered against yours.

Despite your better judgement, you kiss her back. You're sure she can taste the blood and lake rot on your breath; you can taste something sweet and decomposing on hers. Nothing about her is human. You've always trodden on darker paths, but the Batterwitch is something else entirely. When you break apart, you're panting and she seems unaffected despite the roil of lust flooding your body.

"I'll catch ya later, sourspade," she croons, hand cupping your cheek for a moment longer. Her earfins are flared wide, and something like tiny stars glitter across the harsh lines of her face. Pink on black. Maybe you're not the only one affected, tainted by the desire for something alien and different. You lift your needles again, and this time if she comes near you, you're going to bury them in her chest, visions be damned. Blowing you a desultory kiss, she lifts herself into the sky in a crackle of blue and red sparks and leaves you behind on the shore, sullen water lapping close to your feet and a swollen corpse bobbing in the waves.

Something in you says that when you see her again, it really will be the end.

Chapter Text

There's something about a suit that makes a girl feel in control of herself.

Maybe not just herself, but everyone around her.

Jane had never gotten into corporate armour when she'd been in the world, as some of the old hands on the ship so quaintly put it. Catapulted from medical service to military command and now back into the world of her grandmother that she had so gladly left behind her, she'd found just another war. Only not as clean. It would have been almost refreshing to go back to facing the military forces of the Alternian Empire! At least trolls had never tried to pretend they were on her side, and that they only wanted was best for her.Truly. They had the decency to stab her from the front, instead of the back.

Everything's a trap. Everything is waiting for her to take a foot wrong, and she doesn't understand what the administrative jungle here is hiding. Papers and buzzwords and tangled alliances. Pity she wasn't allowed to take a machete to the whole thing, just chop a path through all the fiddlefaddle until she found the whole and honest truth of the situation.

It means in some ways, that Aradia is the only person here she can trust. She doesn't get to talk to Roxy anywhere near as often as she'd like, even over the transible, and Jake's been out of contact for even longer in some new quadrant on a diplomatic mission and Dirk - well. There'd been an unfortunate misunderstanding there. Jane would really prefer just not to think about it, until she has a chance to fix it. What a strange thing, to have someone who'd have shot her in a heartbeat a few years back being the only person she trusted right now not to do it, not without any warning first, at least. Jane'd take the warning in the spirit it was meant, and be thankful for it.

Aradia is terribly, cheerfully bluntly honest. For holding a position that Jane's come to understand as one of the lowest of the low as far as Alternian culture is concerned, she's remarkably fearless. It's counted to Jane's advantage more than once. Also the company shills her grandmother has stuffed the top of the company with find her smile disconcerting. Jane thinks they could just a little nudge, here and there. Everybody ought to be thrown into a jitter every so often, a little adrenaline was good for the soul.

That's why she's here right now in her grandmother's office, Aradia's face buried between her thighs as the company party with all sorts of bigwigs jetted in from all over the galaxy hobnob and mingle in the ballroom. It's a big old house, the family manor. She'd worn a tuxedo specifically to irritate the spit from her grandmother; Aradia was wearing some one of a kind hideously expensive ballgown in deep blood red. With the troll kneeling at her feet in a pool of skirts and her own pants dropped to the ankle, shirt pulled up and out of the way, Jane hissed and grabbed at the edge of the desk as she felt a rough tongue stroking over the folds of her labia, tip of a slick tongue teasing her clit.

"You're far too good at this," Jane huffed, and felt more than heard the desk crack under her grip as Aradia laughed into the juncture of her thighs and made Jane's fingers tighten to that fateful stressing point. Whoops. She wasn't sure you could even get mahogany anymore - not the real thing. There was always the synthesised stuff, but it really wasn't quite the same. A shame for her grandmother.

Groaning and clamping her hand around her mouth, she rolled her head back on her shoulders to try and see the door. It was just a little open, and she could hear the music from the all real, all alive orchestra that the Crocker fortune was paying out the noise for. No point in having money if everybody didn't know you had it, she'd decided that was how her grandmother's philosophy ran.

"Do you want me to stop?" Aradia murmured, and looked up. Jane huffed and closed her eyes for a moment, feeling too bare in front of her. There was something about those gold and burgundy eyes that could strip you to the bone.

"You know I don't." Grazing one curled horn with a shaking hand, Jane bit back another whimper as Aradia's tongue returned to lick busily at her cunt. Someone could come past that door at any time, and it just makes her hotter. Someone could realise that the Heiress and her companion had stepped out for a moment, together, and disappeared, although she doubted anyone could make the necessary and true conclusion from those two facts. Right now, all she wanted to do was enjoy this. The feeling of being dressed in the impeccably tailored suit. And the sensation of flashing a metaphorical finger at her grandmother.

Besides, Aradia really does deserve her full attention.

Chapter Text

undyingUmbrage [uu] began jeering timaeusTestified [TT] 

uu: DIRK. YOu WILL STOP. WHAT YOu ARE DOING. AND TALK TO ME.
TT: You know there isn't much more I would rather do.
TT: I'm supposing that your sister is out of the house? So what's it going to be tonight? Something saucy?
uu: IT MAY BE RELATED TO SOMETHING. LIKE THAT.
uu: ALSO I HAVE DISCOVERED A NEW GAME. THAT I WOuLD LIKE TO PLAY.
uu: WITH YOu.
TT: A game, huh?
TT: Does the game have rules?
uu: IT IS A GAME. THE FACT THAT THERE ARE RuLES IS OBVIOuS. AND INHERENT. IN THE NATuRE OF GAMES.
uu: A GAME WITHOuT RuLES WOuLD BE. REALLY FuCKING TERRIBLE. DON'T BE STuPID, DIRK.
TT: So what are the rules, gamemaster? I'm all aquiver to hear what you've got in store for me tonight.
uu: IT IS. A GAME OF.
uu: AROuSAL.
uu: AND DENIAL. WE WILL BOTH ATTEMPT TO CREATE SENSATIONS IN THE OTHER. BY THE POWER OF WORDS ALONE.
uu: THE WAY TO WIN. SHOuLD BE OBVIOuS EVEN TO YOu.
TT: The one to cum first loses?
TT: Sure, I'm game.
uu: DON'T BE SO. DISGuSTING AND PHYSICAL. AS YOu ARE WONT TO BE.
TT: I suppose I can't help it. You know how humans are.
uu: THIS IS TRuE. YOu ARE ALL HELPLESS IN AN OBNOXIOuS MANNER. AND SO REVOLTINGLY AFFECTIONATE.
uu: IT IS. SIMPLY *APPALLING*.
TT: But I did get the aim of the game dead on the money though, didn't I.
uu: SILENCE.
uu: I WILL NOT ACCEPT MOCKERY. OF MY EFFORTS TO PLAY THIS NEW GAME I AM PROPOSING TO YOu.
uu: BuT AT THIS MOMENT. IN THIS SMALL WAY. YOu ARE INSIGNIFICANTLY CORRECT.
TT: So should I suppose that we have started?
uu: YES. AS PAYMENT FOR THE FACT THAT I HAVE PROPOSED THIS TEST OF WITS.
uu: YOu WILL BEGIN.
TT: Sure, babe. Whatever you say. You know I'm too eager to get your firm, commanding hand on my bridle.
uu: YES. THAT IS A VERY GOOD BEGINNING.
uu: CONTINuE.
TT: You like that, huh? I guess I can play the uke, if that's what you'd like, senpai.
uu: YESSSS. YOu WOuLD ENJOY IT IF I WAS TO TAKE CONTROL OF YOuR BODY. YOu ARE EXACTLY THAT DEPRAVED.
uu: IN THAT WAY THAT HuMANS SEEM TO PuRSuE SO DILIGENTLY. WITH THE DEAD BEASTHIDE. AND IMPLEMENTS OF TORTuRE.
uu: I DID NOT EXPECT THE INSTRuMENTS OF TORTuRE. EVEN THOuGH THEY DO NOT SEEM TO TAKE THINGS TO THEIR LOGICAL. FATAL CONCLuSION.
TT: What the heck have you been doing?
uu: RESEARCH. BuT RIGHT NOW. WE ARE PLAYING A GAME. WE WILL CONTINuE WITH COMPOSING LEWD WORDS TO EACH OTHER.
uu: YOU WOuLD MAKE AN ADORABLE KOuHAI.
uu: IT IS RIGHT. THAT YOU SHOuLD ACKNOWLEDGE ME AS ALPHA MALE WITHIN OuR RELATIONSHIP.
uu: EVEN IN THIS GAME. uNREALISTIC AS IT IS.
TT: I agree. So as your kouhai, I demand to have my face touched tenderly.
TT: Stroked with affection. I would gaze into your eyes, cradled safely in your strong and masculine arms.
uu: WHAT. NO. I THINK YOu ARE CHEATING.
TT: Run your fingers through my flowing locks, senpai.
TT: I would whisper your name against your tympanic membrane, waiting for you to so gently touch my quivering and slender body.
uu: YOu ARE SO. ***FILTHY***.
uu: I WILL TAKE MY STRONG AND CAPABLE HAND. AND CARESS YOuR CHEEK. SOFTLY.
uu: YOu ARE uNDIGNIFIED AND BEGGING FOR TENDERNESS.
uu: YOu DISGuST ME. AND YET.
TT: Can't get enough of this sweet human affection, huh?
uu: tumut
TT: Oh, senpai. My kokoro is going doki doki at the sight of your handsome green face and vibrant red spirals.
uu: YOu FILTHY BITCH. CONTINuE TO BEG FOR MY SWEET CARESSES.
uu: I WILL SHOWER YOu WITH REVOLTINGLY TENDER AFFECTION.
uu: uNTIL YOu CHOKE ON IT. LIKE YOu WILL CHOKE ON YOuR EXPECTATION OF WINNING THIS GAME.
TT: Pity that's the only thing I'll be choking on.
uu: WHAT DO YOu MEAN.
TT: Never mind. Let's get on with this bitch.
TT: With so much tenderness directed at lil ole me, I guess I'll just have to swoon against your swole body.
uu: YES. YES. YOu *WILL* SWOON.
uu: YOu WILL COLLAPSE AGAINST ME LIKE A PATHETIC BITCH.
uu: AND ALLOW ME. TO uSE MY STRENGTH TO HOLD YOu ON YOuR TINY FEET.
uu: I WILL BE MAGNIFICENT. AND YOu WILL NOT BE.
TT: When I make my love declaration, I will pass you a box of cookies under a flowering cherry tree. Inside it will be a note announcing my pure feelings of affection and respect for you, senpai.
TT: I am far too shy and too well bred to just come out and say it like that. What kind of girl do you think I am.
uu: DISGuSTING. YOu WILL CONTINuE WITH HOW YOu WILL PROFESS YOuR FEELINGS FOR ME.
uu: WHAT SORT OF COOKIES. EXACTLY.
TT: Little love heart shaped sugar cookies, with pink icing and red sprinkles. There will be tiny red love hearts iced in the middle of the cookies.
TT: I worked so hard to make these balling cookies. The icing is smudged. There are drips down the sides.
TT: I worked my frigging little heart out. I'm waiting to hear if you like them.
uu: ARE THEY. DELICIOuS.
TT: They're the sweetest fucking thing you've ever tasted. Maybe they're a little clumsy to look at, but you know I made them with my own dainty hands. Just for you.
uu: OH.
TT: Do you like them, senpai? I ask in a tremulous little voice.
TT: I worked so hard on them for you. Please say you like them, Caliborn-kun.
uu: OH MY GODDDD.
TT: Your lack of response makes tears well in my beautiful fucking eyes. Stunning amber orbs starting to swim with grief.
uu: I SAY THAT THEY ARE THE BEST FuCKING COOKIES I HAVE EVER TASTED.
uu: I DO NOT WANT YOu TO CRY.
uu: I SuGGEST THAT WE SIT DOWN ON THE BENCH AND EAT THE COOKIES TOGETHER.
TT: Oh yeah, now that's the red hot seduction I was expecting.
TT: My fingers brush yours in the paper box as we both reach for a cookie, and I blush.
uu: THIS IS. SO HORRIFYINGLY TENDERRRRRR.
uu: I FEED YOu ONE OF THE COOKIES.
uu: WITH MY HAND. LIKE YOu WERE SOME DEGENERATE BITCH ON A LEASH.
TT: Oh, Caliborn-kun. I take a thermos out of my school bag and unscrew the lid, pouring tea.
TT: I take a sip. Then I offer you the cup.
uu: OH MY GOD. *****OH GOD*****. DIRK.
uu: I TAKE IT. AND DRINK. COMPLETING THE INDIRECT KISS THAT ONE SEES IN ROMANTIC MAN GA.
TT: I look away, heart fluttering madly in my chest. The day is perfect and complete. The wind blows cherry blossoms over us.
uu: YOu ARE. SO PERVERTED. THAT IS SO PERFECT.
uu: YOu WILL DRAW THIS. IMMEDIATELY. AND SEND IT TO ME.
TT: Sure, if that's what you want. Soooo...
uu: SO WHAT. WHAT ARE YOu GOING ON ABOuT.
TT: Did I win?
uu: ...
uu: tumut
uu: IT IS A DRAW. BECAUSE OBVIOuSLY I CAN'T LOSE A GAME I MADE uP.
uu: BuT YOu DID BETTER THAN I EXPECTED. SO I WILL ALLOW YOu A PARTIAL VICTORY.
TT: Sweet.
TT: Did you want to talk about something else now?
uu: I. NO. I DO NOT.
uu: I WILL WAIT FOR YOuR SACRIFICIAL OFFERING OF A DRAWING OF THIS DISGuSTINGLY TENDER SCENE.
TT: Should I be wearing a seifuku in it, Caliborn-kun? I just want to make sure I get it right.
uu: HHHHNGH.

undyingUmbrage [uu]  ceased jeering  timaeusTestified [TT] 

undyingUmbrage [uu] is offline!

TT: Alright, I'll see you when you come back.
TT: But I think I'm going to take this one as my win, senpai.
TT: The master has become the mastered.

timaeusTestified [TT] is idle!

Chapter Text

There's purple and brown blood from one end of the respiteblock to the other. For a motherfucking shitblood, Nitram can really own his god damn shit once he gets a few good punches in. Get a righteous brother all knocked up to back to front and over again. Right now, his pan is ringing like a motherfucking resonating chamber from a knock from one of those huge ass horns, and he's on his back. Looking up at a motherfucker, red and black mohawk in disfuckingarray. Vest hanging half-way off his body and some wounds dripping nasty brown ichor in a slow leak.

Kurloz feels his mouth stretch up in a grin at the sight of what he's done to him, and he makes a swat for the other's face with his claws out. Not that he wants to super-maim that handsome, furious looking nug, but a nice scar would probably set a shitblood's face off real motherfucking proper. He just grins wider as Nitram grabs his wrist and slams it to the ground, pinning him under him and leaning down for a snarling kiss. Blood in his mouth, and he can feel the other grabbing at his wrist and grinding the bones enough to get a moan from him before a slick motherfucker pulled back with a gasp, almost straddling him on the ground.

"What's upppp, motherfucker? Feeling like you've got enough from a brother for the night?" he drawled, and Nitram's expression contorts again in fury and he gets a solid as shit fist in the gazenugget he wasn't quite expecting. Knocks his whole nug back against the hardness of the ground and he's left groaning, pan spinning even more and feeling weaker than he'd like around this mud eating fucker. The awareness of what a fucking mistake it is to let his guard down around this motherfucker is proven strongly when Nitram moves up enough to straddle his face, knees pinning his grasping fronds to the floor. One hand grabbing him by the horn and pulling his head back, making him bare his throat with a useless hiss. "Get off me, you blasphemous fuck!"

"Can't be blasphemous if you're not a believer, uh, doll." His heels scrabble at the floor as he kicks uselessly, watching Nitram undo the fastenings on his stupid ripped pants. Now with a few more tears in them, and Kurloz bares his fangs, watching as the long bulge squirmed out of the former cavalreaper's fly. Elongating, then writhing back to wrap around itself, already looking ready to drip nasty fucking genematerial in near the lowest kind of colour all over his god damn shirt. Motherfucking rude ass fucker he had here.

"You try and put that in my dental trap, I'mma bite it off, motherfucker," he warns him, and snaps at the air in illustration of just what he'd do to him if he tried that shit. His pan was all kinds of fucked right now, and he couldn't get the right kind of grip on the floor to heave up and toss a motherfucker the fuck off him. He's not used to being trapped, and if it was any other motherfucker, he mighta been worried for his hide. As it is, all he's got most to worry about is his pride.

"Good thing that's not what I'm planning on then, right?" One scarred hand closes around the base of the bulge and Nitram groaned as he slid the loose fist from base to tip, squeezing gently. Brown material drips through his fingers and Kurloz hisses, making another attempt to throw him off. "Nnh, oh yeahhhh..."

What the fuck was he doing? Kurloz couldn't get his head around it for a moment, before he did. Realisation blooming in dreadful, beautiful splendour. Oh no, motherfucker, he wasn't going to just lie here and take this shit.

"You better think twice about your course of motherfucking action, shitblood," he hisses through his fangs, watching as Nitram strokes his bulge above his face. Hand on his horn pushing down hard, making the bed of it ache, all the way through his skull. He could get his hands up enough to sink his claws into the motherfucker's walkstruts, but it didn't make him move his weight off his chest. "You're gonna crush a motherfucker with your FAT FUCKING ASS, Nitram, get the fuck off!"

"I love that look on your face, when you realise, that you're going to get just what you deserve, and you can't do anything about it," the shitblood on top of him says almost dreamily, and keeps on stroking at his bulge. Kurloz can't front, it's not like he's not aroused either. But he is also motherfucking FURIOUS, at being held down and watching this, no hope of completion for himself and about to have one hell of a motherfucking humiliating and unfunny act of kismesissitude performed right on his motherfucking face. "Especially, doll, when I'm the one doing it. It's uh, pretty f'ckin' hot, really..."

"Don't motherfucking dare, you SHITFUCK," Kurloz almost howls, and tries to rock the other off him. At least get him to use both hands to keep him down. A few twitches of those messiahs-forsaken wings, and he seemed to get all his balance back in place, which to Kurloz didn't appreciate in the slightest. Motherfucking abomination! And that's what he told the motherfucker, at length, loudly and with obscenities sprinkled freely and often through his speech as Rufioh just laughed down at him and kept working himself over until he was panting, grinning down at him with that obnoxious smirk. "I will rip the pusher out of your thorax and motherfucking eat it, don't you do it, Rufioh, you smart ass motherfucker, don't you DOUBT-"

"Oh yeah, hate you too, babe," the troll on top of him moans loudly and spills all over his face. Kurloz shut his eyes just in time against the flood, spitting in disgust and trying to keep the stuff out of his mouth. There's just so motherfucking much of it, there's not all that much he can do. He's painted from his hairline to his shoulders, and it's all gonna gum up in his hair. God motherfucking DAMN. What a mess.

"G'ogf," he mumbles from behind closed lips, trying not to let any more slurry in his mouth and spitting again as Rufioh really did get off him this time. Kurloz rolls over, trying to get out of the puddle and wipes at his oculars furiously, mad as hell and going to take it out of Rufioh's hide as soon as he could see again. When he could see, that shitblood better watch his motherfucking step - god damn, he was gonna be tasting this shit for nights -

"Well, uh, see you around, doll," he hears from somewhere to the right, and the sound of Rufioh's jeans being zipped up. Kurloz flails for him, and there's a hurried step backwards as he manages to get his eyes open a crack. They burn, so he closes them again and lunges blind. "Whoa! Haha, wow, ok. I'm...gonna let you get yourself together and uh, I'll see you later. Ok?"

"I'm gonna kill you, bro," he swears, and Rufioh chuckles uneasily again and he can hear the door opening somewhere at the end of the block, then closing again. He doesn't really mean it, but he does right now. If he could have caught him, he woulda been fixing up more than just tears in his clothes and a few motherfucking lovebites.

At least the motherfucker could have brought him a fucking towel.

Which fucking way was it to his ablutiontrap again?

Next time, he vowed. The next time they did this, he isn't gonna be the one cleaning up a motherfucking mess like a bitch. He's gonna make Nitram into the fucking bitch, and he's gonna make sure that he regrets whatever fucking possessed him to paint him in motherfucking brown slurry.

Chapter Text

You're not particularly used to this kind of thing, but it's not as though you're entirely adverse. And you have to admit there's something sort of thrilling about having Gamzee in front of you, stretched out over a table, both of you kind of breathing hard. And both of you with a lot less clothing than you'd started with. It wasn't that either of you had really come up with the whole scenario, it had just kind of - happened! You'd been baking cookies and he'd come in and stolen a fingerful of batter from your mixing bowl, and things had sort of happened. One after another, and they'd just kept happening.

And that's how you've wound up with your alien boyfriend with his polka-dotted sweatpants somewhere around his feet and shirt way off somewhere else. Even though you'd lost your shirt and bra, your apron had still been tied around your waist so you just hauled it back up and stuck your head back through the top loop, pulling it properly back into place over your skirt. Considering, well, things, it might not be the worst idea to have a little protection.

Are you really going to do this?

You eye the spoon in your hand and nod firmly to yourself; you really are going to do this! Gamzee does this full body shift, muscles moving in groups down his back in all sorts of unsettling ways. Shifting under his grey skin, the purple extradermis ridges over his ribs that he calls his grubscars gleaming a little in the light from the angled downlights in the ceiling. They really do give you some nice, bright light. Means you can see everything very well.

"I've told you before, Gamzee, you can't keep dipping your dirty fingers into my mixing bowls," you say firmly, and take a moment to swallow hard. It's not like he's secure in any way. He could get up if he wanted to! And he'd just have to tell you, anyway, even if he was. You would stop, right away. "I think it's time to punctuate my requests, mister! With a few little sharp reminders."

"Can't help it, sweetest motherfucking redflush o' mine," he drawls, sneaking a look back over his shoulder and you can catch a gleam of his beautiful eyes. Makes your heart do a little flip, not helped by all the sweet stuff he's saying at you! You're still not used to it; any time Gamzee's even a moment in your company, he's all fond hugs, quick kisses and all kinds of sweet little nothings that make your heart skip a beat. Despite your tendency to think the worst of yourself. "Just tastes so motherfucking good, is all. I'm always wanting a bite."

"There's a whole fridge full of stuff, and a cake too, that I baked yesterday. You need to keep your fingers out of my batter, until it's been baked and cooled into whatever it is I'm making. Just like I told you yesterday, and even the day before," you insist. Your heart is hammering, and you lick your lips. Steeling yourself, and trying not to notice too deeply how tight your nipples feel suddenly, or the urge to press your thighs together hard. "Or I'm going to have to give you some consequences!"

"Aw, c'mon soft with a wicked brother, Janeysis, ain't mean much by it. Just bad at getting a wait on, before I can get my maw around your sweet comestibles," he cajoles you in a wheedling tone and you lift your spoon and bring it down hard on his raised bottom before you can think about it too much. That gets you a startled sort of honk, and there's something like a flush already rising against the dark of his skin. You can feel a corresponding burn in your own cheeks; the ones on your face, thank you very much!

"Th-there!" you bluster, and you feel your hand tighten more on the handle of the wooden spoon you're holding in your hand. Breathing fast, and having enjoyed that a lot more than you thought you would. And that had only been one! "I think about ten swats would be fair - and that one didn't count, since I was just getting your attention." A breath. "Don't you, um, think?"

You sound a lot less sure at the end than you would like, but you sometimes don't know your own strength. What if you'd hit him too hard? Heavens, what if he didn't like it as much as you'd both thought he might, and how you might enjoy dealing it out a little? What if this was a terrible idea? No, this was a bad idea, the worst of ideas...you're no femme fatale! Why did you think you could do this?

He groans, and writhes, stretching out his arms and crooking his clawed fingers like a stretching cat. Frozen, you sink your teeth into your lower lip. Oh golly, he does look good like that.

"Y-yeah, ten sounds bout fair," he says breathlessly and you feel your heart sort of melt into a little puddle of loving goo. Maybe you can do this, after all. "You gonna punish this sinner true and proper, sister?"

"Just enough, I think," you say more firmly and hook the bucket out of its place in a corner, and push it between his feet with a careful nudge from your shoe. There, that should contain the worst of any. Erm. Spillage! "You had better count for me, Gamzee. You don't want me to miss one."

"Nuh uh, I don't," he says and rasps out a knowing sort of chuckle that races down your spine. Dirty, lascivious, and happy. It reassures you, and you lift the spoon again. "I would never want to get less than what a righteous sister wants to give me..."

"Darn tooting you don't," you say, and then bring the spoon down on his ass again.

Chapter Text

It's a bit unfair that Cronus looks so good tied up this way.

Aranea eyes him, looking at her kismesis, naked on his knees on her platform, his hands behind his back and the ropes on his horns drawing his head back to bare his throat. All wound up in a web of ropes that spread his thighs as he kneels, hands tied tight and body bracketed with rope. Keeping him in place until she lets him out. She likes to tie things up, she likes knots and she likes ropes. What's not to like about any of that?

The scarred, muscular body of the noble Orphaner is at her mercy, and that she enjoys a lot more. The man's body is a battlefield. Despite the rifle, just how many lusii has he battled face to face, hand to claw to fang? The double scars in their jagged glory on his face draw most trolls' attentions, and gave him his title, but he won't tell even her where he got them. She remembered that he didn't have them the first time they met - or the second, the third, or even the eighth - it had been before they started their black romance, but a while into their game of feint and parry on the high seas. Sometimes Aranea thinks its just a pity she wasn't the one to give them to him; he'd never forget her then, no matter how many centuries past her death he lived.

Every time he looked into a mirror, he'd have to remember at least once when a noble seadweller had fallen prey to a spider with cerulean blood.

The other scars she's left on him are not as marked, or vivid, or remarkable. Maybe he could forget who gave him this one or that one, he's got so many. Like a damn strategos board, all cut up into jagged squares of dark grey hide. But he can't forget the one on his face. She wants to know who gave it to him - so very very badly.

"Mmmm, this one must have hurt, Dualscar," she croons, and feathers her fingers across his gillslits, where there's a deep and heavy scar cutting across the edge of two of them. He flinches but controls himself as he sways in his kneeling posture, not toppling over as he corrects his balance against the sway of the ship. He takes a breath, obviously calming himself and she chips in frustration at the impenetrable nature of his mind, not finding a gap anywhere to get one single claw in. She wished she'd met him when he was even younger. Before he'd had whatever experience he'd had that had taught him how to keep her questing mindwebs out. Hope springs eternal, and one of these nights he's going to make a mistake and he'll never ever ever be free of her again, and he'd never forget her.

"Hurt enough. Y'gonnae get on wit' it, or just stare at a man?" he says in a low, heavy snarl, her knowing enough of how he'd used to talk to hear the slightest, breathy hesitation when he got to the w in his sentence. She's on his blind side, where she knows he hates her to be. The light from the moons casts odd shadows through her cabin's porthole, onto the bottle of wine they'd shared and the glasses besides.

"I would have thought you would like me staring at you." She shifts on the bed and she can tell that it takes a hefty chunk out of his willpower not to swivel his head to follow her as she moves behind him. Aranea plasters herself against his back, curved over the fists of his hands as she sweeps her own down over his shoulders, his bound arms. Kisses him on the shoulder, on one knotted mess of scar tissue - a laser blast, by her reckoning, glanced and healed badly - and then again on another scar a little lower down. He shudders under her touch, and she pulls back to admire the colour of her lipstick against his skin. "I like how you look in my colour, Orphaner. So...blue."

"Aye, and is that the only colour you're plannin' to spread t'night, or you goin' t'get down to some real business, pirate," he purrs, and she chuckles at his blatant attempt to bait her. She presses harder against his back, putting her weight on him and letting the edges of the boning in her corset press against him. Oh yes, he's naked, his clothes in a sopping wet heap from his swim to reach her ship where it lies at anchor - she's not. She's still wearing her skirts and shirt, although her undergarments were removed before he arrived, and she's as barefooted as some ragged dockside urchin. Tonight the power in the game is hers - he lost the wager and she won. And this is what she wanted.

"Eager and anxious, are you," she accuses and reaches down to cup between his legs. He's like some battered shipwreck, but somehow still sailing. Every timber scarred and broken in some way, sails ragged in the wind, she's amazed his horns have made it through but she's glad of it. Gives her somewhere to tie more rope to. Questing fingers find his sheath and she massages her palm against it, coaxing his bulge out in a cool surge, cold as the sea in winter as it curls out around her fingers. He takes a breath and Aranea presses her lips against his neck, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again as his earfins bat against her face. "Oh yessssssss, there we are...now. I suppose it's time for me to claim my prize, Dualscar - try not to make so much noise that my crew decides to come back from shore leave to find out what sort of beast is dying on my ship, would you? I think that would be a little embarrassing for you, to be found here, don't you, my noble Orphaner?"

A little growl greets her words and Aranea laughs softly, then squeezes at his bulge as she decides just how to make him pay for the foolishness of losing to her.

Chapter Text

"NOOOOOOO!"

"Nepeta - you will - cease this tomfoolery at once and get in the gosh darn trap!" Equius pressed down carefully on the arch of Nepeta's back, the oliveblood troll holding herself above his ablutiontrap with her hands and feet on the rim, limbs spread and resisting his every effort to push her into it. This could be so very easy; he didn't understand what her problem could possibly be. He had to be careful not to push so hard he broke her spine. It was a distinct possibility, if he forgot himself for a moment too long.

"NOOOOO!" she caterwauled, the sound bouncing off the tiles in a cacophonous crescendo, and Equius groaned with frustration as the arch of her back became somehow even more pronounced, belly sucked up and away from the tub. At least he'd managed to get most of her clothes off, but she was still covered in blood and mud and other unmentionable things. And she smelled. Sometimes she got pretty bad, but it had never quite been this bad before. "I don't want to, Sweatquius and YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

"I can - and you will - you are filthy and I will not tolerate it a moment longer!" he snarled at her and she snarled back in defiance, a few tones higher than his own tenor rumble. Usually they got on very well. This obviously was just intended to test the bonds of their moirallegiance. "What is the matter with you? You know it's been cleaned - Aurthour would never allow -"

"You get in with me!" Equius felt his grip slacken a bit, not pushing her in quite as hard as he stared at her, not quite understanding for a moment what she'd said. Or understanding, but not sure he had really heard her say it. "Your trap is too big; I hate it! So with you in it, there'd be less room!"

"...yes, but I'm not sure how hygienic that would be, with you in your present state," Equius said blankly, as though that was the only consideration here. Although, it was an important one. He didn't think he wanted to share an ablutiontrap with his viscera-smeared moirail.

"So I'll get in the ablutioncloset first! And rinse! Duh, Sweatquius!"

As much as he hated to admit it, that was a potentially feasible plan. He supposed. He could feel himself starting to sweat ferociously; bathing together was such an intimate experience. He'd thrown Nepeta into a tub a few times, now and then before. But she was really getting STRONGER as she got older, and as this experience showed, better at resisting his directions. Even when he exerted himself.

"...that sounds barely acceptable."

"But that means you'll do it! Right?"

"Under protest. I don't know that this is a good idea, but if it's the only way you'll allow yourself to be thoroughly sanitised..."

"It is the only way, and you know it! So help me up, and I purromise I'll get in the trap."

"Fine." Letting go of the pressure he'd been using to try and force her into the bath, Equius let her up. Helping her out as she finickily avoided touching even one toe to the water's surface. This was not how this was meant to go. Very few things with Nepeta ever really went how they were meant to. They'd been moirails long enough, he should be more used to it than he was.

"You should get undressed," Nepeta suggested, and Equius kept a sour eye on her to make sure she actually headed into the ablutioncloset to shower herself clean of the worst of the dirt. And other things. Ugh. He would have to find a way to give Aurthour some sort of reward for cleaning up everything she'd tracked in with her. "Not even you can take an ablution with your decency coverings still on!"

"...I want you to understand that we would be finished by now and doing something more entertaining, if you'd just got into the trap to start with," he sniffed, and started to remove his clothes because for once, she had an actual point. He dabbed gingerly at a few scratches up and down his arms, putting his sweat-soaked shirt into the laundry receptacle for Aurthour's later diligent actions and not looking at the ablutioncloset where Nepeta was singing to herself and washing the blood off her skin as he removed his boots, then shorts and socks.

"EFURRYTHING, Sweatquius!"

Grumbling, he removed his underwear as well and then stiffly proceeded to pace over to stand next to the large tub. It was almost a small swimming pool, with how much space it took up. Testing the water, he decided it was cool enough for him, but hopefully warm enough to be comfortable for his warmer blooded moirail. Nepeta appeared at his side as he was adding more bubble liquid to the water and he clutched at his chest for a moment, wheezing.

"Oooh! Ok, that smells nice. Why didn't you put that in to start with?"

"Well, I just didn't think of...it..." Equius felt his words dry up as she just blithely stepped into the bath, as though he wasn't still sporting scratches and they hadn't spent nearly twenty minutes fighting over how she didn't want to get into it. His mouth worked for a moment, soundlessly, frustrated to a point beyond words. It wasn't the first time his infuriating moirail had made him feel like that, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. Nepeta surged forward and water cascaded over the lip of the trap as she grabbed at his upper arms and pulled, trying to make him topple in. "Nepeta! I will get in, stop this unsafe behaviour immediately."

"As long as you do get in...you did purromise!"

Equius sighed heavily, and got into the tub with her. With how large it was, put in with the eventual growth of a blueblood like Equius in mind, there was more than enough room for them both to repose. And not get all over each other. This did not seem to be what his moirail had in mind as he found out when he got a washcloth to the face and then a lean and muscular body plastered against his broader one.

"I thought mew were going to wash me, Equius," she purred in his ear, and Equius could feel himself going blue all over, breath catching in his throat. One careful hand patted him on the cheek, and he sank further into the water as Nepeta nuzzled against his throat. Already making a sound like maybe she could be about to purr. "Although maybe - I should wash you." She feathered her fingers through his hair, and Equius felt himself slipping back letting her support him a little and wanting almost to fall down so far that he could hide his burning face in the scented haze of bubbles. "I'm going to make you so clean, meowster, you don't even know."

"...if this is some kind of diversion, Nepeta, to avoid being cleaned properly and to an acceptable standard..." he said as sternly as he could manage, attempting to rally. It didn't help that she was still running her fingers through his hair. Breathing slow and steady, like they hadn't been tussling just minutes ago. Like she was calm, perfectly composed and she was working on calming him down instead.

"Mmmmmnope, no difursion! Just my plans to get my meowrail all...vulnerable, so I can take really good care of him," she crooned, and Equius swallowed. Oh. Well, then. "You've been working way too hard! I want to see you get really relaxed."

"Oh...my goodness," he said weakly. Nepeta giggled in his ear, and he decided that maybe she was a little more subversive than he'd really considered before. And she had a point. He had been working very hard; maybe to the point that she'd been feeling a little ignored. Obviously to the point where she'd felt the situation had called for some drastic measures. "Then I suppose I have no choice at all. Not when I've been so clearly outmanoeuvred."

If he thought about it in the right way, it was strangely romantic. And bathing with one's moirail was...something of a cliche. For a reason.

"Heehee, that's right! Don't worry about a thing, Equius. We're both going to be squeaky clean by the time we get out! And furry, furry relaxed..."

Chapter Text

One of the things you don't get is why Spinneret ever bothered with this guy once she got her arm on.

It's wildly obvious that he disapproves of the rebellion, and everything it stands for. He doesn't like Spin, and she doesn't like him. And he still lets you and all your lowblood rebel scum into the abandoned city he's made a sort of nest in. Allows you to stay. Even assists, a little. You drop off some food and mechanical parts every so often at an agreed upon location, but as long as all of you stay out of the areas he's designated offlimits (marked with blue barred arrows, on a door, a window, a street sign), he leaves you alone and ignores you. Fine by you. Like you need the company of some blueblood with the deaths of many a troll like you etched on his record. Spin had argued pretty long about not killing him, and you guessed what she had said made sense, because he was still alive. And he was useful for fixing stuff, when he deigned to.

Sometimes Spin heads over for some sort of commiseration, something you can't give her because your blood runs too hot. You get that - there's things about being lowblooded and a mutant that she'd never get either. At least she has someone to talk to, on some level. You're matesprits, not moirails. Fixing Spin isn't your job, and she isn't going to fix you either. You're fine with that, what you have - it works.

None of that is really related to how you'd wound up in this situation, with the incredible bulk of the dude on his knees in front of you with you sitting on his workbench, carefully cradling one of your booted feet in his hands like he could break it if he twitched the wrong finger the wrong way. Facing facts, he probably could. If he wanted to. But somehow that don't strike you as what he's up for right now.

Out of everything you'd taken with you from Her Imperious B'tchiness' armies, you liked the boots the most - they'd been so well made and f'ckin' comfortable that you kept them instead of throwing them away with the rank insignia you'd ripped off your shoulders after you'd conveyed your immediate resignation (delivered via dragon, boo yeah). Cavalreapers got some real nice uniform items. Very shiny, very glossy, lots of braid and sh't like that. Parade troops. It's the ruffianihilators and subjuggulators who do most of the real tough battling. And your former uniform had included boots that went to the knee, glossy black and with an edge of bronze trim and little red hooks. It's funny that scarlet is the imperial colour, because it's the colour of the rebellion too.

You thought you'd liked your boots a lot. It's nothing compared to the way that Darkleer, the former Executor now Expatriate, is feeling if you're gonna go off the way he's fondling them. Big hands wrapped around your ankle, long fingers stroking the leather, up the hooks and buttons. You shift almost restlessly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as he somehow manages to make himself go even lower. Face pressed and rubbing against the leather, eyes closed and you're gonna peg that look on his usually deadpan face as something close to rapture.

This is not your thing, not by a long shot butttt...there's something pretty nice about into it he is. And how willing he is to degrade himself in front of you for a chance to get at them, almost panting with desire. You can feel your wings lifting, muscles in your back shifting as they flare out. Blood pumping out to your extremities, giving your wings a little more extra shine and a heavy feeling in your sheath.

"Wow, you're really into these, huh?" you muse outloud, and use the pointed toe of your boot to turn his head, making him look away from you. He's shuddering, sweating and those hideously ugly goggles he wears seem to be just about steamed up. You lift your other foot up, and plant it right between his thighs, against where you're pretty sure he's sporting a bulge to give some serious competition to a hoofbeast. He's pretty f'ckin enormous, after all. You're betting he's got the equipment to match. "I want to see you get your flavourslab all over 'em. Give them a proper spitshine. I bet you're going to love that too."

Something creaks, and he seems to go even stiller and quieter in front of you, with the sweat pretty much pouring off his face and soaking the thin shirt he's wearing to the point it looks like someone dumped him in a pool. Fabric clinging to those outrageously firm pectorals while you use your boot to press down slowly on the developing, moving lump in his carefully stitched and mended pants. At least you'd gotten new clothes when you left. You're pretty sure he's still wearing the remnants of his original uniform, and you don't want to even think about how long it's been since he was actually working for the clowns.

"You got something to say to me? Speak up, recruit, I can't hear you," you snap in your best drill sergeant voice. You've got a feeling that even coming from you, he'll still react to it in the right way. And if you're reading this the way you think you are - he'll even enjoy it.

"...no. Sir."

Oh, jackpot. You grin at the hushed sound of his voice giving you the power in the situation, showing all your teeth. Flat and wide compared to his coolblooded dentition, but you're pretty sure it's still a smile with an edge on it.

"Then you know what you're meant to be doing. So fucking jump to it."

Bringing his hands around to cup your boot, he guides your foot to where he can actually think about getting his mouth on the luxuriously shiny beefgrubhide. You keep up the nasty, mean way you're grinding the square heel into his crotch and he shudders, looking up at you through the fogged lenses of his headpiece. You can feel your grin ticking up into the corner into a smirk, as his tongue comes out and he starts to lick the already clean leather. Careful, thorough. Leaving a bit of a blue tinge behind as his tongue laves over your boot and he shivers like something just raced down his spine as you rock your foot back and forth over his bulge.

Yeah. You think you can have fun with this.

Chapter Text

It is something that's outright hilarious to you, how curious and concerned he gets when you start to lactate. You guess it's not really a troll thing! That's fine, it's deffo a human thang, el em eff ay oh. You've never seen it - let alone experienced it, but you do know it's a thing your body do. You're not 'xactly convinced that he'd really thought it would happen, even after all the research you'd both done with what being pregnant meant, and how things were gonna change, physically. He's so careful when he touches you atm.

Just like he'd always so careful and reverent with the babes too, whenever Rosie or Kanaya-luv drop around with some wiggler or other in tow. You don't know how good you're gonna be at momming (other You failed pretty hardcore in a lot of ways as a mom, from what you've been able to pry out of Rosie and draw some insinuations from the scraps you picked up from the other three), but you're pretty sure Equius is gonna be a A-1, top bomb lusus.

Also the whole mammal fixation that he got means that he can't just keep his hands off you rn, hoo boy! You ain't gonna complain way too hard. Especially since he's so cool and sure when he touches you, and his fingers always seemed to find all the aches. You're carrying all this extra weight thrown out to the front of you, your hips hurt, your nips are tender and you waddle when you wanna go any fuckin place. Sucks to suck, but you just gotta tough this one out. You got Janey checking up on you, and a very interested Feferi hovering around, along with a whoooole bunch of carapacians and actual real nurses and doctors and shiznit - you think you and the bebe are gonna be just superduper fine!

Right now you're reclining on a nest of pillows, naked and feeling kinda fuckin resplendent. His hands are cupping your belly, swollen as shit with a dark line starting to form down the middle, his thumbs rubbing slow circles against your stretchmarked skin. Your body is all about this baby bakin' business right now, and you're sure you're gonna come out the other side of it with one sweet little honey bun. Or possibly a complete hellraiser. Probably a mix of both, neither you or Rose are lacking in moxie and other forms of sass but that's not all there is to what you got baking in your oven. You didn't know whose swimmers had been used to get you knocked up, and you dun wanna know neither. As far as you're concerned, this is Equius' grub as much as it's your baby.

Equius' eyes are focused on your dark nipples, and you smile encouragingly. With him, you always feel like a fucking EMPRESS and nothing less. He smiles back, something a lot more relaxed than what he'd used to throw out. All choked up and too tight, kind of a grimace. Even his teeth are growing back in, you don't think he's cracked one in aaaaages.

Nepeta says you're good for him; you think he's pretty good for you too.

"Come on, you know you don't gotta be shy, boi," you say as gently as you can manage. You're feeling pretty good right now! You're all bathed and clean, you're naked - always good times - and you got Equius with you. He'd even massaged your poor swollen up feet, and now you're kinda feeling horny. It happens. You were kinda surprised by how much it happens now you're preggers. Your hormones are some desperate little buggers, you're already up the duff, what else could they want? "You want something though, you gotta ask. That's the rules, yo."

It's a very important rule. You both can be...pretty bad at asking for what you want. Even worse for asking for what you need. So you and Equius, you'd worked out some rules. And a lot of them had to do with communicating with each other. You dunno if it's the nature of the Void or what, but you both are shiiiiit at it. Or you were. You're very much getting better! And when you say you, you mean you plural. It's a totes mutual thing.

He gets a bit damp looking, sweating, and murmurs something inaudibly. Then swallows with that little nervous clicking that he gets sometimes - so sweet! - and looks determined. Inwardly, you melt, feeling a hum of arousal pulse along your bones as his hands slide up to cup your heavy breasts. Janey'd always been bigger'n you in that department, now your tracts of lands have become truly bounteous, ooh la la.

"I would like to - I mean. With your permission, may I..." He trails off again, the surge of courage gone as he pauses. You nod encouragingly, and he takes a breath. Jaw set, in that very manly fashion he has. Makes you ooooh, just quiver. "May I drink from your breasts?"

"Sure, Equius sweetie, you're not takin' anything from anybody. 'n you know I like it," you croon softly and he nods, click-swallowing again as he moves up to lie against your side. Ugh, sometimes your belly just gets in the fucking way! Once you're both comfy, he cups your swollen tits again and nuzzles against them, cool and soothing to touch. His skin is heavy and dense and oooh so beautifully chill when you feel like you're hot-flushing all the time.

His mouth closes around one of your nipples and he starts to suck, making you squirm a little as it almost hurts and then something relaxes. His other hand massages your breast, kneading at it while he suckles, making a rumbling sort of noise that is pretty close to a purr. You luv hearing him make that sound. Shifting a bit, you get your hand in his hair and strokes your fingers through it, scritching gently around the base of one of his horns and the rumble-purr kicks up a notch from Hyundai to Harley (motorbike, not that other kind of Harley).

You squirm again, panting as his mouth works on one breast and his hand on the other.

"Eq - honey - mmm, fuck, can you - ooooh yes, that, do that," you start off whining and ease into a pleased purr as he moves his hand from your breast to between your legs. Thumb rubbing slowly over your clit, two fingers pressing into your pussy and the knot at the base of your spine loosens, and you let out a grunting huff of satisfaction. "Oh babyyyy...mmmf...you got the magic touch, fuck...don't stop..."

He makes a sound that is almost like a chuckle, and when you look down, he's got what you call his happy cat look. Yellow eyes slitted, the blue of his iris barely visible as his throat visibly ripples, swallowing the little bit you've been leaking as your body preps for what's gonna happen once you get the symbiont in your uterus out of it. He sucks harder, trying to drain you while he fingers you the way he knows you like and you just lie back on your pillows and moan. You know he's getting something out of it, because you can feel his bulge trying to wrap around your thigh but sue you, you're fat and contain a multitude (just one baby, actually, but you like the way multitude sounds) so you're pretty happy for him to take care of you right now.

Besides. It's not like you're content with just one orgasm anymore - not that you ever really were. You'd feel guilty for taking advantage of Equius, except it's obvious how much he gets up on serving someone. You're kind of happy for it to be you.

Honestly though? You don't know how you got this lucky.

Chapter Text

You're a simple man, of simple pleasures. You like your Faygo cold, your lowbloods cowering and your sermons MOTHERFUCKING RIGHTEOUS. You also enjoy finding ways to piss people off. You didn't mind the whole motherfucking bucketswap with the soft motherfuckers of the Beforus Empire, you didn't even mind getting your meet on with the ninja who apparently got spawned from your donation. Quiet and creepy motherfucker that he was, but he was a real conniving little scripture bitch - like you'd been - and you can see him going far. Laughsassasin probably, he be one soft-footed shit. Even snuck up on you once this visit.

It'd been hella kinds of amusing to see the Beforan Empress eyeing off the sprat that your Imperial Fishbitch's slurry has spawned - lil Meenah got that edge that makes you think she's gonna be real trouble and it's a motherfucking joke on BOTH THEM PINK BITCHES who set the whole thing up. The Beforan bucket-spawn should be growing up proper as of now, you suppose you should go and see what that sleep-eyed motherfucker spawned in your own god damn stomping grounds at some point. A disappointment, you're sure. You're kind of betting on all them Beforan grubs getting eaten by some shit or other before they hit six though, don't think you'll need to go through this shit when they all turn nine on your own territory.

You weren't the only one who'd come along on this motherfucking outing, you're representing land and that stiff-backed motherfucking Orphaner is representing sea. You'd gotten all caught up with the wigglers teal and above - they ain't showing you the mids and lows. Not that you give a shit, but you do plan on leaning on your descendent a little to find out why. Later. Probably figure you'd motherfucking slice them up into your bowl of miserios or some shit, eat them smeared on a piece of grubloaf. HA! You don't mind a little rustflavoured flesh, they probably ain't much wrong.

A blind man would have noticed the eyes that Dualscar's bucketspawn was throwing at a mirthful motherfucker all through the state dinner, and you are by no means blind. You don't know what game the little shit thinks he's playing but it's cute. And you're not so picky that you ain't flattered. Also, it's gonna drive Dualscar right up the wall, so you figure why not. You leave slowly from the dinner, lingering a bit and that gives the little guppy time to catch up with you in the public passageway, and put some sort of awkward adolescent move on you.

It's funny. You ain't gonna lie, it's funny as motherfucking hell. But you got to admire his globes in going for what he wants. You figure you're even gonna give it to him. Hell, like you're gonna pass up such an easy motherfucking pail, especially when the bitch offering is actually pretty cute. In a fishy sort of way. You can't imagine Dualscar looking so round-cheeked and motherfucking soft though, when he'd been nine sweeps or even motherfucking younger than that. Can't imagine it at all.

So right now you're sheath-deep in a tight slick nook, and the kid's wailing fit to burst an auricular clot from all the feelings he's getting from having exactly what he motherfucking begged for all up and happening to him as you pound into that vice of a nook. Not sure if it's his first time, but you wouldn't be real surprised if it was. You weren't sure if Dualscar was going to do what you were hoping he'd do, but Messiahs all and bless, he does just what you was sure he would.

Slams your door open, all asnarl and ready to fight you over all the racket you're making, disturbing his sanctified and dignified rest - Messiahs fucking knows he ain't bringing no neden to his game, ain't got a bitch in his block the way you're destroying one in yours. You dirty-grin at him as you roll your hips, and the kid wails out again, he's motherfucking undone under you. Dualscar falters, his scathing shout coming apart to stutters, as he takes in what he's walked in on. Little fish on his belly underneath you on the platform, ass in the air backed up to your hips and with black 'n white paint smeared over his face, his throat, one of your fronds on his jagged horn, jerking his head back so Dualscar can see just exactly how much he's loving getting down with the clown.

"Sup?" you say, and pull back. You sit up, bringing the kid with you so he's motherfucking impaled on your bulge. The whimper he lets out and the way his gazenuggets are rolling around in his pan, you don't think he's even realised that Dualscar is there. You helpfully spread the bitch's legs wider, before bringing your frondstubs down to spread the sides of his nook wider open around your bulge so that the stuck up motherfucker frozen in your entry portal can see just how hungry this nook is for your bulge. "Sorry 'bout the noise, bro. Guess that my bulge is just that good..."

"You -" he chokes out, and you groan as the kid squirms, fucks himself on your bulge with a pretty little gasping moan. You shift your grip to those chubby thighs and help him; ain't like you're stopping here. This is the block that those Beforan lackeys gave a righteous ninja, ain't got no cause to hide what you're doing. Not doing anything wrong; little fish came to you, begged you for it and you're just giving it to him what he's old enough to ask for. Besides, you like the horror on Dualscar's face, as he looks, watches, takes it in as his slurryspawn acts the bulgeslut for you. Soooo motherfucking needy; you guess it runs in the lineage considering the shit that the older fish has slammed down trying to catch an Imperial witchybitch's condescending eye.

It's just that his lil otherself has the dignity to throw himself at a goal he could actually reach.

COME ON IN, MOTHERFUCKER. DON'T LET IN ALL THAT DAWN BREEZE - SHUT THE DOOR.

Wooden as you roll his pan with chucklevoodoos, he comes in and closes the door. Eyes spinning with the HELLMIRTHFUL colour of your blood, watching as you lift lil Cronus up and down in your lap, that hungry young nook slurping and letting out nasty sounds every time you fuck your bulge back in. You let go so he's really watching; you like the feel of his rage. It's getting to you, putting on this motherfucking show and feeling how angry, how desperate he is while his lil miniself gets everything that a pailbitch could motherfucking desire. Makes your globes feel heavy, your own nook leaking holy purple onto the sheets, this platform gonna be a motherfucking swamp of slurry by the time you're done. Hope they got some kick ass janiterrorists on staff, they're gonna have a hell of a mess to clean up in the evening.

THIS SHOW ALL FOR YOU, BRO. HOPE YOU ENJOYING IT. I'M SURE AS MOTHERFUCK ENJOYING PUTTING IT ON FOR YOU.

"Disgusting, you're disgusting - revolting - this is appalling -" he chokes out as you moan in pleasure. Fuck, feels like the kid's nook couldn't take another inch in there. You're coiled up inside him to the point that his stomach is rounded - more than it was already. Mmmnngh, yeah. That is THE REAL MOTHERFUCKING SHIT, right here.

"Jealous much?" you exhale, and chuckle as you cup the kid's chin, twist his face back so you can kiss him. His hands cling to you, riding your bulge of his own volition as Dualscar just keeps watching. Thing is, a nasty motherfucker wants to watch. You can feel it in him, frustrated desire and rage RAGE RAGE. You don't know who he wants to replace though - the kid with your bulge in him, or you with your bulge wrapped up in a nook that you've found surprisingly sweet. "You're a nasty ass motherfucker, bro, don't get mad just because a ryda is hip to your sickness."

"Vile," he spits, but he's not really putting up much of a comeback to your call outs. That's because he knows you know what you know, and there's no motherfucking comeback to it. You wink at him where he's standing still shocked and shattered, and laugh, let your 'voodoos run a chill up and down the Orphaner's vertical bonesupport to make him shudder. He bares his fangs at you, sharp and predatory, but he doesn't make a move to leave now you've dragged him inside.

"You can just stand there and watch, Orphaner," you purr, sickly poisonous and shift again so you can get a better position to thrust into Cronus' nook. On your side and the kid in front of you so Dualscar can see every rapturous grimace he makes as you fuck him silly. One arm hooked under his knee so he's fully open, every thrust you make perfectly visible. The way the kid's nook flutters around you is apt to make a motherfucker cum before he wants to, so you slow down, make sure that Dualscar got a real motherfucking good ocular on the situation. You wonder what kind of motherfucking narcissism he got going on, but that ain't something you really care about.

You hear a zip, and you grin. Guess someone's decided to do a little more than just watch then.

Better put on a real good show for a motherfucker.

Chapter Text

You're not exactly sure what Rufioh is getting out of this but you are willing to go along with what he wants. After heavy and prolonged discussion with Meulin, you'd decided that a little - ahem - adult exploration of your relationship might be the way to get Rufioh back onside. Strongly anchored in your flush quadrant, which is where you so desperately need him to be. And you'd said you'd do anything he wanted - bypassing for the moment, the discussion of your wants and needs - so that is exactly what you are doing.

You don't mind watching an anime with him, you've done that plenty of times before. You do think that the East Beforan cinematic medium is somewhat overdone and a little wigglerish, but occasionally they do have a storyline that you can enjoy. This is some foalish thing about a lowblood being in love with a highblood and yes, you can't say anything when you're in one of those relationships yourself, but it's obvious that this is never going to work. For a few mare reasons than just caste disparity. It's been going for six episodes already, and you notice that Rufioh has filled your glass again. He's done that a few times, while you've been watching this with him. How much longer could there possibly to this anime?

"I told you it was a binge session, doll," Rufioh murmurs, like he can see into your thinkpan for a moment and your goggles vent a little steam as your guilty sweat is converted into energy for your destrengthening gloves and other apparatus. He laughs a bit, and cuddles in closer against your side. You both can manage around his horns and wings with the ease of long practice, and harnesstly, you feel like this is the closest you've been to him in a very long time. It makes you quell your suspicions and you relax further into him, hands demurely folded in your lap while he's got an arm over your shoulder.

Being held so close makes you thrill inside; it feels like it's been forever since he's done that. Been so physically affectionate, and you missed it. Hoofever, as much as you are enjoying this and want to stay close to him, you're starting to feel a certain pressing need in your abdomen. Indelicately put, you need to use the loadgaper and lighten the pressure on your bladder.

"I need to - I'll just be a moment," you murmur, and make a move to get up. Rufioh's arm around you tightens, and you hesitate as you look at him. You hadn't thought he'd been serious when you'd been discussing things he'd wanted to try and experiment a bit with you. Try and regain your original spark. You hadn't really been listening to everything he'd said, you'll admit. You'd thought that any price would be worth the moment of having Rufioh want you again, want to be around you. Rufioh smiles at you and keeps you put on the couch with a nuzzle against your throat, and you hesitate and relax, and you think maybe you could get through another episode.

So you put it off, until you're physically unable not to squirm with the desperate need to pee that has been building up inside you through the interminable episodes of this wretched cartoon. This time when you get up, you don't intend to say anything to Rufioh, as rude as that is. You'll just go. You squeeze your thighs together tighter and try to clench, swallowing and just about ready to get up.

Rufioh makes a move before you do, hooking his fingers into one of your headstraps and pulling your face around to kiss you. Oh, oh, oh. He hasn't done this - hasn't acted like this for - you missed this. You put off your bathroom trip again, trying not to breathe too heavily and kiss Rufioh back eagerly, pressing your hands against his shoulders. Pulling him against you and enjoying the freedom of the destrengthening gloves, how they let you touch his frail warm body without any sign of pain.

"Calm down, doll." His fingers unhook the straps of your head-piece and slide it off carefully, leaving you blinking in the sudden extra light and a hiss sounding audibly from another piece of equipment in your vest as your back-ups take the strain. His thumb grazes the middle of your lower lip as you debate what to say, not wanting to admit to the painfulness of your need. Not wanting to humiliate yourself in that way. "It's fine. You're doing great."

"I'm - what?" You don't understand and then you let out a pained groan as Rufioh presses a hand against your stomach. Pressing on that hot, painful lump where you are desperately holding onto wiggler decency conditioning and not wetting yourself on his couch. Despite how much it hurts. You really - you haven't ever even tried to wait this long, ever. You've gotten lost in work, but when you noticed you needed to go - you went. You wiggle shamefully, gasping as you feel yourself leak a little into your underwear. No! "Rufioh, that - hhh - that hurts -"

"You can deal with it though, right? You made my night when you said you'd try this shit... and you look good like this, doll, you're so..." Whatever Rufioh is thinking of, he doesn't finish his sentence, just pressing his mouth onto yours again. You don't know what to do. You're completely lost. Had you agreed to this? Maybe you had. It wouldn't be right to go back on it, if you'd said you'd try it. You and Meulin, you'd talked about this. Just swallow it down, let it happen. You gasp into Rufioh's mouth, as his hand massages at your stomach and you try to cross your legs, press them together to stop yourself from. From. You don't even want to think it. "You're doing great..."

"Rufioh, let me up, I need to - I need - hhhk, nn, that's..." It's too much. There are tears in your eyes and he starts rubbing his knee against your bulge and somehow, maybe just because you had been thinking about those kind of things (it absolutely can NOT have anything to do with the over-fullness of your bladder), it unsheathes. The unsheathing gives you a moment of something like ease, and you cling to Rufioh because you don't know what else to do. He's happy with you, touching you - you don't want him to stop. You suppose - you suppose you'll let this...continue.

With his 'help', you wind up both coming and pissing in your pants, letting out a deep sob as all of your needs reach their peak at the same time. You're a mess, disgusting, filthy, the acid scent of urine and the musk of slurry coating you, and every breath you took. The inane sounds of the anime continue and fill up the background of your roiling self-recriminatory thoughts, and Rufioh looks so very pleased with the state of you and you don't do anything except lift your hips as he eases your boots off, and then your pants. You smile at him, like you wanted this and kiss him as he moves to lay on top of you on the couch, where you're lying in your own fluids and kisses you softly, deeply, like he had when you were first flushed for each other. Curling your fingers in his hair, you try to disguise your sob as a moan and let him do what he wants.

This is what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanted Rufioh to do this, treat you like the matesprit you'd become in name only? You'd wanted this. You'd asked for this. He likes this. And he likes you like this, disgraced and fallen from your noble status.

Maybe you can just get used to it. The way you've gotten used to smiling all the time.

"Oh doll, you're so good for me," he croons above your head as his bulge snakes its way into your nook, and you fix a smile on your face so you can smile back at him when he looks down at you. You tighten your knees around his hips and pull him in, gasping as the heat of him invades your deepest parts. And try not to think about the sodden mess you're pailing in, and just how you got it that way.

Chapter Text

Turning over on the ridiculous human-style slumberplatform as the morning sun approaches and calls you from sleep, you enjoy the feeling of the crisp cool sheets - and the warm body still sleeping next to you, Mrs Rose Maryam-Lalonde. And you are now Mrs Kanaya Lalonde-Maryam. She's beautiful, in her bizarre and alien way. Soft brown skin, golden hair like the sun of her world that she's told you about. It's nothing like the glow you put on in mimic of your own world's sun, pitiless, and harsh.

Looking at her sleeping next to you without a care, without a thought of how easily you could do something terrible to her, everything in your thoracic cavity just melts with romantic pity. It's the day after your wedding, and you'd been told about the custom known as a, hmm, 'honeymoon', so you know you have nowhere to go. No appointments to rush to - not before dinner at Dave and Karkat's hive, at least (you really hope they order take out, not try and cook). You had been in favour of the idea of a little vacation, and taking a rest for a moment from the very fulfilling but also exhausting demands of the caverns will be good for you. Both of you. Besides, you're more than certain that the other trolls can manage the grubs and the Mother Grub very well on their own.

You're really in more of an honorary and decorative role here in this new world, if you were going to be frank. You're still doing the work you expected to do but honestly, it's unsettling to be watched like you were some beneficent fount of wisdom come down from on high. Jades had never taken to the superstitious behaviours of warmer hues, or the religious zealotry of the purplebloods but...apparently they can still believe in something greater than themselves, or the Mother Grub. You are still a little discombobulated from your discovery that apparently that something is you.

Anyway. That is not what you are here for, right now. In this place, this moment, with your slumbering wife snoring very delicately by your side. She's always had a little trouble with her airways, it's cute. Or so you have to tell yourself, or you really might wind up smothering her in her sleep.

You're hungry.

Rose shifts in her sleep, rolling onto her side and the snoring stops. There's a strip of sun just lying on her shoulder, and she's usually up by now but you're not really that surprised that she's still asleep. Things had gotten...odd, yesterday, thanks to Callie's lollipop. You thought Rose had had fun though, and that was really the important thing. Probably tired herself out.

She makes a little sigh, and you curl up closer to her, pressing your chin on top of her shoulder and your face to her throat. One hand cupping her breast, feeling how soft and warm her body is against yours. Purring into Rose's hair, you nuzzle as you feel her starting to wake up until she turns in the loose embrace of your arms to face you. You lean close to press your foreheads together, looking into her eyes. Beautiful.

"Good morning, Kanaya."

"Hello, wife." She smiles, and your purr kicks up a notch, getting a deeper undertone as she shifts closer, hand shifting to your hip and the lowest edge of one of your grubscars. Mmm. Well, then. Not that you haven't done this before (often), but you're married now. Official human romance partners. You'd loved the words they'd said yesterday, getting together with everyone to show just how much you loved each other. Trolls don't particularly have rites and rituals around quadranting, but you'd been more than happy to indulge Rose in hers. And you'd gotten to design and wear a beautiful dress, and Rose had looked sublime in her suit so yes, it had all worked out rather well.

"What are you thinking about?" Rose murmurs and kisses you softly on the mouth, until it deepens and you chirp a little. Almost more eager than you would like as her hand rubs at the jade-green curvature wrapped around the side of your torso as your hand reacquaints itself happily with familiar and well beloved territory.

"I was thinking how delicious you looked in your suit yesterday," you say, because it's the truth but you can feel the flush rising up in your cheeks all the same. She makes you so happy. Kissing her with that trickle of sun lying over your bodies, you shift to press up tighter hip to hip. Feeling your bulge swelling, the first drops of slurry escaping your nook. "And how happy I am that you're mine."

At last, at last. It hadn't been an easy road, but finally here you both were, together. And without the Game looming over your heads any more, it should be something close to forever. She's a God, and you're a rainbowdrinker. There's not much that either of you need to worry about.

"I love you," she sighs, and you whisper it back, hiding your face in her golden sunshine hair. Love. What an amazing thing humans had come up with. You don't know where they got it from, it's not a trollish virtue. But it's so good to say it to her, to feel it for her. You laugh as she mock-bites at your throat and a deeper moan than you were expecting comes out of your throat, her nimble fingers coaxing your bulge out of its hiding place with knowing touches.

"A-ah, Rose..."

You're maybe not entirely awake yet, and maybe neither is Rose, but some parts of you both are definitely awake. It's a nice way to start a marriage.

Chapter Text

You do like a gentleman, but you know just how to get gentlemen feeling jus' a lil ungentlemanly. The wiles, you got them. All of them wiles, very feminine and so on and so forth. You know how to make sure a redblooded male appreciates the cut of your lab coat and the sultry sway of a high heeled stride, end of a scarf flicking to catch the eye. With what you've got, you know how to get the attention of the admirers of a masculine variety that you want in the way you want it.

He's just so friggling dapper, wowza!

Mebbe it's not quite so good mom material to be going around flirting heavily with the father of one of your kid's best friends in the whole wide world but seriously. Seriously. The kids are busy. You've both got time. You're adults, with interests in adultish things. You've both had a few drinks (you maybe more than a few, more than you're wanna admit) and you'd managed to avoid being too obvious. More just obvious enough. Mr Egbert's one of the better ones, you ain't gonna land him with some blatant bait. Gotta lay you a lure.

Whatever you've done, it's worked. You'd spent most of the time gushing about Rose, and he'd done the same thing about John and you'd both agreed to disagree that you were personally in possession of the Best Kid TM in the whole wide freaking world. You'd babbled about your work, and he'd. Well. He'd made you laugh. It's been a while since you'd laughed like this.

It's by mutual agreement that you continue on from the hotel bar to a hotel room. When he leans into you once you close the door behind you, you using the support of a wall to keep yourself up, you don't feel trapped. You feel sheltered.

And oh your stars and garters, can the man kiss. Boy howdy honey. Where has this stud been hiding? You've been in Washington state, you coulda looked him up. You coulda been having a little something saucy on the side whenever you ventured in that direction (you could be lying to yourself). Thinking about shit you haven't done is something you blink away with the ease of long practice and you take him by the lapels on his shirt to pull him in closer and kiss him with every ounce of moxie you got in you. And gentlemen, ladies, members of the audience, you better believe that you got a whole mashinking lot of moxie to unleash. When you let go, he looks like he just got smacked in the face by a black-lipsticked mac truck and you're pretty smug about it.

Those strong hands slide down your hips to your thighs, and you coo encouragingly, starting to unbutton your dress from the top as his hands push it up. And up. Until he hesitates, having revealed your sexy little secret. Garters and lace-topped thigh-highs, they never failed you yet.

"My goodness, miz Lalonde," he says gravely, fingers rubbing over the diamonte-studded strap keeping your stockings attached to the belt around your waist and you grin, showing your teeth. Mm, he likes that. You'd thought he was just the kind of old fashioned guy to appreciate a lil old fashioned underthings on your sexy gams. And you'd been right! Score to you, madame Roxanne Lalonde. "You've obviously put some effort into this."

"You like?" You sound as smug as your daughter's cat, purry and contented as his hands stroke your thighs. Fingers tracing at the line of the garters, over the lace. Each button that comes undone reveals your set of matching lingerie, soft lavender and purple trimming the black cups supporting your tits and in little bows on the front of your underwear. And a fake pearl or two - it might just be one now, you're pretty sure the other came off in the wash. These things happen.

"Mmmm."

"A man of few words, huh? I c'n get behind that - oh!" You're slurring a little but not too much, and he surprises you by dropping to his knees in front of you and nuzzling at the front of your panties. Hands gripping at your thighs, spreading your legs as you grab at his shaven head, knocking his dashing hat to the ground. You make a distressed sound, not sure you meant to do that before mewling as he sucks against the front panel of your pretty panties, seeming to just zero right in on your clit. "Oh - oh, yes, there!"

He can't keep his hands off your legs, feeling how they're encased in smooth silk - you splash out when it's worth it, and when it comes to something so close to your skin, it's always worth it. He seems to appreciate them, that's for sure. When he pulls away, you slump a little and let him help you to the bed so you can lie down together. Shimmying out of your sodden underwear, you smile when he asks you to leave your stockings and garters on and nod, and say of course. Anythin' for a handsome man.

That makes him blush, it's super cute to see.

If a man knows what he likes, he knows what he likes. You're amiable to give it to him, just however he likes as long as he keeps kissing you, touching you, like he really sees you. And likes what he sees. You're gonna have to wear garters more often, if they get this kind of response out of him.

Somehow you don't think he'll mind if you bait your trap with the same cheese twice.

Chapter Text

"You don't just look guilty, you smell guilty, it's radiating off you like a disease," Redglare croons to the clown kneeling at her feet. His immense horns are angled back, his throat bared, a submissive pose, trunk of his body wrapped in canvas and chain, hands bound behind his back by the truncated sleeves of the tight straitjacket. It's made for him. Her hands are laced over the head of her cane, leaning on it as she looks at him, only just able to say she was looking down. Still, something of a triumph nonetheless. Her lean body is still kept to midblood heights, midblood strength and he is a very, very old purpleblood. Not quite the oldest troll in the Empire, but for a subjuggulator, the number of sweeps he's racked up are a notable achievement indeed.

Apparently even the Grand Highblood, the most hellmirthful ryda in all the carnival tents, His Holy Jocularity, needed to experience catharsis every so often. And the legislacerator wasn't exactly surprised that the way he best experienced it was through pain. A troll was a troll was a troll. In the end, spilling blood was something that spoke to them in a way that couldn't be denied. Instinctual. Bestial. Some conquerors of the stars they were.

They've done this before. He knows that she can keep a secret better than a grave, and that she's very happy to punish him if that's what he thinks he needs so he can rise refreshed, to go about the business of the Empire. The Empire? Ha! The Messiahs, the infectious murmurings of delusion in his head. It's just that for the moment, the two things are rolling along tandem paths. An agent of chaos, pretending for the moment to be a dutiful servant. It's not like it's her place to bring it up to anyone and besides, who would even listen to her. Another reason why this works so well for him. Who would believe her even if she did say anything? She'd be culled on the spot, before she managed to get into a full description of how the Grand Highblood, the Highest of High Subjuggulator encouraged her to torture him freely on a regular basis.

He chuckles at her, and she kicks him in the face. The oft-broken arch of his sniffnode cracks again under the heel of her boot and he sprawls on the ground in front of her, and she feels the surge of power from having him at her mercy. For a given value of it. Blood bubbles on his lips as he coughs, groans and Redglare feels her lips curl back in a vicious grin before she kicks him in the face again. Purple blood sprays out from his mouth, smearing her red boot and the glossy black floor of the inquisition chamber. When they're done, the levers will be pulled for the sanitation routines and no one will ever know that holy blood had been spilled in this room meant for all kinds of lowblood scum.

"You're disgusting," she murmurs as he coughs and spits, clearing his mouth of welling blood. "Come on, get up. We've barely started; back on your knees, clown." She's wearing her full official uniform, tabard and insignia. He's naked, except for the forced-compliance jacket he helped her put on and strap up tight when they'd started. She doesn't know if she hates him or pities him, but hurting him is...good for her clarity. When she leaves this dark room, she's on a high, everything seems clearer and easier. Redglare has to wonder if it's the same for the clown. He has to get something out of it, or he wouldn't keep finding a way to get her in here with him. With her on her feet and him on his knees, bleeding.

"You're gonna have to work harder than that, lawsis," he goads her once he's managed to roll awkwardly back onto his knees. There were a lot of trolls that wouldn't have been able to manage it, but. Clowns. They work at agility and flexibility in ways that she's definitely taken advantage of before. "Starting to think you're losing your edge, bitch..."

"As I said, defendant...we're just getting started."

His grin is unholy, and she matches it, feeling her skin stretch on her cheeks as she shows all of her fangs. How many tealbloods get to bring a purpleblood, a noble, to inquisition? And here she is, with the greatest of them and basically given free reign. All her impulses allowed to run riot.

"Honkelujah," he croons, and the whisper of her sword unsheathing from her cane is a vicious little underscore to his gravelly voice.

The clowns have a precise way with pain that she can appreciate. There's lots of things to use, toys and knives and bits and pieces. Breakers, crushers, pincers, burners, freezers. All laid out in drawers, and probably blessed for holy inquiry. Hypothetically, she could use anything that's in here but she's aware of the limitations of her brief. Even if they're not put on her by him, there's another troll sitting behind and above him that she's nowhere near stupid enough to cross by removing one of her toys. She's thinking of the Empress, of course. If he's a barkbeast, she's the one with the nominal hold on his leash.

Time to get to work.

When she's finished, his sides are heaving like a bellows, and her gloves are splattered with purple to her elbows. There's flecks on her tabard, and she's pretty sure it's even in her hair. The canvas of the straitjacket is stained, and the rattling sound of his breath is wet. A number of tools are stained, set aside to be cleaned and she peels her gloves off carefully before kneeling down next to him. Checking his pulse, peeling back an eyelid to get a better look at the size and dilation of his pupil. That probably hurt too, she'd bruised them to the point where he was looking at her through slits.

"I think you'll live to repent of your iniquities and wrongdoings another night, my lord," she informs him and lets his head drop back to the floor with a hollow thunk before standing. Dusts her hands over her knees, and goes to pick up her cane and clean it, before resheathing it. It slides back into place with a satisfying little click and she hums softly to herself, tucking it under her arm for a moment and pausing to check her palmhusk. Well. That late already, was it?

Her pointed heels and the tip of her cane make a three part rhythm as she walks to the door, not minding the puddles here and there. When she opens the door, the Executor is already there and she offers him a beaming smile, feeling the surge of peace that came from physically demolishing a much bigger troll than herself. Even if it was with this one's cooperation.

"Your turn, I think," she informs him brightly and he steps aside to let her pass. Foreboding, judging her for what she's done and who she is. Her grin gets sharper and her step is light as she passes him, not looking back as the bulk of the Executor moves into the room to take care of the mess she's left.

It's a bright and beautiful morning, and she's overdue for a stint in her recuperacoon. For once, she's even thinking she might sleep in. There's something about beating the shit out of a clown that really tires her out.