THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Of course not, you don't have the vocal range," you tease, hitting his horns with your own. After a bit of squirming you get him laid out— his bulge has painted a bright, ridiculous blue stripe around your hip and across your stomach, and you both get an inappropriate case of the giggles, as if you were seven— and pin one of his legs down with your knee.

"Right," you huff. "I've half a mind to shove this up to your back fangs all at once." But you don't, of course. You pet his bulge until it's squeezed eagerly around your fingers and Bel's thighs are trembling against your hold, before you push it up against his stomach and introduce the first inch of the vibration module to his dripping nook. It's properly tapered, like a regular bulge, so it's not the kind of death-sausage challenge some toys pose, but it still starts out a good deal thicker than what a lot of trolls would naturally sport. Plus, obviously, it vibrates.

"Mm?" you enquire, checking his face.

 

"Ah," you reply, gripping the cushions beneath you. You hear a sort of warning creak from the nice cashmere throw one of your friends back on Alternia knitted you so long ago, fibers about to let go, and freeze. "Hold me down," you propse. "So I don't wreck stuff."

 

"I've got to do everything on this damn ship," you huff, and leave the vibrator where it's been put to grab his trousers— reconsider– grab your shirt, pull it apart along a seam, give it a few twists to make a rope, and tie his wrists together up above his head but behind his horns. His horns are too long and his arms are too thick for him to get unstuck, though he certainly gives it a try, and you pause to admire the show.

 

"Good." You swallow loudly. "It's good. Ngh," you add as he returns to playing with the vibrator. "Don't be so tentative, I can take it." This may not be strictly true, but hell if you're going to let on.

 

"I'll pull that damn squash out again, see if I don't," you tell him, squeezing his bulge. You've got at least a handspan of the vibrator into him, and it's starting to be a tight fit to push it further. The material's soft and flexible, to a point, but there's a lot of it, and the size of a troll on the outside doesn't exactly map to the allowances that could be made on the inside.

You pull the buzzing toy out slowly, enjoying the mounting alarm, and the helpless way he starts shuddering when you tease the entrance of his nook, rub the tip back and forth against the twitching base of his bulge sheath, then shove it back in hard and fast, another few inches than you'd managed to get it before. It gets a beautiful reaction. You try it again, then, even more enthusiastically, a third and fourth times— you're not exactly getting screams out of him, but it's still fucking gorgeous. The fourth time he manages to take the thing almost all the way to the base, and you hold it there, pressing it tightly up into him, hungrily watching his face.

 

You're past any sort of resentment at him one-upping you; past any resistance at all. You take everything he gives you like it's your only purpose, a fierce joyous surrender. The way he looks at you makes you feel so wanted. You're overloaded past the point of words, so you can't tell him how good it is, but you don't have to, is the thing. You don't have to take control of this. He's got you.

 

"Pretty," you praise him, as he falls apart. "So pretty. Just look at you, and of course you know it, don't you. Hope there's a recording of this. Come on, work with me, Bel, you vain fucking peacock, you've had me off often enough, I want to see how many times you can come for me."

If you haven't completely ruined this couch by the time he's all tapped out, you will take it as a personal disgrace. A partner with a taste for submission is turning out to be a hell of a lot of fun— and of course, having him laid out for you like this, wrecked past all possibility of struggle, makes you feel ferociously protective. You can't even imagine letting anyone get past you to hurt him, and you're damn well going to have some stern words with Galley, should he think to take— whatever sort of advantage it might be possible to take.

 

The third orgasm he wrings from you, you break your bonds by accident, but you're so floppy afterwards that he can hold both your wrists with one hand. The fourth rolls through you without moving you to more than a shudder, but it's sweet, a wave of heat that curls your toes and lets you down gently, with a sigh, not a scream. After that, sadly, your brain begins to come back from the happy place. You wrinkle your nose and squirm a bit, since you can't reach for the toy, as you try to remember the words for being done.

 

Your hands are starting to feel unpleasantly tacky, and you're happy to let the experiment conclude when he gets a particularly fretful, confused sort of look on his face. You don't think you're going to tell either of them, but it's just about the same as Arguus's, and completely endearing. You pull the toy out— carefully— and drop it off to the side. Kiss his chest gently. Palm his thoroughly exhausted mating equipment as it twitches and shivers and retreats.

"Doing all right in there?" you ask him. Quiet and calm. You're not flipping over red for him, probably. He's just... very sweet like this. You like it.

 

You nod clumsily and nuzzle his hair. Now that the toy is no longer buzzing at your overstimulated nerves, your life is basically perfect. Belatedly noticing he's let go of your wrists, you drape your arms around him. Who needs words when you've got purring?

 

You drift peacefully against him for a time, but realize you've fallen asleep and wake up abruptly. Vaguely startled and confused, you rub your face against the warm, electric hollow of his throat, then force yourself upright and haul Kadros with you, stumbling and hopping. There's a hiveguest, and anyway fall asleep on terrace decking is one thing, and gluing yourselves to a couch is quite another.

"Quick rinse and off to some real sleep," you promise him, or at least mumble something along those lines. He complains dozily through the wipe-down but is bullied along easily enough, and you tip him with groggy satisfaction into the slime alongside his moirail and an impressive menagerie of cotton boles. You stand at the side of the recuperacoon, trying to figure out what else you needed to do today, but Kadros gets hold of one of your horns and that is just about it for your itinerary.

You climb in after him, instigate a round of growly kissing, and fall asleep before you can quite manage to give a fuck that you're cuddled up naked right next to someone's moirail.

 

Pancho, without waking up, slow-motion shoves and kicks until everyone is where she wants them. This leaves you with one arm around her and one around Erskin, so you completely agree with her arrangement. One of the babies -- Beezle, you think, the one with four wolverine paws and working duck wings -- drapes itself over the top of your head and begins grooming itself and occasionally you. Everything is ridiculous and wonderful. You purr yourself to sleep.

 

You wake the next evening feeling warm and happy and very nearly well. You bite Bel's ear, allow him to groggily slap-box you out of the slime, then curl back around his moirail. It's funny how a short time for Bel to recover from being a zombie is an exhaustingly long tim for his moirail to have been on her feet.

The fridge is nearly empty, so you dump yourself back in your chair to go to the nearest kitchenblock, after some fierce internal debate. Every step sends a nauseous, scrambled jolt up your nerve chute, and you need that slightly less than you need two consecutive days stuck in fourwheel hell. Ugh, your shoulders are stiff. You're going to put more time aside to swim, this time, you swear.

Tonight should be about the night the medics re-attach Murfey's arm and turn him out into what passes for society around here. You bolt down a few thick slices of grubloaf and jam, then point yourself medical-wards. He's not one of your quadrants or even a close friend, compared to some, but you think you might be the closest friend he's got aboard, besides Bel, who is passed out and anyway has his own recuperation to see to. And that sort of position comes with responsibilities, one of which is not letting the poor chap come out of several dicey surgical operations to find no one is waiting for him.

 

The ad-hoc medical blocks are nearly empty, to the clear— if tiredly restrained— enjoyment of the trolls left scrubbing up this and putting away that. There are a few lowbloods still under supervision and one or two of the original, heavily injured patients back in for check-ups, but just about everyone else has been released for proper food, rest, and personal time. You're going to need to start getting everyone to stop jubilantly fondling one another and back to work at some point, but it's honestly such a relief to be getting genuinely shut of this day terror that you don't, currently, have the heart. Maybe tomorrow. When you're done fondling your own amount of people.

Murfey's in the back of the block, where most of the monitoring machines have been shoved. Even after two or three nights of intensive care, the Sergeant looks as if he's been through several wars from jaws to hind ends and back again. His prosthetic arm's been hooked back up, and seems incongruously vivid against the white bandaging and pale gray skin.

"Hallo, soldier," you say, though you're not at all sure if he's conscious. Bluebloods are sturdy, but managing to chew your own guts out is the sort of thing to entitle a fellow to any amount of convalescence. You very gently run your claws through his disastrous hair.

 

"Oh, ruinously," you tell him, encouraged. You tweak his eartip. "So I hear you're a free man, today. Care for some company on the trip back to your place? I say, we could make it a party, you're already wasted."

 

"She's conked out with her useless mountain of a moirail right now, I'm afraid. But here, I'm a fair hand at tubes and pipes, eh? Let me have a go— there, this'll sting, if you cry I'll tell everyone, see if I don't— right, you're all set." You pat a bit of gauze and tape over the trickle of blood. "Want to try sitting up?"

 

Well, this is a fine mess. You look at one of the busily sweeping attendants. "Here, Spider, I thought you said he was ready to go?"

Spider shrugs. "We thought you'd be sleeping in with Sergeant Pancho and the Commander. And that Baron Goddamn Frankenstein here wouldn't be such a fucking lightweight."

Considering the amount of stitches Murfey's had put in, the reference is unfortunately apt, and you stifle a guilty snicker as you get to your feet and help Murfey wriggle dopily into your own chair.

"There," you say, patting him between the horns. "Think you can manage? I warmed the seat for you with my own personal ass, you know, that's the absolute zenith of luxury any man could ask for."