Chapter Text
There is a sword embedded in your kitchen cabinet. Usually the swords are in the cabinets, not lodged in the door. You sip your mug of coffee at a glacier pace as you survey the damage to the pressed fiberboard plank. Five inches. The jolt that unceremoniously woke your ass up managed to sink a shitty mail order sword a whole five inches deep. This event is the most interesting thing to happen to you in two years. For a few days after you met your sticky end at the hand of Bec Noir, living in a memory bubble instead of ceasing to exist seemed like a righteous idea. After two years of drinking the same piss water beer that you bought for the sake of irony the novelty of being forced to spend the rest of eternity in your miniscule apartment had worn off. The apartment is an exact duplicate of the one you shared with your lil bro back in Texas, but the catch is you can’t leave. Inside the apartment nothing has changed. It is if the game never happened. But outside your front door there is nothing. And when you mean nothing, its literal white void of nothingness. Like you tried to take a step outside and almost plummeted into the blank white expanse. So you stand in your kitchen up to your fuzzy pink bunny slippers in swords and shurikins and try to make this moment last as long as possible. You are getting all tantric with this moment. Frankie says relax, so take your good sweet time savoring this. Your excitement sticks around until you reach the bottom dregs in your world’s best mom mug. Who knew that the afterlife would be this mind numbing. Not this guy. You trudge over to the sink and instead of depositing your ceramic vessel of irony into the metal tray you drop it. All you see is rust. The panes of the window above the sink are filled in with rust. You flashstep over to the front door and whip it open.
“Fuck me and my nonexistent Texan twang.” The wide white yonder got upgraded to a reddish orange colored rock strewn desert. This was by far your most interesting day of being dead. The decision to leave the drudgery of your apartment was made the instant the door opened. Sure Cal is your best bud and always will be, but a man gets stir crazy after a while. You swap your robe and bunny slippers for something more appropriate for exploring, double check your strife specibus, and adjust your kamina shades as you head out the door.
Deserts suck even if you are technically dead. The blazing sun beats down on your pale skin with the fury of a hundred ex-girlfriends. The sweltering heat and hellscape make you feel a bit nostalgic. It reminds you of Texas only with dry heat and a welcomed shortage of fire ants. Fire ants don’t care if you are a Strider with near legendary ninja abilities, they will still bite your ass. Fire ants don’t give a shit, they do what they want. Your aimless wandering through the wasteland comes to an abrupt end when you spot a collection of spiraling towers haphazardly mashed together. Staring at rocks instantly loses its appeal; you make a beeline for the castle. You circle the perimeter of the rambling structure and pause at what looks like the entrance, entrance being a generous term for a gaping hole in the wall. From what you gathered on inspection you shouldn’t be here. The hulking ruins seem to be ripped straight out of a b-rated horror flick, marinated in LSD, and plonked down on a 50’s Sci-fi set. Danger be damned. You are a Strider. And you are not going to turn tail and run just because of some tweaked out architecture.Striders gotta stride. You stride into the heart of darkness.
The inside of the hulking structure is just how you take your coffee, black. You shuffle until your outstretched fingers brush against rough hewn stone. Your hands molest the newly found surface and declare it to be a wall. Congratulations Strider, you have discovered a wall. Being the over achiever that you are, finding a wall isn’t enough. Time to get deep in this bitch. You follow the twisting corridor further. The wall abruptly ends. You spot a faint glow in the distance. For once in your life you hesitate. The light isn’t a bug zapper, but it seems ominous. The air is thick, stifling, holding you in place. You shouldn’t be here. But yet you are. So when did you turn into a little girl Strider? You cut a fucking meteor in half. Suck it up and keep moving forward. Always move forward. You move forward, creeping
closer to the light.
Rows of torches flank the room, illuminating walls that seem to be constructed solely out of angles. Sorry for being obtuse with you mister Strider I’m just getting my Lovecraft on. H.P would have a field day with this. The walls jut out of the floor; the stone fragments akin to shattered mirror piece themselves together branching up to a bastardized vaulted ceiling. You inch closer to a torch to study the dark splatter halo encircling the flame. On closer inspection the substance isn’t black; it’s a dark navy blue. You gingerly swipe a finger tip over a glob and rub the liquid between your fingers. The ooze is highly viscous. You give the mysterious substance a whiff. In the medley of odors is a distinct scent of copper. It’s blood. And the walls are covered in it. At first there are just a few splatters here and there. But by the time you are several torches down the wall, the lazy Pollock dribbles turn into full on smears. What disturbs you the most isn’t the sheer quantities, but the array of colors. This slaughterhouse isn’t reserved for just one type of aliens. Nope the butcher seems to be an equal opportunist. Violet stains the walls and floors along with multiple shades of blues, greens and yellows. Your body stills at the sight of a single red hand print. The hand’s morphology is similar, a palm, four fingers, and a thumb. But the scale of it is daunting.
The refined ninja sense that you are so damn proud of alerts you to the fact that you are far from being alone. The part of yourself that urged you on to fight Noir says it can’t be that bad. Another part of your brain reminds you that Noir killed your ass. You turn to find the maker of the hand print. Oh yes, it can be that bad. But your name is Bro Strider. And you are not going to freak the fuck out just because a creature straight out of children’s nightmares is staring down at you from a throne made out of skulls. Ok maybe just a little bit. You allow your bottom lip to twitch once. You’ve wasted enough time with your little shit fit, time to figure out what exactly is going to fuck up your day. Let’s start with the obvious. The creature is gargantuan, yes good term. You estimate it at twelve feet from the thing’s head down to the tips of its feet. Two massive candy corn colored horns spiral to the ceiling, which are surrounded by a frizzy mane of black hair. The face of the beast looks like a skull, check that, it’s just painted to look like a skull with a wicked set of chompers. Not disconcerting at all. The two blank white eyes remain locked on you as you continue to look the creature over. The creature seems strangely humanoid with two arms and legs attached to the torso in the expected places. The skin on the hands and feet are grey in color. The fingers and toes both terminate in vicious claws that seem well suited for eviscerating hapless victims. The black and purple clothing do little to hide the behemoth’s muscle. Great Grendel is fucking ripped. The behemoth yawns. The maw of the creature is filled to capacity with what can best be described as prehistoric shark teeth. This is it Strider. If you are going to die don’t be a pussy about it.
The monstrosity sits upright in his throne and drags a hand through his mane sweeping the straggling tresses behind his horns before leaning back. The creature looks dignified, regal, and deadly. The behemoth leans to the side and rummages through the bone pile beside his throne. Instead of pulling out a sword or battle axe to smite your pathetic human ass he whips out a cup and takes a big swig of what looks to be radioactive green slime.
“MOTHERFUCKER, I’m not HALLUCINATING THIS TIME.” He takes another sip of the sludge. “I wouldn’t create some PATHETIC WRETCHED creature. You look like a pink soft two legged wiggler. You would SQUISH WELL BENEATH MY FEET.” The creature leans forward. “You haven’t FLED IN TERROR, nor are you TREMBLING IN FEAR. Has your think pan BEEN DAMAGED in such a way that you are unable to REGISTER THAT MOTHERFUCKING EMOTION?” Holy shit its speaking English. And its staring at you like its waiting for a response. You shake your head no. “ReAlLy? Well that is MOTHERFUCKING REFRESHING. One thousand sweeps. I’ve been around for ONE MOTHERFUCKING THOUSAND sweeps. And that entire time it was NOTHING BUT A STREAM OF TERRIFIED LITTLE SHITS. All of them pleading or begging FOR ONE MOTHERFUCKING THING OR ANOTHER. Don’t cull me Grand Highblood. SPARE MY PLANET GRAND HIGHBLOOD. Please don’t ENSLAVE MY RACE Grand Highblood. Whatever you do DON’T TURN my home world into a MOTHERFUCKING MOLTEN BALL OF SLAG Grand Highblood. One MOTHERFUCKING thing or another. But I digress.” His eyes narrow to slits. “I only know of one motherfucking instance when the fuckers wouldn’t cower in fear.” He goes silent for a moment while he glares down at you, almost as if he is trying to peer into your very soul. “You don’t happen to have any paperwork for me to fill out do you?” Paperwork? This thing is a fucking glorified pencil pusher? “ANSWER ME MEATSACK. Do you want me to FILL SOME MOTHERFUCKING FORMS OUT? Because I’m FED UP WITH THIS HOOFBEAST SHIT.” You shake your head no. “Does the EMPRESS WISH TO CONVERSE with me?” You shake your head no again. “Good because I’m not MOTHERFUCKING HIGH ENOUGH to deal with that nook.” He pauses to take another sip. “I’m almost motherfucking CERTAIN I’m DEAD anyways. But leave it up to her to find a way to TORMENT ME IN THE AFTERLIFE.” He glances back down to you. “Are you MOTHERFUCKING DECEASED?” You nod. “Don’t say much do you meatsack?” You shake your head. The behemoth makes a series of clicking noises you take as a sigh and leans back against the throne. “What are you PINK FLESHY CREATURE?”
“A human.”
“Human.” He pauses and ponders for a moment. “I don’t remember conquering your MOTHERFUCKING PLANET AND ENSLAVING YOUR RACE.”
“You haven’t.”
“What do others of your species call you?”
“Strider.”
“I am the GRAND HIGHBLOOD. MOTHERFUCKING LEADER of the Subjugglators. GENERAL of the Imperial Troll army.”
“So you’re a troll.”
“My species refers to ourselves as such.”
“And you’re called Grand Highblood.”
“It’s more of a title.”
“So what do you want me to call you?”
“Makara.” An awkward silence begins to rear its head. “So … Strider human. What MOTHERFUCKING PURPOSE do you have to ENTER MY LAIR?”
“I was hoping to slay some time.”
“What activity do you suggest to SLAY THIS MOTHERFUCKING TIME with?”
“Strife.” Makara chuckles.
“It is your desire to engage in MORTAL COMBAT?” He looks you over. “Strife with you would not seem a MOTHERFUCKING CHALLENGE worth undertaking.” You smirk.
“I can make it challenging. All you have to do is follow me back to my apartment.” It’s your turn to look the troll over. “However you might not fit.” The troll ponders for a moment.
“That situation can be MOTHERFUCKING REMEDIED.” The troll shrinks down to half his size and hops off of the throne all while holding his cup and not spilling a single drop. Impressive sir. “Lead the way to your hive STRIDER.”
It took a few seconds, minutes, hours, days, the passage of time was difficult to measure in bubbles before the troll and you reach the beige stucco box of an apartment. During the trek through the wasteland Makara regaled you with his tales of planetary conquests, intergalactic wars, and battles that raged for centuries. His life could be summed up in one phrase Veni, Vedi, Vici. I came, I saw, I conquered, or in his case culled. Culling and painting were his two favorite pass times. You were surprised that the troll version of Genghis Khan liked to paint, until he informed you that he used blood of his victims for pigments. You learned another surprising tid-bit of information about the troll. Carpet freaks him the fuck out.
“Grub bristles. Your lair is coated in millions of motherfucking grub bristles” he mutters while kneading his toes into the carpet pile. You try to stifle a giggle as the six foot behemoth gingerly picks his feet up one at a time, acclimating to the novel feeling. “Do you TAKE JOY IN SLAUGHTERING the young of your species? Is this covering on your floor a MOTHERFUCKING TROPHY from your exploits?” You fail at repressing your laughter. You wipe a tear off with a gloved hand and look back up to the troll who is trying to determine the reason behind your actions. “You take joy in massacre. You are ONE SICK MOTHERFUCKER.” A toothy grin stretches across his face. “I LIKE IT.”
“Makara.” You glance over the top of your shades. “Are you prepared for mortal combat?” The troll straightens up.
“I am prepared to ENGAGE IN BATTLE human.” You flashstep over to the troll and hand him a small black device.
“These will be our weapons.”
“Your moiral will WEEP RIVERS OF BLOOD; your matesprite will gnash their teeth as I CRUSH YOUR BRITTLE BONES underneath my feet.” The troll cackles as he rips your head off for the fourth time. This is what you get for letting him pick his character first. The six foot mass of muscle is giggling gleefully as the pixilated blood drip down the severed spine. And this is why you should have picked Scorpion.
“Wanna swap characters?”
“It will only vary my ways of ANNIHILATING YOU” Makara chuckles. You pause the game and wander over to the frigid temple of swords and booze.
“Want anything?”
“Got any wicked elixir?”
“Wicked elixir?”
“Faygo.”
Faygo. How the hell do trolls know about Faygo? Faygo’s continuing existence as a brand of soda is all kinds of levels of ironic, but you have to draw the line somewhere when grocery shopping.
“No.” Your reply is followed by a long pause.
“This is your memory; you can WILL IT INTO EXISTENCE.” Shut the front door. What the hell did he just say?
“You can make stuff appear? I think about it and poof it’s there?”
“You were not AWARE OF THAT? This memory is your domain. You have UNLIMITED CONTROL. In its confines you are MOTHERFUCKING OMNIPOTENT.” Really? You close the refrigerator door, visualize a two liter of the carbonated sugar water and open the door. There it sits in all its purple fizzy glory on a shelf. Hell yes. Screw irony, it’s been a year since you last had a good buzz. You close the refrigerator door again, and this time you picture a bottle of something much more potent than the mildly alcoholic piss water you’ve been doomed to drink. You reopen the door. Hell Fucking Yes. You saunter over to the living room and are greeted but a highly unexpected sight. An exceedingly content Makara is sprawled out over a rainbow pile of smuppets that he must have collected. He jolts upright as you walk over to the couch. “Trolls gravitate to piles. It’s instinctual” he rushes. You slowly nod as you hand him the Faygo.
“I’m not going to judge you” you reassure him as you return to your spot on the couch. Must be like cats and their need to cram themselves into small containers. He settles back down into the conglomeration of plushy abominations. You sigh as you fondly examine the bottle in your hand. Makara looks at you puzzled.
“It’s my wicked elixir” you reply to his unasked question.
“What is the name of this HUMAN ELIXIR?”
“We call it” You pause for dramatic effect “tequila.”
“Te-kiiiillll- yaaahh. The clear substance HAS KILL in the name. It must be MOTHERFUCKING GLORIOUS.”
“It is.” You unscrew the cap and take a sizable swig before holding it out to the troll. Makara takes the bottle from you, gives it a sniff before taking a swig of his own. He chuckles and hands the bottle back.
“Glorious INDEED.”
Over the course of the next several hours you learn two things. Number one, the tequila that you materialized is the best achievement of your afterlife. Number two, tequila can get a fucker blitzed. It did not matter if you were alive, dead, human, or troll. Tequila’s effect was a universal constant. One intriguing question that remained unanswered was just how much tequila it took to get the troll drunk since the bottle kept refilling itself when the liquid neared the bottom, which was quote a motherfucking miracle end quote. Either way you knew you were drunk, Makara was drunk, and that it was a quote motherfucking glorious thing indeed end quote.
The inebriated troll crawls out of the pile and plunks himself down on the floor between your legs.
“STrIBro.”
“Yeah?”
“I dOn’T kNow HoW lOng wE aRe GoiNg to bE toGetHer sO I HavE to teLl yOu tHiS nOw.” Makara fidgets before tilting his head up to you. His white eyes look into you. “YoU’Re a mOthErFucKin MiRacLe bRo. tHiS is aS cLoSe As I’vE eVeR BeEn tO sOmeOnE tHat I wAsN’T uSiNg tHeiR BloOd tO pAinT tHe mOtHeRfUckiNg wAlLs wItH.” The troll’s skin has a dark blue tinge. He’s turning blue, that can’t be a good thing. Wait a second his blood is bluish so…
“Are you blushing?” His cheeks turn a deeper shade of bluish purple. “You are blushing.” Makara looks horrified and suddenly starts to find the floor to be extraordinarily fascinating. “So what was that? A pickup line?” His eyes flicker up to you before returning to the floor.
“WeLl…” Makara does a little squirm as he thinks. The troll then scoots up to you and flicks his tongue over your bottom lip. It takes a moment for your alcohol addled brain to register what just happened. Makara is sitting back down on the floor, his big eyes staring at you. Makara uses troll puppy eyes. “sLopPy mAkEouts?” he asks while his eyes continue to plead. Its super effective.
You don’t understand what makes you take the following actions. Is it the alcohol, loneliness, horniness, pity, your inability to resist that level of moe, all that you know is that you are a man compelled. You slide a gloved hand underneath his jaw and bury your fingers in the mass of hair and pull his face up to meet yours. You plant a kiss on his lips and drag your tongue across his bottom lip before pulling away.
“Sloppy makeouts.” You wipe off the paint smeared over your mouth. Makara touches his bottom lip and stares at his fingers for a few moments, looking deep in thought. He then shifts his gaze back up to you and the remnants of paint smears on your chin. The troll’s eyes light up and he does the most adorable full body wiggle that you’ve seen this side of the internet. Then the six foot fluffy haired conqueror of worlds that you are arguing with yourself over if you really did just think he was adorable because come on he is like troll Attila the Hun pounces. Your eyes flicker open and you find yourself lying on the couch, your hat is somewhere just not on your head, your shades probably with your hat, all two hundred pounds of troll is propped up on top of you, one hand up sliding up your shirt, the other hand’s fingers tangled in your hair, and his tongue wrapped around yours. You attempt to think. The massive quantities of alcohol flowing through your system and the tongue exploring every bit of real estate in your mouth quashes that fast. This is not a time for thinking this is a time for doing and fuck his slick wet muscle entwined with yours sucking it into his maw feels fucking good. Hehe fucking that would be good too.
His leg brushes up against your crotch and you get a reassuring throb in reply. Looks like whiskey dick is not going to be a problem tonight. You shiver as his thumb flicks over a nipple. It stiffens and you stiffen along with it at the cool touch. Your eyes flutter open as Makara’s exquisite wonder muscle exits your mouth. The troll that left your mouth wanting more is straddling your hips staring down at the bumps hidden by your shirt. A low growl is hastily followed by his clawed fingers hooking around the collar of your shirt and shredding it with ease. The now content troll happy after destroying his enemy, your shirt, returns to rubbing your hardened sensitive nubs underneath his calloused thumbs. Makara stops torturing you momentarily and scoots further down on the couch. His lips hover right above your chest. Is he going to? Oh yes he is. His dark blue tongue languidly circles an aureola before his lips gently lower around it. You gasp and arch your back as the troll starts to suck. He responds by sucking harder and encircling his arms around you his claws lightly skimming over your pale exposed skin. Makara gives the delectable fleshy bump one last flick with the tip of his tongue before venturing off to taste the rest of your freckled flesh.
You turn into a squirming panting mess by the time his lips reach your hip bones. You brush your fingertips along the ridges on his horns as he traces the outline of a hip bone. Makara chirps as you switch from skimming over the horn to slowly stroking it. His eyes snap up to you as your hand eases to a stop.
“StRibRo.” He’s doing the puppy eye thing again. “cAn yoU sTroKe mY hOrnS aGaiN?” And now he is full on puppy eye pleading mode. Okay. You run your fingers from the tip of the horn down to the orange base. Makara closes his eyes and starts to make a rumbling sound as you wrap your fingers loosely around the horn and start to stroke it. He’s purring. Fuck that’s cute. You glance over to the free horn and get an idea. Curiosity killed the cat. You stick your tongue out and take a tentative lick. Makara makes a chirping noise and inches closer to you. And satisfaction brought it back. You smirk and lovingly give the horn a tongue bath. After a few minutes it’s the troll’s turn to turn into a mush puddle. The gooey mess looks up to you panting and flushed up to his ears. “mInE” he growls.
Makara pulls off the remaining tatters of your shirt and flings them off into the far corners of the room. He sits up and slightly nods approvingly as he surveys your exposed chest. The troll then yanks his shirt off not caring as it rips on his sharp horn tips and tosses it. You can’t help but gawk at the grey mass of muscle straddling your hips. He is a statue. He is a statue of a fucking horned Greek God. Makara chuckles.
“IF tHiS iS yOuR reAcTiOn foR mE tAkIng My mOtHerFuCkiNg shIrT OfF, wHaT aRe yOu GoIng tO Do wHeN yOu seE wHat thE fUcK iS In mY pAnTs?” He hooks a thumb in his waistband and gives it a snap. “WeLl cOmE oN mOthErfUckEr.” The troll lazily grins as your focus shifts from his deliciously well defined abs to his black and purple patterned pajama pants. As you stare at his crotch you swear something squirms behind the thin fabric. You hand creeps closer to him reaching for the waistband like the hand of a soon to be victim in a slasher flick reaches for the door knob to the room that they should not enter. A part of your mind screams not to do it while your body ignores all logical thought. You are compelled to know what lurks behind those pants. You need to know what is behind those pants. You fingers grip the hem and pull the pants down.
“He’s part purple octopus” you whisper. It’s a purple tentacle. A writhing purple tentacle slick with translucent purplish blue liquid that oozes down its tapered length. The foot long squirming appendage is a sight to behold, the tip two finger widths wide and the base is about as thick as your wrist. I’ve watched enough hentai to know where this is going you think as it wiggles closer. Makara unzipping your pants breaks you out of the snake charmer’s trance and now it’s his turn to be amazed at the peculiarities of alien wingwangs. You have to admit that him staring at your junk is unsettling. You clear your throat. Well? Makara is still staring at your junk. He goes to say something but closes his mouth after reconsidering it. The troll is speechless. You smirk.
“hUh.”
“What?”
“HuH.”
“What does huh mean?” When you hear huh it is usually followed by ‘oh my god it’s so big,’ or ‘I don’t think it’s going to fit’ and of course your favorite ‘ does Japan know that you are hiding Godzilla in your pants?’ His eyes are still locked on your junk. The troll points to your pride and joy.
“Is iT sUppOsEd tO mOthErfUcKinG loOk lIkE tHaT? iTs nOt mOviNg. oOoo nOw iTs sHrInKiNg.” No he couldn’t have said that its, it’s a magnificent hunk of man meat. Bask in its glory troll for you will never see such a sight again. “iS It sUpPosEd tO gEt sMaLlEr?” That does it. No one insults your one eyed wonder weasel and gets away with it. You are appalled. No outraged. No something stronger than outraged you are nnnnnngggghhhh. Makara’s bulge cuts off the rant inside your head by slithering around your member and giving it a squeeze. His bulge and your cock are actively ignoring the both of you and start getting friendly. Your erection stiffens as the bulge curls further around its length. You moan as the slick appendage begins to ripple up and down your shaft in a stroking motion. The skin coated in what you can only assume is pre-cum tingles.
Your eyes flicker up to Makara. The troll languidly skims his tongue over his lips as the lust builds in his heavily lidded eyes. He shuts them as he makes a low rumbling sound and rocks towards you. Your hips reply with a thrust of your own and the troll shifts his position until he is parallel with you propping himself up on his knees and elbows pressing his skin against yours ever so slightly. Makara cups your shoulders with his palms, his arms surrounding yours. He rests his head on the armrest next to yours. His cool grey skin soothes the furnace flaring inside of you as his bulge’s ministrations continue to stoke the fire. You listen to the troll breathe, his pants, his gasps; the clicks that interrupt the low rumbling purr as your finger roam along his sides.
You reach out and brush your finger tips against his horn, skimming along the tip, trailing over the spiraling ridges down to the base. His breath hitches as your fingers work along the sensitive new growth. You burrow your fingers into his thick mane of hair as your thumb rubs the junction were the horn meets the skull. Makara nuzzles against the crook of your neck, you turn allowing him access. His broad indigo tongue laps your exposed pale freckled flesh. You moan and squirm underneath him spurning him onward, making his thrusts more urgent. He nibbles down your neck starting just below the ear working down to the collarbone, biting down around the bone. You cry out and rake your nails down his back as you come. He hisses and his bulge spasms pouring out his seed. The thick purplish blue liquid puddles on your stomach.
Makara grabs a scrap of your shirt off of the floor and wipes his genetic material off before tossing the soaked cloth back onto the floor. A thought of cleaning the mess that you made up wanders into your mind and is silenced by the troll wiggling up against you. He positions himself between you and the couch. His arms encircle you and he pulls you close. The both of you drift off to sleep guided by his purring.