A Little Bit of One-on-One (Story)

March's poll story! Goblin mechanic + Orc mech pilot bang, with some superfluous fun worldbuilding thrown in there. A little bit of shower fucking, a little bit of cum retention. Can you tell I wrote this?

Some aggressive sex in here but it's all consensual. Hope you enjoy!

*************************************

“Fucking Elves,” Drella spat, shifting her mech’s torso back in line with her legs. Ten, no, fifteen fast scout mechs were making their way toward her, ambling over the remains of suburban houses leveled since the first days of the invasion. Elegantly sculpted mithril feet crushed rusting old pickups flat, knocking over crooked basketball nets, or churned wild flower beds into muddy compost. Already the front rank was opening fire with their crossbows. Armour-piercing ballista bolts cut through the air to her left and right. One scored her mech’s shoulder, sending pain-response through her neuralink helm. She winced, but didn’t close her eyes. Those were locked on her assailants on the field below her; she wouldn’t miss this for the world.

On either side of the ruined cul-de-sac, gatlings opened up from the other members of her squad. Humans, orcs, goblins, all firing in perfect drilled unison from their dugouts and spider holes. Depleted uranium slugs fired in staccato bursts chewed through the lightly armoured scouts, turning their reconnaissance force into a scrapheap. Cockpits cracked open and pilot escape pods shot out from compromised machines, evoking a perverse comparison to Alliance Day fireworks celebrations. The survivors fell back, autoloaders clicking on empty by the time they made it back behind cover. Drella held her fire. She wasn’t standing at the top of the hill like a training target for no reason.

Emerging from behind the shell of a department store, the architect of this particular disaster emerged. A heavy Van’thir pattern mech, this one was all flowing curves and silken tabards. The curved scimitar in its hands was older than intelligent life on Earth, and the pilot a veteran of a thousand battles. But you got sloppy past your fifth century, Drella found. Sloppy and proud.

She keyed an open commlink to the battlefield, one anyone could receive, and spoke in Elvish. “Looks like you fucked this one up, can’thae. Human tactics are much more effective than you elders want to admit. Care to fight in the old style or do you want to get gunned down like a throg?”

The Van’thir plunged his blade into the soft earth before him. Duel it was, then. Her heart pounded. It may be hydraulic fluid being spilled rather than blood, but the fires of personal combat could ignite her blood in a way few other things could.

“Banshee Squad, hold fire,” Drella said, switching to her encryption channel. She stomped down the hill, her own mech stepping over the ruins of the scouts who her team had scythed down, occasionally halting to allow a fleeing elf pilot whose pod hadn’t popped. Her hand reached behind her back, tactile sense-response letting her hand feel the haft magneto-locked to her mech’s spine.

“C’mon Sarge,” a voice from her squad pleaded, “You know what the Commander said about solo combat.”

She ignored him. “Corporal Jamison, round up the squad, keep them close by in case there are other forces on patrol around here. And radio back to HQ that we’ll be returning to base soon.”

She heard a sigh on the other end, but her mind was already off her responsibilities. She disengaged the magneto-locks, and the weapon came up over her shoulder clutched in her mech’s right hand. Before the Alliance, all her people had were hand-me-down machines stolen or salvage from their Elven oppressors. But with the help of the Humans and Goblins and the scattered other species who had come to Earth, they could finally replicate the weapon of Drella’s heritage in perfect scale to the giant mechanical suits in which they fought. In the lands of her birth it was called a Kortho Torok. In the human’s local English, the best translation was The Butcher’s Choice.

It was a big fucking axe.

“Rules of Honour?” the Elf asked over the open channel. It was an insult to ask that before a duel, but Drella figured he knew that. He swept the sword back into his mech’s hands and entered a fighting stance.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want you to have anything to hide behind when you tell your fellows that you lost,” she replied in kind, voice perfectly casual. Inside, she worked to keep the adrenaline from overwhelming her tactical sense. She knew in her head this was foolish, that this was the kind of thing that her commander would chew her out over later. But gods above, it felt good to put these Elves to shame.

They circled each other, torso servos whining on occasion to keep facing. Some mechs could theoretically spin 360 degrees on their hips, but in practice that was rarely done. Neuralink, the connection between machine and pilot, was how they were able to be such an effective fighting machine. To do something its organic component could never do felt wrong, disquieting. Perfect sync between mind and metal was important, especially at the higher levels of mech combat. One glitch or misread signal and you were canned.

He wouldn’t strike first, so she was more than happy to kick things off. A wild haymaker of a horizontal swipe at roughly cockpit height made him duck. He tried to turn that into a spring forward, slashing with the sword at her torso, but she kept the axe’s momentum and bent her knees. Where the Elf thought he’d outsmarted a clumsy blow, he now met a heavy slashing attack that he could not easily dodge from. He tucked and rolled, mech showing surprising grace for its size. The axe’s blade bit deep into the Elf’s leg joints, popping the seals. There was no noise over the open commlink. It’d be a hot day in the Voidlands before a member of the High Chosen expressed so much as a grunt of frustration. At least, if they could help it.

By the time her legs were planted again, he struck out. Quick strikes with a surgeon’s precision, aiming for the weak points in her armour. The Butcher’s Choice was not a defensive weapon, but she made good use of both the hook on the other end of the weapon and the haft to block as much as she could. A moment’s indecision cost her a chunk of chest armour, however. Pain sense shot through Drella’s nervous system, just like a hunk of flesh had been severed. It sloughed off to the ground. Another wound, this time to her left arm. She raised it to block a blow and the sword cut deep. If it’d been her real arm, it have bit bone. Her rational mind faded, safeguards bled away. Despite all the spectrums of light that her mech’s sensor package saw, all she could see herself was red.

“BLOOD FOR BLOOD,” she howled, weapon already in motion. She overhand chopped, cleaving the dirt but catching nothing of her foe. Another sword swipe cut out the joint beneath her knee, causing it to buckle. She yanked the axe back out and swept with the hooked edge. It caught his leg. She yanked, and the Elf’s mech fell ass-over-tea-kettle onto the muddy earth. Another executioner’s swing brought back another huge clod of earth tossed into the air, but no squeal of buckling metal.

“The Alliance really shouldn’t be promoting your kind, Ur’uk,” he chided. “Brute force is more the purview of a labourer, not a commander. Might I suggest-”

Outraged screaming, and her axe was back out and after him. His dodging started confident, almost with a graceful swagger, but the swings kept their pace and he was running out of room in between strikes to reset himself. A slip of his heel. One of his dead mech’s – he hadn’t been watching his step. The Elf tried to twist out of the way, but she let the blade dip down and to the left. It bit deep into his torso, blue fluid spurting out like a nicked carotid. Drella howled with triumph, the mechanical vitae gushing over her mech’s weapon. He brought his sword to block the next blow, but her axe came down on his hand. Servos hissed and popped, armour cried out, but parted nonetheless. The severed hand fell uselessly to the mud. One more blow. One more and she could finish the smug bastard forever.

“I yield!”

The moment she heard the words, it was over. Iron jaws locked onto her just before she could bring down another blow. The training, the honour, and her duties as a member of the Alliance Mech Corps. The energy left her, fleeing as readily as it had appeared, leaving her drained and somewhat saddened by its parting. It was over too soon. It was always too soon…until it was too late, of course.

“Then exit your mech, Elf. It’s mine by right of combat.”

It took less time than she thought it might. She thought the man might stall for time, say he needed to commit the rituals of deactivation or some other lame excuse. But he appeared after only a few minutes. His machine was already lying on the ground, so hopping out of his cockpit proved little challenge. You wouldn’t know he was over a millennium to look at him. Soft golden hair spilled down his head, tinted only occasionally by wisps of silver. His features remained smooth if firm, like a juvenile bird of prey. No scars blemished his otherwise perfect skin, featureless almost, in a way that disquieted other species. Even humans had freckles or blemishes, if not the patterns a normal person ought to have. He stared up at Drella’s colossus with cold fury.

“Well?” he asked, unsheathing his tuadanya, his ritual blade and source of his authority, holding it out handle first, blade clutched tightly in his fist.

Drella savoured the sight of a kneeling Elven swordlord, even using her tacsight to take a picture for later enjoyment. But it would not do to keep him stewing for long. She let her mech drop to its knees and dip its head, allowing her to pop her own cockpit open. With practiced ease she fell the remaining metres, rolled, and came to her feet. Even if the Elf were standing, she’d be taller. Her dark green skin glistened with sweat, and her tank-top, shorts, and bandana were equally drenched. He recoiled in disgust, Elf noses being particularly sensitive, but kept the knife held up.

“You have something to tell me, can’thae?” she asked, lacing the profound insult with as much sarcastic grace as she could manage. Her Elvish was perfect, but in her childhood her Elven peers would often mock her for any minor fumble of tense or grammar. Now her hours of practice let her slide her own dagger even deeper.

“I yield my blade to you, Ur’uk,” he said through gritted teeth, insisting on his language’s pronunciation to the end.

“It’s pronounced Orc,” she corrected, yanking the blade from his clenched hand hard enough to draw blood, as tradition dictated. His skin was flawless no more. Forever he’d carry the scar in his palm, and anytime he might raise a weapon in anger he’d feel a slight tingle in his palm and be reminded that he’d surrendered to a better in single combat. One of the greatest disgraces someone of his venerable age might suffer. She made a show of casually sliding the weapon into her belt.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

Drella snorted. “Now? I figure out how I’m going to explain this to my superior officer…and how to get your mech back to base.”

***

The chewing out wasn’t even worth listening to. Words slid in and out of her general perception, enough to allow her to reply when appropriate. But her conscious thought was lost in the battle. The sounds, the pain, the thrill of victory. It made everything else a low hum, a buzzing inconvenience. By the time she’d saluted Commander Gramercy, she’d already forgotten it.

Leaving the office left her staring down through a glass wall at the mech repair bay below. A motley collection of machines in various stages of construction, reconstruction, and deconstruction stood as silent sentinel. In the alcove in the farthest corner was her AMC-30X Wildwrath heavy walking weapons platform. Workers from all three species of the Alliance traipsed around it, climbing its limbs or ascending up gantries like worried ants. The damage was mostly superficial. Mostly. Her face scrunched up as she saw the wound to the mech’s arm from the outside for the first time. She was in for another chewing out in a few moments, one she’d need to care about much more than the one from her superior.

After sliding down the emergency ladder three floors to ground level, she’d made it a few steps into the repair bay proper before a familiar voice made her wish she had taken the long way around to the bar on base instead.

“Drella…what the fuck is this?!” Layla asked, pointing up to Drella’s machine. It utterly dwarfed her, but so did a lot of things. The Goblin mechanic stood just a little over a metre tall, purple hair with black highlights tied into a ponytail dangling between her tank top’s straps. Her eyes were the dull red of an oncoming forest fire, and she never seemed to blink when she was mad, which was often. Her skin was a lighter shade of green to Drella, and she had freckles instead of the natural facial patterning that the mech pilot’s people had. Soot and grime covered her clothing and gloves, even speckling the lenses of the goggles that sat perched on her forehead.

“That’s some fine craftsmanship, if I do say so myself,” Drella replied, casual as could be.

“The arm’s nearly cut it two, ya dingbat! I just fixed your legs after that fall. I’m not your personal mechanic, you know!” Layla fumed. Drella couldn’t blame her, that was kinda bullshit of her to do. But wrench jockeys didn’t get what it was like in combat. It was two different worlds: the real world…and the one outside the cockpit.

She held out her hands placatingly. “Look, Layla, combat happens out in the field. It’s a miracle that-”

“Oh yes, such a miracle! Pure fortune that the other members of your squad only received minor damage from ranged weapons, and YOU ALONE took heavy hits from melee strikes! And don’t pretend that’s not a tuadanya dagger in your belt!”

Drella blinked. Had that been there the whole time she’d been making excuses to Commander Gramercy? Well, that was embarrassing.

“Alright, fine, I did a bit of dueling. But you shouldda seen me! I nearly cut the fucker in half!” Layla made an incoherent noise that sounded like a mixture of outrage and resignation. Drella realised she would not win this one. “Alright, listen, we can talk about it later. I’m sure you have work to do, and I need a shower. Let’s meet back-”

The goblin’s eyes flared. “Oh, you think you can get away from me that easily? Absolutely fucking not, I’m coming with you.”

Drella raised an eyebrow. “What? Where?”

“To shower! My shift ended two hours ago, I’m going back to my bunk, but I need to blast this gunk off me. At the very least I can continue to yell at you.”

***

Drella fetched her ablutions and her towel from her locker, along with some clean fatigues. Showering with more than one person is just one of the many things you got used to in the military, and there was nothing for her to be shy about. But for some reason she’d never been in the same room as Layla while they were both naked before. Not for any conscious avoidance, it just hadn’t happened yet. Different schedules between the mechanic department and the pilots.

Behind her on the other side of the locker room, Layla was already stripping down out of her grimy coveralls, tossing them into a bin for industrial cleaning. Drella caught herself staring as the mechanic’s undergarments ended up in a pile on the bench. Her eyes snapped back to her own clothing, which she decided definitely needed to come off as quickly as possible.

The hiss of water told her that the mechanic was again one step ahead. Steam rose from the floor, partially obscuring Layla in mist to make her even more the alluring naiad from some myth about the dangers of temptation. Drella watched her glistening back, her muscles tensed and relaxed as she stretched under its soothing ministrations.

“You can join me, if you want,” the Goblin said, holding a hand out to the stall next to her while keeping her focus on the tiles in front of her. Drella said nothing, but approached the head next to Layla. She twisted the water temp to max and sighed. One thing about the modern world was that hot, running water wasn’t a given, especially in the civilian districts. Sometimes her fellow pilots had joked that half the reason to sign up for the fight was the right to hot showers every day. At that moment next to Layla, Drella was sure they were right.

For the first minute, the only sound either could hear was the rush of water. Drella leaned into the tiled wall, letting the piping hot water spill through her hair and down her back. The sensual feeling made her wish she was alone enough to enjoy it properly. She turned to catch Layla in profile, streams cascading off her naked body. Her eyes followed a droplet as it travelled down the curve of her breast, down her toned belly and along the tip of her flaccid cock.

“Sorry,” Drella said, eyes drifting away again.

“Why are you sorry now?” Layla snapped off, her voice honed like a fine blade, “You weren’t sorry when you brought your mech into the shop looking like a junk heap.”

Oh right! Verbal sparring, that was what they were doing. She had forgotten.

“This is your job, isn’t it? I fight in dangerous battles, Hobbits stay safely behind and tinker.” Definitely a low blow, Drella knew, and one that brushed against the perennial rivalry between combat troops and support staff. The humans pre-contact had their own derogatory for rear echelon personnel who cowered behind walls in forward operating bases: FOBbit. In recent years it had been amended, emphasizing the ‘hiding’ aspect more, turning it into ‘Hobbit’. Humans also found this extremely funny, though they would not explain it if pressed.

They had a lot of jokes like that.

“Without me and my crew you’d be jockeying a pre-contact tank on fucking treads! I’m not asking you to flee, I’m requesting, reasonably, that you consider the work you make when you engage in pointless honour duels! Not to mention-“ her voice trailed off into a frustrated grumble. Sensing an opening, the mech jock leaned in for the strike.

“Not to mention what?” she said with a sneer, leaning over the much smaller woman, “Don’t tell me you’re gonna care about the costs we’re racking up. I am not hearing another word about paper money from a bunch of dull-witted, soft-handed-“

“I was about to say,” she cut in with a bitter sneer, “‘Not to mention your own safety,’ you dick.”

Drella’s rhapsody on her problems with human currency hit the brakes so hard it left marks on the pavement. “Sorry…what?”

“Nothing.” She turned back into the cascading water. “Nothing that you’d care about, anyway.”

A pause. “You care about my safety?”

“I care about everyone’s safety! My work keeps people, hot shot mech-jockeys like you especially, from getting hurt or killed. My team and I work long, painful hours tuning servos, scrubbing manifolds, modifying phase variances, and it’s not made any easier with you showboating like some godsdamn air-pirate!”

Drella thought about shooting back a scathing rejoinder. But despite her desire to save face, to snap back with another witty jab or viscous burn, there was undeniable truth in the words.

“Well, okay then. I guess I’m not thinking of the work I’m making for you back here when I’m out in the field!” Her words were nevertheless carried at a shout, somewhat belying their conciliatory nature.

“Well, okay then!” Layla replied at the same volume. The whole conversation had veered off from the path of their normal discourse. Drella became aware that she stepped closer at some point. The other woman looked up at her, red eyes smoldering. Then the Goblin’s full lips drew her eye, and she had to remind herself once again that she was supposed to be in an argument.

“So…” she began, quieter, “Where does that leave us now?”

“Well I still think you’re an impulsive hothead.”

“And I still think you’re a little pain in the ass.”

Layla pursed her lips. “Is that all?”

“Well no,” Drella admitted, “You’re a talented woman with skills I respect. I still think you’re hopelessly misinformed about the truths of mortal combat, but I won’t deny your obvious expertise in the field of robotic engineering.”

The mechanic nodded with business-like precision. “Very well, and I think you’re a superb pilot. Reckless, but good. And…” She let a beat carry on for a second too long before sighing and completing her thought, “I think you’re hot.”

Drella’s eyebrows raised. “You do?”

Layla’s cheeks reddened on her green skin, but she pressed on. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well,” the Orc said, folding her arms, “What are you gonna do about it?”

“What?”

Drella snorted in derision. “You heard me, wrench jockey! So you like me. I like you too. You gonna stand there and be a Hobbit about it, or are you gonna make the leap?”

After an incredulous sputter, Layla stomped off. Drella watched her curvy body go, a little disappointed. Her attention returned to the wall in front of her, ignoring the new girth and angle of her cock. Perhaps she’d been too forward. She gave her prick a few test pumps. Yep, rock hard. She’d have to take care of this. Wouldn’t do to walk around the mech bay with a fat, throbbing-

The sound of quickened bare footsteps alerted her self-preservation instincts. She spun, grounding her feet and reached for a weapon that wasn’t there. But instead of an Elven assassin, it was Layla at a dead sprint. With only a few feet of distance left, she leapt, limbs out like an attack koala. Drella stumbled back as two dozen kilograms of Goblin slammed into her, latching on.

“I wasn’t being literal!” Drella wheezed, wind knocked out of her as her back pressed up against the tiled wall. But Layla pressed the attack, pressing herself against her pilot partner like she was a flagpole she was trying to scale and clambered up to plant a firm kiss on the Orc’s mouth. First blood…so to speak. Drella wasn’t going to let that stand. She adjusted Layla, flipping around to press the Goblin against the wall of the shower to pin her. The shorter woman gave a whine of need before lips met hers and muffled her noises. Drella’s cock stiffened to attention, feeling the mechanic’s own erection press up against her.

Layla pulled back. “Don’t suppose you’d be into being on the bottom?” she asked. One of the hands Drella was using to hold the Goblin up probed the ring between her expansive buttcheeks. As with most things with her kind, it was abnormally stretchy.

“I doubt a little cocksock like you gets to top that often,” the Orc teased, plunging two fingers inside. Layla gasped, but instantly relaxed, showing that this was not an unusual position for her to be in.

“Ngh…shut up…” Layla replied.

“That wasn’t a denial,” Drella noted, and added a third finger. The Goblin’s cock grew to its maximum size, then actually deflated a bit. If it was leaking, there was no way to tell. Anything she dripped would be washed away in the water, never to be noticed. “That little floppy thing’s only good for bouncing around, not for putting inside anyone. Let’s put your main sexual organ to use, shall we?”

Angling her throbbing Orc cock to prod Layla’s entrance, she could tell there was still some tension in her partner. With a gruff exhalation, her tip slid inside.

“Oooh!~” Layla whined, her little legs twitching. She relaxed herself like an anal pro, allowing further insertion.

“Mnf…good girl.”

Inches disappeared into the Goblin’s expansive ass. Warm, tight confines contracted and loosened with every twitch of her form, acting like a purpose-build fucktoy designed specifically to get her off. Drella thrusted forward, prick gliding in like a lance. Layla was her Prey, and the pilot yearned for more. She gripped the Gob tight by the waist and increased the pace, moving from a slow rhythm to a steady pounding.

“Gods…you feel so good…inside…” Layla whispered, each thrust making a wet slapping noise or a stifled moan or both. Time seemed to slow down, speed up, becoming meaningless. All there was was the carnal act, and the bliss both gained from its completion.

“If I knew you were this much of a buttslut,” Drella said with relish, “I would have bent you over your workbench a year ago.”

Her eyes went wide. “H-hey! I’m not a…oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck I’m close.”

“You’re going to cum from getting your ass plowed? You’re more perverted than I thought!” Drella said, giving Layla’s rear a good spank to punctuate the sentence.

“That’s not…hey…that’s.” Her words dissolved into insensate stammering until she finally sagged into Drella’s arms and said, “Oh gods it’s true! I’m a pervert! I’m a buttslut loser who cums from getting assfucked! Aaaah~”

Layla’s tiny cock exploded, spurting jets of thin cum all over herself. Her mouth agape, she cupped a hand around her mouth before she screamed out in pleasure. Despite the Goblin’s helpless squeezing and twitching, the Orc’s stamina had yet to be depleted. As Layla sagged in her grasp, Drella clutched her tight, using the short woman’s body to get herself off. The sheer act of using another being to get herself off like a cheap fleshlight was plenty stimulating by itself. The Gob for her part looked like all her focus was elsewhere.

“Heh…not so mouthy now, are you?” she teased

Layla shook off the pleasure induced haze. “Don’t…count on it…you jerk.” The next time Drella had shoved herself all the way in, the mechanic clenched down around the shaft like a vice. “I’m gonna make you fucking beg to cum.”

Drella barked a laugh. But when she tried to withdraw herself, she found she couldn’t. Someway, somehow, the little Goblin had a deathgrip on her dick!

”That’s not funny, Layla,” she said, working the Gob up and down and trying to free herself.

“Oh you can try to free yourself, but you’re not gonna shove it in afterward. I could feel you twitch inside me, you’re close. You have two choices: leave this shower with blue balls, or you apologize and beg to blow your load.”

The growl Drella made did not often come from creatures on two legs. Her whole lower half was tense with the expectation, the need for release. For Orcs it was even worse than some, as their prodigious fertility led to a painful condition that one Human doctor once referred to as ‘backed-up balls.’ Of course Layla would know that, and the Goblin’s glutes were impressive. She must do a lot of squats, Drella reasoned, losing her will to fight. Taking what she wanted simply wasn’t an option, so she was forced to do what her people refused to do in a fight…

“Alright! I capitulate. You win, just let me cum godsdamnit,” she said, hoping that would be enough.

But Layla waggled a finger. “Apologise for fucking up your mech.”

A scowl. “I’m a warrior. Damage happens.”

An uncomfortably hard squeeze, making Drella wince with pain. Her nethers were being held hostage in the most embarrassing way possible.

“Say it.”

“Alright! I’m sorry for fighting a duel. It was selfish and foolhardy and I won’t do it again. Now please, I’m fucking begging you, let me cum!”

Layla made an exaggerated thinking gesture, tapping a finger to her chin. “Hmm…okay.” She unclenched, and Drella defaulted to an atavistic rhythm, roughly using the little woman’s hole for all it was worth. Despite the harshness, she didn’t seem to mind, cackling like someone who’d just inherited a priceless warbow.

“Go ahead and fill me up, you slut~” Layla purred. The audacity of thinking she was in control! Drella was so mad about it that she’d opened her mouth to curse, but the words melted into a delirious groan. Way faster than she’d anticipated, she reached her limit. A gush of thick, fertile seed flooded into the Goblin’s body. Her biology allowed her to puff out slightly, but there was only so much room inside. It quickly shot out her ass with every jet, covering both of their legs in the release. Every jet utterly dwarfed Layla’s pathetic release, giving Drella at least some consolation. As the orgasm wound down, the pilot thought she spotted a trail of seed leak down from the Goblin’s open mouth. But that was biologically impossible…right?

A creak of the heavy door outside the changing room, followed by boisterous conversations snapped them both out of their coital bliss.

“Fuck! That’s Cyclops Squad!” Layla whispered. Both of them were soaked in semen. If they didn’t work fast, they’d have a lot of questions to answer.

Not waiting for permission, Drella hauled up the Goblin to the nearest shower head and washed her down like a dirty rag, cleaning out as much of the cum as she could. She went to work on herself briefly before giving up and making for the towels. They used their own to sop up any leftover mess on the outside, though from the potbelly Layla still sported, she clearly had some left over on the inside.

Tired and thoroughly clammy, the two women left the showers. To Drella, every glance their way felt like it was an accusatory one. And though there was no prohibition on two people from two different departments shacking up, the cultural difference between pilots and mechanics made it a rare occurrence. They split off to their separate lockers, fetching their clothing and dressing in a hurry. As luck would have it, Drella’s locker was directly opposite Cyclops’ squad leader.

“Heard you went hard against the Spocks out there in Oakville. S’true you dummied a platoon leader in a one-on-one tilly?” he asked in his incomprehensible gibberish. Gord Dowdell was a short, stocky Human who was what the locals called a “Canadian”. The difference in regional affiliation on Earth was so minimal that Drella didn’t bother keeping track, but Gord’s accent was so thick sometimes that she felt like she needed a translation program just for his particular flavour of English.

“That’s correct,” she replied neutrally, focusing on getting herself dressed.

He whistled sharply. “Oh nelly, what I wouldn’t give to see that. Next time you drop gloves, give us a shout, eh?”

As she pulled on her shirt, she caught the retreating figure of Layla leaving out the door. Their eyes met.

“Actually,” she said, “I got a bad chewing out from Gramercy about doing the single combat thing. Might have to scale it back in the future.”

Gord made more indecipherable noises and metaphors, but Drella wasn’t paying attention. The little Goblin was smiling now, and that’s what mattered.

Fully clothed, she left the locker room only to find Layla waiting for her. The little mechanic always seemed to be one step ahead of her.

“Where you headed?” Drella asked.

“To my quarters, obviously,” she shot back, rubbing the bulge in her belly. “I need a safe place to clean this whole mess out.”

“Need someone to walk you?” Drella had barely realized she was speaking before the question left her mouth. The truth was that as much as she’d came before, there was still so much she could shoot before she was spent. Just like on the battlefield, Drella decided to push her luck.

Transparently so, judging by the look on Layla’s face. “I think I’ve had enough of your joystick for one night. I’m sure there’s a lucky sock rolled up in your bunk with you name it it.”

“Are you two still here?”

Both turned to find their commanding officer caught mid stride down the hall. They saluted in the human style: hand flat and angled at a 45 degree angle to the forehead.

“Yes sir,” Drella replied crisply.

Layla could barely keep her face straight long enough to add: “Sorry, sir. Showers took a while to heat up. Pipes needed cleaning,”

Gramercy nodded weakly, confused by the remark. “Well, get some rack time. Can’t stay up all night.”

Layla opened her mouth to spout what was surely another brilliant double entendre. Before she could, Drella slapped the Goblin’s shoulder, making her squeal with surprise and momentarily lose her concentration. Cum oozed out of her, soaking the back of her panties and visibly stained the back of her coveralls before she regained control. She visibly stiffened, much to the pilot’s enjoyment.

“Absolutely sir. Good night, sir.” Drella said. Layla managed a weak smile, and their Commander took off down the hall on whatever errand had caught his attention.

“Was that really necessary?” the Gob asked, turning red once more.

“You know, my quarters are much closer than yours are. And I have a bath.”

Layla fidgeted. Despite her predicament, the front of her outfit was developing a gentle tenting. “I…I can make it to mine, no problem.” She took a few steps and halted. The light jolts of walking loosened her muscles enough to let a little bit more of Drella’s seed. She moaned as the seat of her coveralls soaked further. If she didn’t get somewhere safe soon, all that cum was going to flow out of her like a burst damn. “On second thought, I might need some help.”

Drella nodded. “I can give you a piggyback. But I’m gonna need you to do something for me.”

“What?” Layla whimpered.

The pilot smiled. “Beg.”