Work Text:
The twin suns of Beforus are starting to go behind the landscape of scattered small research nooks and bigger survival nests, sending their parting rays through the thin openings of the spire on top of your tower-like nook. The spire has been constructed by you – well, not by you specifically, carpenter droids did most of the work, but it was definitely planned by you – in such a way that whatever rays of sunlight hit the thin slots, they were redirected to illuminate most of your research station. Right now, though, you don't mind not having any non-artificial illumination, as you're currently done with your most promising research. You read what your lab partner (“just a partner”, he insists, but you know better than to listen to such a low-blood) has written so far about this research you've been doing.
ABSTRACT
Ecological problems are omnipresent in the current Beforan society. In just the recent years, there have been several [1,2] planet-wide extinction events, destroying both local and global ecosystems alike. Massive wildfires and floods are presenting a danger to the fauna population of the planet, likely resulting in an ecological catastrophe. In this paper,
the authorme and my lovely rustblood partner and kismesis show the development of a communication network within a framework of chemicalplantflower communication. It has been shown [3] that flowers communicate using various pheromone-like chemicals, some even going as far as to call it a language. By altering the pheromonal activity of a troll’s secretion glands, located at the base of their tentabulges, we managed to successfully communicate the dangers of the world to a member of the Hymenopterum tunbrigense species, causing it to evacuate to a space more preferential to their survival. Perhaps [screen 1/n]
You stare at the words on your communication device’s screen. He can't be serious. This is a disgrace to your image as a SERIOUS FAUNOLOGICAL COMMUNICATIONS SPECIALIST, a title you came up with and will defend at any opportunity! Not only did he dare to write himself as a romantically affiliated party, he also butchered the scientific name of your favourite flower, making it into a butterfly! A butterfly!!
Oops. You raged a bit too hard, and now your communication device screen is cracked in several places. Maybe you should've turned down the strength in your prosthetic upper limb, but it's too late for that adjustment now. And, well, since your communication device is broken, there's nothing else to do but…
— GREEAN!
Your assistant, GREEAN XELQUA, enters the lab, without wearing proper protective gear, which you've had a talk about, several times, actually, but he still refuses to put on his lab coat despite it making him sexier and even more hateable. There's not many things you hate more than someone from a lower blood caste disobeying the rules of the space, but Greean wearing his lab coat in a wrong way specifically to piss you off is one of those things. Your royal-blue blood is going to all sorts of places even thinking about him… why is he staring at you like this? Can't he see you're monologuing to yourself? What does he want?
– Uh, hey, Dok?
Such a familial nickname does break your train of thoughts enough to be registered, along with him waving across your eyes. Your robotic upper appendage catches his waving hand-flapper, although your robotic half of your thinking slush has been taught before that on fellow trolls the grip should be capped at half-strength.
– That's Doktor Mosner to you, rustblood. Show at least some respect for your higher-ups.
– It will take a miracle for me to respect your kind, Doktor, – he spits back. – Maybe when one of your experiments finally works.
– It will work, – you say, lowering your voice to a menacing growl, – when I will finally get the grants. And for that, I need my papers published in the types of scientific communication collections your thinking sludge could never imagine. And you dare to touch my writing with your grubby appendages!
– You asked me to write it! With your own bulge sucker! So what if I took some creative liberties and redacted some of your writing?
– You changed the scientific name of the plant, and now it's a grubbin’ butterfly! That is blasphemy on so many levels! You want me to be censored and possibly sent out to be culled?
– Oh, so you have no problems with me writing myself into the abstract? – he's smirking now, somehow managing to escape your robotic grip in the meantime.
– Frankly, I'm surprised you know such words as “abstract” or “environmental catastrophe”, didn't know the slurry within that thick nubbin of yours had that capacity.
– Dok, – Greean openly smiles, showing his pointed but not quite sharp teeth, – are you vacillating to flush?
Oh, that's it. Over the years working with Greean, both in professional capacity and, even before that, in a relationship capacity, you learned that there's absolutely no way to shut his gabbing nook with just words. And he tends to use his gabbing nook a lot, especially to be a menace to you and directly disobey your commands, the brat. The best way to stop the words coming out is simple.
You kiss him. It's ugly, teeth clashing into each other, his tongue barging into your consumption orifice, but that's how it's always been. He will never forget the day he accused you of having any red feelings toward him. This one or any of the several hundreds before. Sometimes you think he bickers with you just to get you riled up and in the mood for filling out the filial pail, but then again, you do naturally hate him. And it does keep your mind from being occupied with that particular worry, leaving more time for your tinkering with robotics and mostly failing experiments in most other branches of what some would generously call science.
He's starting to grind on you, the tentabulge pressing into you through his pants. Impatient little nook lover. You push your living troll upper appendage into his hair and yank it, and he dares to whine at that.
– If you, – you scowl at Greean, looking directly into his burgundy-coloured eyes, – so much as to think of taking off your body coverings right now, I will end you right where you stand.
– You like my matching sweater so much? – he bares his teeth again, licking his lips in anticipation as you produce a filial pail from within your extra passcode-protected captchalogue card hidden somewhere under your main research station.
– Iron red makes my indigo genetic material stand out better, you nook filler, – you snark, – and I do not intend on letting any of it not get into the pail.
– Well, if you're not gonna take your lab coat off–
– Don't even try to argue with me, and get your tentabulge out, you brat.
– Make me.
You just have to wipe his self-satisfied smirk off of his face. Thankfully, your inherently strong nature lets you easily carry him to the closest wall of your tower and pin him, with your lower appendage pressing against his nook.
It's really easy to look down on him, not just because he's so much lower than you in the caste system, but also because he's physically quite shorter than you are. Although you've learned that Greean shouldn't be underestimated – he might not have the forethought of purples and violets, but he's got the thinking slush to rival some of them, and his rebellious streak is unmatched by anyone you've had the (mis)fortune of meeting. Even now, pinned to the wall and clearly enjoying that fact, he's still trying to wriggle out, like some sort of grub searching for an opening to get to the surface. It makes him a perfect match for you.
You lean down to circle your tongue around the base of his vaguely wing-like horns, distracting him so you can slip both of your pants just enough to let your tentabulges free. His is already half-out, the deep-red tentacle slowly unraveling from its sheath. You don't need much encouragement after seeing a reminder of his low status, and your shame at finding specifically this one so hot crystallises into hate that fills your blood vessels. Your own tentacle, indigo-blue with a short bifurcation at the end, wraps around his one and still has enough length to stimulate his nook.
Greean whines. It's such a pleasing sound to you. He shuts his eyes, but you pull his hair again to make him look at you. With a simple push your tentabulge enters his nook properly, bifurcated ends moving on the inside to stimulate more genetic material production. At the same time you bite down on his shoulder, enough to leave a mark, and groan into him. Unfortunately, this leaves you in reach for him to latch onto the goat-like metallic horn on your robotic side, as he fills his air sacs with the scent of your hair. This is an unacceptable display of affection, and if you were in charge, he would’ve been punished for it. And, just as it happens, you are, in fact, in charge.
You set a brutal pace, thrusting your tentacle deeper into his nook, so deep that his tentacle manages to hit the opening of your nook sometimes. On one of the last thrusts, his tentacle manages to wriggle its way into your nook, and it takes you two or three thrusts more to get the stimulation you need, you deserve, for the genetic material to flow. The flow engorges the ridges of your tentacle within his nook, and he screams out as his own genetic material spills out of his tentacle and manages to spray some of the dulled red onto your lab coat. The rest of it, thankfully, goes directly into the pail, and you're proud of yourself for a second for creating an automatic genetic material collection solution for your research nook, but your brain almost immediately switches to planning revenge for ruining your lab coat. Maybe you should make him kneel and put that gab flapper to use? You have time to think of something. The only thing you know, based on your years of research, is he will pay for it, and you both will enjoy the process.