Don't Overthink It

Journal of Rowana, daughter of Rowetha
05 / 06 / 2120 of the Fourth Age

"Precious, I still have a massive chest wound," I wheezed out. "I'm not getting impregnated today. But if you want to bring your pussy over here, you can sit on my face for a while."

Azzie was wearing one of my shirts, which barely contained her breasts and didn't cover her ass at all. Pale green cheeks filled my vision, and well-muscled naked legs hung out beneath the pink panties I'd bought her at Bardur's. There are far worse sights to wake up to. I had woken up when she changed out the drip in my arm, explaining her plan to have us both inseminated at the earliest opportunity. Apparently the hackers had ensured a steady supply of drone deliveries. Groceries. Medical supplies. Ammunition. In my head memory, I could see Azzie's letters. All of which, I am sure, would make interesting reading.

The Uruk-Hai moved my bed into a sitting position and ran her hands through my hair. It had grown out while I had been under. I realized, belatedly, that I was tits out. There was a bandage between my bare breasts, but other than a pair of boxers and socks, I was naked. Normal people would feel self-conscious, but twenty years of co-ed showers in the Rangers and weeks spent living with two Orcs who seemed to have a negative concept of personal space and a clothing-optional lifestyle didn't make me too embarrassed.

Even though we had company.

Quillian Daleman, the huge bitch from the dragon's lair, was propped in a collapsable chair, in a new sweeping longcoat over striped pants and suspenders. Perched on her lap was an Elfkin that looked like a fantasy pornstar version of the Elf princesses I had pined for in my misspent youth; tall, thin, and with impossibly nearly-spherical breasts squeezed into a green scaled tube top, matching green booty-shorts, and long legs that ended in a pair of oversized sneakers.

The hackers—whose real names were Amelia (Hobbit) and Lilja (Dwarf)—were chatting like old girlfriends. Bob hung on Lilja like a backpack, his tentacles and hands sliding over, under, and through her clothes, which were loose oversized shirt and skirt that had been arranged for ease of access, while Amelia's HALFLING PRINCESS t-shirt and hotpants gave plenty of range of motion for her prosthetic limbs. A lanky, pale Man in grey sweatpants and grease-stained flannel introduced himself as Aubert, and was apparently Looseleaf's boyfriend and the general techie of the group. I could hear Bebe in the kitchen, and he emerged with a plate of some small fried pastries filled with cheese and peppers.

Someone pressed a cold beer into my hand, and I raised the bottle in a silent toast. Amazingly, everyone else stopped and raised whatever they were drinking.

"We did it," I said, voice still rough. My eyes felt puffy, my body tired, the skin itched beneath my bandage, but my mind was clear. I didn't want to think about what the crops would look like. "Thanks to you."

"Thanks to you," everyone repeated, and we sipped.

What did we do? I wondered that myself as I tasted the Brandywine Bock in the stubby brown bottle. Rescued some slaves. Killed a lot of people, Orcs and Men. Stole from a dragon's hoard. Real hero shit. Like they did in the old stories.

Not like any of the stuff I had done in the Rangers. Twenty years going to strange places and killing people that were more often scared, ignorant, and too damn young for the rifles that their elders had pushed into their hands. Killing Azzie's slaver had been the first time in a long time I'd done something violent that felt...right.

Which had led to this.

"Credit for your thoughts?" Amelia asked. I could hear the soft whirr of her prosthetics when she moved. Aside from the limbs, she reminded me a lot of other Hobbit women: a tendency toward wide hips, big tits, soft stomaches, and freckles. The sides of her head had been freshly shaved, and she carried a bottle of beer that she sipped rather than swigged. Hobbit livers versus lower body mass due to lost limbs.

"Not sure where we go from here," I said honestly. "Infiltrating a megacorporate black site had seemed like a long shot. Even now, it feels a bit surreal. Like there's still something going to happen. Some enemy that might still strike."

"The Crown Players are under arrest, their leader dead. The White Hands and Broken Circle are leaderless. Drake Industries has suffered a massive financial loss, is being investigated by United Megacorp authorities, and we downloaded gigapulses of porn into Legere's brain," she said, then shrugged. "You live out in the middle of the frontier. White Hand sets are in every city from Far Harad to Rivendell. Drake Industries probably won't go bankrupt. I can't promise nobody's going to come after you—or the rest of us. The world is still a big scary place and a lot of it sucks. But you want my advice?"

The Hobbit went up on her tiptoes and placed her lips next to my ear.

"You've got a super-strong genetically perfect big-breasted Orc woman that wants to fuck you back into a coma," Amelia whispered. "Don't overthink it. You're alive. Live a little. Get laid."

"I think I might be feeling a little baby-crazy myself, now that I can afford it," and she made sheep's-eyes at Aubert, who was deep into a conversation with Daleman about historical firearms. One of the Hobbit's hands smoothed the front of her shirt, as if imagining it taking her own advice. That brought a grin to my face.

Babies ever after. Well, why the fuck not? I'd been shot at and stabbed so many times over my life, and somehow made it through with almost all of me intact. I had started out with a farm and a veteran's pension. Now I have a wife, in everything except a legal sense. A sperm donor who could cook. A couple million credits in the bank, if the hackers were correct, and...yeah, I'd gone out there and back again. From a farm to Far Harad, from the White City to Black Labs.

Maybe, just maybe, I deserved to sleep, to heal, and enjoy the sex, love, and the family that came with it.

My mouth twisted into a frown. Azzie picked up on it immediately. She bent over, one boob pressed against my arm, the warmest, softest pillow I had ever known.

"Ro? What's wrong?" she said. Eyes wide, ears erect.

I licked my lips. My free hand found hers.

"Well...I was just thinking...Precious, there's something I should have asked you, before I went down into the dark. Will you marry me?"

For the second time that evening, everything went quiet. It was one of those moments, when the last shot had fired and the wind died, and not even the dying made a sound. An old sergeant used to call those moments, "when a maiar passed."

"Like, right now?" Azzie's forehead crinkled. "You know you don't have to. You're already my lifemate."

"Yeah," I said. "But all of a sudden, I want to make it official. I don't...I don't ever want to take you, or what we have, for granted."

Then the cheers started. There was a rearranging of furniture. The medical bed was wheeled into the middle of the room. Bebe handed Azzie my Elf-blade. Lilja found a spare lightbulb. Amelia had a brace of wildflowers. Aubert grabbed a bit of rope from the Pathfinder. Bebe found where Búrzi was hiding and held the cat during the brief ceremony, and somehow even put a pink bow on the Mordor cat, which she tolerated.

It was a mix of traditions. We cut our palms and let the blood mingle. Our hands were fastened together. Azzie's heel came down on the glass with a satisfying smash.

For the first time in public, Azzie and I declared our love for each other, and swore an oath to love, honor, and keep each other. My cybereyes couldn't cry, but I felt the salty tears in my mouth and wanted to spit more than any other time in my life.

Daleman tapped her smartphone.

"...by the power vested in me as a representative of the United Megacorp, I hereby register this marriage to..." The Beorning paused. "Ah, fuck, she doesn't have a System Identification Number."

"She does now!" Vanessë the Elfkin said, wiping back a tear as she held up a pair of black cards. "Her and Bebe both. My, um, new boss? Tû. The one who fixed your heart? She, like, pulled some strings. I was supposed to give these to you before we left."

Daleman lifted one shaggy eyebrow. "When did you start working for Tû?"

Vanessë looked sheepish and gave a guilty smile. "I'm like, under a non-disclosure agreement?"

The Beorning considered this, then shrugged those massive shoulders and plugged one of the cards into the phone and grunted.

"Okay. As I was saying, I hereby register this marriage of Rowana Rowethadottir and Ash Nazg Mellon. You may now publicly snog the bride."

A green face pushed against mine. I opened my mouth to accept a familiar tongue. There was a polite clap as our lips met. A heat rose in my face. Azzie's free hand slipped down to cup my left breast, pinching the nipple lightly, and then she slid into my lap on the bed, her body pressed against mine. My heart beat painfully, and for a moment I thought I might bust a stitch.

No one told us to stop. It was that kind of crowd. Even Bob waved a tentacle, burbling happily as they coiled slimy arms around her own breasts. Looseleaf leaned against Aubert, a bulge in his sweatpants pressed against the back of her head like a promise. Vanessë started crying. Bebe's dick poked out of the tip of his pants. I reached out for him, and the skinny Orc came forward and took my hand.

"Hope y'all don't mind," I said, when I could pull my face away, Azzie's mouth traveling down to my neck, fangs not quite breaking the skin. "But I think we're going to consummate some things now."

Everyone in the room exchanged glances. It looked like we weren't the only ones.