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When you first met him you were terrified, but who wouldn't be scared shitless of a giant hulk of a troll with blood caked on his fingers and skeleton paint on his face. It was even worse because you'd stumbled into his cave and slipped in a puddle of what probably were guts and sent a few bones clattering across the floor. That's what you get for spelunking in dreamland, you suppose. He'd laughed his ass off and helped you up, eyes bleary, and set you down on a less slippery part of the floor. He gave a 10/10 for the comedic entrance and the weird noise you made when you fell. While kind of horrifying, the scene was just so bizarre that you laughed and joked with him until you had to wake up and leave the dreams behind.
You learn to avoid the puddle of biological slush after a few more mishaps that get a consistently high review from your new friend and learn about prat falls with his laughter-riddled advice. When he's not snorting and chuckling, he has a deep, melodious voice that sounds sandpaper-raw. His hair is ten times worse than a bird's nest of a bedhead, and you're pretty sure his horns are almost as tall as you are. His name is the Grand Highblood, and he used to be an enforcer of sorts. He's basically a giant chunk of muscle hunched over in a stone throne with a permanent bad hair day. He's well-proportioned and strong-jawed, though, so if he didn't slouch so much he might look pretty regal. He spends a few nights teaching you to juggle, too, switching between different types of rotations and numbers of clubs until he's shown off everything he's got. He pulls a few skulls out at the end and starting juggling them while singing a jaunty tune about how dumb they were in life. You can't help snorting a little bit even with how morbid the whole thing is, and he shoots you a big grin full of crooked fangs through the whirl of horned skulls.
His favorite drink is apparently faygo, so you bring him a few bottles the next time you get the chance. He almost claps you on the shoulder by way of a thank you, but you stop him just in time and remind him that he's freaking ungodly strong. Yeah, you were listening when he told you the stories about 'clubbing'. He looks embarrassed and gingerly takes the faygo bottles before returning to his throne to quietly cradle them in his lap. You sigh. He's /good/ at being a manipulative little shit. Or a giant, hulking shit. Whatever. You sit on the arm on his chair and allow him to pat your back instead, and you almost get jostled off the chair. He twists the cap off of one bottle of faygo, grape, and hands you the other, orange. He downs his bottle in a few gulps and stares at you expectantly until you take a few gulps from yours. He seems thoroughly pleased and drapes one arm over your lap since the armrest is no longer available. His facepaint is smeared all over in mimicry of a skull; long pale grey lines over his lips, white over the angles of his cheekbones, dark grey around his eyes. There's stubble under the paint, scars too. You can tell by the lay of the paint and the little hints peeking through the gaps. You kiss him on the squared corner of his jaw. He eyes you and wraps his arm around your waist. You stay like that, breath half squeezed out of you from the thick arm around your middle, drinking shitty soda until daybreak.
There's still absolutely no one anywhere near his cave, and he smiles a little when you mention it. He explains that he's rough on company and they all chose to leave a long time ago. You leave it at that and sprawl in his giant lap, shoving a bottle of his terrible soda in his face. He seems relieved and pleased, sharing the bottle with you and grading your burps. You joke and tell each other stories and teach each other useless skills for the hell of it and you forget that there were other people you might have wanted to talk to at some point, and you stop minding the disconcerting blood splashed everywhere and the suspicious slippery spots on the floor. You have this lively, hilarious mountain waiting for you each night with a new tale to tell, a new trick to learn, a new song to sing, and too many jokes to count. He calls you strange and funny still snorts derisively at the concept of a "human". He seems to like you well enough, though, and he squints down at you when you call him on it. He doesn't have a comeback. You laugh and kiss him on his bare throat. He pushes his chin down on your head abruptly, harumphing like a disgruntled child and rubbing his face into your hair. You're covered in paint and sputtering in confusion, flailing in his lap while he nuzzles you and grumbles to himself.
Eventually he settles back down, but he's doubled over with his head between your breasts. You're trying not to die laughing, you really are. You gingerly stroke the mess that is his hair and he mumbles into your chest. You give up and start laughing hysterically, because what the hell? You're pretty sure you just got motorboated by alien clown satan. The fact that you aren't kneeing him in the temple is only encouraging him, you think, because one of his hands is on your thigh and the other is acting an a combination backrest and breast-groper for you. You let him know that he's not exactly being sexy and suave and he sighs deeply, still firmly planted between your boobs. You pat his back and let him take a moment. Boobs are pretty great. When he sits back up, you can see about half his paint is missing and probably smeared between your hair and breasts equally. He clears his throat and looks at you expectantly. You begin explaining the concept of making out and foreplay to him, but he narrows his eyes and you break back down into laughing again and his head thumps back against the stone.
When you squirm up to straddle his lap and kiss his neck he gives you this "I am so done" look and pretends to ignore the dull human teeth on his skin. His withering look withers and he grumbles incomprehensibly when you sink your teeth in just below his jaw. He repeats himself as you pull away, saying "That's cheating" and squinting. His tough skin is unbroken and he seems interested again, so who cares if it's cheating or not. He runs his hands up the backs of your thighs, kneading your muscles while you kiss and bite his jaw. He palms your ass playfully and rolls his head to the side to give you more room to work. You nip and lick and kiss and he mutters lowly about being out of practice. Indigo is rising to the surface where you bite particularly hard, soft bruises forming under the skin. Two of his fingers are pressed between the backs of your legs, rubbing you through your clothes. His 'gentle' is a nice, firm grind of fingers that sends tingles up your spine. You fumble for whatever is keeping his armor on him because it is rapidly becoming a very annoying barrier. He chuckles, rich and low, and tugs the top off over his head like it's nothing. You dare him to try unraveling the mysteries of the human "bra" and he just rips your shirt and bra off with a shitfaced grin. Oh it is ON. You reach down and manage to yank the waistline of his pants hard enough to pop the seam on one side and grin at him triumphantly, ripping the pant leg open while he just smiles and presses his fingers between your legs a little bit harder, moves them a little bit faster. That fantastic friction is going to kill you. Pants are evil.
You do your level best to rip open the other side of his pants but they just won't allow you the satisfaction. He wordlessly rips them off for you and nods toward your pants. You decide it'd be best to just take them off rather than flay them and he nods sadly. His hands withdraw and drape over the arms of the chair, fingers twitching and slightly indigo on one hand. Denim burns, sucker. Your pants hit the floor and you vault right back into his lap, nipping at his neck while he enjoys the smoothness of your bare skin. You're not sure when sex turned into a competition, but it's somehow way too fun to stop(Especially when you're winning). Something cool and wet touches your leg and you almost jump out of your skin. You look down and oh, hey, his bulge is getting frisky with your thigh, or is at least trying to. He shrugs apologetically and strokes his thumb down your spine. Another problem occurs to you as you admire the excited appendage in his lap. How are you going to get that to fit? You ask as much. He stares at you, dumbfounded. Either this has never come up before or trolls are all porn stars. He has the expression of a man who believes he is not going to get laid, but you are determined to find a way around this. It's not quite an unholy abomination, so if you sort of work up to it, you're pretty sure it'll be fine.
He watches you slide a hand between your legs and work two fingers in with a distant smile on his face. It looks like he gets the concept of preparation, but you bat his hand away when he offers to help out. You get a third finger in and try to judge his girth while his bulge tries to wrap around your leg. It can't even make it halfway around, thank god. He rubs your back and smiles while you press your fingers apart, muscles twitching under his skin in anticipation. You continue until the burning stretch subsides into a pleasant warmth and withdraw your fingers, wiping them on his stomach. He laughs and asks if you're ready. You're probably as ready as you'll ever be, so you try to wrangle his bulge away from your leg and a little closer to the target. His hands slide up your thighs and come to rest on your hips. His tongue creeps across his lips and his fingers clamp down. What? Oh. He just picked you up and swapped positions. You squirm into a comfortable position on the throne, legs dangling off and head propped up against the backrest while he kneels before you, hips level with yours. He leans down and kisses just below your belly button. You try to throw a leg over his hips and accidentally kick him in the ribs, but he just pants and yanks your knees up to his hips.
It looks like he wants to bite into something /so bad/, but he knows you're not made to take that and ends up just grinding his teeth together. He's close enough for his bulge to prod at you curiously, and you get it to sink in a few inches with an indignant twitch of your hips. When you flick your eyes down, you can see the cool indigo pushing in cautiously, testing the waters. A simple command of "Do it" has the rest sinking in with only a few excess twinges of pain. You look down again while giving yourself a mental pat on the back before you realize that no, you did not, in fact, take it all. He, at least, looks mildly amused by the situation. He rolls his hips languidly, watching for anything that could be interpreted as a stop signal. When you don't object, he rocks his hips back and forth slowly, too carefully. If it got him riled up the first time...You push away from the back of the throne and sink your teeth into his bicep. He grunts and jerks toward you, breath catching in his throat. A second bite to the shoulder gets the message across, making him roll his hips insistently against yours.
You push a hand between your legs while he settles into a comfortable grind and dig the other into his mess of hair. Yanking him closer by a handful of hair earns you a cross between a growl and a moan, his hips coming to rest ever closer to yours with each thrust. You smash your lips together and tug at his lips with your teeth, reveling in the cool stretch and pleasant tingling. A taste of iron makes you release his lip and see the dribble of indigo rolling down his chin. He quickly licks away what he can while you watch, eyelids low and heavy. He groans out some kind of compliment and rocks his hips against you, harder, faster, tongue still lolling out of his mouth. His hips twitch just a little harder with every tug of his hair and bite of his shoulders, grinding against you perfectly. The way he's pounding you keeps shoving you against the back of the throne and you're pretty sure you're going to have some bruises but it's so worth it that you don't even care.
He's a lot louder than you expected, groaning and panting and shouting things you're pretty sure you couldn't understand even if you weren't being fucked into frenzy. You can feel lukewarm liquid puddling under you and running off the seat of the throne, but thankfully it seems like he won't be done until you are. His breath is ragged and cool on your neck, his hips grinding quick and firm against you until a sudden wave of pleasure siezes you and makes you bite back a moan even louder than his. He slows to a stop when he feels you coming down, tongue dragging lazily over his lips. There's still indigo smeared over his chin, and through the remaining facepaint you can see the thick indigo flush in his skin. You're almost proud of the deep bite marks on his shoulders and just below his jaw. His bulge is ever so slowly pulling back, retreating to the safety of his sheath with a wet sheen. His hands are still on your hips and you're pretty sure you're going to be feeling this for more than a few days to come. He swaps places with you, setting you in his lap after plopping back into his throne with a soft squelch. He snorts, making a face somewhere between satisfaction and disconcertion at the fact that he's sitting in a puddle of sex.
You spend a while in silence, simply resting. Eventually, he asks if you have anywhere you need to be. You inform him that if he wants you to leave, he'll have to carry you out. He takes a good minute to just stare at you before grinning, telling you that you'll just have to stay, then.