Murphy: F.I.S.T.S., #2

By Bey Deckard

Sometimes when it seems like it's too late, the right person comes along and opens your eyes…

 

Murphy is the continuing story of a D/s relationship between two Space Marines who found each other in the midst of hopelessness and misfortune.

 

Sarge and his newly minted squad travel across the galaxy on a top-secret mission that could help win the war. However, to Murphy something about the mission stinks, and it's not just the planet they've landed on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bey Deckard
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9798223854128

Bey Deckard

Artist, Writer, Dog Lover Bey Deckard is the author of a number of novels including the Baal’s Heart books, Max, Beauty and His Beast, and Better the Devil You Know. Bey lives in Montréal, Canada where he spends most of his time writing, doing graphic work, painting portraits, speaking French, cooking tasty vegetarian eats, or watching more movies than is good for him. If you’re the curious type, www.beydeckard.com is where you’ll find art and free stories by Bey as well as information on his published works.

Book preview

MURPHY

F.I.S.T.S.

BOOK 2

BEY DECKARD

Bey Deckard

Bey Deckard

CONTENTS

Copyright

License Notes

Themes and Content Warnings

Author’s Note

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Books by Bey Deckard

About the Author

Federated InterStellar Tactical Squad

Copyright © 2015

Bey Deckard

Published by Bey Deckard

Edited by Starr Waddell – QuiethouseEditing.com

Cover design & illustrations by Bey Deckard

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

June 1, 2015

(rev 23.6.28)

THEMES AND CONTENT WARNINGS

Sci-fi, military, BDSM, rough sex, D/s, grumpy/sunshine, bureaucracy, violence

AUTHOR’S NOTE

For those that think it’s too late.

ONE

MURPHY

I swing my legs over the side of the bed but pause a sec before putting my weight on the right one. The doc thinks I’m imagining things. He says that all the little servos are ready when I am, but I swear to god there’s a lag when I first wake up—enough that I’ve almost wound up kissing the deck a few times. If it keeps happening, I’m going to ask to see someone else in Bionics. Maybe there’s something wrong with the calibration. I’m hoping it’s that and not brain damage caused by the cheap neuro-relays Sarge and I use from time to time. Brain damage is reparable, sure… but sometimes you’re just not the same afterwards.

When I’m satisfied that my leg’s awake, I stand up and give my back and shoulders a quick stretch. My muscles are sore from being tied up for so long yesterday, but it’s not so bad. At least my nuts don’t hurt anymore… That’s something.

I grin.

There are towels in a little locker by the door, and I grab one to sling around my hips before I make my way to the officers’ showers.

It’s not far, but every uniformed PFC and LCpl salutes me along the way, something that makes me feel a touch uncomfortable. Naw, it’s not because I’m parading around in a towel that doesn’t even make it to mid-thigh—I’m just not used to my rank yet. I keep telling myself that it’s no big deal. Shit, I just heard about another guy who was recently bumped from private first class to sergeant in one shot like I was. Maybe all you need to get to NCO these days is to cheat death and not fuck up while doing it. Nothing special about that.

Still, when the guys look up and salute me—me in my tiny towel and shiny metal leg tromping down the narrow passageway like some fucked up, sweaty cyborg—I can’t help but feel like I don’t really deserve it. All I did was lose a leg and survive.

I duck into the big shower room, happy to have the space to myself for the moment, and pick a private stall at the end. It’s nice that I’m reasonably well liked by the men now that they’ve figured out I’m no idiot, but sometimes I miss the old days. Lately, it feels like I don’t get a whole lot of time to myself.

I turn on the shower, then brace myself against the bulkhead with my hands, stepping back to angle myself forward so the water falls over my shoulders. Damn showerheads barely come up to my chin.

I can’t help but let out a little moan at how nice the heat feels soaking into my sore muscles. There’s no shortage of hot water on the ship, so I stand there for a full glorious ten minutes before I start to soap myself up.

As I’m rinsing off, I hear a group come in. Through the divider I see the rosy glow of their collective good mood, and I smile to myself when they start horsing around a bit. Spirits are high since reports of the latest victory. Maybe we’ll win this damn war after all.

I can only place a few voices, but that’s not surprising. We just picked up two other squads in the last week, and I wonder if they’re meant to accompany us F.I.S.T.S. to the final destination.

The Federated InterStellar Tactical Squad™—or F.I.S.T.S. for short—is the squadron that Sarge was given after we brought down the enemy base so spectacularly three months ago, and it’s mostly made up of us lucky fuckers that survived Operation Dead Horse.

You know, when I woke up and found Singh hooked up to the Casper’s ICU next to me, I honestly thought he was dead. It’s a damn miracle he survived. Our squirrely explosives expert lost an eye, part of his nose, and his right arm, and all that kept him from being lunch was the stealth mine that went off and killed the thing