Hello Dear Friends!

Spit In My Face 2

◥ PAIRING: Sugar Daddy!Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

◥ SUMMARY: New York Fashion Week is coming up and you are going to visit your first fashion show in the company of Patrick Bateman himself. The chain of events that happen there will reveal a new side of Mr. Bateman that you never knew he had.

◥ WARNINGS: NSFW │angst, abusive and toxic behaviour, cheating, Patrick being a dick, nipple play, Daddy kink, mention of injury, manhandling, oral (Patrick receiving), rough vaginal sex, fingering, rough choking, misogyny.

◥ WORDCOUNT: 3.6k

◥ A/N: This chapter contains really triggering topics, so please proceed with caution. As always, I hope you enjoy it! 🥰

◥ SONG REC: ThxSoMch - Spit In My Face🖤

◥ LINKS: [Previous Chapter] [Sweet like a Cupcake Masterlist] [Main Masterlist]

Oh, God.  That was so stupid, so reckless.

Annoyed, Patrick stared at you with his hands crossed on his chest. It was too late to run now, so you stood still and heard him saying:

"Are you lost?" With a cocky grin, he picked up his briefcase and stepped closer to you.

"No...I mean, yes. Probably," your cheeks burned from the inside as the strong feeling of embarrassment hit you like a truck. "I was just looking for you and..."

"Aha," he crooned before towering over you, grabbing you possessively by the waist and leaning down to whisper in your ear: "Do you know the proverb 'curiosity killed the cat'?"

"I haven't heard it since I was a kid," you confessed, swallowing hard as you watched him taking the dresses from your hands, the mysterious grin never leaving his face. "Sorry, I really didn't mean to eavesdrop."

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Haughtily, Patrick winked at you, and that was really confusing because his unpredictable mood changes were the most difficult puzzle you had ever known.

“You don’t even want to see which dress I chose?”

"Not really, I'll see it tomorrow anyway," his voice sounded more stern now. "Unless you change your mind about going with me.”

He cast a challenging glance at you, but before you had a chance to reply, Bateman walked past you and gestured for you to follow. Slightly disappointed, you went after him and soon you made it to the hall where all this shit started.

"So, did the young lady find something to her taste?" The stylist asked as soon as he saw you coming. 

"Yep," Patrick let him pick up the dresses and put them on the big table next to the beautiful leather couch on which Bateman kept looking in disgust and you didn't even know why. "(Y/N), c'mon, point with your finger to which dress you like?"

The way he cooed to you was absolutely stunning. Sometimes it seemed like he could read you like an open book, and that only made you feel insecure.

"I think this one." You replied with a shy smile.

"Nice, very nice!" Mr. Graham exclaimed before calling for an assistant to pack your dress. "That will be 2800 dollars, sir."

Satisfied, Bateman hummed to himself and pulled out his wallet. "Do you take credit cards?"

"Of course!"

All the while, you were pretty shocked by the price for just a piece of fabric. Frowning, you didn’t even realize you were saying it out loud: "2800 dollars, for this? Oh God..."

Everyone, including Patrick, turned to look at you; the stylist was seriously confused and he just mumbled: "Excuse me?"

"Huh, don't worry," Bateman chuckled and handed him his gold VISA credit card. "She just can't believe I finally bought her a dress of your brand. Am I right, dear?"

When Patrick glanced at you, you felt a cold breeze run through your body - he must have been really angry. "Mmm, yes! I have been dreaming about this for so long!"

Even though you were not an actress, your words sounded more than natural. Both men smiled at each other and proceeded with the payment procedure.

All the way back to his apartment you both remained almost silent. Patrick continued to listen to the rock track he had paused on before going into the store, looking at you from time to time when you didn't see him, his hand fidgeting with the hem of your new dress that was lying on your knees. Yet, you couldn't believe he'd just bought you a dress that cost more than your monthly rent. You hated to owe someone, but now you felt like you did, and it was killing you from the inside...because you didn't ask him to get you that dress, you didn't ask him for anything, and still he was trying to push you into the world of luxury where you would be a stranger forever.

Bullshit.

"(Y/N), what's on your mind?" His sudden question caught you off guard, and you almost bit your tongue. Why did he even ask, when it seemed he could read your mind?

Fidgeting in your seat, you turned away from the window and gazed into his brown eyes, now filled with an unrivaled enigma. "Just thinking about how to survive all the challenges you have set for me."

You heard him laugh softly, and before you could continue, he hugged your shoulders and snuggled into your small frame, the heat his body was radiating melted the cold shell you had been building up since the moment he decided to 'help' you in the dressing room.

“Challenges?” Patrick rejoined, nuzzling against your neck as he pulled your collar down a bit. 

“Yes, Patrick,” you were trying to hold yourself as much as you could, not giving him more weaknesses to play around. “You know how much I hate all these fancy things which are made only for rich people.”

Bateman only purred something incoherently against your skin, tickling it a bit. “Cupcake…I think you need to relax.”

“Relax?”

“Yes, baby,” he tugged you closer, his nose was nearly rubbing against yours. Goddamn! “Relax and take it easy.”

"Stop, stop, stop..." you pushed him away a bit, forcing his headphones to slide down his head completely. "You've reminded me almost every day...that I'm not from 'your world', that I'm just a mortal who can't afford to buy fucking clothes that cost a fortune...and now you're telling me to just relax?"

Patrick huffed and rolled his eyes. “(Y/N)...don’t even start this conversation again.”

“You’re such an…”

Despite the fact that the partition in the cab was closed, it seemed as if the taxi driver heard your loud voice, and the next moment he opened it to ask you if everything was all right.

When you said that everything was fine, he started to drive again and you clenched your palms into fists, feeling the embarrassment and anger fighting in your mind.

"You're ashamed of me, aren't you?" You wondered without looking at him. 

The way Bateman exhaled was not a good sign. "When you make such scenes - yes, I am." 

Sighing, you pressed a hand to your forehead. Damn, he was affecting you so badly and you hated yourself for it, for being so weak next to him, so vulnerable... you were literally losing yourself.

His apartment looked perfect as always, so clean, so posh, but there was something strange this time as you walked across the living room and saw a large bouquet of white roses on his kitchen island.

"Mmm, such beautiful flowers!" You approached them to inhale their scent.

"Yeah," he stated from behind, placing your dress on the back of his white couch. "I bought them for you."

Stunned, you broke away from them as if you were pricked. “For me?”

"I'm not going to repeat it," Patrick blurted out, walking into the kitchen to grab a glass and a bottle of super expensive whiskey. "Besides, I don't think it makes any sense now."

Excellent. 

Without asking, Bateman set a glass on the bar counter in front of you as you took a seat near it. Still frowning with irritation, he poured some red wine for you, and when you were about to thank him, he just strolled away. The situation was rather unconventional, to say the least, and you didn't really know what to do, maybe just leave?

"Patrick, I think we both need to cool off a bit...right?" you sipped at your wine, waiting for his answer, but he continued to ignore you. "I'm going to finish my drink and probably go home."

"Whatever." Was all he said, standing with his back to your face, clearly thinking about something. 

Upset, you stifled a sad gasp and took the glass before getting up. When you reached his white couch to have a look at your dress for distraction, you suddenly heard his challenging voice:

"You want to know who Evilyn is, don't you?"

Paralyzed, you almost choke on your wine. After coughing a little, you turned to see him standing near the coffee table with his hands in his pockets. This was getting serious.

"I don't understand, why do you ask?"

Patrick chuckled loudly and shook his head in disbelief. "Stop acting like a fool, Cupcake. I know you want this, I can even feel it," his face grimaced a bit dangerously while his eyes were getting darker by the second. "You've wanted it since we left the boutique, that's why you started acting like a bitch."

Trembling with burning rage, you squeezed the glass, nearly breaking it. "I'm not in the mood for a showdown, you know," you countered, not even noticing that you made a few confident steps toward him. "When I leave, you can bring Evelyn, Courtney, Meredith, whoever... and confront them for as long as you want!"

"Or maybe we can all have some fun together, huh?" he extended the last words, enjoying the sight of your angry expression. "There's plenty of me to go around."

Scowling, you wanted to spit in his face, or slap him, or both. But instead, you just smiled and that was a little unexpected for him. "You're sick, Patrick. And I feel really sorry for you."

After saying that, you turned away from him to pick up the dress – you wanted to leave this place as soon as possible, so you even forgot about the glass in your hand.

"Of the two of us, you are the one who is really in need of some grief," his voice hurt you like a slow-acting poison, it was torturous. Before Bateman returned to the kitchen, he added: "Evelyn is my fiancée, and has been all this time. What an unpleasant surprise?"

A loud sound of broken glass echoed through the living room as soon as you heard his last words. It was a real miracle that the wine didn't splash onto the luxurious fabric of his white couch, but you didn't really care at that moment, with your heart beating so crazy in your chest. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath and stood still, not hearing Patrick's footsteps behind you.  

Damn, that glass must have cost a fortune.

"(Y/N)..."

"I know!" You cut him off, raising your trembling hands in the air. "I'll return the money...just tell me how much it costs?"

No way you were going to start crying, no way. But you did, and when you felt his warm hand wrap around your forearm, you tried to push him away, yelping:

"Give me something so I can clean the floor!"

"(Y/N), calm down! You're bleeding." 

"What?" you gasped, opening your eyes wide before looking down at your feet to see blood running down your ankle as a sharp piece of glass sank into your soft skin. Only then did you realize you were injured, a sharp pain hitting your brain like a lightning strike. “Oh, God…I thought it was w-wine…” You stammered as that was the end point for your nervous system.

With no more waiting, Bateman carefully took you in his arms to lift you up. Sobbing, you let him carry you into the bathroom and sat on the edge of his beautiful black tub. Gently, he removed your shoes and stretched out your bruised leg to assess the damage.

"Is it that bad?" You asked him in a shaky voice, trying not to look down at the wound. 

"No, but it would be better if you stopped flinching." He insisted, releasing your leg and going to the sink to get antiseptic, tweezers, bandages and cotton pads. 

As Patrick knelt before you, holding a pair of tweezers, time seemed to freeze for you, but then you screamed from the itching pain as he carefully pulled the shard of glass from your ankle.

"Mmmh," you mumbled through your palm when he pressed a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic. "Shit…I am so clumsy and reckless..."

"You are," Bateman murmured as he wrapped a bandage around your leg. Every move he made was very gentle and accurate. "But still, you are mine."

"No, I'm not," you struggled to free yourself from his grip, but his hands held your leg very tightly. "We both know that's not true..."

Shivering, you peered down at him as he remained on his knee beside you. Almost immediately, his hazel eyes locked with yours, mesmerizing as always. "Why is it always so difficult with you?"

“Ask yourself.”

The moment you attempted to get up, you almost fell on the floor, but Patrick caught you in his arms at the last second.

"Patrick, let me go..." you pushed him into his chest to get some distance, but he didn't even move. "I will leave and forget everything that happened between us. Just like you wanted!"

"I never said I wanted to!" he growled, holding you closer so you could almost feel his fast heartbeat. "Why can't you just be a good girl and accept what I give you?"

"Oh, you've already caused me enough pain...believe me!"

Annoyed, Bateman just shook his head before pressing a finger to your lips, silencing you and taking your breath away. 

No, no, no. Not again.

You swallowed hard as you felt his thumb slide up to your cheek to wipe away your salty tears. 

Stop.

"Cupcake."

His voice, his scent, his warm body. 

"Look at me," Patrick whispered sweetly, and you felt yourself going limp in his strong arms, so you obeyed and let him kiss your temple. "You're driving me crazy and I hate it...because I'm so fucking obsessed with you!"

One sharp breath and his lips were on yours, forcing your hands to claw at his jacket, but Bateman only pulled you closer, deepening the kiss as his wet tongue played with yours. Panting against his mouth, you couldn't help but run your fingers through his soft hair, making it look so messy, but Patrick didn't care. Slowly, he lifted you up a bit to set you down on the sink opposite his bathtub, peppering your neck with little pecks.

"D-Daddy..."

Just one simple word could turn this man into a savage beast, you knew it, but you couldn't stop yourself as your inner nature yearned for him and it felt like you were meant for each other, two broken souls finally found each other.

"Baby..." He kissed your lips briefly before moving down to your cleavage and unbuttoning your shirt, his hot breath tickling your bare skin.

Everything about him was so intoxicating that your clouded mind refused to function at all and now you couldn't hear your inner voice begging you to stop. 

Quivering, you arched your back a little to give him better access, and immediately you heard him growl against your collarbone as he finally undid your shirt. Patrick didn't even bother to remove your bra - he just pulled it down, revealing your taut nipples; he licked his lips at the sight of them and then his greedy mouth was already devouring one of them.

"A-awwww," you mewled, hugging his shoulders as you literally melted under his touch. "Mmm, please!"

"Please what?" He looked at you, twisting your hard peak between his skilled fingers. 

"I..." you hiccupped from the way Bateman spread your legs as he nestled into you with pure possession, groping your hip and licking your neck. "I... don't know... Gosh!"

This was pure madness, what was consuming your mind, with every kiss he made, breaking all your barriers, the more you tried to resist it, the more it hit you back. Panting, you threw your head back and felt your eyes begin to water again as his strong hands caressed your trembling little body. Never in your life had you felt so lost. Never.

"Relax, sweetheart," Patrick mused into your ear as he slid his palm between your legs. And of course you were so shamelessly wet that you could flood his floor. "I got you."

"I can't, a-aah..." You sighed, tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Yes, you can," Bateman planted another sloppy kiss on your neck before grabbing your hand to press it against the hard bulge in his pants. "I couldn't stop thinking..." he paused, drinking in your stifled moans as he gave your clit a few slight rubs. "Do you think about me, Cupcake? I know you do..."

"Mm-mhh," your hands roamed desperately down his broad back, fumbling with the smooth fabric of his suit. "And I...ahh-I know you don't think about me..."

A loud whimper fell from your lips as he shoved two fingers into your dripping pussy, almost causing you to bump your head against the mirror behind, but he prevented it by wrapping his hand around your neck.

"You're mistaken," his low groan echoed against the walls of his bathroom, sending shivers down your spine and coaxing your inner muscles to spasm around his fingers as they mercilessly rammed in and out of your throbbing cunt. "Because you know nothing about me," Patrick curled his fingers to stimulate your most sensitive spot, gritting his teeth as his aching cock was about to explode with ravenous desire. "Now be a sweet girl like you always are and..."

"Owwww!" you screamed in sharp pain as he accidentally pushed on your wound. “It hurts!”

"Fuck, I forgot..." He cursed and removed his hand from your leg.

Seizing the moment of his confusion, you slipped out of his embrace and nearly ran for the door, and thank God it was open, because when you heard his almost furious groan, your heart skipped a beat:

"Come back!" 

"No, it can't be like this," you leaned against the door, holding out a hand defensively. "Not after what you said..."

Trembling, you watched him breathe heavily through his red nostrils, his wild gaze seeming to burn you alive as his self-control was about to snap. Scared, you weren't sure what to expect from him next, so you decided to leave this place right now, while it was still not too late.

Quickly, you walked into his living room and grabbed the damn dress, trying not to think about the broken glass and spilled wine. To be fair, you thought Patrick was going to chase you or threaten you with punishment, but none of that happened as he stayed in his bathroom. It was suspicious, but you would think about it later. 

As you were about to leave, you walked past the open door to the bathroom and told yourself to just go and not look back. But when you reached the front door, you froze and sobbed - your heart sinking while your mind was waving a red flag.

Just leave, please!

Huffing, you turned and walked back to the open door. The scene you saw was not what you expected, it simply broke your heart - Bateman was standing still by the sink, leaning on his hands with his head bowed.

"Patrick..."

"You're still here?" He asked without looking at you.

"I'll go with you tomorrow...but I'm not doing it for you," your voice wavered, but you didn't allow yourself to sound weak. "I just wanted to make that clear."

And then you left him alone in his super luxurious apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side. No matter how hard you tried to hold back your tears, they kept slipping down your cheeks. Even when you were in the cab on your way home, your soul was still aching because it seemed like the wounds he made couldn't be healed.

When the night came, there were only a few windows with lights on, and Patrick's bedroom window was one of them.

Irritated, Bateman lay on his bed while a blonde girl sucked him off, bobbing her head up and down at a fast tempo. There was no denying that she was trying her best to give him as much pleasure as possible, but he felt nothing, literally no emotions – only the dark void inside his mind.

"(Y/N), you're doing everything wrong...not the way I like it!" Patrick grumbled, pulling on the girl's hair.

"Who?" She asked confusedly, looking up at him. "My name is Meredith, in case you forgot!"

Bateman just laughed and carelessly pushed her down, forcing her to continue. "Shut your fucking mouth and suck my dick. Stupid whore..."

Meredith was making too many noises which annoyed him so much as he was trying to concentrate on dreaming of you - your beautiful face, your innocent sparkling eyes... Although this girl was very pretty, definitely 'his type', there was not a single trace of you and he thought he would never reach his high.

"Mmmhm, Patrick…Maybe you will fuck me already?" 

"Maybe," he sighed, watching her laying on her back with undisguised excitement, but then he frowned in a weird disgust. "No, get on your knees. I can't see your fucking face."

"W-what? What's wrong with you today?Ah!"

Angrily, he slapped her hip and rolled her onto her stomach. Without any preparation, he bottomed out, closing his eyes and thinking about the way you twitched every time he thrust inside you. Speeding up his pounding, Patrick finally felt his orgasm building up inside his body when she suddenly moaned:

"Oh, yeah! Daddy, it feels so good!" 

That was not even rage, it was something beyond that. 

Brutally, he squeezed her neck, almost choking her, and growled near her ear as he leaned down. "Never call me that! Understand?" he yanked her against the bed, still clutching her throat, and only when she was on the verge of asphyxia he released her, fucking her harder and gritting his teeth. "Fucking bitch, you should thank me for not killing you."

---

The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn.  ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from. 

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it.  However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel. 

What the fuck? 

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed. 

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust. 

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent. 

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up. 

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you. 

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips. 

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them. 

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows. 

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

---

— penned by silk.

silkie (silk) :: twenty-five :: she/her

warning: this multi-fandom blog contains & potentially promotes mature content. If you are under the age of EIGHTEEN please do not interact. If you are easily triggered I may not be the writer for you as some of my work will include dark subject matter.

 ⭆ 001. About Me  |   ⭆ 002. Guidelines  |   ⭆ 003. W.I.D

STATS

  daydreaming about rk900...  streaming the love I give by rhodes...   requests currently open...  

MASTERLISTS

Coming Soon!

COMING SOON :: the boys, rdr2, cod, & the quarry

TAG KEY

silk.speaks🪶

interactions📻

oneshots🗝️

blurbs♟️

series🪽

recs🪞

© all rights reserved — writing belongs to silkfyre.

A Song of Ice & Fire account can be found @grcnseer

---

Five Times Vigilante Definitely Does Not Have Feelings (and the One Time He Does)

Characters:  Adrian Chase/Vigilante x f!reader

CW:  Crude language; yearning.

Word Count:  3982

Adrian Chase will tell anyone:  he doesn’t have emotions like people do.  He doesn’t feel sad or angry or embarrassed.  When Peacemaker gave him the nickname “Thimble,” he certainly didn’t cry.  When Peacemaker was sent to prison, he certainly didn’t feel lonely.  

Not having emotions is what makes him a more evolved human.

And yet, when ARGUS springs Peacemaker and sets up a black ops outfit in Evergreen, Adrian finds himself toeing the line of feelings.  He doesn’t have emotions like people do, but he comes awfully close a handful of times…until he crosses the line entirely.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Vulnerable

As the Vigilante, Adrian gets hurt all the time.  He’s become proficient at stitching up his own wounds.  His body is littered with the scars of his own handiwork.

But when Goff tortures him for information, and when the ARGUS team comes to his and Peacemaker’s rescue, he finds himself missing half of a pinkie toe.  It’s the most important toe on the human body, and he’ll probably never walk again…and no one seems to care.

Except for you.  In the van as they return to headquarters, you sit across from him, watching him as he studies his mangled foot.  You murmur something that sounds sympathetic, but he barely hears it over Peacemaker laughing at him.

At headquarters, you look at him and jerk your head in the direction of the back office.

“I can stitch you up, if you want,” you offer. 

He starts to shake his head, but the mean blonde woman—Harcourt, her name is—makes an offhand comment about your superior patch-up abilities, so he accepts your help.  He limps painfully behind you, follows you into a room that has been converted into a rough sort of exam room and budget clinic.

“Hop up on the table,” you tell him, and even though he doesn’t trust you—or any of your team—he does as you say.  It’s clumsy.  He hurts in a hundred different places:  his half-amputated toe, his electrocuted crotch, all the scrapes and bruises from the fight with Cobra Kai. 

“I won’t take off my mask,” he warns you.  “I take my secret identity very seriously.  If you saw my face, I’d have to kill you.”

“Duly noted,” you reply dryly.  “But I only need to see your foot.”

He pulls off his boot and regards his mangled half-pinkie toe sadly.  You pull on a pair of latex gloves and turn on a bright lamp, angling it at his bare foot.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say as you prod the wound gently.  “In fact, you really didn’t lose anything but a couple layers of skin.”

“The blade was as dull as fuck,” he replies. 

You wheel your stool over to a cabinet, then pull out some supplies:  needle and thread, disinfectant, gauze and tape.  Then you wheel back over to him and set to work.

The mean blonde woman was right—you’re quick, efficient.  He looks down at your bent head as you stitch him up, and he sees that your needlework is better than his own.  He doubts he’ll even have much of a scar once it heals.

But it’s the strange feeling that creeps over him:  makes his vision waver, makes him feel a little light-headed.  Your hands are deft but also gentle.  Adrian can’t remember ever being touched so gently.  Maybe when he was really small.  Maybe his mom was gentle like that when he was so small that he can’t remember it now.  It makes him break out in goosebumps.  He shudders at the touch of your warm hand bracing his foot, and you misunderstand the involuntary gesture.

“Almost done,” you murmur, and a moment later you tie off the last stitch and snip the thread.  You wrap his toe in gauze, pat his knee softly in a reassuring way.  Then you straighten up and ask if there’s any other injuries he needs patched up.

“Goff electrocuted me,” he blurts out.  “With a car battery.”

You look at him, level, but the corner of your mouth quirks in a near-smile.  “You want me to look at that for you?”

“Oh, no.  No.  No, I just wanted to mention it.  I’m not asking you to look at it.”  He’s grateful for the mask; he can feel his face heating up at the idea of taking off his suit in front of you, and the sudden flush confuses him.  Irritates him.  Something about the thought of being exposed makes his stomach churn in a way he doesn’t understand.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn back to the cabinet of supplies.  You rummage around, then pull out a small white tube that you hand him.

“Antibiotic gel for cuts and burns,” you say.   “You can put a cool cloth on…well, any burns you may have.  If there’s blistering, don’t pop them.”

“Okay.”

“And, you know…if you have any lingering side effects of being electrocuted, you should see a specialist.”

Vigilante reaches down and pulls his boot back on, but already his toe feels better.  “What sort of side effects?” he asks.

He looks up at you in time to see that same half-smile.  You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash.  

“I can imagine where you were electrocuted,” you reply.  “So if those parts don’t typically work the way you’re used to, see a real doctor.”

Adrian Chase is not good at nuance or subtlety.  “Huh?”

You blink at him before you say, “if you can’t get or maintain an erection, see a urologist.”

“Oh.”  He blinks too, behind his visor.  “Okay.”

You turn to leave the room but then glance over your shoulder before you do.  “Thanks for your help tonight,” you say.  “The mission was a success because of you.”

Neither Vigilante nor Adrian Chase ever get any thanks.  He flushes even hotter under his mask, and he grumbles in reply, uncomfortable to be seen, to be recognized for the first time.

To be vulnerable.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Embarrassed

The next afternoon, he’s at Peacemaker’s trailer, helping him clean up from when the police tossed the place.  They are blasting Guns and Roses, drinking beer…it’s like the old days, almost.

A knock at the door then, and Adrian has only a second to pull on his mask before you stroll in.

“Hey, Chris.  Vigilante.”  You nod in greeting, then reach into your bag to pull out a thick manila folder.  You hand it to Peacemaker.

“Murn wanted me to bring this by.  It’s the latest intel we got from Goff’s place.”  

You stand there as Chris takes the folder and sinks down onto his couch, already paging through the information.  Vigilante stands there too, awkward, so he crosses his arms to keep from fidgeting.  There’s a long stretch of silence once the Guns and Roses record ends, and Vigilante struggles with silence.

“I got hard last night,” he tells you.  “And this morning too.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Peacemaker sputters.  “She doesn’t want to hear that!”

“She mentioned it last night!”

Peacemaker scoffs, twists his face into an expression of disbelief.  “Yeah, I’m sure she mentioned your dick last night.  Sure.  Okay.  Fantasize much?”

“She did!”

“You seriously need to get laid, dude.  Stop making shit up.”

“He’s not lying,” you tell Peacemaker with a sheepish shrug.  “Though I mentioned it in the context of his injuries and not…some other context.”

“See?”  Vigilante says, and Peacemaker rolls his eyes, makes a jacking-off motion with his hand.

You don’t linger.  You beat a hasty retreat, waving over your shoulder as you leave the trailer, and Peacemaker gives him more hell—calls him weird, calls him annoying.

“No wonder you’ve never had a real girlfriend, dude,” he says as he turns back to his folder of intel.  “You say the creepiest shit the minute a cute girl is around.”

Vigilante doesn’t think about it much more until later.  That night, in bed, he lies awake for far longer than he usually does.  He replays that moment, tries to understand why he just blurted that out.  

He wonders if you would have stayed at the trailer longer if he hadn’t been creepy.  His face burns in the darkness of his bedroom, and his stomach twists painfully as he replays the moment over and over.  He replays his stupid blurting out about his dick, and he has no idea what it means.  He never obsesses over his stupid mouth like this.

If he had feelings like other people, he’d recognize the emotion as embarrassment.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Despondent (and Comforted)

Adrian gets himself arrested on purpose.  It’s the best way he can help Chris:  get arrested, get booked into the same prison as Chris’ racist supervillain father, then kill said racist supervillain father.

Easy enough.  It’d set Chris free and make his life so much better.  Allow him to move forward and not be bogged down, like Adebayo said.

Adrian fails.  He only manages to make things worse—clues Auggie into his plan accidentally, possibly points law enforcement in Chris’ direction.  So Adrian doesn’t just fail—he fails miserably.

He’s released that night.  He’s surprised at first, but as he changes back into his clothes and collects his personal effects from the guards, he realizes that ARGUS has its sticky fingers in all sorts of things and probably sprung him with just a few keystrokes.

When he leaves the prison, you’re sitting out front in your car.  You lower the passenger window and call out to him.

“C’mon,” you say.  “Harcourt sent me to take you home.”

He’s too upset to even feel bad about his cover being blown.  He climbs into the car.

“I think I made things worse,” he says, and he tries not to cry.  He only wanted to help his best friend (even if he’s not Peacemaker’s best friend).  Somehow he messed up, and it could ruin everything.  

“Okay,” you reply softly.  “It’s okay.”

You drive him home.  He doesn’t give you his address, but you know it—another screw-up, he thinks, getting tangled up with people who easily cracked his secret identity.  You know his name, his face, where he lives.  Some instrument of vengeance he is.  You probably even recognize him from his job at Fennel Fields.

Outside of his apartment, you park, then turn to face him.  In the half-light from the streetlamps, he can just make out your soft smile.

“This entire ops is nothing but mistakes,” you tell him.  “And yet, we’re doing okay.  We’ll figure out how to handle Auggie Smith.  Don’t worry about it.”

He nods, and something about the barest bit of comfort—paired with your smile—makes him turn to face you too.  

“I’m Adrian,” he says, even though you know his name.

Your smile broadens and you say your name, even though he knows it.  You hold out your hand and after a beat he takes it.

“Good to finally meet you, Adrian,” you reply as you shake hands.  

For whatever reason, as low as he feels, he falls asleep that night with a weird lightness in his chest—because he doesn’t dwell on his failure at the prison.  

Instead, he falls asleep with the memory of your smile, your kind words.  Your warm hand in his.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Protective

The attack on Goff’s house yielded some leads, and the team travels three hours away to take out a nest of Butterflies.  Everyone is exhausted, filthy, and bruised up.  

It’s in the van—you sitting beside Adrian—when you start to nod off.  He catches it the first few times, the way your head dips forward, the way you jerk back awake.  It’s cute, the way you fight sleep, and then it happens.

You fall asleep and you don’t wake up.  Your head drifts towards him, then settles against his shoulder.

Adrian freezes.  

He and Peacemaker—they used to go out together, looking for crimes or bitches or both.  He’s no virgin.  He fucks.  He’s no stranger to touch, and he’s certainly no stranger to women.  And yet…this feels different.  It feels new.

Peacemaker notices.  “You got a new girlfriend, dude,” he points out with a laugh.

Harcourt rolls her eyes at the teasing.  “Leave her alone.  She puts in way more hours than you, asshole.”

“I put in plenty of hours,” he replies, defensive.  “It takes a lot of time to maintain this impressive physique.  Do you know how long I work on my small muscle groups alone?”

Harcourt rolls her eyes again, then returns her attention to her phone.  Peacemaker turns back to where Adrian sits, rigid, as you sleep against him.

“If you get hard, just don’t tell her about it,” he advises the younger man.  “You’ll creep her out again.”

It’s strange, the feeling of your head against him.  It’s not sexy at all, obviously—in fact, it’s a little uncomfortable.  He doesn’t want to move you, doesn’t want to jostle you and wake you up.  Harcourt said you’re tired, and you took a hell of a beating as you fought the Butterflies.  

Adrian has always approached his work as Vigilante from a perspective of vengeance, not protection, so the feeling is strange:  how he wants to let you sleep, how he wants to protect your sleep.  How he wants to make you comfortable.

A quiet falls over the team; the swaying of the van lulls everyone into comfortable silence.  Adrian breathes in carefully through his nose, then shifts his body.  Slowly, carefully.  He leans away from you, allows you to lie against him more.  He changes the angle enough that he can get his arm out from where it’s trapped between your body and his.  He shifts again, gets his arm around you.  Gently moves you—changes it from your head awkwardly pressed against his hard molded shoulder pad to your head tucked against his chest.

You wake, a little, as he moves you.  You blink up at him sleepily, say his name—Adrian, not Vigilante or Vig or V—and your voice is husky with exhaustion.  There’s a questioning lilt to how you say his name, so he shakes his head softly.

“Go ahead and rest,” he says, quiet.  “Everything’s fine.”

You nod, then settle back against him.  It takes only a moment until he feels your breathing slow down, deepen.  He feels your body go heavy and lax against him.  Tucked against his chest, his arm holding you against him, he can smell you, feel how warm you are.  If he moves his head just a little, he can press his cheek against the top of your head.

Go ahead and rest, he thinks.  Everything’s fine.  I’ll keep you safe.

Vigilante has always been an instrument of vengeance, but this is the first time he’s felt protective of anyone.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Fear

The 11th Street Kids have one chance to eradicate the Butterflies forever:  if they can kill their only food source, the so-called cow, they will eventually all die off.  When they make their final assault on the farm, the team splits up:  Adebayo and Economos stay back, while the warriors—Peacemaker, Vigilante, Harcourt, and you—charge into action.

Whether the cow is killed or not, Adrian doesn’t find out until after the battle is over.  He fights off the onslaught of Butterflies, but for the first time, his attention isn’t entirely on his own fight.

His attention is on you, now, too.  

He manages to keep you in his sightline for the beginning of the fight.  He sees you, admires the sight of you when you’re in your berserker mode:  furious and deadly, well-fitted black suit, guns flashing as you empty clip after clip into the skulls of the Butterflies.  

Then he loses sight of you. 

His chest clenches in an unfamiliar tension, and when he finally catches sight of you again, that tight-chest feeling cedes to something else, something worse:  an ice-cold shard of fear that lances through him, settles in his gut where it sits like a stone.

When he finally catches sight of you, it’s the exact moment you are shot by a Butterfly.

One shot hits your shoulder, spins you around.

Another shot hits you square in the chest, makes you stagger backwards as the force is absorbed by your vest.

The final shot hits you low in the belly, and Adrian (who has studied your gear closely) knows you have little protection there.  The icy fear blooms in him, fills up every bit of him until it feels like it’s in his veins.

He screams your name.  He barely even feels the bullet that hits him (“oh, shoot” he mutters, and tosses a knife behind him to kill his own attacker), but then he stumbles and falls, and he loses consciousness.

He wakes a moment later.  He has no idea how much time has passed, but he manages to get to his hands and knees, then to his feet.  He makes his way to where you fell and he finds you.  

It’s bad.  It’s so bad that the icy fear turns acidic in his veins, makes him burn with fear.  With terror.  You gaze up at him but you don’t seem to see him, and each breath makes a fresh pulse of blood trickle from your mouth.

Adrian has never been very good at social situations.  He never knows the right thing to say and if he does, he doesn’t know the right time to say it.  He wishes these things came more easily to him; if it were Chris here right now instead of him, Chris would know the right thing to say.  He’d know how to keep you awake, how to give you comfort.

All Adrian can offer is what you told him the night he got out of prison, when you drove him home.  Now, as you lie under the night sky, dying in front of him, as he presses one hand against the worst wound to try and staunch the bleeding, he repeats your words back to him.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he says it over and over and hopes you believe it.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.”

The Time Vigilante Definitely Feels Love

You have no memory of the fight at the farm.  The last thing you remember is the drive there, but everything after is a blank.  Adebayo stops by when you finally wake up and fills you in on the salient details.  

She tells you how Vigilante—who was also shot, who had been blown up earlier in the day—carried you to safety.  How he kept you from bleeding out, how he held your very life in his hands and kept you from dying.  How hospital security had to separate him from you, once you were laid out on the gurney and being wheeled into surgery.

How he still tried to fight to stay by your side, and how he only failed because of his own injuries and blood loss.

“That man is stupid crazy about you,” Adebayo chuckles with a shake of her head.  “I don’t even think he’s really a psychopath.”

You chuckle with her, wince when the action pulls at the thousand stitches and staples that are keeping you held together.  “He’s not bad, right?”

“We’re literally the Island of Misfit toys,” she replies.  “But yeah, he’s alright.”

-----

Adrian is hospitalized too, and once he’s healed up to a point, he starts sneaking into your room to visit.  It’s not really sneaking—every time he undoes his IV and heart monitor, it sends the nurses into a panic—but after Adebayo’s press conference revealing the existence of Task Force X, the hospital staff is pretty tolerant of his harmless shenanigans. 

He helped ward off an alien invasion, after all.  You both did.

You have to agree with Adebayo.  You’ve never quite believed that Adrian is a psychopath or a sociopath or whatever.  You certainly never believed him when he said he didn’t have feelings or emotions.  The guy is nothing but a walking ball of emotions:  obvious love for his friends, a yearning to belong, a sweet desire to be liked and included.  Sure, he kills without compunction, but he seems to love in equal measure, even if he doesn’t believe he does.

When he visits you, he doesn’t talk about feelings.  He chatters endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exploits—criminals they’ve busted, ways they’ve destroyed old appliances in the woods behind Peacemaker’s trailer.  He talks about how it was when Peacemaker was in prison, how he kept calling and leaving voicemails to make it seem like everything was normal.  He talks about his job at Fennel Fields, all the terrible customer service stories he has.

He discharges himself against the advice of the doctors (he’s healed enough, he tells you), and you think he’ll stop visiting, but he doesn’t.  He visits every day still, and when you start physical therapy to build up the muscle tone and endurance you’ve lost, he sits in a nearby chair, watching you.  Cheering you on.

Adebayo wasn’t wrong.  You know Adrian has feelings for you.  You’re more socially adept than him, and you’ve had relationships before.  You’ve had crushes and been the object of them.  You guessed his infatuation early on, and you can guess that it’s only grown for him since then.

It probably confuses him, you guess.  You know what love feels like.  What a crush feels like.  All that feeling, in so many places:  the fluttery stomach, the pounding heart, the thoughts that just circle ‘round and ‘round about a single person.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have similar feelings for him.  He’s easy on the eyes, sure—but he’s earnest and sweet, a brutal killer with a heart of gold.

You can also guess that Adrian might never make a move.  This has to be unfamiliar territory for him.  You know he’s no virgin (he’s chattered endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exhaustive threesomes too), but he seems to have no relationship experience.

But your entire short working relationship with him has been give and take.  You stitched him up, comforted him when he was feeling low after his failed attempt to kill Auggie Smith.  He let you rest against him, held you gently as you slept after a mission.  He saved your life, kept you from bleeding out.

Give and take.  The best kind of relationship, in your opinion.

“Hey, Adrian,” you say one afternoon after PT.  You’re exhausted and sore, but you’re quickly approaching your own discharge.  You are healing up nicely.  You have things to look forward to.

“What’s up?” he asks, and he bounces over to your bedside like a Golden Retriever puppy, eager.

“Doctor says I’m good to go in a few days.”

“That’s great!”  His face breaks open in a wide grin that transforms him from nerdy-handsome to downright gorgeous.  “That’s good news!”

You swallow, push down the nerves that flare up.  “I thought maybe we could celebrate.”

“Yeah!”  He grins at you.  “I can call Chris—”

“I thought maybe just me and you,” you cut in, clarifying.  “Just this time.  Maybe we include Chris some other time.”

“Oh.”  The smile falls from his face, and he looks at you.  His brows are knit in confusion.  

No sense in backtracking now.  “Like a date.  Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“Oh.”  A beat.  “With me?  Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

What you’re asking him finally sinks in—a beat longer than it might with someone else, but that’s just part of Adrian’s charm.  The smile returns to his face, brighter and wider than before.

“Yeah,” he replies.  “Hell yeah, dude.  I’d love that.”

---

“You okay honey?”

Inspired by this post

Summary: the TF141 boys play rock, paper, scissors to determine who will play the role of the doting yet protective boyfruend for you tonight so pervs don’t come flirt with you

It’s short, but my brain isn’t working lately

warnings: some sexual content

“Guys come on, seriously.” I stared on as Price and Soap were in the ‘finals’ of their competition to see who’d be your fake boyfriend tonight at the bar. Price cheers as he finally defeats Soap, wrapping his arm around you and placing a sweet kiss to your temple.

This had been an ongoing thing with the four of them since you had an altercation with a creep at a bar and had to punch said dude in the face. The boys didn’t want you to worry about that anymore, so they always play the role of the protective boyfriend/fiancé/husband for you. It’s worked well so far, so you can’t complain.

You also won’t complain about the attention you get from them.

Each man had a different way, each with their own pros and cons.

Gaz was sweet and affectionate, and he was calm of a guy were to come up to you. He handled everything with grace, but he wasn’t too keen on being super touchy. He’d compliment you, stand behind you during conversations and maybe place a hand on your tight, but that was all.

Ghost, was hardly a boyfriend type. He didn’t ever touch you, unless you physically forced his hand into yours, and even then he’d tense at the action. As much as he cared and wanted to protect you, he wasn’t there to pretend to be your boyfriend, he was there to pummel any man who looked in your direction.

Soap, he was so much fun when he was your fake boyfriend. He was touchy, clingy, fiesty and all over perfect. He was always by your side, hands around your waist, lips pecking your neck lightly, teasing you. That was his approach, he’d tease you all night, make you want him. Most of the time, the moment you both left the bar, you’d burst out laughing at how you two acted, but there’s been some nights you ended up in his bed.

Price, was a beautiful fake lover. He was sweet and tender. He catered to you and always had a hand on you, silently claiming you as his to everyone in the bar. He’d whisper sweet nothings in your ear when he saw another man looking, making you squirm. He was your favorite by far, the way he so gently held you, kissed you. His actions were tender, the fire only showing up if a man wouldn’t leave you alone.

“You ready doll?” Price’s voice sounded out. You nodded, leaning into him.

You all headed out to the bar, the night going wonderfully. You had beaten Ghost in a game of pool, had the bartender buy you all a round of shots, and more. The music had you swaying your hips as you lined up your shot in pool. You were against Soap now, the championships.

You were lining up to hit the 8-ball, your jeans tightening around your ass when you felt a pair of strong hands grope you. You smiled, prepared to see Price, but before you could turn around, your eyes met all 4 men across the table from you. All four of them looked angry. You fully stood up, turning around to see an older man, maybe a couple years older than Price looking down at you seductively. “Can I help you?”

“Your ass looked to delicious, I couldn’t help myself.” He licked his lips.

“I suggest you back off.” Your voice was matter of factly.

“Why? You gonna hurt me? A little thing like you?” He cooed. I couldn’t help but laugh at the man. “What’s so funny?” He smiled.

“I won’t hurt you, but they will.” Throwing my thumb over my shoulder to the four men.

“You okay honey?” Price’s voice purred beside me, his hand landing on my back.

The guy looked up to Price, who towered over him. “I don’t know, am I?” I said, smirking at the man.

“I was just telling her how pretty she looked.” He gulped.

Price chuckled. “By grabbing her ass? Nuh uh.” Price stepped forward. “Let’s go have a little talk.” Grabbing the man’s arm, he took him outside of the bar.

Soap ran to you, asking if you were okay. You smiled and nodded your head. “Yeah I’m okay Johnny.” You patted his bicep.

Ghost and Gaz stood by the pool table, watching everyone’s things, including Price’s car keys and your purse.

Soon, Price waltzed back into the bar. His hips swaying as he sauntered back over to you, swooping his arm around your waist and pulling you in. “He won’t be bothering you anymore.” He kissed the top of your head as you returned to your pool tournament.

A couple of weeks later, you were all out a new bar across town, Soap’s arms wrapped around your waist as you spoke to some people. He had won the rock, paper, scissors that night. Your eyes widened as you heard a familiar voice, “You!”

Your face turned as Soap straightened up to his full height, one of his hands remaining on the small of your back. Your eyes met the man from the bar that night with Price. “Who’s this man? You get around fast.”

His voice was confident, like he had caught me doing something wrong. I looked at Soap, who looked ready to pounce. The fire was in Soap’s eyes as he bared his teeth in a smile. “You like my lady? Like what you see?”

“She’s a fiery one she is, just look at her.” The man bit his lip as he made a curve motion with his hands to simulate the shape of your hips. Soap let out a low chuckle.

“Any man knows you don’t answer that question honestly.” He dead panned, Soap’s voice deadly. “Why don’t I make this easy on you and let you walk away unharmed?”

The other man licked his lips, unmoving. Soap took a step forward, his hand sliding off of you as he stood just next to you, his size defined next to you.

“Either you walk away or you never walk again.” Soap growled.

The man quickly cowered, eyes widened. “Where do you find these men?” He shouted before scampering into the crowd.

“Thank you.” I said, kissing Soap. He was always much more willing to do PDA than the others, really making it believable to those in the bar that you were a couple.

“Anything for you my dear.” Soap said sweetly. “Shall we ditch this joint?”

I giggled, grabbing at his chest. “Are you gonna do that thing with your fingers again?” I bit my lip.

We heard someone clear their throat as we both backed away from each other, looking to the other 3 men. “We’re right here ya know?” Ghost spoke.

Soap and I laughed as the others bursted out in chuckles and smiles.

“Ya we know.” You said, earning some more chuckles out of the men and an ass grab from Soap.

---

Hellooo how about a Minho x she/her reader where Minho has been hit by the lightning and hs the scars and one day Reader walks on Minho being half naked and she traces his scars and theres tension building up ;) THANK YOU

I love lightning scars Minho so absolutely.

This is a relatively new request, but I'm trying to get some of the easier ones done since I'm currently away.

And I just liked this idea.

□ Sparks □

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. After TDC in the Safe Haven. You're a Right Arm member because I just like the idea.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, spice, typical dumb horny teenage bullshit. That's it, really.

You're a member of the Right Arm.

You're not high-ranking or necessarily special. You just ended up tagging along after Vince came through the refugee camp you were staying at.

But that doesn't mean you don't do anything. You're bold and forward, and you went through life-risking measures to help WICKED's Subjects escape.

Because, well, everyone did.

That doesn't matter now, though. They're safe, you're safe - everyone is safe and everything is okay.

Well, kind of.

Trauma doesn't just vanish. But, people are getting on with their lives.

And so are you.

You've ended up befriending some of the Gladers. Originally, you were friends with Harriet and Sonya since they'd been around a while - and they introduced you to the boys. So, you've got your own little friendship group now.

You're particularly close to Frypan and have some friendly competition with Gally. But you like them all the same.

Well...

Almost.

You don't know what it is about Minho that has you in such a chokehold. Sure, maybe if you were some innocent girl from a Maze who didn't know how to act around boys, it would make sense. But you're not.

You've survived the Scorch and the land outside of the remainder of society. It's not like Minho is the first person you've ever been attracted to either. So, why does he make you feel like this?

Apart from the fact he is undeniably attractive.

You figure it's just dumb surface level physical attraction. And with nothing else better to do, you decide to test the waters a bit.

Glancing at him across the table as the bonfire dances and his friends chat, often meeting each other's gaze. He holds it longer than he should. He always does.

Always standing or sitting next to him; your arms or your knees brushing as neither of you make any effort to grow the distance between you.

Playful inside jokes that often have subtle suggestive undertones. Normally, in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it style that the other Gladers brush off or don't notice. This results in Minho smirking into his chosen beverage, drinking up your figure out of the corner of his eye.

It goes on like this for a while; just being in the same friend group with some subtle flirtations going on. It's actually kind of fun and a much needed way to relax.

But it doesn't actually go much further than that. And you're fine with that.

For a while.

The jokes start becoming more explicit. The eye contact becoming less subtle. The closeness becoming drunken dancing instead of just standing together.

People are starting to notice.

The dumb attraction is starting to become actual feelings. He's brave and strong and funny and everything you want - and it's just making the sexual tension thicker.

God - it's getting bad. Anyone and everyone in a room with you two would be able to feel it.

The Gladers often tease Minho about it, talking about how he's one wrong move away from ripping your clothes off and cracking where he stands.

It's taking a lot of resilience from the both of you. Especially since you're both stubborn - it's become a silent game of who will crumble first.

"Hey, (Y/N)!" You're currently sorting out bedding and hauling different types of sleeping arrangements around camp. With Gally being put in charge of the Builders now, the huts are being thrown up like there's no tomorrow.

The Gladers and other Maze Subjects got the first available buildings, along with high up Right Arm members. You don't really mind, to be fair, you enjoy the hammocks and are happy to help the Gladers.

But as Thomas shouts you, you groan, turning around, blankets threatening to spill out of your hold. "Hey, Thomas. You good?"

"Yeah," something seems off about him as he fiddles with the hem of his shirt, "I know you're already busy, but could you check on Minho for me?"

"Huh?" You tilt your head, concern immediately setting in. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"Uh," Thomas did not think this far ahead of his dumb plan. "Well, we just haven't seen him all day - seems kinda down. Figured you'd be the best person to speak to him."

This perplexes you. "Why me? You guys are closer."

And you could've sworn you'd seen Gally and Minho shoving each other about earlier today. Though, maybe you're just mixing up your days.

"Yeah, but he likes you, so..." You pause, farrowing your brows. He likes you? In what context? Like you know that he likes you. But... like, more than just the dumb flirting?

You shake it off. "Alright, gimme a second."

You dump the bedding off where it needs to be and make a beeline for Minho's hut.

Little do you know that Minho has just gotten out of the shower - and is completely fine. Thomas and Frypan decided they'd had enough of enduring the tension between you and this is the result that.

Reaching the door, it's slightly ajar, and in your concerned state, you, for some reason, decide not to knock.

"Hey, Minho, are you-?" You push open the door and immediately freeze.

Well, shit.

Minho stands with his back to you, loose sweatpants hanging off of his hips and he's without a shirt. He rubs his hair with a towel, freezing at your voice and turning slightly to look at you.

Which would be less awkward if you weren't in some kind of trance.

Minho is tall and muscular, and he doesn't have to be half naked for you to be aware of that. But, that's not what's stands out.

All over his upper body, mainly populating his back, are pinkish lines. They travel down his spine and split like webs across his back, some whisps creeping across his sides and grazing his front.

"You just gonna stare or ask me about it?" Minho says after a good few seconds pass.

What do you even ask?

"Uh, what... why..?" You trail off and Minho raises his eyebrow before scoffing.

"I got hit by lightning." He states matter-of-factly. "Ended up giving me some scars."

"When did that happen?"

"Out in the Scorch, just before we met Brenda and Jorge."

"And you never mentioned this?"

"Well, it didn't seem like a big deal," he smirks. "And I'm kinda enjoying the look on your face."

This kind of snaps you back into reality. You're here for a reason.

You clear you throat, closing the door behind you for more privacy just in case the ex-Runner is on the verge of a meltdown. "Are you... alright?"

"Uh, yeah, why wouldn't I be?" Minho is growing more concerned by the second. What is happening here?

"Well, Thomas said that something was wrong and asked me to talk to you."

Minho scoffs, putting the dots together and slowly nodding his head before rubbing his face with his hands. "Did he, now? Shuckin' slinthead. I knew they were up to something."

"Huh?"

"They're messing with you - us, even."

"Huh? Why would- oh! Oh."

Ah. That makes more sense. And is mildly mortifying.

"Yeah." Minho shakes his head, turning away from you again as he mumbles to himself. "Sorry, my friends are dicks."

"It's uh, fine. It's fine."

Your gaze falls back on Minho's chiselled form. He's practically mouth-watering.

And it's not like this is weird. You've been pushing each other's boundaries since day one. This could be another opportunity to see how far you can take things. I mean, he would if this were the other way around. So, with a sudden peak in confidence, you walk over.

Minho chucks his towel on his bed. "So, are you-?"

Minho doesn't even get the chance to finish his question as electricity sparks through him. Again. This time, not because he's nearly dying, but because your fingers graze his back.

His entire body stills, his mind immediately becoming foggy, and the hair on his arms stands on end.

"Do they still hurt?" You ask, your gaze focused on his skin and your voice low.

You're gentle in your moments, letting your fingertips barely tickle his flesh. But with the immediate and tense reaction, you're reminded that Minho is about as touch-straved as someone can get.

He's just good at hiding it.

"Uh, no, not really. They kinda feel weird sometimes, and I was really buggin' out about them when I first noticed them. But I guess I had bigger klunk on my plate." He tries to maintain his composure, but his voice wavers at several points.

You bring your hand higher, dancing across his spine and between his shoulder blades.

"Why were you buggin' out?" You've grown somewhat used to the Glader way of speaking.

He hesitates for a second, physically jumping when your other hand joins in, using your thumb to rub circles and pull at the scars threating to escape to his middrift.

"Well, I uh- shit," he mumbles the cuss word, stepping back more and into your touch, letting his head fall back. "I just... they just look weird, yanno?"

"I think they look hot."

Okay, you're becoming very bold.

"Hm? You think I look hot?" He asks, half-looking over his shoulder at you, not wanting to fully turn around and lose the feeling.

"That's not what I said."

"That's what I'm askin'."

You blink at him, watching his lopsided smile creep across his face.

In a game of confidence - Minho will always win.

Which means trying to play it cool.

"I just think scars are interesting, they tell a story."

"Do you go around touching everyone's scars, then?" He cracks a wicked grin you can't see as he turns his head away again. "That might get you in a bit of trouble around here."

"Yeah, but not with you." It actually is genuinely fun tracing the patterns in his skin. You have one hand following one path and the other following a different one.

"Oh, yeah? How do you know that?"

"Because you like it."

He peers at you again, his face suddenly serious and his tone lower than before. "You're really starting to push it, yanno that?"

"Push what?" You tilt your head, pretending to play innocent.

"You know what."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"So, you're just feeling me up because you think my scars are hot?" He scoffs. "That's what's happening here?"

You think for a second. Fuck it. "Yep."

"Well, there's more scars if you wanna touch them?"

Your eyes flicker to his face, letting your arms fall from his skin. He turns around, holding his hands behind his back, he rocks on his heels.

From his back, travelling to his front are smaller webs of the scarring. At first glance, you thought they only reached around his sides, but now you're realising there's thinner, less noticeable branches trailing across his abs.

He presses his lips into a thin line, almost like he's calling your bluff. Because this is the game you've been playing. Pushing each other. And you've pushed him so he's pushing you.

Though, this very well might end up being the breaking point.

Too stubborn to back down, your hand connects with his stomach area. He flinches, but very quickly relaxes again. You gently run your fingers across the lines and the curves of not only the remains of the electricity, but of just his body.

Your eyes flicker to his face as you expect him to make some cocky comment about how that's not a scar. But he doesn't. His eyes are fixated on your hand.

It's a feeling he's never really experienced before - watching someone enjoy him. Someone touch him with such care. With such want. Someone touching him like this at all is new.

And it's you.

You're the one touching him.

You.

And that's making it so much worse.

He doesn't make any effort to hide or stop the tightening sensation in his pants or the way his chest is rising and falling. His mind is falling into complete fog; he feels like he's taken something he probably shouldn't have.

You notice it, too.

"Minho-?"

"Shut up," he says almost immediately, eyes finally meeting yours. His pupils are wide and his eyelids heavy. "This... this isn't fair. You can't..."

He seems a strange mix of stressed and turned on.

"Okay, I'll stop," you pull your hand away, but he immediately grabs it, laying it flat against his middrift. "Minho?"

"Don't," he mumbles. "Don't stop." He can't look at you properly.

God, what's happening to him?

"Look," he continues, trying to gain some sort of clarity for a second. "If you're just messing around, that's fine, but leave now, okay? 'Cause this is getting cruel."

His words and the way he's acting is sending heat straight to your core. You step towards him, your faces inches apart.

"Are you caving, Minho?" Your voice is sultry as your hand slides further down his front.

"Are you?" He responds, leaning in further, your noses brush and you can feel his breath on your face.

"We can't keep doing this, yanno? One of us has to break eventually." You mumble, practically into his lips.

His eyes flicker from your eyes to your lips.

"Shuck it," his hands come to your waist, yanking you closer as he finally kisses you. You squeak from the force behind it as you throw you arms around his neck, clawing into his back to try and steady yourself.

It takes a matter of seconds for Minho to spin you around, pushing you onto the bed, both of you tangling together. Desperation sets in fairly quickly.

Minho's hands under your shirt as you try to pull it over your head. His lips on your neck and chest as he slips a hand under you, trying to yank your jeans down. You leave stains on his skin from your nails.

It's a blur of emotion and hormones.

Then Minho hesitates as he sits back. At first, you think he's just admiring you as you lay in your underwear, but there's something else.

"You good?" You ask, becoming concerned.

"You know we're not gonna be friends anymore if we do this, right? Like the flirting and klunk is fun, but this is different. We can't take this back. A-and I've never done this before. I don't wanna shuck up our friendship or make things weird."

You blink at him before sitting up. He watches you as you move onto your knees and kiss him again.

"I don't wanna be your damn friend, Minho. Take the hint."

It's like there's a light behind his eyes, a smile creeping across his face, but unlike his usual cocky smirk, it's soft and warm and genuine.

He pecks your lips. It's sweet and unusual for him. "You wanna be more than friends, then?"

"Yeah," you chuckle, "but I'm sure we can worry about that later. We're a bit busy right now." You wrap your arms around his neck again, lightly touching the scars on his back. He grins at you, connecting your lips again as he pushes you down.

He pulls away, his teeth brushing your ear lobe as he lets out a low chuckle.

"Sounds like a good plan."

Here ya go, another spicey Minho piece for y'all.

I hope you enjoyed :))

---

Price sketches

---

---

ミ[technical difficulties]

🍓 pairing: recom miles quaritch x human fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, daddy kink, size kink, alien genitalia, human x na'vi, oral sex, vaginal sex, q gets a v messy blowjob and repays u by blowing ur back out, brief voyeurism, quaritch's pov turned out so filthy?

🍓 wordcount: 19k

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

Recently, you’ve had to come to terms with a number of things.

Number one, the food rationing system on Pandora means that you have to go without some of your favourite foods for months, years, or even for the rest of your rotation planet-side. Fresh fruit, chocolate, pizza, any food that gives you joy, is practically impossible to get here. And even if there is a delivery, it’s always the assholes in upper management and leadership roles that get all the good stuff anyway.

Number two, military men are absolute pigs. If you thought the ones on Earth were bad, you weren’t prepared for the ones on Pandora. They’re cocky, arrogant, rude, and seem to have come to Pandora for the big paycheck and the chance to cause absolute havoc among the native Na’vi populations. You avoid them as much as possible, but Bridgehead is absolutely crawling with a military presence, and your job makes it difficult to avoid them anyway.

And number three… well. Number three is a little more embarrassing.

“—and if you wanna survive out there, you gotta be alert. First things first, we’re headed out to this area in the… shit.” Colonel Quaritch pauses in the middle of his sentence, then turns to you with a scowl.

You’ve only been half listening, a little too distracted by the Colonel’s enormous frame and big biceps and the way his cute little ears flick back as he debriefs his Recom team.

“Hey kid, how do I—” He gestures irritably at the slide presentation behind him.

That’s your cue to jolt forward and help him change slides. It’s really so easy to do; just a simple click of a button.

“Ah.” Quaritch mutters when you change the slide for him, before clapping you on the shoulder in thanks before getting right back to his debrief.

The clap to your shoulder is almost strong enough to nearly send you stumbling, his wide palm and long fingers almost spanning the whole width of your back. Blood rushes to your cheeks, and your face burns as you hurriedly step back into the corner you’ve been standing in this whole time.

And that’s the third thing you’ve had to come to terms with – the unnerving tingles that start up between your legs every time Colonel Quaritch’s enormous blue ass needs help with technological problems that are so damn easy to solve.

You clear your throat a little self-consciously, praying that you don’t look as flustered as you feel. You’ve already noticed the way the rest of the Recoms are sending each other little smirking glances and elbowing each other in the sides.

It’s humiliating. Not the crush itself – that, you feel, is fairly understandable. He’s nearly ten-feet of smooth blue skin and intimidating muscle, with a condescending sharp fanged smile and sharp, cold eyes. You’re only human, and he’s hot as hell. You can hardly be blamed for developing a crush, the man is built like a god.

No, the part that’s humiliating is the way you react over his little technical difficulties. The way he squints at the data pads that look so small in his huge hands, the way he pokes uncertainly at screens that don’t even have touch-screen capacity, the way his tongue clicks in frustration when he can’t get something working for him. It all just gets you going in a way that’s actually a little bit unnerving.

You sit through the rest of the debriefing, but you’re distracted. There’s no real reason for you to be there, so you don’t bother listening. Literally nothing about this debriefing has anything to do with you; it’s all aimed at the Recoms for their upcoming scouting missions into the lowland forest region.

The only reason you’re here is because Quaritch had instructed you to sit in the corner, and your knees had promptly gone weak and you had sunk down into the rickety chair at the edge of the room. The reaction stems partially from Quaritch’s sexy authoritative voice and partially from the fact that you’re exhausted.

You’re pretty much glorified tech support, but that’s alright. If anything, you’re eager for it – it’s a stimulating change from the monotony of your usual duties. You’re watching him closely, pulse leaping every time you see that cute little furrow to his brow, or the way his mouth turns down as he grapples with the clicker that’s much too small for his hands.

His tail lashes in agitation, his mouth pressing together as he glares at the presentation behind him, attempting to bend the Powerpoint to his will as he continues talking.

“—so we’re gonna be actin’ like we got eyes in the back of our heads, ‘cause if we get caught unawares by these bastards then we’re gonna end up with arrows comin’ out of our skulls—shit.” Cutting himself off yet again, Quaritch turns to you with a scowl.

You’re up before he can even verbalise the need for assistance (not that he’d ever ask for help, more like he’d just grunt at you until you got up to sort out the problem). The buttons are obviously much too small for his big-ass fingers. You take the clicker, and press the button yourself.

The slide changes, displaying a collage of dangerous Pandoran wildlife; thanators, viperwolves, banshees, titanotheres. It looks good, very professional – because you were the one that had made it, revising Quaritch’s ugly, half-assed attempt at just pasting a whole load of grainy jpegs on a word document.

Quaritch grunts in satisfaction, nodding as his tail curls. “Now, I know we’ve gone through this a hundred times, but we’re gonna go through it a hundred times more till I’m confident you knuckleheads ain’t gonna get yourselves kill the second we get out there.”

There’s a chorus of groans at that, but none of them seem brave enough to complain outright. Quaritch fields the groans easily by electing to simply ignore them, turning to give them an in-depth run-down on the threats out there in the Pandoran wildnerness.

You hover near his side, uncertain if you’ve been dismissed just yet. You figure it’s best to just wait. Knowing the old man, he’ll need help again with something else in a minute or too anyway.

“C’mon, sir, we know this.” One of the men complains. You think it might be Fike. “We’ve gone over this a ton of times.”

“Yeah, well, if the information had all stuck then we wouldn’t have ended with Walker nearly gutted on our last outing, would we?” Quaritch barks, his tone so sharp and acerbic that it shoots down your spine with an electric jolt.

The other Recoms roll their eyes, apparently used to his authoritative tone, but it nearly knocks you flat. You have to breathe through your nose and fight to keep your expression neutral, trying to pretend like you haven’t just soaked your panties at the sound of it. God, this dry spell you’ve been going through is going to be the end of you.

Huffing out an irritated breath, Quaritch turns to you and makes an irritated sort of gesture with his hand. “Just go to the next slide, kid. I’ll cut this short.”

You sigh, and click to the final slide. You cross your arms over your chest as you shift on your feet, jutting your hip out to try and distribute your weight. You’re seriously hoping that he picks up the pace and finishes soon so that you can get back to your own work. Or maybe a nap – you can’t remember the last time you’ve slept for more than three hours at a time.

Quaritch gets back to his debriefing, and you tune out. It’s not like what he’s saying has any importance to you at all. You’ve been a good little employee at the RDA for going on two years now, working hard in the tech sector of the colony at Bridgehead, and not once have you actually left the compound. So all these stupid safety precautions for the Recoms going out into the forest are boring to you.

You tap your fingers absent-mindedly against your arms as you wait, trying not to get antsy. You know your work is probably piling up back on your desk, but you can’t leave until you’ve been dismissed. As you wait, you allow your eyes to trail back to Quaritch so you can watch him idly.

The attraction to him has bloomed so oddly. In the beginning, you hadn’t been any more interested in him than in any of the Recoms, and even that was just natural curiosity about the enormous new blue soldiers. Part of your rules for living on Pandora was to avoid military men after all, and the nine-feet-tall Recom soldiers definitely fall into that category.

And listen, here’s the thing. You don’t even like him. He’s rough, rude, abrasive, and entirely dismissive of you even when you’re actually helping him. Besides, like you’ve said, the military men on Pandora are pigs. You avoid them whenever possible, for the preservation of your mental health.

And yet – that first day he had come into the tech hub with a handful of new RDA-issued tech and a frustrated, bewildered frown on his face, you had felt the weirdest tightening in your stomach. It had only gotten worse from there, when he came in for help with the most basic of things. It seems like technology has progressed a lot in the fourteen years he’s been dead, and he’s obviously irritated by being outpaced by it all.

“Alright, get outta here.”

Quaritch’s voice jolts you out of your daydreaming, and you glance around to see that the Recoms are all beginning to stand, preparing to move out. You have to suffer a moment of claustrophobia as you’re quite abruptly hit with the fact that all of a sudden you are by far the smallest person in the room.

You shift, uneasy as you crane your neck back to watch them all file out. They positively tower over you, your head reaching under their navels, and you step back a little nervously. You’re sure they wouldn’t step on you, but you don’t want to take that chance.

As the others leave the room, Quaritch turns back to the little monitor on the desk and starts swearing quietly at it.

“Damn thing,” He mutters, prodding roughly at it. “How do I turn this off?”

You step up alongside him, frowning. “Hey, don’t be so rough. You’ll break it.”

“I’m not being rough.” Quaritch snaps back, though he pulls his hand away.

You switch off the display, then begin powering down the digital projector. It’s quick work, and easy to do despite Quaritch’s impatient confusion, and you slot the clicker back into place on the desk.

“This shit’s a waste of time,” He grumbles as he watches you fiddle with the equipment. “Don’t see why I can’t just tell them what I need to tell them without all these crap visuals behind me.”

It’s not the first little diatribe he’s gone on about the uselessness of technology, so you just roll your eyes and let him rant.

“You need to make the buttons on those things bigger.” He continues, stepping after you as you gather your things.

“I don’t actually manufacture the equipment, I only keep it working.” You point out, keeping your tone even.

“Well, figure it out.”

And there’s the downside of having a crush on Colonel Quaritch. He’s an absolute asshole.

The attraction you feel towards him is entirely physical, and it’s hard not to think about sex when you look at him. He ticks every primitive mating box: incredibly tall, handsome, the strongest of any pack he’s in. Everywhere he goes, he brings an air of authority with him. Making people cower is almost part of his charm.

But god, he can be such a dick sometimes.

“Is that all, sir?” You ask, your voice a little sardonic.

Quaritch grunts, but you can feel his wide yellow eyes watching you. It’s unnervingly akin to being under the sharp stare of a predator, and you try to ignore the way your hair is standing on end.

“That’ll be it, kid.” He drawls, though he’s still watching you.

You wait for a beat, but no thank you comes. You wonder why you bothered waiting in the first place, considering you’ve never received anything of the sort.

With an eyeroll, you gather up your stuff and head out.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

Your head is pounding as you work, the fluorescent light of your blue screen making your eyes throb. The screen blinks, an underscore slashing across impatiently, erasing the authorisation and the past day-shifts requests. Thousands of malfunctions are listed in a matter of seconds, logged at the top right-hand corner in a series of white 8-bit texts. The centre terminal lists a series of errors of accompanied by steady beeping.

The abrupt diagnosis comes with a high-pitched ring, signalling its potential danger/damage at a level six on the twelve-notch risk scale. You swear.

“Todd, have you been keeping on top of the atmosphere composition readouts in the Recom sector?” You ask, glancing briefly over your shoulder.

Your co-worker glances up, bleary-eyed behind his wire-rimmed glasses. His chin has a bit of dried sauce on it from the overly-processed dried noodles he’d been eating earlier, and you feel your nose wrinkle a little at the sight of it.

“Uh..” He says, and the pause is long enough for you to purse your lips and raise your eyebrows. “Yeah.”

“Well, it’s saying the nitrogen levels are too low.”

Todd blinks owlishly at you, and you feel your temper flare. Swearing lowly, you push yourself out of your swivel chair, feeling your spine crack ominously as you straighten up, lower back aching.

“Right, I’ll fix it myself.” You say grimly.

“You don’t have to.” Todd says unconvincingly. “I can do it.”

He doesn’t even twitch, making no effort to stand, so his offer falls flat.

Lazy shit.

You grimace at him, and don’t even bother replying as you stalk out of the tiny shared office that you do most of your work in. Having to shoulder your own workload can be challenging enough, but the weight of Todd’s added work can be stifling sometimes.

The brightness of the fluorescent lighting in the corridors hurts your head, and you squint as you scurry your way through the halls. Your headache is throbbing, your neck is aching, and you’re so goddamn tired.

The last thing you need is the added responsibility of having to fix Todd’s negligence before it turns into an actual problem, but you already know that Todd’s mistakes look like your mistakes too, given that you share the same shitty little office terminal.

The sector the Recom soldiers live in is no larger than any of the other sectors, though everything is almost comically over-sized. You fit an exo-pack carefully over your face as you enter the sector, making your way towards the maintenance terminal. It’s hidden behind a large grate, and you struggle with the heavy metal for a moment before you finally manage to get it removed, letting it drop to the lino floor with a heavy clang.

Your tiredness is making you lethargic and a little clumsy, and your eyes are dry and a little itchy as you turn your attention to the monitor on the terminal. The computer to the immediate left shows readings that atmosphere stability is down by 10%. You grit your teeth; Todd, you lazy bastard.

You grumble and swear to yourself as you jab at the screen and keyboard roughly. God, all you want to do is take a fucking nap.

You’re so tired that you don’t even look up when you hear footsteps heading your way in the corridor, though some part of your brain distantly recognises that they’re much too heavy to be human.

“Well hey, if it isn’t tech support!” A voice crows, way too enthusiastic for you to deal with right now.

You close your eyes, briefly praying for patience, before slowing swivelling your head around. Then you have to tilt your head back, because you somehow keep forgetting how tall these motherfuckers are.

It’s Wainfleet, accompanied by the quiet one that always wears those stupid shades (Mansk, maybe? You can’t remember). Wainfleet is grinning, as though running into you is just the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all day.

“Yeah?” You ask, a little more aggressively than you had intended.

Lyle’s grin just widens, as though your aggravation is amusing. “Oh, someone’s grumpy. What’s wrong, kitty cat?”

Your teeth grind together hard enough to hurt, and you turn your attention back to the terminal. With one nail-bitten finger, you press the system's recovery code. It takes a couple of seconds to bring the generator’s core back up to its acceptable 99.9% after manually inputting the proper chemical levels - switching two filters to output .2 more of one oxide mineral and .8 less of methane.

Your sight of the terminal is blotted out by the shadow of Wainfleet’s looming body over your head.

“What?” You bite out.

“What’s all that?” Wainfleet asks. He doesn’t seem particularly curious; if anything, it seems like he’s only asking to annoy you.

You huff a sigh, but turn your attention back to the monitor. “I’m keeping the air in your sector breathable for you.”

“How kind of you.” Wainfleet drawls lazily, leaning over to get a better look.

You squint at the screen. It looks like the filtering system is gradually getting back to normal, and you click out of a couple of error warnings as they’re thrown up onscreen.

The big looming shadows of the two recoms behind you are distracting, and you find yourself feeling irritably on edge while you work.

“Go away.” You grumble without looking away from your screen. “Let me work.”

Mansk, at least, has the decency to step back even if he doesn’t actually leave. But Wainfleet just snickers, as though your bad mood is amusing.

“Jeez, you’re such a pissy little thing.” He drawls, leaning closer just to annoy you. “Why’re you so much nicer to the Colonel, huh?”

You choke at that, your fingers spasming where you’re inputting strings of code on the keyboard. You have to bite your tongue hard to avoid snapping back, wanting to avoid escalating the situation. Before you can say a thing, another set of footsteps start coming your way up the hall. You drop your head, sighing explosively behind your mask. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone to work?

“What’re you two loitering here for?” The Colonel’s barking voice rings out through the hallway.

Despite your exhaustion, you feel your aching spine straighten out at the sound of his voice and you lift your head. Blinking your stinging eyes, you watch as Quaritch approaches, casting disapproving looks at his soldiers. It doesn’t seem like he’s noticed your presence yet; it’s like you’re too short, and he never bothers glancing down.

Wainfleet and Mansk both straighten up, though they still look fairly relaxed even with the arrival of their superior officer. Wainfleet offers him a crooked grin, and finally steps away from you.

“Sorry, sir. Just watching the little nerd fix whatever the hell that thing is.” He says, gesturing carelessly at you.

You grumble quietly to yourself at that particular form of address, but don’t bother looking up again. You’re obviously busy, and you have no idea why these big blue bastards can’t just leave you be to work.

“Right, get lost.” Quaritch grunts.

You glance up for a second, startled, wondering if Quaritch was talking to you. But then Wainfleet and Mansk are stepping away, smirking, and going on their way down the hall.

You exhale in relief, then turn back to the terminal. There’s a new error flickering in the upper corner of the screen, and you blink at it tiredly before dismissing it. You almost think that Quaritch has left too, but then you hear the sound of him shifting behind you.

 “Your men are morons.” You mutter irritably, jabbing at the screen.

“Mansk’s not so bad.” Quaritch says with a one-shouldered shrug.

Your mouth twitches at the conspicuous lack of mention of Wainfleet. “Mm. What are you doing here?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” He says. A shadow falls over you again as he leans against the wall next you, dwarfing you as he looms overhead. “This ain’t your usual haunt.”

“Oh, and you know my usual haunts now, do you?” You ask wryly.

He hums, but doesn’t reply. The terminal beeps loudly, a grating screechy sort of noise, and you grumble a sour curse under your breath as you work. The readouts are improving, but they could still be better. You feel irritation flare yet again; if Todd had been pulling his goddamn weight, all of this could have been sorted out from the central console in the main control room.

“I need you to look at this.”

Your brows twitch, but you don’t take your eyes off your screen. “I’m very busy, Colonel.”

“It’ll only take a sec.”

You exhale through your nose, frustrated. The terminal emits another screechy beep at you, and you resist the urge to smack it. The filtration system is struggling to synthesise xenon, which is throwing off the ideal atmospheric pressure across the whole Recom sector.

Quaritch is mercifully quiet for a couple of moments as you work, though you have to deal with him peering over your shoulder. You ignore him to the best of your ability, inputting strings of code with quick strikes of your fingers against the keyboard.

“You writin’ that code yourself?” Quaritch asks, and you wonder if you’re imagining the undertone of surprise in his voice. “Thought the system did all that automatically.”

It’s a little surprising that he can recognise that’s what you’re doing, considering his frustration with other elements of technology (he had asked you to reset the password to his RDA-issued email account, like, three times already). You guess he must be more familiar with the compound’s frameworks than most of the everyday technology, given his years spent as head of Sec-Ops.

“Uh, yeah..” You mutter, distracted. “It’s faster. Todd fucked the system up earlier, so it’s faster for me to just manually override whatever shit he plugged into the mainframe.”

After another few moments of tampering, the screen display shifts. The numbers, levels, and bars read fine, and the readouts are showing normal to good – the air stasis is flickering between 99.9% and 100%.

You finally lean back, groaning quietly to yourself as the vertebrae in your back crack brutally. God, you’re tired.

You had almost – almost – forgotten that Quaritch was standing right next to you, until he shifts expectantly on his feet. He’s not a patient man, and to be honest he’s already waited for you longer than you thought he would.

You look up – and up and up—at him. And maybe you allow your eyes to linger appreciatively around his tiny little waist and big muscly chest, because you’re tired and you’ve worked hard today and you think you deserve a little treat.

“Yeah?” You sigh, finally giving him your attention. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, Quaritch holds out a datapad. A big error screen blinks up at you. It seems like he’s entered the wrong password three times into the RDA-staff portal, and it’s now locked him out.

You sigh again. You kiss the chances of getting your nap goodbye.

“Fine.” You grumble. “But you’re buying me a coffee.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

The night shift was surely invented by a total fucking sadist.

You sit at your computer terminal in the early hours of the morning, staring blearily at your screen. Your eyes are burning, strained from the harsh blue light of the monitor as you mindlessly input strings of code. You’ve spent your whole damn shift trying to fix all of Todd’s stupid goddamned mistakes, and you’re tired and crabby and hungry and so fucking irritated.

It feels sometimes like your whole job just revolves around fixing the mistakes made by your incompetent co-workers, and you’re so tired. You and Todd are responsible for only two sectors, but it’s overwhelming when you’re doing most of the work by yourself.

Most of the levels and readings are back to almost perfect levels by the time the rest of Bridgehead begins waking up, and you’ve finally begun to work away at the technical maintenance requests that have been racking up and waiting for your attention.  

By the time Todd finally clocks in to take over for you (fifteen minutes late, as always), you can only imagine what you look like.

The nightshift always has the same effect on you; your eyes are puffy with dark circles in hollow sockets, your skin is dull from the lack of natural lighting in your shabby little tech hub, and the big baggy sweatshirt you’re wearing has stains from the salty freeze-dried noodles that you’ve boiled and are slurping on as a poor excuse for breakfast.

“Morning.” Todd says, irritatingly chipper.

You grunt, slurping on your overstarchy, flavourless noodles.

Todd settles into his own swivel chair on the other side of the room, looking frustratingly well-rested. He stretches his hands overhead and sighs happily, then takes a look at his own terminal.

“Oh! Wow, the readings look good!” He notes, sounding rather pleased.

Your grip tightens around your fork as you grit your teeth. No doubt all your hard work will be undone by him in no time.

“Mm.” You say, stabbing at the somewhat gloopy mess of your overprocessed starch. “There are a lot of maintenance requests that need to be filled for the—”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m on it.” Todd says, without waiting for you to finish.

You purse your lips, irritated, but you’re too tired to start fighting this losing battle. You’re used to the thankless nature of your job, even if it exhausts you. You just sigh, and finish up on one of the last server maintenance requests you had been working on.

There’s a brief moment of blissful silence, but those never last long when Todd is around.

“So, busy shift?” He asks, and you can feel his stupid eyes staring at you.

“Obviously.” You grunt, shovelling another fork full of noodles into your mouth.

Todd laughs as if you had told a joke, and you feel your brow twitch in aggravation. God, he’s so annoying. You wish he would just work in silence.

“You work too hard.” Todd speaks with the air of someone imparting great wisdom. Insufferable moron. “You should take a break.”

It takes superhuman levels of strength not to roll your eyes. You can actually feel yourself straining not to.

“Yeah, well, my shift is over now.” You say with your mouth full, manners abandoned. “I’m going to take a nap now.”

Todd laughs gratingly, again acting as if you’ve said something very funny. You glance at him out of the corner of your eyes, irritated.

“Oh, I didn’t mean just a nap.” He says with what he probably thinks is a charming grin. “I just mean—you’re always so… wound up. Don’t you want to let loose?”

You have a feeling that saying you’re wound up is just another way of calling you uptight. The worst part is, you can’t even necessarily protest that. Your workload on Pandora has always been challenging, but since being paired with the most useless co-worker on the planet it has been damn near overwhelming. It feels like all you do is sleep, eat, and work, and sometimes those activities cross over – you barely even have time to shower anymore. Some days you barely feel human.

“Not really.” You say shortly, unwilling to be drawn into this conversation with him.

“Oh, come on.” He wheedles. “You deserve a bit of fun, don’t you think?”

You don’t even bother to reply, too busy trying to slurp at the briny liquid left over at the bottom of your Styrofoam noodle container.

“I was thinking, we’ve been working together for ages now and we spend hardly any time together outside of work.” Todd continues. “We should—oh, I don’t know, go for a drink or something sometime.”

What a bizarre idea. You send a look his way, hoping that your face expresses your disbelief.

“Too busy for that.” You say, wiping the noodle juice roughly off your chin.

Todd nods, as though he had been expecting that. “Sure, sure. But just one evening. Could be… you know, could be nice. Just the two of us.”

And… oh god. Your shoulders stiffen, your eyes growing wide and horrified as you stare into the bottom of your Styrofoam container. No, no, no. There’s no way that he means what it sounds like he means.

You feel yourself seize up with nerves, anxiety blooming in your belly. Fuck, why is this happening? All these months of working together, Todd has never attempted to cross the boundary of co-workers, so you’re completely blindsided by this offer.

You could have guessed that Todd was desperate, but this desperate? You hardly look like a catch right now, with your unwashed hair and coffee-stained sweater, yet Todd is blinking expectantly at you for your answer.

“Oh, um…” You hedge, staring blankly at your monitor as you scramble for an answer. “I don’t think so, Todd. I don’t think it would be—uh, you know. Appropriate. With work, and all.”

Todd is leaning forward now, and it’s taking a significant amount of energy to not look at him. “Billy and Gina from the North-East sector server maintenance team have been going out together for months now, and HR has no issues with it.”

You forcibly unclench your teeth, and instead start chewing at your cheek. Fuck – if this was just some guy at a bar, you could turn him down as harshly as possible. But you’re still on the damn clock, and this is a co-worker.

“I don’t want to.” You say, trying to keep your tone as polite as possible while also being blunt.

“Oh, come on.” Todd says, trying for another charming grin. “Just one or two drinks. It’ll be fun, honestly. We get on so well at work!”

 You realise with a sinking feeling that he’s not going to take no for an answer. Goddamnit Todd.

And you hate playing this card. You seriously hate that this is the only way to end the conversation, but you don’t want things to be awkward – you have to work with this guy for the foreseeable future.

“I have a boyfriend.” You blurt, and try not to wince.

It’s kind of infuriating, but you can actually see Todd deflate at this. Typical. You should have known he was the kind of guy that would be persistent despite your clear no, yet back off at the mention of a boyfriend.

“Oh.” Todd says, his mouth twisting in a disappointed frown. “I- shit, sorry. I didn’t know that.”

“Mm.” You say. Your shoulders relax a little bit now as you turn back to your monitor, relieved that the matter is resolved. You think you’ve handled that well, and with minimum awkwardness, but you don’t think you’re going to be able to look at Todd in the same way for a long time.

“So, who is it?”

You pause. Blink at the screen.

“What?”

“Your boyfriend.” Todd says, still looking your way. He’s barely looked at his own monitor even once since he clocked in, his attention focused all on you. “Who is it?”

It takes everything you have not to freeze up. You hadn’t thought this far ahead, and now your thoughts have gone slow and jittery with panic.

“Oh.” You say slowly, swallowing. “He’s…”

Todd just looks back, waiting.

And shit, but your mind has gone blank. You can’t come up with a single name. You can’t even come up with a made-up name, because Todd is staring at you and you’re already so damn sleep-deprived that your brain is barely even working at half-capacity.

A brief knock sounds on the door, and you seize on the distraction. You whirl around with far more zeal than you’ve displayed your whole shift, impossibly relieved that someone is interrupting this godforsaken conversation.

It’s hardly even a surprise to see the big blue form of Colonel Quaritch ducking through the door, jabbing at the screen of a datapad with a huge finger. In that moment, you’ve never been so happy about his complete inability to work all the new technology that the Recom squad has been given.

Todd straightens up in his seat, visibly intimidated by the sheer size of Quaritch’s Na’vi body, but Quaritch doesn’t even glance his way.

“Hey kid, you gotta minute?” Quaritch says, but it’s not really a question. It’s perfectly clear that he expects you to make a minute for him.

Usually you’d be irritated by that. But now you jump to your feet, accidentally splashing a little bit of noodle juice all over your already stained sweater. You swipe distractedly at it, but don’t pay it too much mind as you push your swivel chair back.

“You need help?” You ask, your voice coming out much too loud.

Quaritch glances up at you with him brow furrowed. You must sound off, because his ears twitch and his tail curls as he eyes you – a little hint of shame blooms in your stomach as you watch his sharp golden eyes take in your unwashed hair, dirty sweater, and no-doubt frantic expression.

“Jesus, kid.” He says, “When’s the last time you showered?”

Okay, that just adds salt to the wound. You wince.

“I’ve been busy.” You say lamely, trying not to feel like a big crusty loser. “Do you need help or not?”

Quaritch is still eyeing you doubtfully, but his ears are still twitching in a way that honestly looks a little adorable. It’s body language that you’re quite certain means something, but you’ve never looked into Na’vi anthropology before.

“This needs fixin’.” He says bluntly, holding a datapad up.

You blink at it. The screen has been absolutely decimated. The glass is smashed in spider-webbed patterns, little shards of the screen falling off of it, and the metal back of it is all bent out of shape.

“What happened?” You ask, staring at it in disbelief; it looks like someone had driven over it with a tank.

“Wainfleet.” Quaritch says simply. He lifts and drops a single shoulder, as though he’s not bothered to commit to the full movement.

“Right,” You breathe, shooting what you hope is a surreptitious glance towards Todd. He’s still watching, with wide eyes. “Um…”

Quaritch is watching you too, his tail swishing impatiently behind him as he waits for your answer. Their dual stares are making you feel shifty, and you shove your hands nervously into your pockets as you try your best to avoid eye contact. Fuck, you want to sink through the floor right now.

You need to get out of here, your skin itchy with aggravation and embarrassment. You reach out to grab the broken datapad out of Quaritch’s hand. It’s even worse up close, and you give him another look of faint disbelief; you don’t even think fixing it is possible. You’ll just have to commission him a new one.

You glance up to tell him this, and accidentally make eye contact with Todd.

His eyes are darting between you and the Colonel, and he mouths “Him?” at you with a look of astonishment.

It takes you a moment to realise what Todd is asking – he thinks the Colonel is the boyfriend you lied about? Is fucking stupid?

And yet…

In a moment of thoughtless panic, you give a jerky nod. You’ll regret the lie later, maybe, but for now you just need to get out of here.

Todd turns his head and stares up at the Colonel with a slightly dumbstruck expression, and you can feel yourself flush as you realise that he’s trying to picture how that might work.

“I’m finished my shift, I’ll fix it in the commissary if you buy me another coffee.” You mutter, already pushing past Quaritch with the datapad in hand.

His eyebrows raise, obviously confused about where you’re going since you almost always fix his shit here, but you can hear his big footsteps following along behind you as you head for the door.

You hardly even breathe until you’re out in the corridor, and then you cover your face with your hands and let out a muffled shriek into your palms. Fuck, you handled that so badly. You’re undernourished and sleep deprived, and you swear your brain isn’t working properly, because what were you thinking?

The door slides shut, and you can hear Quaritch’s footsteps, but he says nothing as you have your silent little breakdown by the wall.

“Damn, sweetheart.” He says at last, his tone mixed with disbelief and amusement. “You are just one hot mess, aren’tcha? What’s the matter with you?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” You mumble into your palms.

There’s a moment of silence, then Quaritch clicks his tongue. You’re afraid to look up and see his face; you’re sure that you’ll see a look of mingled disgust and horror.

God, you wish you had least showered before he saw you, but you’ve just worked a near 20-hour shift and you feel half-dead, so showering is way down on your to-do list. The first thing you need to do is sleep, but before you can do that you need to sort out Quaritch’s stupid data-pad.

“Alright.” Quaritch says, reaching out to push at your shoulder with his big index finger. “Come on, kid. Let’s get you that goddamn coffee.”

You grumble into your hands but don’t protest as Quaritch pushes you into motion, using that index finger pressing into your back to guide you towards the canteen. He doesn’t say a word, and you’re too afraid to look at his face.

The canteen is mostly empty when you enter, and the very few people who are lingering around take one look at the looming figure of Quaritch before promptly hurrying their way out of the room.

You’re left almost entirely alone with the Colonel, and you’re shifty and grumpy and embarrassed as you settle into one of the plastic tables. Quaritch taps on the tables once with his knuckles before leaving you sitting there as he goes to get coffee.

God, you want to sink into the ground and die. You wonder if you should take this moment while Quaritch is gone to run back to your work room just to tell Todd that there had been a little mix-up, that you hadn’t really intended to insinuate that you and Quaritch were involved in any way.

But then Quaritch returns, and you lose your chance. Not that you were seriously considering going back to explain things to Todd, but still.

“So, can you fix it?” Quaritch asks in a drawl, plopping a styrofoam cup of steaming coffee down on the table in front of you.

“What?” You ask distractedly.

“The datapad.” He gestures at the wrecked piece of technology. You had almost forgotten you were holding it, and you place it down on the table beside you.

“Oh. No, obviously not.” You say, glancing at the smashed datapad. “You’ve totally wrecked it. I’ll get another one commissioned for you tomorrow.”

Quaritch hums, satisfied with that. “So, what, you just wanted to spend some time with me, is that it?”

You choke, surprised. You almost knock the coffee over, your fingers going clumsy with embarrassment.

“No,” You snap. “I just—high rank officers get better coffee. You should see the shit served to us tech grunts; it’s gross.”

The stupid bastard looks amused. He’s watching you with his big golden eyes, and his ears twitch every couple of minutes. To your great irritation, you think he looks adorable – like a big blue cat. The illusion only lasts for as long as he doesn’t speak, which of course means that it doesn’t last long at all.

“Mhm.” He rests his chin in the palm of his hand, his tail coiling coyly as he watches you. “Whatever you say, sweetheart. I think you just like being alone with me.”

“I—I do not!” You protest, mortified. “It’s not my fault that you practically harass me with all your stupid broken tech!”

He snickers, as if he finds your outrage funny.

“Sure, kid.” He leans back in his chair, and even sitting down you feel as though the sheer bulk of his body is dwarfing you. “Now, you gonna tell me what crawled up your ass?”

You’re certain your face must be making your mortification perfectly clear, but you struggle to control your expression all the same. There is nothing on this planet that could convince you to explain that you had inferred to your co-worker that you and Quaritch were in some sort of relationship, and so you end up curling up awkwardly on your rickety chair like a child, tucking your knees up against your chest.

“No.” You grumble.

He snorts, and his ears flick again. “Try that one again.”

You fiddle with the over-long sleeves of your stupidly big sweater, flustered and clumsy under his gaze. You’re mortifyingly aware of the stains on your clothes, and your unwashed and messy hair, and the dark bags under your eyes. You half-wish that you looked better, but then again you know that he’s definitely seen you looking worse.

“I had a long night-shift.” You mutter, hugging your knees. “Spent the whole night fixing all of the stupid mistakes Todd made during the day-shift. I haven’t slept in like three days.”

Quaritch doesn’t look particularly sympathetic, but at least he doesn’t mock you. Maybe he can sense your exhaustion, but his amusement doesn’t falter and his fingers continuously drum an uneven rhythm on the tabletop.

“Yeah, I might’ve guessed that.” He murmurs, his big eyes tracking over your face critically. “But that’s not all, is it? C’mon, kid, out with it.”

You fiddle with the cuff of your sleeve, avoiding his eyes. “Mm…”

“C’mon, you look even worse than usual,” He points out, and you scratch self-consciously at a noodle broth stain on your chest. “And you looked as spooked when I walked in on you. I take it that it wasn’t me that startled you like that, huh?”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, growing all hot and prickly with embarrassment. Maybe if you give him just enough of the truth to be convincing, but not enough to be humiliating, he’ll let this go and you can sort this whole misunderstanding out with Todd tomorrow.

“Todd, um…” You start haltingly. “Took me by surprise, is all.”

Quaritch’s fingers go still on the tabletop, and his eyebrows raise incrementally. “… Oh yeah? How’s that?”

Oh, his judgemental tone is even worse than you had been expecting. You have to fight a wince. God, why couldn’t the conversation have just stuck to technology?

“He, uh, he asked me out for drinks.” You say, keeping your eyes fixed on a couple of loose threads on your sweater sleeve, “And I said no, because Todd is kind of a jackass, but now I think things are gonna be awkward—”

Quaritch raises his eyebrows, an odd sort of expression on his face as he lifts his mask to his face to take a quick sip of air before dropping it to hang around his neck again.

“So what, he wouldn’t take no for an answer?” He drawls, sounding half bored and half amused. “The nerd’s some kinda pervert?”

Ugh, you feel all hot and prickly with embarrassment right now. It feels a little surreal to be having a conversation about your romantic life (or severe lack of it) with Quaritch, and you’re only telling him part of the story.

“He’s not that bad, he’s just useless.” You mutter. “But, um… that’s all.

His gaze is so intense it feels like it’s burning right through you. “Anything else?”

“No.” You mumble, avoiding his stare. It feels like he’s looking right through you.

A long moment of silence. And then a careless shrug.

“Alright.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ

Quaritch jabs his finger at the screen of his shiny new datapad. It’s a sturdy thing, he notes with amusement. Seems like you had gone out and found a reinforced one, just for him.

Sweet, He thinks, his mouth curling a little.

You’re such a thorny little thing, always so aggravated and grumpy, and he always gets a kick out of seeing your reactions when he comes to you with any problems for you to sort. You always look as though you’re barely awake, under-nourished and surviving solely off of bad coffee and vacuum-packed instant noodles, and you always mutter so grouchily under your breath when he arrives with the pieces of tech he needs you to fix.

You’ve got such a foul mouth, too – most of the time you don’t seem to realise that he can hear you when you grumble insults under your breath thanks to his new big-ass Na’vi ears.

Shouting draws his attention, and he raises his head to see Fike and Wainfleet wrestling as they both try to get the other into a headlock. Quaritch purses his lips as he watches them, debating with himself whether or not to interrupt them. He eventually decides to let them be, though he watches them to make sure they don’t get too rowdy.

He clicks his way into his emails, and wonders absently how irritated you’d get if he showed up in your little tech lair to ask you to reset his password again. He always gets a little kick out of your eye rolls and annoyed little frowns.

He checks the time; 8.37pm. He’s not ever going to admit it to anyone, but he knows your schedule well by now. You’re on the day-shift today, no doubt tired and crabby from your long hours, but the night-shift will soon be underway. You’ll be alone in that tiny little office all by yourself. His lips quirk at the thought.

He gives into the temptation, and pushes himself to his feet. He’s pretty sure that his impulse control has gotten far worse since he had woken up in this stupid blue body, but it’s not as though he’s actually trying to stay away from you anyway.

He likes a woman with a bit of bite, and you smell good, and he gets a kick out of antagonising you until your face is all screwed up into that annoyed little grimace you do. So why not indulge a little?

His squad glance up at him as he stalks towards the door, but they’re wise enough to keep their comments to themselves. At least, mostly.

“Going to see your little girlfriend, boss?” Z-Dog drawls, a smug grin growing across her face.

Quaritch shoots her a look, but doesn’t bother to make any kind of reprimand. He hasn’t been particularly subtle about his interest in you, after all, and he doesn’t mind a bit of friendly ribbing from his team so long as they don’t cross any lines.

“Watch it.” He says without heat. There’s no point making any pretences when everyone knows where he’s headed.

The short exchange has caught the attention of Walker, who is already grinning.

“Rumour has it you’ve made it official.” She says, leaning forward and waggling her eyebrows like a jackass. “Didn’t take you for a romantic, sir.”

And… that gives Quaritch pause.

“Rumour?” He repeats. Though his voice remains level, he is certain that the twitch of his ears reveals his interest.

There is some deep, strange part of him that preens at the insinuation. It’s definitely the result of some stupid deep-seated instinct built into this goddamn big alien body – he can feel his tail swish with the satisfaction of knowing that others recognise that he has some sort of claim on you.

Both women are laughing now, snickering and sending each other knowing little glances that irritate him. His tail lashes, waiting with diminishing patience for an explanation.

“Sure,” Z-Dog drawls, popping that damn gum. “Apparently, that sleazy little guy that works with her was telling the guys in mechanics that your nerd told him that you’re her boyfriend.”

Quaritch’s expression may remain impassive, but his tail lashes out of his control behind him. You had said that? That doesn’t sound like you at all.

The memory of you sitting in front of him in the canteen only a few mornings ago comes back to him; you were so small and grumpy and irritated, but anyone could have seen that you were also spooked about something. He had taken your explanation at face value; that the little creep you work with had asked you out. But now it seems there was something more to it.

“That so.” He says slowly, rolling his shoulders.

A slow, pleased smile of his own is beginning to grow on his face. Such a sweet little thing, deep down, he thinks smugly to himself. Should’a known.

“I’ll be back later.” He says, stepping away.

He can hear the quiet snickers he’s leaving behind him, but they’re wise enough to keep their comments to themselves until he’s out of earshot.

He can’t help the smug sway of his tail as he shoulders his way out of the Recom sector, nor the way his damn ears keep twitching. This body is still unfamiliar to him – while he relishes the strength and agility that his new body provides, the absolute inability to conceal what he’s thinking because of these new appendages is infuriating.

Your little work room is almost hidden, all tucked away down a narrow corridor that hardly anyone ever frequents. This means that Quaritch is able to slip down the hall unseen, which is a rarity these days now that he’s near ten feet tall.

Your shitty little room is empty when he pushes his way in, and Quaritch feels a momentary flash of satisfaction. You must have gone to get yourself a cup of coffee to wake yourself up before the end of your shift; this gives him enough time to position himself for your return.

He’ll admit that he’s always had a flare for the dramatic. He chooses the low, drab-looking couch that’s all set up in the corner of the room, and settles himself in on it. The springs creak ominously beneath his weight and the worn couch cushions dip right down, but it holds. He allows his legs to spread wide as he makes himself comfortable, his eyes fixed on the door as his ears prick up alertly.

It doesn’t take long for you to return, and when the door finally slides open Quaritch notes with immense satisfaction that you’re holding a chipped mug filled with coffee in your hand.

You freeze at the sight of him, your eyes flaring wide, before you visibly force yourself to relax.

“Colonel?” You say, and you almost sound calm but for the slight tremble in your voice.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He says, drawing the nickname out. “Long day?”

You gape, and Quaritch enjoys the look of bewildered surprise on your face before you manage to cover it up. Your fingers are twitching around your cup of coffee, and you swallow in a compulsive sort of motion.

Quaritch lets his eyes wander over you, lazily perusing your body. You’re wearing one of those stupid baggy hoodies you favour and a pair of soft baggy sweatpants, your body shapeless beneath your over-sized clothes. You look tired, your eyes a little bloodshot from staring into your screen all day, but your fingers drum nervously on the chipped ceramic of your mug.

“What are you—what are you doing here?” You ask, taking a slow uncertain step into the room.

Quaritch watches you move, and he can’t stop his tail from coiling in anticipation. You’re usually so crabby and grouchy, to see you all wide-eyed and uncertain like this sends a little bolt of excitement right between his legs.

He reaches out an arm to gesture you forward. “”C’mere.”

For a moment you don’t move, and Quaritch wonders if he’s going to have to stand and get you. But then you shuffle forward, if a little hesitantly, and he feels a smug smile begin to tug at his lips. Under all that bite you’re a good girl when it matters, though he can tell your obedience comes reluctantly.

“If you need help resetting your password or—or unlocking your datapad or something, come back tomorrow. I’m—I’m finished my shift soon, I don’t have time—”

Quaritch isn’t listening. That sweet scent of yours has just hit his nose, and he feels his ears twitch in response. Fuck, you smell so good. What the fuck is that about?

It doesn’t have the artificial acridity of a perfume, which means that the syrupy headiness is all you, all natural. Goddamn. He wants to bury his whole face in your hair – he’s pleased to note that you’ve showered since the last time he’s seen you, too.

“Thought you’d be happy to see me,” He says smugly, interrupting whatever the hell you had been rambling about. “Thought you’d wanna spend a little private time with your boyfriend.”

And oh, the way you freeze is just perfect. You look so startled, like a rabbit caught in a trap. Your breath catches, your eyes widen, your mouth drops open. He could just eat you right up.

And then you’re scrambling, your eyes all wild and horrified.

“Oh my god, listen, I can explain—”

Quaritch raises a finger lazily, and feels a thrill of slow satisfaction when you choke into silence at the quelling gesture. He reaches over and pats the threadbare couch cushion next to him, raising a brow as he waits for you to come closer.

And though you’re visibly hesitant and mortified, you do approach slowly like a skittish animal, as though you can’t help it. There’s really not much space left on the couch; he’s man-spreading hard, his knees splayed out wide as he stretches out, but you still approach and hover nervously near his left knee.

His senses are dialled up to a hundred in this new body, and he can practically feel the way your throat bobs as you swallow nervously.

“Sit beside me, kid.” He says, and his voice comes out in an unintentionally low purr.

You’re still clutching that damn coffee like a lifeline, holding the chipped ceramic mug to your chest even as you lower yourself to perch nervously at the edge of the couch beside him. You look delightfully nervous, and he grins lecherously at the sight. Cute.

“Listen, I didn’t mean to—it was a big misunderstanding.” You say. Your usually grumpy voice is missing, replaced with an uncertain wavering tone. “I was so, so sleep deprived, and I hadn’t eaten properly in so long, and Todd was just—he wasn’t taking no for an answer, so I lied and said that I had a boyfriend, and I thought that we could just leave it at that but then you walked in to annoy me like you always do, and then Todd thought that I had been talking about you—”

Quaritch listens with a crooked smile, making no effort to hide his amusement. You appear so frazzled, practically swallowed up by your over-sized hoodie as you bluster your way through a panicked explanation.

He reaches out and lays his arm against the back of the couch, resting it around your little form. You twitch, tilting your head back to stare up at him with wide eyes, but you don’t actually pull away from him.

Quaritch doesn’t actually give a shit about your explanation. He doesn’t need to hear it. Even if it was unintentional, you’ve been spreading around a rumour that you’re his little girlfriend.

“You been sleeping?” He asks, interrupting you mid-blabber.

You blink at him, clearly trying to stifle your irritation at being interrupted. He’s tickled by the little flash of fire in your eyes.

“Have I been—what?” You snap, clearly thrown off.

Quaritch doesn’t normally like repeating himself, but he enjoys the way you look when you’re floundering.

“I asked if you’ve been sleeping, kid.” He repeats, making a show of slowing his words right down. “You look a mess.”

Your hand twitches, as though you’re moving to try and touch your hair before you quickly redirect and bury your hands in the long sleeves of your hoodie. Your eyes dart away, as though you’re embarrassed.

“I… I’ve been working some overtime.” You mutter, fidgeting. “Todd fucked up some of the systems I coded, so I’ve had to pull some long hours to try and fix it.”

It’s far from the first time you’ve mentioned your limp-dick, useless puke of a co-worker, and he feels his brows pull together in a frown. He can’t help but wonder how the hell someone so useless has held down a job for so long, but then he supposes that you’ve been hauling ass trying to fix all his mistakes.

He clicks his tongue, then reaches out and settles his hand at the back of your neck. You seem so tiny under his fingers, and he has to stifle his reaction at the sight.

“You’re just too sweet, aint’cha?” He rumbles, and feels his tail twitch. “Helpin’ that little loser out like that.”

He sees the breath stutter in your chest, sees you chewing uncertainly at your lower lip, and feels himself stiffen in his fatigues. His teeth ache; he wants to sink his canines into the squishy flesh of your thighs.

“It’s my job.” You say. Your tone is dry, but his ears twitch when he hears the slight shake in your voice.

“Nah, it ain’t.” He says slowly, allowing his fingers to curl around your neck as his palm rests at the top of your spine. “It’s his job you’re doing. Waste of your time, honey.”

He feels you shiver under his hand, and his grip tightens incrementally around the back of your neck.

“Someone has to do it,” You say, and though you sound defensive your voice wavers adorably. “I don’t want to get in trouble over Todd’s mistakes.”

Quaritch can’t help the wolfish grin that grows on his face. Oh, you don’t want to get in trouble. You might just be the cutest little thing he’s seen in his whole life – both of his damn lives.

“Mhm, you won’t.” He says, a little gruffly. He’s beginning to grow a little distracted, losing track of the conversation; you smell good, sweet and a little spicy, and he wants so badly to take a peek at what you look like under those damn baggy clothes.

You glance over at him, obviously about to say something before your eyes drop, then widen a little bit.

Ah, he thinks to himself, silently amused. You’ve noticed, then.

He keeps his legs spread wide, crowding into your space and throwing into relief the way that his hardened cock is tenting the fabric of his fatigues. The size difference between you and him only makes his erection look even bigger, and the obscenity of it gets him going even more.

He can feel the sharp breath you take, and he watches the way your eyes hastily dart away. You look bashful, and yet you don’t move away. His thigh presses against you, and your gaze visibly darts down to the bulge visible in his pants. You look a little mortified, but Quaritch can see the poorly hidden interest in your eyes.

He runs his thumb over the curve of your neck and the junction of your shoulder, and watches the goosebumps that raise on your soft skin.

“Tell me about this little white lie you’ve told.” He murmurs, his voice coming out in a deeper rumble than he had intended.

You swallow, then take a shaky breath.

“I didn’t mean to,” You breathe. “Really, it just—what I told you before was mostly true. Todd was asking me to go for drinks, he wouldn’t take no for an answer and I just—I just panicked, and I said I was with someone, but then he asked me who it was, and then you walked in here and he just assumed before I could really say anything—”

“Mhm.” Quaritch watches your face as you speak, enjoying your flustered panic.

“And then it all just snowballed, and people have been asking me in the corridors if it’s true – people I don’t even know—!” You seem genuinely horrified.

“You told people we’ve been fucking, hm?” Quaritch asks, just to watch you react.

You don’t disappoint; your mouth drops open, you take a sharp little inhale, and let out a scandalised sort of gasp.

“No, I didn’t—I didn’t say that—”

“But that’s what they’re thinking, honey.” He says, his eyes darting from your pretty little face to the way the soft skin of your shoulder yields under his stroking thumb. “Is that why you said it? Because you’ve been thinking of that too? Hm?”

You swallow thickly, your throat clicking, and shake your head. But you’re not meeting his eyes, and you’re fidgeting with your ridiculously long sleeves, and he swears he can see a bead of sweat forming on your temple. 

He reaches out and lays a hand on your thigh, letting his fingers curl around your soft flesh. Your leg twitches, but you don’t move away. You’re clutching that damn cup of coffee like it’s a lifeline, darting glances at him over the rim. You’re nervous, and the departure from your usual grumpiness is a novelty that he can’t get over.

Then you shift where you’re sitting, and Quaritch’s oversensitive nose twitches, picking up on a new scent.

Oh, he knew it. Beneath your usual sweet smell is something a little spicy, like brown sugar mixed with a kick of hot rum, and he swears he feels his cock pulse as the scent fills his nose.

You’re horny. He can smell it off you – and he can’t help the cocky grin that tugs at his mouth at the realisation.

That’s all he needs to take the next step.

He takes the hand that’s been resting on the back of your neck and brings it to his belt buckle, undoing it in one deft movement before unzipping his pants. He’s confident, but he watches your face carefully all the same; you’re a jumpy little thing, and he doesn’t want to scare you away at this point.

But it doesn’t startle you at all. In fact, if you had ears like him then he’d put money on them being pricked up right now, because you’ve turned to watch as his palm settles over the tent in his pants.

Quaritch grunts quietly as he presses the heel of his hand into his hardened cock through his pants, and the electric jolt that runs up his spine is only heightened when he sees the way your eyes have gone dark as you watch him.

His other hand squeezes lightly where it’s still resting on your thigh, and he gets to watch as you take a breath and squirm.

“Come on, kid.” He says, bending his head down so he can murmur into your ear. “Where’s all your usual bite?”

He punctuates the word with another squeeze, this one higher up on your thigh, right at the softest part, and he’s rewarded with a little jolt.

“I don’t—” You start to say, but then you stop and start again. You look more uncertain than he’s ever seen you, all wide-eyed and nervous. “Am I in trouble?”

He has to take a breath before he can answer you – the urge to put you on your back under him is growing overwhelming.

“For what?” He asks, nose twitching with the strength of the scent of your sweet-spicy arousal.

You’re frowning now, and he finds himself pleased to see that little furrow in your brow again. He has to admit, he likes it when you’re irritated with him. He’s always liked women with a little fire in them, even if you’re an awkward little recluse that hides away from society like a damn gremlin.

“For lying.” You say, and there’s an edge to your voice now as though you’re getting antsy. “About you. Being with me, I mean.”

He huffs a short laugh, and uses the opportunity to take a slow deep breath from the respirator hanging around his neck. He drops it after a beat, then reaches out to take you by the wrist instead. You’re so small under his big hands, and he’s so aware of how fucking delicate your bones feel; he could break you in two if he’s not careful.

He keeps his grip light as he guides your hand to his crotch, but you hardly need any guidance at all – as soon as he starts to move your hand, you move of your own volition. Your palm is tiny and soft when it lands on the outline of his hard cock, the touch so light that he hardly feels it at all.

“Does it feel like that’s something I’m mad about?” He rumbles, unable to disguise the amusement in his voice.

You swallow, and your hand tightens compulsively. Quaritch hums at the feeling, then rocks his hips up slightly to encourage you.

Your eyes dart up to his face, clearly trying to read him. He just raises an eyebrow; as far as he can see, this ain’t a complex situation. He’s sitting next to you with a cock as hard as a steel rod, and he can smell how wet your pussy is even through those baggy pants of yours. There’s surely only one natural conclusion to this situation, and it’s one that he’s hungry for.

“Go on,” He grunts. “Keep going.”

For a moment, it’s not clear what you’ll do. You just watch him, brow furrowed, hand still resting over his clothed cock. Quaritch watches you right back, waiting for you to make your choice. It feels like the two of you are teetering on a precipice, just waiting for one of you to topple over the edge and drag the other down with them.

Then you make your decision.

You slide off the couch and set your cup of coffee on the floor by the couch, and for a moment Quaritch thinks that you’re going to curse at him and march right outta there. But then you surprise him; you sink to your knees, right in front of him, in between his spread thighs.

“Oh?” He hums, flashing his sharp fangs at you in a grin.

“Shut up.” You say defensively.

He laughs, but says nothing further. He’s not stupid enough to ruin his chances of getting his dick wet for the first time since he’s woken up in this stupid blue body, so he just settles back and makes himself comfortable on the shitty, tiny little couch and spreads his legs wide to make room for you.

Your body is practically dwarfed by his muscled thighs, and Quaritch bites at his lip to try and suppress his smug smile as you reach clumsily into his briefs to pull his cock out. You’re a little uncoordinated, no doubt as a result of nerves, but that just makes it all the more endearing.

He’s big, thick in your small hand. Almost ridiculously so. You hold him in both of your soft little palms, staring at his cock with a look of blank surprise. It looks like you’re wondering as though you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.

Quaritch waits a beat, then after a moment of inaction he grunts and rocks into your hand. Your fingers squeeze tight on reflex, and he revels in the momentary jolt of pleasure.

But then you pause, loosen your grip just slightly, and give him an exploratory sort of stroke before looking up to his face as though searching for approval. When he just raises an eyebrow, you appear flustered.

“I… I don’t know what to do with this.” You confess, still holding his weighty cock in your small hand.

The nervous furrow of your brow and your tentative, uncertain touch is only making his cock throb harder. He’s never seen you so hesitant before, so eager to please.

“Never seen a cock before, baby?” He asks, his voice a little gravelly from arousal.

You laugh, but it’s a shaky thing. “It’s—it’s been a while.”

A bit of apprehension begins to sneak through his haze of lust.

“You a virgin, kid?” He asks. God, he hopes you’re not a virgin. There’s little to no chance of him being able to successfully jam his cock into you if you’re as innocent as you’re acting right now.

You roll your eyes, but he can see that you’re all embarrassed. “No. It’s just—like I said, it’s been a while.”

“Mhm.” He eyes you, not entirely convinced. “How many men have you been with?”

You lower your eyes back to his cock, still holding him with both of your hands. You’re all bashful now, your little hands flexing around the thick length of his erection.

“Two.” You mutter self-consciously, glancing up at him again to see his reaction.

Ah. Well, aren’t you just perfect. You’ve already had your little cherry popped, but you’re still inexperienced enough to look a little lost as you kneel between his legs.

“You sucked a cock before?” He asks, schooling his expression into one of sympathy.

“Yes,” You say, a little too defensively. “I’ve—once.”

Once. Quaritch feels excitement unfurl in his belly. You’re such a thorny and grouchy little thing, he can imagine you keeping yourself all holed up in this shitty office of yours, losing yourself in all your screens and monitors and programmes, and shying away from real meaningful human interactions. God, he wants to ruin you.

“Go on, then. Try with your mouth.” He says, leaning back and making himself comfortable as he looks down at you.

You take a breath, and your small hand grips the base of his cock firmly. It’s as thick as a soda can, and he can’t help the smug satisfaction that swells when he sees the size difference between him and you.

His equipment is all still new to him, so he can only imagine how strange it must be for you. He’s messed around with himself a couple times, tugging at his blue cock and examining the little white dots that speckle the skin and glow and pulse as his arousal grows, but it’s different having someone else touch him like this. He feels like a raw nerve, more sensitive than he’s ever been as a human – maybe it’s because all his senses are primed, every nerve and synapse firing and alert and directed towards you.

He just — fuck — he looks so big in your hands. 

The moment he sees this, blood rushes to his cock at almost painful speed. He didn’t think he could get harder, but his new young body keeps surprising him. He watches your small mouth part with glossy lips as it keeps growing bigger and bigger in your hand, until a trace of apprehension flashes on your face. 

“What, can’t take it?” He drawls. After all these months of seeking you out, he knows the best way to wheedle anything out of you is by appealing to that stubborn streak in you.

And sure enough, you set your jaw and scowl. “I can!”

Then you’re leaning forward and your small pink tongue is flicking out to lick the smearing precum from his tip.

Quaritch hisses, his head tilting back.

“Fuck,” He says, reaching out to lay his hand on the back of your head. His palm spans the whole back of your skull, like he can hold your whole head one-handed. “Just like that. Take it deeper.”

For the first time ever, you don’t try to talk back or roll your eyes or grumble under your breath. You’re too preoccupied with trying to fit the big head of his cock into your mouth without scraping it with your teeth, your brow furrowing in concentration.

“That’s it, good girl, keep going.” He grunts, his stomach flexing with the effort it’s taking not to buck up and force himself down your throat.

You take the encouragement in stride, inhaling sharply through your nose as you try to do as he says. He reaches out to caress your soft cheek with his knuckles, and grins when you gargle weakly as you struggle to wrap your lips around the thick length.

You don’t know what you’re doing, that’s obvious, but goddamn if you’re not trying. Quaritch exhales through his nose as he uses his hand on the back of your head to keep you bobbing your mouth over him. Your hand lies forgotten on his shaft as you devote your whole focus to not gagging. Though inexperienced, he can see an excited sort of gleam in your eye as you suckle at the tip of his cock. Your tongue is so small and hot and wet, and the texture of it feels so damn good against him.

He feels more like a teenager than ever before when you suck the tip of his cock back into your sweet mouth, the first mouth he's ever felt on his cock in this body. He's transfixed as he watches your lips tighten around him. He can feel your tongue moving along the underside of his cock and he bites his lip. 

When you try to swallow his cock down, the feeling of your small tongue squirming over the vein running along the underside of his length nearly has him reeling.

You choke, and spit bubbles out over your chin as it coats his cock.

“Jesus, kid.” He sighs, spreading his thighs wider and laying his arms across the back of the little threadbare couch. His fingers curl into the understuffed couch cushions as he tries to repress the urge to grab onto your hair and buck his cock down your throat.

You glance up at him, your slick glossy lips stretched around the bulbous tip of his cock as your eyes water. Fuck, you make for such a pretty little sight like this. Quaritch has never had much of an imagination, but he knows that this trumps anything he’s beaten his cock to over the past several months.

You lower your head and swallow his fat cock once more, taking only a fraction of it but still struggling. Your eyelashes are all clumped together and shiny as you blink rapidly to clear the tears forming as your eyes water furiously. You barely make it a quarter of the way down before you gag and sputter.

Quaritch hisses, his lips pulling off his teeth as he feels the wet heat of your throat constrict and convulse around his dick.

You pull away coughing, spit and pre-cum cover your pretty mouth as your chest heaves, trying to catch your breath again.

“Well, shit,” He breathes, his big golden eyes darting over your messy face. “Ain’t you just gorgeous like this.”

You’re still coughing a bit from gagging on his cock, but he can see the way the praise hits you – your still glossy eyes brighten as they dart up to look up at him, and you roll your reddened lower lip between your teeth.

“Treating me so well, huh?” Quaritch grins, unable to help himself from teasing you. “Like a good little girlfriend.”

You look a little mortified at that, which is what Quaritch had hoped for, but you apparently decide the best course of action is to simply ignore him by flattening your tongue against his cockhead and licking at him again.

He hums in satisfaction as he watches you explore what he’s sporting between his legs. The sight of the cranky little tech analyst he’s been admiring for months taking his cock and treating it so well with those little hands... It has him leaking right into your mouth.

Your mouth is so wet, slick, and hot, and a shiver rips through him as you suckle at the pale purple head of his cock. He reaches out and places his hand on the back of your head, encouraging you to swallow him deeper. His toes curl inside his boots as he stifles the urge to fuck deep into your throat – you’re so delicate between his big thighs, he’s never been so aware of how easy it would be to break you.

It's probably the messiest blowjob he’s ever gotten in his life – either of his lives. You’re slobbering all over him, saliva dribbling all over your chin as you suck at him. The gagging and slurping noises pouring from you are enough to make a hooker blush, and you’re finally getting into the swing of it. You’ve started using your hands to touch him, jerking him off as you drool and suck at the head of his cock.

Your mouth is obscenely wet and hot and tight, your tongue wriggling against the underside of his cockhead, and Quaritch can’t help but imagine how much better your pussy will feel around him. He feels his ear flatten back against the side of his skull and his tail whips around his thigh as he feels the tension of an orgasm build in his stomach, but it’s too soon – he doesn’t want this to be over yet.

He reaches out and grips you by the back of your neck, pulling you away from his cock, and to his surprise you whine. The sound goes straight to his cock, and he feels his arousal throb.

“Colonel,” You whimper, and your voice comes out hoarse and wrecked. “I—”

“You can call me Miles when you’re sucking my cock like this, princess.” He says, before taking a grip of your arms and hauling you up onto the couch again.

You’re so damn small under him, and pulling you around like this comes so easily to him. He tosses you on the threadbare cushions beneath him and then looms over you, enjoying the size difference between you as he bullies your thighs apart.

“You and these goddamn clothes,” He grunts, pulling at your stupid baggy hoodie. “It’s like you’re wearing trash bags. You trying to dress like a fuckin’ nun?”

“No,” You gasp, wriggling under him as he tugs at your clothes. “They’re just—they’re comfy—”

Quaritch just grunts, but he finally manages to pull your hoodie off and he immediately tosses it aside. Despite all the looking he’s done over the last couple of months, he’s never actually seen you without the stupid shapeless sacks you insist on wearing. And right now, he’s never felt so fucking resentful of a pile of fabric, because goddamn.

Your underwear isn’t in the least bit sexy; worn cotton gone a little shapeless from being washed so many times and the colours a little faded. The elastic around the waistband of your underwear is gone loose too, and Quaritch can feel himself salivate when he sees the way the thin threadbare fabric is stuck to the outline of your slick pussy.

There’s something oddly endearing about seeing you like this, all laid out under him in your worn out and shapeless underwear. It’s so unsexy that it’s obvious that you haven’t planned for anyone to see you like this, which only makes him desire you more. His cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing like one great bruise between his legs.

“Just look at you, girl,” He rumbles, one of his sharp canines hooking over his lower lip as he tugs at your bra and watches your soft tits spill over the cups. “Fuck. Spread those legs, let me see you.”

“Oh my god,” You breathe, turning your head away from him and squeezing your eyes shut. You’re embarrassed, which is a reaction that Quaritch doesn’t have time for.

He reaches out and grips your chin, pulling your face back so he can look at you. His fingers look so big against your little face, and he leans in and presses a messy kiss to your spit-slick lips. He licks into your mouth, his wide rough tongue pulling a little shivery gasp out of your mouth.

“Spread your legs.” He repeats into your mouth, and this time you listen to him. Your thighs drop open, and he wastes no time in pulling your ill-fitting panties off of you.

He almost tosses them over his shoulder, but stops last minute. Your cotton panties are ugly, but there’s a certain charm about the faded floral print and worn elastic waistband, and before he can think too much about it he’s tucking them into the pocket of his pants. They smell like you, and he has no doubt that he’ll be using them later on when he tugs his cock to the memory of this encounter.

Next is your bra, and it falls victim to his rough grasping fingers as he grows impatient with the clasp and pulls a little too hard. The seam tears, and he pulls the scraps away and tosses it aside carelessly, ignoring your indignant gasp.

“Asshole!” You squawk, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get bras that fit on this damn planet—?”

You slap at his shoulder, and your little hand bounces off harmlessly. Adorable.

“None of your damn clothes fit,” He says dismissively. He’s not really listening to you; he’s too preoccupied staring at your soft tits, admiring the peaked nipples and the supple folds of your belly. “You don’t need to wear a bra. Can’t see anything under those stupid sweaters anyway.”

His enormous calloused hand paws at the fat of your breast, testing the weight of it in his palm and admiring the feel of it. He feels so large and rough, his body so huge and powerful and yet ungainly in the frenzy of his lust.

“You’re a fucking pervert.” You grit out through clenched teeth, though you still arch your back as he touches you.

And ah, there’s his snarky little loser.

“Never said I ain’t.” He says simply, leaning down and licking a wet stripe up the length of your breast.

You shiver, then gasp when he flicks your wet nipple afterwards.

 “You like that?” He teases, a finger tracing the sensitive underside of your breast.

“No.”

He laughs. “Liar. Your pretty little nipples are harder than my cock.”

You hiss at him, and it’s so similar to a Na’vi hiss that he’s actually surprised for a moment. But then he grins, and ducks down to kiss your tits again. He takes a swollen nipple between his teeth, practically taking the entire mound into his hungry mouth.

“Fuck,” You breathe, reaching up and interlocking your fingers around his neck. “Touch—touch me.”

Quaritch growls against your chest, taking his time kissing your tits. He leaves teeth marks on your delicate flesh and leaves your nipples coated with his saliva. He moved his lips back up to your panting mouth, slipping his hand between your thighs.

And Jesus fucking Christ, you’re wet. He drops his gaze to your pussy as he parts your labia with his thumb and pushes right up against you, and she’s so, so slick already, to the point where his thumb is already glistening with it. Fuck.

Distantly, he registers that you’re making some sort of noise, and he shushes you mindlessly, feeling a little wild. It’s hard to believe this is the same grouchy little tech analyst that he’s been eyeing up for months, here, lying in front of him, wet for him, moaning and squirming for him as he starts rubbing your clit with his index and middle fingers.

“How does it feel?” Quaritch asks. He slows his fingers enough to give you the chance to catch your breath, and you open your eyes from where they were just screwed tightly shut to stare up at him.

It takes you a second to focus on him and a second longer for words to leave your open mouth.

“Good,” You finally say, followed by a whimper as he rubs right over your clit. “It’s - it’s good.”

He hums at that, but he’s too preoccupied by the way his fingers are coated in your sticky slick to really pay much attention to your answer. He slips one of his big fingers inside of you, and his stomach clenches when he feels how tight you are around his single digit. You’re wet enough to make it a smooth slide, and god, but his patience is running out.

He hardly waits before sliding a second in; you squeeze your eyes shut and your nose scrunches, but you tolerate the stretch well.

That sweet-spicy scent of your arousal intensifies as you wriggle on his fingers, and he’s unable to stop himself from ducking his head down so that he can lean in and lap his tongue over your swollen clit. The tart taste of you bursts over his tongue, just to the side of sweet, and he rumbles out a pleased noise before licking at you again.

He knows that his tongue is different now, textured and rougher than it used to be as a human, and your legs jerk as he swirls his tongue around your clit again.

He’s been catching hints of this scent for months now, and he feels his erection strain at the idea that it was your slick pussy that he’s been scenting all this time. He drinks in your noises just as much as your taste; both are intoxicating, addictive, and if it wasn’t for the persistent arousal thrumming through his own body, he’d think he could do this forever.  

“Oh god,” You breathe, reaching down and tentatively running your fingers through his buzzcut. “Qua—Miles.”

The sound of first name falling from your tongue is better than he could have imagined. You’re starting to writhe, your hips trying to rut against his mouth even as he pins you down with his big hands. The noises that you’re making just from a little bit of licking to your clit are bordering on frantic, and he barely manages to keep from grinning as he sucks at your clit and works his tongue around your labia.

Unbelievably, it feels like you’re winding up to come already. It seems incredible that you, who’s always so sleep-deprived and tense and repressed, is currently humping your pussy against his tongue like a little fucking whore.

He slides a third big blue finger in, though it takes a bit of effort this time. You grunt and try to twist your hips to the side, but with the way Quaritch’s body is caging you in, there’s nowhere for you to move.

“Wait,” You gasp, your hips twitching, “Oh god, shit, wait, Miles, I’m gonna— fuck!”

You’re so sensitive and horny that it only takes a couple more strokes of his wide tongue for you to unravel. You let out a sob, shaking and quivering; your thighs tense around his head, pressing against his skull as your body goes rigid with the strength of your orgasm.

Your pussy squeezes tight around his fingers, growing impossibly wetter from the fluids of your release, and this tastes good too.

He groans as he laps you up, his much larger mouth almost swallowing you whole.

“That was quick, darlin’.” He murmurs, his slick lips sliding over your damp flesh.

You don’t even seem to hear him. Your gaze is unfocused, and there are faint tear tracks on your cheeks - a sight Quaritch never realized he would like as much as he does.

He chuckles at the dazed expression on your face, and pulls his wet fingers out of your cunt before letting them rest on his own tongue. You let out a soft sound of loss, though you watch him suck the taste of you off his fingers with wide, avid eyes as your gaze sharpens.

“When’s the last time you came, huh?” He asks, leaning in to murmur the words against the delicate shell of your ear. “’Cause that was a little too easy. You were too wound up, kid.”

You’re still trying to catch your breath from your orgasm, but you avert your eyes in embarrassment at the question. His interest piques.

“How often do you touch yourself?” He asks, stroking his hand down over your hip and squeezing lightly. “Hm?”

“I—” You say defensively, “I’ve been busy. I don’t have time for—for that!”

Good god, it’s like everything you say is specifically engineered just to make his cock pulse. You’re so disgruntled about the question, your little face all embarrassed and irritated even though your brow is smooth and your eyes are still a little hazy after your orgasm.

“Well then,” He murmurs, amused. “We’ll have to give you another couple to make up for that.”

You squeak when his thumb lands on the swollen flesh of your clit and rolls over it in confident little circles. “Wait, wait, I don’t—I’ve never come more than once in one go.”

“You will this time.”

His plan, as much as there is any plan left in his brain, is to get you off one more time before getting his cock into you. But now that he’s felt you around him, now that the slide of his fingers seems to be as easy as it’s going to get, he’s finding it difficult to wait.

But he curbs his impatience as well as he’s able to, and keeps rubbing at your clit. Your pussy has gone all puffy and creamy from your first orgasm, and the way you squeeze so tight around his fingers is sending him insane. At first you mewl and try to push at his wrist, but he’s bigger and stronger and doesn’t budge until you relax into him, overstimulation melting into pleasure all over again.

He loses track of time as he fucks you with his fingers, enamoured with the feeling of your velvet-soft walls. A thin film of sweat lays over your skin like a gloss, leaving you glowing in the unforgiving light of your little tech hub. You look so pretty like this, too young and too lovely for a dirty old man like him. It seems hard to believe you’re letting him do this, never mind reacting so positively.

When you start to let out those sweet little gasping breaths again, he leans in and swirls his tongue around your clit. Your legs jerk, one thigh splaying over his shoulder as your hips buck. Quaritch doesn’t let up, the movements of his tongue lazy and languid.

He pulls back, then spits on your pussy, watching your little body jerk under him.

He grins. “Oh, you like that?”

“No.” You choke out, but it’s unconvincing considering the way your eyes are practically rolling back in your head.

He laughs indulgently, letting his tongue loll against your clit. Despite your bratty attitude, he’s still set on making sure you come again. He’s feeling generous tonight.

“F-faster.” You demand, your voice coming out a little thready as you rock your hips back on his fingers.

He snickers again, his own breath coming out fast and a little ragged. “Fuck. You want me so bad, don’t you, kid?”

Your second orgasm creeps up on you faster than even Quaritch had expected. It washes over you in a shivery haze; your muscles convulse and you whine as your legs kick out.

He pulls back, licking his lips and grinning at the tart taste of you. He feels an immense sense of satisfaction, intense enough that it surprises him. He’s always felt a sense of pride when he’s succeeded in pleasuring his partners, but this is different. Your scent is thick in his nose, blocking out all his other senses, and it feels like he’s got tunnel vision right now. All he can focus on is you and your reactions to him, and what he sees soothes the jagged edges of his arousal for a brief moment.

He's never been so desperate to bury his cock into anyone in his living memory, but he’s careful to hold back. You’re still shivering and gasping, reeling as you twitch away from his insistent fingers.

“How’re we feelin’, mama?” He asks in a low voice, finally pulling back from you.

The distance allows him to regain a little clarity, but it also makes him aware of the painful strain of his erection as it hangs between his legs. His pants are still laying wide open and hanging low on his thighs, but the scratchy fabric of his clothes is beginning to feel unbearable on his overheated skin. He shoves the trousers down further, practically kicking his boots off so he can shed his pants completely, before turning his attention back to you.

“I feel..” You start to say, and your voice comes out pleasantly throaty in a way that makes his toes curl. “I feel like my muscles have turned to water.”

He chuckles, feeling his ego inflate yet again. “That good, huh?”

You roll your eyes, then push yourself up onto your knees on the couch beside him. You’re still breathing heavily, but you’ve lost some of the mistiness that had clouded your eyes. Now, you’re looking at him with an expression that’s a little wild, and hungrier than he’d expected considering he’d already given you two orgasms.

“I want you to fuck me.” You whisper, as bold as he’s heard you.

He’s not able to keep himself from wrapping a hand around his cock, squeezing lightly at the base. But despite the bass beat throbbing in his cock, he holds himself back. You’re so small, with your fragile bones and soft skin, and he really doesn’t want to accidentally kill you with his dick. He’s got to take this slow.

“Mhm.” He grunts. “When I’m ready to.”

A flash of irritation crosses your face. You’ve never liked being told ‘no’, and your lips twist into a pout. But that only lasts a second before it’s replaced by something a little more calculating, your eyes darting down to his cock.

His erection is as big as your forearm, and iridescent precome dribbles down the swollen lilac head. He’s expecting to see a flash of fear or apprehension at the idea of him fucking you considering the size difference, but your expression is pleased.

You reach out to touch it, much more confident and coy than earlier, and it’s shameful how the relief of your hand on him nearly knocks him flat.

“Oh, all this for me?” You coo, false sweetly. “Poor baby. You want me so badly.”

The mocking mirroring of his own words is his last straw. He moves, throwing you on your back on the couch under him so quickly he’s sure your head must be spinning. Oh, he’s going to make you regret that comment.

You squeak at the sudden movement, but your thighs are already spreading eagerly as he settles between your legs. That inexperienced nervousness from before is beginning to melt away, leaving you all breathless and restless as you wait for him to make another move.

“Hands and knees.” He directs you, and the order comes out with the same iron edge he usually uses for his squad. He watches as the words sink in, your breath hitching as a shiver runs through you.

You begin to roll over, and he reaches out to take your hips in his hands. He guides you over onto your stomach, then pulls your hips up so that you settle onto your knees with your ass in the air, your pussy visibly wet where it peeks from between your thighs.

“Jesus.” He mutters to himself. “Ain’t that a pretty sight.”

He shifts closer, putting his knees down on either side of your calves, and when he drapes himself over your back – or, really, over your whole body, with the way that the top of your head only reaches his chest – and slides his cock up against you, the helpless little sound that you make is nearly buried by his own groan.

He presses his cock against you, but doesn’t push in yet. He just lets himself relish the contact, the heat between your legs.

“In—put it in—” You gasp, your words muffled by the way your face is pressed into couch cushions.

“Shh, shut up. Just take a deep breath.”

He waits until he feels you obey, then plants one hand firmly on the couch, just next to your head, and the other on your back, and starts to push in—

– And it doesn’t work.

“You have to go slow.” You say, your voice small as Quaritch tries again to push inside.

“I am going slow— fuck.” He hisses, using his hand to position himself so he can try again, but you aren’t budging. “Too fucking tight—"

You make a noise like a wounded little animal, dropping your forehead down between your hands on the couch cushions as the tip of his cock presses into the tight ring of resistance at the entrance of your cunt.

To say the absolute least, it’s slow going. By the time that just the head of his cock is in, the edges of Quaritch’s vision is going black and your arms are starting to get shaky. You’re making soft, pained noises, but you’re not telling him to stop.

“Ungh.. Miles..” You croak, your fingers curling into the ratty couch cushions.

“Good girl,” He says mindlessly, hardly even aware of what he’s saying. “Take it, just like that.”

He rocks out, eases back in, rocks out, eases back in, back and forth and back and forth and moving a little further forward each time, until finally, finally, he’s pressed as deep inside you as he’s going to get. You’re gasping like you’re coming up from a long swim underwater. Even if he wanted to take it slow, Quaritch doesn’t know if he’d be able to.

You try to turn towards him, your mouth falling open with a silent gasp when your hips twist. You’re looking back over your shoulder at him with your eyes hooded and your jaw slack, your breathing pattern growing uneven and strained as he splits you open on his enormous cock.

“Too—too big—” You wheeze, your head dropping down between your folded arms.

He knows it’s mean of him, but he barely gives you a moment to adjust. You’re trembling, your back arched so perfectly as you practically present yourself to him, ass high in the air as he rocks himself inside of you inch by inch.

“Sh, shh… you’re doing fine.” He coaxes, pressing down on your shoulders to increase the angle of your arch for his own viewing pleasure.

You’re so warm and wet and if he thinks about the fact that the same little loser he’s been idly watching for months is currently crying out on his big new dick, his head starts to spin. You’re the tightest thing he’s ever stuck his cock in, and it feels like he’s cleaving his way through hot velvet.

“Just like that..” He groans, sinking a canine into his lower lip.

It takes a humiliating amount of effort not to come immediately upon feeling the slick hot grip of you around him – he’s reminded somewhat uncomfortably that he’s as good as a virgin in this new Recombinant body. He’s got his memories, alright, and they’re enough that he knows what he’s doing, but when it comes to the physical sensations they’re so much more intense than he remembers. He feels like a damn teenager again.

His ears are tucked flat against the sides of his head as he grinds into you, breathless as your body grips at him as though you don’t want to let him go. The scent of you is thick in his nose, and he feels his stupid neural queue tingle in a way it’s never done before.

“Am I—am I doing good?” You gasp. You’re visibly hanging onto his every word and noise, responding with an eager little whimper every time he lets out a groan or grunt.

“So good, baby,” He breathes, working himself back and forward just a single slow, hot inch. “So good for me. So good for—” 

Don’t, he thinks wildly. Don’t fucking say it.

You stare at him over your shoulder, holding his gaze like you’re urging him to say it out loud.

He gives in, resigns himself to the knowledge that he’s a pathetic, dirty old man.

“So good for Daddy, FUCK!” He practically yells it, curling his fingers into the couch cushions so harshly that his fingers tear through the shitty thin fabric into the stuffing.

You gasp, and he feels you clench down like a vice on him. Oh, you like that, he can tell by the way you squeak, how you go tight and gushy, how your lower lip quivers.  

“Nasty old man,” You hiss, though your ass arches higher to give him a better angle to fuck you with even as you grind your words out.

He gives a harsh, grinding thrust into you, and you promptly give up on looking over your shoulder at him as your elbows give out. You end up face down in the couch, your little fingers grasping at the grungy cushions.

He nearly slips out as you fall, and he quickly moves both hands back to grab onto your hips and hold you steady with a low, “Fuck.” Your hands are left to scrabble at the cushions below you, searching for purchase but failing to find it, and as he watches, a bit of drool slides from your mouth along with the helpless sounds being pushed out with each of his thrusts.

“Watch that mouth.” He warns, though he knows he doesn’t sound as harsh as he wants to. He’s sure that you’ve felt the twitch of his cock inside you in response to your name-calling, though that’s not something he’s willing to examine.

“Okay,” You wheeze, wriggling a little under him. It takes a moment for him to realise that you’re trying to fuck yourself back onto his cock. “I’ll be good, daddy.”

His head drops to your shoulder with a punched-out groan. Shit. He should have known calling himself that stupid name would bite him in the ass – hearing it come from your mouth might just be the hottest thing he’s ever heard.

 “Fuck.” He says, his voice gravelly and rough and more honest than he intends to be. “Can’t fuckin’ handle you calling me that, kid.”

He’s aware that he’s being a hypocrite, considering it was him who had said it in the first place, but he hadn’t considered the effect it would have on him. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten his dick wet, even when he was human – longer than he’s willing to think about. So to have a pretty little thing like you hanging off his dick and whining, calling him daddy as tears rolls down your cheeks, is pushing him right to his limit.

“Oh yeah? Is me calling you daddy gonna make you cream early, old man?”

Fucking hell. He’s always liked that smart mouth of yours, but right now he thinks it’s going to kill him.

He smacks his open palm against your ass, and the ‘crack’ of it echoes in the shitty little tech hub. You wheeze out a surprised gasp and rock forward with the force of it, but he can feel the way you clench down hard on him.

He adjusts himself so he’s fully over you, enveloping your body from above as he watches you take cock way too thick for you. You’re still trembling, glancing over your shoulder to watch him with glassy eyes, one of your hands reached between your legs so you can rub at your own clit. 

Quaritch drags his cock back, his eyes practically rolling back in his head as he feels your impossible tightness clutch at him, before pushing back experimentally. A little noise leaves your mouth and he can’t help himself. He does it again, slams back in — harder than he meant to.

You’re rocked forward, your hands grasping at the armrest of the couch in an attempt to grab some stability as you yowl. All that rigid tension and exhausted irritability has melted right out of you, to be replaced by desperate pleasure as you’re filled to the brim and pushed beyond your limits.

And then – he can’t help himself. He’s ruthless, fucking you so hard that you’re wailing with it. He can’t fit his whole cock inside you, you’re too small, but the part that he can get into you feels like it’s wrapped in buttery velvet, gripping him so tight.

You’re crying out for real, now, but you’re so wet that obscene, slick sounds are filling the room and it’s all he can hear. If he listens, he can make out some of the half-formed words falling from your mouth - “please, Daddy, please, please, feels good,” and so on and so forth like the best melody he’s ever heard. His ears twitch relentlessly, trying to pick up on every single sound you make, determined not to miss any of it.

He wants to leave you ruined, to leave you red and aching. Unable to walk without thinking of this, of him— of this whole encounter with him, of the way he has you used and crying on this dingy couch.

You reach back blindly as he fucks you, your little body taking him so well, and sink your nails into his thigh as he pistons his hips into you, your upturned ass making the angle so easy.

“Shit,” He hisses through his teeth, glancing down to see that your sharp little nails have drawn thin lines of blood from his thick blue thigh. “You’ve got fucking claws.”

You just whine in response, your face pressed into the couch as he ploughs into you, your legs twitching. It seems like you’ve sunk your nails into his thigh just so you can keep a grip on something.

The springs of the couch are squealing so loud that Quaritch has a brief, fleeting thought that the whole thing is going to collapse underneath the two of you. Between the grating noise of the springs and the gasping and babbling spilling from your lips and the soft squelching noises your pussy makes as his cock bullies its way in and out, he almost doesn’t catch the sound of the door opening.

But even though his senses are dialled up to eleven and directed at you, he’s still got enough situational awareness to realise that there’s someone standing in the doorway watching with a slack mouth.

It’s your co-worker. Tom. Or Troy. Something like that.

He barely spares the energy to send a glance his way, though he can’t help the sharp, smug grin that spreads over his face when he realises that your little loser co-worker is watching him fuck you with an expression of horrified and shocked fascination.

Quaritch has never been into voyeurism, but there’s a sense of bone-deep satisfaction that runs through him at the knowledge that this man, this challenger, is watching him claim you so thoroughly. His tail lashes as he humps into you, all hunched over your arched back so that he’s caging you beneath his big arms, and he glances over to the deadbeat in the door and bares his teeth at him.

Quaritch reaches under your belly to rub at your clit with one hand, using his other one to grab your hip, the flesh firm but supple and such a pleasure to squeeze, so he can fuck you harder and faster still. You cry louder for him, and he can’t tell who’s worshipping whom. It’s pure ecstasy, even despite the little worm watching you both in disbelief.

“Just for me, huh?” He snarls in your ear, his big fingers curling into the soft flesh of your hips. “This perfect fuckin’ pussy, mine. Fuckin’ mine.”

Beneath him, you make a soft, desperate sort of noise, drawing every gaze in the room to you – and you look nothing short of obscene. Your eyes are teary and unfocused, your face is flushed, your mouth is open and your lower lip bitten red, your pussy is wet and just this side of swollen. Quaritch dwarfs you in every way, and being above you like this, forcing your body to let him in and take him, is a sight that he suddenly feels grimly possessive over.

“Yes,” You sob, your finger scrabbling against the dingy couch cushions. “Y-yes, Miles, fuck—!”

Suddenly, he’s not so smug about someone else seeing you like this at all, especially not when it’s your loser co-worker that doesn’t take no for an answer that’s watching you with an open mouth and flushed cheeks.

The hiss that tears out of his mouth surprises even him – it’s born of pure instinct, a base urge rising out of the depths of his brain to get this motherfucker away from here.

Tom-Troy-Tim-whatever staggers back, eyes wide and frightened, before he promptly turns on his heels and flees, letting the door shut behind him again.

Below him, you don’t even seem to notice that there’s been a witness to your little rendez-vous. You’re too busy drooling as his cock carves out a space for himself inside you, mewling all soft and sweet as he strokes your clit.

“Perfect,” Quaritch says half-deliriously, “Perfect little slut. Doin’ so well, baby.”

He knows you’re a smart girl, and maybe that’s why seeing you all dumb and fucked out on his cock is so hot. It’s like all that sharp intelligence has been fucked out of you, replaced with nothing but the desperate desire to come as he pounds into you with your ass up in the air.

Liquid fire spreads from his loins, and he knows he’s close. It feels too good. He would open you up and crawl inside you if he could, just fuckin’ eat you from the inside out.

You glance over your shoulder, your eyes heavy-lidded and your lips shiny as you watch him fuck you from behind.

And then you speak, your voice throaty and teasing despite your dishevelled state. “Gonna come inside, daddy?”

And that’s his last straw.

His orgasm almost takes him by surprise, even with how long it’s been building. He holds you by the hips so tightly that it’ll be a miracle if you don’t bruise, and he snarls like a goddamn animal as he comes, emptying his balls deep inside you. He holds you there for a long, long moment, letting your tight, tight cunt squeeze around him for just a moment longer before the feeling starts to edge into something bright and oversensitive.

He starts to pull out, the head of his cock already sensitive, but you’re just so enticingly wet and soft and messy that he can’t help but thrust against you once more, his breath hitching.

You’re gasping softly yourself, sniffling and half-lifting your head from where you’d dropped it on the couch as he pulls out, but Quaritch doesn’t let you so much as get a single word out before he sits back on his heels.

He uses his hold on your hips to flip you around, so fast that all you can do is wheeze in surprise as he throws you onto your back beneath him. Then he pulls you up so that your pussy is right in his face, pulling a shriek out of you as he licks right over your clit and dripping wet cunt.

He mouths at you with a fervour, savouring the way your sweet-spicy taste mixes with his seed and bringing you to full-on sobs in between your moans. There’s something feral about his movements now, his thoughts clouded from his release – his arousal hasn’t yet abated, as though he’s still holding out for your release.

“Miles—oh fuck, it’s—I can’t—please!” You cry, and Quaritch just flicks his tongue over your clit and lets your words dissolve into nothing.

Some part of him recognises that he’s not usually so generous with his partners. He’s never been selfish; he always gets his partners where they want to be, always leaves them satisfied, but he’s never felt this all-consuming urge to leave his mark on someone like this before.

You’re a mess, squirming all over his face as though you can’t decide whether you want to move closer or further away. He holds you as steady as he can, not letting you get away as he suckles and licks relentlessly at you.

You cry out his name as you come, your pussy clenching around nothing and your hips rocking helplessly back against his face. It has his spent cock twitching from where it’s hanging heavy between his legs, his eyes practically rolling back in his head as he tastes your salty-sweet release on his tongue.

He presses one more kiss to your clit, just to make you choke on a small squeak of a sound, and then he pulls back to let you both catch your breath. Once he remembers how to move his body properly, he lays you back down and follows you, laying his body on top of yours on the pathetically small couch, mindful not to crush you.

“Jesus Christ.” He rumbles out, his sweaty body heavy and numb from all the activity. “You okay, princess?”

“Princess.” You repeat breathlessly, snorting. “Thought I was a little slut.”

Quaritch smirks against the soft skin of your collarbones, tired but immensely satisfied. He loves the mouth on you, that familiar snark raising its head as you recover from your exhaustion, but it’s important to keep you in your place.

He swats at your ass, right over the same spot he had smacked before, and you jolt, squealing.

“Fuck!” You squeal, legs kicking. “That hurts, asshole!”

“You liked it before.” He points out, his ego and male pride swollen.

You grumble, but turn your head to hide your face, obviously embarrassed. Quaritch takes the opportunity to let his eyes wander, uncaring whether you catch him staring or not. Minor muscle tremors run through your calf muscles even still, and your skin is still damp from perspiration.

“’m not gonna be able to walk f’r days.” You mutter, though you don’t sound upset about it. Unless Quaritch’s ears are deceiving him, you sound pleased.

He just grunts, too preoccupied with basking in the feeling of bonelessness that comes after a good orgasm.

There’s a beat of silence, then you say, smaller this time, “That was… good.”

He snickers, amused by your sudden shyness. He strokes a lazy hand down over your flank, relishing the softness of your skin.

“Mm…” He hums in wordless agreement.

Some of that somnolent satisfaction that’s been weighing you down has begun to fade away; he can feel you begin to fidget beneath him, and then you dart a look towards the door.

“Todd’s shift starts soon,” You say, and now he can hear a nervous edge in your voice. “We should—we should get up before he gets here—”

His tails coils, curling around your lower thigh. He doesn’t move, and he’s too heavy for you to shift his weight off you.

“Shh,” He hushes you nonchalantly. “He ain’t comin’.”

You pause, a frown furrowing your brow. “What d’you mean?”

He just grunts, unwilling to explain.

“I’ll have a little chat to him tomorrow,” He says instead, his face still lazily tucked into your neck. “About doin’ the damn job that’s been assigned to him.”

He snuffles at your neck as though your scent is a drug, then sucks at the tender flesh of your throat. You’re no doubt already covered in bruises – he was rougher than he should have been – but adding another few along your collarbones makes some deep instinct in him settle.

“You don’t—” You start to say, your breathing somewhat jagged as his teeth scrape over your throat. “You don’t have to do that.”

He doesn’t bother responding. He thinks it’s obvious by now that he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. He strokes one hand down your body, curling it beneath your ass just so he can squeeze gently at the crease between your bum and your thigh.

You settle, relaxing with a somewhat confused little sigh. He’s still curled over you like a stupid big cat, and the resemblance irritates him, but not enough to move away from you. You’re not snapping or teasing him right now either, which he’ll take as a win.

“Think of it as repayment,” He drawls out, “You’ve been such a good girl for me, sorting out all my little technical problems. Least I could do, huh? Besides, I’ve never liked a deadbeat.”

Then he grins lecherously, and he squeezes at your ass again. “But if you’re that grateful, you can always show me how much you appreciate it.”

You groan and reach up to push at his face, but your weak little hands don’t shift him and you’re doing a poor job at hiding the little smile on your face.

“You’re such an old pervert,” You grumble, as grouchy as ever as you curl into him from underneath.

He huffs a snort in response, unoffended. He knows how it looks; he may have a nice shiny new blue body and all the perks that his new ‘youth’ has to offer, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is, in essence, a dirty old man pawing at the sweet young little thing beneath him.

“You’re gonna let this old pervert come to see you again though, ain’t ya?” He says, a low mocking tone in his voice. “Gonna let me come bang you in this shitty office again tomorrow?”

He’s just prodding at you, mostly. He knows you’re not going to be able to take him again tomorrow. You had done such a good job taking him tonight, but that doesn’t cancel out the fact that he’s big and you had confessed yourself that you were inexperienced, that it had been a long time since you had done anything with a man. He’ll be impressed if you can walk tomorrow.

You yawn, your little pink mouth opening wide like a kitten. “You gonna sort out a nice new office for me too?”

He thinks of fucking you in a bright new shiny office, with a comfy new couch and space to spread you out and take you apart as leisurely as he wants. It’ll have to be somewhere out of the way, so you can make all those pretty noises of yours and not get interrupted. Maybe close to the Recom sector – he’s sure he can come up with some sort of excuse for why they need increased tech support.

He wonders idly if he’ll be able to get away with it without General Ardmore catching wind of it, then decides he doesn’t care.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

tags:

@live-laugh-neteyam@narwhal-swimmingintheocean @mechformers @malinowoczekoladowebudynie @byunpum @areislol @kisssatoru @notquitehero @kyurii-chan @shadowshart @atokirina-writings @cantescapethefantasy @thespadedhazesrave @mooniequeen @marauderseragal @lovebeinaprincessworld @justcaptainnoodles @sweetdayme4427

---

What binds us // 2

John 'Soap' MacTavish / fem!Reader

Summary:   Returning home as soon as he is able, Soap can‘t help but hope that his wife will reconsider their divorce. 

Content:   civilian wife, lots of hurt/angst and some comfort, divorce (?), swearing, coming-home-from-deployment

Word Count:   2.6k

Part:   1/2/3 <- previous chapter next chapter ->

Notes: I finally got around to finishing the second chapter! Had to write this one in my phone notes, so please forgive any mistakes you might find. I felt so bad for him halfway through, but tried to stay strong. 💔 They also own a cat, everybody say hi to Salome - 🐈

True to his word, Price had arranged a flight home within 72 hours of his first message, and Soap didn‘t even bat an eye at the eye-watering extra fees for his checked luggage and business class upgrade. 

He‘d been all wired up since his wife had called him. He snapped and shouted at everyone except Lieutenant Ghost (he wasn‘t suicidal enough for that - yet) that came too close, asked stupid questions or even dared to simply breathe too loudly in his proximity. Soap felt himself unravel at the edges, one carefully placed stitch at a time.

Only the extensive therapy he‘d been dragged to over the years gave him enough of an outside perspective on the turmoil inside of himself to realize that all that molten hot anger was not directed at the useless driver, or the informant who didn‘t seem to be able shut the fuck up for a moment.

No. Soap knew that all the irritation and itch to hurt was directed at himself. That he‘d messed up badly this time, that it had been going on for months and he‘d been too focused on other things to see it. Or maybe he‘d just suppressed the sadness in his wife‘s voice, the silences and half-assed answers when he asked her about her day and immediately accepted her fine‘s and the usual‘s.

He had been such a colossal prick looking back, it was kind of astonishing that she‘d held out and waited for him as long as she had. Soap had scrolled back through their conversations, had listened to some of her older voice messages, read his own excuses for cancelling again and again.

And even though she‘d assured him that his training and the missions and his career was more important, he should have been better than that. Should have watched out for her, cared more - not lost himself in the work that ate away at his soul and mind when the cure for all his aches was waiting at home.

Soap rubbed over his eyes angrily as he stared out the plane window, long legs stretched far away from himself. The seat to his left was blissfully empty thanks to his second reservation under her name. The stewardess had given up on offering food, but steadily poured him another glass of Scotch when he pressed the little button on the menu screen.

His eyes felt dry and raw, and Soap wasn‘t ashamed to admit to himself that he‘d been on the verge of tears for three days now. His wife had tried calling him twice more since he‘d hung up, then texted him that he shouldn’t do anything stupid. 

Don‘t come home for this, John. I will always be here for you regardless. 

He brushed his thumb over the message, and was silently thankful for the forced airplane mode. The drinks in his system made his thoughts run even wilder, insecurities and fears that most army men carried in their hearts rising up in his throat.

Is there someone else? He wanted to type back. Is that why you don‘t want me to fix it?

But Soap knew she‘d never hurt him in such a way, that she truly thought they‘d be better off on their own. He would just have to prove her wrong.

Soap barely registered the landing, the extensive security screenings and double checking of his gun licenses, then military clearance. It was all standard procedure, he was able to answer their questions in his sleep. 

The only difference was that his wife wasn‘t there to greet him, wasn‘t standing ready with one of those airport luggage trolleys that always seemed to have at least one jammed wheel. The knowledge didn’t stop him from looking for her, traitorous heart beating fast and then dropping into his stomach at her absence. 

Glasgow wasn‘t very busy at this time of night, on a Tuesday no less, and the taxi driver was content to let the meter run when Soap asked him to wait outside the 24 hours supermarket. He picked up the disgusting stuffed olives she loved so much, briefly contemplating flowers before abandoning the thought. They‘d never been that kind of couple, and he didn‘t want to start putting on a mask when what he really needed to do was strip himself.

For the first time since they‘d bought their small house he was glad that she hadn‘t listened to him about completely replacing all the street facing windows with milk glass. Soap was able to see her clearly, sitting at the low sofa table with her legs tucked underneath herself and their fat ginger cat on her lap as she typed away at something. 

Her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail, face bare and pale in the glow of the laptop, and he oddly felt like he was intruding on a scene not meant for his eyes.

It took him a couple more moments to unglue his feet from the sidewalk, to push open the rusty door of the little path lined with colored pebbles that ended in their front door. He‘d been meaning to replace it, along with their postbox - when had that been? Two years ago now?

He fiddled with his keys, anxious. What did it say about him that he felt like a stranger standing outside his own home?

Shaking his head and dropping his heavy bags, he rung the doorbell instead.

There was a beat of silence, and Soap could just picture his wife raising her head away from the screen, how Salome had probably squeezed herself under the armchair, hissing. Neither one of the women in his life liked it when unannounced visitors came around.

Then the faint glow from the livingroom became brighter, he could see it through the colorful glass shards of the entrance door - how the dark shape of her moved closer. She hesitated on the other side. He wondered if he could take the blow of her not answering the door, or if his heart would shatter right here on their doorstep with the faint drizzle of rain dampening his curls.

But then she cracked the door open, her big eyes peering up at him for a moment. They stared at each other, and then she exhaled shakily, resting her forehead on the chipped wood. 

"You came," his wife whispered, and Soap ducked his head down to her level, shoulder against the frame as he fought hard not to beg her to open the door further and let him in.

"f'course I did," he rasped, shocked at the raw need in his voice. "Said I would, didn’t I?"

She blinked her eyes back open, and it seemed like she was holding back words heavy on her tongue. That was okay, he knew what she was thinking anyway: wouldn‘t have been the first time you said one thing and did another.

"But you were out on a mission."

There was no question, but he nodded anyway.

"I was."

"And then you left early."

"Yes, ma‘am." 

She snorted, then pulled open the door more firmly and stepped aside. Soap stumbled inside, immediately assaulted by warmth and the smell of her that permeated their home. It was dizzying and intoxicating and it made him want to curl up in a ball and weep.

"Are you hungry?" She asked, apparently unbothered that it was two in the morning and that he was dripping all over her nice new carpet in the entryway. 

"Starving," he breathed, then followed her like a lost puppy as she disappeared into the kitchen. 

Soap felt wrong-footed, clumsy and awkward as he wrung his hands and watched her reheat a plate of spaghetti.

His wife hugged herself around the middle, staring at the rotating dish in the microwave.

He wanted to tell her to be careful as she took it out with her bare hands instead of using the cute oven mitts she‘d gotten from her sister, but all he managed was a weak thanks as she put it down next to him on the kitchen island. 

They stood there, and she didn‘t meet his eyes anymore as Soap stared down at the crown of her head. They were close and yet there seemed to be a chasm, an ocean impossible to cross right between them. He might as well have been back in Afghanistan.

"Baby," he whispered, clutching the countertop so tightly that his knuckles turned white. She shook her head, then leaned away from him with yet another shaky exhale and pinched the bridge of her nose. 

"Mo ghràidh," Soap tried again, undeterred. "Can I hug you?"

"I-" she started, voice thick. "I don‘t know if I want that."

"Okay," he agreed, heart stinging. "Will you keep standing with me just like this then?"

She nodded slowly, leaning against the counter next to him and staring at the floor. 

When he didn‘t move, too busy drinking her in, she nudged him softly in the side. 

"It‘ll go cold."

"I‘m not actually hungry."

"Oh." It was a faint sound, somewhere between exasperated and amused. "I see."

They stood like that for some time, the rain heavier now as it hit the windows in a steady rhythm. Soap almost jumped out of his skin when something warm and furry circled around his legs, purring.

"Fuckin‘ cat is lucky I‘m not carrying," he swore, nudging Salome with his boot in greeting. She purred even louder, rubbing her chin along his shins. 

His wife giggled, then scooped the gingery monster into her arms. The one green eye that wasn‘t blind yet sparkled in the half-dark, and their cat meowed loudly at Soap.

"She just missed you," she smiled, kissing the scarred ears for a moment.

And did you? He wanted to ask, but swallowed the words down. It seemed like he‘d reached his limit of things he was able to leave unsaid for the night though, because the next question slipped out before he could stop himself.

"Did you call the lawyer again?" 

She stiffened a little, then glanced up at him from behind long eyelashes.

"Yeah," his wife said slowly, thinking hard. "She wasn‘t very happy that I called you. Thinks you‘ll talk me out of it." 

Damn right I am.

"What," he scoffed, arms crossed in defense of what might follow next. "She wanted you to just… send the finished papers?"

"Something like that."

Soap ground his teeth hard, trying not to panic again. 

"Well, I‘m glad you didn‘t listen."

"I wanted to," she confessed, and now it was him who couldn’t meet her eyes anymore. "I wanted it so badly, John. I‘ve been miserable and alone, and our whole life just seems to suffocate me recently."

"I‘m sorry," he said, and meant it with his whole heart. "I know I fucked up, that I should have been better for you-"

"No," she interrupted him, and reached out a hand, resting it on his bicep. Her small fingers were cold but it made him feel warm regardless. "I didn’t need you to be better, I just wanted you to be there."

His throat closed up, and Soap let his head drop far enough to rest his chin on his chest, trying to keep the tears at bay. Their cat meowed between them, as he rested one hand on hers without glancing up.

"I lost sight of what was most important t’me," he whispered. "‘s not an excuse but… bein’ out there, it just fucks up your perspective. Days bleed into one big messed up pile of monotonous tasks, violence, and death. I‘m not a good man, never pretended to be. You knew that when you married me, and never blamed me for it. And… I love you so fucking much, it hurts to even just think-"

He had to pause, drag one hand over his face roughly. 

His wife sighed softly, then rested her cheek on his arm where their hands were joined. 

"I know I hurt you, badly. And I know that you said you‘d stay in my life as a friend, but you‘re not. You never have been. You‘re my soulmate, my wife, and I-" Soap swallowed, torn between wanting to get it all out and crawl deeper into himself. "I want us to try again. Price offered three weeks of leave, but if I have to find a doctor that can testify how fucked in the head I am so I can stay longer, I will." 

"John!" She gasped, grabbing his chin to force him into facing her again. "You know that a bad psych eval might mean the end of your entire career!" 

Thinking about that hurt, but not as much as her phone call had. 

"I‘d do it for you," he whispered back. "I‘ll say that-"

"Shut up," she hissed, then dropped Salome on the countertop and shoved the cold spaghetti towards him. "Eat this, and then you‘ll go sleep on the sofa. I don‘t want to hear any of this nonsense."

"But-"

"No."

Chastened, Soap carried his plate into the dim living room and tried very hard not to take a peek at the still open website on his wife‘s laptop. There was a strange sense of relief when he noticed that all their wedding and travel pictures were still up on the walls, and he fiddled with his ring as he slumped heavily on the sofa.

The food was good as always, and he didn’t try to protest when she dragged in two pillows and a blanket, carefully putting it down next to him. 

She stood there for a moment, looking down at him with soft, sad eyes. Soap balanced his plate on a cushion nearby, then gently pulled her closer by the hips until she stood between his legs and he was able to bury his face in her stomach.

His wife didn’t move for a few long heartbeats, then stroked through his mohawk and all the way down to the top of his spine. Soap exhaled sharply, and hugged her, unable to speak as she comforted him when it really should have been the reverse. 

And much, much later, when the lack of sleep and constant worry finally caught up with him, she didn’t comment on the tear-stained blotches on her shirt, or the way his head hit the pillow way too hard. She draped the feathery soft blanket all around him, and the perfume of her skin and laundry detergent was the most heavenly thing he‘d smelt in months.

Just as he closed his swollen and dry eyes, his wife bent down - Soap held his breath as she kissed his forehead and cheekbone.

"We can talk again in the morning, my love," she whispered, and all he managed to do was squeeze her hand one last time before she packed up her things and left.

Tiny, clawed footsteps - then the sudden heavy weight of their cat on his hip startled him from a restless slumber, and Soap groggily patted the gnarled ears as he instinctively listened out for danger nearby. 

"You think we still got a chance, old girl?" He asked, and Salome meowed back. 

<- previous chapter || last chapter ->

My general COD writing masterlist with all my stories including this one, a COD headcanons masterlist + the COD Halloween Monster Special. It‘s all linked separately in my pinned blog post for easy navigation as well!

taglist of the people that commented/reblogged on the last chapter 💖: @alittlejudgemental @igotchuuknj @yyiikes @avidreadee123 @astraluminaaa @sunshinevs3 @friendly-neighborhood-lich-queen @muffinsncoffee @devcica @alwaysshallow @thebeesatemyknees

If I didn’t tag you, it means that your blog settings don‘t allow it! 🥺

Hopefully everybody got through their Monday alright, I‘m literally fighting demons to even set an alarm for tomorrow lmao. Much love and slobbery kisses! - A✨

pink dividers by @cafekitsune 🌟

---