Guard Dog [b.heelshire]

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 :))

---

i NEED more of predator loving the size difference between himself and you. I NEED IT.

A/N: Predator x F!Reader. Sex in a prison! Size difference. Pain kink. Semi-public smut.

From behind the steel bars of his prison, T'atha glared at the Android. He had thought it ooman until he had caught the subtle click and whir of machinery beneath its skin. 

"It'd be best if you behaved," it suggested before gesturing to his mate leaning against his arm. "We wouldn't want to introduce her to what we've captured downstairs."

T'atha did not reply but continued to stare flatly. He would not waste his energy. The thing was incapable of fear.

Though he could feel your fingers tremble around his forearm, you showed the Android not a hint of panic. You pinned it with an indifferent expression, and T'atha's chest bloomed with pride.

He had been captured, which, alone, was an embarrassment. But to add insult to injury, you had also been taken. Unthinkable. It was supposed to be a simple task. They were to slip aboard the USCSS Atlas to retrieve stolen eggs from one of his clan's Chiva locations.

However, once you and T'atha had boarded the ship and snuck to the lower level, it had become apparent that one of those eggs had hatched. There was a full-grown kiande amedha loose and very well-fed. The floors and walls were wet with blood. Ooman bodies torn to shreds. Glistening red-pink flesh and the stink of waste. T'atha had not hesitated before dragging you away from the slaughter, but it had been too late. 

The doors to all exits had been locked, and they were cornered like rats.

Several Androids had entered, and while T'atha had removed three of their heads, it had not been enough. They'd struck him with electric batons until his skin and muscle burned and smoked. He had attempted to cover you, but they'd ripped him away.

Your face still bore their marks. A hideous cut slithered across your temple, and T'atha worried it would become infected. Your kind was susceptible to contamination and you did not heal as quickly as Yautja. Last hunt, it had taken you weeks to recover from a broken wrist. He had been deeply distressed over it though he did not tell you that. He was supposed to be your strength, your pillar of courage in dire situations.

He glanced down at where you rested your face against his arm. Your body radiated heat and musky sweat. It was a very ooman flavor and one that he had begun to cherish.

He tucked you closer to him, helping you burrow into his torso as he cradled you possessively.

He had to be strong for you now.

***

A few days had passed and his brethren had not arrived. There was no doubt that his clan would have begun to look for them once their ship had failed to return. It was possible that the Atlas might have traveled too far into space, where the signal from the tracking device implanted in his neck was weak. It could take his brothers a considerable amount of time, and time was something they did not have. 

He was not optimistic about their captor's motives, but he had picked up a few things in the scattered chatter between the Androids and the remaining oomans beyond the prison door. He learned that they had managed to secure the black serpent and were going to deliver it to their superiors. In addition to the beast, the ship's crew would either offer you and T'atha to the leaders on their home planet or feed them to the serpent as incubators. 

With his enhanced hearing, he'd picked up many terms like cross-species experimentation, which did not bode well. 

"What will they do to us?" you asked, nudging his bicep with your cheek. He could smell your hair, the intense floral aroma from the oils you bathed in. It was only muddled by the sharp clash of rust due to the dried blood along your forehead. 

"Study," he replied curtly. He did not want to frighten you and was sure that he would get them out even if his brothers did not arrive in time. Failure would not be an option. 

"Study us?"

He nodded. 

"But I'm just human."

He lowered his head, grazing his jaw across your temple. "You are a mate of a Yautja."

"So?" you grumbled. "Is it because I can take a huge cock?"

Chuckling despite himself, he shook his head and pinched your hip. "Yes. Exactly, little one." He tugged you closer and felt a twinge of guilt at how clammy your skin was. He was constantly checking your temperature and it seemed like you shifted from too hot to freezing by the hour. "Only strong females can handle Yautja."

You smiled, squeezing his knee. He exhaled deeply, grateful you were in a lighter mood. He did not want to voice his true thoughts about what these Androids intended. He straightened his back against the wall, spreading his legs out to stretch his muscles. His posture was ramrod straight - fully aware of everything beyond the walls of their prison.

You had gone silent again, your eyes locked on the sealed door as you chewed on your lower lip. It was a nervous habit he could not break you from, and he worried you'd scar it. He was quite partial to that extra plush tissue around your mouth.

"You must relax," he crooned, stroking a paw down your spine. You shuddered and abruptly rolled onto your back to look up at him.

"Where are the others?" Your voice wastight in your throat. "Tahren? A'ta? A'kaand? They wouldn't leave us like this."

"It's a long journey," he explained. "We are in the Outer Veil."

You scrubbed a hand over your face and whimpered. For a moment, he was worried you would begin to cry. He did not like that. It was a disadvantage for your species. You could quickly shift from joy to terror to profound sadness. Your emotions ran you. 

He would have to remedy it.

Slowly, he crawled forward, covering your body with his own. He met your gaze, his enormous hand palming your cheek. "Rest." His tone was gentle as he spoke. He wanted to calm the heart he could hear thumping wildly beneath your breast. "You must sleep and gather your strength." You blew out a breath, lifting yourself onto your elbows until you were an inch from his face. Your expression was one that he knew too well. Stubborn. 

"I can't."

He drew back, sighing. "Why?"

"There's a fucking xenomorph on this ship, and we are stuck in a cage." Your brow creased as you regarded him with disbelief. "No weapons. No armor. We are dead."

You had fair points, but he'd never admit it. Instead, he would opt to distract you.

Huffing, he wrapped his arms around your waist and bound you to his chest. It was a cheap move on his part. He knew that. You instantly softened the second he began to purr, melting into him. He would not have you terrified or full of worry. It would not serve him. He had to focus, and he would not be able to if you fell apart. 

"The serpents won't touch you," he muttered as he stroked the crown of your skull. Compared to his own, you had such a tiny head. In his arms, it was alarmingly clear how small you were. You were formidable in a fight but against a kiande amedha? You'd be broken or worse - 

T'atha bristled at the thought of one stabbing you with its ovipositor; your chest cracked open. In the quiet darkness of their prison, he held you tighter.  

***

T'atha awoke with you still in his arms. He must have dozed off. Shame coursed through him. He could not afford to sleep, but he'd been awake for days - since they'd been thrown in here.

He blinked through the remaining dregs of his drowsiness. It clung to him like cobwebs, before his vision gradually cleared.

The room was cloaked in shadow apart from the occasional ping of light from the machinery surrounding them. He was certain this place doubled as a lab or medical facility. He studied the walls, the blinking screens, and tools. Nothing he could reach or use as a weapon.

Suddenly, T'atha felt your small hand between his legs. He startled, nearly bucking you off of him. 

"What are you doing?" he hissed, realizing that you had removed your leggings and were bare in his lap.

"Distraction," you replied as you nuzzled your face against his abdominal muscles. Your tongue's warm, damp pressure gliding against his skin before you drew away. 

He grabbed you by the upper arms, jerking you up. He could easily see you in the dark. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, and your mouth parted. He could smell that you were wet. "Now?"

"I want to feel you," you whispered, a note of desperation beneath the words. "I want to…just once…what if they kill-"

He growled - effectively cutting you off. "Do not doubt me. I will get us out and take every one of their heads for it."

"I know," you whined, clutching his neck to pull him towards you. You brushed your mouth along his mandibles before darting your tongue against his own. This was not the time for it, but he understood that your kind often required a sense of intimacy during moments of chaos or fear. He was surprised you'd even be willing to mate in a place where they were being watched. 

Unfortunately, he was not one to deny you especially when you begged as sweetly as you did. 

Perhaps, he could sate you with his tongue and fingers? Perhaps, that would be enough.

In the far corner of his mind, he knew it wouldn't be. The second he could smell you, it was over. It always was.

Without a word, he encircled an arm around your waist and forced you onto your back. You yelped, your fingers digging into his shoulders for leverage. He slid between your thighs, hooking your leg around his waist to keep you spread. Your mouth quirked, the whites of your eyes and teeth bright in the shadows. He would consider you beautiful. You were soft and strange and small. Your features pleased him just as the small ways you exuded bravery did. They were what drew him to you to begin with.

The first moment he had seen you, you had been slick with blood. Your body crouched in front of a small Yautja pup. You had had no alliance with his species. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and yet you had still protected him. 

Later, he would learn that your ship had crashed on a hunting ground. Your superiors had been experimenting on various life forms, including the young Yautja suckling. You'd used the chaos of the crash to save the child, killing whoever got in your way. His clan had offered you sanctuary in payment. 

Now, his gaze raked over you as he brushed his thumb across the plump of your cheek. Yes - you were enticing and honorable and always hungry for him. 

"T'atha," you whimpered, and he braced his arm above your head; his other hand slid beneath your thigh. He lazily scratched at the smooth skin before pushing it back so that your knee hit your chest.

"We do not have the oil," he reminded you. It was a necessary tool for them in moments like this. It allowed you to take him easier, making you hot, soaked, and slightly numb. There were a few instances that they had gone without it, and it was usually when you were loose and drunk with c'ntlip.

You curled a finger around one of his dreads, tugging it so that it sparked the sensitive nerves at his scalp. It bloomed outward before lighting down his back. He was aroused now, his cock hard and unyielding as it rubbed against the folds of your sex. At this point, he would not be able to stop if he tried.

"I don't care," you stated. "I want to feel you. 

Beneath his belt, he gripped himself, pushing his hips forward to drag the head of his cock against your cunt. "Brave one," he praised, rutting lazily between your thighs. "Such a brave girl."

You shivered at his approval, and he began to breach you inch by inch. Almost immediately, your brows met, and your lower lip sucked between your teeth as you inhaled sharply. He was barely inside you, your tight heat only beginning to stretch around him. He stopped and rubbed the side of his mandible against your face. "Relax," he murmured. "You are too tense. I will not fit."

He eased his pelvis back, the tip catching on the entrance of your cunt before he pushed halfway in. You shrieked, your nails biting into the meat of his shoulders. He paused, raising himself and glancing between them to observe where they were joined. He was barely inside you. Though his length glimmered in your wetness, it was not enough. He withdrew, and you made a frustrated noise as you reached for him.

Of course. Even though it hurt, you were determined to complete it.

Wordlessly, he knocked your hands away from him before sliding down your body, hitching your knees over his shoulders. "I will take care of you, little one." He pinned his palm to your belly to hold you still as he purred against your thigh, scraping a tusk along the soft meat of it. He could smell you - the flesh of your sex dark and dripping and swollen for him. It took every ounce of his self-control not to flip you onto your hands and knees and fuck you senseless. "You trust me?"

***

You nearly levitated off the cold, metal floor when T'atha plunged his tongue inside you. It was too much and not enough at once. The sharp edge of his jaws scraped your tender skin, but never enough to pierce it. He lapped at your pussy, sliding the muscle of it from your entrance to your clit. Gingerly, he introduced one of his fingers and then a second. They were thick, calloused and powerful and he was careful when he used them. He moved them slowly, scissoring and petting until you were stretched open. His hand on your belly held you down as he licked you to a climax. It shuddered through you, made you go temporarily blind. He could make you come in seconds with only his fingers and tongue. He'd turned it into a game, a competition of sorts, as if conquering your ooman body held the same thrall as completing his Chiva. He was a brilliant strategist in all facets of his life.

He was beautiful in the way that a giant crocodile was - a bull shark. He dwarfed you with his height and his width; the green-blue scales of his hide that dragged over your flesh.

Even if he was barely touching you, the sight of him crouched between your legs could get you off. His feral dark eyes danced over your form, raking along your tits or belly or your cunt. He loved grazing the dull tips of his claws along your nipple, marveling at the way it beaded and caused you to arch. His long tubular dreads tickled your hips and when you fisted them, he growled like a beast.

In this tiny prison, he was merely a giant in a cage. He filled your vision, wrapped himself around you until you were engulfed by him and the safety he promised. As he sat back on his heels, you forgot to breathe. He was a sight - an Apex predator that had just drank from your cunt as if it was nectar. Your juices coated the lower half os his face. The flickering green and red lights of the machinery, accentuated the rippling muscles of his torso.

You don't know why you asked for this. You were scared. Hormonal. You'd been off for weeks, and this situation felt direr than any others. You trusted him to save you, but nothing was certain. You wanted to be close to him; this was the only way you knew how. 

Lazily, he crawled up your body like an enormous cat. He grazed the side of his face against your own, a deep purr rumbling from his chest. He was molten-heat, skin like the sun, and you clung to it in the frigid, medicinal-smelling room. "The Yautja life is rubbing off on you, my female," he rasped in a rough voice. His fingers moved between your legs, teasing and dipping inside you. "You long to be fucked where they can see us. You do not care?"

"No," you whisper. You didn't. You'd allowed him to take you in front of his brothers once. The both of you drunk off the hunt, and the adrenaline and too much c'ntlip. "They'll be dead soon, anyway," you added as you nipped his jaw. 

He grunted, rutting against the tender flesh of your cunt. He was unbearably hard, and you hungered for it. The pain. The pleasure. The way he could hurt you terribly, but always straddled the line. He made you feel like a precious piece of weaponry in his hands, stroked and touched and held close.

"They will be," he agreed as he began to sink into you. You gasped, clutching at his waist. He was all muscle and unyielding flesh. Your nails bit into his ribs, and it encouraged him. "Relax," he said before lowering his chest, so it crushed your breasts. His heart thumped rhythmically as though trying to mellow out the bird-flutter of your own. He offered you soft, clicking noises - the sound soothing your agitation as he slid deeper and deeper until finally he was buried to the hilt. 

You were speechless. It felt like he was hitting the back of your throat. The pressure inside of you expanded, the tip of him nudging the curve of your womb. You swallowed, screwing your eyes shut as you bit the inside of your mouth through the ache of him. 

He gripped your chin. "No," he tutted. "Open your eyes. I want you to know that it is me who is claiming you."

You did as he asked, even though it was silly. As if it could have been anyone else nearly splitting you in half. 

He chuffed as he began to rock his hips, his thrusts shallow and cautious. "I want you to watch," he clarified further, his pupils eating away at the green of his eyes. "Your cunt will know no other than me."

You nodded, head dropping back against the ground. It hurt - pain shooting up the crown of your skull, but it was nothing compared to how he opened you up. Every snap of his hips branded you, making room for his cock in the small clutch of your heat.

You reached between your legs and felt the flesh of your pussy taut around his thick shaft. You were impaled - entirely at his mercy. He sped up his pace, one hand cupping your ass to lift you higher so he could angle himself down into the mouth of your sex. His strokes steadily became long and powerful. You felt pushed to your limit, your face burning with exertion as he pounded you against the ground. You reached above your head and clasped the steel bars of the cage to hold yourself steady. The space echoed with the squelching noises of your body wetly accepting him. You had outgrown any shame regarding your sex life with T'atha. He had bent you into nearly impossible positions. He could lift you like you weighed nothing, hold you against a wall and fuck you senseless. 

He said what he meant; there was no innuendo, no hinting. He was blunt about his desires just as he was blunt about everything else.

"Let me mount you, little one. You are tempting me."

"I want to lick you again. Get on your back."

He was especially insatiable after a hunt. Only afterward, of course, when he was full of adrenaline, his heart hammering in his throat, and both of you were cut and filthy. He'd bend you over and fuck you until you collapsed, then turn you onto your side, lift your thigh, and slide home again. During a hunt, he was still as a statue, an unshakeable force. He never lost focus of his prey even when you grew bored. He could crouch on a single tree branch for days on end as he surveyed the hunting ground.

But that was simply the Yautja way. 

"Those serpents will not touch you," he snarled into your ear, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he fucked you "I will take their skulls for you..."

You released a high-pitched noise on a fierce stroke of his cock, and it aroused him further. Abruptly, he sat back on his heels and hauled you up with him so you could straddle his lap and wrap your legs around his waist. He held you as he thrust upward, spearing into your tiny body and hitting an even softer, wetter part of you. You croaked, fingers scrambling until you threw your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest. You were a doll at this point. Helpless and limp and at his mercy.

"Do not go quiet on me now, mate," he crooned as he pawed between your legs, the pads of his fingers brushing the bead of your clit before slipping against your folds that were stretched around him. Immediately, the pleasure burst through the whole of your pelvis. Your cunt clamped down on him, your back arching in his embrace. "There," he said, trilling in a way that coaxed you, pulling you closer. "Perhaps, I will finally fuck you into exhaustion."

You could do nothing, but nod and then whine his name like a broken record. You were a mess. He teased your pleasure out, a climax followed by another—small spikes of raw sensation in your core as you flexed around him. 

He changed positions again, flipping you onto your knees, hand on your lower back as he forced your cheek to the floor. He entered you in a single stroke, his size still shocking regardless of how wet and fucked out you were. His hips rammed against your ass, his grip harsh on the nape of your neck to pin you. His cock pulsed inside the narrow channel of your cunt - thrumming with the same fury as his heartbeat - as your own. He was reaching his end; you could hear it in his grunts, the deep, unsteady breathing. 

When he came, he growled out your name and it sounded utterly primal in the way his tongue dipped over the letters. He had told you once that sex with his oomani-di had been unexpected. 

"Your body brings only pleasure as if it was made for it," he rumbled, dragging his tusks along your shoulder. "Soft and wet and tight. Yautja mating is nothing like this...nothing at all."

You glanced over your shoulder, blinked up at him, utterly spent. When he eased himself out of you, there was the rush of his spend. You slid your hand down between your legs and felt it. It was warm, and your cunt was swollen and aching. Even so your skin remained on fire, there was a strong need to be rinsed in ice. He gingerly shifted you onto your back, squeezing your hips before once more blanketing you with his body. He nuzzled your jaw, the side of your neck. You longed for him even as he bore his weight above you, his abdominal muscles tensing against your stomach.

"Did I hurt you?" he murmured as his hand found yours against your sex. His thumb grazed your folds tenderly. It was always surprising when T'atha treated you like a fine instrument, desperate to ensure you did not break. It was why he was covering you with his body now, using his hide as protection when you were at your most vulnerable.

"No," you replied though you'd be sore for days. After a second, you added mischievously: "I think we could go again-"

"You jest!" he returned, his tone rubbed in disbelief. He slapped you lightly on the ass. "Are you ill? Surely - you cannot -"

"I'm joking," you replied, and T'atha narrowed his eyes and flared his mandibles. Humor often went above Yautja heads.

"You're impossible-"

Suddenly, a siren erupted in the room. Emergency lights flared - coating them both in red. 

"Either your brothers are here, or the Xeno has escaped," you sighed as you reached for your leggings. 

A voice sounded over the intercom that you recognized. A'ta. Beneath his gravelly timbre, you could hear the dying gasp of the captors unlucky enough to have been caught by the other Yautja. You hoped they'd left some for T'atha or he'd be a nightmare for weeks.

"Brother," he greeted warmly. "Only you would waste precious time copulating with your oomani-di instead of planning your escape."

You crossed your arms over your chest. "That fuck knows my damn name."

Ignoring your remark, T'atha scowled at A'ta's insult. "He is mistaken. I had a plan."

You patted him on the bicep. "I know you did."

---

Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

---

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

---

TALK DIRTY TO ME

how konig, ghost, and price talk dirty in bed.

thirsts : open

—

konig is surprisingly vocal when he’s rutting into you, though it’s probably not in the way you think. most of his words come out in hushed whispers laced with obscenities. he seems to lose any sense of shame he usually has because he’s just too drunk on the feeling of your cunt wrapped around him.

“feels s’fucking good—“ he mindlessly babbles out.

his large palms are stretched out on both sides of you, fingers digging into the mattress, while he keeps you caged underneath him.

“such a greedy pussy,” he groans out with another roll of his hips. “keeps suckin’ me back in…”

you can feel his hot breath fanning your face while his darkened eyes are stuck — transfixed — on the creamy white ring that covers his cock. the sloppy sounds that fill the room seem to only grow louder with each thrust, as your arousal practically drips down his balls.

“just begging for me to fill ya up,” he hissed out, as he presses down on your stomach which makes you whimper in response. the noise somehow flips a switch in him and has könig fucking into you even harder.

“s’that what ya want? need me to fill ya up, fuck a baby into this pretty cunt?”

price just exudes dominance in all aspects even with his dirty talk, his words are more praising than anything else though. he’s always coaching you through things and telling you how good of a job you’re doing, he knows it gets you off and he also just can’t help but spoil you.

“mhmm, just like that, baby.” he mumbles out as he lazily guides your movements, helping you bounce yourself up and down on his cock.

there’s a smirk on his face that he can’t even be bothered to hide when he hears you whining at the praise. he thinks you’re adorable when you’re like this, so desperate for him yet so adamant on not asking for his help. you could be such a brat sometimes, he’d have to deal with that later.

“doing so well,” he says with a groan as he thrusts his hips up in time with your movements. “but you don’t think you’re gonna make me cum just from this, do you?”

it doesn’t take much effort for him to flip you over and have you at his mercy. your legs are now lifted over his shoulders while his dick is fucking you even deeper, the tip prodding against your sweet spot just right it has your toes curling.

“feels good, doesn’t it?” his movements are slow and controlled, he knows you’re close — he can feel it — but he’s not going to reward you unless you use yours words.

“come on, princess. all you have to do is beg and i’ll have you screaming for me…”

everything ghost says is absolutely filthy, he is all about the little details. he doesn’t actually notice what he’s saying in the heat of the moment, all he knows is that his words have your cheeks flushing to a pretty shade of red, and he loves it.

“you’re such a fuckin’ slut for me even your pussy knows it.” he practically growls. “look at this sloppy mess you’re making.”

he ruts the tip of his cock against your slit, coating your folds with his pre-cum. “jus’ gonna slip in with how wet you are..”

your arm is slung over your face as a way for you to hide your embarrassment, you know he’s right, there’s no way you could deny it. something about the way he talks to you when he’s pent up like this has your pussy throbbing.

“fuck, need to be balls deep inside this cunt.” he breathes, as he eases his way into you, the fat head of his cock slowly splitting you open as he makes you take in more and more of him.

the veins on his length rub your slick walls deliciously and it’s not surprising that you’re already twitching and creaming all over him as soon as he bottoms out.

“that’s it, there’s my slutty girl.” his raspy laugh fills the silence. “stop using that pretty head, all you need to do is cum for me.”

---

12:01 a.m. on november 1st

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Hey! I'm back from the dead!

I was struggling with art block recently, but this meme thingy helped me to get back into drawing. At least for a while..

I already did this trend with Steve and Eddie, and I couldn't help to draw Sinclair twins like that too 😊

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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. 

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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✨

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i wish you guys lived inside my head the fics in here go crazy

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