Hello Dehlia! I happened upon your blog after my sudden re-surfacing obsession with DMC and would like to know what it would be like to have the DMC guys as your bestie ride-or-die bitch?
DMC MEN as your best friend hcns.
Hi sweetheart! Of course, hope you enjoy <3.
Characters: Dante, Vergil, Nero and V
WC: ~3300
My masterlist
Dante Sparda
Your partner in crime. Your worst influence. He is the friend your mom, teachers and the church warned you about.
And despite it all, he is your emergency contact.
The type of friend you can call at 3 a.m. because you are spiralling, and he will always show up.
(Complaining the entire time, obviously.)
"You know I'd fight God for you, but waking me up before breakfast is reeeally pushing it."
Dante forgets important things but remembers the most unnecessary, useless details about you.
Your birthday?
"Isn't it... around spring?"
Your job?
"Something-something with numbers."
Your relationship status? A complete mystery to him.
But he does remember:
Your favourite band from middle school,
Which one of the members was your crush.
Exactly how cringe you were about it.
He has you saved in his phone under a stupid name or an inside joke so obscure it would require a five-hour explanation.
The type of friend who is always — Platonically and shamelessly — flirting with you.
If you know him, you know it's never serious. It's just the way he is programmed.
"Heyyy, hotshot, how ya doin'? Don't you miss me?"
"No."
"Well, fuck you, me neither."
If some guy is bothering you, Dante instantly pretends to be your boyfriend and has way too much fun with it. He commits to the bit like he’s trying to win an Oscar.
It's so over-the-top it makes the other guy uncomfortable, but shame is not a word in Dantes vocabulary.
Now that we are on the topic, I have to clarify how overprotective he is of you. In his own way, obviously.
Like an older brother, he acts nonchalant, and he insists he "Totally doesn't care," but he does. He’s hyper-aware when something feels off, and sometimes that makes him a little overbearing.
In his defence, he lost too many people in his life; he can't afford to lose you, too.
"Text me when you get home, yeah? This ain't Wonderland, and there is a shit ton of demons out there."
Once, it was late at night. And he couldn´t walk you home, so... he just handed you Ebony and called it a day.
"You know how to use a gun?"
"No...?"
"Well, you point at the bad thing, pull the trigger, then hear something drop, and that's about it."
“Dante, I cannot use a gun.”
“Why not?”
“For starters, I don’t know the technique.”
"The general technique is that you gotta try to aim at something that isn't you."
"Well, no shit, but— "
"Alright, gotta go, babe. Bye!"
His methods are a bit insane, but hey! They work. (Kind of)
Dante is genuinely a pretty funny and chill guy. He always tries to cheer you up and lighten the mood. Especially when things are bad.
You can vent to him, and he will listen to you, plainly and unjudgmentally. Just don't expect him to open up in return or receive deeply sensitive, articulate advice.
At best, you get:
"Yeah... that sucks. Wanna get takeout?"
A guy like Dante doesn't open up to people easily. So if you’re his friend, chances are you’ve known each other for a long time, like Trish and Lady.
What's that? You want to meet Trish or Lady? Do not fret! Dante loves to introduce you to everyone in his orbit. He likes his people to know each other; it's like he is subconsciously building a little found family.
Which means you're probably close to, or at the very least, familiar with Trish, Lady, Patty, Morrison, Vergil and Nero.
And yes, you're part of this family whether you asked for it or not.
Dante is the kind of friend with whom you always end up sharing the most outrageous stories, "The Hangover"-level anecdotes.
Waking up in a hotel room you definitely didn't book? Check. ✅
Marrying a stranger in Las Vegas? Check. ✅
Gambling all your money, winning double, then gambling again and losing everything? Check. ✅
Ending up at a police station for a crime you two might have committed, accidentally or not? Check.✅
Even if you are a low-key and responsible person, you always end up in the craziest situations with him. It's like reality collapses into chaos whenever Dante is involved.
The type of guy who always invites you over for takeout. However, you will end up paying every single time.
"Sorry, sugar, this one's on you. But don't worry 'bout it, I'll get it next time."
You both know he won't, but you accept it at this point.
Yes, he owes you money. Even if you are as broke as he is.
Dante has depressive episodes more often than he lets on. You know when they happen: he becomes quieter, more pessimistic, cynical, and he sleeps too much or too little.
Dante, at his worst, is completely avoidant. He won't answer your calls or texts for weeks. Sometimes, because he is on a job, but other times, he is trapped inside his own head.
So occasionally, you're the one who has to show up and drag him out from his misery.
Dante won't ask for help, not openly. But he will ask you to hang out and have a drink at weird hours for no apparent reason.
To sum up, Dante is a complex person; his mind harbours many monsters, guilt, and nightmares, but despite all of this, he is an excellent friend.
The type of guy you can't help but love. Even if he is driving you insane.
Vergil Sparda
Being friends with Vergil is not an easy task. This is not a role for the faint of heart.
Having a thick skin is strongly advised (More on this later)
That said, if you somehow manage to become his friend, congratulations. You are very likely his only best friend for life.
Aside from Dante, of course.
Due to the lack of healthy relationships in his life, Vergil is an intense person with an all-or-nothing mentality.
This manifests in many ways, one of them being his complete inability to process and reciprocate casual kindness like a normal person.
For instance, you can do the bare minimum nice thing to him, and he will either take it completely for granted or malfunction entirely.
"Here you go, Verg."
He stares into space for a solid five seconds.
"If you require any enemies eliminated, you shall inform me."
"I just lent you a book, Vergil."
"I see..."
He is loyal. Not in a normal, friendly way, but in the way a guard dog is loyal. He will defend you in your absence, death-glaring anyone who disrespects you, or intimidating anyone who pushes their luck.
(He would stab them if given the opportunity. Unfortunately for him, Dante now supervises his activities, meaning Vergil is no longer allowed to kill people indiscriminately. This greatly offends him.)
Say what you want about Vergil, but he's a man who gets shit done...in his own way.
"My boss has been bothering me an awful lot lately. He is such a creep."
Vergil opens a portal, disappears, and returns five minutes later.
"He has been dealt with."
"What— what do you mean by that?"
"He has been dealt with."
You don't make any other follow-up questions, and that's for the best.
His version of “hanging out” is peaceful co-existence. He is perfectly content reading beside you while you silently do something else: drawing, crafting, knitting, studying, working, or reading another book.
While conversation is allowed, silence is preferred.
In the same vein, the easiest way to bond with him is to be bookish or interested in poetry.
It's just an infinite pool of conversation topics that do not qualify as tedious small talk to him. (Something that Vergil very openly loathes)
While not a talkative man at all, he is surprisingly eloquent when insulting people. Especially the ones he cares about the most. Cleverly bullying people is his way of showing camaraderie.
So, yes, he roasts you a lot. You'd be surprised at how much you get read by Vergil; he can be reeeally sassy if he chooses to.
"You have a rather simplistic approach to logical thinking."
"It seems competence continues to elude you."
Or in conversation:
"I didn't sleep much last night."
"Evidently."
"I think I handled that well."
"Objectively, no."
"Sometimes I struggle to stay focused."
"I have no doubt."
(I did warn you about the thick skin. Befriending this bastard is not for beginners.)
Thankfully, he tolerates your insults back.
"So, you chose that attire willingly?"
"I refuse to receive fashion advice from a crusty Edwardian man whose last time you washed your coat was before the fall of the Roman Empire."
Judgmental, he has the meanest side-eye known to mankind.
You know you’re his best friend when, after someone does something idiotic, Vergil immediately locks eyes with you across the room and is like:
"Can you believe this moron?"
Most would disagree, but I think he loves gossip.
He will deny this vehemently. He insists he is not nosy, and yet he knows everything.
He is always silently listening to people, and he remembers everything. Therefore, he can't help but know everything about everyone; he wants to act nonchalant and uninterested, but he can't.
"Admit it! You love gossip."
"I do not concern myself with trivial matters."
"Then, how did you know she was cheating on her boyfriend?"
"Please. Even a blind man could see the infidelity."
Or, alternatively:
"Hey, Vergil! Did you hear about—?"
"Yes."
He is not a "mom friend" by any means, but he somehow knows your schedule and responsibilities better than you do.
"Aren't you supposed to be elsewhere?"
"It seems punctuality still remains a challenge for you. You are one hour late for your appointment."
Vergil is a cold, aloof man.
He doesn't sugarcoat, offer empty reassurance or give compliments lightly.
However, he deeply respects discipline, hard work and endurance in the face of adversities. If you feel like you’ve failed or want to give up, he does not dismiss it.
"You endured what most would not."
"You remained in the face of misfortunes. Commendable."
"Do not falter. It will pass. "
Unfortunately, he has a remarkable talent for making concern sound like a threat/ insult.
"You are not use to anyone being feeble, dehydrated and sleepless. Unless you seek failure, correct this."
"You forget yourself. Humans cannot tolerate physical strain as demons do. Take a break, you fool."
"You look pathetic. Have a proper meal. We will speak later."
"Attend to your health. No one else will, and neglect has consequences."
But sometimes — sometimes — he gets it right.
"You will succeed. It is inevitable."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because you cannot escape fate."
"That's... surprisingly sweet of you, Vergil."
"Do not get used to it."
Nero Sparda
Nero is not subtle about his thoughts or feelings. If he likes you, you'd know.
There is very little slow burn in y'all's friendship. If you are an extrovert, you'll link instantly. If you are an introvert, he simply adopts you.
The one emergency contact that is actually competent. He answers the phone immediately, and before you even finish the sentence, he is already grabbing his jacket and keys.
"Hey—"
"What's up?"
"Shit, I'm sorry, Nero, I think I might—"
"I'm on my way."
He is fiercely protective. He believes you have to protect your people with your blood, sweat and tears. And to him, friends are family.
Although this is very earnest and honourable of him, Nero is a man who thinks with his heart first and his brain eventually.
If you are wronged, even if it is not a big deal, he will overreact.
He has a tendency to stand directly in front of you, argue with anyone, and escalate situations at record speed.
Sometimes it helps, because he would absolutely fight god for you.
But sometimes it does not help. Like, at all, he will actually make the situation ten times worse.
Similarly, he will defend you in conversations even when you’re not there.
"No, you don't know them. They are not like that. You know what? Fuck you, you better watch your mouth before talking shit about them."
Also, if someone interrupts you mid-sentence.
"Hey, man. They were talking."
If you have beef with someone, Nero now has beef with them, too. He forgets the details, but remembers the vibe.
"I don't like that person"
"You met them once."
"Yeah. Didn't like them. Vibes were off."
Nero is too honest for his own good.
"You look like shit. No offence."
Or, alternatively, if you're not wearing makeup:
"You good? You look sick and tired."
"I'm fine. I'm just not wearing any makeup."
"Oh— Shit. Sorry. Fuck me, I guess."
Unlike Vergil or Dante, Nero actually tries to be emotionally open. Sure, he is clumsy; he overcorrects, overshares or blurts things out.
The same applies to emotional support. He doesn’t always say the right thing, but he genuinely tries.
Strangely enough, he is excellent at hyping you up, even when it makes absolutely no sense.
"You could totally take them in a fight."
"They are twice my size, Nero."
"Yeah, but you're more... fiesty. Like an angry kitty against a Rottweiler."
Or alternatively, while watching a movie:
“Okay, but like… if the situation were right, you’d have a chance with them"
"With who? Pedro Pascal? Be fucking for real."
"Nah, you'd totally have a shot."
He loves his friends with a passion. He thinks you are way cooler than you actually are, and no amount of logic will convince him otherwise.
You will get dragged into his domestic life. He introduces you to Kyrie and Nico immediately. He doesn’t mind if you stay the night or if you make yourself at home.
Needless to say, you probably get along with them, too.
Nero is that friend who cannot whisper to save his life, nor be subtle.
"Hey, Nero. Be subtle, but behind you is my ex."
"HUH?! WHERE?!" Violently twist his head like the girl from The Exorcist.
He’s the friend who constantly tries to get you out of your comfort zone. He makes you try things you normally wouldn’t, even if you’re shy.
"Okay, but it doesn't matter if it sucks, or if you make an ass of yourself, it'll be a great anecdote later."
"Thanks..."
Also, invites you to places at the last minute and acts surprised when you can't go.
"C'mon, it'll be fun."
"Nero, it's 2 am on a Thursday."
"So...?"
I feel that he loves spontaneous field trips.
“Hey, wanna go somewhere?”
“Where?”
“We’ll figure it out on the way.”
If someone flirts with you badly, Nero physically recoils and makes exaggerated gagging faces behind them.
"Oof, that was a tough watch, man."
Nero is the friend you have all your drunk stories with. Unfortunately, he remembers every single one perfectly. Especially the embarrassing ones.
He has at least 100 unflattering but hilarious photos of you, which he uses exclusively as reaction images in your private chats.
I know I've been nagging about how loyal and how much of a good friend Nero is. Which he is! But truth to be told, he is terrible at keeping secrets.
He will beg you not to tell him anything sensitive because the guilt will eat him alive. Yet, you tell him anyway.
He lasts maybe ten minutes.
Then he sprints to Kyrie.
Luckily for you, Kyrie is a much better confidante.
He is insanely competitive over the dumbest things imaginable, especially games:
Video games, card games, Monopoly, and don't get me started on UNO.
“The fuck you mean I gotta draw twenty-eight cards?! Fuck this stupid game! What color? GREEN?! I don’t have green!”
"What do you mean you don't have green? You have half the deck in your hand!"
"I know! I fucking hate this game..."
Anyway, Nero is by far the most normal of all the Spardas. So, treasure his friendship; he is a golden boy.
V Sparda.
Like Vergil, being friends with V is a slightly surreal experience.
For starters, he is objectively a strange man. I don’t think that needs further elaboration
Second, V comes as a full package deal, because wherever he goes, his familiars are not far behind. You don’t just befriend V; you inherit Shadow, Griffon, and Nightmare as part of the arrangement.
Someone artistic or introspective will likely get along with him best. Similar to Vergil, you get bonus points if you enjoy poetry. He loves to read and talk about books with you.
If V is your best friend, it means he is always there for you.
Physically.
No, like, literally.
I mean it, V has a habit of materialising out of nowhere beside you and scaring the absolute shit out of you.
“Greetings.”
“WHAT THE FUCK — since when have you been there?!”
“Enough. Either way, here I found this book you might enjoy.”
Like a good friend, he does check in with you, but in a very odd way.
He disappears for days, sometimes weeks, then suddenly appears at your door at midnight and asks how you are, like it's the most normal thing to do.
"V? Do you know what time it is? And where have you been?"
"Irrelevant questions." (A pause) "I have been meaning to ask you, how did your job interview go?"
If you’re feeling down, V isn’t the best at traditional reassurance. He tends to stand there awkwardly, clearly wanting to help but unsure how.
He isn’t terrible at emotional support, but he does have a habit of quoting poetry at the worst possible moments.
"Grief is but love enduring..."
"V."
"Apologies."
You and V are a trauma-dump duo. About 75% of your conversations are just venting. He listens without judgment because his threshold for weirdness is nearly nonexistent, so nothing you say fazes him.
While he isn’t always comforting in a conventional sense, he is actually one of the better Spardas to talk to emotionally. He’s not as closed off as Vergil or as avoidant as Dante, and he genuinely has a way with words. (Unlike Nero)
“You do not need to suffer for your endurance to have meaning. Your persistence speaks for itself.”
What’s the antonym of pushy? Unobstrusive? Well, that’s V. He is quiet, respects space, and minds his own business.
He’s the type of friend you can go months without talking to, then pick up right where you left off, as if nothing happened.
Like Vergil, V is unintentionally funny, and unlike Vergil, he’s significantly less intimidating. So, he is just an overall more approachable and entertaining person.
However, he has no concept of conversational momentum. You’ll be mid-rant, and he’ll calmly interrupt with something like:
"This reminds me of a line by Blake."
He is also that one friend who laughs last because he didn’t get the joke in time.
You try to teach him modern slang, and he tries.
"That was... 'Based', was it not?"
That one friend who never knocks and never closes doors behind him. And once you’re close, he borrows your things constantly. Nine times out of ten, you don’t even notice they’re gone.
Most of the time, he returns them before you realise. But sometimes… he forgets.
He doesn't do all of this on purpose; he is a bit absent-minded.
One of your favourite activities with him is watching bad movies and trash TV. He observes closely, analyses deeply, and somehow understands very little.
"This narrative is... ambitious."
V is odd, gentle, present and surprisingly sincere. As your best friend, he turned into a quiet constant in your life. I told you, it is a surreal experience to have him in your life, but it is no less special.
Author's Note
Miss me? (Say yes, please), I closed the request temporarily so I could catch up a bit with them. As soon as I write a few more, I'll open them again. Ideally, sometime in January. I have plenty of requests half-finished because headcanons for Dante and Vergil come easily to me, but I struggle a tad with Nero and V.
Although I'm not one 100% sure of this blog, I might correct it in the future: I had a lot of fun writing this, especially the dialogue, but I think it is a little bit dull and monotonous to read. Like, it could be funnier. However, I think it's an overall decent set of hcns.
One more thing! I was thinking of finishing some Christmas Headcanons. But I'm not sure I will finish them on time before the holiday. I might publish it after Christmas. If so, would you guys be interested either way?
Thinking about being Damian's wife in the League of Assassins.
Thinking about your life being full of gold rings, spiced aromas and rose water.
Thinking about your hours spent in catching glimpses of husband throughout the day- while he runs around with his very busy schedule.
Thinking about being known as the Lady of the Palace, because what's a king without his queen?
Thinking about how, even with hundreds of things demanding his attention left and right, he still finds the time to 'accidently' bump into you in hallways, somehow makes time to eat lunch with you, and have you close as he trains in the gardens.
Thinking about when the sun sets, he's temporarily relieved of his duties, and he takes your arm, leading you through the Nanda Prabhat sanctuary, naming animals as you walk.
Thinking about having him all to yourself come nightfall.
Thinking about you both lying in bed, bathed in moonlight, as he smoothens your nightgown and quietly talks about his day in between kisses.
Thinking about your day being outlined with small promises. 'I'll see you at supper'. 'Save me a seat in the gazebo.' or 'Wait for me by the fountains'.
Thinking about stolen moments of romance, as though you were both kids again, new to love. Kisses on the palm as you hand him a scroll. A peck your cheek when no one is looking. And finally, pulling you into a secluded corner for a long, heated kiss when the hallways are deserted.
Thinking about getting ready with him every morning. Handing him his sword as he gently pushes silver bangles onto your wrists. Tucking your hair behind your ear, speaking softly- always soft with you.
Thinking about jade knives, marble fountains, burning incense and the small bells around your anklets that make him smile when he hears your every step- because it means you're closer now.
Thinking about being Damian's.
Notes-
Hiiii
AHHH where did that come from? I have no idea, but I was watching Jodhaa Akbar, and it came upon me. For those of you unaware, Jodhaa Akbar is a Bollywood movie about two Mughal rulers- Jodhaa and Akbar. Very romantic. Very beautiful cast.
Not much to say. I hope you guys are enjoying the moodboards. I will, however, be making a 'Damian Wayne' version of this, or how your life would be with Damian in Gotham.
That's all! As always, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think
With Love,
Ophelia
Hello. I am here to make an Avatar (James Cameron) request but if you have a lot on your list, feel free to ignore this.
I was hoping something along the lines of father figure Quaritch to a (young-ish/aged ~20) scientist and his team are surprised because the soldiers and scientists don't get along. I think this would be based upon the assumption that the RDA just went underground, not back to Earth.
FATHER ! FIGURE QUARITCH + MALE SCIENTIST READER
You never had a dad growing up, well, kind of. You had a dad, but he was in the military all the time, barely there— just long enough to leave bruises on your mum and empty bottles on the counter before vanishing again. Now, ironically, you're surrounded by Marines who don't give a shit about science, and Colonel Miles Quaritch is the one who notices you flinching when someone slams a locker too hard.
It starts small. A protein bar left on your workstation when you miss lunch. A pointed glare at the grunts who call you "lab rat" just a little too loud. Then one day, after a particularly brutal training exercise, he pulls you aside in the mess hall, his voice low. "Kid, you ever fired a gun before?" You shake your head, and he grins, all teeth. "Well, that's a damn shame."
The scientists whisper— why is Quaritch taking an interest in you? The Marines sneer, assuming you're sucking up. But nobody sees the way his hand hovers near your elbow when you're exhausted, like he's half afraid you'll crumple. Nobody hears him mutter, "Damn eggheads," when the others give you shit, but he doesn't stop them, not yet. That'd raise too many questions.
Then comes the night you're elbows-deep in bioluminescent samples, and he finds you in the lab at 0300. "You sleep ever?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe. You shrug. "Not really." He sighs, rubs his temple like you're giving him a headache, and tosses you a thermos. "Coffee. Black. Don't burn yourself." You take a sip— it's perfect. "Thank you!"
Three days later, you're in the rec room when a private shoves you out of the way to grab the last protein bar. Quaritch doesn't say a word, just leans back in his chair and watches. But when the private turns to smirk at you, the colonel's boot suddenly hooks the guy's ankle. The private hits the floor hard, and Miles snickers.
You blurt out, "Thanks, dad," without thinking. The room goes dead silent. The private's still sprawled on the floor, gaping. The Marines freeze mid-card game and your face burns hotter than Pandora's atmosphere.
Quaritch's expression does something complicated, eyebrows shooting up, mouth twitching, before settling into something dangerously smug. His eyes crinkle at the corners, lit up like he's just won a bet you didn't know existed. "Anytime, kid," he says, slow and deliberate, just to watch you squirm.
Now everybody thinks you’re Quaritch’s kid, ah well. Oops.
Summary: The Recom program was a success! Too bad the idiots on earth made a mistake, and it was already too late to reverse it.
Wordcount: 6.7k dont say it
Warnings/tags: smut, porn with plot, submissive!Quaritch, brief cockwarming, masturbation, multiple orgasms, Miles Quaritch has a pussy, heat cycles, breeding kink, oral Sex, pussy eating, fingering, dirty talk, belly bulge, doggy style, Reader has a penis, english is not my first language, not proof read
‼Don't like, don't read‼
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
You woke up with a raspy groan, blinking against the blurry and sterile light above you. "She's waking up. Pupillary reflexes normal" you heard someone say, feeling your ears flick to the sound.
Your first instinct was to try and sit up, your head swimming like you were emerging from a deep, dreamless sleep.
"It's okay, take it easy" the voice came clearer now, small hands gripping your much larger, bluer wrist. Human doctors swarmed around you, almost like little mice, checking vitals and making sure you wouldn’t rip out the IV drip when you moved.
Your body felt wrong, heavier than you remembered, your limbs elongated and when you managed to sit up straight, you towered over all the scientists around you. "If you get dizzy, just let us know, okay?" a women next to you said, gently prying some medical stickers off your body. You just nodded, not trusting your voice yet.
The mirror across the room showed a stranger as your sharper eyes raked over your body wrapped in a mintgreen gown. Your skin was now a rich blue, your ears pointed and catching every whisper in the sterile room.
Your new tail swished behind you without you actually wanting it to, knocking over a tray of instruments with a clatter. You instantly reached to hold your tail at the base and keep it still "Sorry" you croaked apologetically to the doctor, your ears lowered in shame.
Before she could dismiss you, a loud crash startled you in the lab next to yours. "Sedate him!" someone screamed and you watched a furious Recom through the large window, destroying medical equipment and hissing at everything and everyone around him.
"The Colonel" you stammered out like on auto pilot, ripping out the needles that had bugged you ever since you woke up.
Chaos broke out quickly, a doctor trying to keep you seated "Miss, you can't stand up yet, you could collapse!" he urged, but you shoved him aside, more forcefully than you had intended, not realising how strong you actually were. But you didn't care about that right now.
Seeing Quaritch here meant one thing- he died, too. And something inside you ached at the thought. He had been your, well, you couldn't really call it an affaire. You never slept with each other, never confessed anything. But even now you remembered the tension, his gaze on yours, that wasn't just nothing.
You stumbled to the adjacent room where Lyle was shouting frantically at Quaritch, he and other recoms holding the Colonel still as he thrashed and tried to bite.
Your walk felt weird, as if something was in between your legs that hadn't been there before. You blamed it on your muscles, which were still too weak to hold your body weight confidently.
"Miles" his name being said made him stop dead in his tracks, his yellow eyes snapping over to you. "All right, let me go, im alright" he muttered to Lyle and Z-dog.
Reluctantly they stepped back, ready to pounce if Quaritch tried something again.
But instead of lashing out, he approached you warily "Ain't this a bitch..." he muttered, eyeing you up and down, before trying out your name "...that you?"
You nodded at him, smiling crookedly, the fangs in your mouth feeling slightly too big. He returned the grin "So you got hit too, huh? Would have prefered to see again as a human, corporal" his words made you chuckle, your ears perking up in amusement as you lifted your arm to peel off a monitor patch that was still stuck to his forehead. "I would have prefered that too, sir"
The tension prickeled alive again as if the 15 years had never passed, as if you weren't resembling the enemy you both had learned to hate. His intense stare still didn't fail to make something stir in your core. The feeling though was unfamiliar, you blamed it on your body yet again.
Just when you lost yourself in his eyes, the door behind you hissed open. Human doctors in white coats, clipboards in hand, swarmed the space again after Quaritch had calmed down.
One man stepped forward, his breath huffing through the mask. "Uhh, Colonel Miles Quaritch and uhh..." he squinted as he looked back down to his documents, reading your name out loud "I'm gonna need you to come with us really quick."
Quaritch and you shared a confused glance. "My assistant to my right will be taking care of the other Recoms for the time being. And don't panic, it's less bad than it might sound" so off you went, exiting the room and walking behind a group of doctors.
They led you to another room. It was similar to the other lab, sterile lights blaring overhead and machines beeping around you.
"Sit, please" one of the nurses said, gesturing to large hospital beds. You lowered yourself carefully, your bare butt hitting the cold sheets and your tail curling around your leg absentmindedly. Quaritch did the same, sitting next to you with a stern frown, arms crossed over his chest.
The doctor cleared his throat. 'First off, congratulations on successfully taking part in the recom program! Your neural transfers are flawless, everything is working just as it should. You're stronger, faster, perfectly adapted for Pandora."
He cheered.You exchanged a glance with Quaritch yet again So far, so good. But if everything was perfect, what exactly was the problem?"
But..." he insisted, holding up a gloved finger "There is an... anomaly" the doctors eyes shifted down to scroll through his tablet, turning it to show you a screen of a DNA sample.
"During the, lets call it gestation, as your avatars were prepared to grow in their tanks, there was a labeling error in the genetic sequencing. Recoms are engineered to be almost identical to the Na'vi. Your bodies are made to mimic Na'vi biology fully, that includes male and female reproductive systems. You're both viable, but...mismatched."
Your stomach dropped in shock. You hoped you had understood them wrong. Quaritchs eyes narrowed next to you. "Goddamn it doc, spit it out" he barked. He didn't like what he was hearing so far.
The nurse beside him took over, her voice clipped "Standard female avatars have a vulva and an internal reproductive tract. Uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes. Males have a phallus and can produce fertile seminal fluid through ejaculation." she explained, watching your jaw starting to drop to the floor. "Due to the mix-up, your avatar-' she nodded at you and your shocked face "-has male genitalia. And Colonel Quaritchs has female."
Silence crashed down afterwards. You tried to act professional about this, but what were you supposed to say now? There was a dick, between your legs. A fucking dick.
You took a deep breath, professional. Quaritchs on the other hand was about to combust. A vein appeared on his forhead, his ears pinned as flat as they could go and his tail lashing behind him dangerously "You're saying I have a pussy? You stupid science bastards gave me a fucking cunt!?" he outright roared, his voice could be heard down the corridor.
But the nurse didn't seem to be scared of his outburst at all. "Yes. And the corporal has a penis. We noticed it mid-growth. Even if the lab had noticed it earlier, they couldn’t have stopped it, let alone tried again. Recoms cost the RDA billions." she tried to reason firmly, as if that made it okay.
She waved her hands "But everything else is optimal. You'll adapt. These parts are for urination primarily and you are not here for procreation anyway. Focus on the mission" but Quaritch was practically fuming, smoke coming out of his ears. You had never seen him so tense, so angry, not even when Sully betrayed his race.
You swallow hard, staring down at the ground. Your new body felt even stranger now. "Adapt my ass" Quaritch growled, rising to his feet swiftly and towering over the doctors that were just half his size.
"Anything else you fucked up that we must know about?" He hissed down at them, baring his fangs naturally.
The doctor opened a file on his tablet, clearing his throat. "Not a fuck up, as you put it, but yes. Like my assistant has already explained, Avatar and Na'vi biology are very similar. That's means you will experience a heat cycle soon. One is mandatory before we can give out supressants to the recoms" the doctor swallowed thickly, watching Quaritchs jaw tick.
You lifted your hand in question behind Quaritch "Heat like in...animals?" you asked and to your horror, the doctor and nurse nodded. "Basically, yes. Both individuals will feel the urge to mate. The male will usually try to find a willing female to breed and procreate with" he gestured between you and Quaritch "The heat cycle can be shortened if the male disposes his sperm into the female. But it passes on it's own after about a week, though self inflicted pleasure can help ease the symptoms until then" the nurse informed, clasping her hands together in front of her.
That was it.
Quaritch hissed dangerously, the sound ending in a growl, the doctors shrinking together in fright "Not a word to my team or I'll fucking gut you" he barked before leaving the room and stomping down the hallway, rage evident.
★
Everything happened so fast after that, you got dressed, watched the recordings your human self had left for you and soon arrived on pandora, being shipped to bridgehead by a battle ship.
A lot had happened since your absence and it took general ardmore the whole day to show you and the team around. Quaritch seemed collected and calm, as if he hadn't recently found out he was dickless. But you knew he was brooding inside.
You arrived at your room at night, finally getting to unpack your things and rest for the day. Quaritch was stationed right next to you. You had to urge to go talk to him, about this, or anything really. Just to make sure he was doing as okay as a man could that now had to live with a vagina. But he had shut his door and locked it the second he was inside, Lyle throwing you a confused look before retreating into his own quarters.
You sighed deeply as you stretched from todays strain. You stripped down to prepare yourself for a quick shower, when your eyes landed on your panties in the body length mirror.
There was a slight bulge there. You had already used your new attachement to pee, but you hadn't taken a good proper look. Quite frankly, you didn't even know if you actually wanted to. This felt wrong, but then again, what in this body didn't feel wrong?
With a deep breath, you decided to take a look. You pulled down your panties and your cock sprang free. It was an impressive size, even soft, hanging low and heavy. You heard that Na'vi were hung like horses, still the size surprised you. It wasn't bad looking, either. Smooth to the touch with no hair, fain't stripes and a soft purple tip.
You wrapped a hand around it, weighing it softly. The image your mirror painted was wrong, though not only the cock was the problem.
You huffed. You knew you would have to live with this now. And the doctors were right- it wasn't like you were here to find yourself a mate, settle down and pop kid after kid out with them. You didn't even want children. So you hoped you would get used to it soon, to the point you'd forget that it was even there.
And as you watched yourself in the mirror, you wondered if Quaritch was doing the same thing on the other side of the wall, parting his pussy lips and taking a look at his clit. Did he feel phantom pain where his dick once was? You snorted at the thought.
Sleep came easy after your shower and you tucked yourself away in your narrow bed, exhaustion taking over quickly.
★
Then, two weeks later, it happened. You hoped you had more time to prepare, but you woke up sweaty as hell and with the hardest boner ever. Not even a cold shower made it go down, your dick just wouldn’t budge. Instead it kept leaking precum, even when you got your panties on, your cock straining against your pants.
You almost didn't want to leave your room at 0600 for morning training because your boner was so obvious! "How the fuck do they do this?" you muttered, trying to position your cock in a way it's outline wouldn’t be too prominent.
But every touch made you throb more, pleasure shooting up your spine as you tucked it upward with the head peaking out of your waistband, a large bead of pre staining your panties.
You moaned before snapping out of it, shaking your head. You groaned as you changed your panties the third time since you woke up an hour ago, your hands itching to just stroke yourself the whole day. But you were already late to breakfast, so you swallowed down the need in your groin and headed out.
When arriving in the canteen, a smell hit your nose like a punch to the gut. Your head had been fuzzy already, but this was a different level.
Lyle waved you over to his table. You threw your long legs over the bench, that smell even stronger now. Quaritch held his head low, his fork scraping around in the grey slurry on his plate. But even as the team fell into the familiar chatter like all these years ago, you couldn't concentrate on shit.
You were staring at your food with a frown, not knowing if you wanted to hold your breath or take a very deep sniff of whatever source produced this scent. You had never smelled anything like it.
"What's that smell..." you muttered more to yourself, but the whole table picked it up instantly "What smell?" Z-dog asked you, her cheeks stuffed with food. You tilted your head "You don't smell that?" you asked them. Everyone shook their head, except Quaritch, who seemed to be tensing up even more.
You brushed a hand through your hair, sweat beading at your neck "I don't know, it's like- very, very sweet. Like a fruit, maybe?"
Lyle shrugged, chugging down his coffee "they offer some of those fruits here in the canteen, say it's safe to eat. Wouldn’t trust that though" he grinned, a chuckle sounding from the group.
You nodded, deep in thought, cock throbbing despite everything "Yeah, must be it" you almost rasped. Little did you know that the sound of your voice made Quaritchs core tingle and that this alluring scent was his pussy, his arousal amplified by your own smell that assulted his nose.
When you bendt over the table to grab syrup for your stale pancakes, your cleavage right in Quaritchs face, goosebumps exploded on his skin. That was it, he pushed himself up, his cuttlery clattering as he stormed out of the canteen.
And just like that, the scent faded.
Training was hard, but you could blame your flushed state on the 20 laps you had to run around the compound as a warm up. And lifting weights was enough to let you forget the ache in your dick and how fucking horny you were, desperate to sink into a nice, snug pussy.
You shook your head at the thought, panting and wiping your sweaty face with a towel.
That's when your gaze landed on the colonal, who was stretching himself. He was folded in half, legs straight, his head near his ankles to stretch his hamstrings. You could see the outline of his pussy through his shorts, the lips plush against the fabric. It almost sent you spiraling.
The whole day continued like this, testing your restraint to the point that the first thing you did when arriving in your quarters was strip and stroke your dick. The nurse said masturbation would help? You would see about that.
You had a pussy all your life, but really, how hard could it be to stroke a cock? Judging by how long your past boyfriends held out cumming, you wouldn't be sitting here more than three minutes.
When you started to fuck your fist, it felt like you had been edging the whole day. You groaned out as you corkscrewed upwards, giving your swollen head special attention. So that's how it felt. It was amazing, and while you were desperate to cum, you wished you could prolong this pleasure even more.
But how could you keep yourself from cumming when your mind made you imagine Miles next door, stripped down to nothing and straddling his pillow while his cunt was pressed flush against the fabric. How beautifully his puffy lips spread wide over the pillows edge, slick coating the material in dark patches, his clit a swollen needy pearl dragging back and forth desperately to chase his climax. Maybe he'd even moan your name.
Fuck, that did it for you, and you shot ropes all over your abdomen, hitting your chest. It was ecstatic, though the sticky mess it left behind was rather unpleasent. And while you felt very bad about masturbating to your boss, it had actually made your dick go down for the first time today, the room not feeling like a sauna to you anymore.
★
You had a feeling you were able to handle your heat pretty well, Quaritch not so much. By day three, he snapped at everyone and everything. He was pissed off by the smallest thing, just one wrong breather could set him off.
He was berating Lyle about something you couldn't quite follow, and Lyle seemed to be as confused as you that it agitated the colonal so much.
Quaritch was frustrated and in the worst mood you had ever seen him in. He was sweating, his tail was lashing like a whip and his ears would never leave their place where they were pinned to his head. Most of the time his face was pulled into a deep frown, sometimes he would even hiss at people walking by, scaring some human soldiers shitless.
You were tying your shoes up in the lockerroom when you watched Quaritch through the window that let you see into the gym. He was the only one there, everyone else had fled from him, and he was beating the stuffing out of a punching bag as if it was Jake Sully himself.
You were about to leave for your room when Lyle stopped you. "Hey, uhm, do you know whats wrong with the Colonel?" He asked you, pushing up his sunglasses to rest on top of his bald head. You swallowed. Yeah, you knew. Lyle and the rest also knew about the whole heat thing, but they didn't seem to be affected yet.
You shook your head "Yeah...he's acting pretty weird lately. Maybe he hasn't come to terms with all of this yet" you suggested with a shrug, gnawing at your bottom lip to hide how nervous you were lying to him.
Lyle nodded firmly "Maybe you're right" he muttered, scratching his neck in thought. He really cared about his best mate, and it was hard not knowing what was going on. You patted his shoulder "I'll see if I can talk to him tonight, hopefully he's a bit calmer until then" that earned you a thankful little smile from the fellow corporal.
By evening, you stood in front of his door, hesitant to knock. When you did, it took a few seconds before you heard a gruff "come in" muffled from the other side of the door.
When it was you who entered, he stopped his restless pacing. "What are you doing here?" He growled, opening the small window in the narrow room, as if it would help to make your scent less prominent. He hated just how weak in the knees it made him, how much more his pussy throbbed smelling you.
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying not to let your own arousal get to your head as your eyes raked over his bare torso "You are scaring everyone on the station with your behavior. What's wrong?" you asked, though his state was explaination enough.
"It's the heat, isn't it? That bad?"
He sat down on his bed with a grunt "Course it's that bad when you can't even make yourself cum!" he seethed, hiding his face from you in embarrassement. There, he said it. He was sexually frustrated and treating everyone like trash because of it.
You sat down in front of him on a chair, manspreading, his eyes fixating on the noticable bulge in your pants, but he forced himself to look away.
"No matter what I do, I can't cum. Tried it all because I just can't fucking think straight anymore. This is bullshit" he gestured vaguely downward, shame etching his features. "I can't rub one out because it's too sensitive and fingers inside don't do shit" just imagining Quaritch plunging his fingers into his hole desperately was enough to make you want to bend him over, but you stood your ground.
He sighed deeply "Just- how did you do it? Is there a trick, am I not getting something?" his voice cracked, words meaning so much more than they let on. How did you make yourself cum when you still had a pussy- and how did you manage to adapt so quickly? He felt like he was still at the beginning, lost and not himself.
You bit your lip, an idea popping into your head. You couldn't leave him like this and you hoped you wouldn’t regret this.
You stood up, stepping closer, his head leveled with your groin "Maybe instead of telling you I could...show you" you purred, grasping the side of his face to make him look up at you. His eyes grew wide with raw vulnerability "Show me?" It wasn't even a question, more of a plea if anything else.
Gently, you guided his hand to his waistband to give him the last moment of control. He hesitated, then shoved his shorts and boxers down and scooted up to the headboard, his leg still closed.
With utter most embarrassement he opened his thighs, presenting gorgeous swollen blue tinted lips to you. His clit peeked out under it's hood, engorged, and a trail of arousal dripped down his ass and onto the sheets. He shuddered at the exposure. "Fuck, it's... leaking" he rasped, almost disgusted with himself.
You knelt over him then, your nose pressed to his temple while your hand wandered lower and lower. "I will start slow, tell me if it hurts"
Your fingers traced his inner thigh, thumb inching closer to where he needed you. He gasped, tail thrashing.
"Everyone is different when it comes to clitoral stimulation. Some like it rough, others feel pain with direct contact. So try to circle the outside first." you explained breathlessly, your fingers sliding through the wetness of his folds, but not penetrating him yet.
You rubbed him slowly, listening to his body reacting. You circled his clit, not touching it directly, and it made his toes curl. He moaned, the sound going straight to your dick "That nice?" you whispered into his ear that had started to tremble. "Yeah, don't stop" he breathed, his eyebrows furrowing in pleasure while he watched you play him like an instrument.
You kept rubbing slowly, the pressure light until you noticed him bucking into your hand. It hadn't felt like this when he did it, not by a mile. And he couldn't help but spread his legs out in eagerness.
"Please" you heard him whimper pathetically "I need...more, it hurts" he nearly sobbed and you cooed, kissing his cheek. "Everything my colonel wants, he gets" you assured and went to settle between his thighs, hands on his knees to keep them from closing.
It was the most pretties pussy you had ever seen. Smooth mound, gorgeous lips and a fat little clit, eager to cum. Ugh you could just imagine what he would feel like wrapped around your cock.
Without torturing him any further, your tongue flicked out, tasting him. Sweet like a fruit, just like he smelled, and his pussy clenched at the contact. "Fuck! Yes!" he arched his back off the bed, hands digging into the sheets.
You licked broader stripes across his dripping cunt, lapping at his folds, avoiding his clit until he was begging. "Please... touch it." When you finally circled the nub with the tip of your tongue, he cried out, body convulsing. "Oh fuck! Just like that" he wailed, legs quivering around your head.
Emotions crash through you as you ate him out, pity for his struggle, triumph in easing it and the insatable lust his moans made you feel. He didn't know what to do with himself, all these sensations that licked up his belly like they never had before.
He didn't know wether to back away from you when the feeling intensified or push even harder against your tongue. His whole body trembled without his control, it was the cutest thing, nothing you would have ever described Quaritch with until today.
But seeing him drooling and writhing under your mouth, it almost made you cum in your pants. You suckled his clit gently, your finger dipping into his hole to prepare him for what was to come, before you pushed it in fully.
You slipped in without much resistance, that’s how soaked he already was, his walls fluttering around your finger. "Deeper... need filling." he gasped at the intrusion, grinding down against you, tears already rimming his eyes "Don't fucking stop" he whispered, but there was no real bark behind it. And just seeing the look in his eyes, you knew if you'd stop now, he would start bawling.
You added another finger, stretching him a little wilder "Hold on just a bit longer, baby. I gotta prepare this sweet virgin pussy before I can fill it up" despite his needy state, he scoffed at your words "I'll show you virgin-" but before he could end his sentence, you curled your fingers to hit that special spot inside, making him sob, hips bucking wildly.
You abused that spot with the pads of your fingers while licking and sucking his clit between your lips at the same time, watching his abdomen tense as he wriggled to get away from you, the sensations overwhelming.
"I- I think I'm...-cumming, I'm gonna cum, I think m'gonna cum" he slurred, panting, feeling lightheaded as his orgasm seemed to finally approach after days of denial.
It hit him almost suddenly, warmth exploding from deep within his core and filling every fiber of his being. He screamed, fat tears rolling over his cheeks while he thrashed, his pelvis lifting off the bed, his body twisting from the pleasure in ways that looked like it hurt.
His pussy was gushing endlessly around your digits, and you were sure you could even make him squirt if you tried hard enough. You let him ride it out until he laid boneless on the narrow bed.
You gently massaged his quivering legs as he tried to catch his breath. While you were throbbing in your own pants, it seemed like this orgasm had really rocked his shit. You wouldn’t blame him at all if he just passed out exhausted, and you would wait for him as long as you needed to.
Just when you were about to snuggle up with him, he pushed himself up on his elbows and flipped himself onto all fours, as if on instinct, ass up obediently and presenting his pussy to you, the lips parting eagerly, slim waist arching beautifully. "Fuck me" he rasped, looking over his shoulder at you, his face flushed a deep purple.
"How could I say no to that?" you grinned, giving his ass a smack that made his tail twitch where he had lifted it up and out of the way.
You kicked your pants off quickly and positioned yourself behind him, rubbing the head of your cock along his slit. He pushed back, whimpering. "You're really sure you can handle me, colonel? You never had your cute pussy stuffed this much before" you taunted, grinning even wider as he glared at you from below.
"If you don't get your fucking dick in me right this second, I swear to god-" but you don't let him threaten you, instead you pushed your head in slowly at first, moaning at the contact. He was so fucking wet and hot, swallowing you greedily. "Fuck, you're squeezing me tight. It's like i'm wrapped up in velvet" you groaned, pushing deeper.
He spread his thighs wider, that’s all his head screamed at him to do, and you slipped in even further, down to the base of your dick, until you met resistance. Quaritch keened under you as your tip kissed his swollen cervix, his tail curling.
"So big..." he whined, clenching around you helplessly "I don't- I..." he whined, hiding his face in his pillow. His abdomen was visibly bulging from your length, and it felt like he would fall apart at the seams.
It was so humiliating. Usually women praised him for being so big, and now he was the one moaning like a bitch with this disgustung urge clawing at his skin.
BreedBreedBreedBreedBreedBreed
His head was swimming and fuzzy, but he couldn't let you cum inside him, he couldn't. But god did he want to, what was wrong with him?
He hadn't noticed his ears trembling, but you did, of course you did. Your hand gently brushed over his sweaty back and softly turned him by the shoulder to face you. "We can stop...if you want. It's okay" you reassured him, though he saw how much this was killing you.
He shook his head, no words came out, but you read him like an open book still. You cooed in pity, leaning down to place kisses along his spine. They made him gasp and shudder beneath you, arching into your touch.
"I know you probably don't feel...like a man anymore. That you are less than." You whispered against his feverish skin, goosebumps prickling your lips "Miles, I've loved you ever since I joined this team. I still live you now. And if this malufunction caused us to finally be together like this, then I'm thanking the fucking universe that it happened."
Your words settled deep in his chest, though for a moment it felt like you overstepped.
Then, to your surpise, Quaritch began to move his hips back against you, muttering something into the pillow. "What was that?" you asked through a groan, your restraint wearing thin when he moved on your cock like that. You had never gotten your dick wet in this body, or ever, and you weren't sure how long you would last if he kept this up.
He growled at having to repeat himself again, his ears already glowing pink "I said knock me up before I change my goddamn mind" he hissed in shame.
It was like a flip had been switched inside you, your pupils dialating. You grabbed his hips and started a rhythm, deep pounding strokes. Each slap of skin on skin echoed in the small room, his wetness coating your balls. You moaned out, rolling your hips desperately, his pussy squelching and gushing endlessly around your shaft "So fucking good, you feel so good, Miles" you groaned, your abdomen tightening. "Don't think I could pull out even if I wanted to"
Quaritchs clit throbbed pathetically as you pounded his hole, relishing in the way you rocked his body on the bed, the metal headboard creaking under your harsh movements.
You grasped his waist with both hands, so slim you could almost wrap your hands completely around it, and pushed him into the arch even more. He wailed, tears brimming in his eyes again. "You like that, huh? Taking my cock so well." your words only fueled the heat in his gut. He moaned, drool slicking his chin and the pillowcase. 'Yeah, harder, fuck me stupid!" he sobbed, eyes screwed shut.
Tears flow freely now, mixing with his sweat. You needed to get deeper, impossibly so. You laid your whole body weight onto his back, grinding your cockhead against his cervix. His eyes fluttered into the back of his head and you kissed his cheek.
"That's the spot, huh? Gonna carve out your inside, make space for a baby, yeah?" that made him moan like a whore, craning his head back to kiss you. Your tounges swirled around each other, his salty tears mixing with your spit.
When you pulled back, a string of saliva still comnected your lips, his were plush and pulled into a gasp. You licked from his striped cheek to his neck and down to his shoulder, biting the smooth skin there. The slight pain made him tighten around you, earning a growl from you that warmed his core.
Your left hand laid over his, fingers slipping between the space of his and curling to hold him, to ground him. Your other hand slipped down to cover his abdomen, feeling the bulge leave and reappear with every thrust of your cock.
Then your fingers wandered further south until you reached his clit, rubbing it furiously. He screamed, bucking wildly as another climax was building.
You continued nipping at his shoulder, trying to distract yourself from the burning sensation in your thighs. You were sure your muscles would be sore tomorrow, worse than any workout you could do. But the need to cum, cum in him, and pleasing your colonal was stronger than the ache in your abdomen and hips.
Quaritch whined, his head turning to bury into his pillow, biting into it "I'm getting close" he mumbled, the fabric muffling his voice.
You grinned, blowing on his ear teasingly, watching it flick "Yeah? Is that pretty pussy gonna cum on my cock? Do I make you feel that good?" you taunted, feeling bold now that you head him so vulnerable under you. He bared his fangs to you in an angry snarl "When- nghh...this is over, oh- I'm gonna kill you" he threatened you, but not without moaning from your thrusts.
You could only chuckle. He might be scary on the battle field, but right now, when the pleasure you caused made him too weak to hold his ass up, he looked merely like a kitty. "Aww Miles, you can admit that you love me digging down in your stomach. Come on, say it" your voice was strained from the excertion.
When he didn't answer, instead he was only glaring at you, hoping he didn't have to give up the last bit of dignity he had. But you didn't have a problem with threatening him back "If you don't, then I guess I will pull out, not cum in you"
That seemed to do the trick instantly. His head shot up from the place on the drool-soaked pillow, eyes searching frantically for yours "No, no! No, please" he shook his head desperately, grasping your hand so you couldn't pull back "Please, cum inside me, you, fuck, you have to c-cum inside" he sobbed, primal need speaking out of him. He was crying like you pulling out was the worst thing that could ever happen to him.
You kept kissing his face to soothe him "Oh baby, I will, I will" you tried to calm him, but his brain was already too far gone, only the animalistic urge to mate remaining. Breed, get knocked up, breed, get knocked up.
"Your cock feels good, all the way i-inside, oh god cum in me" he babbled, his body rocking back to meet your thrusts.
You shushed him by wrapping your hand around his mouth, his whines still high and pleading "I will baby, I promise. Fill that belly nice and full" your own words triggered you, just the idea of knocking him up- it made you pound him even harder.
The feelings overwhelmed you both, the slide of his slick heat, the subtle bulge in his abdomen and his cries turning to sobs of ecstasy. Your hand slipped from his face so you could grip his hips better, bringing him up against you with every thrust. "Make me cum, please!" he screamed raw and hoarse, his voice carrying all the way outside through his opened window.
Pressure build steadily, your balls tightening painfully, and so did his pussy "Gonna cum.." you warned him, putting your last bits of strength into pushing him over the edge.
"Yes! breed me deep!" if this didn't gave you a noise complaint, you didn't know what would. You slammed home with a yell, finally exploding against his cervix. You wondered how it was possible you even held out that long.
Rope after rope painted his insides, his cunt spasming in response, his second orgasm of the night ripping through him.
You came endlessly, his pussy sucking you in greedily, not wanting you to pull out despite the fact that he collapsed, trembling, your cum gushing around your shaft as you stayed buried. The effect was almost immediate, the room not feeling hot and humid anymore.
You pulled out slowly with a hiss and a sad whine from Quaritch, watching your cum drip from his stuffed hole. You parted his sticky lips, his pussy pulsing, more cum leaking out onto the sheets. "Look at that" you panted, the sight alone making you want to fill him again.
His incoherent babbling and the way he laid almost passed out on his bed told you he needed a break, needed rest.
But you couldn’t let him sleep on his bed tonight. The bedding was ruined with cum and sweat, the pillowcase soaked through by his tears and spit. Ever so gently, you turned him over onto his back. He whined in exhaustion, not wanting to move and inch.
He was so tired he even let you spread his legs without complaint. You dipped lower to clean him up with your tongue, being mindful not to touch his clit, which was still sensitive.
Quaritch moaned softly as he felt your mouth massage his mound, the mix of his juices and your cum oozing out to coat your tongue. Once you had licked up most of the remains, you went to get dressed. You helped him put on his tank and boxers.
At first, he thought you were about to cuddle up with him as your arms snaked around his torso, but his world shifted as you lifted him up against you. He was too sleepy to actually protest you, his strong arms laying limb over your shoulder, his legs just barely wrapping around your hips. "God, what are they feeding you?" you groaned under his weight, earning yourself a slap with his tail.
You left his quarters with his heavy body draped over you, making sure there was no one in the hallway who could see you carry the colonel like a baby to your room.
Once his body hit your clean and cool sheets, he sighed in relief. "Come here, you..." He started with a lazy grin, reaching for you. You threw him a smile, got rid of your uncomfortable combat pants and let him pull you into his arms for a kiss. You cuddled up with him on the narrow bed that barely even fit one recom, but you made it work.
You always did, even when the universe threw medical fuck-ups at you.
Thank you, universe
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
haven't updated in a while! Im scared that the Quaritch love is dying down slowly but surely :(
I really hope you fw this as much as I do. And stay tuned for a Quaritch x Reader request and part 7 of blurred fate <3
hellooo id like to send a request for miles quaritch :)
what about a au where miles is given the choice by jake either to learn the ways of the navi or die. It’s basically an alternate ending to the third movie.. so he follows jake and his family to the metkayina clan and meets a sea navi (us) and is absolutely love struck by her 👀 .. basically the reader will be the ones teaching miles, kind of like how neytiri and jake met! 😭 fluff or/and smut your choice hehe..
have a great day! 💕
Hearts of the sea (Part 1/2)
let's pretend Quaritch never got that close with Varang and never wore the loincloth/paint for the sake of this fic okay?
Pairing: Recom!Miles Quaritch x Female!Metkayina Reader
Wordcount: 8.0k
Warnings/tags: Strangers to lovers, fluff, description of blood, alternative ending, AFAA SPOILER, injuries, violence, weapons, drowning, mentions of death/murder, flirting, smut in future parts, english is not my first language, not proof read!
[Part 1] ★ [Part 2]
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
Now that he sat here on his knees, wrists bound tightly behind his back and hundreds of disgusted snarls looking down at him, he questioned if he had made the right choice by promising Jake to learn the na'vi ways.
Tonowari did only little to hide his glare as his eyes raked over Quaritch with hatred and anger. His gaze then snapped to Jake, who stood behind Quaritch, aiming a rifle at the back of his neck "You bring this demon to us, to cause more suffering?" his voice was booming, hisses and growls sounding through the crowd.
Jake shook his head, lifting one hand to try and shush the clan to hear him out "No, but I believe people can change, remember? I believe people can adapt, they can learn. I know I did" he started, the other voices dying down "I saw him hesitate, I saw him worry about his son"
Jake placed a firm on hand on Spiders shoulder, pushing the boy forward, who looked at the ground as if the mention of Quaritch being his father, or what remained of him, deeply ashamed him. Quaritchs ears dropped at that.
"The old Miles Quaritch is dead, he has been for a long time" Miles' shoulders tensed up. No matter how much he tried to deny it, Jake was right. But who was he without the memories of the man whose name he carried?
The mouth of the gun pressed further into his neck "But the new Miles Quaritch hasn't been born yet. And he needs our help to see this world like we do. Like he should have seen it from the very start"
Jakes words sat heavy among the metkayina, lingering like pressure on your chest. He turned to Tonowari, his voice quieter now, smaller, to talk directly to him "Tonowari, my brother, I promise you, he will change. Either he starts to learn or he dies. That was the deal"
But Tonowari still didn't look convinced at all, frowning deeply at Jake and the demon he had brought. "We just need someone who will teach him" Jake said, his eyes boring into Tonowaris with an almost pleading intensity.
The olo'eyktan huffed through his nose before lowering his head. "So be it" he hissed, then turned to face his clan "Toruk makto has spoken! The sky demon will walk among us from this day forward. Teach him what he was too foolish to understand" he roared, the lack of kindness in his voice chilling.
"Much like Toruk makto and his family, he will be like a baby, even more so." Quaritch growled at being called a baby, it was bad enough that he was tied up and on his knees where everyone could see, he didn't need to get pissed off even more.
"Treat him as our brother. And time will tell if he was worth saving" Tonowari spoke his last works directly to Quaritch, spitting them into his face.
Jake hauled Quaritch up to his feet. Tonowari called out a name into the crowd, one that made Quaritchs ears perk up without reason.
As he was pushed along by Jake, the clan parted to clear a path, and to keep a safe distance to Quaritch. Only one person stayed put, a woman. As much as he despised these blue monkeys, they did have some pretty ladies here and there.
You didn't flinch as Miles was pushed into your space, your expression didn't change. You looked calm, collected. No fear.
Tonowaris hand came up to sign from his forehead down to you "I see you, ma'yawne" Quaritch snorted. My beloved, were you that guys missus or what? You looked a bit young for that, but he also couldn't blame him...what a fine face you had. Damn, he had to get it together.
You returned the motion "Would you please treat his wounds and show him his marui?" Tonowari questioned, his head held low as if he was ashamed to ask this of you.
You nodded, giving him a soft smile. "I will" you answered shortly, giving Jake, Lo'ak, Spider and Quaritch a look before turning around without another word, heading to your own marui and expecting the other men to follow.
Once you arrived at your pod, you collected a few things you needed to treat his injuries. Your movements were unhurried and light, as if he was just someone from the village who needed help. And maybe that's what Quaritch needed. Someone who didn't treat him with kidness, but also without malice or hatred. Just a neutral interaction between two people.
Though he certainly deserved to be treated like trash, he had to admit.
"Sit him down" you instructed simply and Quaritch was pushed onto a woven mat by Jake and Lo'ak. They held him firmly by the shoulders, not showing any signs that they were about to move.
You sized Jake up, staring at him. "Leave us" they were hesitant at first, not sure if this was a good idea. But Jake knew you, so he wouldn't argue about your choice. It was better that way.
You sighed softly as you were finally left alone with Quaritch, cutting the bindings that secured his wrists behind his back "Careful, sweetheart. I don't think you thought that through" he chuckled, rubbing his sore wrist with his good arm while he watched you sit down crosslegged in front of him.
"I don't think you realise I am the one with a knife" you mirrored his sass, earning yourself a defeated nod and a grin "Touché" he chuckled, observing you while you cleaned your hands in a bowl.
You scooted closer to him, grasping his right arm with a firm hand and pulling it straight. He hissed at the movement, though he tried to hide it. A broken arrow was lodged all the way through his biceps. The wound looked gnarly, at the verge of getting infected. The bleeding had stopped, but you couldn't leave it in. Not a minute longer.
You put your hand under his upper arm to support it, your other hand gently digging into the wound to get a good grip on the feathers of the arrow. His face grimaced softly.
You looked at him "This is going to hurt. Breathe in" you instructed, waiting until his chest rose and he held it, a tense vein bulging from his neck.
You nodded, just to make sure "And out..." only when he started to breath out did you pull. You made a quick job with it, though his pained groan echoed, his lips turning into a harsh snarl that showed his fangs. You threw the wooden stick to the side, quickly smearing an antibiotic salve onto his...very strong and firm biceps, before wrapping his arm up tightly with palm leaves.
Just as fast as it came, your touch left him and he cranked open his eyes. His chest was heaving gently, brows laid in sweat from the pain. But you seemed relaxed, finished with him.
His gaze settled on his arm, snug in bindings "You done?" he asked as if he couldn't quite believe it.
You hummed in affirmation, his ears perking up, content. You came closer again after you had mixed together some clear white slurry that reminded Quaritch of aloe vera, though the texture was less slimy as it hit his skin.
You touched him softly, he almost couldn't feel your fingertips gliding along his face. While you did this, it was quiet between you, the only sound being the waves lapping ashore and families going to sleep a few maruis away from yours.
It was a bit awkward, to him at least. But you didn't seem to mind the silence at all. "So...that guy" he started, closing his eyes as you applied the gel to a cut over his eyes that was already starting to bruise.
"What guy?" you asked, brow furrowed with concentration. "Y'know, that guy. Your leader I assume?" he tried to explain to you, though it came off a bit disrespectful. Nothing knew with Quaritch. "Tonowari. He is olo'eyktan" you corrected him then, your fingers re-dipping into the bowl of jelly.
Quaritch rolled his eyes, so subtle you didn't catch it "Yeah, right. He called you my beloved" you recalled that Tonowari had indeed called you that, he often did. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but the way Quaritch spoke about it made you wonder if humans didn't use platonic names of endearment with each other. "Yes, and?"
Quaritch huffed at that "Well, that's a petname, ain't it? You're his missus or what?" he asked you with a hint of bitterness in his voice. Not even he knew where that came from, and why.
You pulled back your hands, staring at him a bit dumbfounded. You? The Tsahik of the metkayina? Tonowaris wife? That made you laugh and you shook your head no to his question "You called me sweetheart, even though I am not your sweet heart. Is that any different?"
Well, you had a point, a sense of relief washing over him. How weird.
The words you got me there were about to leave his mouth as he started to dismissively raise his hand, but a sharp pain shot up his right arm and he flinched. You quickly went to grab a piece of net, cutting it to the size you needed and wrapping it around his torso and arm like a sling, so he wouldn't move his arm too much while it healed.
"Your na'vi is good" you acknowledged, tying the knot over his shoulder "But it can be better. I will help you"
He was about to answer you when you stood up, your tail brushing his shoulder, almost on purpose, strutting past him. When you noticed he wasn't following you, you turned. He looked at you over his shoulder, confused. "Come" you said.
Quaritch didn't move, at least not fast enough for you. "Come" you repeated more enthusiastically, pulling him up by the good arm to drag him along. He stumbled behind you, the shells and beads in your hair chiming with every step ok the bouncy woven paths that connected the homes over the reef.
He had never looked long enough to appreciate the houses of the metkayina, there was no time when he ordered them to be burned down. But now as he watched you navigate through the pathways with his hand firmly in yours. Something in Quaritch itched to get his boots off and feel the woven material under his bare feet. He refused to let himself fall for that inner longing that felt too primal for him to approach.
It seemed like you had forgotten that his warm hand was wrapped around yours, too busy finding an empty marui for him to stay in.
You found one at the edge of the reef, not far from yours or Jakes. It was small, but enough for him to live in with the few belongings he had. "There. You stay here and rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for you"
Quaritch chuckled, not moving an inch. When you realised the lack of movement from him was caused by your hand interlaced with his fingers, you quickly ripped your hand away, tail giving one irritated flick as you brushed past him. That was the most emotional he had seen you since his arrival. He found you to be very collected, calm. He wondered why.
He watched you set up his bed, if he could even call it that. It was a flimsy hammock he wasn't sure would support his weight without collapsing, but he had worse. He had to be thankful he was even getting something that resembled a bed and didn't have to sleep out in the mud with zero privacy. After all, he deserved every bit of harsh treatment.
"What makes you think I ain't gonna flee, huh? When everyone's asleep" he asked you then. You gave him a soft smile and pointed out the dark ocean to an illuminated pod "That is my marui. I am a light sleeper, I will hear you" you answered, stepping closer to him "You are surrounded by the sea and the people born there. If one of us won't catch you, my skimwing will" despite you being slightly shorter than him, your message was clear.
He lifted his left arm to salute you "Understood, ma'am"
The odd gesture made you tilt your head, your eyes squinting, your lips pulled into the slightest amused smile. He looked silly, but you didn't tell him that. "Sleep now. I will wake you up early" and with that, you vanished from his pod, a gentle salty breeze occupying the space where you once stood.
Quaritch sighed deeply as you left. He went to remove his tactical vest, which proved to be pretty difficult now that he couldn't move his right arm too much. Eventually, he got it off, forming a pile with his camo pants, which he had folded up neatly.
He kicked off his boots and socks, placed them near his clothes and sat down at the edge of the marui in only his tank top and boxers, his feet dangling just barely above the pitch black water.
He wasn't able to see that far across the ocean, the crashes of the waves being lit by the moon, just faintly.
And as he sat there, being able to freely breath the fresh and cool air without a pesky mask around his neck, his toes not being restricted by narrow leather boots and dipping into the water below, doubt crept up in his mind.
He didn't want to give up the humans ways and become feral like these savages he was fighting against. But with every day that passed, he wasn't sure if these thoughts were actually his. If any of this was actually his. On rare days, it felt like the memories surpressed something deep inside him- as if he were caged, longing for freedom.
Quaritch shook his head, swallowing down these dreading thoughts yet again. Instead he raked his gaze over to your pod. You stood right where he could see you between the woven walls, with your back turned to him.
Your arms suddenly lifted over your head and he knew, if you had faced him, he would have seen your breasts spill out from your top that you removed for sleep.
His head snapped to his lap so hard he was sure he just gave himself a mild whiplash. He was sure you wouldn't have minded much if he saw, your people walked around half naked the whole damn time. Though it wouldn't help his case if he watched you change like a creep, so he scooted back from the edge and stood up, removing his tank before trying to get comfortable in the hammock, as much as his bound arm allowed him to.
★
The next morning arrived sooner than Quaritch would have liked. Being from the military, he was used to getting up early with little sleep. He was trained to be wide awake by the first ring of his alarm.
But today, he just didn't want to leave his bed. He could have slept forever and would have been more than content with it. He didn't know if he was just exhausted from the events of the last few days, or if his body had finally found the way it should have had been resting all along- the na'vi way.
He remembered that you had said you would wake him early, but when you actually stood there in his marui at the crack of dawn- there hadn't been a time he would have rather asked for just five more minutes.
But at least your body blocked the sunlight from his face as you towered over him "It is time to get up" your voice was nice, but right now it grated through his dreamland and he grumbled, his brows furrowing, but his eyes remained unopened.
With a huff, you went over to untie the knot that held the hammock up on the wall by his feet, and he came crashing down in a second, his fall featherd by the bouncy ground underneath him.
You had to stifle a laugh with your hand as a string of curse words you had never heard left his mouth. Quaritch caught it, even as you quickly straightened up with a calm expression. "I could have just broken my other arm, Lady. And you call yourself a nurse" he protested as he sat up with a pained groan, the sling slipping from his shoulder.
"I do not call myself anything" you admitted innocently, crouching down to be eye-level with him. You tried to be sneaky and get a good look at his very well build torso. His biceps were thick and strong, you had seen and felt that yesterday. And you already searched for an excuse to touch him again.
His waist was slim and toned, beautifully so, nothing you had ever seen in your own clan. He must have noticed your eyes wandering, a soft smirk stretching across his lips "See something you like, sugar?"
That made you snap out of your shameless staring. You huffed a breath through your nose. Instead of answering, you laid something down in front of him that you had been carrying under your arm.
A strip of woven fabric, soft and sea-dyed, adorned with shells, beads and stones smoothed by the oceans current.
"This" you started "you will wear." Quaritch stared at the loincloth for a moment before he couldn't help but laugh, a sharp and disbelieving sound. "No way"
You tilted your head, squinting your eyes at him in confusion. It was almost cute how you didn't seem to understand where he was coming from at all, that he'd feel too bare and vulnerable and that it was...scary.
You blinked softly "It is a loincloth" you explained to him, as if knowing what it was would make him change his mind. "Yeah i know, and I'm not puttin' that on" he answered flatly, his ears pinned back in irritation. "I'll go in what I've got"
You looked him over, he was only in sime tight, black boxers. To you, they left little to the imagination, even more than the loincloths. You could clearly see the outline of his big-
You shook your head and stood up. Without another word, you stepped past him, reached down to where his clothes had been folded into a pile, and scooped up both the garments and his boots into your arms.
"Hey-!" his hand reached out as if he would have been able to stop you as you approached the edge of the marui, the same where he had been sitting yesterday, and tossed his clothes into the ocean.
Quaritch only heard a splash as his things hit the water and he surged to his feet. "Why the fuck did you do that!?" he raised his voice, squaring up behind you. You turned back to him, calm as ever, the salty breeze playing with your braided hair. The teal colour of your skin matched the light blue tint of the water perfectly. The picture you painted almost made him forget what he was mad about.
"They will dry" you said, your voice carrying a slight teasing edge "Eventually."
He stared at the water where his clothes floated, drifting lazily away from his pod.Then he looked at you. "...You serious?"
You pointed at the loincloth laying on the ground "Either this" you started, crossing your arms over your chest, the wave tattoo on your forearm showing "or nothing."
Quaritch scoffed at your words, his nose pulled into a soft snarl "Don't mess with me, lady" though he knew you were determined. And stubborn as hell.
You stepped closer to him, the faint smell of coconuts filling his nostrils as your hands reached up to secure the sling around his arm again, pushing the knot up where it was supposed to be resting on his shoulder. Your eyes flicked over his collar bone, fingers tracing his dark blue stripes that stretched over his pec, almost absentmindedly, until you said:
"I am fine with both."
Quaritch froze on the spot, but you removed your hand before you could feel his heart take a leap. You turned away before he could respond, making your way out of his marui with a slight more prominent sway of your hips than usual.
But his voice stopped you at the threshold "If I didn't know it any better, I would say you're flirting with me, sugar" he grinned, eyes roaming your backside.
You looked over your shoulder, your eyes fixated on his, barely dipping lower to his v-line and up again. Instead f answering his statement, you took a deep breath "Come find me when you are ready" and then you left.
★
Surprisingly, you didn't have to wait for him too long. You heard his bare footsteps approach over the rock where you sat and finished weaving a basket out of dried palm leaves. You didn't turn at first.
"Don't say a word" Quaritch muttered behind you. Slowly, you looked back. He stood there with stiff shoulders and a tightly locked jaw, but despite everything, wearing the loincloth, the sling for his arm abandoned. Not that he really had other options.
It fit him better than he wanted it to.
The fabric sat low on his hips, shells and pearls reflecting the early light of the sun and chiming against his skin. His tail flicked once, his cropped ears were pink at the tips and he looked utterly displeased.
You abandoned your work to stand up and observe him. He was already almost naked, but your gaze made him feel even more exposed. You walked around him slowly, nodding "Good."
His tails swatted your thigh "That's it?" he snapped at you with a raised eyebrow, his neck craning to see you "That's all I get after you threw my stuff into the ocean?"
Of course you could have said more. How nicely the loincloth sat on his hips, how strong his legs looked, how beautiful his abs curved with every movement, that the muscles in his back rippled under your assessing gaze- that you yearned to feel them shift under your hands. But why would you give him that satisfaction?
"Yes." you answered simply.
Quaritch exhaled sharply as you had completed walking in a circle around him until you stood in front of him again, looking annoyed down at you "Yeah, thanks a lot. 'ppreciate it" he deadpanned.
You stepped closer, your hand coming up to rest under his navel. For a moment his breath hitched and his thoughts slipped into the wrong direction, despite you just adjusting a knot on the cloth he had tied too loosely to withstand the pull of the water and its harsh currents.
You weren't touching him more than necessary, though you wish you could have, even just to mess with him a bit more.
"Now, come. Today we swim" you explained and walked over the jagged stone that had been smoothed out like a ramp into the water by the constant crashing of waves over the years.
You moved forward, your body welcomed by the sea and quickly submerged yourself fully. You resurfaced silently seconds later, gracefully, the water beading on your shoulders. He was still standing up top, waves lapping faintly at his toes, but he didn't move to follow you.
You cocked your head "Come. Or can you not swim?" You asked him only half serious, your voice carrying a teasing edge. Quaritch snorted "Of course I can swim" he just didn't feel like it. Not when fear was already gnawing at him by just looking into the ocean. He was able to see all the way down to the sand floor, which did only so little to calm him, but it was something.
With visible reluctance, he took a step on the slippery rocks, carefully wading deeper until he couldn't stand anymore. He swam alongside you for a moment before you dipped, disappearing and diving deep, the teal colour of your body shimmering against the faint rays of light that reached through the water.
Great. He floated on the surface, head kept steadily over the water. And he would have liked it if it stayed this way. You could dive with your little sea friends all you wanted, he'd be damned if he ever submerged himself fully underwater ever again.
A touch on his ankle startled him, your hand wrapped around his leg and softly pulling as if to encourage him to follow you.
He sighed. The water was shallow enough, clear, and no military ships in sight. So what could really go wrong? With another deep breath to prepare himself, he plunged under, your figure blurry but still perfectly recognisable.
The world had gone quieter as the water closed in over his head. He could hear the faint clicks of ocean creatures in the distance as water filled his ears, and the sounds his arms made when they sliced through the water. He kicked his feet a little awkwardly at first, his tail more than useless, while you swam circles around him with practiced ease, your paddle-like tail pushing you forward.
You formed an 'O' with your thumb and pointer finger, gesturing the question to Quaritch. He nodded, returning the motion to you to let you know he was alright. For now at least.
You found his way of swimming odd. He spread his legs like a frog and pushed the water behind himself with his arms, it felt a bit insufficient and was draining his energy quickly. You decided you would have to teach him differently. You were about to signal him to surface again, when a shadow came up behind him.
Your Ilu passed by him, her fins brushing him a bit more forceful than intended as she surged around him, curious and unafraid, assessing him as a new friend you brought. Unfortunately, Quaritch wasn't aware that this creature was of friendly nature and simply interested in him, threateningly invading his space.
He flinched hard in surprise, his body reacting with a gasp. Water instantly rushed into his lungs, body seizing to cough it out, which only made his nostrils fill with more water.
Memories breached through the panic, the burning sensation of drowning fresh like it once was, the darkness nipping at his vision while he was pulled under and the pressure weighing his body to sink to the ocean floor.
He thrashed helplessly, punching your Ilu in the neck. She instantly swam over to you with a hurt coo while Quaritch kicked his legs hard for the surface, fear obliterating any rational thought. Swimming up felt like torture, time had stopped as he ascended to the line where water met air.
He broke free gasping and clawed his way onto a slick rock, coughing violently, water spilling from his mouth as he retched and shook.
Quaritchs hands trembled, gripping the sharp ridges of the stone until his palms bled, bare knees scraping against the rough surface of the small rock formation surrounded by the sea.
He didn't even hear you get out of the water and climbing up beside him, only when he felt your hand on his back did he realise you were kneeling next to him. Your touch was grounding, easing his chills "Breathe" you cooed, brow furrowed in concern "You are okay"
He dragged air into his lungs like he would never get more if he stopped. "I-I can't-" He gasped, his head falling forward in exhaustion, but his body pushed him to the edge of hyperventilation.
"You can" you insisted firmly, your other hand coming up to shut his jaw and press it firmly over his mouth so he was forced to take deep breaths through his nose instead. His yellow eyes snapped to yours, in that moment you saw his very soul. And it terrified you as much as it woke your curiousity about this man. Not Miles Quaritch. But this man in front of you.
He was finally able to calm down, his blood pressure sinking as he looked at you, your presence making his heart settle again.
Your hand slid from his mouth to cup his jaw "You okay?" You asked then, the water dripping from his chin. He nodded "I'm okay" he rasped out, fighting the urge to lean into your touch.
"I'm sorry that Za'tary scared you" you pulled back quickly as the tension grew, instead keeping distance and apologizing, even after you felt something leap in your chest.
Quaritch went to sit up straight, brushing a hand through his cropped hair "Who?"
You chuckled softly as Za'tary popped her head out from the water, swimming around the island distressed, looking out for you. Quaritch spotted her, recognizing the animal as one he had ordered to be shot in another reef village weeks ago. He grimaced. "My Ilu. She is not dangerous" you explained to him, reaching your hand down to her to scratch her chin. She chittered, pleased.
"M'sorry for punchin' her" he said then, gnawing at his bottom lip.
You nodded in acknowledgment "It is okay, she is strong" you smiled, putting your fist up to tap your chest. He huffed a soft laugh, though his smile was barely there. "Well, guess she matches you then"
You scoffed at his words, shoving him gently "Do not think compliments will help you get out of this" you lectured with a teasing edge in your voice, already turning to the water. "Come" you waved.
"Ain't gonna risk drowning again, Lady" he crossed his arms over his chest, sitting on the stone like a child throwing a tantrum. You crouched closer to him, looking into his eyes "Because you do not know how to breathe" he looked at you as if he had never heard anything more stupid, but he bit the inside of his cheek to stay quiet.
You could see how bad he wanted to roll his eyes at you. "Here" you said, placing your hand flat against his toned abdomen. He stiffened instantly, but didn't pull away.
"Not your chest" you continued, you mimicked your touch on him by bringing his five fingered hand to sprawl against your stomach as well. You almost flinched, you hadn't expected him to be so...warm. You tried to snap out of it quickly "Your stomach. Feel it rise."
You inhaled deeply, demonstratively, waiting for him to do the same. At first he hesitated, but he soon closed his eyes to concentrate as he took a deep breath.
Your hand on his andomen moved ever so slightly, letting his skin press against your fingers as he held the air, before breathing out, ears flicking, unsure if he had done it right.
You nodded softly "Again."
While he repeated your instructions, your hand moved up from his stomach to his chest, tracing the ridges of his abs and pecs, four fingers laying flat against his heart. He watched you intently, his heartrate picking up and you felt it "You need to embrace the water, do not fear it. Calm heart"
Yeah, if you wouldn’t be touching him like this, so damn soft in a way that made his skin tingle, then he could calm his heart alright. "M'not scared of the water" he muttered, avoiding your eyes.
Instead of asking why his heart was beating so fast then, you had the feeling you knew already, you pulled your hand away from his skin. "Then what are we waiting for?"
You stood and extended your hand out for him to take "Come." you incouraged again, and fuck, if you didn’t look like a goddess right now, the sun just in the perfect angle behind you to make it seem like you were glowing from within, your hair a blissful halo around your face. "I will not let go of you this time" was this what the old sailors saw before being dragged deep into their deaths by a sirens call? He was about to find out, and he couldn't wait.
He grasped your hand in his, yours smaller due to the missing finger and followed you without hesitation as you stepped back into the water.
Step by step. You did not let go, just like you had promised.
Your other hand went up to grasp his free one, too, walking backwards into the sea. "The way of water" you started softly as the tide reached your waist, his eyes snapping up at you as he heard you speak "has no beginning and no end."
You guided him deeper, your grip curling firmly around him. You watched his muscles tense as the cold water lapped at his ribcage.
"The sea is around you" you continued "and in you." With every word you said, the water climbed higher around you both. His heart hammered, but he did not pull away, didn't stop looking into your eyes like nothing else mattered. In that moment it didn't.
Your voice was hypnotising, whatever ancient poem you were bewitching him with settled deep in his lungs, as if to make them stronger. "The sea is your home before your birth" your hands slipped from his hands to his wrists and up to his forearms, your bodies pushed closer together by the gentle waves "and after your death." you watched him swallow, his hands gripping your elbows as if he'd sink if he let go of you.
The water was abojt to cover your shoulders and you started to take deep breaths, in and out, he mimicked you. "The sea gives, and the sea takes."
Your throats were enveloped by the waves and you had to tip your head back to breath. It should have scared him, the way he clung to your every word.
"Water connects all things," you whispered, emptying your lungs one last time "Life to death. Darkness to light."
On the last word you both gasped for as much air as you could, before you submberged. Together.
The water closed over his head. His instinct screamed at him to flee at first, but your presence anchored him. Your eyes never left his, making sure he was okay, making sure he knew you got him, that he wasn't in danger.
You swam side by side through the colourful reef, he even tried to copy the way you moved underwater. It was clumsy, but you appreciated it.
You let him touch plants that retracted once he did, smiled as a group of zukzuks swarmed around him, their baby briefly settling down on his calf to enjoy a short ride, before it's mom snatched it away again. You laughed at that, bubbles forming behind your hand.
A featherfin fish rounded the corner of a large coral formation and Quaritch looked at you as if to ask permission to touch it. You nodded your head, biting your lip to swallow down your mischief.
None the wiser, Quaritch extended his hand, and by the time he barely grazed the creatures tail, he was slapped by it, the fish quickly swimming away.
Judging by the fact that you were already darting away by the time he realised, you knew that this would happen. You looked over your shoulder with a grin, a clear challenge, and he wouldn’t be Quaritch if he didn't accept it, even when his chances were practically zero.
He tried to race after you, swimming through tall sea grass, rock formations, large tree-like corals which looked ancient, but by the time he had to stop as a giant school of weird looking yellow fish passed him by, he lost sight of you.
Quaritch looked to his right, his left, behind himself, turned in a whole circle to scan the area for you, but you had seemingly disappeared.
That's when a ring appeared around him, getting wider as it went over his head, thinning out until it broke apart into tiny airbubbles traveling to the surface. He looked down to his feet and saw you laying all the way down on the ocean floor, your hands near your mouth as you exhaled to push another bubble ring upward, which stretched out to let Quaritchs body pass through.
Seeing the bubbles made his chest tighten uncomfortably. He went to swim back up, breaking through the water with a gasp, but not panicked this time.
He looked around, only to see that the rock you two had been on previously was now so small in the distance, he could barely make it out. In that moment he realised just how far you two had swam, and how long he had held his breath without even noticing.
Quaritch watched you resurface right in front of him, much more graceful than he had. "Not bad, sky man" you teased, trying not to grin too much. You were just his teacher, after all. Not his friend.
He splashed water into your direction "You're playing unfair, you knew that damn fish was gonna slap me"
You faked a surprised look, turning to swim to a smooth rock that peeked from the shallow ends of the lagoon "Did I?" you asked innocently, but he knew you were smirking when you turned your head away. "Don't play dumb with me, missy" he darted behind you "Thought you'd teach me all rights and wrongs so I can learn to see"
You climbed onto the stone that was smooth under your skin, warmed from the sun. "No one can teach you how to see" you explained, sitting down comfortably to let the warmth of the sun dry your clothes.
Quaritch stayed in the water but folded his arms up and supported himself on the rock like this so he wouldn't get pushed back into the ocean by the waves, his whole body floating on top of the water, the sun shining warm on his back as well, the dogtags around his neck glimming in the light "Ain't that your pretty little job?"
You shook your head "You have to experience it yourself. You find something that makes you want to see"
Quaritch scratched mindlessly on the rock with his finger, kicking his legs behind him in the water "how will I know I found it?" he asked you then, looking up to you sunbathing. If he was actully curious or just playing with you, you couldn't tell, but you answered anyway "You will know"
You spent the whole afternoon like this. You had fallen asleep on the warm rock, fully at peace, not caring if Quaritch stayed or not. You weren't his babysitter after all, you hadn't even been given the task to teach him. It just all fell into place, somehow.
When you awoke, your skin was now a slight deeper teal colour everywhere the sun could reach. When you looked around yourself, Quaritch was nowhere to be seen.
A heavy feeling settled in your chest, even though you shouldn’t care at all. Why would you?
Suddenly, a gasp sounded in front of you and Quaritch surfaced, adding a few colourful stones to a pile that he had collected while you slept. He wiped the water from his face with his hand, shaking his head like a dog to get rid of the droplets adorning his hair. Only then did he notice you were awake "Hey, sleepin' beauty" he grinned up at you, a soft sunburn stretching across his cheeks.
But you were more intrigued by the little trinkets he brought "What is all this?" you asked him, crouching closer to pick up a smooth tumbled rock that glinted iridecent in the sunlight.
He shrugged, pushing the pile closer to you so you could look through them, as if searching for your approval "I went diving while you were sleeping. Thought I would collect some pretty rocks, hell knows what you people could use it for"
Your fingers found one singular shell between the stones he had gathered. You picked it up with a smile, admiring the spiky ring around the top that was sharp enough to cut skin, though the colours showed otherwordly beauty, a pearlescent band wrapping around the sturdy shell. Just how fitting.
You brought the shell up and held it against his hairline "The King's crown" you announced the name of this specific type of shell. He chuckled at that "That's what it's called?" he asked you and you nodded with an affirmative hum.
"Well, guess I gotta keep that one to myself then" he pursed his lips slightly, cheeky, and you huffed, giving his forehead a shove with your pointer finger "Big headed man" you scolded, but without any bark behind it.
He asked you to sort out the stones that you thought would be useful. He brought the ones that were left to the shore, waving you over to join him. You packed up the rocks into a little pouch around your hip before you stood next to him in the sand and watched him do something he called skipping stones.
He threw them into the water and magically, they jumped a few times over the surface until they finally sank. You looked at him like he was crazy and picked up a stone yourself, threw it, and it was pulled underwater instantly with a loud splash.
Between a bit of lighthearted banter, he taught you this knew skill, even went diving on his own to retrieve more rocks when you ran out. You failed each and every time, but it was so fun. You almost forgot who he was, that he wasn't one of the people just because he had reluctantly put on a loincloth and that he certainly wasn't as kind and carefree as it felt.
Still you tried to ignore the others that watched you from a distance- Jake who seemed almost proud, Neytiri who wasn't happy with this situation at all, Spider who...well, he observed quietly, went to occupy himself with Lo'ak and Tsireya, not quite accepting the good time Quaritch seemed to be having after everything that happened in the last few weeks.
Maybe Quaritch had felt your slight hesitation, but how could he blame you at all, or anyone in this village?
By the time the sky dipped into an orange hue, you had thrown more rocks in your life than you ever had before, and just when you were about to give up, the last stone you picked up skipped over the water one, two, three times before sinking. It hadn't held out long like Quaritchs, but at least you had actually managed it.
"Not bad" he mirrored your words from today holding up his weird looking hand. You stared at him as if waiting for something to happen, but it just...didn't. "What are you doing?" you asked, huffing out a small laugh.
"Uhh, High-five?" he stated as if it was so obvious, you tilted your head even further. "I do not know what that is"
He cleared his throat to mask the slight embarrassement creeping up and took his hand down again "We do that as a little celebration, when something good happens" he shrugged and you eyed him up and down, then you smiled softly "You sky people are weird"
He chuckled dryly "Yeah, guess we are. But hey, I taught you somethin' too. Makes us even, I shouldn’t be the only one to change my worldview entirely" his stance was proud, and maybe he was right. Without another word you turned, flicking your head into the direction he should follow you in. The eclipse was near and you were both starving.
He followed just half a step behind you as you walked along the line where sand met water, the waves lapping at your feet.
He walked, the loincloth remaining uncomfortable, especially now that it was wet and clinging to his legs “Still feels weird, this thing" he muttered, though more to himself than to you.
You glanced over your shoulder, your eyes flicking briefly over his form, appreciatively, before returning forward. “It suits you” you said.
A stupid grin stretched across his face, flattered and proud, his chest puffing up just a little “…Yeah?”
“Yes.” you confirmed.
And for the rest of the walk to his marui, he didn’t complain once.
You both then ate dinner together in silence. You had brought roasted fish wrapped in broad leaves, some fruits and steamed vegetables cut into pieces. It probably wasn't something he usually ate from where he came from, but he dove in without hesitation and it left him full, but not uncomfortably like the fast food at bridgehead did, and he felt energized. He felt good.
You sat crosslegged across from him, just staring at him as you finished your food, while he sucked his fingers clean. That image made something in your stomach flip, but you pushed it down. Instead you reached into the pouch at your hip and withdrew the shell he had retrieved earlier.
Quaritch frowned, swallowing down the last pieces of food in his mouth “That thing again?”
You took a length of dried vine and braided it around the shell, hooking the spikes at the crown between the material to create a space that held the shell firmly in place.
Quaritch watched your hands, his head tilted. “…So what is this exactly?” he said at last, voice rough but not mocking "M'not really a jewelry person"
Your head lifted and you studied his face for a second longer, then returned to your work. “This is not just decoration.” You tied the vine securely, tested the knot with a firm tug, then held it up between you.
“This” you declared “is the beginning of a songcord”
He stared at the dangling shell. “A what?”
You shifted closer to him, not invading, but closing the distance enough that the cord could hang between you. “A songcord is a life" you explained “It starts with your birth and ends with your death. It is the keeper of memories, it marks important moments in someones life"
You lifted your own from where it rested wrapped against your forearm. Quaritch hadn’t noticed it before. Not really. It was longer than he expected, going all the way from your wrist to above your ellbow. A cascade of shells, beads, carved bone, pearls and braided fibers, each and every piece different.
“This is mine” you spoke with a sense of proudness that made something in his chest ache. “Our lives are not meant to disappear” you almost whispered “They are meant to be remembered. Sung. Passed on. No one is ever forgotten”
Quaritch looked down at the shell in your hand. He didn't understand everything yet, didn't feel it the way you did. Maybe he never would get to that point, but he felt like listening to you was worth it.
He bowed his head down to let you hang his new songcord around his neck, for now. You admired it for a moment, your hand brushing over his chest. Then you suddenly lifted his silver dogtags over his head. "Hey, what are you-" for a second, he thought you'd throw the necklace into the sea just how you did it with his clothes this morning, stripping him off the last pieces of his identity completely.
To his surpise, you chose to wear the dogtags yourself. They looked good on you. Fuck did they look good on you.
You played with them, letting the unfamiliar material slip through your fingers, the tags warm through his body heat "You are right. Changes and growth happen together, and I promise to not just teach, but to learn. To learn you" nothing you did could have prepared him for this.
And with that you stood, but before you could just vanish, he stopped you. You turned to him, a bit agitated as if you had just said too much and wanted to desperately disappear "I promise I will... try" try what? To be better? To learn, to understand?
He didn't know, but you seemed to be pleased, just nodding at him before you finally left.
Just how was he supposed to sleep after all of this?
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
I really hope you guys like this as much as I do. I guess you can tell just how carried I got😭 Part two will probably take a while if it is about as long as this one, but part two will have smut in it you freaks
So stay tuned, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world to me!!
Dating Quaritch means that he will refuse to lose his muscle mass and strength. You will catch him in the early morning working out, eventually he will try to recreate his own personal weights and equipment.
Dating Quaritch means that when he hunts he won’t share his catch with another person but you and if you choose to have any, kids.
Dating Quaritch means that there won’t be a moment that his eyes will ever leave you. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you but it’s the fact that he rebelled for you. Left everything for you. You are everything to him. And he looks at you like you are, though many assume his hardened stare is cold you know it’s just his resting bitch face.
Dating Quaritch means that in the early stages of his assimilation into the clan you’d both wake up in the odd hours of the night. Quaritch retains his marine instincts, due to this he would wake up often to sounds outside of your hammock. When he’d leave to check it out you’d wake up due to the lack of his warmth. Both of you spending countless hours looking at the sky.
Dating Quaritch means that he challenges anyone he thought was being too ‘chummy’ with you. (He still is trying to get behind the friendliness of Na’vi culture.
Dating Quaritch means every few weeks you create a routine of cutting his hair as he refuses to let it grow long and unkempt.
Dating Quaritch means that you’ll often be met with playful taps on your ass as he passes you, giving a playful flick of your kuru or tail.
Dating Quaritch means you have to put up with his constant mischievous behaviour that purposefully pushes your buttons as he can’t get enough of when you’re trying to rip his head off out of frustration.
Dating Quaritch means that you’ll often now permanently live in concern for your heart pressure.
Dating Quaritch means that you’ll often now need to teach a stubborn man child a new language at a painfully slow pace. Although he is trying to learn, his southern accent still makes him sound so distinct.
Dating Quaritch means that he will make sure that you can protect yourself given whatever circumstances you may be experiencing. Even going as far as to make escape plans if been be for the future.
Dating Quaritch means having his utter devotion and dangerous tendencies at your every beck and call. You were the one that made him revolt again all he ever knew and he made sure that you knew it.
Miles Quaritch is the kind of man that no matter what, through thick and thin, through arguments and lows, he will always be there for you. Ready to support you, ready to let you lean on him when you need him
Miles Quaritch who never questions your strength and independence, but is there in the blink of an eye ready to help you hold that weight the moment it becomes too much to bear.
Miles Quaritch who may not be lovey dovey, but he rather has a presence of that of a pillar. Strong, sturdy and reliable and for some, all consuming.
Although he may never admit it, but that man is completely and utterly whipped for you. Following you like a shadow in this life and the next until the end of time.
(Note: To my readers of Gravitational,
I hope this finds you and that this is a sufficient offering for the lack of the next chapter that I haven’t posted.
Lowkey feel like I’ve been going through the Tumblr edition of the Ao3 curse.)
warning!! ⚠️Miles held captive for a brief moment, sex, slowburn(not really but kinda.) Creampie, petname, and more sex!)⚠️
A very special fic for my beloved husband @daydaydayrk420. Happy birthday my love and my closest friend ever.
The sun dipped low over the lush canopy of Pandora, casting long shadows through the bioluminescent undergrowth of the Hallelujah Mountains. You, a seasoned warrior of the Omatikaya clan, had been patrolling the borders ever since the Sky People returned with their recombinant abominations. Rumors spread like vines—whispers of a demon in Na'vi skin, leading raids with the precision of a thanator but the cruelty of a machine. You'd seen the destruction firsthand: scorched earth where sacred sites once stood, clans scattered like leaves in the wind.
Your mission was simple: scout, report, and if Eywa willed it, eliminate threats. But fate twisted like a neural queue when you stumbled upon him—Miles Quaritch, or what was left of him in this stolen blue form. He was alone, separated from his squad after a skirmish with your kin. His recombinant body, tall and muscled like any Na'vi but marked by the faint scars of his human past, lay slumped against a glowing tree root, his queue severed in the fight, blood trickling from a gash on his side. He wasn't dead, though. Far from it. Those yellow eyes snapped open as you approached, knife drawn, his lips curling into a sneer that screamed defiance.
"Well, well," he growled, his voice a rough rasp laced with that alien accent, even in Na'vi tongue. "Another blue monkey come to finish the job? Make it quick, kid. I ain't got all day."
You hesitated. Killing him outright felt too easy, too merciful for the butcher of your people. Instead, you bound him with vines infused with paralytic sap, dragging his heavy frame back to a hidden cave deep in the floating rocks—a place only you knew, far from the clan's eyes. Eywa's will, you told yourself. Interrogate him. Learn the Sky People's plans. But as the days blurred into nights, something shifted. Quaritch was no mindless drone; he was sharp, unyielding, spitting barbs that tested your patience.
"You think tyin' me up makes you the big hero?" he'd taunt during your interrogations, his massive form straining against the restraints, muscles rippling under azure skin striped with those telltale patterns. "I've faced worse than some forest boy playin' soldier." His eyes, fierce and unblinking, would lock onto yours, a challenge in every glare. Yet, beneath the bravado, you saw cracks—the disorientation of his new body, the flicker of something almost vulnerable when he spoke of his "old self." He hated the Na'vi ways, mocked the connection to Eywa, but he adapted fast, his survival instincts kicking in like a predator cornered.
You fed him, tended his wounds with healing salves from the forest, all while prying for intel. He gave little at first, just enough to keep you coming back—hints of RDA movements, veiled threats. But isolation bred tension. Conversations turned from hostility to reluctant exchanges. He spoke of Earth, a dying world you'd only heard horrors of; you shared tales of Pandora's harmony. One night, as atokirina seeds drifted lazily through the cave's entrance, illuminating his features in soft glow, he cracked a rare, bitter laugh. "You know, in another life, I'd have put a bullet in you without blinkin'. But this body... it's messin' with my head. Makes everything feel... different."
That "different" hung in the air like pollen. You noticed how his gaze lingered on you longer, tracing the lines of your warrior's build—the broad shoulders honed from vine-swinging, the lithe strength in your limbs. Your own eyes betrayed you, drawn to the way his tail flicked in agitation, or how his ears pinned back when you got too close. The air thickened with unspoken energy, the kind that sparked between two warriors testing boundaries.
It happened on the fifth night. You'd unbound him partially, trusting—foolishly, perhaps—that he wouldn't bolt. The cave's warmth from a small fire pit amplified the humidity, beads of sweat glistening on both your skins. Quaritch paced like a caged ikran, his queue regrown but twitching with pent-up fury. "You gonna keep me here forever, or what? This ain't no vacation, blue boy."
You stepped forward, your voice steady. "You're free to leave. But you won't. Not yet."
He snorted, closing the distance until his breath ghosted your face. "Oh yeah? And why's that?"
"Because you need this," you replied, your hand pressing against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart—Na'vi now, alive with Pandora's pulse. His eyes widened, a flash of surprise before that trademark smirk returned, but it faltered when you didn't back down.
"Big words," he muttered, but his voice dropped an octave, rough and laced with something darker. "You think you can handle me?"
The challenge ignited you. Your lips crashed against his in a fierce clash, all teeth and dominance, your hands gripping his braids to pull him down. He resisted at first—pure Quaritch stubbornness—growling into the kiss, his larger frame shoving back. But then he yielded, just enough, his tongue battling yours in a war he was losing. You pushed him against the cave wall, the bioluminescent moss lighting up under the impact, your body pinning his.
"Damn it," he hissed between breaths, his hands—finally free—clawing at your loincloth, but not to fight. "You... you're somethin' else."
You stripped him methodically, your fingers tracing the ridges of his abdominal muscles, down to the hardening length between his legs. He was massive, even for a Na'vi, his cock throbbing under your touch, the bioluminescent freckles along its shaft glowing faintly in the dim light. Quaritch bucked into your hand, a low groan escaping him, but his eyes burned with that unyielding fire. "Don't get cocky, kid. I ain't breakin' that easy."
But he was. You shed your own coverings, your own arousal evident—thick, veined, and ready—pressing against his thigh as you ground against him. He cursed in his human tongue, a mix of English expletives that sounded foreign yet fitting from his lips. Your queues connected in a rush of tsaheylu, the bond flooding you with his sensations: the raw hunger, the confusion of pleasure in this body he still fought against, the grudging submission bubbling under his tough exterior.
You prepped him carefully, your fingers slick with natural lubricants from the cave's flora, probing his entrance. He tensed, hissing through clenched teeth, but didn't pull away. "Easy there, marine," you teased, echoing his own bravado. One finger, then two, scissoring inside him, stretching the tight ring of muscle. His walls clenched around you, hot and velvety, his cock leaking precum onto his stomach as you curled your digits to hit that sensitive spot. Quaritch's head fell back, a strangled moan ripping from his throat— so out of character for the colonel, yet so raw.
"Fuck... you," he panted, but his hips rolled into your touch, betraying him.
When he was ready—slick, open, and trembling—you positioned yourself, the head of your cock nudging his entrance. You pushed in slowly at first, inch by agonizing inch, feeling the exquisite tightness envelop you. Quaritch's breath hitched, his hands digging into your shoulders, nails drawing blue blood. "Shit—too big, you bastard," he growled, but his legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you deeper.
You bottomed out with a groan, buried to the hilt in his heat, the bond amplifying every pulse, every flutter of his inner walls around your length. He was vice-like, gripping you as if to reclaim control, but you set the pace—slow, deep thrusts that had him arching off the wall. "That's it, Colonel," you murmured against his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. "Take it like the warrior you are."
His responses devolved into grunts and curses, his body betraying his words. You picked up speed, pounding into him with rhythmic force, the slap of skin echoing in the cave. Each thrust dragged along his prostate, making his cock twitch and spurt more precum, smearing between your stomachs. Quaritch's tail thrashed wildly, his ears flattening as pleasure overrode his defiance. "Harder—fuckin' harder," he demanded, ever the commander, even as he submitted.
You obliged, angling your hips to hit deeper, your hand wrapping around his neglected cock, stroking in time with your thrusts. He was a mess—sweat-slicked, moaning incoherently, his recombinant body quivering under you. The bond let you feel it all: the building pressure in his core, the way your cock stretched him perfectly, filling him completely.
"I'm gonna—ah, shit—" he warned, but you didn't stop, driving into him relentlessly until his body seized. He came first, ropes of thick, glowing cum painting his chest and yours, his walls spasming around you in waves that nearly pulled you over the edge.
But you held on, fucking him through it, prolonging his orgasm until he was oversensitive, whimpering—actually whimpering. "Too much... kid, too damn much."
"Not yet," you growled, your own release coiling tight. A few more brutal thrusts, and you buried yourself deep, flooding him with your seed. Hot spurts filled him to the brim, the creampie overflowing as you ground against him, ensuring every drop stayed inside. Through the bond, you felt the warmth spread, marking him from within, his body milking you dry in greedy contractions.
You collapsed together, queues still linked, breaths mingling. Quaritch's eyes, hazy with afterglow, met yours. "Don't think this changes a damn thing," he muttered, but there was no bite left—just a ghost of a smirk, and something almost like respect.
CW: porn with LOTS of plot, unprotected sex, Degradation, breath play, drunk sex, power imbalance
Summary: You're a southern girl on base, your spunky attitude catches the eye of Colonel Miles Quaritch. You remind him of all the things he left behind on Earth so he finds himself tolerating you. A few too many drinks one night has him admitting it all to you. And well...who would you be to refuse this chance?
The mess hall always smelled like metal, burnt coffee, and sweat. You were leaning back in your chair, boots kicked up on the edge of the table, twirling a wrench between your fingers. Your accent had been the talk of the base for weeks, unmistakably Southern. Not the fake kind people heard in Hollywood from actresses with bad dialect coaches. Authentic.
“Didn’t peg you for a mechanic,” one of the grunts muttered, leaning a little too close. “Thought you girls from backwoods nowhere just baked pies and waited on porch swings.”
You didn’t look at him. Just kept twirling the wrench.
“Bless your heart,” you said sweetly.
The grunt smirked. “What?”
You lowered your boots to the floor and finally met his eyes. “I said bless your heart. Which is Southern for you’ve got about two seconds to step away before I stick my boot up your ass.”
Snickers broke out around the room.
His jaw tightened. He stepped closer. Too close. “You think you’re funny?”
You stood slowly, maintaining eye contact. “I think you oughta take about three steps back before I demonstrate exactly how funny I am.”
His hand twitched toward your arm, your fist clenched, then the entire hall went silent.
A heavy set of boots hit the metal floor behind him. Colonel Quaritch didn’t have a loud introduction, didn’t need to. His presence was intimidating enough.
“Is there a problem here, Corporal?” His voice was firm.
The grunt stiffened immediately. “No, sir.”
Quaritch’s eyes didn’t leave you. Not once. He’d walked in expecting noise, typical base nonsense. Instead, he found you, stiff backed, defiant but you were smiling.
The corporal swallowed and stepped back like you’d told him to five seconds earlier.
“Good,” Quaritch said evenly. “Then you’re dismissed.”
The man practically fled.
You bent down, picked your wrench back up, and wiped it off on a rag like nothing had happened. Then you glanced up at the Colonel. You didn’t drop your gaze. You just gave him that same soft, smile.
“Afternoon, sir.”
The accent came out again at the casual greeting. Something like recognition flared in his eyes. He’d been stationed all over hell and back, heard every dialect under the sun. But that? That was home. Dusty roads and shotgun racks and heat rising off asphalt. Something he hadn’t heard in years.
He studied you openly.
“Where you from?” he asked.
“Alabama, sir.”
His brow lifted just slightly. “Is that right.”
“Yes, sir.” You tilted your head faintly. “You?”
“Texas.”
Your smile widened just a hair. “Well I’ll be damned.”
A few people nearby pretended very hard not to eavesdrop.
Quaritch stepped closer. “You always handle your own business like that?”
You shrugged lightly. “I was raised to.”
He believed it. There was no tremor in your hands. No lingering tension in your shoulders. You hadn’t needed saving. You’d had it under control. That did something to him. A slow but deliberate appreciation settled behind his gaze.
“I don’t tolerate harassment on my base,” he said, though his voice had shifted to be a bit softer “You got a problem, you bring it to me.”
You leaned one hip against the table casually. “I didn’t need rescuin’, Colonel.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I know.”
He’d seen it the second he walked in the way you stood your ground. The way the corporal had already been backing down before he even spoke. You weren’t prey, he realized.
His voice dropped half a notch. “What’s your name, soldier?”
You gave it to him.
“Mechanic?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced at the wrench in your hand. “You any good?”
You held his stare. “Id like to think so.”
A moment passed. Then one corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. The closest thing to a smile most people ever got from him.
“I’ll be expectin’ that,” he said.
He turned to leave but looked back over his shoulder at you.
“And next time someone steps outta line,” he added evenly, “I’d like to see what you would’ve done.”
Your grin sharpened. “Yes, sir.”
He walked out, boots echoing down the corridor. But for the first time in a long time, Colonel Miles Quaritch wasn’t thinking about Pandora.
He was thinking about Alabama.
----------------
The barracks were quieter this late.
Most of the grunts were either at chow or blowing off steam in the rec room. The hum of the base filtered through the walls, distant generators, metal doors sliding open and shut. You were stretched out on your bunk, boots off, one knee bent, a paperback balanced in your hand. A pen rested between your teeth while you flipped a page.
You didn’t hear him at first.
Quaritch filled the doorway, broad shoulders, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He’d meant to do a quick sweep. Check discipline.
Instead, he stopped.
“You always off in your own little world like that?”
You didn’t jump. Didn’t scramble upright like most people did when he appeared. You just lowered the pen from your mouth and glanced up.
“Well if it ain’t Texas himself.”
His eyebrow lifted. “You’re in my barracks, soldier.”
“And you’re in my line of sight, sir.” You marked your page with a finger but didn’t close the book. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He stepped inside, slowly and his gaze dropped to the paperback.
“What’s that?”
“Book.”
He gave you a look. “Don’t get smart.”
“Too late.”
A faint exhale left his nose.
He nodded toward it. “You read that stuff often?”
“All the time.”
“You got free time and that’s what you’re doin’ with it?”
You finally sat up properly, crossing your legs under you. “Yes, sir.”
He studied the cover, worn edges, notes scribbled in the margins.
“You some kinda nerd?”
There it was. The faintest teasing edge in his tone. You blinked at him. Then you smiled slowly.
“Well,” you drawled, “I reckon that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you think literacy’s a personality flaw.”
He huffed a short laugh despite himself. “I just didn’t picture you the bookish type.”
“And what type did you picture?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “More hands-on,” he said finally.
You tilted your head. “I can fix an engine and quote Shakespeare, Colonel. The two ain’t mutually exclusive.”
He folded his arms. “Shakespeare, huh.”
You watched him a second longer, then closed the book gently and set it beside you.
“Let me guess,” you said sweetly. “You were more of a… punch first, read never type.”
His jaw tightened just slightly. “You callin’ me stupid, soldier?”
You met his stare without flinching. “I’m callin’ ya a meathead.”
Anyone else would’ve swallowed those words the second they left their mouth. But you didn’t. You held eye contact. And then a slow smile spread across his face.
“Careful.”
“You started it,” you reminded him.
He took a step closer to your bunk. “You think I don’t read?”
“I think,” you said calmly, “that you probably read mission reports and ammo counts. I read history, poetry, philosophy. There’s a difference.”
He braced one hand on the metal frame of your bunk, leaning in just slightly. Close enough that his shadow fell over you.
“You always this mouthy?”
“Only when the other person can banter back.”
He studied you like you were a puzzle.
“You got guts,” he muttered.
“I’ve been told.”
“And you’re not intimidated.”
You shrugged. “Should I be?”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “If you were smart.”
You tilted your chin up just a fraction and scoffed. Silence stretched. Finally, he straightened, stepping back.
“What’re you readin’?” he asked again, more curious now than mocking.
You picked the book back up and held it out slightly so he could see the title.
“Military history,” you said. “Figured I oughta know some history of the branch I joined.”
His brow lifted. “You interested in that?”
You smiled lazily. “Maybe I like knowing how things work.”
He studied you a long moment longer.
“You surprise me,” he admitted quietly.
“That so?”
“Most people on this base got one setting.”
“And what’s that?”
“Loud.”
You laughed softly. “I can be loud.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Another silence. Then, unexpectedly, “You got any recommendations?”
You blinked at him. “For a meathead?”
His eyes flashed, but there was amusement in them now. “Watch it.”
You considered him carefully. Then you picked up a second book from your footlocker and tossed it lightly toward him. He caught it easily.
“Start there,” you said. “If it’s too many big words, I’ll find you somethin’ with pictures.” He looked down at the book in his hand. Then back at you.
“You better stop playin’.”
You rested back against the wall, reopening your original book.
“Colonel,” you murmured without looking up, “I would never.”
He rolled his eyes, but tucked the book under his arm and walking out of the room.
—--------
The hangar roared with engine tests and shouted orders, the air thick with fuel and the heat from the tarmac. You were halfway inside the open panel of a Scorpion gunship, boots braced on the ladder, wrench clenched between your teeth while your hands worked. Tank top. Cargo pants. Grease streaked along your ribs and collarbone.
Colonel Quaritch stopped a few yards out, arms folding across his chest as he watched you dismantle half a million credits’ worth of hardware like it was a lawn mower back home. He whistled loudly and you look down meeting his gaze. You slid down from the ladder, wiping your hands on a rag.
“Engine three was lagging on ignition,” you muttered. “Fuel mix was off by a hair.”
“You fix it?”
You glanced over your shoulder and nod.
“Well I’ll be.” He says begrudgingly amused. “You didn’t salute,” he noted.
You tossed the rag into your toolbox. “My hands are filthy, sir. Didn’t wanna disrespect the uniform.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the grease on your arms, the way your tank top clung damp with sweat in the heat of the hangar. Trying not to linger.
“Convenient.” He nodded toward the open panel. “You tear down a gunship for fun?”
You climb back up the ladder, messing around with some of the fuses in the back. “I tear things down when they ain't working at 100 percent.” You say calmly.
“You givin’ me that book the other night,” he said, tone casual but not really. “That your way of tellin’ me I’m reckless?”
You didn’t look at him. “I gave you a book about tactics.”
“You think I don’t have tactics?”
You tightened a bolt, then glanced down at him from above. “I think you prefer overwhelming force.”
“And?”
“And sometimes overwhelming force isn't the way to go.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed slightly.
“You takin’ shots at me, mechanic?”
“Depends,” you replied lightly. “Did you read it?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Which told you everything you needed to know.
“I noticed the notes,” he said finally. You tried not to look pleased.
“Yeah?”
He stepped closer to the ladder. Close enough that if you leaned down, you’d be in his space.
“‘Appear weak when you are strong,’” he quoted evenly. “‘Win without fighting.’” His eyes met yours. “You think that’s me?”
“I think,” you said, voice steady, “that a smart commander knows when to be feared… and when to be underestimated.”
“You wrote in the margin,” he continued, “that brute force is insecurity in uniform.”
You winced faintly. “You weren’t supposed to read that one.”
A slow, low chuckle left him.
“So you do think I’m a meathead.”
“I think,” you corrected, climbing down from the ladder, “that you’re capable of more than you let people see.”
That caught him off guard.
“Funny,” he said, “I thought you were mockin’ me.”
“Oh, I was,” you said easily. “Little bit.” You stepped around him to grab another tool, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his chest. “But I wouldn’t have given you that book if I didn’t think you’d understand it.”
He watched you tighten another panel into place, movements efficient and sure.
“You mark up all your books like that?” he asked.
“Only the ones that make an impression.”
“And you think I’m worth it? Gettin’ to read your notes?”
“I think you’re used to being the loudest voice in the room,” you said softly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not thinkin’.”
“You’re somethin’ else,” he muttered.
You smirked. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
He stepped closer again, not enough to touch, but enough that you felt a bit warmer, shakier.
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “most people try to suck up.”
“And?”
“You hand me a book tellin’ me to fight smarter.”
You shrugged lightly. “Seemed useful.”
He studied your face.
“You got any more notes for me, Alabama?”
You smirk slightly and shake your head. “Not at the moment.”
“You fixed the ignition?” he asked finally.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded once.
“Good.”
Then he turned to leave. But this time, when he walked away, it wasn’t just with the knowledge that you were competent. It was with the quiet understanding that you weren’t challenging him out of arrogance. You were sharpening him. And he actually kinda appreciated that more than he’d ever admit.
—-------
The music was loud, and the lights low. Someone had dragged half the base into one room and called it a party. Laughter bounced off the metal walls, bottles clinked, boots thudded against the floor in uneven rhythm. The air smelled like cheap liquor and sweat, different from the mess hall, but just as thick.
You were right in the middle of it.
Leaning back in a chair, one arm slung over the backrest, a bottle dangling loosely from your fingers. Your cheeks were warm, your smile easy, your laugh cutting clean through the noise.
“Jesus,” one of the techs muttered nearby, watching you tip the bottle back again. “How much has she had?”
“Enough to drop you,” someone else snorted.
“And she’s still upright.”
“She’s actin’ like she just got here.”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, unfazed. “Y’all talkin’ about me like I ain’t sittin’ right here.”
“Ma’am,” one of them grinned, “we’re tryin’ to figure out if you’re human.”
“Born and raised,” you shot back. “Just built a little sturdier than the rest of you.”
More laughter and then the energy shifted.
Quaritch had stepped into the room, and it was like the volume dipped half a notch without anyone touching the speakers. A few people straightened. Others suddenly found something very interesting to look at in their drinks. He took in the scene, your relaxed posture, the empty bottles nearby, the way you looked entirely too comfortable in the chaos.
“You always drink like that?” he asked as he approached.
You tilted your head up at him, slow smile forming. “Depends who’s askin’.”
“Your commanding officer.”
“Well then,” you drawled, lifting the bottle slightly, “I drink responsibly, sir.”
A couple people nearby choked on their drinks.
“That right.”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t leave, he didn’t correct you either. Instead, he reached over, grabbed a bottle off the table, and pulled a chair closer turning it so he sat facing you. That alone made a few heads turn.
“You plannin’ on slowin’ down anytime soon?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Why? You worried about me?”
“No,” he said easily. “I’m wonderin’ how you’re still conscious.”
You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees. “Southern constitution.”
“That so.”
“You’d fold,” you added lightly.
His eyes narrowed, a spark of something competitive flashing through. “You testin’ me?”
You held his gaze. “You volunteerin’?”
He tipped his bottle back. And just like that, it became a contest.
Time blurred after that.
More bottles. More laughter. People drifting in and out. At some point, the noise faded into the background. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm slung over it, posture looser than you’d ever seen. Not sloppy, but not sharp either. Tipsy. You were still steady.
“Told you,” you said, nudging his boot lightly with yours. “You’d fold.”
“I didn’t fold,” he muttered.
“You’re sittin’ cockeyed.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“Maybe I just like the view from here.”
Your brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“What?” you asked, softer now.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.
“I can’t stop thinkin’ about you.” The words landed between you. No teasing. For once, just the unpolished truth.
You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t smile it off.
“You’re drunk,” you said finally.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But that don’t make it not true. You show up, run your mouth, back talk me like you're tryin’ to get in my head-”
You let out a quiet breath. “I wasn’t-”
“You were,” he cut in, not harsh, just certain. “And I let you. I don’t let people do that,” he added.
“I figured.”
His eyes searched your face “And now I can’t get you outta my head.”
Your heartbeat kicked just slightly faster and you leaned back in your chair, buying yourself a second. “That sounds like a you problem, Colonel.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
His eyes don't leave you and you nervously stand, you needed to get away from this situation before you made a stupid decision. As you stand however, the multitude of alcohol you had consumed rushed straight to your head, making you grip the table. “Shiiiit…” you groaned.
Quaritch's hand found your lower back as he steadied you. “Easy Alabama…” he cooed. “Let me walk you back.”
"Yeah let's get outta here," you murmured, grabbing his hand. He followed without a word, his grip firm as you wove through the crowd of rowdy soldiers. The cool night air hit you outside, sobering you just enough to help you walk straight. He walked you back to your quarters, his presence a solid wall beside you.
At your door, you turned to him, pulse hammering. You simply stared up at him for a moment. You needed to thank him for the fun night, thank him for keeping you safe, and retire for the night. Under no circumstances should you do what you were thinking of doing. Screw waiting. You surged up on your toes and crashed your lips against his, rough, demanding, tasting the whiskey on his tongue as he growled into the kiss. He didn't hesitate. His huge hands gripped your waist, shoving you backward through the door with force and slammed it shut behind him. You stumbled into the room, laughing breathlessly as he pinned you against the wall, his mouth devouring yours teeth nipping at your lower lip.
"Eager little thing," he rumbled, breaking the kiss to yank at your shirt. Buttons popped as you clawed at his vest, fingers fumbling with the straps and zippers of his uniform. Clothes tangled and tore in the frenzy your top hit the floor first, followed by his shirt revealing the scarred expanse of his chest. He kicked off his boots while you shimmied out of your pants, kicking them aside in a heap.
Naked now except for your underwear, you pushed him toward the bed, teasing grin on your face. "C'mon, old man, think you can keep up?"
His eyes darkened, a smirk curling his lips as he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto the mattress. He loomed over you, stripping off the last of his gear until he was bare, his thick cock already hard and jutting out, veins pulsing. "I'll show you old man," he snarled playfully, voice low and promising. He dove down, capturing your nipple in his hot mouth, sucking hard while his hand slid between your thighs. Fingers parted your slick folds, rubbing your clit in firm circles that made you arch and gasp. You carded your fingers through his hair as his tongue lashed your other breast.
"Fuck, Miles," you moaned, hips bucking against his palm. He chuckled against your skin, the vibration shooting straight to your soaked cunt.
"That's right, say my name," he ordered, slipping two thick fingers inside your pussy, curling them to hit that spot that had you clenching around him. He pumped them slow and deep, calloused thumb pressing your clit, building the pressure until your thighs trembled.
You shoved at his shoulders, rolling him onto his back with a surge of playful strength. Straddling his waist, you ground down on his cock, feeling it slide easily through your folds, teasing your clit. "Not so old after all," you teased, leaning down to bite his neck, sucking a mark into the skin there.
He groaned, hands gripping your ass, spreading you as he thrust up, the head of his dick nudging you. "Keep talkin', sweetheart. I'll fuck that sass right outta you." With a shared grin, you sank down, taking him inch by inch until he filled you completely, stretching your walls around his girth. You rode him hard, bouncing on his lap, breasts jiggling with each slam. He met your rhythm, hips snapping up to bury himself deeper, one hand sneaking to pinch your nipple while the other slapped your ass lightly, the sting adding to the heat.
Sweat slicked your bodies as the pace quickened, the bed creaking under the force. His cock throbbed inside you, hitting deep with every thrust, your pussy clenching tighter. "Gonna make you cum first," he grunted, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast. The stretch of him filling you completely sends jolts of pleasure through your core, his girth pounding against your inner walls with every thrust upward he gives. Sweat slicks your skin, mixing with his, as you grind down, chasing that building pressure.
"Fuck, look at you," he growls, voice rough and teasing, his blue eyes locked on yours. "Riding me like you own a mechanical bull. Bet you've been practicing for this, haven't you, sweetheart?" His words hit you like a spark, making your clit throb as you clench around him tighter, the humiliation twisting into heat that pushes you closer to the edge. You ride him faster, your breasts bouncing with the force, nipples hard and aching. His cock hits that spot inside you over and over, relentless, pounding you until your vision blurs. The coil in your belly snaps, and you shatter, crying out as your orgasm crashes through you. Your pussy spasms around his cock, your arousal soaking him as waves of ecstasy rip through your body, leaving you trembling and gasping.
But Miles isn't done. With a feral grin, he flips you onto your back in one swift motion, pinning you beneath his weight. He hooks your legs over his broad shoulders, folding you in half, exposing you completely. His dog tags swing forward as he thrusts back inside, the cool metal brushing your cheek with each brutal drive. The tags dangle right in your face, clinking softly against your skin, a constant reminder of his dominance that sends fresh sparks straight to your core. He fucks you hard now, hips snapping with punishing force, his cock slamming deep into your oversensitive pussy. Each plunge stretches you wide, the angle letting him grind against your g-spot without mercy. You feel every inch of him, thick and unyielding, pounding you into the mattress. The dog tags sway with his rhythm, grazing your lips, your nose pushing you toward another orgasm faster than you thought possible. Your pussy flutters around him, the building tension coiling tighter, and with a few more savage thrusts, you come again, harder this time, screaming his name as your body convulses.
Miles' cock pulses deep inside your clenching pussy as he unloads, hot spurts of cum flooding you, marking you from the inside out. His thrusts slow to a grind, hips pressing flush against yours, holding you pinned with your legs still draped over his shoulders. The dog tags rest against your chest now, warm from his body heat, as his breath comes in ragged huffs.
"That's it, darlin'," he coos softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. One big hand strokes your thigh, thumb tracing soothing circles on your sweat-damp skin. "Breathe for me. Just breathe." His blue eyes soften for a split second, watching you pant and tremble in the aftershocks, your body limp and spent beneath him. You think it's over, your muscles ache from the intensity, your core throbbing with that delicious soreness. A sigh escapes you, eyelids fluttering as you start to relax into the mattress. But then his grip tightens, a wicked smirk curling his lips. Before you can react, he pulls out with a wet slide, his cum leaking from your swollen folds, and hauls you up like you weigh nothing.
"Not yet, sugar," he murmurs, flipping you onto your knees in one fluid, commanding move. Your hands scramble for purchase on the sheets, ass up and face down, vulnerable and exposed. He positions himself behind you, one arm snaking around your neck in a firm headlock, his bicep flexing against your throat, not choking but holding you right where he wants you, your head tilted back just enough to feel his control. His free hand spreads your cheeks, thumb brushing your dripping hole before his cock nudges against it. Still rock-hard, slick with your combined release, he shoves in deep with a single, brutal thrust. You cry out, the new angle letting him bottom out harder. The headlock keeps you arched, your back bowing as he rails into you, each snap of his hips driving him to the hilt.
"Fuck, you're takin' it so good," he growls right in your ear, hot breath fanning your skin. His arm tightens just a fraction, pulling you back onto his dick as he pounds relentlessly. "Look at this greedy little pussy milkin' me like it can't get enough. My perfect slut, huh? Built for my dick." The words pour out filthy and praising, his voice rough with lust, spurring you on as pleasure builds anew. It's incredible the way he dominates you completely, his body caging yours, the headlock making every breath a reminder of his power. Your pussy flutters around him, stretched and filled to bursting, the friction igniting sparks that race up your spine. He doesn't let up, fucking you with raw force, his hips colliding with your ass in loud, rhythmic smacks. Cum from before squelches with each plunge, easing the way as he claims you deeper.
"That's my girl," he praises, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Squeezin' me so tight, beggin' for more without sayin' a word. You love bein' locked up like this, don't you? My dirty little fucktoy, comin' apart on my dick again." His arm flexes, holding you steady as he grinds in circles, rubbing that sensitive spot inside until you're moaning uncontrollably, the pressure coiling hot and fast in your belly. The headlock adds to the thrill, your pulse thundering under his hold, every thrust sending you rocking forward only for him to yank you back. It's overwhelming, amazing, your body surrendering to the onslaught, pussy gripping him desperately. He senses it, speeds up, slamming home with grunts of approval. "Gonna make you soak me, sweetheart. Show me how much you crave this rough treatment. Cum for me, you filthy thing let it rip through ya."
His praises push you over, the coil snapping as ecstasy explodes. You shatter around him, pussy convulsing in violent spasms, juices gushing as you scream into the sheets. He doesn't stop, fucking you through it with savage delight, his own release building until he buries himself deep and erupts again, flooding your depths with another load while murmuring, "Good girl…atta girl…”
Quaritch collapses against you, his body covering yours as you both struggle to catch your breath. The room smells of sweat and sex, and you can feel his heart hammering against your back where he's still draped over you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he shifts, carefully pulling out before rolling to his side. The bed groans under his weight. His blue eyes sweep over your naked form, taking in the marks he's left on your skin - the bite marks on your neck and shoulders, the finger-shaped bruises on your hips.
"Don't move,” he rumbles, his voice rough from exertion. It's not a suggestion. You nod, too exhausted to form words. Quaritch reaches out, his large hand gently stroking your hair away from your face. His touch is surprisingly tender compared to how he'd been fucking you just minutes ago. He maneuvers you both until you're lying face to face, then pulls you against his chest. His skin is warm, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. One of his legs slides between yours, keeping you close. "Never done this before," he admits quietly against your hair. "Stayed after."
You look up at him in the dim light of your room. His expression is unreadable but softer than you've ever seen it. "First time for everything," you manage to say.
His lips brush your forehead. "Go to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."
And for the first time since coming to Pandora, you feel…safe as you drift off in the arms of the man who was supposed to be your cold hearted commander.
READ ON AO3
masterlist
summary: You had spent most of your life studying to be a part of the Avatar Program on Pandora. You were happy to be behind the scenes, monitoring the pilots and making new discoveries on this vast scientific frontier. That is until everything you thought you knew is shattered before your very eyes and your life is cut tragically short.
But when you wake up 16 years later in a new Recombinant body, what do you do with your second chance at life? Do you continue to fight for the resistance that you helped start, all those years ago? Or do you let your heart run away with you again?
Would you even be able to survive it a second time, if you did?
Will history repeat itself, or can you finally help put an end to this war?
cw: +18 MDNI | smut | non-con | recom!reader | Big Brother Jake Sully | Sully!Reader | doctor!reader | canon-typical violence |
MILES QUARITCH
It was… unsettling, to say the least.
Colonel Miles Quaritch stares at himself in the mirror and sees blue skin, yellow eyes, and fangs sneering back at him. He was still not used to it, and it's been a week already since he and his team had touched down on Pandoran soil once more.
He brings the mask to his face to inhale the synthetic air since his lungs no longer rely on oxygen. It feels like he's being smothered, but at least it cuts out the dizziness from breathing in too much of the atmosphere inside the human facilities. The harsh fluorescent lights do nothing to help either, assaulting his senses, the noise of the electricity running into the bulbs humming loudly in his sensitive ears. It was almost torture, being stuck inside this metal prison that he had once found comforting.
Corporal Wainfleet was waiting for him to lead the way to the office of the new on-world Expeditionary Force Commander, General Francis Ardmore. Regarding leaders, Quaritch has a lot of respect for Ardmore. As the new SecOps leader of Pandora, she's managed to do more in the past year than he had in the past 30 years before his untimely death. But now, he's got a second chance at finishing what he started 16 years ago. And this time, he will succeed.
Just like he wasn’t used to his own face, it was especially hard for him to look at his teammates. Although the features were similar, seeing the alien genes mixed in with the human DNA was surreal. The voices were the same, the mannerisms and the laughter too. But just… alien. Wainfleet, Zdinarsik, Walker, Prager, Ja, Fike, Mansk, Warren, Zhang, and Lopez were all resurrected as a fragment of their human selves. Data imported into living tissue… that’s all they were, and yet he felt like so much more. He felt more alive than he could remember, even in his human days.
As they stomp through the steel hallways, cold air blasting down on them every few feet from massive vents, various science pukes in pristine lab coats leap out of their way, not wanting to get trampled by 9-foot-tall aliens. SecOps specialists salute them as they pass, and it almost makes him nauseous. Ever since waking up in his new body, everything about the place makes him sick to his stomach. He's not sure what it is just yet, just that something is off.
The sterile chemical stench, the harsh lights, the monotone colors, and worst of all… the humans. Just something about their presence was almost electric, sending warning bells into some animalistic part tucked deep into his brain. It told him to get out, get away.
But like many things in his mind, he squashes it down and ignores it, shaking his head to clear it as the automatic doors slide open for the pair. They duck through the doorway and stride up to Ardmore, giving off a salute. She nods at them to relax, and Quaritch loops his hands into the loops on his belt. The fabric irritates his skin, but he wears the uniform anyway, trying to hold on to those last few things that separate him from the savages outside.
“So, as you know, we’ve been having a problem with our supply trains,” she starts, gesturing for security footage to be put up on the screens around them. Various windows pop up, showing off different angles of train cars on fire, with natives scurrying about, looting whatever they could get their hands on. “And their leader is proving to be a bigger problem than I originally gave him credit for. He's an old friend of yours, actually. Jake Sully.”
Quaritch grits his teeth. He keeps his face as stoic as possible, but his stupid tail gives him away, the appendage lashing around behind him, the bristly hair at the tip brushing against his knuckles at his waist. He catches Lyle's ears twitching in response, but they each keep quiet, allowing her to continue.
“As the newly reinstated leader of the SecOps team, I want you to be in charge of finding Sully and getting rid of him. Without Jake, the native insurgency should slowly die out. His knowledge of how we operate is the only thing they have working for them, and without that, we'll finally be able to get on top of our primary directive here on base. But, I can’t send you out into the field just yet.”
“And why is that?” Quaritch keeps his voice low, cocking his head ever so slightly to the left as he looks down at the woman. Its almost comical how small she is compared to his new form. Not that he wasn't tall as a human, but it still startles him to be towering several feet over everyone else on base. Was she seriously doubting his capabilities?
“It’s not that I don’t think you can handle yourself in a fight,” she holds a hand up, bringing her coffee mug to her lips to take a sip before she continues, trying to keep the conversation feeling more casual than it is. “Our forces can’t aide you out there at all. Their base of operations is somewhere in the floating mountains, and there seems to be some kind of... biological response that alerts the local wildlife of our presence. Even with skel-suits set to stealth mode, we can’t be in that territory for more than ten minutes before we start taking heavy losses.”
The camera footage on the screens reinforces her words as various species of animals tackle and tear apart the soldiers in the giant metal suits. Banshees swoop in and rip the pilots straight out of their seats from their aircraft, and arrows protrude from bodies amongst the smoking wreckage of the most recent derailing. His ears twitch again.
“So, what exactly are you suggesting?”
“I’ve got a specialist that is being decantered as we speak. Another recombinant, who was an apprentice of Dr. Grace Augustine. She's a xenobiologist, she helped pilot the avatars when Augustine was still running the program.”
Quaritch waits for her to continue speaking, nodding along to show he was listening. He rakes through his memories, trying to figure out if he had anything from his previous life about this doctor.
“She was KIA before Hell’s Gate fell. Security footage shows it was reportedly a gunshot wound while she was aiding in the escape of Jake Sully, Norm Spellman, and Dr. Grace Augustine after Selfridge had given the green light for the mining project under the natives Hometree.” A faint vision of his human hands holding a gun and firing towards the figures crawling into a Samson chopper dances at the edge of his mind, but he can’t quite grasp it.
“Anyways, she’s the most qualified person in our arsenal who's got the deepest knowledge of Na’vi culture and dynamics. You guys are fresh out of your tanks, and until you’ve had at least a few weeks of proper training and calibration, I can’t have you out on the field just yet. She will teach you to the best of her abilities, and then once you guys are ready, I’ll have her work on the next group. For now, you guys are our trial run, Blue Team. Once Project Phoenix is cleared for success, we’ll start bringing in a few more operatives. For now, it is just you guys, so listen hard and learn well. You are currently the most expensive walking assets the RDA has and I don’t want to be the one to file a bad quarterly statement because you jarheads couldn’t follow simple instructions.”
He bristles slightly at her choice of language. He may not exactly be the man he was before, but he still didn’t tolerate disrespect. If she weren’t the General, he would’ve had her ass for that by now. Instead, he clenches his teeth once more, tail lashing around before he opens his mouth to speak. “Who’s the puke?”
She grins slightly behind the rim of her mug, taking a breath. “Dr. Sully, Jake’s little sister. I thought you might appreciate the irony.”
Quaritch scoffs, stepping away to walk in a small circle, shaking his head. He comes back around, crossing his thick arms across his chest, testing your name out on his lips.
“And what makes you think she’ll help us? Especially if it’s cause she’s training us to help hunt her brother?”
“It doesn’t matter what she wants. If she refuses, then we’ll have her euthanized. That’s the glory of being a recombinant, Colonel. You are wholly RDA property. You need my permission to breathe, eat, shit, and fuck. Otherwise, we’ll have you put down. You may be expensive, but never forget that you are replaceable. Make that fact known to her. I’ll put a gag order on the nature of your mission so she won’t catch wind of it. And if she does, we force her cooperation. She’s a part of your team, so I expect you to keep her in line. If I have to step in, it won’t be pretty.”
They stare at each other for a few heartbeats. Wainfleet is the one to finally break the stifling silence between the pair, clearing his throat. “So, uh, when do we meet our new teach?”
“She should be waking up in a few minutes. You’re welcome to watch, but she won’t be cleared until tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”
Quaritch glances towards Lyle, tilting his head towards the door. Without another word, they depart, leaving behind the screens which were still playing brutal footage of RDA soldiers- men and women he had once defended- dying at the hands of all that Pandora had to offer. Quaritch sighs through his nose, clenching his fists. This was going to be the hardest mission he’s ever been assigned, he could already tell.
Sully's are notorious for being a pain in his ass.
masterlist
read on ao3
summary: In the wake of the attack on the Metkayina and your brutal stabbing, you are finally reunited with your long lost brother, Jake Sully. And despite his joy to find that you're alive- kind of- he's less thrilled when he realizes that you come with baggage. Colonel-sized baggage.
And as tensions rise, you realize that you're not the only one who needs to change. This entire time, you've been fighting to get the Recoms to realize that they aren't the same people as those who died 16 years ago.
And neither are you.
Stuck between worlds, you struggle to find the balance of who you want to be, and who you NEED to be, and in the final battle between the RDA and the Na'vi, you have to make a choice.
Or do you?
cw: canon-typical violence | injury | angst | more tags to come
YOU
It took a few days before you got used to the loincloth and beaded top. To the Na'vi, it wasn't nudity. It was just their way of life. But for you, sadly, you'd gotten used to wearing the RDA-issued clothes.
It felt nice to have your skin exposed to the warm sun, and to feel the wind against you whenever the breeze picked up through the Marui.
Since you were still too weak to get up and wander by yourself for long periods of time, Kiri insisted on keeping you company. Tuk came and went, growing bored and restless easily, and the boys had jobs to do, so they only came to find you during meal times. Kiri kept your mind busy by asking every question under the sun about Grace, but you welcomed it.
Her questions keep you from thinking about him, because you can't handle that right now. And apparently, Jake refused to talk about Grace outside of whatever was necessary, so you were happy to oblige her. After all, no one else knew Grace as well as you.
"Lo'ak teases me all the time that Norm is my biological father because of all of their time in the woods alone, but... surely not, right?" Kiri winces as she mutters the words, her hands fidgeting with her mop of hair.
"That wouldn't be so bad, would it? Norm is an amazing man. Loyal and smart. I would think it an honor," you laugh softly, brushing your fingers through your hair to get out the tangles.
Kiri makes a noise of disgust in the back of her throat, and you laugh harder, until pain shoots through your stomach. When you finally catch your breath, you look back at her with a huff. "No. Despite how often he appeared in her video logs, he was otherwise involved with someone else."
"Thank you, Great Mother," she sighs under her breath, just as Neytiri ducks into the tent, depositing her weapons on the mount against the Marui's wall, her ears twitching at the sound of your voices.
"You braid your hair like a human," she hisses, and your hands fall still, abandoning the long, singular braid that you were actively twisting. Ever since you woke up, Neytiri has made no effort to hide her hostility towards you. Something that she and Jake argue about nearly every night.
"Mother," Kiri warns, rising to her feet so she was standing between the two of you. Neytiri pins her ears and then walks away, carrying a string of fish with her so she can clean them outside. "I'm sorry. She gets... jealous when I ask about her. That's why Dad never talks about her."
"I don't blame her. If my daughter idolized her birth mother, I'd get a little jealous too." You sigh. You know for a fact it had nothing to do with the Grace discussion, but you don't want to burden her with that. She's already got enough on her plate.
"I do not idolize her, I'm just... curious." Kiri tries to hide it, but you see right through her. You level her with a look, and she cringes away, distracting herself with your hair instead. "I can braid it so you look less human."
"I would love that," you smile weakly, watching as her shadow dances across the walls as the fire flickers from behind. Anything to make yourself less associated with the RDA.
She moves to stand behind you, pulling your hair back behind your shoulders so she can unwind it, separating it into sections. "I'm sorry about Mother, she... she's been different, ever since we left the forest."
"Your mother has suffered many things in her life. You were lucky to be born after the war. You... you haven't seen the worst of the RDA."
"It gets worse than the Tulkun?"
"Much worse." You whisper, and your eyes fall closed as you think back to your time as a human. "Grace and I... we did everything we could to convince them to move the mines to somewhere that the Ometikaya weren't occupying. They didn't know much about the world, but they knew enough to make the connection that wherever the floating mountains were, there were unobtanium deposits beneath. They didn't care about the Tree of Voices. Anything that was in their way was just an obstacle that could be removed with enough force. Including Hometree."
"You say that as if there was something you could have done to stop them," Kiri states observantly, twisting the top part of your hair into a knotted bun, using polished bone spurs to stab through your hair to keep it pinned in place. She starts twisting the lower part into smaller braids and finishes each one off with small wooden beads. She threads a bone needle with twine and knots the ends to keep the beads from sliding off.
"Every time I think back on it, I try to convince myself that there was something I could have done," you say, fidgeting with your top. "But in all honesty, there's nothing that we can do to stop them."
Nothing that doesn't involve a lot of bloodshed, but you figure she probably already knows that. It's the unspoken threat that hovers over the heads of all Na'vi. Instead, the conversation comes to a dead end, and a heavy silence weighs on your shoulders as she twists your hair methodically, dropping each finished braid over your shoulder. When she was done, she fished out a few feathers from her bag and sewed them into one of your braids, patting your back when she was done.
"I found those on the day that we met. We were exploring the ruins of the Battle. Dad forbade us from going that far away from Camp, but of course, we didn't listen. I think Eywa was pushing us there for a reason. Otherwise, we never would have found you." Your fingers glide over the soft feathers as she speaks, and a soft smile dances on your lips.
"Thank you, Kiri." She shrugs as she gathers her things and then reaches a hand out to help you to your feet.
"Come. We should go see how the others are doing."
Others, as in the other Recoms. You were still an other to her. To the People.
When Jake and Tonowari returned from speaking to the Tanu'i, they both shared with the Metkayina what was said across the waters. The Tanu'i didn't want anything to do with the Recoms, or the RDA, or war. Which is understandable. Hell, you wouldn't want anything to do with it either, if only you had the choice.
Unfortunately, you don't have that luxury.
The Metkayina felt the same. The Council of Tulkun met a day later, and the Matriarch and Patriarch claimed that death can only bring more death, and that it was not their way to kill, for any reason. The Metkayina sided with their soul sisters and brothers, and the Recoms- and you- were spared.
Spared from hard manual labor, though?
No.
And although you're still on the fence about what you feel for Quaritch, you have to admit that watching him sweat under the baking sun as he rebuilds huts or repairs canoes, his muscles rippling under his cerulean skin, glistening in the light, is all very enjoyable. And not a bad way to pass the time.
You approach him as he rises to his full height, wiping a hand across his face to clear it as you reach towards him with a water bladder in your hands. He doesn't say a word, nodding graciously as he gulps the water. Droplets trickle out of the corners of his mouth and down the length of his neck, and you have to clear your throat and look away, betrayed by something feral that lingers in your mind.
When he was finished drinking, he passed the bladder to Lyle, who was staring longingly at it. It was strange to see him without his glasses, which had been lost in the fight on the ship. His hair was also starting to grow back, but in your opinion, it looks better shaved. Or rather, it was familiar shaved.
It was also a shock to see them wearing loincloths fashioned from leather and woven fibers, and dried-braided seaweed. All of their RDA-issued belongings had been burned after Jake returned from the Tanu'i, and you swallow hard, trying not to stare as you see more of Quaritch than you are prepared for. Neteyam, acting as their translator for now, hovers a foot away, watching the two of you warily, probably under the instruction of his father.
"I like your hair," Quaritch shatters the heavy silence, taking one of the small braids between his fingers, gently rolling the wooden bead under his thumb. He tugs it once and then lets it fall back into place, and you huff softly.
"Thanks."
God, why is this so awkward? How are you supposed to move past everything that's gone down between the two of you?
"How's your wound?"
"Healing," you sigh, absentmindedly smoothing your hand over the bandages. It was still tender and hard to stand, but you could at least lie on your side now. "Going to leave a pretty nasty scar."
"It'll be a good story for the grandkids," his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile, and you can't help but grin in return, shaking your head. The wooden beads jangle softly, and you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, stepping away from him with the now-empty bladder in tow.
"I'll see you at dinner?"
"If I'm allowed."
The silence returns, and you nod, wordlessly shuffling away. Kiri extends her arm to you, and you take it graciously, leaning into her as she steers you towards a large Maru'i filled with women. They were each weaving baskets, their materials scattered all around, while men and women knotted fishing nets along the outer walls. You pick your way around the others until you find Zdinarsik, dropping to the floor with a soft huff.
"That was painful to watch," Kiri laughs, dropping a bundle of materials beside you.
Z glances out of the corner of her eye, and the edges of her mouth twist into a smile. "You go and see the Colonel?"
"Yes," you say defensively, plucking the first few fibers from the pile, mirroring Kiri's deft movements as she starts a basket. To Kiri, you say, "Why?"
"Things are awkward between Mom and Dad right now, because of, well- you know- everything. But at least they can carry on a conversation without shrinking up like loreyu."
"I'm sorry, it's only like the man killed me in a past life, then resurrected me, then took everything from me, and then saved me over and over again... It makes things complicated!"
Kiri holds up a palm in mock surrender, but she doesn't bother to hide her grin. "Is anything ever un-complicated?"
You glare down at the fibers in your hands, twisting them too tightly, and they splinter in your grasp. Kiri scoffs, sweeps the pieces away, and then helps you start again.
"And what about you? You've always got something to say," you stare pointedly at Z.
"I'm not sayin' shit." She chuckles, alternating the colors in her basket artfully. She picked the skill up quickly and claimed that it was relaxing, like disassembling a rifle. Mind numbing. "One, I'm just as complicated. Two, it's not my business."
The sounds of soft murmuring conversations fall over your trio as everyone focuses on their baskets, until Kiri huffs softly. "Complicated, like working beside a woman who kidnapped your siblings and threatened your life, on multiple occasions?"
Z makes a tsk sound in the back of her mouth, jerking her head in a terse nod. "Exactly."
Part of the 'rehabilitation' of the Recoms included a public apology to the Sully family, and to the Metkayina. Ronal was unimpressed, and she was very vocal with her distaste about the entire situation. It was clear that the only reason she allowed it at all was that Tonowari seemed to side with Jake, and unlike Neytiri, she does not argue with her husband.
Which made sense once you learned that it was Ronal's spirit sister who was killed during the hunt to draw Jake out of hiding. Although Quaritch didn't pull the trigger, he still played a major part in all of it, and he had a lot to pay for.
The children were... mixed, to say the least. Tuk was very much of the mindset of 'it's in the past', 'water under the bridge' kind of thing. Then again, her attention span only accommodated so much. Kiri was hesitant but willing to forgive, because that is the way of the Na'vi.
Lo'ak, on the other hand, was visibly angry and refused to be around the Recoms unless it was absolutely necessary. Then again, his anger seemed to be reflected back to everyone and everything, and he spent most of his days in the water.
Neteyam was... indifferent. He didn't suffer directly under the hands of the Recoms as much as the others did, and was following the orders given by his father as the dutiful son.
As you stew in your thoughts, your hands work mindlessly at the basket in between them, until it is finished, just in time for lunch. Kiri and Z help you stand, and you use your basket to carry ingredients back to the Sully Marui, where you and Kiri prepare the food as the others filter in.
Some days seem to drag on forever, and you only grow more restless as your body takes its sweet, precious time to heal, much to your frustration.
The children are practicing their swimming. You watch from the dock, swishing your feet in the cool water lazily. You've been instructed not to submerge yourself in water until you are fully healed, to prevent infection.
You make for a much better doctor than you do a patient, because your instinct is to argue. The salt content of the water would be just enough to keep the wound sanitized; it would just need to be cleaned thoroughly after leaving the water! Then again, the poultice would wash away, and you could tear open a hernia if you strain too much in the water, and there's no way you would be able to perform a reparative surgery on yourself, and the Na'vi don't have the technology to do such a thing...
"Penny for your thoughts?"
A voice sighs loudly from beside you, and you jump slightly as Lyle hits the deck. He drops his feet into the water, just as you are, only he takes it a step further and reaches down to scoop up handfuls of liquid to splash over himself.
He and Quaritch are still working on canoes a few meters down the beach, and they must be taking a break to eat.
"Just thinking about how ready I am to be healed." You pout, kicking the water.
He laughs softly, shaking his head. "You never were very patient, huh?"
You smile, hiding your face by staring down at your hands, which rest over the bandages.
"I know it's really none of my business, but... You ever gonna forgive the Colonel?"
Your ears twitch at his question, and you dare to sneak a glance at him, your cheeks heating up. "It's complicated, Lyle. I can't just... let it all go. I need time. I forgive him, sort of, but also, I'm just- ugh-" you growl, struggling to find the right words. "I just need time."
"Hey, I get that! Shit's been complicated since we all woke up. But you also have to understand that you're all he has. I mean, sure, he's got me and Z, but it's just us, you know? We're not part of the Clan, and without the RDA, we have no one. We're outcasts on an alien planet. We gotta stick together."
You know exactly what he means, because that's exactly how you have felt since you arrived at the Metkayina. Outsider.
"I'll take that into consideration." You mutter, looking back down at your hands.
The water bubbles near your feet, and Tuk bursts from underneath, rubbing her eyes as she blinks away the water. She holds up a seashell triumphantly, a massive grin splitting her face. "Look! I dived all the way down to the bottom of the reef! I got this for you. We can make it into a bracelet!"
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and you match her smile, taking it graciously. "That's very sweet of you, you didn't have to do that!"
"I'm going to see if I can do it again. Maybe, we can have matching ones!"
And just like that, she's gone again. Her youth has made it easier for her to adapt to the ways of ocean life, and already, her clothing is starting to reflect her acceptance of her time here. In fact, you've noticed that all of the Sully children are starting to wear similar clothes to those of the Metkayina. The only one who seems to hesitate is Neytiri. Not that you spend a lot of time around her; her icy glare is enough to send you running into the other room.
You're not oblivious to her true feelings about you, and if it wasn't for you being Jake's sister, you know that she'd have you locked away with the others, or probably worse.
You clench your fist around the seashell until it cuts into your palm, grounding yourself back into the moment. You see Lyle shift out of the corner of your eye, and you look over at him quizically.
"What's up?"
"Nothing, just... Just her. She reminds me of my baby sis."
Your ears flick, and you shift until you're facing him more fully. "I didn't know you had a sister, Lyle."
"I don't really talk about it much. Especially not now. My mom had me real young. She was barely fifteen. Raised me on the streets and was off and on with different guys. Evetually she got knocked up again, and the guy married her. Step-dad raised me as best as he could, but I was a total shit as a kid and teen. Ran off to be with a girl before I was eighteen. Mom got knocked up one last time, and it was my baby sister. They all called her the miracle baby, 'cause after my brother, she got pretty messed up inside. Doc's told her she wouldn't be able to have any more."
You listen patiently, watching as a wave of emotion takes over his features. "Anyway, I didn't know about her until I was done with Basic. I came home and found out I was a new big brother. I started showing up more for her. She was the angel of the family. Spoiled as hell, but precious," he laughs softly, shaking his head. "She called me Ly-Ly. I kept telling her, 'It's Lyle darlin', but she insisted on calling me Ly-Ly. When I was on leave, I would always come home and stay with them so I could play with her. She'd make me play house for hours."
"Then what happened?" The way he talks about her gives you a sense of dread, and you probe gently, not wanting to stir up bad things from the past unless he was willing to talk about them.
"She was ten when I deployed for Pandora. I was planning on splitting the money with my mom to help take care of Gina, my sister. Mom was sick- ovarian cancer- and between her medical bills and just the cost of living, I wanted to help out. The pay was too much for me to spend all on myself anyway. Might as well do some good. Plus, I enjoyed the work." He stares out at the ocean, just as Tuk breaks the surface once more, sucking in a deep lungful of air before diving back down with a splash. "She was ten. Then it took six years to get here, I served for about five, then resigned my contract for a hell of a bonus, served another six- then died. And sixteen years after that, I woke up and was told I could never contact my family again. It would be a breach of contract, which I had signed when I was still human. After all, we were RDA property, not an individual."
"And now she's all grown up?" If you count the math in your head correctly, she's probably about 42 years old.
"I missed everything. I called up their files; I didn't care if I was breaking a rule. Mom died shortly after I left, and Gina's dad wanted nothing to do with her after that. She was raised in an orphanage, and then after that, nothing. No records of employment, no adoption, no death certificate. I have no idea what happened to her- still don't. There's no telling with the way life is over there. But I like to think that she made a life for herself. She was a tough kid, strong-willed and stubborn as hell. I know she's out there."
"I'm sorry you couldn't find out more about her. And I'm sorry that Tuk brings all that up," you pat his arm awkwardly, and he flicks his ears, smirking. You've learned that that is his way of hiding what he's really got going on inside.
"Nothing you can control, why be sorry? It just makes me feel worse because we terrorized those kids. Tried to use them as bargaining chips when they're just kids. Children that got caught in the crossfire." He shrugs, pushing away until he's back on his feet. "Anyway, I'm happy to make up for it all by helping out. It's hard work, and the uniform is unfortunate, but... yeah. Gotta make a difference somehow, right?"
"That's a noble thought, Lyle. Thank you for telling me all of that. I'm sure it was nice to get it out, huh?"
"Mm, debatable." He hums, flicking his fingers in a mock salute as he moves to step away. He hesitates, turning to say one last thing. "Just... think about the Colonel? Maybe check on him?"
"I'll think about it," you huff, swiping the air to shoo him away. He retreats with that familiar smirk on his face, shaking his head lightly as he rejoins Quaritch on the beach. You can see Neteyam scolding him in the way that he gestures his hands, but Lyle just shrugs, bending down to grip the massive logs and haul them back to their worksite.
Quaritch shields his eyes from the bright sun, staring down the beach until he locks eyes with you.
Despite the distance, you could feel the heat of his gaze as if he had his hands on you, right there. You suck in a breath and jerk your head away, especially since the light from above is perfectly accentuating his chiseled muscles in deep shadows. You shift awkwardly on the dock, choosing to stare out into the water as Tuk resurfaces once more- a new shell in hand.
Dinner among the Metkaina is a communal event. The entire village gathers around a massive fire, and the scent of roasted fish and vegetables fills the air as you near it. You could feel the heat of the flames before you could see it, and the roar is almost deafening. For a moment, you get a flashback of the day Quaritch and Bukowski were burning the Tan'ui, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to clear your mind.
Kiri grips your elbow, shaking you lightly as she feels you stop. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, I just need a second to catch my breath," you lie, pulling her hand free. "You go ahead and find your family, I'll join you in a second."
She doesn't look convinced, but relents anyway, joining the flow of traffic as they file down the length of the beach, plates in hand.
You move in the opposite direction, wandering down a dock to lean against a thick wooden pillar, which juts out from the ocean. You lean your forehead against it with a heavy sigh, waiting for your heart to calm down as you focus on the waves gently lapping at the shore.
Footsteps softly pad towards you, and your ears twitch as they follow the movement, until they come to stop just a few feet behind.
You could recognize that scent anywhere.
"Jake let you off your leash?"
You don't bother looking over your shoulder as you speak to Quaritch, and he makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.
"No, he's standing a few meters back."
You turn your head and find Jake hovering, as usual. His hands are on his hips, and his lips are pursed, ears flattened as he watches the scene unfold like a disapproving father. You don't need a cheuffure, especially with Quaritch. The damage has been done; there's nothing worse he could do to you, but Jake doesn't seem to care either way.
"I saw you come over here and just wanted to check that you were good." Quaritch shifts on his feet as he rubs the back of his neck hesitantly. "Guess I'll just, uh... leave you to it."
Your teeth nibble at your bottom lip, and before you can think twice about it, you call out to him. He turns to face you once again as his name tumbles past your lips, and you push away from the post, reaching for his hand.
His skin is warm and rough under your touch, and you slide your fingers down until they are intertwined with his. You tug him closer, and his hands instinctively move to your waist, careful to avoid the bandages that are woven around the trunk of your body. Your free hand flies to his face, and you cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your eyes.
"I should be the one to ask if you are okay."
Beneath your palm, the muscles in his jaw twitch, and a line forms between his eyebrows as they furrow. He swallows hard, and you suck in a breath as a wave of emotion consumes his features, despite how hard he is fighting to keep it contained. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Jake shifting uncomfortably on his feet, granting you a shred of privacy by turning his back on the pair of you.
"Not really." You can barely hear him. It comes out as a hoarse grunt, and your grip on his jaw tightens as he tries to look away.
"I should have checked on you sooner. I was just... scared. And I know that's no excuse but-"
"You were bleeding out in my arms. You could have died, again, and it would have been my fault-"
"No! I'm the one who jumped on Bukowski, I'm the one who ignored you- and Jake- I put myself in that position!"
"And I put you on that ship." He grips your wrists to pull them from his face, casting his gaze to the floor. "Everything- all of this- was because of me. I got my entire team killed. Failed my mission- repeatedly- and now we are hiding out in fucking tents, because our only other option would be the firing squad."
You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off. "And the worst part? I would have been fine with dying. I ain't scared of that. But watching you lie there, lifeless, wondering-waiting- for days if you were alive or not... and then to see you walking around but ignoring me... I've been dying slowly, and you hadn't even stopped to notice."
Now it's your turn to look away. Your cheeks burn in shame, because all this time, nearly two weeks since you arrived on the island, and you had hardly spoken more than a handful of words to him. And the only excuse you have for yourself is that you've been a coward, hiding from your feelings. Because what will Jake think of you when he sees just how much you love him? How will the Na'vi treat you when they know that your heart had been taken by the enemy?
Your mouth gapes as you scramble to form a thought, but the words die on your tongue. Instead, you pull yourself free from his grasp, despite the twinge of pain that protests in your abdomen as you reach around him. Your palm glides down the length of his kuru, starting at the base of his skull, and a shudder runs through his entire body. You pull yours around your shoulder, and despite standing there in the open, where anyone can see, you allow the ends of your braids to intertwine, forming the bond.
His pupils dilate as he stares down at you, and you have to crane your neck to stare up at him fully.
His thoughts flood your mind, and his emotions hit you stronger than the ocean waves as you feel it all. The worry, the fear, the pain. His desire, his longing, his shame. Everything, the big and small. He shares it all with you, and tears trail from the corner of your eyes as you open yourself up to him.
You show him the war that's been raging inside of you, ever since you woke up. The pain at his betrayal for shutting you out, pretending to be the Colonel that Ardmore expected, pretending to be as heartless as Bukowski. The anguish you felt as he grasped at straws to draw Jake out, including killing the Tulkun and kidnapping the kids- again. You show him your anger and hurt, the confusion in your heart... all of it.
Your heart tells him what your mouth can't, and although you're not quite sure what it's telling him, it seems to be enough.
His lips press against yours hesitantly, and you sigh against his mouth, angling your head, opening yourself up to him, even though you're still not sure how you feel-
"Alright, that's enough!" Jake barks from the end of the dock, and you jump, having completely forgotten he was even there. He must have gotten curious at the silence and turned to see the two of you locked in a heated kiss.
Your cheeks flare with a furious blush, and Quaritch grins, kissing the flat tip of your nose. His hands gently pull apart your kurus, and you rise to the balls of your feet so you can bump your forehead against his, rubbing against his skin so his scent will linger.
Jake stomps up the dock, fed up with the two of you. He slams his palm against Quaritch's chest to make him take a step back, while his other hand nestles into the crook of your elbow, steering you away.
You glance at Quaritch over Jake's shoulder to see that he's still smirking like an idiot, trailing after you and Jake, although, wisely, he's about a meter behind.
A tense silence settles over the three of you as you all return to the Clan, finding open seats next to the others where your meal was waiting, cold.
This post is a huge PSA for anyone writing X Reader content
You may not think this post applies to you, but it does.
There is a massive issue with inclusivity and assuming the audience. I have seen and personally experienced, time and time again, that me and many others feel as if we have no place in fandom. This specific part of it has to do with the majority of "x reader" content out there. It is all written for a cisgender (mostly heterosexual) white woman audience.
Now, cis white women getting content made for them is OBVIOUSLY not the issue here. People write for their personal interests, and there is nothing wrong with that. We all know this, and we all enjoy a fun story with our favorite characters centering around us.
The main issue here is the mentioned women not tagging their content properly, refusing to tag their content properly, straight up lying in the tags or not tagging things at all.
Trans men, nonbinary people, trans women, gay men, disabled people, fat people, intersex people and many people of color or non-american readers are constantly left out of fandom space and forgotten entirely. I've seen hundreds of complaints about it, and it needs to be spoken about more. While I'm on specifically talking about the fanfiction part of it, it is a VISIBLE issue in every fandom space you could possibly partake in. I don't even need to explain to you the rampant racism and transphobia in the cosplay community.
And the fix is extremely easy! TAG YOUR THINGS PROPERLY. It is the easiest, simplest form of allyship one could do for the community, and it goes miles. However, a lot of you seem to not understand how to, even if your heart is in the right place.
How to tag your fanfiction for the general audience:
- Specify the gender of the reader. This goes MUCH farther than just what pronouns are used. I've read WAY too many fanfics that tell me it is gender neutral, only to be hit with nicknames like "princess", or to be told the intended reader loves dresses and wears a bra.
- In tags or a prior description, mention every nickname used for the reader and every possibly gendered descriptor. It's really not difficult, and doesn't take too long.
- If necessary, mention what style of clothes the reader is specified to wear. And if this applies as well, specify any highlighted personality traits you gave the reader.
- Specify the body of the reader. This also goes much farther than gender. "Afab" and "amab" don't exactly cut it. Many people are triggered by certain words connected to genitals, so specify what words are used for those as well! Also, if you are trying to write a gender neutral body, PLEASE specify whether it is entirely gender neutral or something is implied. Many say it is gender neutral, and then explain how the reader's body self lubricates, or even has a clitoris. Please do better than that.
- For the love of God, do not automatically feminize the "GN afab" reader you wrote without a warning, and PLEASE MENTION if breasts are even spoken of, let alone used for smut reasons. And do NOT refer to someone's body as having "fem" or "male" genitalia. just say vagina or penis, please.
- Specify what body type you had in mind. Many fat or even slightly chubby individuals need to look for fanfiction that specifically caters to them, because "neutral body reader" writers, tend to not make it neutral. If you have any specifics on whatever you have written for the body mentioned, do tag it!
- Specify what sort of skin tone or hair texture is mentioned, if at all. Many POC complain that they read neutral fiction just to find straight hair, pale skin, light eyes, and blushing faces to be mentioned. If any color of the body is mentioned at all, or anything is implied, do say so! This also can go for specific things you may not think about, like how long it takes hair to dry, how easy it is to brush, hairstyles and other things of the sort.
It may seem like a bit of a list, but this is really the LEAST you can do for your community. We are consistently forgotten and ignored anywhere we go, and the simple things like this truly mean a lot.
- If there is an implied location, or anything to imply a place of origin, it's best to be on the safe side and mention that if it feels important.
- Please tag if you put the reader through, or mention a past traumatic event. Casually putting the reader character through things like an abusive ex, abusive parents, bad home or work life, or something like a car accident can be highly triggering. tag your scenes thoroughly! This also applies to putting the reader insert through something like sexist comments, unwanted touching of any kind, and similarly negative situations.
I cannot tell you the amount of times I've turned to fanfiction as an outlet and an escape, as many others have, just to be jumpscared by my favorite characters misgendering me. It's truly a miserable experience knowing no place is actually welcoming to me, or in the very least accommodating for people who aren't like them. This post is NOT meant to shame or send harassment to those who are forgetful, but ignorance is never a good thing to uphold. No one is asking you to write for an audience you don't want to, we just want to KNOW who you are writing for. Assuming an entire space is all one demographic is never, ever a good thing.
If you need help writing for a demographic you don't fully understand, just ask people who are a part of it how they would! Look at how other writers write and tag their content, and listen to anyone if they have necessary critiques. I wish you all happy writing! :]
Reblogs are highly appreciated, as this message needs to be spread as far as possible!
Also about the cubby reader part. For the love of God, don't make all the fanfics smut, like dude cubby people would also like cuddles and told wonderful things and not to be sexualized or used like that's all their plush body is good for, me personally as a chunky person I don't want to be sexualized, have a nice day to all who read my 3 am rambling
The Squid Game Guards - deadly, brutal and…the world's best babysitters. You hate it when your Father has to deal with something important (again)….but so you get to help the Circle Guards with an important task….and you are the world's best assistant!
"I understand… this Problem requires immediate Action. I'm on my way"
As you hear these Words, you immediately drop the purple pen in your hand to the Floor. Luckily it wasn't a felt-tip pen, otherwise the floor would have had a few unsightly marks… not that it would have been noticeable in all the black.
You look up abruptly and watch as Hwang In-ho makes the technological device disappear into his jacket pocket.
You don't understand much of the boring adult language… but the tone and the seriousness that Hwang In-ho displays, oh, that sounds all too familiar.
And you hate it when your father speaks in this tone to other adults over the telecommunications connection. It means that he has to leave again urgently.
But this time you're not going to let him get away with it.
You only arrived on the island a few days ago and you wanted to help him find new guards! (Actually, In-Ho sits in the VIP lounge of the complex with an expensive tablet and just swipes from right to left to look at potential candidates, whose probable location he then passes on to the salesman and you are sometimes allowed to press the power button on the tablet or swipe on the display and of course you are really helping your father with that!) - aaaand he wanted to braid your hair after all! Like Elsa! Because this is an island and you are the unofficial princess!
And you really had to be soooo patient, because your father wasn't so good at braiding and styling your hair from the start….well, someone like the frontman who is suddenly confronted with a female toddler in his life has to learn too….and with learning came a lot of time, setbacks and frustration. Yet you absolutely don't like the fact that he's on the move again.
So you stand up and walk towards your father with clumsy steps and try to cling to his right leg , like a little koala and give him a loving hug….but unfortunately In-Ho knows you very well by now and in a rehearsed movement, he stops your attempt and takes you by the hand instead, while he addresses the following words to you in a stern but still determined tone.
"You´re going to spent some Time with the.....", your Father started to explain but you now tried to grab his left hand little finger, to convince him to not go away....at least not withouth you....and to cut him off during his words.
"Daddah no by by! Stay!" - you said sad and carefully In-Ho picked you up and hold you close to his chest.
"We've had this conversation several times now and it always ends the same way, hm? It won't take long and in the meantime you're in good hands….."
"Help Daddah? me by by island too?"
"No, dear…it's better if you stay here, the guards will look after you well…a business meeting would be boring"
"…Play with Circleleys?"
The stern, cold mask that In-Ho wore, was replaced for a moment by a brief, amused smile.
The few guards , who came back year after year and were almost a basic staff of the games…had received this…more cuteness like names from you.
You got along with almost every Guard...you were not scard of the Mask or the Weapons they carried with them...your Father said they wouldn´t hurt you....they are....like your Friends....Friends that knew not to mess with the Frontmans Daugther.
So you are used to this....maybe strange Island with all this colorful rooms and of course the Guards were your friends. And the Circleleys are the most funniest ones ever!
"Don't let the others hear that you favor the Circle Guards… otherwise I'll have to send more new recruits to the salesmen....and that will be a whole nother game to deal with"
"No no! Tree-Angel and Squary Friends too" - you say with a serious expression on your face.
The Triangle and Square Guardians are just as much your friends as the Circles… but maybe you like the Circle Guardians a little bit more than the rest? They always make you laugh.
"Then it won't be a problem if you spend some time with the circles, hm?"
"Yes, playing with Circleleys!"
"And you'll keep your composure and not cause any trouble?"
You giggle and nod, your father gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your head before he takes you to the control room, where his second in command, a high-ranking square guard, takes you, holds you in his arms and after you wave goodbye to your father, the square guard takes you to the playing field for the second game.
You feel safe in the adult's arms, he doesn't hold you as tightly as if you were an expensive vase or a cat that could get angry at any movement - there are some of the new guards that your father entrusts you to… you can definitely tell , that they have already held a small child in their arms and then there are the newbies who are… clumsy.
Sometimes when you're having a bad day and you're being picked up like a piece of wood or something, it doesn't take three seconds before you start to whine and cry. Sometimes the experienced quads find it amusing how panicked the new recruits react.
As you pass the colorful stairs and get closer to the room where game number 2 will be played in a few weeks, you chat euphorically to the adult who is carrying you, about what you have already experienced today and that you also took your afternoon nap well, even though you had a little tantrum beforehand and were not tired at all, and you tell the square guard that your father said purple crayons are not for eating and are not a good snack.
While you continue to be carried, from staircase to staircase in the adult's arm, you do not notice how he gives the instruction over the walkie talkie, to keep the colorful Gong-gi figures out of reach… better safe than sorry.
You soon reach the room that will definitely be one of your favorites, you like the bright rainbow colors on the floor and it's really wonderful to run around in here, play catch or just take a nap on the floor.
And when you recognize three of the circle guards, you wave to them and bounce impatiently up and down in the adult's arms.
"We have a special task that you can help us with, OK? Come with guard number 32 and we'll be right there," said one of the circle guards as you were passed from one arm to the other and finally led by guard number 32's hand to the back of the room.
"Will we get the number of players back to 456 this year?"
"Positive. The boss wants a complete run through of the standard protocols before arrival"
"Setting it up…"
"And…"
"Yeeeeees…..no sugar after 6 p.m. otherwise we'll have the same incident as two weeks ago"
You didn't hear any of the other short conversations because the Circleley guard let go of your hand when you reached a table and a chair.
"Okay, princess…..can you roll the little ball there so that it touches the stone?"
You nod and try your best…of course you are not aware that the little ball does not have the effect that is expected in the Flying Stone game…but that is not the point…the guard just wants to practice the reaction when someone has passed a task together with his colleagues who also went to you.
And after you have rolled the ball and it comes to rest in front of the small stone , without anything major happening, you look up at your Circle friends and a computer-generated voice says - Passed -
The Circle Guards make a circular hand gesture that is reminiscent of an O.
And just moments later the playing field, is filled with bright children's laughter and clapping - the Circleleys seem to be practicing their reaction to - Passed - well.
But in just a few weeks, this playing field would be coverd in blood, dead bodies, fear and the more often reaction - Failure - with the corresponding reaction from the Circle Guards.
And there would be no toddler laughter , echoing across the field…it would be a crazy mix of euphoric adult cheers and fear-filled screams.
dreaming of batfam x neglected law student reader. totally not coping just cuz i miss the elle woods neglected batfam fic….
in this fic, y/n would appreciate being neglected. that just means they have less time worrying about unimportant, unnecessary, things.
what’s on todays agenda? memorize sections 1-20 of the labor code. create 7 case digests for one course. read 13 more cases for another. application of obligations and contracts. review for a summative on taxation. not to mention, they still have some tasks assigned from their internship at lex corps. who knew that interning for one of the shadiest companies can be so tiring? the pay is well though.
the real reason y/n chose lex corp was to get one last jab at bruce, though it doesn’t matter. nobody knows anyway.
nobody knew until y/n came back from the manor at 4am. the same time everyone returns from their own nightly duties.
in the living room, the batfamily was together, having their typical family bonding time without you. as usual. it used to bother you. but who needs them now when you have 4 terror profs breathing down your neck, expecting you to perfectly repeat the law in verbatim?
y/n enters, looking very groggy. seeing the amount of family members present in the room made them falter. usually they would crash on the couch, but they can’t exactly do that now with people, can they?
sensing the batfam’s conversations die down as they look at you, you forced out a “uhm. sorry.” while you grip the books you have on your arms. you adjusted your shoulder bag before you leave the room. that’s fine. you can stay in your own room.
“oh, y/n! couldn’t sleep?” dick was quick to act. “where are you going? you got errands to run this early?”
“..i’ve been outside all day. i just got home.”
“that’s bullshit.” jason cut in, “it’s dangerous to go out this late in the night, you mean to tell us you’ve just been out there..?” his brows furrowed.
“..i always go home this late in the night at fridays.” y/n looked at their watch. if they go upstairs now they can still take a nap for 30 minutes!
“what nonsense. what could you possibly be doing outside-“ damian started his rant. luckily, alfred came to your rescue.
“ah! mx. y/n. apologies, i didn’t hear you enter. would you like any refreshments?”
“no, thanks alfred. i think im gonna rest for awhile.” you rub your eyes.
“i see, would you like me to assist you with your things?”
“it’s alright. i’ll see you later, alfie.” y/n gave a weird look to the batfam before walking away, probably on their way to their room.
.
when y/n left, then came the questions.
.
“you know they go out this late?” bruce asked first.
“yes, master bruce. law students typically have night classes as their attorneys professors only have time within the night to teach.”
“law? they’re studying law?” damian asked, almost as if such a thing was impossible for y/n.
“night classes? how do they get home..?!”
“how come they never told us?” tim spoke up.
“i didn’t even know they graduated…”
alfred can only sigh in disappointment. but before he can reply to any of them-
“we gotta go talk to them..!” now this put alfred into action.
“i think not, master dick.”
“what..? why?” jason was also standing up, following after dick.
“you heard mx. y/n. they are extremely tired. you all don’t know just how tired they are.”
“tired?” damian sprang up. “they’re tired? they’re just a civilian.”
“hang on-“ tim tried to diffuse the situation,
“they’re tired from studying is what you’re saying, pennyworth? what about us? i’m sure they can spare a moment of their time.” he started marching his way towards your room.
the rest followed after.
“master bruce! mx. y/n is terribly tired, please put a stop to this.” bruce looked torn, wanting to listen alfred. but his curiosity got the better of him.
“..i want to see y/n too.” he started making his way out the living room, trailing after the boys.
alfred let out a sigh of exasperation before tailing behind bruce, trying to get him to see reason. they have all the time to make it up to y/n after. why disturb him now?
.
damian burst open the door, expecting a verbal show down, only to be left bracing for nothing. y/n used to yell at him to get out of his room before, but he was only left with silence.
y/n sat on their desk, pen on hand as papers scartered everywhere. and i mean everywhere. on their desk, the floor, their bed, taped on the walls, everywhere.
their ipad was lit open, if damian looked closely he could see some document in there. y/n’s laptop was also open, having another similar document open. something about torts or whatever. there was also a drink next to him. was it coffee, water, or tea?
“..what’s wrong?” y/n asked with hesitation. what could damian possibly want right now?
“y/n!..you’re still up..?” dick entered shortly after. y/n looked at the clock on their bedside, “uhm, yeah. i was just about to sleep.” that was a lie. they were in the middle of something, but maybe they can finally get out if he said something.
“what are you working on?” y/n yelped as tim appeared suddenly by their side. when did he get here?
“just something for class.” y/n wasn’t too keen on sharing anything with tim. not after being pushed away by the very same guy before. tim was always too busy handling legal documents for WE, surely shit like this is nothing to him.
“i can help-“ tim said, continuing to look at the papers scattered.
“-y/n, i didn’t know you studied law, what school are you attending?” now bruce is here? give me a break.
“okay- can i talk to you guys later? i’m in the middle of something.”
“i thought you were just about to sleep?” jason raised a brow. ugh.
“just- can you leave..? i’m busy.”
“too busy for family?” probed damian.
“oh you’ve got some nerve to say that shit to me now after all these years.”
their eyes widened. y/n almost regret saying anything until alfred entered,
“..mx. y/n, I truly apologize for their behavior. please, take some rest soon.”
damian reacted first, wanting to dig further, and soon chaos erupted. voices speaking over the other. y/n’s once quiet and quaint room was now full of too many people, all wanting to say their piece.
amidst the noise…
clink.
the sound of a mug tipping over broke them from their rants.
everyone turned to look at tim, holding a pile of papers. the mug unfortunately spilt it’s contents over the ones that weren’t on tim’s hand.
“no, no, no, no!” y/n quickly grabbed the mug, looking at the files they were just working on.
y/n looked at them defeated. shit. what were they gonna do?
the brothers looked at tim, who set the papers down and held his hands up in mock surrender, “i didnt do it..”
alfred walked closer to y/n.
“mx. y/n, allow me to help you clean this-“
“get out.”
“hm?”
“get out. all of you.” y/n turned to face everyone. “all of you get out of my room..!”
“y/n it was an accident-!”
“we didn’t mean to-“
“you were the one who left that mug on your desk-“
“GET OUT.”
..
note: this is based on my experiences so far, with my pre-law course. don’t know how accurate this is for others 🤷
Warning: cheating(both sides, but for Reader it's emotional), emotional manipulation
The chandelier lights of the Gotham Museum gala glittered like distant stars, casting a warm glow over the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns. You smoothed the silk of your crimson dress—Versace, a nod to the life you'd left behind—and took a sip of champagne, your arm linked with Jonathan's. It had been months since the divorce, since you'd shed the Wayne name like a too-tight skin, but tonight marked your first public appearance since then. The Falcone case had shaken the city to its core, with Carmine Falcone's empire crumbling under the weight of scandals and arrests. Bruce had been at the center of it all, of course, his Batman persona pulling strings from the shadows. But you? You'd finally escaped those shadows.
You hadn't always been this way—poised, untethered, alive. Once, you'd been the darling of the Victoria's Secret runway, strutting in angel wings and lace that made headlines worldwide. Your face had graced billboards from New York to Paris, your body a canvas of confidence and allure. But then came Bruce Wayne. Charming, brooding, with promises of a family that needed you. You quit modeling the day he proposed, trading catwalks for Wayne Manor, determined to be the perfect wife and stepmother. You cooked meals, attended school events, patched up scraped knees from "training accidents" you weren't supposed to question. You poured your soul into Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian—even the girls, Barbara and Cassandra, when they deigned to acknowledge you.
They never did, not really. To them, you were the outsider, the trophy wife who didn't understand their world of capes and cowls. Dick's polite smiles hid resentment; Jason's sarcasm cut like knives; Tim barely looked up from his screens; Damian called you "the interloper" to your face. Barbara and Cass? They tolerated you at best, whispering about how you were just another of Bruce's fleeting distractions. And Bruce... oh, Bruce. The cheating started subtly—a late-night "meeting" here, a lipstick stain on a collar there. Selina Kyle, Talia al Ghul, even that reporter Vicki Vale. You confronted him once, tears streaming, but he brushed it off with that infuriating Wayne charm. "It's complicated," he'd say, vanishing into the night as Batman, leaving you alone in that echoing mansion.
That's when you sought help. Therapy seemed like the only lifeline in a sea of neglect. Dr. Jonathan Crane was recommended by a discreet acquaintance—brilliant, they said, with a specialty in fear and trauma. Your first session in his Arkham office was clinical, his blue eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, his voice a soothing baritone that dissected your pain without judgment. "Tell me about the fear," he'd prompt, leaning forward, his presence a quiet intensity that made you feel seen for the first time in years.
Sessions blurred into something more. Jonathan listened as you unraveled—about the isolation, the betrayal, the way Bruce's absences left you hollow. He shared glimpses of his own world: a childhood marred by bullying, his fascination with fear as a tool for control. There was a darkness in him, a edge that thrilled you, so different from Bruce's stoic heroism. One evening, after a particularly raw confession, his hand brushed yours. "You deserve more than to be a shadow in someone else's story," he murmured. The air crackled. You kissed him that night, in the dim light of his office, his lips tasting of forbidden promise.
The divorce was swift, brutal. Bruce didn't fight it—guilt, perhaps, or relief. The Batfamily's reactions ranged from indifference to outright scorn; Jason even smirked, "Good riddance." You didn't care. You packed your things and went straight to Jonathan's arms. He wasn't the hero type; he was the villain in waiting, experimenting with toxins in hidden labs, whispering about a world where fear ruled. But with you, he was tender, possessive, his touches igniting fires Bruce never could. Nights in his modest apartment turned passionate—his fingers tracing your skin like he was mapping every vulnerability, his voice low as he confessed his Scarecrow alter ego. You didn't flinch; you embraced it, finding power in the chaos.
Now, at the gala, you spotted them across the room. Bruce, in his impeccable tux, chatting with Commissioner Gordon. The kids flanked him: Dick with his easy grin, Jason brooding in a corner, Tim nursing a drink, Damian scowling at the crowd. Barbara wheeled through with poise, Cass silent and watchful. They hadn't noticed you yet.
Jonathan's hand tightened on your waist, his breath warm against your ear. "Nervous, my dear?"
You shook your head, a sly smile playing on your lips. "Not anymore."
Bruce's eyes locked on yours first. Surprise flickered, then something darker—regret? Jealousy? He excused himself from Gordon and approached, the Batfamily trailing like reluctant shadows.
"Y/N," Bruce said, his voice that familiar gravel. "You look... well."
"Divorce agrees with me," you replied coolly, tilting your chin. Jonathan's arm was a steady anchor, his gaze dissecting Bruce with clinical interest.
Bruce's eyes shifted to Jonathan. "Dr. Crane. I didn't realize you two were... acquainted."
"More than acquainted," Jonathan drawled, his tone laced with amusement. "Y/N has been under my care for some time. And now, she's simply under me."
A flush crept up Bruce's neck, but he masked it quickly. Dick cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, good to see you, Y/N. Been a while."
"Has it?" you mused. "I suppose raising you all single-handedly while your father was out playing hero does blur the lines."
Jason snorted, but there was no malice in it this time—curiosity, maybe. Tim averted his eyes, Damian muttered something under his breath. Barbara offered a tight smile. "The Falcone mess has kept us busy."
"I'm sure," you said, your voice dripping honeyed venom. "But I've moved on to better things. Jonathan understands neglect in ways you never could."
Bruce's jaw tightened. "If this is about—"
"It's not," you cut him off. "It's about me. Finally."
Jonathan leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Shall we dance, darling? Leave the bats to their brooding."
You nodded, letting him lead you to the floor. As the music swelled, you glanced back once—Bruce watching, the family shifting uncomfortably. For the first time, you didn't feel like the neglected wife, the failed mother. You were the woman who'd risen from the ashes, wings intact, with a man who saw your fears and turned them into strength.
And as Jonathan's hand slid lower on your back, promising darker delights later, you knew you'd never look back.
summary──── a justifiable serial killer on the loose, and jason finds himself being enamoured by him.
pairings──── jason todd x dbd!ghostface!male reader
warnings──── nsfw content, serial killer themes, dead dove do not eat, sexual arousal in response to violence or torture, murder, blood, deaths, gore, foul language, bottom!jason, top!reader, reader’s physique is described as tall and broad ( the slasher build ), possessiveness, choking, praise kink, blood kink, knife play ( reader carving his initials on jason ), toxic!reader ( ? ), sorta toxic relationship but also not, unprotected sex, love-making, pet names, overstimulation, dumbification, degradation if you squint, lil’ bit of manipulation, creampie, doggy style, mating press, biting, marking, oral ( r. receiving ), voice kink ( ? )
author’s note──── not me coming back with halloween themed fic after halloween days have passed lol. i’m alive, y’all !! hope you enjoy this one that took a fucking month to write 😭
𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ; this post may contain disturbing contents that may not be suitable for every reader — a reader discretion is advised. MINORS DNI !!
Gotham’s been terrorized by the worst people you could ever imagine, the kind that’ll stick with you forever and take residence to your nightmares if you were unfortunate enough. Many were hurt or even murdered as a result of the villains’ terrorization, with vigilantes running through the night to capture and send them to Arkham Asylum.
With the existence of a Psychopathic Clown, his equally psychopathic girlfriend with PHD’s that’s been wasted down the line, the Mother Nature freak, the ridiculously huge man with a gas mask on, the green coloured living question mark, and many others, no one would’ve ever thought anything could get any worse.
Until some criminals’ bodies turn up across the streets in such disturbing manner that haunts the witnesses to death.
One, a criminal who murdered young and homeless boys, gutted deeply to the point of their intestines hanging out. Another, a criminal known for kidnapping and selling people’s organs, mutilated with their torso torn back to expose the organs settled inside of them. Another one, a priest-turned-criminal who’s been violating women and children, crucified naked in his own church with his eyes gouged out, a Bible verse carved in his chest; ‘And if your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away.’ Matthew 18:9; his penis cut off and body seemingly violated as well. Another more turns up, a governor-turned-criminal who’s been feeding into the rich despite their oath of generosity towards the poor, severely tortured with the skin on his back cut open, ribs severed from the spine and broken to the sides in order to create the illusion of wings, fluttering lungs pulled out from their chest cavity to resemble an eagle’s wings, with the word ‘traitor’ carved on his forehead.
The brutality and gruesome nature of the murders has set an alarming panic and fear across Gotham City that forced civilians into locking their doors at night. Criminals who were unidentified and not found by Gotham Police Department were also turning up in a form of miserable, tortured soul, along with the evidence and proofs of their crimes being carelessly laid beside their lifeless corpse.
The killer taunts those who are in charge of justice within their city each time the damned were unfortunate enough to be hunted down; pigs of failure written in the criminal’s blood right beside the drawing of a police’s logo.
However, despite how gruesome and disturbing the murders were, most people couldn’t deny that it was doing the city a favor. Justice System has failed more times than one could count to the extent of victims yearning to exact revenge themselves against their perpetrator, which causes most to react rather positively to the wrongful, unlikely hero who had seem to suddenly appear out of nowhere. The haunted finally getting the chance to slay the traumatic demons with the help of another psychopath on the loose.
Another justified monstrosity shouldn’t be the counter against one inhumane monstrosity that caused so much pain, trauma, and misery. But kindness could not vanquish one’s tainted blood. Forgiveness could not suddenly wash away the sins engraved deeply into one’s soul.
Imperfect, the victims muttered. An imperfect yet perfect way to save our burning souls wrongfully condemned by the criminals.
Red Hood has heard their murmurs.
Silent whispers of gratitude that fell on deaf ears, their previously dim soul brightening in relief and sanctuary with smiles on their faces as the Universe had finally took mercy on them and sent a Fallen Angel to slay the Demons away. He’s watched their spirit uplift, no longer chained down by the trauma and fear of the monsters that once ruined their lives, able to walk the streets carefree of tormentors. He’s watched their stiff posture visibly loosen, lively peacefulness settling itself at last within their haunted eyes. He’s watched them glow with happiness not feeling the presence of their perpetrator every couple of seconds, finally capable of living without needing to constantly look over their shoulders in paranoia and fear.
Ghostface is what the serial killer’s called, nickname born out of the mask that resembled a ghost always being left behind in crime scenes, each slightly different.
Jason has seen you. He didn’t mean to, really.
The temptation to get at least one look at you was great every-time he patrolled, wishing to just catch glimpse of an immoral hero who could make sacrifices no actual heroes could — who’s doing exactly what he wished before for Batman to do.
The Universe seems to have granted his wishes when his eyes catches the void of ghostface’s eyes, your mask tainted in splatters of blood from the dead criminal below you. Jason feels his world come to a stop as you slowly rise from crouching position and reveal your unnaturally tall height, broad shoulders visible under the black hooded leather. You hold silence and calmness despite being caught, tilting your head slightly to the side.
His heartbeat quickens yet he doesn’t feel fear. Jason idiotically steps closer as if he was in a trance, burning your existence within his eyes to engrave in his memory. Your bloody knife barely grazes his neck to stop him before using it to tilt his chin up, your figure looming and towering over him while seemingly staring into his eyes through his helmet.
A sense of peacefulness overcomes Jason being in your presence despite the absolute brutality and mercilessness that surrounded your entire being. You were deadly, silent, certainly creative with your work that it deems almost artistic, as if the criminals’ bodies were your own canvas to paint on — and Jason finds solace in you. A man he always needed, someone who’d be willing to cross the line and get rid of the actual evil for the sake of victims that’d be forever haunted if it continues to exist.
“I’ve heard things about you, Red Hood.”
Low, raspy, monotone voice speaks, sending shivers down his spine. It sounds cool and handsome regardless of the obvious use of voice changer, somehow littered with tiniest hint of flirtatiousness.
It takes him quite a while to answer, barely managing to let out a “yeah?” as he feels you drag the knife slightly closer to his pulse. His heartbeat quickens, but slows down when the cold metal was finally pulled away.
“Pleasant things,” You hummed, before your voice lowered a few octaves, “Can’t say the same about Batman.” Anger seems to seep through your tone that felt a little more than just sympathy for victims of villains Batman refused to put six feet under. Jason wondered if you’re also one of the victims his father failed.
“You… You know him that much?” Jason’s voice shakes from the nerve, your presence somehow greatly affecting him.
“I think everyone knows him enough,” You chuckled, but it sounded so empty that Jason can’t help but feel the goosebumps rise on his skin. It was quite chilling to meet someone who shows only a certain amount of emotion which could even be felt expressionless due to the monotonous pitch. The ghostface mask certainly did its job of making you seem more less human, the unmoving expression of ghost being horrified to death adding to the eeriness of your toneless mechanic voice.
Jason’s breath hitched when you took one step closer.
“But I know more about you. Your little past and the sufferings you’ve endured,” It’s spoken as if his life was one of your necessary investigation in your twisted justice. “It’s unfair, don’t you think? I would’ve gutted the Joker like a fish if it were to happen to my son.” There’s a condescending way in which you spoke, not directed at Jason but to Bruce.
“How—” Jason swallowed. “How did you—”
“I can make your dreams come true,” You interrupted him with a tempting offer, shutting him up effectively. Wide grin plastered your face despite not being seen behind your mask. “I can kill the Clown for you, Red Hood. If it means it’ll silence your troubled spirit. If it’ll bring you peace. I can hurt him on your behalf just like he deserves.”
It was like a whisper from the devil, slithering its way into Jason’s heart and mind to possess his soul, mirroring the one which whispered on Adam and Eve’s ears.
He’s been wanting — needing — to hear those words come out of Bruce. His suffering and death seemingly being brushed off as a cruel accident shattered him more than he’d ever admit, Bruce’s unhealthy coping mechanism and morality getting in the way of showing his love for Jason that left the younger man feel lesser than he was. Bruce was a complex person that’s sometimes difficult to understand, his impressive ways to stick to his morals being exactly his character, but Jason wanted for once, to actually feel how important he was to his father.
Was that too much to ask for, or was he just unworthy of the entirety of it?
“Why would you do that for me?” Confusion and subtle suspicion filled his tone as Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out your intention despite the rush of hope that shot throughout his chest. He forced himself to feel nothing when you leaned in closer.
“Because you were wronged, of course.” You simply stated. “You are a victim. Not more, not less. You deserve a little more than just empty justice. And I’m a man who got tired of vigilantes that are afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.” Then, you tilt your head slightly to the side in a way that’s somehow alluring. “But I can also say I’m intrigued by you.”
Jason’s heartbeat quickens again when your big hand seems to wrap perfectly around his throat, fingers resting just above his pulse points. It makes such filthy thoughts flood themselves into his mind, your long and quite thick fingers falling victims to his tainted imagination, and he had to give everything in himself not to bare his throat more for you. You seem pleased of his lack of disobedience and bite, having expected him to shove your hand away or flinch back before you could touch him. You’ve seen Red Hood once and how his uncontrollable rage resulted in violence, heavy burdens and extreme trauma turning him into a ticking time bomb that could explode any minute with the wrong move. He was absolutely lethal, the bullets serving as the evidence of his wrath and resentment towards the underground scumbags. It’s amusing that you have the man of violence himself now somehow completely under your control, surprisingly quiet and shy and obedient. You wondered if this is how he was before he was ruined by the cruelty of the world.
“You want it, don’t you? For me to kill the Joker.”
Jason feels as if you know everything he wants. Is this what it feels like to be important?
It takes a little while for him to answer, but he eventually came up with a “You’ll do that?” which sounded vulnerable and weak for the first time in his second life. Your heart clenched at the doubt and seemingly child-like vulnerability in which he uttered the words, as if he was afraid to trust something after being betrayed countless of times, reminding you of the sole person you’ve even began doing all of this for. They were quite similar yet so different — your older brother and Jason.
You hadn’t meant to cross his boundaries and unknowingly step into the empty hole that made home in his heart. Unconsciously slithering in like a snake by touching the subject his heart was longing for, not realizing his childhood’s still remaining within his spirit.
All he wanted was love and to feel safe again. You didn’t know the Red Hood was so adorably pitiful. A smirk plastered your face.
“I will,” You reassured and leaned your face inches away from his, the hand on his throat lifting his helmet slightly.
Jason doesn’t retaliate, blinded by a meat of hope dangled in front of him. He doesn’t move as the lower half of his face was exposed, and you lifted your own mask the same using your other hand. Jason willingly, obediently closes his eyes before your lips attached to his — a kiss of death, tasting like blood and cruelty. Warm and soft despite your rough, cold-blooded, corrupted soul. A kiss from the devil.
When Jason opened his eyes, you had already disappeared into the darkness with blood stains on the ground you stood before, a single note left behind; Hell will reopen for the Clown.
After neatly tucking the note inside his jacket and making sure no evidence has been accidentally left on the crime scene, Red Hood smiles for the first time in a long while and reaches for the comms without a heavy heart.
“Batman, I found another body.”
Whatever happens, he’ll have no knowledge of the following misfortune that’ll befall on the Joker. It’s the righteous serial killer’s doing, after all.
What was used to be a maniacal laughter turned into screams of agony and pain. Strong stench of death and blood makes euphoria rush within your mind, the feeling of slicing through flesh with your knife bringing pleasure and ecstasy that made your pants tight. There’s a certain amount of satisfaction in the way your own actions cause serious harm and scarring to criminals who once deemed themselves powerful, being reduced into nothing but a powerless prey that could easily be gotten rid of.
You feel increasingly powerful the more you strip them of their dignity and arrogance as they shed blood on the holy ground. Your existence alone striking them with crippling fear and anxiety feeds into your ego, yet you never stray away from the sole purpose or reason for your murders — making them taste their own medicine.
From what you found on countless deep dive and research, Joker preyed on Red Hood when he was still a young child full of life and joy, having been under the name Robin at the time. Second Robin to be exact, considering he was a lot different from the first one. It actually surprisingly pained you when you’d seen how much of an adorable, dorky, nice kid he was before misfortune cut his life short. You would’ve never thought you would find a kid adorable in your entire life, the little menaces often being nothing more than a headache to be around with that caused a certain dislike to grow towards them within you, but Jason was everything a cute kid was. Just excited to be there, to be fighting alongside Batman, to be relevant.
Such a precious boy ruined for the sake of shits and giggles for the Clown. For the sake of getting under Batman’s skin. And the Bat couldn’t even make fucking amends to his flaws as a father and mentor.
Well, he didn’t need to anymore.
You’ll give Red Hood— Jason Todd —what he wants. Yearned for. Perhaps, even what the other civilians who have fallen victims to this vile criminal want. You would stop at nothing until every criminal is gurgling and choking on their own blood.
Joker’s scream shoots a jolt of electricity within your body as your knife pierce through his skinny thigh and to the ground, pinning his leg down. You had been doing an effective job of reducing the maniac into nothing but a screaming, cowering average victim by torture. Bruises, burns, gashes, and stab wounds littered his body that was done carefully enough to not be life-threatening. Fucker was laughing maniacally at first, of course. It irritated you so much that you might’ve went a little overboard.
Watching Joker heave and struggle to breathe from the pain, you tilted your head and roughly grabbed his throat. It catches him off guard and he grips your wrist, barely even having the strength to fight you off. You’re amused by the entirety of Joker’s nature, how he’s still just an average man that can easily be overpowered — nothing that makes him special enough to not be killed, becoming proof of Batman’s selfish willingness to let the victims suffer than bring them actual peace.
You’ve never uttered a word since you captured him and it unnerved Joker from the beginning, but then, words finally come out of your mouth in a form of monotonous, mechanical, emotionless, eerie voice as you lean over him; “Laugh it out, Joker. Why so serious?”
It sounded like a death sentence.
He’s right in a way, because another of your knife pierced the corner of his mouth soon as you uttered the words. Your other hand tightened on his arteries to choke him while you drag the knife to slit the side of his mouth into a grin, following the lines of his red lipstick. It was certainly not a clean cut, but an artist has their own creative ways to make their art. Tears mixed in with blood that gushes out of his face, complete horrors written across Joker’s eyes which boosts your satisfaction. You go on and do the same thing to the other side of his mouth, before finishing your art piece by carving ‘J’ on his painted cheek.
You resist the urge to moan at the sight of blood coating your fine piece, always finding it to be an amazing finishing touch.
From then on, Joker was brought to literal Hell.
Jason flinches when a playful knock sounded from his safe house’s window, cautiously approaching to see ghostface waving at him through the glass. His eyes widened and immediately opens the window to let you in, not wanting anyone to see you — your sudden appearance distracting him from the fact he’s never given anyone the location of his safe house.
He stops in track at the blood splatters across your mask, and just then had he noticed you seemed to be hiding something behind your back with one hand. It definitely strikes his curiosity, but he somehow didn’t feel like you were holding something that could harm him.
“You got something for me, ghostface?” Jason feels you grin under your mask.
“Got you a present,” Your raspy, rough voice enthusiastically quipped.
Jason’s breath hitches when you show what you were holding — the Joker’s decapitated head in a square glass container tainted by its blood. You obviously had planned to bring it barehand, but you considered the possibility of its blood dripping down on his safe house and becoming a false evidence to point him to the murder, which prompted you to put it inside the container. An unbelievably sweet gesture for a fucking psychopath like you.
Jason could feel his heart beat rapidly as he takes in the animal’s state, carved up grin and the letter J and the horrors seen in its lifeless eyes proving the absolute misery and suffering it went through before being put down. The monster was finally, finally slain and gone forever from his life. Nightmares detangles from his spirit and the past unwraps away from his soul, utter peace and relief spreading throughout his chest. Tears gathered in his eyes at the feeling of being free at last from the life long torment, breath shaking as his knees wobbled.
The child in himself, the innocent Robin that was killed unfairly, finally rests in peace.
Then he sees you, his hero, waving your seemingly new knife playfully in the air with your outfit splattered in blood without a care that you actually saved him, and Jason feels a sudden surge of arousal and will to submit. To give you everything, anything.
“Do you love it, Red Hood?”
Without answering you, Jason grabs the glass container with shaky hands and sets it aside on the counter before stepping back closer to you again, blood rushing to his veins from arousal. He removes his helmet with a thud on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, lustful and yearning emerald eyes looking up at you.
“Let me thank you, please.”
It makes you groan as your pants significantly tightens more.
You slide your knife back into the holster before cupping his beautiful face in your hands, and thank fucking Heavens there wasn’t any blood on it that would taint his face, because he’s a sight to behold. He’s truly a gem, something precious you had never seen before. “So beautiful,” You whispered, making Jason flush. “Baring yourself to me for such a simple present, doll?”
“Not a simple present,” Jason mumbled as he snuggles on the palm of your hands. “You saved me.”
You hum appreciatively, getting the itch to bare yourself to him as well. “You wanna thank me by what?”
Jason looks back at you, face flushed with a little hint of uncertainty and embarrassment, doubts. “I— uhm,” He stammers, but encouraged by your thumb’s gentle stroke on his cheek. “By… by becoming yours.”
Your cock throbs. Fuck, he’s so fucking adorable, you just wanna fuck his guts out. You’re usually tempted to gut people, not fuck their guts— which is funny to say the least— but you weren’t going to say no when the Red Hood’s so willing to offer himself up.
“You wanna take my mask off, doll?” He seems surprised by your question as if he hadn’t thought of it, making you chuckle. “If you wanna be mine, I gotta be yours too, don’t I?” It was dangerous to reveal your identity to him, but you couldn’t care less, especially when you could just fuck his brains out to shut him up. That’s the plan, first time that didn’t include butchering or cutting a body up.
Jason fucking Todd and his effects on you.
The emerald eyed male hesitantly grasped your mask when you led his hands to it, slowly lifting it over your head. He’s met with a fucking luscious feature to ever be adorned on a man and dark, lustfully murderous blood red eyes that makes a whimper slip past his lips. You merely widened your eyes at the sound he made before immediately grabbing his jaw and smashing your lips against his, swallowing Jason’s surprised gasp.
He reciprocates the insatiable hunger you displayed, tongue dancing along with yours and moaning into the kiss when your fingers lightly tugged on his hair. You pull him up in amidst of making out and squeeze his ass, encouraging him to wrap his legs around your hips. You detach your lips from his to trail kisses down his jaw and neck as you walked towards his bedroom, questionably knowing where it is, and Jason tilts his head back to give you more access with closed eyes. Letting him stimulate both of your restrained cocks by grinding down, you sat down on the bed and sucked on his throat as Jason moaned.
“Please, please…” He whimpers, uncontrollably moving his hips in a perfect rhythm yet he seemed to want something else.
You pulled away and traced his lips with your thumb, watching as he naturally took it in and sucked, giving you a desperate look. Swiftly turning off the voice changer attached to your neck in a form of choker, you chuckled when his hands fiddled with the belt on your hooded coat. “So needy, aren’t you?” Your real voice sends shivers down his spine.
An alluring, low, slightly rough pitch and somehow more emotionless than when you were using the voice changer. It makes his cock twitch and empty hole clench down on nothing, the need to be stuffed full of your cum swarming in his belly. You’re fucking bewitching, a man made up from every guy and girl’s fantasy, wet dream, and your attractiveness mirroring the Devil’s that would tempt and lure others to sin.
How the fuck were you real?
“Speak up, pretty bird.” You smirked, “What do you want?”
“Your cock,” Jason mutters, cheeks tinted in pink. “Wanna suck your cock and make you feel good.”
“Fuck…” You shifted in place, “You’ll do that f’me? Get my cock nice and wet to take you apart? To fuck your guts out?”
Jason shakily inhales and nods, climbing off your lap and kneeling on the floor. You lean back on your hands as he unstraps your belt and slide your zipper down, slightly raising your hips to help him get rid of the excess clothes. Your thick and lengthy cock smacks against your clothed stomach, making Jason’s mouth water. Thick veins throbbed on your big shaft, the tip angry and red from arousal leaking precum. It wasn’t just big, it was long, and Jason squeezes his thighs together to keep himself from just riding your cock all day.
His hand wraps around the base, starting to stroke it with a content rhythm. God, you were so fucking big. It’d definitely split him open if you shove it in so suddenly and fill him up nice. It’d make him scream his head off from the unbearable length and girth, almost too much, and Jason wants you to force him to take it. Pin him down and fuck him despite his pleas to stop.
Jason swipes his thumb over the slit, smearing precum, pumping it for a good amount before licking a stripe up the underside of your cock. You shudder, removing your gloves to slip your bare fingers through Jason’s hair, encouraging him to take you in. He obeys, relaxing his throat first before sliding your cock inside his warm mouth, and you groaned at the warmth that surrounded you. It almost didn’t fit from how big you were, but Jason braced himself and took it in further until he gagged as the tip touched the back of his throat. Wrapping his hand around your shaft that he couldn’t take in, stroking gently as if to apologize.
A moan slips past your lips when he starts bobbing his head, tongue brushing against the underside of your dick. “Fuck… Doin’ so good,” You roll your head back. “Such a pretty face to fuck, ain’t ya?”
Jason whines, tears gathered in his eyes as he sucks and fastens his rhythm. Curses, grunts leave your lips that left him feeling all hot and bothered, his other hand moving to skillfully pull his pants down and free his aching cock.
You see him touching himself and a smirk adorns your sinful face, gently scratching his scalp with your nails which earned you a whimper from him. “Go on, fuck yourself. We both know it wouldn’t fit that easily without proper prep,” Expression twisting into a cocky one, your grip on his hair tightened. “I’ll do as I please with your mouth until you’re done.”
Without waiting for his approval, you roughly shoved your cock deep down his throat and moaned loudly, throwing your head back. Jason gagged with a loud whimper as his eyes rolled back into his skull and cum shot out from his throbbing cock, hips jutting forward and twitching due to the sudden orgasm. You chuckle lowly, amusement and lust glinting in your bright red eyes, before you pull back and ram on his throat again.
Jason’s cries and moans were muffled as you ruthlessly use his throat to gain pleasure. His mind has already turned into mush from your assaults, white cum and precum staining the floor yet he doesn’t put up a fight. Taking it all like the good, obedient boy that he is. He’s reached behind him to insert two fingers in his awaiting hole, walls clamping down on the digits from the arousal of his throat being utterly wrecked.
Yesyesyes, please. He chanted in his mind. Use me, mark me, cum in my throat, make me yours.
The moment you fulfilled your promise and delivered him the head of his enemy, he was already yours. It’s all he ever wanted. Unquenchable thirst that always gnawed on his throat and hunger that left his stomach restless, his soul practically teared in half from being battered and beaten. He matters now — mattered enough to you, that you went ahead and killed the source of his misery. The love exploding in his chest was almost unbearable; he was already high on cloud nine from the moment he’s seen you present the head so cheerfully.
You see how he looks up at you, emerald eyes almost displaying hearts with how much he was melting. He’s taken your murderous act as an affection, and you couldn’t be more happy, because it’s what you intended.
“Shit, baby… Gonna cum soon,” You panted, thrusting vigorously. Jason hums and flexes his throat to provide you more pleasure, making you tighten the grip on his hair. “You want me to cum down your throat?”
You earned a desperate whine from him, closing his eyes to prove he was waiting for it. His fingers kept their own assault on his prostate, scissoring and stretching the squishy walls, muffled moans escaping him.
God, he looked so fucking gorgeous. He’d look even more gorgeous with your dick ramming inside him.
Jason feels your big cock throb in his mouth and his fingers move more aggressively to pleasure himself, wanting to reach his high at the same time as you. Stimulating your tip with the back of his throat a few times, you moaned loudly with a curse when Jason slightly flicks his tongue over your sensitive underside, forcing an orgasm out of your body. White, thick, warm seeds spurt out from your slit to his awaiting throat as Jason whimpered in delight and shot another layer of cum on the wet stained floor, hips thrusting in the air.
He greedily swallows every drop that spilled down his mouth despite the euphoria making him feel dizzy as his body slightly trembles.
You chuckled, breathing heavily, pleased expression spread across your face. “Good boy. That was such a good throat-fuck.”
The raspy, sultry tone of your voice makes electricity and chills run through Jason’s spine as his walls clench down on his fingers, yearning to be filled. Jason certainly doesn’t have a womb — it’s anatomically impossible — yet he couldn’t help but feel like it’s there, waiting and aching to be fucked and bred. He needs your cum to be pushed so far inside him. Need to be marked entirely as yours inside and out. Need you to rearrange his guts, fuck his brains out, breed him full, then fuck your cum further back into him.
Jason pulled his fingers out, whimpering at the loss of contact, before looking back up at you with begging eyes. “Can you-?” His voice cracks as he swallows, “Take me apart, please. Make me yours, fuck, I wanna be yours.”
You noticed tears gathering in his eyes, as if being rejected of his want to be your possession would be an ultimate heartbreak in his life; a life-threatening, gnawing thorn in his heart that’ll tear him apart piece by piece and shredding his soul. Jason thinks he can’t live without becoming yours, his savior’s. He can’t live without the source of his safety, the man that fulfilled his silly little dream and sacrificed his own sanity for it.
It absolutely amuses you that he’s become so attached just because you’ve driven him away from harm’s way. A little dumb, but he was your little dumb doll.
You gently caress his face and Jason leans into your touch, making your lips curl upwards into a smile. “Of course, doll.”
It leads to Jason being pressed face first on the mattress as you rail him from behind, sinful and alluring noises leaving his lips stained in drool. Your name escapes him like a chanted prayer, hands gripping the sheets, electricity sparking within his mind that left him dumb and unable to think coherently.
“Fuh-fuck! mgh, ah- yes, oh my god—!” He cries out when you pulled almost entirely back and rammed your cock roughly into him, almost seeing stars in his vision.
The roughness in which you handled him, the perfect angle of your hips allowing you to force pleasure out of his body every-time you thrust, the way you push his back down on the mattress to make him arch more into your merciless tactic, leaves Jason absolutely delirious. You didn’t just fuck him good; you fucked him with absolute vigor and violence, occasionally biting strongly on his shoulder to draw blood, showcasing your natural instincts as a serial killer. He feels your big fucking dick throb and gets impossibly bigger inside him each time his blood seeps out the broken skin, and Jason’s head spins at how much it drove arousal in his core.
“Good fuckin’ sex toy,” You grunted, roughly slamming your hips against his and causing a sharp moan to erupt from Jason.
“B-big—! s’too big- fuck!” Jason whines, tears spilling endlessly down his cheeks.
You smirk as you feel your ego skyrocket at being able to reduce a rather muscular man into nothing but a whining, blabbering bitch. “Yeah? I do split you open, don’t I? But you love it since you’re such a fuckin’ slut.”
“oh- aghn! y-yours— hnngh! Your s-slut! No one else’s-!” He chokes out, desperately reaching for you behind him.
“So fuckin’ adorable,” You chuckled and grabbed his hand, pinning it back to the mattress as you hover over him. You seem to fit against each other perfectly well, your large and tall body able to encage him that left Jason’s stomach fluttering. He’s taken a lot liking of the fact you’re bigger than him, considering he’s never been the smaller one when he was with others. It gives him a sense of shelter.
“p-please— pleaseplease- oh! cum— fuck… cum in me again!” Jason blabbered.
You can’t help but comply to his request, fastening your pace and drilling more into him. Incoherent sentences spill from his drooling mouth when he feels your cock pulse within his walls that signified your soon release. There’s a purpose in which you thrust your hips now — more sharp and angled yet a little sloppy, aimed to brush against his prostate and make him feel utterly good.
“Shit… Cummin’, doll.” You grunted right in his ear before shoving him on the mattress by the back of his nape and slamming all the way down on his already gaping hole.
Jason nearly screams, voice cracking, as his orgasm hits like a strong tide of wave at the same time you spilled thick layer of white semen into his fucked out guts. You ride out your orgasm by thrusting slowly a few times as Jason’s body violently shakes from the aftershock. He subconsciously whines in annoyance when some of your previous cum seems to overflow and replaced by your recent one, bucking his hips as if to use your big cock as a plug to keep them all in. His belly felt full from how much you’ve been filling him with your seed yet it still didn’t feel enough. Jason wanted more; he knew you weren’t going full on him yet.
You swiftly turned him around on his back without pulling out and kissed him roughly. Jason mewls into the kiss when the position makes you push more deeper into him, his hands immediately clasping at the back of his thick thighs to pull them up and make it easier for you to fuck.
“My cute little thing,” You murmured against his lips and bit the skin to draw blood, Jason’s hole squeezing down on you from both the pain and pet name. He greedily whimpers your name, holding onto you for life and yearning for more of you despite already receiving what he wants.
It was so fucking adorable and arousing to see him desperate for not just you, but your entire being as well, willing to welcome such darkness with open arms and tearful smile. You weren’t really a desirable person; so many people have thrown themselves at you for your conventionally attractive features and masculine body type that swoons hundreds yet cower away in fear and speak of you in disgrace when shown the demons living inside of you. No one could seem to look past your murderous, cold-blooded psychopathy — some have attempted to, which only resulted in your darkness growing bigger when they break their own promises. You weren’t meant to be loved. Your destiny was written in the stars and the Gods have cursed you with eternity of living in loneliness and madness without cure. You were meant to be feared, a lonely and violent soul that couldn’t be tamed, your sole purpose of existence being a destroyer; nothing more or less.
Jason, however, seems indifferent to your fate.
Instead of running away in disgust and fear at your acts of violence around the city, he was seeking for you. He’s seen what you’ve done, what you could do without feeling remorse, what monsters lie beneath your existence — and still, he graciously opens his heart (and legs) for you. There’s love and desire within his eyes where distaste should be, touch so soft and warm it baptizes your tainted skin. You’re soaked in blood yet Jason takes his time with you to clean them up. Born with thorns yet he willingly prickles his fingers on them.
You’re a danger everywhere you go, but to him, you were home.
It makes your heart clench; he’s broken the Gods curse and it costs him his freedom, because now he’s caught up in your webs. You wouldn’t let him go, like a snake that’s wrapped itself around its prey in a death grip.
Jason wanted to be yours. What better ways to fulfill his wish if not possessing his body, soul, and spirit?
“Sweet dumb thing,” You purred, hips thrusting slow and sensual, unable to forgive parts of his walls that weren’t touched by your cum. “Mine to fuck, ruin, or make love to. That’s right, yeah?”
Jason nods, moaning softly. Your hands now replaced where his were on the back of his thighs, bending him almost in half as you roll your hips to gently brush against every weak spot he has. The sudden shift in rhythm and atmosphere confuses Jason for a bit, his fogged mind unable to comprehend the situation at hand, but the intimacy strikes a further pleasure that was nearly mind-breaking. He’s been reduced to a moaning mess, blood, sweat, tears and cum coating his body.
“p-please,” Jason keened, like it felt agonizing to be loved ever so gently. “I— ah… I want- I want you,” He stuttered out between moans.
“You’re having me, aren’t you?” Replying, you nipped on his neck and sucked, leaving behind a purple bruise.
He nearly cries, shaking his head. A waterfall of tears streamed down his face, and you find yourself captivated by them. It was almost ethereal despite being one of human’s responses to most things imaginable; your victims always shed one or two accompanied by begs of mercy, but all you’ve ever thought of them was amusing. It’s been used as an escaping tactic from you before, which was never successful due to your lack of morality and sympathy towards your target. They were pathetic, but Jason was divine. Tears suited him— not tears of fear, but tears of pleasure and utopia.
Your focus snaps back on reality when Jason suddenly pulled you down by the nape and bit down hard on your shoulder. A pleasured groan leaves your lips at the pain, hips bucking, making him whimper.
“Jason—”
“Please,” He cuts you off and finally murmurs; “Wanna f-feel how… mhm-! how you actually love…”
It strikes something in your core. Despite your perfect skills of hiding your true nature and never being caught, Jason saw it right through you, how you were holding yourself back for his sake. Quite ironic to witness a cold-blooded killer care for someone enough to go soft, even though it looked like you were going rough on him, and it warmed Jason’s heart. But he was a greedy, fucked up human being who wanted all of you. It wouldn’t be enough until he knows he’s taken you fully.
An amused laughter erupts from your chest. Eyes darkening in lust, Jason feels one of your hands wrap around his throat warningly as the other pushed his torso flat down on the mattress. “You… You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, Todd.”
You pull all the way back before ramming in, making Jason let out a loud, choked up moan as his eyes rolled back into his head. Your thrusts relentless and powerful, slamming against Jason’s body with an intensity that made his head spin, your hand holding his throat as a leverage. Your name spills from his lips like a prayer, something that seems to ignite a possessive feeling within you. Jason can’t help but mewl when your grip tightened on his arteries, throwing his head back to let you gain fully control.
The way he’s so obedient and putty in your hands despite knowing you can kill him if you truly meant to makes you love him even more, fucking him and taking away his ability to breathe wasn’t enough. Greediness turning overboard with the darkness and psychopathy that lies within your existence; you almost wanted to cut him open and crawl inside his guts so you could truly claim Jason, inside and out. You wanted to be more closer to him, see how far you can go without Jason pushing you away or getting disturbed.
Jason’s eyes widened when a cold metallic silver touched his cheek, seeing you holding your signature knife through blurred vision from his tears. However, he doesn’t flinch away like you expected him to, instead his walls squeezes down on your cock and his own twitched against his stomach. The unexpected reaction pulls a loud groan out of you, your hips bucking.
“Shit, Jay… You lettin’ me kill you or somethin’? Good fucking cunt just tightened on me,” You rasped, thrusting your cock against his prostate.
Jason gasps, his hands grabbing the mattress and holding it in a tight grip. It’s so shameful how turned on he was at the danger that lurked around you, his usually sharp instincts relinquished to be replaced by naiveté and stupidity for love. He must’ve gone insane; getting killed was one of his triggers because of his past yet his soul yielded nothing in retaliation to the possibility of your blade slicing through him. All of him seems to have come to love and trust you too much just because you’ve decapitated the beast his entire existence feared, which a part of him found utterly ridiculous and idiotic, but not enough to stop.
He wouldn’t stop himself from loving you — not when you’ve given him the love he always yearned for.
You lean in and ghost your lips over his as you dragged the knife on his torso, lightly scraping him. Jason’s breath quickens, his pupils blown wide in lust and need, anticipation seemingly running through his body as his moans turned into desperate whines.
“p-please…!” He chokes out a whisper, rolling his head to the side and whimpering when you snapped your hips warningly on his. “feels— fuck! feels g-good—! c-carve me… hngh! carve me u-up-! shit… make me fuckin’ bleed…! please,” Jason nearly cries for you.
Groaning out a curse, you reflexively bite down hard on the crook of his neck and push more of your cock inside him, causing a loud keen to erupt from Jason as he squirms and cums on his own stomach at the addictive sense of pleasure and pain shooting through his body.
You licked the blood that seeped out from his skin, satisfied at the clear bite mark you’ve left visible before sensually grinding your hips. Jason whimpered quietly, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm.
“That’s it, doll. Let go, feel good. m’not gonna hurt ya, sweetheart. It’ll all feel good,” Whispering sweet words, you slowly press the tip of the knife just above the v line of his hip and drag it down. Jason hissed at the prickle of pain and tensed up, but the pleasure of your cock stimulating his sensitive walls was too great that forced him to relax. “It’s alright, doll. Jus’ carving you up with my name, so you’ll be mine forever. Isn’t that what you want? Be fuckin’ mine?”
Jason moaned softly, nodding his head. Series of pleasepleaseplease blabber out of him accompanied by heavenly noises he’s been making since you started taking him apart, his brain too fucked out that forcibly twisted pain into pleasure as all he could think about was becoming yours. You, his savior, his God, claiming him by marking him up with your name. Jason feels like he could fucking squirt from just that thought alone.
His blood seeping out from the letters of your name arouses you to no end, your cock throbbing inside him while you continue to move, the darkness within you being thoroughly fed of its bloodthirsty hunger. This is the first time it doesn’t gnaw at your skin to drive your knife deeper, pull the guts out, and splatter redness everywhere; instead, it wanted to be gentle, as if Jason was a significant existence too precious to hurt even for the Devil. A proof that Jason was always meant to be yours, the only one who the monster inside you would rather love than kill.
Carving the last letter, you laughed breathlessly in satisfaction and stabbed the knife on the headboard before slamming your lips against his, devouring his pleasurable noises. Jason whines, arms wrapping around your neck to pull you impossibly closer, arching his back when you switched into a much faster and rougher pace.
“Cummin’, fuck!” You grunted, to which Jason wrapped his legs around your hips to make sure it stays in.
“I-in— in me… fuck- oh my god— please… please, cum in me. Make me full again, p-please…” He begs, clenching his walls around you to push you over the edge, his own orgasm nearing.
Seeing him covered in his own tears, sweat, blood and drool fills you with nothing but pure ecstasy knowing it’s all because of you. The most appealing, ravishing man being a slutty mess right beneath you, begging to be bred and full of your cum, does feed too much into your ego. No one can do anything to take you away from him now, because you’re wrapped around his fingers as much as he is around yours.
“Anythin’ for ya, doll.” You chuckled, thrusting a couple more times before shoving your twitching cock deep into his guts with a moan and releasing your load. Jason mewls, his hole throbbing and squeezing down on you as he throws his head back, tainting his abdomen once more.
Riding out both of your highs, you let out a raspy groan and kissed his lips again, Jason weakly reciprocating due to the overstimulation. His body trembled hard, mind almost shutting down from the exhaustion and too much euphoria. “So good, doll. Took me like a good fuckin’ boy. Fuckin’ amazing.” You praised.
Jason could still see darkness in your eyes, the murderous devil, but there’s a hint of happiness he didn’t recognize before. Love and adoration filled your expression despite the violence engraved in your soul, and Jason finds himself smiling against your lips lightheadedly.
He whispers your name like a forbidden secret, then a curse that completely binds you to him; “I love you.”
You could get used to this, you suppose. There’s nothing more poetic than violence meeting love — two opposites can’t coexist with each other, but perhaps it’ll be forced to. After all, the Devil in you decided he was an untouchable divinity no one shall ever harm, not even yourself, despite its never-ending monstrosity towards humanity.
“I love you too, my Jason.”
When Joker’s decapitated head on a makeshift spear turned up that night, stacked upright in front of Arkham Asylum with blood splattered across the ground in words ‘True Justice for the Tortured Souls’ and a bloody ghostface mask laid aside for everyone else to see, Jason knew he was now in safe hands.
꒰ pairing. jason todd x deathstroke protégé reader ꒱
꒰ synopsis. you, who are a protégé of deathstroke, trained since birth to continue the legacy. countless times he’s used you as a decoy to save himself, causing you to break away. slowly, you become attached to jason. ꒱
꒰ wc: 5.3k ꒱
꒰ database ꒱
You don’t remember a time before training.
Before the cold metal of a blade pressed into your palm, before the recoil of a gun biting into your shoulder, before your body learned to move before your mind could even think. You don’t remember toys. You remember balance drills on rooftops. You remember holding a plank position until your arms shook so hard you thought they’d tear off.
“Again.”
That was one of the first words you understood.
Slade Wilson never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. His commands were clean, direct. Precise. He spoke like he expected the world to obey him, and when it didn’t, he corrected it.
He corrected you.
You’re on your back now, staring at the ceiling of the warehouse he calls a training facility. The lights above flicker faintly. Your lungs burn. There’s a copper taste in your mouth where you bit your tongue.
Slade stands over you, sword resting against his shoulder.
“You hesitated,” he says.
You push yourself up without a word.
There’s blood running from your eyebrow into your eye. You don’t wipe it away. You don’t blink. You don’t speak.
You don’t hesitate.
He circles you slowly, boots echoing on concrete. “Your opponent disarmed you. Why?”
You replay it in your head. The angle. The feint. The microsecond where your grip loosened.
You could say: I miscalculated.
You could say: I thought you were going left.
Instead, you say nothing.
Silence stretches between you like a drawn wire.
Slade stops in front of you. With two fingers, he tilts your chin up, examining the damage he just inflicted. His touch is clinical. Detached.
“Thinking is a luxury,” he says quietly. “Instinct wins wars.”
You nod once.
That’s enough for him.
He doesn’t call you son.
He calls you “asset.”
Sometimes “heir,” when he’s in a rare mood that borders on something almost proud.
You were trained for a purpose. Not to live. To continue. To inherit contracts. To uphold reputation. To be the name whispered in the same breath as his.
Legacy is a weapon. And you are its blade.
You learned early that affection is conditional. Approval is earned in bruises and broken bones. The rare, subtle nod he gives when you land a clean strike is the closest thing to warmth you know.
You crave it.
You hate that you crave it.
You’re sixteen when he first lets you handle a contract alone. Surveillance only. Observe. Report. No interference.
You sit on a rooftop across from your target’s penthouse, sniper rifle resting against your shoulder. Wind tugs at your clothes. The city hums below you, alive and careless.
Your comm crackles.
“Status,” Slade’s voice cuts through.
“Target visible,” you reply.
A pause. He’s listening to your breathing. Measuring it.
“Distance?”
“Four hundred and twelve meters.”
“Wind?”
“Eight miles per hour. West.”
Another pause.
“Take the shot.”
Your finger tightens.
This wasn’t the assignment.
He didn’t say kill.
Your heartbeat doesn’t change. You don’t question it.
You adjust slightly. Compensate for wind. For distance. For the fact that the man inside that glass window is laughing with his daughter, who’s holding up what looks like a drawing.
You don’t think.
Thinking is a luxury.
You fire.
The recoil is sharp. Clean.
The body drops before the sound fully echoes.
Silence returns.
“Good,” Slade says.
That one word lodges in your chest like something fragile. You swallow it down before it can become anything else.
He doesn’t punish you when you fail.
He corrects you.
Correction is worse.
When you’re too slow, he starves you of sleep until your body moves through exhaustion like it’s normal. When you’re distracted, he isolates you for days with nothing but drills and target dummies. When you get injured, he stitches you up himself—no anesthetic, no sympathy.
“Pain is information,” he says as the needle slides through your skin. “Listen to it.”
You don’t flinch.
You never flinch.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours between missions, you sit across from him at the small metal table in the warehouse kitchen. He reads reports. You clean your weapons.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s structured. Functional.
You wonder what it would be like if he asked you something unrelated to work.
How are you?
Did you sleep?
Do you ever want something else?
But he doesn’t.
And you don’t ask.
Because you were not made to want.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
You’re eighteen when you finally make a mistake that costs you.
It’s a simple job. Extraction. In and out.
You move through the building like you were built for it—because you were. Two guards down. One disarmed. Clean. Efficient.
Then the fourth guard steps out of a side corridor you didn’t map. Improvised route. Unexpected variable.
He’s young. Younger than you.
He hesitates.
You hesitate.
Just a fraction.
He fires.
The bullet grazes your side, hot and vicious. You recover instantly, disarm him, knock him unconscious. Mission completed. Target secured.
But you hesitated.
Back at the warehouse, you stand in front of Slade with blood soaking through your shirt.
He doesn’t rush to help you.
He looks at the wound, then at your face.
“Why?” he asks.
“He was inexperienced,” you answer.
“That wasn’t the question.”
You swallow. “He hesitated.”
“And?”
“I—” The word sticks. You force it out. “Mirrored it.”
His eye narrows slightly behind the mask.
“You are not a mirror,” he says coldly. “You are a weapon. Weapons don’t sympathize.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He steps forward and presses two fingers into the wound. Hard.
White-hot pain explodes through you. Your vision blurs for a split second.
You don’t make a sound.
“Compassion,” he says quietly, almost thoughtfully, “is a liability.”
He releases you and walks past, grabbing the medical kit.
“You will not hesitate again.”
“Yes, sir.”
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
There are moments—rare, sharp—when you catch something almost human in him.
The first time you beat him in a sparring match. It’s not a fluke. You disarm him cleanly, blade at his throat before he can counter.
The warehouse goes still.
You’re breathing hard. He isn’t.
For a second, you think he’ll strike you for overstepping.
Instead, he lets out a low, approving hum.
“Well done.”
Your chest tightens in a way that feels unfamiliar.
He retrieves his blade and walks away without another word.
That night, he leaves a new weapon on your workbench. Custom. Balanced to your exact grip.
He doesn’t say it’s a gift.
You don’t call it one.
But you run your thumb along the metal and feel something dangerously close to pride.
You don’t have friends.
You don’t have school memories or childhood stories.
You have kill counts.
You have contracts completed.
You have scars mapped across your body like coordinates.
Sometimes you catch your reflection and feel detached from it. You look human. You breathe. You bleed.
But you were shaped for something specific. A continuation of someone else’s war.
Slade once told you, “Legacy isn’t about blood. It’s about capability.”
You wondered, briefly, if that meant he would discard you if you ever stopped being capable.
You never asked.
You train harder instead.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
One night, after a mission that went particularly well, he sits across from you at the metal table again. The city outside is quiet. Rain taps against the high windows.
“You’re improving,” he says.
You nod.
He studies you for a long moment. Not your stance. Not your injuries.
You.
“If I fall,” he says slowly, “the name doesn’t.”
You understand what he’s saying.
You are the contingency plan.
The replacement.
The future.
“Understood,” you reply.
He leans back in his chair. “You don’t ask questions.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Because questions imply doubt.
Because doubt implies weakness.
Because weakness gets corrected.
“Unnecessary,” you say.
Something flickers across his visible eye. Amusement? Approval?
“Good.”
The word settles into you like a brand.
You don’t know what normal feels like.
You don’t know what it’s like to choose your own path.
You know orders.
You know discipline.
You know the sharp, fleeting warmth of approval from the only person who ever shaped your world.
You exist in the space between command and execution.
And as you stand in the warehouse, blades in hand, waiting for the next directive, you don’t realize that somewhere in the city there’s someone else who doesn’t follow orders well. Someone who broke under similar pressure and came back meaner for it.
You don’t know him yet.
Right now, it’s just you and Slade.
Just legacy and expectation.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
The mission is simple.
Too simple.
You notice that first.
Slade doesn’t do simple.
You’re crouched on the edge of a high-rise overlooking a private security compound. Blacked-out windows. Rotating patrols. Heat signatures moving in disciplined patterns. It’s clean. Organized. Professional.
Your kind of job.
“Infiltrate. Retrieve the drive. No unnecessary casualties,” Slade says through the comm.
His voice is steady as ever. Controlled. Unreadable.
“Understood,” you reply.
There’s a faint crackle of static. Then silence.
You move.
Down the side of the building, across a narrow maintenance ledge, into a ventilation shaft you already mapped three hours ago. Your breathing is even. Heart rate steady. Every step calculated.
You drop into a dark hallway. Two guards.
You neutralize them without a sound, reaching the server room door. Swipe the access card you lifted earlier. It flashes a green light.
Inside, it’s cold. Rows of humming machines. The drive is exactly where the intel said it would be.
You plug in your device.
Download starts.
Thirty percent.
Forty.
You feel it before you hear it.
A shift in the air. A change in the rhythm of the building.
Then—
Alarms.
Not localized.
Full compound lockdown.
Red lights flood the room.
You freeze for exactly half a second.
This wasn’t in the plan.
“Status,” you say quietly into the comm.
No response.
You try again. “Perimeter’s blown.”
Nothing.
The download hits sixty percent when the first wave of armed guards storms the hallway outside.
You rip the device free at seventy-two percent and spin as the door explodes inward.
Gunfire tears through the server racks.
You move on instinct.
But there are too many.
They aren’t trying to kill you.
They’re corralling you.
Driving you like prey.
Your comm crackles back to life.
“Adjust route,” Slade says calmly.
You duck behind a pillar as bullets shred the concrete. “Route’s compromised.”
“North stairwell.”
“That’s a dead end,” you snap before you can stop yourself.
A pause.
Then, colder than usual, “Follow instructions.”
You don’t argue.
You move.
Up the north stairwell. Three flights. Four.
Heavy footsteps below you. Above you.
They’ve sealed it.
You reach the rooftop access door and burst through—
And walk straight into a line of rifles already aimed at your chest.
Laser sights bloom red across your armor.
There’s a helicopter overhead.
Searchlights blind you.
“On your knees!” someone shouts.
Your comm is silent now. Too silent.
You don’t move.
Thirty-seven hostiles.
Snipers on adjacent rooftops.
Escape routes cut off.
This wasn’t a mistake, this was design.
Your breath doesn’t hitch.
But something inside you shifts.
“Stand down,” Slade’s voice suddenly cuts through your earpiece.
Not to you.
To them.
A second channel opens. You hear it clearly.
“He’s the asset,” Slade says, voice carrying across the rooftop from somewhere you can’t see. “You wanted proof of concept. There it is.”
Proof of—
Your stomach drops.
“He was trained under my supervision,” Slade continues. “If you can contain him, you’ve earned your contract.”
Not rescue.
Not extraction.
Contain.
You don’t look around wildly. You don’t show confusion.
You just… understand.
You were the test.
The demonstration.
The bait.
One of the officers steps forward cautiously. “And you?”
A faint chuckle through the comm.
“I’m not part of the deal.”
There’s a distant explosion somewhere across the compound. A distraction.
A getaway.
For him.
The helicopter shifts direction.
Not toward you.
Away.
Your father doesn’t hesitate.
Not even a fraction.
He always said compassion is a liability.
He never said you were exempt from that rule.
“On your knees!” the officer repeats, voice tighter now.
You lower your gaze slightly.
If you fight now, you die.
Or worse—you get captured, interrogated, broken down for everything Slade taught you.
If you surrender, you live.
Slowly, deliberately, you drop to one knee. Hands visible.
The officers swarm you. Cuffs. Shock restraints. A knee to your back. You don’t resist.
Inside your chest, something fractures though.
They keep you in a reinforced holding cell for twelve hours.
You count every second.
You replay the mission over and over.
The intel was too clean.
The patrol gaps were too obvious.
The stairwell suggestion was deliberate.
He needed to prove something. And you were expendable.
Legacy isn’t about blood. It’s about capability.
Capability can be replaced.
You sit on the metal bench, wrists cuffed in front of you. You don’t feel angry. Not yet.
Footsteps approach your cell. The guard outside stiffens. And then you hear it. Boots you’ve known your entire life.
Slade stands on the other side of the reinforced glass, helmet on.
Untouched.
Unharmed.
He dismisses the guards with a gesture. They retreat out of earshot.
For a moment, it’s just the two of you.
He activates the private channel.
“You performed adequately,” he says.
You look at him through the glass. “They were expecting me,” you reply evenly.
“Yes.”
No denial. No apology.
“You used me to secure your contract.”
“I did.”
Your fingers curl slightly in the cuffs. “Why?” you ask.
It’s the first time you’ve ever questioned him like this.
He tilts his head a fraction. “Because it was efficient. They needed to see what you’re capable of. Now they’re interested in a long-term arrangement.”
“At my expense.”
“You survived.”
Barely.
“And if I hadn’t?” you press.
A beat.
Then: “You would have proven my training insufficient.”
You search his visible eye for something—anything resembling conflict.
There’s nothing.
“You said the name doesn’t fall if you do,” you say quietly.
“It doesn’t.”
“And if I fall?”
Another pause.
“The name still stands.”
There it is.
You always knew. But knowing something in theory is different from hearing it confirmed without hesitation.
He would give you up without a second thought. To save himself. To advance his position. To protect the brand.
You were trained not to hesitate.
He doesn’t either.
Something cold settles into your spine. A shift in alignment.
You nod once. “Understood,” you say. Because that’s what you’ve always said.
Slade studies you for a long moment, as if measuring whether something inside you cracked. If it did, you don’t let it show.
“Extraction in five minutes,” he says finally. “Be ready.”
He turns to leave.
For the first time in your life, you don’t feel that familiar pull of approval when he walks away. You feel distance. A thin, sharp thread of something unfamiliar weaving through your ribs.
Resentment doesn’t arrive as fire. It arrives as awareness.
He taught you to calculate risk.
He taught you to eliminate liabilities.
He taught you that survival outweighs attachment.
And now you know exactly where you stand in his equation.
Not equal. Not protected. Replaceable.
When he breaks you out five minutes later with surgical precision, cutting through guards like they’re paper, you move at his side like always. Perfect synchronization. But something inside you is no longer aligned with him.
As you disappear into the night, following the only life you’ve ever known, a new thought takes root—small, poisonous, persistent.
If he would sacrifice you to save himself…
Then one day, you might have to decide whether you would do the same.
And for the first time,
you’re not sure you would hesitate.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Months pass.
You don’t bring up the rooftop. Slade doesn’t either. Training resumes like nothing fractured between you. Missions continue. Contracts fulfilled. Payments wired. The machine keeps running. But you’ve changed.
Not in skill.
Not in discipline.
In distance.
You watch him now the way you’d watch a target—measuring angles, exits, contingencies. You catalog the way he prioritizes himself in every engagement. The way he positions you half a step forward in firefights. The way he disappears first when things go loud. You don’t hesitate anymore. But you don’t trust, either.
That’s new.
And first time you see Red Hood, you think he’s just another variable. Another masked ego in Gotham playing soldier.
You’re on a contract—intercepting a weapons shipment moving through Crime Alley. The irony doesn’t register. Locations don’t mean much to you unless they affect sightlines.
You drop onto the truck from above, blade slicing through the tarp. Two men inside. Armed. You disarm one, break the other’s wrist before he can scream.
Then a gunshot rings out from the far end of the alley.
Not aimed at you. At the third guard you hadn’t clocked yet.
You turn.
He’s standing on a fire escape, helmet red and glossy under the flickering streetlight. Jacket. Tactical gear. Twin pistols still smoking. Red Hood.
He tilts his head slightly when he sees you.
You’re already moving. You don’t like interference.
You vault off the truck, landing silently a few feet from him. He drops down to meet you halfway. “Shipment’s mine,” he says. His voice is distorted through the helmet, but there’s an edge to it. Not calm like Slade’s. Rougher. Sharper. Like he’s constantly bracing for impact.
“Incorrect,” you reply. You don’t elaborate.
You strike first.
He’s fast.
Faster than most.
He blocks your blade with the butt of his pistol and twists, aiming a kick at your ribs. You absorb it, pivot, slam your elbow into his shoulder. He grunts and fires point-blank.
You barely deflect the shot. It grazes your side.
You retaliate with a sweep that knocks him off balance, but he rolls with it, comes up with a knife in his free hand.
Guns and blades.
Interesting.
“You always this chatty?” he shoots back when you stay silent.
You don’t respond.
You clash again—metal against metal, boots scraping pavement, breath visible in the cold air. He fights like he’s angry at the world. You fight like the world is just an obstacle.
He goes for your mask.
You catch his wrist mid-motion.
For a split second, you’re close enough to hear his breathing through the helmet. It’s not steady.
You shove him back, but he fires again, this time not to kill—to distract.
The bullet shatters a streetlight above you. Glass rains down.
You both hesitate. Just enough.
Sirens wail in the distance. He steps back first.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
You don’t say it back.
You both retreat in opposite directions, melting into rooftops and shadow. Your side burns where the bullet caught you. You don’t register the pain. You register him. His speed. His refusal to back down. The way he didn’t try to kill you, even when he had the angle.
Across the city, Jason Todd stands on a rooftop clutching his bruised ribs and scowling under his helmet. He should’ve taken you down. You were clearly trained. Efficient. Precise.
That’s what bothers him. The way you moved. Not flashy. Not sloppy. Controlled. Like someone he used to know. He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Professional interest. But when he replays the fight in his head, he lingers on the moment your hand caught his wrist. Strong. Unwavering. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t say anything. He hates that it got under his skin.
You don’t tell Slade about Red Hood. You log him mentally as a recurring threat. A vigilante with lethal capability and questionable restraint. But when you review the fight alone later, cleaning the dried blood from your side, you find yourself analyzing more than tactics.
He could’ve shot you in the head.
But he didn’t. Why?
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
The second time you meet, it’s not a contract. It’s coincidence. Or something that feels like it.
You’re tailing a mid-level trafficker through the Narrows. He ducks into an abandoned church. You follow.
The doors slam open from the inside just as you reach them.
Red Hood steps out, dragging the trafficker by the collar. You both freeze. The trafficker looks between you like he’s trapped between two wolves.
“Seriously?” He mutters. “You stalking me now?”
“No,” you say flatly.
He huffs a short laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The trafficker tries to bolt. You both move at once.
You grab one arm. He grabs the other. There’s a split second where your hands brush. Heat through gloves.
You both yank the man back down.
You glance at each other. Wordless. Then, without discussing it, you work together. Efficient. Seamless. You disarm the man while he zip-ties him. He extracts information. You stand watch.
It’s… easy. Too easy.
When it’s done, you step back. “You’re not with Black Mask,” he says, studying you.
“No.”
“Penguin?”
“No.”
He tilts his head again. “Then what are you?”
You don’t answer. He doesn’t press.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought so.”
You both leave in opposite directions again. But slower this time.
After that, it happens more often. A warehouse raid where you both target different factions of the same operation.
A rooftop sniper perch where he lands beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world and mutters, “Move over,” before taking his own shot.
A back-alley ambush where he takes a hit meant for you, swears loudly, and snaps, “You owe me.”
You don’t.
But you stay until he can stand on his own.
Neither of you acknowledge it. It feels less like coincidence each time. More like orbit. You start anticipating him. Factoring him into your calculations. If you take a contract in Gotham’s east side, there’s a seventy percent chance he’ll appear. If he’s dismantling a ring, you’ll cross paths before the night ends. You don’t know whether he’s tracking you. You’re not tracking him. And yet—
There he is. Again.
One night, you’re both on a rooftop, watching a gang meeting unfold below. You arrived first. He lands beside you five minutes later. Neither of you look surprised anymore.
“Starting to think you like me,” he says dryly.
You ignore that.
“They’re armed with modified ARs,” you say instead. “Armor-piercing rounds.”
“Yeah, I clocked that.”
A pause.
“You work alone?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“By choice?”
You don’t answer.
He studies you in the corner of his visor.
“You don’t talk much.”
“Unnecessary.”
He snorts. “God, you’re weird.”
You don’t know if that’s an insult. For a moment, the city noise fills the space between you. Then he says, quieter, “You don’t fight like a criminal.”
You glance at him. “And you don’t fight like a hero.”
That earns a sharp laugh. “Fair.”
Below, the deal goes bad. Guns come out. You both move without another word. Back to back at one point. Covering angles instinctively. Adjusting to each other’s rhythm like you’ve done it for years.
When it’s over, bodies scattered and sirens approaching, you stand there in the aftermath. Breathing hard. He looks at you like he’s trying to solve something.
“You ever get tired of being alone?” he asks suddenly.
The question hits somewhere deeper than it should.
You think of Slade. Of rooftops. Of stairwells that were traps. Of being a bargaining chip.
“Alone is efficient,” you say.
He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah,” he replies. “That’s what I used to think too.”
You don’t know what that means. But you feel it. That pull again. Not command. Not obligation. Something else.
Something neither of you were trained for.
When you part ways that night, it’s not like the first time. There’s no threat. No edge. Just an unspoken understanding that this isn’t the last time. And somewhere between contracts and patrol routes, between resentment slowly growing in your chest and the ghost of a legacy pressing on your spine—Red Hood starts to feel less like a variable. And more like gravity.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
It doesn’t break all at once.
It builds.
In the way Slade starts assigning you to higher-risk contracts without warning. In the way he withholds information again—small things this time. Missing blueprints. Delayed extractions. Subtle tests to see if you adapt fast enough.
You do. You always do.
But now you see it for what it is. Not refinement. Evaluation.
He’s measuring how well you operate when cornered. How disposable you are. Whether you’ll turn into something sharper under pressure or snap.
The resentment doesn’t feel loud.
It feels cold.
The breaking point comes on a bridge.
Midnight. Industrial district. A corporate convoy moving classified tech across Gotham’s river.
You’re positioned beneath the bridge supports, magnetic grips locked into steel. Slade is above, sniper rifle ready to disable the lead vehicle. “Disable the rear escort,” he instructs through the comm.
“Understood.”
The convoy hits the midpoint. Slade fires. The lead SUV swerves, engine dead.
You launch upward, landing on the rear escort and ripping open the roof. Inside—private security. Heavily armed. Too heavily armed for a routine transport. You take them down, but the fight drags longer than projected.
One of them gets a lucky shot in, grazing your shoulder. Another manages to hit your comm. Static floods your ear. You shove the last guard aside and look up. The convoy isn’t stalled. It’s accelerating.
Slade’s shot didn’t disable the lead vehicle. It redirected it.
The entire convoy is splitting—half continuing forward.
Without you.
You switch to emergency channel. “Status.”
Silence.
Then Slade’s voice, faint through interference. “Change of objective.”
You stare at the disappearing taillights. “You altered the contract.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t inform me.”
“Adapt.”
The remaining vehicles—decoys—are swarming you now. More men pouring out. You drop down to the asphalt as gunfire erupts.
“You used me again,” you say, dodging behind a concrete divider.
A pause.
“I used available resources.”
Resources.
Not partner. Not heir.
Resources.
A truck barrels toward you. You roll under it, come up firing.
“You diverted the primary target.”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
“Because you can handle this.”
Something inside you laughs.
Handle this.
Thirty armed men. Limited ammo. No extraction point.
“You didn’t need me for the real objective,” you say quietly.
“I needed insurance.” There it is. You weren’t the heir. You were the distraction. Insurance in case something went wrong.
Bullets chip concrete inches from your face. “You said the name continues,” you breathe.
“It does.”
“And I’m just leverage until it does.”
A longer pause this time. Then, flatly: “You are a stepping stone.”
Another explosion rocks the bridge. One of the decoy vehicles detonates—remote triggered. Too close. Too deliberate.
If your timing had been half a second off, you would’ve been vaporized.
Not collateral damage. Acceptable loss.
You stand in the middle of the chaos, smoke curling around you, and something finally fractures in a way that can’t be sealed back together. All your life, you were shaped into a weapon. But even weapons are maintained.
You? You’re expendable.
The gunfire slows. Most of the guards are down or retreating. Your comm crackles again. “Withdraw,” Slade orders. “Rooftop extraction two blocks north.”
You don’t move.
“Now.”
You look down at your hands. Steady. Still capable. Still lethal. But not his.
“You can finish your contract alone,” you say.
Silence. Then, colder than you’ve ever heard him, “Explain.”
“I won’t be used as a decoy again.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“It is now.”
The line goes dead.
You don’t wait for extraction. You vanish into Gotham’s maze of rooftops, moving fast, untraceable. For the first time in your life, you’re not following orders. And it feels terrifying. And clean.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Slade finds you three nights later. Of course he does.
You’re on a rooftop overlooking the city, stitching your shoulder where the bullet tore through.
He steps out of the shadows like he always does. Predictable.
“You’re off-grid,” he says.
“Yes.”
“That ends tonight.”
“No.” The word hangs in the air between you. You’ve never denied him before.
He studies you. “This is about the bridge.”
“This is about the pattern.”
He moves closer. “You are reacting emotionally.”
“I’m reacting logically.”
He stops a few feet away. “You are not irreplaceable.”
You nod once. “I know.”
That’s the problem. He expects you to beg for position. For approval. For reinstatement. Instead, you step back. “You trained me to survive,” you say. “So I will.”
“Without me?”
“Yes.”
His visible eye sharpens. “You will fail.”
You turn away from him. A deliberate show of vulnerability. He could shoot you in the back.
He doesn’t.
“You are my legacy,” he says, voice tight for the first time.
“No,” you reply softly. “I was your contingency.”
The silence stretches.
“You leave,” he says finally, “and you’re on your own.”
“I already was.” You step off the rooftop before he can respond. He doesn’t follow. Maybe he knows chasing you would confirm too much. Maybe he doesn’t care.
You don’t look back.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Being alone without orders is different. There’s no structure. No objective waiting in your ear. You still take jobs—but selectively. No unnecessary casualties. No contracts that feel like traps.
You move through Gotham like a ghost unclaimed. And somehow—you keep running into him.
Jason Todd.
The first time after you leave Slade, you’re both intercepting the same arms deal again. He notices the difference immediately.
“You look lighter,” he says after you both disarm the last thug.
“Incorrect.”
“Yeah?” He tilts his helmet at you. “You’re not moving like someone’s breathing down your neck anymore.”
You freeze for half a second. He noticed?
You don’t confirm it. But you don’t deny it either.
Over the next weeks, the orbit tightens. You fight side by side more often than apart. He stops asking what organization you’re with. You stop treating him like interference. One night, you take a knife meant for him. You don’t think. You just move.
The blade sinks into your side. He catches you before you hit the ground. “What the hell?” he snaps, dragging you behind cover.
You don’t answer. You’re staring at the sky, breath shallow. He presses a hand to your wound, swearing under his breath.
“Why would you do that?”
You search for the logical answer. Efficiency. Asset preservation. But that’s not it. “You’re… useful,” you say.
He barks out a humorless laugh. “That’s your excuse?”
You don’t respond. Because the truth is more dangerous. You don’t want him to disappear. You don’t want him to be another figure walking away while you bleed out for someone else’s gain.
He doesn’t leave you. He patches you up himself in a safehouse you didn’t know he had access to. He doesn’t ask questions while he works. Just mutters complaints about your pain tolerance and how you’re “insane.”
When he finishes wrapping your side, he leans back against the wall across from you. “You’ve got someone?” he asks quietly.
The question sits heavy.
“I did.”
“And?”
“I don’t.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “I get that.”
You study him. He’s rough. Carries violence like it’s fused to his bones. But he stayed. He didn’t redirect the threat. He didn’t use you as insurance. He bled with you. It’s not closeness. Not yet. But it’s something.
You don’t know how to attach to people. You were never taught. But when he tosses you a bottle of water and says, “You can crash here till you’re steady,” without making it sound like charity—something in your chest shifts.
Not dependency. Not desperation. Possibility.
You’ve spent your whole life being a weapon in someone else’s hand. For the first time, you’re choosing where to stand. And as Jason sits across from you, helmet off now, bruised and stubborn and undeniably real—you realize he’s not someone who would trade you for leverage.
He’s someone who fights beside you. Not above you. Not behind you. And even if you don’t know how to say it, even if you don’t know how to want it. You think, quietly, that if you were going to attach to anyone—
