chickpea

long time lurker short time poster

[excelinthesheets]

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ cora, 21, she/her, multifandom

✧.* i am new to posting on tumblr, please bear with me!!

✧.* i’m in college so i may not post frequently just a heads up :)

✧.* please reach out to my inbox to talk!

✧.* writing is something i'm extremely new to so ideas are always appreciated

✧.* criticism is always welcome but i ask that you be kind, thank you!

✧.* fandoms: avatar, superman, the pitt, and akotsk

[excelinthesheets]

ummm uhhhh ummmmm 🫣🤭

[excelinthesheets]

busy season

clark kent x fem!reader

wc: 1462

tags: warning: tax mentions, fluff, Clark being a stand-up boyfriend, this could actually prob be read as gn!reader as i don't think i use any gendered terms, not beta'd so if it sucks don't tell me pls, i think that's it but lmk

note: in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes; this is entirely self-indulgent (but isn't all fanfic?) so i apologize

Tax season.

The time where you don't see the sun for weeks on end and come home with eyes aching from staring at your computer and stacks and stacks of paperwork.

Clark sees the toll it takes on you and does anything he can to try and ease the strain. Though it proves to be a difficult task, even for Superman.

It's finally the dreaded April 15th, marking the last of your excruciating 14 hour work days. For now.

You have to practically drag yourself home, fighting sleep every step of the way.

He can hear you lug yourself up the stairs and he glances at the clock — 11pm — entirely too late for his liking but earlier than he thought you'd be back.

He's in the kitchen when your keys start to fumble at the lock, taking a few tries before you can push open the door.

He waits. Quietly. Patiently. Trying to see what mood you're in before he can attempt to cheer you up.

"Clark?" You call out for him, if he didn't already know that you're exhausted your voice would've clued him in immediately.

"Kitchen," he reponds gently, knowing you get sensitive to his tone when you're like this. He's gotten an earful on how he sounded 'too mean' before. To which he would always profusely apologize until you picked up on your dramatics. He wouldn't have it any other way.

You toe off your shoes before padding your way over to him, blinking tiredly at the sight infront of you. Clark is stood over a simmering pot, something garlicy and aromatic from what you can tell. Knowing him, it's your favorite.

When he turns you get a perfect look at his stupid 'Kiss the Cook' apron, the sight making you smile just a bit. He watches your features soften, knowing that's exactly why he put on the apron in the first place.

You rub at your eyes and he sticks the spoon out for you to taste.

"More salt," you remark quielty, watching as he pinches some into the pot, "thank you."

His eyes move to yours, taking in the full sight of you. Exhaustion graces your features with tired eyes and drooping shoulders. He shoots you a soft look of pity that clues you into just how bad you look at the moment.

Though if you said that he would deny it and sag you look 'as radiant as the dawn' or something along those familiarly corny lines.

"I'm listening," he encourages, knowing you have a slew of compliants prepared about your clients. Working with the public is never simple.

"I'm just…" you let out a sigh and rub at your temples, "I'm sorry but people are so stupid."

The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile, he'd be the last one to deny you a rant session.

"There was one guy who wanted to depreciate his house?" your brow furrows, "which like okay you can do that under certain circumstances if you run a business from home or something."

He nods, listening intently while still fixing up dinner.

"But he doesn't," he remarks, knowing where this is going.

"No, of course he doesn't," you blow out a breath, "but he said that it shouldn't matter because 'one time he sold something off of Ebay'."

You feel your brain buffer for a moment, completely flabbergasted by the gall of some of your clients.

"An older guy had at least 200 gambling receipts that I had to go through, and worst of all, they were all individually stapled. And the rest of his documents that he sent were just the grainiest JPEGs I have seen in my entire life. Unusuable."

You feel yourself getting worked up, exhaustion giving way to agitation. He moves to heat up another pan, drizzling some olive oil into it before moving to the fridge. You watch him, taking in how easily he moves about, confidence set in his shoulders.

His eyes meet yours and you feel caught, heat rising up your face. He hands you a glass of water and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You let yourself soak up his affection, momentarily forgetting about all of your complaints. Though of course that doesn't last long.

"One lady even said that she's never had to use a W-2 to file before," you drag your hands over your face and peek at him from between your fingers. "Which I know isn't true because I filed for her last year!"

He's obviously trying to hide his amusement about your tax-induced rage, fighting back a smile.

"I'm gonna quit," you say resolutely. Words he's heard a dozen times before.

"You're not."

"You're right," you throw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm not."

Unfortunately, more often than not, you do like your job. What a shame.

He reaches a hand out toward you, his fingers resting behind your arm and gently tugging you to him. You shuffle forward, letting your eyes close as he tucks you into his chest.

"How many did you file?" He decides to try and focus on a positive.

"285," he can feel you smile against his chest, "more than last year at least."

"Good," his fingers settle at the base of your skull, gently massaging away the tension that's been set there for months. "Proud of you."

The words make warmth bloom in your chest, all of the grueling hours of thankless work seem worth it when he recognizes your efforts. At least someone does.

He presses you further into him, your cheek squishing against his solid form.

"Do you want me to interview Superman about the importance of proper tax documentation?"

"I'm not sure even that would work but yes," you let out a laugh into his shirt, "please."

"Consider it done."

He cradles the back of your head in his hand, pressing you further into him.

You stay there for a second just to breathe him in, the weight of his arms around you almost lulling you to sleep.

"Why don't you take a shower while I finish dinner?" He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his thumb smoothing over the crease in your brow.

You could go for a shower. You give him a nod but make no move to pull away, your arms still firmly wrapped around him.

"Go," he whispers, his hand patting your hip before peeling you off of him, "you'll feel better after."

You huff, holding back the urge to pout and whine like a child. It'd be unbecoming at your age to act in such a manner, even if every cell in your body wanted to.

"Fine."

You plod your way over to the bathroom and close the door (much to Clark's dismay). You start the shower before peeling off your clothes and kicking them into the corner to deal with later. Though you know you won't be the one to deal with them.

Unfortunately, Clark was right. You feel better as soon as the warmth of the water hits you and you lean forward to press your forehead against the tile wall. Your not sure how long you stand there for, simply letting the water cascade over you.

As the minutes drag on your idleness allows you to feel every bit of exhaustion settle over you. The persistent throbbing of your temples, the stiffness in every one of your vertebrae, and the ache in your neck from being bent over your computer.

Maybe you can convince Clark to give you a massage later, your sure it wouldn't actually take much convincing at all.

Eventually you decide it's time to get out of the shower. After all, you've got a hot dinner and a hot boyfriend waiting for you outside of the bathroom.

You dry off and open the door to see him standing in front of you, holding your pajamas in his hand.

"Perfect timing," he gives you a soft smile, "they just came out of the dryer."

Sure enough, the clothes are warm as he places them into your outstretched hands. You give him a quiet thanks and change quickly as he leaves to set up the living room.

You have to put extra effort into not dragging your feet as you make your way over to where he is. You take in how he's got your dinner set up on the coffee table, full water bottle and all.

You yawn and blink tiredly and before you know it he's picked you up and plopped you right in the middle of the couch. You're grateful that you didn't have to walk anymore.

He bundles you up and promises to give you a massage once you're done with your dinner. You didn't even have to ask.

[excelinthesheets]

Hi there! Just wanted to say that for someone who’s new at writing, you’re really good!!! Keep going!

I hope my writing can be as good as yours one day✨🤍🙏

thank you so much it truly means the world!! i wish i could take all the credit but i have three amazing friends that i pester to edit almost everything 😊😊

[excelinthesheets]

how's your head?

recom!miles quaritch x fem!human!reader

wc: 1874

tags: injury, hurt/comfort, loss of consciousness, concussions, mentions of vomit/persistent nausea, (somewhat) established relationship, for my sake please suspend your disbelief and pretend that you'd have an ensuite 🤗

note: haven't had any complaints yet; in the same universe as this but can totally be read stand alone

It all happens so fast. One minute you're eating dinner and the next you're passed out on the floor.

Now it's not out of the ordinary for the Recoms to get rowdy, especially when you get them all in a group. They share one collective brain-cell most of the time.

What is out of the ordinary is getting caught in the crossfire. When you'd sat down to eat the last thing you expected was Lyle's elbow slamming straight into your temple, causing everything to go dark.

You're roused by the feeling of a fist rubbing against your sternum. The next thing you register is the radiating pain in your head.

You blink the blur out of your eyes, regaining your sight before your hearing. You don't remember everything being so bright.

The blue blob in front of you finally materializes to be Quaritch. His brows pinch together as he ducks his head to meet your eyes better. His lips are moving, that much you know, but you can't make out a single word he says.

It sounds like there's been cotton stuffed into your ears.

"Can't hear," you reach your hand out for him and he takes it, squeezing it gently.

He apparently has forgotten about his very strict 'no PDA' rule for the time being.

You go to reach your other hand up to your temple before you realize his is already there. His thumb rubbing light circles against where you're sure a bruise is already forming.

You look around and notice how everyone's huddled around you, too many golden eyes looking at you with concern. Lyle looks almost scared, no doubt worried about Quaritch's reaction. You go to stand up, not a fan of all the attention, but his hand moves to stop you.

He tells you to stay sitting. Or at least that's what you think he said, you were only able to catch part of it as sound slowly comes back to you.

"You're okay," his voice is softer than you've ever heard it before, "just a little bump, you'll be alright."

You know he's lying, you can read him enough to know that. It's definitely more than a little bump, it feels like your head substituted the clapper of a bell.

His hand returns to your face, gently grabbing your jaw to tilt your face for a better look.

"It hurts," you wince, your hand squeezing his harder.

"I don't doubt that baby," he responds, giving you a once over.

You're half-aware of the fact that he's never called you that in front of anyone else before. Sure, the Recoms likely know there's something up between you two, you haven't exactly been subtle. But you'd never expected him to be so forthright about his affections in public.

You'll freak out about it later.

"Let's get you patched up," he smooths his hand over your head.

He doesn't wait for you to respond before he moves to pick you up from the floor. As he hauls you into his arms you squeeze your eyes shut to try and fight off a wave of nausea.

He makes sure not to jostle you too much, tucking your face into his chest to block out the harsh lights of the hallways.

The walk to the infirmary feels like it takes hours and you don't open your eyes again until he's sat you down on the exam table. You blink firmly as your eyes adjust to the fluorescents of the room.

You lean to the side to rest against him. He moves closer to make it easier for you and gently rests his hand against your back.

You watch as the nurse takes the blood pressure cuff off the wall, asking you to explain why you're there. The hit to your head has made you a little slow on the uptake, taking you a second to fully register her question.

When you go to speak Quaritch has already started telling her everything.

Normally you would fight him, tell him you're more than capable of advocating for yourself, but your brain feels like it's been scrambled so you decide to let him handle it. For once.

You sit still as the nurse tends to you, trying to ignore how you feel more and more nauseous by the minute.

Eventually she leaves the room, letting you know the doctor will be in shortly.

Quaritch looks down at you, his hand rubbing steady circles into your back. His eyes scan your face, snagging on the bruised up side of your head. He allows himself to show an emotion besides anger for once, his ears flicking downward.

"You're staring," you huff out, displeased with the entire situation. "And your men are stupid."

"I ain't ever accused them of being smart."

You press your lips together to stop yourself from smiling and hold back your need to thank him for taking care of you. He doesn't need you to inflate his self-image, he's more than capable of doing than on his own.

He reaches out to you, brushing his thumb over your injured temple.

"I'll knock some sense into them, how 'bout that?"

Your nose scrunches in disgust, horrified at the prospect of him talking to those boneheads about you, especially in such a protective manner. You don't need him to stand up for you. Except for right now you guess.

You're about to say something when the doctor walks in, cutting off any objection you could've given him. Unfortunately there's no way you'll remember to bring it up to him later.

You get lost in all of the questions and poking and prodding that you're subjected to. They run more tests than you thought humanly possible, no doubt due to Quaritch's presence.

You didn't think you needed an EKG but lucky you, you still got one.

By the end of it all the dull throb between your eyes has turned into an overwhelming pressure, your eyes watering. You dig your thumbs up under your brow bone in a failed attempt to relieve the pressure.

Quaritch realizes how your demeanor changes and moves his hand from your back to the side of your head. He gently presses your head against his side, his thumb rubbing firmly over your scalp in an attempt to help. He doesn't even seem to realize he's doing it.

You're told your diagnosis — a beautiful and wonderful concussion — and sent on your way with a bottle of Tylenol. It seems the medical system here is only slightly better than Earth.

Quaritch hauls you up into his arms for the second time that day and your stomach lurches.

"Careful," you chide him, pressing your forehead firmly against his chest. You're not even sure the pain meds will help with your everpresent migraine at this point.

"Fussy," he mutters, carefully adjusting his grip on you as he walks, "don't forget I can still make you walk."

You don't respond, knowing the threat is an empty one. He's mean but he's not that mean. Not to you at least.

His long strides make it to your room in no time and he digs your keys out from your pocket for you, shifting your weight in his arms.

You can no longer ignore the churning in your gut, positive the little bit of dinner you actually got to eat is about to come back up onto his shirt. As if you need to embarrass yourself further today.

"I'm gonna be sick," you groan out, trying to push yourself out of his arms.

"Quit your squirmin'," he tightens his hold on you, obviously displeased with the thought of letting you go. He gets your door open and makes his way to your bathroom just in time.

As soon as you're set down on the floor you empty your stomach into the toilet, your head pounding. Quaritch is quick to help, his hands making sure all of your hair is out of your face.

Once you're sure you're done you spit once and flush.

"How're you feeling?" he smoothes his hand over your back, gently massaging the base of your neck.

"Terrible and awful," you croak out, resting your forehead against the toilet tank.

"Terrible and awful," he echoes patronizingly, "well that's quite the combo ain't it, cupcake?"

You hate the response, reaching out your hand to blindly shove at him.

He takes the opportunity to grab under your arm and pull you up to your feet. He's at least slightly gentle with it.

He leads you to the sink, plucking your toothbrush from it's cup and placing it into your hand.

"Brush your teeth," he commands and you bite back a snarky comment about his tone. "I'll be back."

He pats the top of your head as you glare up at him and leaves you in the bathroom. You realize you have no clue where he's going, slightly confused as to what else could be so important.

You brush your teeth slowly, feeling like all of your motor function left your head when Lyle's elbow so graciously slammed into it. You'll have to figure out how to get him back. Though that's a plan for when your brain is no longer rattled.

When you get back to your room, all minty and fresh, he's still not back from wherever he galavanted off to. For a moment you're worried that he's left you to your own devices for the rest of the night.

At the sound of your door opening your worries are subdued almost as fast as they arose. You can't believe what you're seeing when your eyes land on him.

He's stood in your doorway holding one of your stuffed animals, looking comically small in his hand. More specifically, your lavender scented bunny. Which means he walked through the halls with it, waited as it warmed up in the microwave, and then walked back through the hallway with it again.

You try (and fail) to hide your amusement at the thought.

He closes the door behind him, flicks off the light, and pushes the bunny into your arms, grumbling something about 'helping your nausea' under his breath.

"I didn't say anything," you stifle a laugh, letting him urge you forward toward your bed.

"Get in bed," he grunts, ears flattening against his head.

You do as he says, not wanting to push your luck too far. You get yourself comfortable, pulling the blankets up and expecting him to take his leave. You're surprised he even played nurse for this long. You assumed the stuffed animal would've been his last straw.

"Move over."

The words catch you by surprise, your addled brain not registering them at first. He doesn't care for your hesitation.

He pulls back your comforter, his big hand nudging you further into the bed.

"I can sleep alone, I'll be fine."

"You can," he drawls, "but you won't."

He climbs in next to you, having to awkwardly adjust his limbs to fully fit onto the mattress. The position makes it so he has to spoon you but neither of you are really complaining.

"Try not to die in your sleep," he mumbles against the top of your head.

"No promises."

This time, he stays the whole night.

[excelinthesheets]

just a small update: i’ll be working on ‘how’s your head?’ today and plan to have it out sometime late this week

and on an unrelated note i graduated yesterday!!!

ft. face reveal of little me

[excelinthesheets]

ok all of my finals are done on wednesday and i'll be free from the clutches of accounting (until june) and i'm trying to figure out which fic to finally finish up when i have time

help me!

'how's your head?' recom!quaritch x reader (fluff)

'arrogance pt. 2' recom!quaritch x reader (smut)

Voting ended onMay 4

[excelinthesheets]

in a good way

avatar!jake sully x fem!human!reader

wc: 2358

tags: sick fic, comfort, vague chronic illness, implied depressed reader, non-sexual nudity, flare-ups, established relationship, excessive use of 'baby'(?), reader described as having hair that can be tucked behind her ears, nondescript location bc I am a lazy writer

note: so many wips so little time, school is kicking my ass; i should have another quaritch one out after this but no promises on when 💔

You're rudely awoken by the creak of your door as it opens.

Under normal circumstances you'd look up to see who it is but based on footsteps alone you can tell it's Jake. You feel horrible, you haven't been to the village in days with no explanation and now he's trekked all the way here to see you.

"Oh, baby," you hear his soft voice approach your bedside and tilt your head to look at him.

You're not sure if your voice even works at this point, it's probably been about 3 days since you've really used it. To avoid straining your vocal cords you merely give him a slow blink to acknowledge that you heard him.

"What's going on, huh?" He places the back of his hand against your forehead, falling easily into the routine of fussing over you.

You swallow a few times to gauge how dry your voice will be, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth to try and wet it. Your whole mouth feels sticky and you wrack your brain to remember when you last drank water.

"Don't feel good," you croak out, wincing at how weak your voice is. You lean into his touch as his large hand moves to cup your cheek.

You know he can feel how clammy you are but you're glad he doesn't say anything as he shifts to slip his hands under your arms.

Shit. He's gonna sit you up.

You can tell by how he braces himself, his hands trying to be gentle when they press against your ribs. A soft sound of protest falls from your lips, not prepared for the head rush you'll get if he moves you.

"I know baby," he coos, trying his best to placate you. "I gotta, I'm sorry."

He carefully maneuvers you to sit up against your headboard, making sure to prop pillows up around you for support. He's quick to smooth his thumbs over your temples in an attempt to soothe back your headache. It doesn't work in the slightest but you're grateful for the effort.

Though his hands are gone from your sides you can still feel the pressure of them against your skin. You know he tries his best to be gentle but even then the slightest touch irritates your nervous system.

You let your head loll back, too weak in the moment to hold it up on your own. In this position you're able to fully meet his eyes, he's worried, incredibly so. You know how you look probably isn't helping his concern, his eyes trace your figure carefully, as if he can pinpoint the root of your pain on sight alone.

"Why're you here?" Your voice strains on every syllable. You have to push through the heavy fog of your mind to form a fully coherent thought. You're definitely not firing on all cylinders today.

Maybe not even one.

"Hadn't seen you for a week," he pushes some hair from your face, peeling tangled strands away from your sweat-damp forehead and tucking them behind your ear. "I got worried."

A week? You didn't think it'd been that long. Maybe four days at most.

You're not sure what to say. Sure, he'd seen you like this before when it'd get bad but that was prior to you getting together. It feels different now.

You figure you should say sorry. Most girls don't avoid their boyfriends for a full week. But then again, most girls probably don't go days on end being too drained to even hold up their own head.

"My joints feel empty," you blurt, unsure as to why that's what you decided to say, but nonetheless sticking to it. At least it's true.

"Your joints… what?" His brows furrow, obviously having no concept of what you're describing.

"Empty," you hold up your fist, weakly opening and closing it as if that offers any explanation.

Unfortunately for him, he's still very confused.

Fortunately for you, it's a good look on him.

Gentle fingers push your hair back from your neck, the gesture makes you feel less suffocated and you take in a deep breath. He seems relieved that he was able to do something that provided comfort, giving you a subtle nod before he gets up from the bed completely.

You let your eyes close for a moment, trying to take stock of everything that is making you feel horrible. Though, at this point, it'd probably be easier to count what's not making you feel horrible.

You start to nod off again, the fuzzy edges of sleep overtaking your brain before you even begin to notice. His voice breaks you out of it and you crack your eyes open just enough to look up at him.

"Hm?" You hum, trying to make out his full form in the dark now that he's stood up from the bed. You don't remember when he moved off it.

"Do you wanna shower?" He repeats without complaint, starting to move all of your blankets off of you. He peels away blanket after blanket, spare comforters and quilts that you'd painstakingly piled on your bed when you'd felt cold to your bones. They're not helping now.

You shake your head slowly, careful to not exacerbate the pounding in your head from any abrupt movement. The last thing that sounds appealing is standing under the harsh spray of the shower as you overheat, just thinking about it is entirely too much labor.

He understands why you don't want to but he also knows that getting clean will help, even if just fractionally.

"A bath then," he offers, slowly moving your legs to dangle off the side of the bed.

You know he won't give up, he's extremely stubborn and is constantly determined to find any way to take care of you that he can. Even when you fight him on it.

Especially when you fight him on it.

"We don't have to wash your hair," he bargains, knowing that's the part you dread the most. You mull it over in your mind before giving him a stiff nod, watching as relief washes over his features.

"Can you walk?" His hands are steady against your hips and he shifts you forward to sit on the edge of the bed.

You suppose you probably could walk on your own but in what universe would you pick that over having your huge Na'vi boyfriend carry you?

Not this universe, that's for sure.

You shake your head, managing a soft 'no' to go along with the gesture. Your shaky hands reach out to brace yourself against his forearms, using what little strength you have to push yourself up.

You're off the ground in a heartbeat as he lifts you into his arms without even breaking a sweat. He's extremely careful to not jostle you around as he makes his way to the bathroom.

He sets you down on the counter, his hands smoothing over your waist, making sure to be careful with how much pressure he's applying. It's a delicate balance that he's had to work out; too much and you'll be in pain, too little and you'll also be in pain.

Okay, well, in his defense you're always in pain.

He turns around briefly to start filling the bath. "How long you been feeling like this?"

You stare at him for a second, wondering how you can put it nicely that you think it's a stupid question. You've been gone for a week so it's safe to say that you haven't been feeling well for a week.

You shrug to save his pride; you're nothing if not merciful. You also reckon you'd feel slightly bad being mean when he's caring for you like this.

"Okay," he nods in half-acceptance, somehow able to tell that it's not your real answer but not wanting to argue. "Let's get you out of these clothes."

You're now all too aware of how much you'd been sweating, your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. You nod, working up the strength to lift up your arms to make it easier for him to peel off your shirt.

If he thinks anything of you being shirtless in front of him, he doesn't let on in the slightest. Ever the gentleman.

He gingerly helps you remove your pants, not so much as complaining about how much more tedious the process becomes when you're sitting. Once all of your clothes are in a pile on the floor he gives you yet another once over, his eyes are soft and apologetic, as if he's the reason you're feeling so unwell.

"Brush your teeth now or after?"

You give him a look of disgust, the thought of brushing your teeth almost worse than the thought of bathing in this moment. If it were up to you, you'd still be tucked into your sauna of a bed.

"After," he decides for you but it would only delay the inevitable. You shake your head, dreading the thought of sitting through your bath only to still have to brush your teeth afterward.

"Now?" his eyes trace your face in surprise but he reaches for the toothbrush anyways.

Your eyes fix on the bristles as he wets them and then applies a generous dollop of toothpaste. He lifts the toothbrush to your mouth and you reluctantly bare your teeth for him.

Two minutes has never felt so long but you suppose you're glad to have the sticky feeling in your mouth washed away as you spit into the sink. Thankfully, he takes pity on you and doesn't make you go through the even more arduous process of flossing.

You're hoping he's forgotten about the bath by now but of course he hasn't. He tests the temperature of the water with his fingers and turns it off when he deems it satisfactory. You'd hate to say that you don't trust him but you're sure that his Na'vi skin would not register the heat like yours would. You give him an incredulous look which he returns with a soft smile.

"You'll be fine baby, promise," he assures you, his hands moving back to your waist to help move you.

You don't protest as he picks you up and gently lowers you into the bath, the warm water immediately cushioning your joints.

"Strong," you remark with a weak smile, sticking a finger out to prod at his bicep. You'd be dead before you would pass up the opportunity to flirt with him.

"Yeah?" He gives a huff of a laugh and makes a show of flexing for you.

The moment stretches; his eyes fixed on yours with a sense of care you've never felt from anyone else. You feel emotional in a way that you hate to, apologies seconds away from falling from your lips.

You're not sure how he does it but it's like he can read your mind. Though you guess you've never been able to hide your expressions, gratitude etched into the tired lines of your face.

"I know," he says softly. He's never been one to entertain any apologies you have, insisting there's nothing to be sorry for.

It's taken you a while to believe him.

He wets a washcloth and reaches over you to grab your body wash, gently lathering it over your arms first. The fabric of the cloth is rough against your skin but you bear it, not wanting to give him another thing to worry about.

He uses his hands to cup up some water to wash away the soap, eyes flitting to yours every now and then to gauge how you're feeling.

"How're you feeling now?" his soft voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

You blink up at him and yawn, your eyes moving back down to how he washes off your arms. The joints feel stiff though marginally less achy.

A deep breath is pulled into your lungs, the steam from the bath soothing them along with your headache. You shrug, unable to tell exactly how you're feeling at the moment.

"Okay," he gives a small nod, obviously not satisfied with your response but electing to not make a big deal of it. He knows how overwhelming it can get for you.

He makes quick work of washing you up, not wanting you to still be in the water when it starts to get cold. He carefully pulls you from the tub, water lapping over the side and onto the floor.

You shiver at the difference in temperature from the bath to the air and lean into him when he wraps a towel around you. You stand there for a moment, relishing in the feel of your face squished against his stomach. He's warm, and solid, and smells like rain.

You let out a breath of a laugh before nipping your teeth against the skin just below his sternum. He gasps and pulls you back from him by your shoulders.

"Alright. That's enough," he attempts at a stern tone but he's never been able to actually be mad with you.

He hauls you back up into his arms as you feign an apology, his hands holding onto the backs of your thighs to keep you steady while he walks.

"Safe to say you're feeling better."

"A little," you nod into his chest, your arms draped limply behind his neck. You're glad you don't have to hold yourself up at all.

"Well," he places you back onto your bed, "a little is better than nothing."

He moves throughout your room, rifling through your closet like a man on a mission. The mission being finding your very specific pajamas that you wear when you feel like this. Or rather pajama, singular, one large very worn-out t-shirt.

He makes a noise of celebration once he finds it, pulling it from the shelf with an elated smile. Your shoulders ache as he pulls your arms through the sleeves, the fabric pooling at your thighs once it's over your head.

Once you're all dressed he gets you settled in bed and doesn't let you lift a finger for the rest of the night.

[excelinthesheets]

shark week

recom!miles quaritch x fem!human!reader

wc: 1265

tags: period comfort, mentions of blood/periods, established situationship of doom, probably ooc quaritch, maybe got a little carried away with the situationship part oops, wrote this to cope with my two week period

note: i just need him to be normal for once please is that too much to ask; kind of in the same universe as this

Your uterus was put on Earth to kill you.

That’s the only logical explanation for why right now, it feels like your insides are being thrown through a blender.

You wish that were all. This bloody affliction is also accompanied by a pounding headache and quite possibly the worst murderous urges you’ve felt in your life.

You’re buried under your covers, tucked into the fetal position to try and achieve some semblance of comfort for your aching muscles. Worst of all, your heating pad's auto-off function got rid of your only source of relief about an hour ago. Your body fights you at the mere thought of moving to turn it back on.

A heavy, and frankly obtrusive, knock sounds at your door. You whine in response, moving the blankets down just enough to stare at the door.

“Go away,” you call out, your voice too loud for your own ears. You wince, pulling the covers back over your head as you hear the door creak open.

You’re not sure who it is, but you know for certain that you don’t want them to see you like this. Or smell you like this.

“Is that any way to greet your Colonel?”

Quaritch.

“Ugh,” you groan, painstakingly rolling over to face where he stands. Or at least where you think he stands.

“Get out,” you mumble into your comforter, mustering up all of your strength to sound as annoyed as possible. “I’m busy.”

“Right,” the mattress dips with his weight, “y’look real busy sweetheart.”

You kick your leg out blindly until it makes contact with him, then you kick against him with more force. He just meets the action with his hand, stilling your movements with ease.

“Why’re you here?" You finally work up the courage to glance at him, sheets pulled just below your nose. "I thought you hated the science wing.”

“I do,” he replies simply, his eyes tracing over your figure with thinly veiled concern, “I heard you were… indisposed.”

You roll your eyes. Indisposed. That’s certainly one way to put it.

“My uterus is making blood soup in my underwear,” you try to make it sound as displeasing as possible, because it is. You can tell it works when his nose wrinkles in faint disgust. “Why do you care?”

“Thought you would want some company,” he shifts closer, the metal frame of your bed protesting under his weight.

You narrow your eyes at him. He’s never been one for company and you have absolutely no reason to believe he’s had a sudden change in heart.

“What do you want?” You snap, watching as his ears pin back at your tone. You suppose under regular circumstances you’d be just a bit politer, but the steady waves of cramps you're experiencing override all of those instincts.

“Can’t a guy just want to spend some time with his girl?” He raises an eyebrow at you.

You’re ready to talk back to him but his words cause you to pause. His girl?

“I-” your brows furrow, “...what?” You blink dumbly at him, suddenly too aware of how much disarray you’re in. You try to get your brain to start working again but it’s of no use.

Instead, you wrap all of your blankets around you and hide from his view. A very smart and mature decision as always.

You note how he takes in a sharp breath but think nothing of it, too busy repeatedly running his words through your mind. 'His girl,’ what a dick, he’s never-

“Cupcake,” he clears his throat, “you’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you mutter, turning around in your bed all the same. “You think I don’t-”

Oh.

He meant like… bleeding all over your sheets, bleeding. Well, he certainly could’ve led with that.

“Fuck,” you jolt upright at the sight, your eyes squeezing shut as you’re once again reminded of your glaring headache.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes before you’re suddenly hoisted off of your bed. There’s too much going on all at once for you to even think to protest.

Quaritch plants you in the bathroom with the simple demand to ‘clean up’ as he starts the shower and promptly leaves. You can’t help but oblige, arduously peeling your clothes off before stepping under the water.

You sigh as the beginnings of hot water wash over you and your muscles start to relax for the first time since your period started. You don’t climb out of the shower until the water eventually starts to run cold.

You’re shocked at the scene you’re greeted with when you push aside the shower curtain. Quaritch has laid out clean clothes for you, and not only that, but the underwear already has a fresh pad stuck to it. You rub at your eyes, expecting the sight to disappear.

It doesn’t.

You dry off and slip on the clothes, trying to ignore how the gesture makes you feel like you have a gaping hole inside your chest.

When you finally reach your room you’re sure that something terrible has happened to Quaritch, he must’ve sustained a brain injury to be acting like this.

There are new sheets on your bed and a full water bottle on your nightstand. You stare at how he’s made himself comfortable against your pillows, as if you can glean any sort of explanation as to why he’s acting like this.

He must've been body swapped, you decide on.

His eyes move to you and he gestures you over. You go to walk forward but you feel stuck in place, overwhelmed by his sudden care. Humiliatingly, you feel tears well up in your eyes; it’s been too long of a day.

“You’re crying,” he states, a sense of contrition in his voice as if he’s worried he’s messed up. You’ve never heard that tone before, his usual condescension disappearing for just a moment.

You shake your head, steeling yourself before getting your legs to listen to you again.

"You're hogging the bed," you retort, attempting to make yourself seem less emotional than you are. You can tell he doesn't buy it but you're relieved when he doesn't say anything as you sidle into bed next to him.

He shifts to make room for you and you gladly take it, cocooning yourself back under the covers. You keep a slight distance from him, trying to gauge his motivation for being there.

"C'mere," his voice rings out in the silence before you're able to land on a conclusion. His hand is surprisingly gentle as it reaches out and tugs you closer, settling you against his chest.

You go easily, your ear pressed to his chest where his heart beats steadily. You give him a soft hum, letting your eyes close as you get more comfortable against him.

He wraps his arm around you, his large hand pressing into your lower abdomen. You hate to admit that it helps, the firm pressure and warmth causing your cramps to slowly ebb away.

"Thank you," you mutter into his shirt. You almost regret the words right after you've said them, confident that he's going to make fun of you.

It's almost worse when he doesn't.

His lips press to the crown of your head and you stiffen at the feeling. He's so confusing sometimes but you're too exhausted to try and clue it all out in the moment.

"Anytime sweetheart," he mumbles against your hair. You don't call him out on the lie, deluding yourself into believing it.

You fall asleep knowing he'll be gone by the time you wake up.

[excelinthesheets]

I just have to say your writing is amazing! You capture Quaritch so well and barely anyone writes for him anymore, so you’re filling the Miles Quaritch shaped hole in my heart lol 🥹 I can’t wait for more!

giggling and kicking my feet rn, you are too kind 🤭 I plan to have something else out sometime next week when I’m done with midterms!

[excelinthesheets]

arrogance

recom!miles quaritch x fem!human!reader

wc: 1451

tags: 18+, smut, fingering, size kink, hand kink, softdom!quaritch kind of(?), dirty talk, probably ooc quaritch, forehead kiss of doom

note: quaritch brainrot so bad an accountant started writing for the first time. hopefully this doesn't suck too bad!! any advice greatly appreciated <3

You’re not sure how you got in this situation.

You wish you could say it’s because of your charm or your stunningly good looks or the way you don’t make a complete fool of yourself every time Quaritch looks at you. It's definitely not that last one.

You’re not sure you even care to figure it all out as you watch his hand nudge your legs open. You faintly register him saying something but you’re too enthralled with how big he is to actually pay attention.

“Hm?” You tear your eyes away from his hand to look at how he’s propped up on his side next to you. He’s got a stupid grin on his face that really should piss you off but then his warm palm slides over your thigh and you don’t think you’ve ever been mad in your life.

“I said,” his voice is already getting to you, “d’ya wanna take these off for me?” You look to where he thumbs at the waistband of your underwear, nodding dumbly before you realize that you’re supposed to be taking them off. Must he make you do everything?

You’re entirely too aware of his searing gaze as you lift up your hips and slip the cotton down your legs, cursing the fact that you hadn’t worn something sexier. Though it’s not like they stayed on for long anyway. You’re too nervous to even notice how he stashes the underwear in his back pocket, focused more on the fact that now there’s no barrier between your cunt and his eyes.

You press your thighs together to hide yourself. Quaritch decides he has to change that.

“C’mon cupcake,” he pushes your knee to the side and you let him, legs falling open easily.

“Fuck,” he rasps, nudging your legs open further. “So pretty isn’t she.”

His voice is low and warm and part of you is jealous that he’s talking to your pussy and not you. You don’t care if it’s crazy, you almost feel like a third wheel to your own vagina.

“Quaritch,” you whine, pressing your hips up as his fingers run over your leg, pausing every now and then to knead at the fat of your thigh. “Please.”

You really wish you weren’t this easy, you’ve half a mind to be embarrassed at how you melt at his slightest touch. But could anyone blame you? He’s huge and warm and an asshole and fuck, he really is huge isn’t he?

“Greedy,” he remarks, pressing his thumb against your clit with more tact than you would’ve thought possible. You take in a sharp breath, unable to stop from staring between your legs to watch. He slips his thumb lower, gathering your arousal before he pushes it back up.

“Oh, you like that don’t you,” he drawls as your hips squirm into his touch.

“Shut up,” you bite out, trying to seem less overwhelmed by the touch than you really are. He lets you think he believes it.

His words make you cringe, not able to hide how you very much do like it but not exactly keen on letting him know he has that kind of power over you. The last thing you want is for his ego to get any larger. He uses his thumb to spread you wider, causing your cheeks to flare with heat; you throw your arm over your face to hide.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he clicks his tongue and tugs your arm away, “want you to watch.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare, glancing down to where his thumb slowly slides over your clit. Your hips jolt at the contact, a shaky breath pulled from your lips as his middle and ring fingers press at your entrance.

Your eyes flutter at the feeling, your hips tilting up to chase the contact. He’s looking at you too intensely for your liking and you realize he’s waiting for you to give any indication that you still want this.

“Just touch me," you huff, guiding his fingers to press into you. Your eyes hone in on his large fingers working between your legs, his thumb still making small circles over your clit.

“There we go,” he sounds entirely too satisfied as his fingers slowly slide inside you, “would’ya look at that.”

You can’t help yourself, propping up on your elbows to get a better look at what he’s doing. “Oh shit,” you breathe out as you witness his fingers move against you, glistening in the low light.

He shifts closer to get a better angle and you're powerless to stop your eyes from being drawn to him, taking in his captivated expression. He looks almost unreal, his pupils are dilated, practically swallowing up his golden irises as he focuses entirely on the motion of his fingers. His eyes flit up to yours for the briefest moment and you swear your mind goes blank.

Your eyes dart away from his, embarrassed at how worked up you are, at how you can hear how worked up you are. Your brows pinch together as his fingers push deeper and press upwards, you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth to try and quiet yourself.

It doesn't help for long.

"Fuck," you sigh out after a few moments, your breath getting more and more labored. You'd hate to give him the satisfaction of moaning but unfortunately it feels too good.

Your legs threaten to close around his hand and he pushes them back open, giving you a pointed look. You don't care enough to return the disdain, your eyes looking into his desperately. You must look thoroughly debauched because he lets out pleased hum and speeds up the motions of his fingers in response.

You give up on holding yourself upright, letting your elbows slide out from under you as your strength gives out. Your eyes flutter open when you notice your head didn't hit the mattress.

Instead, Quaritch has it cradled in his obnoxiously gentle hand, making you keep looking at how his fingers pump into you.

“What did I say." You’re not sure if he’s actually scolding you and you couldn’t care less, focused solely on how his palm covers the entire back of your head and then some. You listen to him anyway, your eyes fixed on how you're making an absolute mess of his hand.

He definitely isn't going to let you live this down.

You can't find it in yourself to even think about that, starting to see stars while the muscles of your thighs begin to burn with how much you need it. He feels your cunt flutter around his fingers and knows you're already close.

"Y'gotta ask nicely," he chides, slowing his fingers down to draw everything out.

"Please," you whine, vaguely aware of how pathetic you sound. You reach out to grab onto his bicep, it's impossible to miss how he arrogantly flexes the muscle in response. What a douche.

"Yeah, yeah alright," he gives in easily, feigning annoyance at how you beg him to cum. He crooks his fingers up in a way that he knows will get you there and you curse how well he's already gotten to know your body. "I've got ya."

"Miles," you whine out before your orgasm washes over you. Your thighs finally clamp shut around his hand and your nails dig into his forearm. You don't even attempt to muffle the slew of moans that fall from your lips as he works you through it, your hips keening up into his touch.

You try to catch your breath, your eyes fluttering shut for a second as you work through the aftershocks. Your body shudders and he gently squeezes the back of your head before laying you back down against your pillows.

"So quick. Must've felt good." His tone is dripping with condescension, if your mind wasn't reeling you would probably lie and tell him how terrible it was, you opt to flip him off instead. He replies with a chuckle, sounding entirely too proud of himself.

"Messy," you can hear the slick noise of your cunt as he carefully slips his fingers from you. His thumb smooths over your thigh a few times and you let out a contented sigh in response, too far gone at this point to tease him about how soft he's being.

He leans forward and you startle slightly as his lips press to your sweat-damp forehead, completely unused to the display of affection. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t last long.

“My turn,” he wipes off his fingers on your bedspread, staring at your breathless form with an irritating smirk.

Asshole, you think, rolling your eyes as you settle between his legs.