#prometheus fifield

[darkling-er]

Prometheus (2012) | FIFIELD AND MILLBURN i used to ship these two

[quizzically-hyperfixated]

Hiii if requests are open, would be open to doing Fifield (from Prometheus) headcannons?? For if he liked the reader, spicy, fluff, all of them :3

ASK#2

╰┈➤ Fifield (Alien:Prometheus) who likes the reader.

Headcanons below the cut CW/TW for the following: brief smut, fluff.

RE: this post.

Long post.

「 ✦ Fifield ✦ 」

Fifield liking you means getting flirted with almost aggressively (but not in a creepy way!) He's just so enamored and pulled by your beauty and personality, that he's going to make it ABDUNDANTLY clear to you that he'd into you.

He'll pursue you relentlessly; expect gifts, a few oddly sappy letters and him arriving at your door offering a date.

Honestly? You're not put off, if anything, you're blushing like mad due to his forwardness. Who knew that a man who would be so obvious over his attraction to your person!

There's a knock at your door — sharp, impatient. When you open it, Fifield's standing there with a crooked grin, holding a slightly crushed bouquet and wearing that same confident, too-casual stance. You: "Fifield? What—what’s all this?" Fifield (grinning wider): "What, a bloke can't drop by to see his favorite person without it being a federal incident?" You (trying not to smile): "You've been my 'favorite person' for all of five minutes." Fifield (leaning against the doorframe): 'Yeah, and those five minutes were bloody fantastic, weren't they?" He holds out the flowers with an exaggerated flourish. Fifield: "Here. Don't read too much into it. Or do. Up to you." You (laughing): "You're unbelievable." Fifield: “Damn right I am. And I'm takin' you out. Dinner. Drinks. Whatever makes you blush like that again." You feel your face heating up immediately, which only makes his grin widen. You: "You're ridiculous, you know that?" Fifield (shrugging, teasing): "Yeah, but you like it. Don't lie." You (trying to hide your smile): "I didn’t say I didn't." Fifield (mock gasp): "Oh, so there is hope for me! Thought I’d have to bribe Jonesy next." You (chuckling): "You're insufferable." Fifield (grinning, stepping closer): "And yet, here you are, still talkin' to me." A beat passes — his tone softens, sincerity slipping through the swagger. Fifield: "C'mon, sweetheart. Let me take you out. Promise I’ll behave… mostly."

Ater a successful first date with Fifield, you should consider yourself 'hook line and sinker', you'll be exactly where he wants you to be. Gorgeous and all his.

I need you to know that he's going to do his darndest to make sure you enjoy being with him, he'll want to make you feel like you can (and should) turn your brain off with him. Don't worry babe, he's got it!

Fast forward to when you two are finally going steady and have been public about your relationship, the first time that you two get intimate, Fifield makes sure that this experience is wholly pleasurable and fully enjoyable for you. He prioritizes your enjoyment above his own, even after years into the relationship.

Imagine it has been quite a long time that the two of you have been together, yeah? He's made sure he's given you the family of your dreams. Your needs constantly and consistently being met, you are his precious jem.

[midala-of-the-valley]

Are you still taking Prometheus prompts requests? If yes, I would die for #19 Fifield x reader.

Cloudburst

Sean Fifield x Reader Wordcount: 1,9k Crossposted on Ao3 a/n: God- I researched geology for this one, because I for some reason can't just write a cute oneshot, no no, this must all make sense. Ngl I sat on this one for days and just couldn't get the words down, but managed to finally finish it. I love Fifield so much, and I hope you like what I came up with uwu

Stationed on a hydrofracture site, you were mapping the terrain and scanning the aquifers and hydrothermal conduits beneath it.

On paper, your team’s task was simple: identify where and how thick those layers were, determine whether they were contaminated, assess how much water they held. Then find the correct injection points, blast high-pressure water into the clogged passages deep underground, and bring the flow back to the surface.

In theory? Easy. In reality? Way more complicated and time-consuming, though important. Especially in a world where drinking water had been scarce for centuries.

Heavy grey clouds stretched across the sky, blanketing the sun until the afternoon dimmed into a muted, colourless haze. The premonition of rain had lingered all day - the birds had gone quiet, searching shelter from the upcoming storm. Out here, the weather could change on a whim, and the wildlife was always the best indicator of what to expect, more accurate and reliable than any weather report.

Still, you convinced yourself you had enough time, that even if it began to rain while being outside, it surely wouldn’t be that bad.

You spared one last glance at the sky - darkening but still calm - and decided that yes, you could surely make it. Just a quick dash to retrieve the sensor that had been spitting out unstable readings for hours - the fluctuating spikes and inconsistent backflow had driven Fifield into hours of muttering. And cursing. Grumbling about corrupted data and eventually accusing the device of simply hating him personally.

That was just how Fifield was, and you had thought, well… at least the rain would give you both something productive to do! While trapped inside the cramped camp containers, you could both go through the data and finally figure out what was wrong with the damn thing.

The idea had been good. The timing, disastrously wrong.

You had barely freed the sensor from its clasps when low, rolling thunder trembled through the sky - and the light mist of droplets suddenly fattened into sharp, stinging bullets against your skin.

Then the clouds broke, and a wall of rain slammed down.

“Oh, come on-!”

Clutching the sensor to your chest, you bolted, boots slipping through the rapidly forming mud. Cold, hard rain soaked through your jacket in seconds, lashes grew heavy as water blurred your vision, hair plastered flat against your scalp, sticking to your cheeks.

Muck splashed up your legs with every desperate step as you sprinted for the camp, almost slipping and falling multiple times.

Through the roaring sound of thunder, something else cut through, sharp and abrupt - A door slamming open, boots pounding through puddles, and your name shouted with urgency.

You skidded around the last row of storage crates, just as a figure barreled towards you through the curtain of rain. Tall, narrow-built, shoulders hunched against the wind, wrapped in a half-buttoned rain jacket that did absolutely nothing to keep him dry. 

“Are you out of your damn mind!?” Fifield shouted over the storm - not angry, not truly, just loud, because the rain drowned out everything else. His face was knotted with frustration, water streaming down his face, the battered field umbrella in his hand not able to stop the rain that the wind pushed against him, dripping off his nose, clinging to his fiery beard.

He stomped towards you with the determined, miserable energy of a man who did not want to be outside but had come anyway.

For you.

The second he reached you, he shoved the umbrella over both your heads - or as much of it as the wind allowed - and grabbed your elbow, steadying you before you could slip again.

“Jesus- you are soaked through,” he grumbled, eyes sweeping over your shivering form. “Do you have any idea how fast you could go hypothermic out here?”

“You didn’t have to come out,” you protested, breathless from the sprint, hugging the sensor to your chest as if it were priceless. Rain still dripped from your hair, running into your eyes, and you almost stumbled over your own feet. 

His grip tightened instantly, and he shot you a look that said very clearly: Are you actually serious right now?

“I am not pissed about going into the rain,” he snapped, though the snap was oddly soft. “I am pissed that you are in the rain. Half a kilometre from camp. During a bloody cloudburst.”

“I thought I had time,” you mumbled weakly.

“Yeah. Brilliant assumption.” His jaw ticked. “Look at you. You’re freezing to the bone.”

Without hesitation, he pulled the umbrella closer, practically tucking you beneath his arm as he guided you towards the camp container, one steady hand around your middle, gently pushing you on.

“Come on,” he muttered, softer now. “Inside. Out of those clothes and then hot food.”

“You cooked?” you asked, teeth beginning to chatter.

“Not yet,” he said, looking anywhere but at you. “But I’ll throw a can into the pot.”

Arriving at the door, he shoved it open with his shoulder, ushering you inside before following and slamming it shut behind him. Even through the metal walls, the heavy raindrops hammered mercilessly against the exterior.

You stood in the narrow entrance space, dripping, shivering, water pooling beneath you, the sensor still clutched to your chest. Fifield stared at you for half a second, cursing that damn sensor that had started this whole debacle, before stepping forward and gently prying the device from your numb fingers.

“I will deal with this later,” he muttered, setting it aside on the table. When he turned back, his expression tightened in concern. Your hair hung in wet ropes, your clothes clung to you like a second skin, and your lips were already tinged blue.

“Shit,” he breathed, and his calloused hand rose before he could second-guess himself, palm brushing your cheek. The heat spread instantly along your skin - you almost leaned into it. “You feel like ice.”

The worry leaked into his tone despite his best efforts.

“Clothes off, boots too. I’ll get you a towel.”

Before you could protest, he was already striding to the storage compartment, leaving puddled footprints behind.

You followed his instructions, fingers barely working as you undid the bootlaces, kicking them off, then peeling your soaked shirt and trousers from your chilled skin. They fell to the floor with wet, heavy thuds. You were far too cold to be embarrassed about your exposed form.

Fifield returned with an armful of towels and what looked unmistakably like his own spare shirt thrown on top.

“Alright,” he said, his voice a little rough as he stepped close again. He draped a large towel over your front, only setting his eyes on you once you were covered, then he set to work.

The coarse, utilitarian towel rasped over your arms and shoulders with a thoroughness that almost hurt - but the friction also slowly brought warmth back into your skin, so you said nothing and rather concentrated on fighting the heat rising to your cheeks.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmured, and in his focus he didn’t realise how close his hands had wandered to your chest. Your breath hitched - he felt it.

For half a heartbeat, the world narrowed to only that moment: your ragged breath, the water trickling from your hair, pearling over your collarbones, his hands hovering far too near.

Then he panicked.

“Right- Soup. I need to… soup.” Fifield retreated so fast he nearly slipped, anxiety radiating off him in uneven waves. He marched to the tiny kitchenette, grabbed the nearest supply crate as if it had personally offended him, dumped the contents of a can into the pot, turned on the portable stove and stirred it with far too much aggression.

After a moment, still facing away from you, he spoke. “You scared me. I opened the door and you weren’t back and-” He shook his head. “Dunno. My stomach dropped.”

You blinked, slipping into the spare shirt he had brought you, the fabric warm, smelling like him. “…Fifield, it was just rain. I am not made of sugar-”

“No.” He braced his hands on the counter, shoulders tense, rain still dripping from his beard. He had not taken one second to care for himself.

“It wasn’t just rain. You were out there alone - terrain’s uneven, visibility goes to shit in weather like that, and if you slipped, if you hit your head-”

He cut himself off, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

You rose, padding softly across the narrow floor towards him. He stiffened at your approach, fingers tightening on the edge of the counter until his knuckles whitened. Still, he would not look at you.

Picking up one of the towels from the pile, you stepped close, close enough to feel the tension beneath his skin - and then, gently, raised the towel and tousled it through his wild, soaked and slightly outgrown hair.

He froze.

The towel moved gently through his hair, smoothing down strands that stubbornly stuck to his forehead. “Sean,” you murmured softly, letting the towel drift down to his beard, brushing water from his jawline. “You should warm up, too.”

Slowly, so slowly, you watched his shoulders drop, as though your touch cracked through something he had been holding in for far too long.

His chest rose with a sudden breath, and then he finally looked at you - really looked at you. His eyes, usually narrowed in irritation or rolled in disbelief, were unshielded, vulnerable.

And something within him cracked.

In one motion, he reached out, his hands curling softly around your waist - he tugged you closer with something that felt dangerously close to desperation.

Before you could speak, he bent down and pressed his mouth to yours.

The towel slipped from your hands, falling silently to the floor.

You gasped in surprise, but your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up - melting into him, hands rising to his shoulders, feeling the tremor running through him, pushing yourself deeper into his embrace.

When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady, his hands still holding you as though the world outside might sweep you away again.

His voice dropped to a whisper, low, rasping.

“You really did not notice that I was falling in love with you, huh?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

He laughed under his breath - short, bitter, derisive - as though making fun of his own helplessness.

“Had to track you down in a cloudburst,” he murmured, thumb brushing your hip, “and even then, you were as oblivious as before.”

Your lips parted, your pulse ringing in your ears, and instead of searching for the right words, you simply leaned in and kissed him again - slow, tender, reassuring.

Pulling back just enough to breathe, your nose brushed his in a soft nudge. Gosh, his hopeful expression was cute. “I am sorry,” you whispered, your voice warm against his mouth. “It is not unrequited, I’m just stupid...” 

Only then did you notice that his own soaked clothes had drenched the front of the clean shirt he had given you. With a quiet laugh, you reached past him and switched off the stove before the soup could boil over.

“You know,” you said, fingers slipping lightly along the hem of his wet jacket, “we should really get you out of these clothes. I heard that body heat is the best remedy in such situations.”

[crack-canon]

Perhaps in another life they would’ve been besties