• Lo’ak = leash kid (like fucking seriously, kid is so unhinged for no reason)
• Neteyam and Aonung should’ve been like bffs because of all the shit Lo’ak has pulled (✨annoyance bonding✨)
• Kiri has held a grudge against Ronal ever since she called all the kids “not true Na’vi”
• Ronal kinda feels bad and has been trying to take Kiri under her wing with healing practices and such
• Tuk and Tsireya LOVE spending time with each other and they constantly poke fun at Lo’ak for random things
• Neytiri = tired mom aesthetic
• Neteyam used to keep a collection of rocks back when he was little (Jake was the reason he started it (Jake also had a rock collection as a kid on Earth))
• Aonung never verbally apologized to Kiri, so he made her a new necklace instead (Kiri has no idea Aonung made her the necklace)
• Neytiri continues to wear Neteyam’s necklace😭
• Lo’ak let’s Tsireya wear his necklace from time to time
• Jake gets really competitive when it comes to fishing (all the kids hate it🤣)
• Ronal offers to tattoo Neytiri and Jake after the battle
• Tonowari and Jake often swap stories about their kids when they were babies, how they met their wives, their own childhoods, etc.
• Spider was such a tattletale when he was little
UPDATES
• Palukan has been named a hero of sorts among the Metkayina (Lo’ak is very proud of him)
• Spider avoids Neytiri👀
• Rotxo, Aonung and Lo’ak go on fishing trips (ones where they don’t abandon him)
• Tonowari and Ronal welcomed their third child (another girl😁) a few weeks after the battle
• Tuk and Kiri still find new stuff in the reefs
• Jake has taken up wood carving and made a toy for Tonowari and Ronal’s infant daughter
• Neytiri fixes her father’s bow with things from the reef (Ronal showed her how)
I just rewatched The Way of the water because I’m going to see Fire and Ash again with my parents and they were a little fuzzy on the previous movie and oh my god, Jake is such an hypocrite. I just can’t take him seriously anymore. He really wins worst father ever
𓇼 N/A: the story is set after the events of Avatar: The Way of the Water, and will develop in Avatar: Fire and Ash.
𓇼 Serie’s Chapterlist
𓇼 Ao'nung x Na'vi!reader
Previous 𓇼 Next
Chapter 2: Beneath Watching Eyes
Dawn reaches the reef slowly.
Light spills across the water in pale bands of gold and blue, refracted through the gentle rise and fall of the tide. You wake before the village stirs, long before voices carry over the marui platforms, before eyes begin to watch.
You sit up quietly.
The marui smells faintly of salt and woven kelp fibers, of unfamiliar hands and borrowed space. It is not uncomfortable—but it is not yours. You have learned not to linger where you do not belong.
Outside, the sea waits.
You rise without sound, gathering your weapons out of habit more than necessity. The bow remains behind; you do not need it yet.
You leave the marui without waking anyone.
The woven doorway shifts softly as you slip through, kelp fibers brushing your shoulders, whispering back into place behind you. The village still sleeps, most of it anyway. A few early risers move along the platforms, their silhouettes quiet and distant, but no one stops you.
They are already used to you being… elsewhere.
The sand is cool beneath your feet as you step down into the shallows. For a moment, you hesitate—not from fear, but from awareness. You’ve learned to listen before acting, to feel the space you’re about to enter.
The reef answers first.
Water curls around your ankles, not pulling, not pushing—adjusting. The current shifts subtly to accommodate your weight, the pressure changing just enough to steady you. It feels… familiar. Not welcoming in the way people welcome, but in the way a path opens because it recognizes the shape of your step.
You exhale.
“Eywa ngahu,” you murmur softly, letting the words flow into the water. Eywa, be with me.
As you wade deeper, fish glide past you instead of scattering. A cluster of anemones pulse open as you pass, their colors deepening in the early light. You move slowly, deliberately, letting the reef learn you as much as you learn it.
You are not here to conquer it.
You are here to listen.
The welders’ words surface again, unbidden.
A wrongness in the currents.
A place the water avoids.
A silence where there should be song.
You angle your path toward deeper water, following the subtle pull you’ve felt since arriving—faint, almost imagined, but persistent. The further you go, the quieter the village becomes, until the only sounds left are your breathing and the low, living murmur of the reef.
You dive.
The water closes over you like a held breath released. You move with practiced ease, strokes smooth and economical, tail guiding your turns. The reef opens before you in layered terraces of coral and stone, light filtering down in fractured beams.
And then you see him.
Ao’nung cuts through the water ahead, movement sharp and confident, every stroke precise. He isn’t alone. Two others swim with him, their paths weaving in and out of his, playful and synchronized. You recognize them immediately—faces you saw in the marui the day you arrived, standing near Ronal and Tonowari, watching you with open curiosity.
They laugh softly underwater, nudging each other, spinning around a coral outcrop before darting off again. Ao’nung corrects one of them with a quick gesture, and they adjust instantly, grinning even as they do.
Familiarity.
Something twists in your chest—brief, sharp, gone as quickly as it comes. You tuck yourself behind a tall coral arch, instinctively stilling your movements. Observation is safer. Observation gives you control.
You watch the way Ao’nung moves when he isn’t posturing. How his body follows the reef’s contours without effort. How the others respond to him without hesitation. There is no tension there, no need to prove anything.
You take note.
The reef hums softly around you, unbothered by your stillness. A school of small fish passes between you and the coral, momentarily obscuring your view.
When they clear, Ao’nung has stopped.
He doesn’t turn right away.
Instead, the water around him tightens—currents adjusting, pressure shifting. His shoulders tense. Awareness radiates from him like a ripple spreading outward.
Then he turns.
His gaze locks onto yours.
The space between you narrows without either of you moving. Tension snaps tight, as palpable as a drawn bowstring. Your tail flicks once as you exhale, the motion sharp, controlled.
Recognition settles without language.
You lift your chin slightly, eyes never leaving his. One hand rises instinctively, fingers spreading before curling inward again—an unconscious challenge, not a sign you were taught, not meant to be understood.
Ao’nung stills.
Then his hands move.
Fast. Precise. Deliberate.
His fingers slice through the water in sharp motions you don’t recognize—clearly practiced, clearly intentional. The message is directed at you, there’s no doubt of that. But the meaning escapes you entirely.
You don’t try to interpret it.
Instead, you watch the tension in his wrists, the controlled force behind each movement. His tail snaps once, irritation bleeding through his otherwise disciplined posture.
Whatever he’s saying, it isn’t friendly.
Your eyes lift back to his face. Slowly, deliberately, you tilt your head—not confused, not submissive. Merely unimpressed.
He notices.
His hands still abruptly. Jaw tightening, frustration flickering across his expression. Whatever reaction he expected, he doesn’t get it.
You don’t wait.
With a powerful kick, you surge upward, breaking away from the standoff. The reef parts as you rise, water peeling from your body as you breach the surface in a spray of droplets and sharp breath.
Air burns into your lungs.
A heartbeat later, Ao’nung surfaces beside you, sending a ripple across the water.
Only now—only with breath and sound returned—does confrontation find its voice.
Only now do you speak.
The water settles slowly after you surface, ripples spreading outward until they dissolve into the reef’s quiet breathing.
Ao’nung remains where he is, chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on you with a sharpness that feels almost physical. The sea laps at both of you, indifferent to the tension tightening the space between your bodies.
“You surface just to avoid the conversation,” he says finally, voice edged. “Cowardly.”
You turn your head slightly, studying the horizon instead of him. “I surfaced because I don’t speak water.”
That earns a sharp exhale from him. “You understood enough.”
“Did I?” you ask coolly. “Or did you just assume I would?”
His jaw tightens. He steps closer, enough that the water brushes your hips, his presence undeniable. “You shouldn’t be alone this far from the village.”
“I didn’t ask for a keeper.”
“I’m not your—”
“Srung si,” you cut in quietly. Guardian
The Na’vi word lands harder than its volume suggests.
Ao’nung stiffens. “You twist words.”
“I observe them.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. The reef hums faintly beneath your feet, currents tightening just slightly, as if listening.
Ao’nung’s gaze drops briefly — not to your face, but lower, to the tattoo inked high on your chest near your shoulder. His eyes linger for a fraction of a second too long.
You notice.
“If you’re done staring,” you say evenly, “train me. Or move.”
Something sharp flashes across his expression — pride, irritation, something closer to intrigue.
“Fine,” he snaps. “Zola’u nìtxan.” You asked for it
He dives without another word.
You follow immediately.
The water closes around you, pressure steady, familiar. Ao’nung doesn’t slow down. He cuts through the reef in tight arcs, forcing you to adjust quickly or be left behind. Coral flashes past, sunlight fracturing overhead.
He tests you first — sudden turns, sharp dives, feints meant to throw you off balance.
You don’t take the bait.
Instead, you let the current guide you, conserving movement, waiting. When he lunges, you twist aside at the last possible moment, letting his momentum carry him past you.
His surprise is brief — but real.
He pivots fast, coming back harder this time. The exchange sharpens. No words, no signs — only movement and intent.
You clash forearms once, twice. The impact reverberates through the water, sending a pulse through your muscles. Ao’nung grins underwater, feral and pleased.
Good.
He presses closer, trying to crowd you, forcing proximity. You don’t retreat — you redirect. A subtle shift of your hips, a sweep of your tail, and the current tightens around you, lending you speed you didn’t ask for.
You hook his arm and twist.
The reef responds instantly.
Not dramatically. Not violently.
Just enough.
Ao’nung loses balance, drifting back a pace. His eyes widen — not in fear, but in startled confusion.
You close the distance and plant your palm against his chest, shoving him back deliberately.
The contact lingers.
Too long to be accidental.
He freezes.
The reef seems to hold still with him.
Then he breaks away sharply, pushing upward toward the surface.
You follow.
Air burns into your lungs as you break through, water streaming from your braids. Ao’nung surfaces beside you, eyes dark, breathing uneven.
“You fight like you don’t care who wins,” he says.
“I fight like someone who doesn’t plan to lose,” you reply.
“Ke tsranten,” he mutters. Reckless
A faint smile curves your mouth. “So are storms.”
Before he can respond, voices cut across the water.
“Well,” a boy says cheerfully, surfacing nearby, “that looked personal.”
Ao’nung groans. “Ma Eywa…”
More figures surface around him — familiar faces now. The girl with calm eyes and gentle posture meets your gaze without fear. There’s curiosity there, and something warmer.
“Oel ngati kameie, newcomer” she says.
She inclines her head politely. “I’m Tsireya.”
A broad-shouldered boy surfaces beside her, nodding once. “Roxto.”
The one who spoke looks coldly at you. “Lo’ak.”
A small girl pops up last, eyes wide. “I'm Tuk!”
Another girl rises more slowly, eyes distant, studying you like she’s listening to something you can’t hear.
“Kiri,” she says softly.
You absorb them in silence, measuring tones, posture, the way they orient themselves — around Ao’nung, around each other.
“Y/n Seyelanu,” you say finally. “te Tìkara.”
The water shifts.
Barely noticeable — but enough.
Kiri inhales sharply. “Eywa…”
Ao’nung’s head snaps toward you. “Did you do that?”
“I didn’t touch anything.”
But the reef says otherwise.
The current deepens beneath your feet, a low vibration humming through coral and stone. Light pulses faintly along the reef wall — uneven, searching.
Tsireya frowns. “Fì’u ke lu nì’aw frapo.” This isn’t normal.
Ao’nung steps closer to you without realizing it. “What did you bring here?” he demands, voice low.
You don’t answer.
Because deep below the reef, something stirs — not rejecting you, not welcoming you.
Recognizing you.
And for the first time, you wonder if the wound you came to find has been aware of you all along.
𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃
Silence follows you like a held breath.
For a long moment, nothing moves.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, the reef resumes its rhythm. Currents smooth where you passed, coral easing back into its patient sway, schools of fish drifting into motion again as if nothing has happened. But the stillness you leave behind is not peace—it is watchful. Alert. As though the water itself is listening for your return.
Ao’nung doesn’t move at first.
He remains suspended where you left him, gaze locked on the empty stretch of water that swallowed you whole. His jaw is clenched so tightly it aches, teeth grinding as unease crawls beneath his skin. Not because you walked away.
But because the reef did not resist you.
It didn’t recoil.
It didn’t still.
It followed.
Ronal’s voice cuts cleanly through the quiet, sharp as a blade through kelp.
“Ao’nung.”
He turns at once.
She is already moving toward him, powerful strokes carrying her across the water. Her eyes are sharp, posture rigid, her attention not on her son—but on the place where the currents have yet to fully settle.
“Nga tsun tsivun fì’u,” she says. You felt this
It isn’t a question.
Ao’nung hesitates.
That single pause is answer enough.
“The current shifted,” Ronal continues, her voice low, controlled, edged with something old and dangerous. “Ke lu txampay aysäfpìl. Ke lu ayvìng.” Not the tide, not movement
Tonowari watches in silence from a distance, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable. His eyes track the reef, not his son.
Ao’nung exhales sharply, frustration flaring. “It was just her fighting style.”
Ronal’s head snaps toward him.
“Kea tìng mikyun fì’ut,” she snaps. Do not cheapen this
Then, colder: “Ke lu fì’u nì’aw.” This is not anything
Her gaze flicks back toward the direction you vanished. For a heartbeat, something like recognition—old, uneasy, half-buried—passes across her face.
“She did not take from the water,” Ronal says slowly, each word deliberate. “Pay nì’ul fìtseng.” The water leaned toward her
The words land heavier than any reprimand.
Ao’nung’s throat tightens. His fingers curl reflexively at his side.
He doesn’t reply.
𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃 𓂃
You don’t stop until the reef deepens.
Light thins as you descend, fractured into pale ribbons that barely reach this far. Coral grows darker here—older, heavier, shaped by centuries of pressure and patience. The hum beneath your skin grows louder the farther you drift from the shallows, a resonance that vibrates through your bones rather than your ears.
You press a hand briefly to your chest, steadying your breath.
Nothing, you remind yourself.
That’s what you were called.
Your jaw tightens.
A memory flickers—not as images, not as words, but as sensation: heat without warmth. A presence looming just behind you. The crushing weight of expectation that never fit your shape, never fit you.
You shove it down hard.
The reef doesn’t let it go.
The water around your arm ripples faintly, reacting to the spike in your tension. You still it instinctively, forcing control back into your limbs, breathing slow and measured.
Then you feel it.
Not sound.
Not movement.
Awareness.
You turn just as Ao’nung breaks the surface nearby, hauling himself onto a low rock formation streaked with salt and algae. Water streams from his braids as he straightens, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on you.
He doesn’t speak at first.
He just watches—expression conflicted, raw, stripped of the earlier bravado.
“You shouldn’t be down here alone,” he says finally.
You lift an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Following me now?”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, scowling. “You left.”
“Because I was done.”
The water between you stirs, faint currents curling toward your legs as if drawn there. Ao’nung notices this time. His eyes flick down, then back up, sharper now. More cautious.
“What are you?” he asks quietly.
Your lips curve—not in amusement, not in warmth. “That’s a dangerous question.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “The reef hasn’t acted like this since—”
He stops.
Since what?
Before he can finish, the water below you shifts.
Not violently.
Not yet.
A deep, low tremor pulses through the reef, subtle enough that only those attuned would feel it. Nearby coral dims, bioluminescence flickering unevenly, as if the light itself is struggling to hold form. The hum in your chest spikes—sharp, sudden—like a string pulled too tight.
You gasp despite yourself.
Ao’nung swears under his breath. “That wasn’t you… was it?”
The water answers before you can.
A slow, spiraling current forms beneath your feet, deliberate, controlled, mirroring the shape of the tattoo etched near your shoulder. Light bends through it strangely, refracting into curves that feel familiar—old symbols, half-remembered, wrong in this place and yet unmistakable.
Ronal’s voice echoes faintly from above now, edged with urgency.
“Ao’nung—txìm! Nì’aw!” Step back! Now!
He doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches out—not touching you, but close enough that the water between your hands thrums, alive with tension.
The pull between you sharpens. Not just physical. Something else entirely—recognition without memory, a bond forming where none should exist.
“You didn’t come here by accident,” he says, awe threading his voice despite himself.
Your eyes burn—not ember now, but something deeper, brighter, like light filtered through storm water. You don’t know how you know it. The certainty simply settles into you, heavy and unyielding.
“There’s something wrong here,” you whisper. “And it knows me.”
The reef pulses again—stronger.
Somewhere far below, something stirs.
Wounded.
Ancient.
Aware.
Ao’nung’s hand tightens into a fist at his side. “Then whatever you are,” he says, voice low, fierce, “you’re not facing it alone.”
The water surges suddenly, snapping both of you back into the present.
Above, Ronal and Tonowari are already moving, expressions grave, voices urgent. The others watch with wide eyes, sensing the shift even if they don’t yet understand it.
And deep beneath the reef—where Eywa’s song falters and fractures, where the water no longer remembers how to sing—
Something has finally found what it’s been calling for.
You.
The surge passes—but the tension does not.
Water rushes back into its channels, snapping currents into motion again, yet the reef does not return to normal. It hesitates. Light flickers unevenly along the coral wall, bioluminescence stuttering as though the reef itself is struggling to remember the rhythm it has kept for centuries.
You feel it in your spine.
Not pain.
Pressure.
A presence pressing upward from the depths, slow and deliberate, like something enormous shifting beneath a thin layer of sand.
Above you, shapes move.
Ronal and Tonowari descend swiftly now, no longer observers but guardians, their bodies cutting clean paths through the water. Around them, the others hover at a cautious distance—Lo’ak restless and wide-eyed, Tsireya tense but steady, Kiri utterly still, her head tilted as though she is listening to something none of them can hear.
Ao’nung stays where he is.
Between you and the deep.
The current curls tighter around your legs, not restraining, not pulling—anchoring. You feel the reef make a choice, subtle but unmistakable. It does not push you away. It does not shield itself from you.
It holds you in place.
Your breath comes shallow now, chest rising too fast. You close your eyes for half a heartbeat, grounding yourself, fingers flexing against the water as if reminding yourself where you end.
The hum beneath your skin deepens.
Not louder—closer.
Ronal stops a few lengths away, her expression carved from stone. Her eyes flick from you, to the spiraling current beneath your feet, to the faint distortion in the water below—where the reef dips unnaturally, as if something has pressed against it from beneath.
“Fì’u… ke tsun tsivun nì’aw,” she says quietly. This cannot be ignored
Tonowari’s gaze sharpens. “The reef is responding.”
Kiri inhales sharply, a soft sound that cuts through the tension. “It’s not afraid,” she murmurs. “It’s… confused.”
Ao’nung’s jaw tightens. “Confused by her?”
Ronal does not answer immediately.
She watches you the way one watches the horizon before a storm—not for movement, but for meaning.
“Eywa does not reach without reason,” Ronal says at last. “Ke lu fì’u tì’eyng.” This is not a coincidence
The water beneath you pulses again.
This time, you don’t gasp.
You feel it move—not upward, not toward you, but around you. A wide, slow spiral, as though something vast has turned its attention and is circling, measuring, remembering.
Images threaten at the edges of your mind. Not visions—echoes. Broken sensations layered atop one another: stone splitting, water darkened by something wrong, a song cut short mid-note.
You open your eyes.
Ao’nung is watching you like you might vanish if he looks away.
“What do you see?” he asks, voice rough.
You swallow. “I don’t know. But it feels like… a place that never healed.”
Ronal’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.
“There are stories,” she says, careful now. “Old ones. Of places where Eywa’s voice thinned. Where the reef grew quiet because something beneath it was hurting.”
The word settles heavy in the water.
Hurting.
The current tightens once more—gentle, insistent—urging your attention downward. Not commanding. Asking.
Ao’nung steps closer without thinking, close enough that his arm brushes yours. This time, the water does not flare. It accepts the contact, weaving smoothly around both of you.
Ronal notices.
Her eyes narrow.
“You are bound to this,” Ao’nung says, not accusing—realizing. “Whatever it is.”
Your voice is steady when you answer, though your pulse races. “I came looking for a wound.”
The reef answers with a low, resonant tremor that rolls outward, rippling through coral and stone. Far below, something shifts again—slow, immense, awake.
Ronal exhales slowly, as if bracing herself.
“Then Eywa has heard your steps,” she says. “And she has not turned you away.”
The light around you dims just a fraction more, shadows deepening where the reef slopes downward into darkness. The water there feels heavier, denser—charged with memory and grief and something still unfinished.
Ao’nung’s hand curls into a fist at his side.
“Whatever’s down there,” he says quietly, fiercely, “it’s not just watching you anymore.”
You feel it too now.
The attention.
Focused. Intent.
And for the first time since you entered these waters, the certainty settles fully into place—not fear, not doubt, but knowing.
The wound you came to find has always been aware of you.
It has simply been waiting.
And now that you are here, the reef will not let you leave unchanged.
"mmh did you know that creator you like also posts 🔞 content? did you know that? don't you think that's weird? don't you think we should keep this space-"
no. i don't.
i booked a front row seat to the devil's sacrament and you're blocking the view
just go back to the 1660 new england hole you just crawled out of and eat barley for a week to atone for your sins or whatever
Summary: Pretending to be married wasn’t exactly the dream solution, but it was better than the constant parade of wandering hands and flirting that made concentrating on work seem impossible. Oh, and it would also hopefully protect you from loosing your job when a certain Colonel once again decided that you were his favorite past time activity in the base.
Warnings: explicit smut, doggy style, age difference (not exactly daddy issues but reader is thinking about the possibility), p in v, oral (f receiving), size difference, authority kink, minimal misogyny / catcalling / non consensual flirting from coworkers, basically everyone wants y/n, lots of lying, lots of teasing, lots of sexual tension, semi-public sex, fake marriage, fake engagement ring
Notes: Huge thanks to my beloved @eywaite for allowing me to make this prompt become reality!! I love you for always feeding me the most juiciest ideas 🤭🩵
Sometimes you hated this job.
Recombinant Support Officer, or RSO for short. Lots of fancy-sounding words for what’s basically the professional babysitter of the recombinant team Deja Blue.
Your days are a blur of running around playing manager, nurse, personal assistant and part-time waitress. You fetch whatever they demand, no matter if it’s protein sludge, ammo or a snack they suddenly need in the middle of a briefing. You check their vitals, patch up minor wounds, monitor their workouts and make sure they don’t forget to hydrate. You keep them healthy, combat ready and basically presentable enough to show off to command.
And when one of them snaps their fingers? You’re there, med kit in one hand and coffee in the other, trying not to roll your eyes too hard. They’re supposed to be the pinnacle of military engineering. Most days however, it feels like you’re wrangling giant, moody housecats with assault rifles.
The military calls this "critical operational support." You however just call it the longest, never-ending shift of your life…
Okay, you may be exaggerating a bit. Usually it’s not that bad.
You get to order around people, which is kinda fun when they’re these genetically enhanced badasses who’d rather glare than listen to anyone but you. You’re the one calling the shots on the small stuff, like when to eat, when to rest, who needs patched up first, so you get a little taste of power.
And yeah, you do get to see some insane action every now and then, when the squad actually gets sent out instead of just flexing in the lab. Makes the whole circus feel kinda worth it.
Sometimes they actually surprise you, too. Like when one of them cracks a joke or thanks you for keeping their sorry asses alive. That’s a win.
It's nice to know they need you. But that isn't the part that bothers you. No, what bothers you is that even though they’re blue and inhumanly tall, they’re still men.
And the thing about men is that they are all the same. No matter how big, how strong or how blue their skin was, they were still just men. Selfish, arrogant assholes who think the world owes them something. Even underneath all that superhuman bullshit that should make them look like earths hero’s, they’re just men with zero self-awareness and a serious touch of entitlement.
In their spare time, when they’re not roughhousing with each other, the soldiers tease and flirt like you’re some prize they’re trying to snag, tossing around dumb jokes and smirks like it’s all just harmless fun. You’ve had to shut down more than one awkward friendly shoulder squeeze or accidental hand linger. And they don’t even realize they’re being gross half the time!
So yeah, it’s nice to know they need you, that you’re as much part of the team that they feel comfortable around you. But the constant parade of unwanted attention? That’s the part that wears you down.
This was one of those weeks, the kind that seemed to stretch on endlessly, where every shift bled into the next and sleep became more of a vague memory than an actual necessity. Between running interference on squad drama and making sure none of your overgrown blue idiots forgot how to eat properly (no, a cigarette and beer doesn’t count as breakfast), you were running on fumes.
So that morning, the cafeteria was your sanctuary. Early, quiet, blissfully free of soldiers. Just you in a corner booth, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that was finally, mercifully hot. A very rare occurrence.
You were halfway lost in thought, mentally counting how many hours of sleep you’d missed this week, when the artificial light above your head suddenly vanished and a shadow fell over your table.
"Well, ain’t this my lucky mornin’."
You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was: "Colonel."
"Boss." With a sharp grin, Quaritch slid into the seat across from you without waiting for an invite, his long blue frame making the table look like it belonged in a dollhouse. "Up early I see."
You took a sip of your coffee. "I’m trying to have breakfast without an audience for once."
Quaritch’s grin widened, before he tipped his own coffee mug up in cheers. "Hell, I’m the whole damn show, sugar. Front row seats, backstage pass. Comes free with my company."
A dry laugh escaped you. "Generous offer. But I’m still not interested."
"That’s cold," he said, feigning injury with a hand pressed dramatically to his chest. "Here I am, brightenin’ your day and you’re gonna shut me down like that?"
This was nothing new. Quaritch had a way of circling conversations like a predator that already knew it had the upper hand. Among all the recombinants, he was easily the most persistent, needling with a mix of sarcasm, shameless flirting and just enough sincerity to make it difficult to tell where his game ended. Or where it was even headed.
"Quitting isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?" You joked lightheartedly, yet your chuckle came out more nervous than you intended.
"Not when I see somethin’ worth the effort." His tone was smooth, confident, as if the words were a statement of fact rather than an attempt at charm.
You couldn’t help but squirm in your seat at that.
Quaritch was still grinning, all teeth and arrogance. Sometimes you thought he must’ve been paid by the number of flustered looks he could wring out of you, because when it wasn’t teasing, it was this thick, shameless flirting that made you want to either laugh awkwardly and flee the scene or pour cold water over your head to regain some sense of control over your own body.
Because truth be told, it was betraying you. Every. Single. Time.
Unfortunately you knew just where unprofessional work affairs would get you. And Pandora was not one of those places.
The stakes were too damn high for that kind of stupidity. Getting caught flirting (or worse) with the Colonel wouldn’t just earn you a slap on the wrist. It’d get you a one-way ticket off Pandora, and not the cushy kind with severance pay and a nice shuttle ride home. No, it’d be the kind where you’re tossed out with a 'don’t come back' stamped on your record, reputation shot to hell before you even made it through the debriefing.
But this right here, this was exactly where your newest plan finally came into play.
Born out of equal parts desperation and self-preservation, you had went out and bought the cheapest fake diamond you could find in a rundown supply store tucked away in one of Bridgehead’s less glamorous corners.
Pretending to be married, or at least engaged, wasn’t exactly the dream solution, but it was certainly better than the constant parade of wandering hands and flirting that made concentrating on work seem impossible. Oh, and it would also hopefully protect you from loosing your job (and dignity) when a certain Colonel once again decided that you were his favorite past time activity in the base. Because, let’s be honest, a simple 'no' would not work on this man. Not that you were able to ever tell him that, once it really came down to business.
So, with a subtle clearing of your throat, you let your hand rest casually on the table, the ring catching the light just enough to draw attention.
And just as you thought, his eyes immediately dropped to it. Quaritchs smirk faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before he recovered. "Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know ya‘ had a boyfriend."
"Fiancé," you correct, hiding your nervous smile behind your coffee mug.
He let out a low chuckle at that, shaking his head. "Huh. Bet he’s a lucky son of a bitch."
"Yeah," you said, quickly taking another slow sip. "He is."
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
It’s amazing how fast a simple band of metal changes the mood of team Deja Blue.
Only a couple of days later and the not-so-professional comments at work had dropped by half, the 'accidental' touches happened less and the teasing had shifted to dumb jokes about your 'lucky husband' instead of your ass. It was as though the squad had collectively decided that maybe there were better uses for their energy than testing boundaries.
Today’s task list, however, hadn’t gotten any shorter. Down in supply, a fresh shipment had arrived. Crates stacked high with whatever specialized gear Command had decided the recoms couldn’t live without this week.
Unfortunate for you, none of them moved itself.
Three bulky boxes were stacked in precarious balance against your chest, your arms straining to keep them steady. Every step down the hallway became an exercise in blind navigation, the top box blocking nearly all of your vision. The muffled thud of boots and distant chatter echoed off the metal walls as you shifted the boxes from one hip to the other, inching closer to the squad’s staging area.
Somewhere ahead, a shadow shifted into view, though the stack made it impossible to identify what or who was standing in your way. There was no warning, no greeting for that matter, just a sudden shift in weight as the boxes were lifted away in one smooth, unasked-for motion.
"Jesus, kid. C‘mere." Quaritch huffed, the boxes now cradled easily in his arms, his expression equal parts irritation and amusement, as though watching someone single handedly drag themselves into exhaustion was both maddening and weirdly impressive. His gaze flicked over to your now empty hands, then back to the face that had been hidden behind the boxes.
"Thanks, Colonel," you muttered, hiding the relief in your voice.
"Where do these go?" he asked, already walking ahead, like this little rescue operation was just a minor detour in his day.
"Oh, uh, these are for the squad," came your reply, already a little breathless from keeping pace with his big steps. "They’re headed to your floor."
A curt nod was all you received as an indication that he’s even heard you.
As you walked, Quaritch’s tail swished lazily behind him, a subtle, rhythmic motion that was impossible not to notice once your eyes had drifted in that direction. And that was certainly not because you were staring anywhere else in that region. There was just something about the way it moved, those sharp little flicks when he was irritated, that made it clear he wasn’t entirely thrilled to be here right now. Maybe it was the fact that someone had been hauling three boxes solo, maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, he carried these boxes as if they weighed nothing to him, which was definitely impressive.
From behind, it was hard not to let your gaze linger. The broad line of his back, the easy flex of his biceps, the muscles under his camo tank, even the casual confidence in every movement. It was an irritating kind of perfect. And sure, it was easy to dismiss that flicker of interest as something purely biological. Quaritch was tall, strong, yeah even a little bit handsome, but that didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything. Yes, that also may have made him look dangerous in all the best ways and infuriatingly capable, but it also made him off-limits.
So no, there was no real crush here. Just… an aesthetic appreciation. That was all.
Not to mention, he was so much older than you!
Old enough that if life had gone a little differently, he could’ve been the dad glaring at your prom date on the front porch.
The worst part about this was that you found it a teeny tiny bit attractive. Not the potential dad part— God, no, but the way it showed how much older he was.
Every time he called you 'kid' (and he did that a lot) it was like being smacked in the face with the reminder that you were barely halfway to his age and miles beneath him in experience, rank, and, well… every other way that counted. It was both a turn-off and a turn-on in the most deeply inconvenient, self-loathing and confusing sort of way.
Never, ever in a million years would you admit that to anyone. This piece of information about yourself was something you’d take to the grave.
Which was exactly why you had to actively force your eyes away now, because if he ever caught you staring you’d never hear the end of it.
"So," the Colonel drawled, slowing his steps just enough to glance over his shoulder with that stupidly hot half-smile, "your boyfriend know they let you do manual labor, sweet cheeks?"
"Fiancé." You correct him again. "And yes, he does."
"And he’s fine with it?" Quaritch pressed. The corner of his mouth twitched with a flicker of curiosity, though there was a certain weight in his stare that you guessed meant he probably wouldn’t like whatever answer was coming.
You arched an eyebrow in return. "Why wouldn’t he be?"
"M’just sayin’," he shrugged, shifting the boxes in his arms with ease. "You’re such a tiny thing, I wouldn’t want my girl carryin’ boxes twice her weight."
A short, nervous laugh escaped you. "Well, lucky I’m not your girl then, huh?"
Quaritch didn’t bother replying to that. He just let out a low, amused scoff, as if the very idea of you being his was so far-fetched it was laughable. Oh, well. There goes another blow straight to your self esteem. Not that there was much left to chip away at when it came to Quaritch anyways. He was so out of your league, the both of you (and basically the rest of the world) already knew that. No need to sulk about that in self-pity.
The rest of the walk stretched in silence, his boots echoing dully against the corridor floor until you stepped through the wide double doors into Team Deja Blue’s common area.
This part of their floor looked exactly like a bunch of oversized soldiers had claimed it as theirs.
There was an absurdly large couch sprawled across one wall like it had been built for titans, all rumpled cushions and a suspicious stain you weren’t willing to identify. In the center sat a pool table so big it looked like it had been stolen from a luxury cruise liner, with pool cues that could double as spears. A mini fridge, that was about as tall as you, hummed quietly in the corner, plastered with dented RDA stickers, pictures of na’vi pinup girls and the faint smear of what looked like dried hot sauce across the handle. Ew.
This room smelled like the unmistakable cocktail of protein powder, sweat and whatever half-eaten ration pack someone had abandoned in the sink. Your nose wrinkled and you took a mental note to get someone to come in here this afternoon with industrial-strength disinfectant.
In the open gym section, the heavy clank of weights rang out as one of the men grunted through a bench press. Meanwhile, Lyle was flexing in front of the mirrored wall. Behind him, Z-Dog sat cross-legged on Mansk back while he cranked out push-ups, barking encouragement like some sadistic personal trainer. A few others lounged across the couch, trading jabs over a card game.
"These go into the storage room next door," you told Quaritch, moving to take one of the boxes from his arms.
He didn’t argue, just shifted his grip so you could grab hold.
In the storage room, narrow industrial shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly labeled crates of gear, recom supplements and spare uniforms.
Balancing the weight in your arms, you stepped past Quaritch and made for the nearest empty shelf, stacking one box on top of another with a grunt. The second you did, there was an unpleasant little snag. Your hand caught somewhere between the cardboard and the metal of the shelf. You hissed under your breath, tugged, and before you knew it, the fake engagement ring went spinning off your finger and clinked against the floor.
Quaritch’s gaze tracked it instantly.
He set his own box down with a solid thunk and, without a word, strode over in one step. One large hand swept it up from the floor, his long fingers turning it once between them as though examining it.
When he straightened, the ring sat gleaming in the center of his palm, dwarfed by the sheer size of his hand. His eyes flicked from the cheap little diamond back to you.
"I know I said you’re tiny," Quaritch murmured with a dry chuckle, “but that thing is ridiculous, even for you. It’s so small."
"Excuse me?" The words came out sharper than intended as you stepped forward and quickly snatched it from his fingers.
His smirk didn’t budge, if anything, it deepened. "I’m just sayin’. Your fiancé must not love you if that’s the best rock he could put on your finger."
You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, not entirely from embarrassment but also because his words hurt. Fake marriage or not, you felt offended by his comment.
"It’s not always about the size!" You grumbled angrily.
"Sure it ain’t," he chuckled. "Man lets his girl bust her back carryin’ shit at work and sticks her with a pebble from the bottom of a fish tank. Sounds like a real winner."
That was the last thing you’ve heard him call after you, after you squeezed yourself between him and the door, and marched off.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
The water tastes sweet.
It takes you by surprise and for a split second you think of spitting it out. If this was the same water you got in the canteen yesterday then it should still taste like the bottom of a boot or licking a stop sign. But it doesn’t. Now it’s citrus and sugar, things you hadn’t tasted since before the world went to shit and your minimal pay on this exo-moon was spent on more important things and not… Lemonade.
You glance down at the translucent cup in your hand, brows furrowing in confusion. It’s lunch hour and the usual grumble of tired bodies and clinking trays slowly fill the cafeteria.
You swallow as slowly as you can, savoring a flavor that may end up killing you if that turns out to be poison or something. But there’s nothing. It really is just lemonade.
Interesting.
Usually, the only liquid that ever crossed your lips since you’ve landed here was water and the occasional black coffee so bitter it could strip paint. Lemonade wasn’t part of the deal. Not for someone at your rank, not unless you were dreaming or someone had screwed up the dispensers. Or… paid for your ration.
Here, everyone carried those thin, plastic cards that could be scanned at the drink machine or the food line. The machine would then spit out whatever ration or meal plan had been assigned for you, a hardcoded limit on what you could order. Usually, that meant choosing between two options neither of which was worth getting excited about.
You take a sip again, eyes scanning the room, wondering if someone upstairs finally decided to cut you some slack. Like that’d ever happen.
The higher-ups and the recombinants, those were the only ones who could afford things like lemonade, beer, or even an occasional steak. And speaking of the devil…
"Trouble in paradise?" Quaritch’s voice cuts through the background noise like a knife.
Before you can blink, he’s already settled himself to sit opposite of you, that damn grin stretched wide, looking almost hopeful as he’s waiting for a response. Hopeful for what… exactly?
"Huh?" You stare at him, dumbfounded. His gaze flickers down and you follow his direct line of sight. The ring! You must’ve forgotten to put it on this morning.
"Oh! Oh, that. Uhm, no I, I’m just getting it cleaned." It’s a lame excuse and you know chances are high he’s not buying it, but Quaritch just raises a brow, clearly disappointed. That must have not been the answer he was looking for.
Before another beat can pass, the weight of his stare makes your skin prickle. That flicker of disappointment in his eyes is almost worse than the grin. On top of that, he’s a lot more intimidating when he’s quiet like this.
You scramble for an escape hatch. "So… the lemonade." You lift the cup with an awkward smile, waiting for him to put two and two together.
The Colonel’s laugh was low and quick, the kind that rumbled in his chest and made your shoulders hitch. He leaned back in his chair, big arms folding over his chest. "What? Can’t spoil my favorite girl?"
"It’s Recombinant Support Officer," came your prim correction.
He snorted, one brow hitching up. "Yeah, whatever, kid."
There was a long, drawn-out sip from the lemonade, partly to hide the flush creeping up, partly to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. Of course, that only earned you a slow head tilt from across the table, like he was evaluating whether the drink or your fluster was sweeter.
Now that you were thinking about it, today was the second time this week the Colonel lingered in the cafeteria without the rest of his merry band of chaos following in his wake. That alone was unusual. Quaritch was a pack animal, the squad usually orbited him like stubborn moons. Seeing him here alone, sitting across the table with no distraction but the occasional sip from his coffee, sent an odd ripple of unease crawling up your spine.
Not fear exactly, he wasn’t about to flip the table and throw punches, but a different kind of nervousness. The kind that came from being the sole focus of someone who didn’t often give their attention in such a concentrated dose. And the lemonade? Clearly his way to apologize for the rude comment about your ring size the other day.
You idly stabbed your fork at the pile of mashed potatoes on your tray, more a performance of eating than an actual attempt at it. Every so often, an obligatory bite was taken just to keep yourself from looking too obvious, though chewing felt mechanical under the weight of Quaritchs unblinking gaze.
There was a feeling of hyper awareness of every movement, how long it took to lift the fork, whether your posture looked too stiff, if avoiding his eyes made it seem suspicious or just obvious. But still, he stayed put, leaning back and watching you like his favorite show was on.
"The squads been wondering when we‘ll get to meet the lucky guy," Quaritch said eventually.
The cup in your hand met the table harder than you had planned, a muted thunk that drew his eyes briefly downward before they came back up, pinning the focus squarely in place. Great. Now you were sweating for real.
Once more, the tray in front of you became very interesting. Stabbing at the limp cafeteria greens felt safer than holding his stare, though the fork kept scraping against the plastic in a way that was far too loud to be considered subtle.
"Oh uh, never I guess." You forced it out as casual as possible. "I keep my private and work life strictly separated."
Opposite of you, Quaritchs gaze didn’t waver. There was no smirk and no easy grin this time, just a low grumbled, "Aha."
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
"Pick it up, ladies! I’ve seen retirees with hip replacements run faster than this!"
That damn whistle of yours split through the morning air again, sharp enough to make Quaritch’s ears ring.
There was something about the smug little way you stood on the inside of the track, clipboard in one arm, whistle dangling from the other hand. Your shorts, fitted top, hair tied back just enough to keep it out of your face… Christ, you looked like a high school PE teacher who’d swapped dodgeball for military-grade training.
Behind him, a few groans rose from the pack. Z-Dog threw a glance over her shoulder, her signature smirk in place, before she broke into a bark of laughter.
"Pretty sure this counts as harassment, boss!" She called out.
"Pretty sure you still have another three laps," you countered without missing a beat. The laugh that followed was completely unbothered.
The sun caught on the sheen of sunscreen across your shoulders, highlighting the faint smirk you wore every time someone groaned or cursed under their breath. That, of course, only egged you on. You could be a real sadist if you wanted to, he had to give you that.
"Straighten up, Wainfleet! You’re leaning like you’re dodging sniper fire— fix it!" Another blast of the whistle, followed by some spiel about daily training goals like you were the damn drill sergeant here.
Quaritch smirked despite himself. There was a part of him that almost respected the nerve. Most people simply kept their mouths shut around the recoms unless they wanted a bad day. Not you, though.
Little spitfire. Barely came up to his shoulder and yet somehow had the balls to bark at a squad of recombinant marines.
"She’s enjoying this way too much," Fike muttered from somewhere next to him, just loud enough for the others to hear. A few chuckles followed at that.
"Yeah, she’s only here to watch us suffer." Wainfleet, never one to keep his damn mouth shut, didn’t even bother lowering his voice as he poked Fikes side with his elbow. "Waste of a good view if you ask me."
That earned him another round of snickers from the rest of the squad.
"I wonder if she’s that bossy with her husband," Prager then chimed in, words laced with a grin Quaritch didn’t need to see to picture. "Poor dude probably doesn’t get a say in bed either."
"Yeah, bet she’s got a damn spreadsheet for it," someone else added. Most likely Wainfleet, by the sound of his smug laughter.
Again, Z-Dogs shrill voice piped up, "Hell, if she gives him performance reviews like she gives us, I feel bad for the guy."
Enough of that. Quaritch gave a sharp whistle of his own, the kind that cut clean through their gutter talk. That got them moving again, boots thudding against the packed dirt in uneven rhythm. A few of them still muttered under their breath, but it was drowned out by the slap of sneakers and the shrill blast of your whistle. If their banter had hit, there wasn’t a flicker of it showing. Maybe their little comments didn’t register to you anymore, just another layer of morning noise, like the hum of the electric fence or the smell of wet earth.
Still, the mental picture stuck in his head like a tick. Some poor sap, thinking he’s king shit in his own little castle, while getting steamrolled daily by a five-foot-nothing hurricane. A guy like that probably asks permission before touching so much as a shoulder. Probably schedules his own sex life around your damn Google calendar.
Quaritch bit back a laugh. That’s not what a woman like you needed. Not some limp handshake motherfucker who folds like a lawn chair every time you bark an order. No, you were the type of woman who needed to get yanked right out of that command tower, shoved up against the wall, and reminded you didn’t have to hold the reins every second of every day. Let you lean back, breathe for once, and watch somebody else put in the work. You needed someone to fuck that tension right out of your little body, turn you into a real mess, until you were satisfied and fed. Not this pencil-pusher you were supposedly shackled to now. You needed a real man.
But that tiny ring belonged to a man who probably thought taking charge meant picking between the two options of a dinner date that you had planned. Poor bastard didn’t even know the fire he was sitting on.
After a quick medical checkup once you’ve had decided their morning cardio was done, a shower and choking down whatever the cafeteria was pretending was chicken, the squad drifted off to kill their free time.
Quaritch however, had a briefing to sit through. One of those that dragged on well past its usefulness while some corporate type clicked through slides of information he’d already heard twice this month. Unable to keep his focus on the slide show about na’vi migration patterns and some half-baked plan to foster cultural understanding, his gaze kept drifting to the datapad balanced on his knee. His thumb dragged over the brightness slider that refused to land anywhere between blinding and nearly black.
After the third flare of white across the screen, the Colonel exhaled slowly through his nose. Not that this was urgent, but irritating enough to decide it needed fixing once this was over.
When the meeting finally wrapped, he headed straight for the IT department.
The echo of his boots on the tile carried down the corridor, drawing a few sidelong glances from passing people. Some stiffened automatically, stepping aside to give him a clear path. Others held his gaze for half a second too long, that mix of wariness and grudging respect written plain on their faces. A pair of soldiers straightened from their slouch against the wall and snapped quick salutes as he passed, earning nothing more than a curt nod in return.
The second floor’s hallways were quieter, lined with the less glamorous offices and departments. IT sat at the far end, the door unmarked except for a faded placard with a serial number no one bothered to replace.
Quaritch didn’t knock when he reached it, just swung the door open and ducked under it.
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
The low murmur of conversations and the clack of keys faltered, replaced by the same silence that often followed when his big shadow fell across a room.
Rows of desks were cluttered with cables, monitors and the occasional half-drunk cup of coffee. Most of the occupants were men, heads bent over their work, but a few women also sat among them, their posture stiffening as his gaze swept over the room.
The first to actually move towards and approach him was, surprisingly, a woman. A woman with more balls than the rest of these nerds in here. She was tall, soft around the middle and with a mess of red curls tied back in a loose knot. With thick glasses perched low on her nose, she certainly looked like she belonged here.
Now that he looked at her up close, there was something familiar about her face, though he couldn’t place from where exactly. She might be one of those people he‘d seen in passing often enough to know they belonged, but not enough to remember their name.
"Colonel," she greeted with a polite nod, "What can I do for you, sir?"
"This needs fixing." Quaritch shifted the datapad in his grip, holding it out for her. "Thing‘s been acting up all day and I can’t figure it out."
The woman in front of him nodded briskly. "Alright, just give me a moment, sir."
But when she turned toward her desk, he didn’t move to the entirely too small chair she’d no doubt intended for him without second thought. Instead, he fell in step right behind her, the soft squeak of her flats barely covering the heavier sound of his boots. She glanced back once, then decided not to argue with the man twice her size.
The desk she led him to was a battlefield of stacked folders and open manuals. There were a few familiar devices to the datapad in her hand as well, all of them connected to her computer by a chaos of several different colored cables.
The redhead slid into her chair and began tapping at the screen, narrating in a quick, clipped tone about recalibrating the sensor and adjusting some internal settings. But Quaritch didn’t bother to take in any of her words. His attention had already shifted, eyes skimming over the chaotic sprawl in front of him. Two handwritten notes about codes he couldn’t make sense of hung on the edge of her monitor, right next to a small framed picture that stood on the desk.
The photo showed her and a few other women, smiles wide and carefree, arms draped around each other as they were holding their boarding passes to Pandora. Friends, maybe. Nothing unusual at first glance.
But then his gaze hit the far right of the frame, and his chest hitched ever so slightly at this one particular face. There you were, all smiles and grin wide enough to make the sun jealous. Made him wonder how anyone could look that damn confident and still get through life without flattening half the idiots around them.
A slow grin began to form on his face, part disbelief, part amusement. That explained where he had seen this woman before: You had the exact same framed picture sitting on your tidy desk.
Leaning back slightly, pretending to stretch, Quaritch then settled his gaze on the woman that seemingly grew nervous under the sudden, unwanted attention.
Licking his lips, he then asked, "Busy day?" Although his mind was anything but, he kept his voice light, letting it sound casual.
"Always," the redhead replied without looking up, hands still dancing over the keys. "This place doesn’t run itself. But who am I talking to?"
Quaritch let the corner of his mouth hitch up. "Fair point." His eyes drifted toward the little frame perched on the edge of her desk once more. This time, the woman did notice. "That your crew?"
"Oh, uh. Yeah, kinda," She said a little awkwardly. "Some of us came to Pandora together. Training, orientation, that kind of thing."
"The one on the far right…" He hummed, tilting his head as if studying the picture for the first time. Then his finger tapped the desk beside the frame. "She the one who keeps barking orders at my squad, right?"
"Sounds like her." The redhead briefly looked up, then laughed softly. "Yes, that’s y/n. We shared quarters for a while before assignments got shuffled. She’s… She is a handful, huh?"
"She is." Quaritch’s mouth curved into that slow, knowing smirk. "Bet her husband’s got his hands full keepin’ all that fire under control."
The redhead snorted. "Oh, no. Y/N’s not married."
Now that made him pause for a moment.
"No?"
"Nope," she said, popping the p a little, her nose too far up that datapad to pay any attention to the way Quaritch ears twitched at that. "Far as I know, she’s not even seeing anyone."
The woman was already back to clicking through menus, like she hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of his thoughts, when Quaritch leaned an elbow on her desk, licking his lips,
"Interesting."
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
It’s not like you’re busy or anything.
The digital clock in the corner of your monitor had already slipped well past quitting time and the only thing on your mind was the blessed quiet of your quarters. The keycard to your room was already in your hand and the only thoughts you had left in you revolved around a shower, maybe a snack and definitely not about work for at least ten glorious hours.
That was, until your phone buzzed.
»Need your input on reworking the squad’s training schedule to accommodate new operational priorities. Come by my office to sync calendars. Now. — MQ«
"Wha— right now?" You groaned.
There wasn’t even a 'please,' no 'if you’ve got time' or anything of that sort, just the assumption that your evening plans were infinitely less important than the Colonels little calendar crisis. You let your head fall forward against the door to your quarters with another long groan. God, sometimes you really hated this job.
Guess the universe had decided your night off needed a body count.
"I’m gonna kill him," you muttered as you shoved your keycard back into your pocket and turned on your heels.
The halls were quieter at this hour, most offices you passed already had their lights off and blinds drawn, but a few scientists still lingered in the corridors.
By the time the Colonels office came into view, it was immediately obvious something was… different. Pushing the door open you found him already expecting your entry. But instead of sitting in his chair behind the desk like usual, Quaritch leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest in a way that somehow managed to make him look both casual and intimidating at once. The muscles in his arms flexed a bit once you stepped into his office.
"Evening, Colonel," you said, trying to keep your tone casual, though a subtle edge of impatience crept in. The day had already stretched longer than it should have and all that was standing between you and your bed was him.
Surprisingly, Quaritch didn’t reply to your greetings. Not a word, not even a grunt. You raised a brow, half expecting some sarcastic jab, but nothing.
"Alright then," You murmured. Shrugging subtly, it was easy to chalk it up as nothing. Moods like this weren’t unusual for the Colonel after all, even if they so very rarely were directed at you.
Sitting felt almost absurd, given he was practically looming over you. But since he made no move to sit as well, you just continued with your routine. Bag set down beside you, your hands immediately fished out your datapad, flipping it awake with a swipe of your thumb.
"Looks like we’ve got a clash with the training simulations on Thursday," you said, keeping your voice measured, trying not to betray how aware you were of his close proximity. "We might need to shift some sessions or—"
Fingers hovered over the first entry, but before another word left, a large hand slid into view. The datapad was then taken from you. It left your hands ever so slowly and was gently laid down on the desk, just out of your reach.
Your spine straightened instinctively and a look of confusion crossed your features. Had something been entered wrong? Some misstep in the schedule? Maybe he’d dragged you up here just to chew you out over a typo or something.
"So," the Colonel said, licking his lips before they spread into a grin. "How’s your little boyfriend, fiancé, whatever?"
"Uhm… what?" The word slipped out sharply, surprise tugging your brows together. For a moment the thought struck that maybe you’d misheard him, maybe fatigue had twisted his words into something else. But the look on his face told a different story.
Quaritch didn’t so much as blink.
"You heard me, sweetheart." That grin of his only widened, teeth flashing like he was savoring your reaction.
The silence stretched long enough for your pulse to trip over itself. You shifted in your chair and a flicker of defensiveness running up your spine made your posture straighten instinctively.
"…Good, I suppose," you finally managed, though it came out clipped and uneven. Fingers tapped against your knee in restless rhythm, desperate to steer things back into safer waters. "Can we now go back to—"
"You know what’s funny?" He cut you off.
Your jaw tightened. "No, sir."
"I had a nice little chat with one of your girlfriends earlier." Quaritch drawled, shifting just enough to push himself off the desk and step closer. "The redhead from IT, what was her name again? Ah, hell, doesn’t matter." A low chuckle rumbled out of him. Then, he leaned over your frame, his hands gripping the armrest of your chair on either side, basically caging you in.
You swallowed drily. Every nerve in your body seemed to stand at the attention, muscles coiling before you even knew why.
"But she told me something very interesting."
A cold shudder licked its way down your body, pooling heavy in your stomach. The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet. You could hear the faint hum of the overhead light, the sound of your own pulse thudding in your ears.
"She said you don’t have a fiancé." His voice was low and steady. "That you don’t even have a boyfriend."
The bottom dropped out of your stomach immediately after Quaritch had uttered these words.
Heat flared in your cheeks and your mouth parted— whether to deny it, explain or tell him off, you weren’t sure, but he was already leaning a fraction closer. You decided on the second and perhaps the safest option.
"L-Listen I can explain—"
"I‘m all ears."
Your mouth went dry, words tumbling out in a rush before you could stop them. "I just— I don’t want to get in trouble!"
One of his brows arched. "For what, sweetheart?"
"For this." Hands made a vague, helpless gesture between the two of you before dropping back to your lap. "Flirting with the squad, being unprofessional. For getting caught doing something I’m not supposed to, doing inappropriate stuff—"
The ramble spilled faster, "I mean, I’m supposed to keep things organized, on track, not get tangled up in rumors or, jesus, even just laughing too much at one of their dumb jokes could look bad, and now you’re sitting here looking at me like that, and what if—"
You stopped only because your chest seized and your lungs were clawing for air. Quaritch took his sweet time to take all of your words in, his eyes mustering you for a moment.
"So you’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ things that aren’t appropriate?"
Your head snapped up, eyes wide. "Wha— No!"
He let the corner of his mouth twitch upward, almost amused. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to look away and sweat broke out over your forehead at that.
"Relax," he drawled, voice rumbling with that calm authority that made your pulse trip faster instead of slower. "Ain’t no one gettin’ you in trouble, kid."
The words should’ve soothed you, but the way he said them only made the knot in your stomach twist tighter.
"But you could’ve just said no, you know?" Quaritchs tone was lighter now, almost taunting. "S‘not like they were gonna bite you or anything."
"Yeah, sure," you scoffed, frustration edging your voice. "Your men behave like animals. Even Z-Dog gives me the creeps sometimes..."
That earned you a laugh.
"Can you blame ’em?" Quaritch said, leaning in just enough that the air around you grew significantly warmer. "A young thing, cute little doll, bossin’ us around. ’Course they’re gonna act like dogs around you."
Heat rushed to your cheeks before the meaning even finished sinking in. His eyes stayed locked on you, even as your breath caught when his shadow shifted closer and you glanced away in shame.
A single calloused finger then tipped under your chin, the touch deceptively light for a hand that size. Instinct had you jerking a fraction, but his grip didn’t tighten, just held you there, guiding your gaze back up to his.
"There wasn’t any need for that little story about bein’ engaged. Not with me, kid." He said lowly. "I ain’t in the business of makin’ trouble for you. Hell, I’d make damn sure no one else does either."
Again, your lips parted, but nothing came out. That little pause seemed to amuse him. He angled his head slightly, studying your face like he could peel you open and read everything you hadn’t said out loud. That alone made you shiver.
"You know that, don’t you?" His thumb brushed along the edge of your jaw, slowly, enough to make your pulse hammer. "I know you do, but you were tryin’ not to let it show. The way you go stiff when I’m close. The way you talk back like you’re tryin’ real hard not to trip over your own tongue. S‘cute."
"That’s not—"
"Sweetheart," he rumbled, leaning closer until his breath ghosted warm across your cheek, "you don’t lie half as well as you think you do. That little ring ain’t foolin’ nobody. Truth is, you want that cookie. You just don’t wanna get caught with your pretty little hand in the jar, right?"
The faint scrape of his lips ghosted along the sharp line of your jaw, slow enough to make your pulse stutter. And when he pressed his mouth to the side of your throat, heat flared beneath your skin.
This shouldn’t be happening.
God, this couldn’t happen. One wrong sound and if anyone opened that door, just one of the night staff or a soldier passing through, it’d all come crashing down. The thought should’ve snapped you into motion, should’ve made you push him off, should’ve sparked a protest sharper than the shallow breaths slipping through your lips. But instead you sat rooted in place.
Each exhale from him feathered warm across you, raising goosebumps that contradicted the heat pooling in your core. Involuntarily, your thighs squeezed. Then his mouth was there again, but not in the polite brush from before. No, this time he parted his lips, pressed them open against your skin, leaving kisses that burned and claimed all at once.
His tongue skimmed the column of your throat, dragging a hot line over tender skin as if he were committing the shape of you to his memory.
"W-We really shouldn’t," it finally burst out of you, and if it hadn’t been words you were sure it had been a moan instead.
Your body betrayed you. Shoulders twitched as you squirmed in the chair, thighs pressing tight together in some futile effort to ground yourself. Heat coiled in every inch of you, flooding your face, your neck, down your chest. Each open mouthed kiss dragged another surge of warmth up your spine, until it felt unbearable to sit still, unbearable to do nothing.
"Then don’t. Tell me to stop," he hushed against your neck. "Tell me like you mean it."
Your lips parted, breath spilling uneven and shaky, but the words he had asked for never came. Of course not. Because you didn’t mean it. You didn’t actually want him to stop.
His hand then found your thigh with the same unhurried certainty as his mouth, palm broad and warm even through the fabric of your uniform. The weight of it settled heavy, reminding you of the difference in size between you and him. His fingers tightened, squeezing until your breath hitched sharp in your chest. That small show of strength sent a pulse of heat straight through you, robbing you of any last scraps of willpower you’d been clinging to.
Your eyes fluttered closed, lashes trembling, as if shutting out the sight of him might dull the sensation. It didn’t. If anything, it sharpened everything else, the rough scrape of his jaw against your skin, the wet drag of his tongue marking you, the pressure of his hand as it squeezes your thigh.
"If Ardmore finds out about this…" The words came out as a whisper, half plea, half warning, but barely steady enough to count as protest.
The Colonels hands didn’t falter. They shifted higher, inch by inch, broad palms sliding until they nearly encircled your hips.
"No one will find out about this," was muttered against your neck.
And then the world tilted. Strong arms lifted you in one swift motion, the grip around your waist like iron. With a squeak, your body was set down atop his desk. The solid edge was cool beneath yours thighs. A sharp contrast to the burning press of him crowding in close. Under you, papers shifted and a pen clattered to the floor.
A minute later, Quaritch has you pinned to the desk with a giant hand on your chest.
The weight of his palm flattened against the center of your chest, not harsh, but firm enough to keep you pressed back into the wood. Every shallow breath only made your chest rise against his hand, every movement reminding you how easily he held you there.
Soon, Quaritch‘s hands find the waistband of your skirt. He tugs on it with minimal effort and against all logic, your hips rose to help.
He peeled fabric down inch by inch, humming under his breath in a sound that might as well have been approval. A hum. The Colonel humming at your half-naked body like he’d just stumbled onto a damn fine bottle of bourbon.
For all his size and brute strength, his hands moved with startling precision. Your shoes thudded against the floor as your legs shifted, freeing yourself from the last stubborn stretch of fabric.
You could feel every pass of his eyes like a physical touch, hotter than his palms on your thighs as he dragged your lace panties down. Quaritch hummed again, deep in his chest, and something traitorous in you fluttered at the sound.
Then your eyes caught his.
The reality check slammed into you with the grace of a shuttle crash: this was Quaritch. Colonel Miles Quaritch. Not some faceless soldier, not some harmless flirt you could shrug off at breakfast tomorrow. This was the man with enough authority to ruin you six different ways before the end of the week.
Quaritch’s mouth curved into something smug, as if he knew about the thoughts behind your eyes just from looking at them for too long and too intense. Then he sank lower between your thighs, shoulders wide enough to nudge them apart with barely a shift. The cool air of the room skimmed your exposed skin, but all you felt was heat.
Soon, Quaritch started kissing down your stomach, savoring every inch of skin. You felt the faint graze of teeth as he dipped lower and lower, his tongue drawing a path from your navel down to—
"But what if we… what if we’re—"
Quaritch’s low growl cut you off once more. "Jesus, kid. Relax and let me take care of you, will you?"
And then his mouth was on you in the blink of an eye.
You spine arches at the sudden, but not at all unpleasant sensation. Your gasp of surprise peeks into a whine and you quickly bite your lip to quiet yourself, when his long, board tongue swipes through your folds.
It becomes clear almost immediately after that first lick, that this moment right here. This would be so worth getting in trouble for.
Who would’ve thought that the Colonel Quaritch was so damn good at pussy eating?
It only takes mere seconds for him to find where you are most vulnerable, the most delicate. Tracing the outline of your cunt with his thumbs on either side of you, he spreads your slickness up and then down, then gently spreads your folds apart. It gives him access to lick and suck on your clit in all the best ways.
His lips and tongue are big, so much bigger than yours. But that made it so much easier for him to cover your pussy whole, to reach all these wonderful places. The top of his tongue moves with practiced ease as it flicks over your clit and god, it feels phenomenal. Your toes curl and you sob out a moan, lungs burning with the need for air. You don’t know whether to suck in a breath or hold it there.
Despite all you know of him, in this, Quaritch is messy, you realize. He doesn’t care about the mixture of spit and slick running down his chin, that it covers half his face or the fact that you hear him gulp it down with groan like it’s the fountain of youth and you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting on his tongue.
"Oh!" Your spine arches even more, subconsciously pushing yourself against his face. It’s embarrassing, really. But you’re already too far gone to care. No one has ever made this feel so good before.
Then his middle finger breaches your entrance, sliding in deep, and you moan, something high and pitched, hips canting upwards as Quaritch fucks you with a single digit, smooth and slow.
One finger becomes two, and you sigh, arching like a wave with every thrust. Your hands grasp at nothing before they settle on the back of his head and Quaritch circles your swollen clit with his tongue, playing with it in a steady rhythm. Occasionally you even feel him kiss it and it’s enough to make your thighs shake.
Your slickness increases until his lips and chin are sopping, his ministrations ringing sighs and cries in an ever increasing volume from you. Your hips stutter, you pull at his hair and that makes him suck on your clit harder.
Distantly, you remember the fact that you’re not in any of the soundproof rooms meant for training, but in an office with very thin walls and an even thinner door. Immediately, you clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling the strings of curses and moans that fell freely from your lips.
"Such a shame." Between your thighs, the Colonel glanced up at you, his grin wide and sharp canine wet with slick. "Those sweet little moans suit you better than that bossy tone."
His hand slid up your thigh, prying it wider as if to emphasize his point. His eyes never leave your face, not even as he sinks down again.
"Don’t go hiding ’em now, sweetheart. Let me hear ‘em." The words were hushed against your wet skin and his lips were immediately drawn to your clit once more.
"I- I‘m gonna.. oh, fuck," you let out a shaky breath. "M‘gonna cum— stop! Stop, stop, I— can’t!"
"Can’t, what?" Came a low chuckle from between your thighs, pointed tongue teasing your entrance where it stretched around his thick digit.
"Quiet," you choke out, fisting your hands in the short stubbles of his hair to try and pull him off, "I can’t keep quiet! S-Stop, oh god!"
But the bastard doesn’t stop. If anything, his lips sealed firmer against your slick heat while two thick fingers curled deep inside, grinding into that exact spot that made your vision strobe with white-hot sparks. The low groan that came from the man feasting on your sweet arousal sent vibrations up to your core. It rattled your bones, stole what little composure you had left. And if it weren’t for his wide shoulders to be in your way, you would’ve clamped your thighs shut around his head. It doesn’t hold you back from trying though.
The sound that escaped you was strangled, almost feral, muffled only by the trembling hand still clamped against your mouth. Every twist of his fingers, every stroke of his tongue, dragged you closer to the edge of something that felt inevitable, unstoppable, terrifyingly good.
"Mm, there she is," Quaritch rasped against you, his voice low and wicked, lips dragging slick down your folds before latching back onto your clit. "Knew you had more in ya than that stiff little attitude."
You shook your head, tried to twist away, but the desk under your hips and his hand splayed heavy across your stomach kept you pinned. Each flick of his tongue ripped another ragged noise out of you, each thrust of his fingers pushed you closer to shattering.
"Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Give it to me." His words vibrated into you, sharp enough to make your toes curl, thighs quivering against the iron lock of his shoulders. And then— release hit like a flood. Your hand fell useless from your mouth, the sound that tore free far too loud for thin walls, a cracked cry strangled into his name.
"Atta girl," Quaritch growled in approval, holding you down as your body arched off the desk, every muscle seizing under the quake of your climax. He didn’t let up, not until the tremors had left your thighs trembling and your chest heaving, not until you sagged back against the wood, utterly spent.
Slowly, he pulled his fingers from you, dragging them slick over his own tongue to clean them, before rising to his full height. That grin was back, sharp and devastating, mouth glistening with proof of what he’d just done to you. Proof of how much you enjoyed it.
The air hadn’t even returned to your lungs before the world spun again. Now Quaritch’s hands were on your hips and in one effortless motion he flipped you onto your stomach. The desk rattled beneath the shift, papers scattering again, the cold edge biting into your ribs as your cheek pressed against the polished surface.
Quaritch’s palms slid up your sides, pinning you down just enough to remind you who was in control here. He leaned over, chest hovering heavy against your back, breath hot at your ear.
"I ain’t done with you yet," he murmured, his voice a low gravel that made your core clench all over again.
Rolling his hips forward just enough for you to feel the promise of him pressing against you, thick and hard even through his gear, you gasped softly.
"Please… stop teasing me," you whispered, and even though your legs were shaking, toes barely touching the ground, you tried to push back against him.
The rasp of a zipper made goosebumps race across your arms, your back, your neck, everywhere, as anticipation began to flood your veins like fire.
"Y’know," Quaritch drawled, "I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a while now. Wonderin’ how that sweet little pussy might feel wrapped around me."
Your breath hitched, body tightening at the words alone. His laugh rumbled against your spine, dark and satisfied, as though he could feel the way you clenched around nothing just from the thought.
"Bet it’s even better than I imagined."
Through the tangle of hair that fell into your face, you risked a glance over your shoulder.
Quaritch’s pants rode low on his hips now, his broad hands tugging them just far enough to free himself. And what he revealed had your breath catching in your throat.
Huge. That was the first word your scrambled brain managed to cling to. Too big, too thick, alien in ways that made your pulse trip and stumble. His length was ridged in subtle lines and dots that caught the low office light, the flesh a darker shade that gleamed faintly as he stroked himself once, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. The sheer scale of him made your thighs quiver against the edge of the desk, heat pooling low in your belly.
"Eyes up here, sweetheart," Quaritch rumbled with a smirk, catching you staring. The tip of him brushed against the inside of your thigh, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum behind.
"Don’t worry about that," his voice dropped into something dangerously close to a growl, "I’ll make it fit."
The blunt head of him then pressed against you, nudging insistently at your entrance. Your whole body clenched in defiance and desperate need all at once. The stretch came slow at first, a sharp, biting fullness that made your breath break apart in short, choppy gasps. Nails raked the desk, useless against the hard surface as the first thick inch split you open.
"Jesus— fuck!" The words dissolved into a moan, muffled by the crook of your arm as you bit down to silence yourself. Every nerve lit with fire as he eased deeper, inch by agonizing inch, the ridges along his shaft dragging over hypersensitive flesh in a way that felt so alien and yet unbearably good.
"Relax," his breath was hot against your ear. "Breathe. Let me in, sweetheart."
His palm spread over your lower back, pressing you down just enough to make your hips tilt for him. "That’s it," he rasped, voice thick with triumph. "Takin‘ me so good, so fuckin‘ good."
The desk creaked under the strain of your body fighting to adjust, trembling thighs trying to hold steady. Every inch he fed into you sent another shockwave, another surge of heat through you.
"Miles," His name broke out of you like a prayer, shaky and drenched in need.
The fullness of his cock sinking into you was overwhelming, almost suffocating. Each inch settled heavy inside you until there was no room left, no space unclaimed, just the ache and heat of him stuffed to the hilt. Your walls clenched instinctively, fluttering around the thick length buried deep inside you.
Quaritch stayed pressed flush against you, chest to your back, holding still as though savoring the way your body struggled around him. His cock throbbed inside you, thick veins and ridges pulsing against your inner walls like he was marking his presence there with every heartbeat. The sensation sent another shudder down your spine, your breath catching on the sharp edge of another moan.
"Feel that?" His voice rumbled low against your ear, almost smug. "That’s me. Right where I belong."
Slow at first, letting the full weight of himself sink in deeper, he started moving. Each thrust made your body melt over the desk, every inch dragging fire through nerves you didn’t even know could burn so hot. Quaritch’s hands gripped your hips like anchors, guiding each powerful thrust. The sound of him moving inside you, the wet slap of skin against skin as his movements grew faster, made a new wave of pleasure crash down over you.
"O-Oh my goood," you let out a long, drawn out whine. Your thoughts spiraled— this was reckless, insane, probably career-ending, but fucking hell did it feel good.
Each powerful thrust drove deeper, stretching and filling you in a way that made your mind spin. The pace of his hips was calculated, cruel and intoxicating, forcing you to feel every inch of his cock. Another stroke, harder this time, and your body jolted in response, the pure intensity of it making your brain melt.
The force of Quaritch’s thrusts made the desk squeak and groan beneath you. His own grunts were low and guttural, vibrating against your back as he drove into you again and again.
"Fuck, yes… Look at you fuckin’ takin’ it. So perfect and tight," he groaned, hips snapping forward with precise, merciless intensity. Fingers dug into the curve of your hips, holding you steady even as every pulse of his length stretched and filled you further.
"Please," you begged in that whiny little voice that was still so unfamiliar to you. "Please don’t stop, don’t s-stop! I‘m so close! Pleasepleaseplease!"
Quaritch grunted against your shoulder in response, teeth grazing the tender skin as his hips pistoning without mercy, each stroke pushing you closer. One of his hands then found your jaw, lifting your face until you were bent enough for his lips to reach yours.
His tongue still tasted of you, salty and warm, as he shoved it inside your mouth, deep enough you nearly choked on it. It’s enough to make you clamp down hard on his cock, and you moan into each others mouths at that.
And then finally, warmth pooled and spilled, every nerve ending inside your core alive with fire, your body shaking uncontrollably beneath his relentless rhythm. More moans tore free, high and broken, echoing across the walls of his office as you arched hard, pressing yourself impossibly close to him.
Quaritchs hips still snapped forward, holding you in the peak of your pleasure, matching the rhythm of your shuddering climax until he‘d reached his own. The grip he had on your hip was almost bruising and your teeth found the softness of his bottom lip in return. The Colonel hissed sharply at that, but the sound quickly morphed into a sigh of relief as you felt his hot cum paint your insides.
His hips pressed forward a few more times, languid thrusts that drove every drop home, making sure none of it went to waste. Your walls clenched reflexively around him, a trembling, overstimulated cocoon of heat and satisfaction.
Finally, he pulled back, letting his cock slip free with a slick, wet sound that left your core aching and your body shivering from how empty it suddenly felt.
The Colonel straightened, his gaze still locked on you with this possessive intensity and also a hint of triumph as he helped turning you over and sat you onto his desk when your legs were to weak to stand on their own. Truth be told, it did flatter you that he was so obviously uncaring about the way you made a mess on his things when you sat there, bare and filthy wet. If anything, the sight of you shifting uncomfortably to prevent his cum from staining his desk made a flicker of hunger return to his eyes.
"Okay," you finally panted between heavy breaths, fingers brushing through your hair in a desperate attempt to appear collected, but there was a significant amount of spit, cum and slick smearing between your thighs that made you physically cringe. "We… we can’t— nobody can ever know about this!"
"Jesus, kid." Quaritch just rolled his eyes as he slumped down onto the seat behind him. With his thighs spread and his sweat soaked tank highlighting his abs, it was hard not to ogle the man in front of you. His hand rested casually around your ankle, mindlessly rubbing circles onto your skin with his thumb.
"For the record," he adds, his lips curling into that signature grin. "I don’t care what anyone thinks about rings or promises, so you can keep wearing that shiny little lie. But you’re mine when you’re around me, got it? Anyone else even looks at you wrong, and I’ll make sure they regret it."
Your brows lifted at that. "You… you would do that for me?"
"Course I would." The Colonel scoffs. "Nobody is gonna get you in trouble because you’ve decided to have a little fun. Not tonight, not ever. I’ve got that covered."
Your cheeks heated even more now, and a smile tugged at your lips despite the rapid thump of your heartbeat. It covered the feeling of guilt that wanted to gnaw on your insides for tasting this forbidden fruit, and that alone was a win.
Quaritch mirrors your little smirk. "But," he leans forward, letting his thumb continue its lazy circles over your ankle, "if you feel like trying that again… I’m more than willing to help make sure ya‘ don’t forget how good it can be to break a few rules sometimes."
"Alright," You bite your lip, laughter and heat blending together, and nod. "I think I can agree to that."
And sometimes you think, you don’t hate your job that much.
you toss your tired, cheap vibrator to the side, pulling at your hair in frustration. you lay on your bed, spread eagle, shirt pulled up to your chest, skin warm and covered with sweat. an hour, a full hour had passed with these weak vibrations and nothing. not one orgasm, not even close and you can’t figure out why—and now someone is banging on your door?
“i’m coming!” you pull down the large shirt to cover your frame as you get out of bed, not bothering with anything else as you stomp through your apartment to the front door, swinging it open with such force you almost knock yourself off your feet, but the banging stops immediately.
“what the hell do you want at this hour, toji?”
you look up to find his hand still shaped in a fist, mid knock. his normally cocky face holds a tired and bored expression, toned stomach on display and fuzzy happy trail leading from his bellybutton into the waistband of his sweatpants like he’d just left his bed and didn’t bother dressing. you try not to stare.
“what i want,” he grits out through clenched teeth, “is for you to shut the fuck up.”
you gape at him. “what the fuck are you talking about? i’m not—“
“yes. you are.” he interrupts you, sighing as he shoves his way past your door, closing it behind him, and making himself comfortable on your couch as you stand and watch in disbelief from the doorway.
“ass crack of dawn and i can hear you moaning and pleading and that damn buzzing through the wall.” he runs a hand through his hair and down his face. “i got work in a few hours and a kid who’s hard to keep asleep,” he explains looking over his shoulder at you expectantly. “so come over here so i can hush you up and get some damn shuteye.”
“toji, get out of my apartment? how would you even—“
toji throws his head back and groans in exasperation. his eyes roll as his sits ups straighter, fully turning his body now to stare at you over the back of the couch.
“these walls are very thin, baby. i’ve heard my name from your room more times than i can count.” his hand grips the back of the couch tight as he takes in your appearance slowly, like he’s assessing his prey. you sweat under his stare and accusation, heart hammering, sticky thighs rubbing together, an action that doesn’t go unnoticed.
“m’ sorry, toji, i didn’t know—i didn’t mean—“
his hand in the air stops your stumbling and your mouth shuts obediently.
“no time for modesty, princess. i’m ready to go back to bed,” his statement ends with a barely concealed yawn, proving his point. “now come over here and let me put you to sleep, too.”
your feet hesitate for just a second before they guide you forward, toji’s tired but darkening eyes still locked on your frame as you move, on the nervous grip you have on your nightshirt which you now notice is entirely too short. you come around the the front of the couch, standing in front of toji’s spread legs, unsure of what he wants you to do.
“c’mon, have a seat, baby. not gonna bite you, tonight at least.” the scar on his lips shifts as he smirks, patting his thigh with one hand, the other reaching out to fist your shirt in his grip and pull you down, lower, until your trembling frame rests on him completely, your dripping cunt spread over his thigh. it’s warm, big and defined, tensed underneath you, toji making sure your seat is firm and steady.
toji’s big hands come to grip your hips under the shirt, pushing it up so it rests against your stomach, giving him a full view of your lower half. he whistles lowly at the sight.
“can feel you through my pants, mama. you that desperate? little vibrator wasn’t doing shit.”
you nod your head shyly, refusing to look him in his face, instead focusing your attention on his chest, rigid until toji takes it upon himself to move your hips, the initial friction of his rough pants against your clit making you gasp.
“‘m tired, baby, you gotta do some of the work yourself,” he murmurs, humming in approval when he feels you put some effort into rocking your hips. when he’s satisfied with the rhythm you set, his hands move higher, palming over your breasts and pinching your nipples, cooing when your back bows and your head falls to his neck with a pleading cry.
“that’s it, mama,” he hums, still toying with your nipples, leaning his head back on the couch and sighing at the feeling of your thigh pressed against his hardening cock, “make a mess on me.”
your cunt has left a darkened area on the thigh of toji’s pants and you would be mortified if it didn’t make your glide easier, if the slick residue didn’t feel so good on that swollen bundle of nerves every time your hips moved, making you sob into toji’s neck and grip his shoulders even tighter, moving your hips faster. toji shivers at the feel of your breath on his neck, shifting your frame and pressing you harder into his bare chest.
“yeah, let it all out now, baby. i don’t wanna hear it later.”
you moan at his words, at the empty threat in them. your cunt is so sensitive and you’re so desperate after not being able to make yourself cum all night. something so simple, simulation as light as this shouldn’t be making you feel you’re on the precipice of orgasm this soon, but you can’t help it. your wrecked frame shudders in his lap and your cunt flutters around nothing, the emptiness almost painful.
“s-so good—need more, t-toji—please.”
toji starts bouncing the thigh you’re currently riding, pushing you further toward your anticipated release, building so fast it makes you dizzy. such a sweet moan leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering. toji’s hands come back down to grip your ass, letting out a rough growl that vibrates against your ear as your knee keeps steady pressure against his cock as you chase your orgasm.
“give it to me, mama. gimme a kiss, too,” he slaps your ass, chuckling at the yelp you let out. but your cunt throbs and you obey, raising your head from his neck, placing your lips on toji’s as he guides your trembling lips through a kiss you can barely reciprocate, mewling through the pleasure.
“so good for me, baby. spill all over my thigh, c’mon. you want it so bad, been waiting so long, hm?”
you barely think about your abandoned sex toy at this point, fuzzy mind filled with toji, toji, toji, as you ride his thigh to completion. your hands leave his shoulders and your nails drag down his chest, making him hiss, one hand now on your thigh, the other wrapped around the small of your back.
your hips move relentlessly for a bit, catching the feeling you were so desperate to find earlier and holding on tight. your thighs have been burning for some time, your shirt is sticking to you with sweat but you can’t bring yourself to care. toji is looking at you like you’re a piece of meat and you’re so close.
your hips lose rhythm and a soft moan of toji’s name leaves your lips as stars fill your vision and your ears rings as you finally cum. your cunt clenches around nothing, spilling filthily over his thigh just as he instructed, soaking the fabric of his pants obscenely.
“pussy’s just gushing, princess,” toji rasps, forcibly moving your twitching hips to ride out your orgasm until you whine and your palms lightly slap his chest in protest. toji’s breath is just as heavy as yours, cock aching and wetting his pants, so aroused by the slick coating his thigh from your release. he clicks his teeth in embarrassment, feeling himself close to cumming in his pants like a teen as he rubs soothing circles in your back.
“one more, just one more, toji. please make me cum again.”
he damn near has to strain his ears to hear your pleas, another yawn leaving his throat, his exhaustion catching up to him.
“still greedy, baby?” he chuckles meanly, finding the energy to lift your body with a grunt, spreading your sticky thighs over his lap so you straddle him completely.
“got me stiff as hell, mama. go ahead an’ pull it out, want you to do something for me.”
your face heats as you glide your hand down the expanse of toji’s chest and stomach, his skin twitching under your soft fingers. you reach past his waistband and meet his flesh directly, a grunt leaving him as your cool fingers wrap around his cock, pulling it out of his pants. it’s big, heavy too. intimidating. toji watches your reaction with amusement glinting in his eyes.
“scared, princess?” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head when you shake yours, seeing the lie in your wide eyes. “relax, not gonna make you take it tonight.”
his hand wraps around yours still settled on him and guides you in stroking him slowly, teasingly, spreading the slick precum that beads on his tip up and down the shaft.
“uh huh, just like that, doing real good.” his eyes are lidded, half with tiredness, half with pleasure. a few more guided strokes and he stops you, now placing his hands on your waist, shifting himself lower on the couch and lifting you higher up his lap, making you hover right over his cock that now lays on his stomach, underside facing up.
“sit on it, mama. don’t put it in, just rub that little pussy all on it, yeah? make us both cum.”
your breath trembles as you reach back up to grip his shoulders, looking down at toji’s lap and lowering until you feel his cock nestled between the folds of your cunt, the head pressed so sweetly against your clit when you finally drop all your weight on it.
toji tilts his head back and groans hoarsely, fingers digging just a bit harder into the flesh of your waist. you shudder above him, cunt still sensitive from your last release. he moves to pat your thigh a few times, trying to gain your attention as you blink slowly and inhale deep, trying to calm yourself.
“pretty little sounds already got me close, baby,” toji murmurs lowly, smacking your thigh. “rub that pussy on me, get me nice and wet.”
the remnants of your release mixed with toji’s precum makes the slide easy and wet, the schlick noise lewd and loud, fighting to be heard above your whimpers and toji’s curses of pleasure.
“t-trying to milk me dry, huh?” toji’s breath is ragged already, the back and forth of your creamy cunt over him making him shake and struggle not to press you face first into the couch and fuck into you from behind. it’s especially difficult when you move a little too far, making the tip of his cock catch purposefully at your entrance, like you want him to slip inside and—
“don’t fucking do that baby—shit,” toji growls out, gripping your hips and keeping them still while he starts to grind his cock between your folds, setting his own pace. “not trying to split you open right now, alright? gonna have to be patient for that.”
the pace toji sets is faster than yours, short and quick to your long and languid and the difference is blinding. your nails dig into toji’s back as you grip him tight, leaning into his space and crying fully now, tears that were trapped in your eyes falling freely down your flushed cheeks.
“fuck—i’m hold-holding you to that, toji, shit—“
“don’t worry, b-baby. think we both know i’d—fuck—fill this pretty pussy whenever you ask.”
you squeal when toji switches the angle, focusing his grinds directly on your clit and the pleasure lights a fire in your body. his hips start to lose rhythm as he talks you both through it, head tucked into your neck and whispering filth into your sweaty skin.
“might even knock you up, give my little brat a sibling.”
“been calling out my name since you moved in—damn. just begging for my attention, right? well you got it.”
“pussy’s almost louder than your mouth, fuck.”
“atta girl, almost there. just a bit more.”
your moans crescendo as a rough grind from toji finally makes your cunt spill and clench furiously around nothing, second orgasm just as strong as the first. toji grunts when your nails bite into his skin while you try to ground yourself through it, other hand covering your mouth to try and muffle the loud whine that spills from your mouth.
his own rhythm falters when he feels the wetness falling from your cunt and coating his cock, his back arching from your couch as his own cum paints his stomach beneath you. his mouth is open in a silent groan, fingers flexing around your waist as he rides out his high with little grinds of his hips between your legs.
toji finally goes limp when the pleasure blends with overstimulation, pulling your face to his for a tired kiss, tongues lazily interlocking, your breaths mingling in the aftermath.
“alright, princess. you tired yet?”
you answer with a yawn, spent and sweaty, frustrations of earlier completely gone from your mind. you lift yourself from his lap, gasping when you see the mess you two have made on his lap and stomach, the thigh and waistband of his sweats a few shades darker than they were when he first arrived. your face heats again, but you grimace when you feel the mess and soreness between your own legs.
“sorry about the mess.”
toji stands himself, tucking his slick cock back into his pants like it’s nothing, not even bothered by the remnants of your release on his cock or his spent that wasn't wiped away when your clothed chest collided with his.
“don’t worry about it, mama. i'll make a bigger mess of you when i get you in bed.”
you huff, warmth flowing through you at his promise. toji smirks, reaching around to tap your ass before making his way to the door to let himself out.
“g’night princess,” he says over his shoulder. “and throw that vibrator in the trash, will you? next time just come knock on my door.”
I just know Spider haters were MAD as hell when Neteyam greeted Spider warmly with a hug, playfully wrestled with him, and called him "little brother." I know they were SEETHING when their little headcanons and TikTok edits about how Neteyam died hating Spider for "getting him killed" were never and will NEVER come true. I know they were jumping up and down fast, like toddlers throwing a tantrum, seeing Spider be on good terms with Neteyam. That just pissed them off so bad that all they can do is whine and complain on TikTok to cope.
“I said forget about it cuz.” @xanvasy - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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