Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s an indulgence, but a necessary one.

Especially after Hop sidled up to him after that last mission and gently informed him that the… pheromones he was putting off are strong enough that others – besides just him – are likely to notice. 

For her to notice. 

So. Something has to be done. 

And that something is bracing himself against the shower wall with one arm while taking himself in hand, a metallic thumb running along the flared tip.

A shudder runs through him immediately.

It’s been… a while since he’s taken this type of time to himself. Even before his untimely death and subsequent resurrection at the behest of the Drifter. Just ain’t been something worth prioritizing – always some threat on the horizon, some important task that needed doing, needed his attention more. 

He can’t afford to put it off any longer, though. Not at the risk of being noticed . 

A short grunt slips through his gritted teeth as he shifts his grip, sliding his hand down his length. 

There are… many reasons he’s in this position, but all of them center around the newest addition to the crew. 

Around Scratch. 

The sight of her racing across a battlefield, confident as can be even as chasteners run in terror. 

The occasional glimpses of softer bits beneath her tattered clothes; the hint of a curve, revealed as she twists and dodges with grace. 

The warmth of her, that night she fell asleep curled against his side, admitting to an awful loneliness. 

Sarge leans more of his weight onto the wall, his shaft twitching in his hand.

And… well. It may be idle wishing, but she has seemed… drawn to him, too. Seemed to seek him out, above all the others. To linger in his presence. To reach for him, undeterred by – well – him. 

Sarge squeezes his eyes shut, lingering at the base of his cock.

Maybe, maybe – it wouldn’t be overstepping too much to imagine her hands around him, instead of his own. 

Scratch’s chest pressed against his – or, maybe, arched up, waiting for his touch, waiting for him to finally feel how soft she really is. 

Guiding him to her – rubbing his tip against her entrance, bucking her hips to urge him in.

The noises she might make as he obliges, the gasps, the moans, the whimpers that fall from her pretty lips – her arms around him, not wanting to let go – the heat of her cunt around him, slick and soft like she was made for him, clenching around him with each thrust, and – 

Across the hall, Scratch is doing some daydreaming of her own. 

It’s difficult now, to channel this energy. Always a lonely existence out there in the mining colonies, but the privacy of her bunk was at least a comfort available to her at the end of the day. 

Now, though – well, these claws are good for lots of things, but satisfying the ache in her cunt ain’t one of them. It’s hard enough to find an angle to press against herself without feeling like she’s at risk of a wound. She tried that a few times, early on, but now when the showers are full and she has no choice but to take care of herself in her bunk, it’s quicker – and safer – to find something else to run against instead. She’s dirtied many a pillow in recent days, balled up between her legs as she thought about something else she’d rather be riding. 

Thankfully, with the other ladies either asleep or planetside, she has the privacy to seek out better options. The showerhead helps make up for some of her new form’s setbacks; a gentleness that her hands are no longer capable of. 

Sarge, though… Sarge would have no such problem. 

Scratch whimpers at the thought, aiming the stream of water a little closer. 

No, Sarge seems… deft with those hands of his. Steady. 

The slight chill of his robotic fingers is a sensation that’s become more and more familiar in recent days – guiding her aim, even if using her claws still feels more natural than trying to adapt to a gun, or placed comfortingly on her shoulder after a long, grueling battle as he murmurs praise. 

It makes it all too easy to imagine those fingers drifting lower, slipping past her shorts, cold metal parting hot folds and delving between them. Thumb rubbing circles against her clit as he fingers her, voice low enough to send tingles down her spine all the while. 

Of course, why stop there?

The rest of him is alive and so, so warm, and it is equally as easy to imagine his arms on either side of her, his familiar, comforting scent engulfing her, no more barriers between them. 

Slightly trickier is imagining exactly what he’s got waiting for her – he is the first real horse she’s ever seen – but her imagination is vivid enough to fill in the gaps. 

Those skilled fingers parting her folds, the top pressed against her, preparing to fill her  – and if she’s lucky, really fill her, leave her round and dripping with him – telling her exactly what he’s going to do, steady and low as he thrusts into her, and –

And several floors down, Billy is beset by an absolutely incredible wave of horny energy. Practically blasted with the psychic force of it. 

Again . 

The pillow he’s got his head shoved under makes no difference, nor do the makeshift earplugs. Hard to drown out something that comes from within his own head. 

It’s been like this for days, but tonight, for whatever reason, it’s especially potent. 

At last, Billy rolls over, sighs, and slips a hand into his pants. 

Guess it’s time to make a mess of his sheets again.