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Garrick comes home dismantled and stripped down to the bare parts of himself; a skeletal armature that has carried out its function, getting shipped back to home base. He moves through the life cycle of a soldier cleanly, avoiding injury and death and the substandard form of psychosis, right into end of life.
He attends therapy. He avoids drink and drug. He runs every day. He eats right.
He attends funerals. He gets texts from his mates; so-and-so is gone now. He can't fall asleep in his own bed. His dick doesn't work.
When he meets you, he feels clean and bright anger. It should be something he mentions at group later; he won't. Instead, he watches you across the room, eyes tracking as you laugh with a friend. Your body speaks as loud as your voice, your hands and arms their own language that he reads from afar. He knows he was boisterous at parties — before — and that he was his own magnet of charisma.
It was what everyone told him — before.
Here's you now: a radiant beacon of unbridled laughter and lightness. A wellspring of warmth bubbling from you. And he hates you for it.
Maybe that's why he finds you later. Contorts and reshapes himself back into his old skin, tight and ill-fitted, to approach you and buy you a drink. Eventually bully you into a dark corner of the party and put his hands up your dress.
You're game, a smile loose across your bright features.
He doesn't want you at his place. So you take him to yours, too easily, too freely. During the cab ride, his hand works itself back up under your dress, getting you hot and panting until you peel his questing fingers away, for now. You laugh the whole time.
Your place is exactly like you, and he hates it. It's too cute and too sweet and naive in a way that grinds against him. He wonders how many one-night stands have stood in the doorway like him, shadow spoiling bright.
He wants to make you ugly. He wants to leave you angry like him, ruined and dissatisfied. His teeth hurt for it.
You're a good kisser, but Garrick's better. He bites and nibbles your lips, forcing your mouth to open wider than you expect, and the sweetness pours out of you anyway. He bullies you into your bedroom so he can spread his rot deeper into your lair. You gambled wrong this time and brought home something bad.
"On the bed," he orders, toeing his boots off, hands unbuckling his belt.
You pant greedily, climbing up with zero hesitation. The gleam in your eye will fade; he's curious when.
"Strip."
Your dress, lifted high and curved over your shoulders, reveals mismatched underwear and bra. You probably weren't expecting to get fucked tonight. That fact tightens his gut considerably. "Get those fuckin' things off."
Your tits are small, drawn down by age, dark. Bite size.
Thighs wedged at the edge of the bed, he forces you down on your back, your legs spread wide open for his viewing. Your pussy is shining wet and fat up at him, an invitation begging to be licked. He lets himself imagine what noises you'd make.
His prick is rock hard.
He uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart — you make a little soft welp — and complete his inspection. You squirm under his firm, tight hold. It pisses him off.
"Quit fuckin' movin'," he says quietly, and grabs the fat of your pussy one-handed to hear your gasp. To watch your restless hips still completely. A bit like holding a kitten by the scruff of its neck.
He threads his fingers through your pubic hair and tugs, not lightly. A line between your eyebrows appears; the gleam hasn't faded yet, but it's filmed over with confusion.
"Flashin' this fuckin' thing all around the party for anyone to take home, eh?"
"What?"
You weren't. You both know it.
"Just a hungry cunt wantin' to be filled by a stranger's cum, hm?" He grits out as he takes his cock in his other hand, and slides it up against the open mouth of your body. The only mouth he wants to hear from.
Your moan, when the head of his cock makes contact with your drenched cunt, is loud and almost frantic. You are a bad listener and you're trying to work his cock into you already, sweat glistening under your tits.
"Please," you whisper.
"Please what?"
"Please, I need it, that feels so—ohh—"
He bullies his cock into your soft, waiting heat. Drives his hips into the back of your thighs until you cry out, the gasp trilling out in the bedroom. He fucks you like this, standing and bored, until his body drives into the next gear. You're too bright still.
He moves you up further onto the bed and climbs over you, hands on either side of your head. His cock slides out of you, dragging wet across the soft skin of your stomach.
"Open that mouth."
You open your lips.
He spits in your waiting mouth. Lifts a hand and pinches your lips shut so you swallow it. Your eyes are dark and wet, open so wide he could slide right in. He maneuvers you onto your stomach, face pressed into your covers.
A hand on the back of your head, his eyes watching your mouth open desperately to the side, as he bullies your thighs until they're fat together. Drives his hips into your ass to fuck into your cunt, pinning the rest of you down. To take, accept, endure.
The sounds he fucks out of you are as bright as you are — sweet and ugly.
"Oh my fucking god," you babble thickly when he slaps your ass hard, the flesh rippling under his hand. He can't dim it. Can't quiet you.
"Shut up," he growls.
He grabs your asscheeks and feeds them apart with his thumbs, exposing you. Spits on your seam, dripping from your ass to your cunt. And you start coming under him, your body shaking uncontrollably, your sobs wrenched out of you as he fucks you through it.
He's so angry at you, he wants you to scream at him to stop so he can ignore it, but you don't. You don't and your body is taking what he's giving, but taking something else now; draining and bleeding him dry of that rich, cold rage.
And that clean control breaks — his own hips and ass driving him to parts unknown, drowning in your warm flesh and cries, plunging him to a depth. He can't catch his breath, can't get his breathing back under pace and control, and then he's coming he's fucking coming for once in ages — in your pubic hair, across your stomach, up to your tits — and he's gasping and bucking, mind blank just blank blank blank for fucking once it's empty and clean and good again. His body collapses on yours, husked and heavy.
When he swims back up, you're drawing circles on his sweaty back. Your legs are spread out under him, hot and damp. You're making soft sounds, almost like a lullaby. He won't — can't — look at you. He pulls off you, the cum sticky, pressed between flesh like a flower.
"Mm," you murmur quietly, a small smile on your face. You disappear into your washroom then return with his cum and your makeup all washed off, hair up in a sloppy bun. You're wearing an oversized t-shirt and baggy boxer shorts, and you ask him to move over a little so you can remake the bed.
You tell him to go pee, then come back to bed.
You'll make coffee in the morning, unless he prefers tea.