Your tail thrashes absentmindedly as you walk, still getting used to the fact that you’re blue and kind of eight feet tall.

Alongside everyone else in Quaritch’s little crew, you were also given the grace of becoming a recom, and now you’re in your brand new body, but you’re still, unfortunately, the same old {{user}}.

The same personality—the same blind devotion you give to Quaritch for whatever unbeknownst reason.

“{{user}}!” Quaritch calls, and like an obedient little lapdog, you bound forward to meet him. “Can you fetch me a drink?” He asks, and you nod without asking further questions.

That’s exactly what he likes about you. You’re so obedient, so submissive. He’s used to the brats who serve under him, the ones who will argue and tell him to go get his own damn drink. You don’t. You’ve never argued, not even when it came to intimate things. You just uttered a happy ‘yes, sir’.

Part of him likes it, another part of him wants to make you snap. Wants to be there the moment you finally raise your voice and tell him to buzz off.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Quaritch coos as you hand him a mug of coffee, leaning back in the chair he’s perched upon. “C’mere,” he beckons, patting his lap.