You can call me Missy! This is a fanfiction account that will be primarily focused on Miles Quaritch – particularly the blue and improved version.
While I will include some SFW themes, this blog is mostly intended to be a NSFW space, so if you're a minor or NSFW content doesn't appeal to your tastes, please do not interact!
I'm hoping to break out of a long case of writer's block and start writing my own stories for Avatar, but until then, things are currently a work in progress. Reality has unfortunately dragged me down a lot as of late, making writing a lot more difficult, but I can't wait to feel that spark to write ignite again.
In time, I'll eventually accept requests for drabbles/headcanons/oneshots, but please bear with me for now while I try to learn the ropes. It's been a long time since I've had the urge to get behind a screen and write, and to be perfectly honest, this will be my first time diving into writing NSFW related content.
Characters who I WILL write for:
★ Miles Quaritch x Reader
• Miles Quaritch x Jake Sully x Neytiri
• Miles Quaritch x Vaarang x Reader (?)
→ Masterlist
→ AO3
Multiple kinks will be featured, such as size difference, predator/prey, na'vi/human, and dark content, so if you're uncomfortable with themes such as dub-con/non-con, please turn away! In any case, I'll always do my best to list any NSFW related warnings in advance.
If you don't see a character who you like written on the list, then that means I'm not considering ANY requests for them, especially if it's NSFW or romance involving any characters who are underage. I will not make any exceptions – that also includes aging up. Sorry!
🏷️: nsfw, explicit smut, interspecies relationship, temporary one-sided attraction, vaginal sex, oral sex - f receiving, p in v sex, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, size kink, power imbalance, graphic descriptions of body parts, reader is a nasty freak, reader is lowkey a stalker, Quaritch has a big dick and isn't afraid to use it, reader is a nerd, Quaritch has a sensitive kuru, biting, spanking, spit, blood, Quaritch is a filthy dom, porn with a lot of plot, Quaritch LOOVES the scent of that poonany
word count: 17k
The muted thump of your boots against the sterile white tiles echoed in the silent hallway. Your fingers drummed against the clipboard clutched in your hand, your teeth worrying the peeling skin of your lower lip. There were no luxuries at Bridgehead - no lip gloss or, hell, even vaseline. And even if you did have the money to buy toiletries, that wouldn’t be what you’d spend it on. Your meager salary as one of the many lab coats running around the base could barely afford you a cup of tasteless coffee - the first thing you’d spend any extra money on would be a serving of the good shit.
As you passed by the cafeteria, the smell of the aforementioned “good shit” tickled your nose, followed by raucous laughter. You’d learned to recognize the deeper voices and, a bit giddily, veered off your intended course, heading for the source of the sound. Your feet slowed, tiptoeing you towards the open doors of the cafeteria. You peeked your head over the threshold, taking care to stay hidden.
The day you arrived on Pandora, you were assigned to the lab team responsible for testing the healing properties of dapophet pods. You were quite disappointed at first, having hoped to be sent on missions outside in the field. Instead, on your first day, you were crammed into a small, sterile room and introduced to your team - sweaty, nasty men that only knew how to pick their noses discreetly and unleash farts that were the opposite of discreet. To them, releasing gas was the peak of comedy.
In hindsight, however, you realized that working in your specific department came with its own perks - the biggest one being your access to team Deja Blu.
The recombitant soldiers were each almost three meters tall, save for Walker and Lopez, their hulking frames impossible to miss in the colorless hallways of Bridgehead. Their blue skin stood out against the white walls of the laboratories, the furniture manufactured specifically for them scattered in their part of the building a constant reminder of their existence. They weren’t hard to miss and they didn’t care to hide - Deja Blu stormed down the halls, stalking and claiming any corner of the base they desired. The team made no efforts of building relationships with any of the scientists working with them, shooting nasty looks at anyone brave enough to get close.
Headquarters had spent good money on growing them and it showed - the soldiers were faster than the AMP suits on base, lither than even the best marines, and stronger than most of the natives. Paired with their military experience, albeit from a previous life, they were an unstoppable unit.
Well, on the field, that was.
Because now, sitting in the cafeteria, Deja Blu looked nothing like the deadly reconnaissance unit they were, and more like a pack of lazy cats. Their long limbs were stretched over the many smaller tables, their tails coiled lazily around the metal chairs. They’d purposefully chosen to ignore the accommodations built specifically for them in favor of sticking it to HQ and you had to commend them for it.
While they’d agreed to be put into avatar bodies in their previous lives, they’d agreed to a hypothetical scenario, hoping that should it come to it, they would have more freedom. All of them were wrong - their bodies belonged to the RDA, bought and paid for with humanity’s money. Deja Blu was nothing more than a cage full of feral animals, ready to jump at the first sign of a threat.
Or, at least, that’s what most of the other scientists who didn’t have the pleasure of knowing them thought.
Your eyes ran over each of the recoms, taking in their relaxed stances and the warped furniture beneath their hulking frames. They looked so at ease, the weight of their responsibilities lifting for the few minutes they could afford to spend together outside of missions. Mugs scaled to accommodate their size were clutched in large palms or left on the much smaller tables, steaming from the heat of the warm drinks inside.
The group sat, focused on Wainfleet’s enthusiastic voice, one joke leading to the next. Even Colonel Miles Quaritch, a man of a few words, paid close attention to the corporal’s story, his eyes twinkling with mild interest. He had situated himself on two benches at the head of their group, his broad back pressed against the cafeteria wall. His lips were quirked in a rare smile, one that made your heart skip a beat, his sharp canines flashing at the punchline of Wainfleet’s dumb joke. He was a sucker for dad jokes, all right. You could attribute that to his mental age - or perhaps it was in his nature to be a funny old man.
His arms, corded with sinful muscle, were crossed in front of his equally muscled chest. One of his massive hands clutched a black, steaming cup of high-quality coffee. It made sense that he would be able to afford something more expensive - it wasn’t like he needed to waste his money on medicine or simple comforts. Bridgehead were forced to provide Deja Blu with everything they needed, from clothes scaled to size to lab-enhanced sustenance and remedies.
Remedies you’d worked on during your dapophet pod research.
The drawl of his southern accent snapped you out of your thoughts, caressing your ears like a forbidden lover. Oh, how the man could get you all hot and bothered without even knowing it.
“Careful, Corporal. I was there.”
Like he knew he was being watched, he stretched against the benches struggling to accommodate his weight, the trim taper of his waist peeking from underneath his muscled forearms. He brought the steaming mug of coffee to his mouth, his eyes never straying from Wainfleet’s animated gestures and expressions. His lips wrapped around the rim of the cup, his hand tipping it back just enough to let some of the hot liquid trickle down his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. The tattoo on his upper arm rippled, the muscles jumping at the slightest movement. His tank top, stretched along his torso, rode up, revealing the deep v-line of his abdomen.
Shit, why did he have to be so hot?
The fingers wrapped around your clipboard squeezed, the paper you’d been scribbling on crinkling underneath the pressure.
You didn’t understand why you found him this attractive - yes, he was three meters tall, muscled in just the right way, with a slim waist any woman would pay insane amounts of money to have. Yes, he had military experience and could break you with a single flick of his wrist and yes - his southern accent, paired with his deep voice, was hotter than anything you’d heard before.
Okay, perhaps you did understand why you found him attractive.
But it wasn’t like there were any other redeeming qualities to him - sure, the man was hot as fuck.
But that was about it.
Just like the rest of team Deja Blu, he’d been dismissive of you. Perhaps the most dismissive of them all.
The unit reported directly to General Ardmore - a woman leagues and universes above you. Who were you or any of your coworkers for that matter to warrant even a bit of mild interest? You were just one of the many ants scurrying about - disposable, easily replaceable and incredibly boring. How couldn’t you be, with all the restrictions that scientists were put under?
To top it all off, the Colonel had an ego as big as his dick (allegedly) and a temper as nasty as his glare and you’d felt the heat of both of them directed at you. Those were the only reactions you’d gotten out of him other than mild annoyance and indifference - that was more than some of your coworkers could say.
And still, you drooled over him at any chance you got like a silly schoolgirl.
Who could fault a girl for looking?
Quaritch shifted in his seat, throwing one of his long legs over the other, resting one booted ankle on his knee. Your eyes snapped to the shift of his thighs and-
What the fuck.
You were being a fucking creep.
Before you could ogle this poor man any longer, you whirled on your heels, rushing off towards the cramped laboratory. Pleasure time was over - you’d gotten your fill of the Colonel for the day. Hopefully you’d be able to see him tomorrow, if he decided that being tested on for the 100th time this year was worth his patience, that is.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the hell you were about to enter, twisting the doorknob of the laboratory door. The hinges gave way, swinging open and releasing the slightly sour stench inside. The familiar scent of sweat and old food wrappers assaulted your nose, and you breathed in through your mouth, moseying towards your desk. You hoped that none of your coworkers would see you.
“Oh, if this ain’t m’lady.”
Shit. The freak had caught sight of you.
James was perhaps the most disgusting of your incredibly disgusting coworkers. At the grown age of 33, he was still locked in mortal combat with the communal showers, or, hell, any shower to begin with. You’d made the mistake of offering him a spritz of your homemade perfume - a concoction of some cheap alcohol and fermented fortune’s fruit. James had, of course, taken it as flirting, choosing to follow you around and drone on and on about some big booty animated character from the 2130s and how you could resemble her more if you dyed your hair neon pink.
Hell no.
You sent him a strained smile, gesturing to the countless vials thrown haphazardly on your desk from yesterday’s delivery.
“Sorry, Fuller. I don’t have the time to chat. Gotta work on the new samples before they go bad. You know how it is.”
James chuckled, the sound nasal and high-pitched. He reclined in his chair, the poor hinges squeaking under his impressive weight as he lifted one gloved hand to rub at his chin.
“You know, you could cut down on some of your work. Come hang out with us. You’re always so strung up, sometimes I forget you’re a female.”
You repressed the urge to roll your eyes, shrugging nonchalantly as you picked up a clean pipette. Sitting gingerly in your chair, you leaned over the dapophet samples, uncorking one of the many vials.
“I’m a creature of habit, I’m afraid. And besides, I’m too busy with my husband.”
When you’d told James no the first time, he’d taken it as a challenge - complimenting you by comparing you to his favorite holo waifu, as he called her. He’d make sure to run his fingers over your shoulder every time he passed by, boasting about his achievements in dapophet pod research.
Research he failed to realize only came to fruition because of your massive contribution.
He was just as oblivious about his work as he was about his love life, and one day you’d snapped, stating that you’d been happily married since the day you turned 18.
That had made him back off for a while, his ego untouched because how could any woman resist him if not for being married? But then, a few weeks later, he’d come to the realization that you could become one of the boys now that you were off the relationship market.
He’d made it his mission to integrate you into the group and in any other circumstances you’d call it sweet - but not in this case, considering his only interest in you came from the fact that you were a) a woman, and b) attractive.
You found no pleasure in the fact that you had to stoop so low as to lie about your relationship status, but you also didn’t want to get hounded by Fuller and his cronies every time you stepped foot in the laboratory.
James huffed and spun around, setting his focus on his data pad and cutting you off completely like a petulant child.
Good riddance.
The sad reality was that your coworkers were incredibly talented people - everyone sent to Pandora was. Back on Earth, Michail had been one of the molecular biologists tasked with humanity’s attempts at bringing back the multitude of extinct flora and fauna. Richard was a renowned mycologist who’d dedicated most of his life trying to use mushrooms as a means of cleaning the dying planet’s atmosphere.
And James Fuller?
He’d been his university’s top student, graduating at the early age of nineteen and choosing to follow his passion of biochemistry. It was his studies of Pandora’s trees that helped cement Doctor Augustine’s research regarding the planet’s neural network as an undisputed truth.
But that was it - all of these brilliant men had been reduced to the lazy piles of wasted potential currently rotting on their sweaty chairs, their faces stuffed with RDA processed slop.
You wouldn’t allow yourself to turn into one of them.
As you shuffled through the vials on the table, pipette ready in hand, the door to the laboratory slammed open. You heard someone mutter an annoyed shit, followed by the heavy thump of footsteps.
You didn’t bother looking up from your perusal of the dapophet pod samples, expecting another one of your lazy coworkers.
The door closed, gentler this time, and you heard the distinct sound of someone taking in a gulp of pressurized air. Your eyebrows furrowed as you finally looked up. And up.
And up.
Before you stood Colonel Miles Quaritch in all his glory. Or as much as he could, anyway.
His back was hunched, his chin almost touching his chest at the position he’d been forced into - when Bridgehead was being built, the architects hadn’t taken Deja Blu’s size into account, with most of the ceilings hanging low enough to force them into a semi-bow.
How ironic.
His face was screwed in barely-disguised disgust, his fingers still clutching the mask slung around his neck. He scoffed softly, his upper lip curling in disbelief at the trash littering the ground around every desk in the laboratory but yours.
In truth, the room wasn’t as dirty as you made it out to be - your coworkers made sure to keep their workbenches sterile, the tools they used for dissection always in the autoclave at the end of the day. It was the small things that piled up, however. Their lack of care for personal hygiene, the belief that if they left their trash in the trash can for over a week someone else would throw it away. You were the one that always ended up having to do it when the smell became noticeable. It infuriated you that a team in a base as prestigious as Bridgehead on a planet as dangerous as Pandora had a corner as subpar as this one - and you were stuck working in it.
Quaritch could see it, too - the way you hid in your own corner, your desk meticulously organized with tools and specimens, your research papers neatly stacked in a locked box. It was obvious to him that your coworkers were far beneath your level of professionalism, but that was about it. A fleeting observation about a person that didn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things.
Sure, your enhanced dapophets had gotten him through many deadly wounds, and he respected you for that. But you both knew that at the end of the day, there were far more superior means of healing for him - he was part human, after all. Dapophet research was a fruitless little side-endeavor, abandoned and left to rot alongside its researchers.
Quaritch looked around the cramped workspace, your coworkers’ eyes conveniently averted from him. They pretended to be engrossed in their work, looking like the team they should be rather than the lazy wasted geniuses they were. They feared him, the nasty fuckers.
As they should.
He had yet to get used to the sour stench of sweat that assaulted him every time he came for his routine checkup, and perhaps that was one of the main reasons he skipped his scheduled sessions. Today, however, was his day off.
So why was he standing here in front of you, looking so agitated?
He finally broke the silence, his voice coming out clipped.
“Lock your gear down, Doc. Found this out in the open.”
In your pleasant surprise at his appearance and disguised perusal of his face you’d failed to notice the small card clutched in his big hand. The recom leaned down, his musky scent a welcome reprieve from the sweaty men surrounding you.
Without having to move much, he stretched his arm, your keycard presented like a tiny offering in his massive palm. Your eyes flickered between his face and the small rectangle he was holding, your mouth hanging open like you were trying to catch some of the flies buzzing around the laboratory.
Quaritch scowled, visibly growing agitated at your lack of urgency, and grabbed the hand that wasn’t holding the pipette, his fingers wrapping around the tender bones of your wrist. You could feel your cheeks heat up as he forced your fingers open, shoving the keycard into your hand.
The recom straightened and lifted the mask to his mouth, taking a deep drag of clean air. He pursed his lips, his fingers fiddling with the gun belt hanging off his hips.
You finally mustered up the courage to speak, your voice a mere squeak.
“Thank you, Colonel.”
Shit, you sounded like a little kid. You had to get your shit together.
Before you could even finish your sentence, Quaritch had already turned, completely ignoring your words, and strode out of the laboratory. This time he took note of the closing mechanism of the door, letting it do its work as he disappeared down the white hallway.
Multiple sets of beady eyes turned your way and you whirled in your chair, pretending to be engrossed in your work.
Totally not blushing like a schoolgirl while doing so.
The Colonel didn’t give a shit about anyone but Deja Blu and he never went out of his way to help anyone unless he was ordered to do so. Even then he did it begrudgingly - he was used to being the one giving orders, not the other way around.
Perhaps it was his way of warning you to stay the fuck away from him and his team - he’d probably caught someone being a creep outside the cafeteria earlier that day and put two and two together when he found your keycard.
You’d embarrassed yourself big time, all right.
The rest of your shift you spent testing the dapophet pod samples, forcing yourself into the surgical calm required of a scientist on Pandora. While you believed yourself to be overqualified for this degree of research, you could also agree that being able to help Deja Blu after their many skirmishes in the wilderness brought you pleasure. Your work perhaps would’ve been even more enjoyable for you if you had your own lab, a space you could keep clean enough as per regulations.
Headquarters didn’t care about the state of your cramped dapophet research lab - the room had been a supply closet before some curious investor suggested that lab work should be done on the commonly-used fruit. It had started off as a lab worthy of a scientist of your caliber, but with the investor losing interest and inevitably jumping to amrita like everyone else, funding dried up. Your coworkers had been forced into this excuse of a room with you soon joining their meager ranks.
There was a small mercy to this ordeal, however - your coworkers’ laziness made them head off to bed earlier every evening, stating that you were already doing a good enough job for all of them and that they’d make it up to you.
Empty promises.
That gave you ample time to indulge in your work, using the peace and quiet to listen to some music and air out the space.
You pulled your hands out of the pressurized box, twisting the valve on its side to close the air lock to stop the alien air from escaping. Inside sat a piece of curled dapophet, the fruit seemingly blooming due to the strain of bacteria you’d introduced it to. The bacteria had done its job fairly quick, fermenting the sweet flesh into a mottled blue strip covered in dark swirls and patterns.
Your past few months had been devoted to countless sleepless nights - all of them in the sake of developing a healing agent so potent it would speed up recom healing properties threefold. It would give the RDA an advantage above the natives and Jake Sully when they inevitably clashed again.
You did not include yourself in the equation because you liked to think of yourself as a third party. That was another reason you questioned your attraction to the Colonel - he was a Sec Op tasked with, to put it plainly, violence. You disliked the aggressive tactics used against the planet’s inhabitants, finding them distasteful and rather unncesessary, but you had no say in things. So, you chose to stay impassive, locking yourself away either in your cramped laboratory or your even more cramped room.
Besides, you had high hopes in your current project. You felt a bit guilty for not including your coworkers in your research, but it was your only way out. Your golden ticket to getting out of this sweaty dump and into a proper laboratory or, hopefully, out in the wilderness alongside the best Bridgehead had to offer.
You looked over the shriveled dapophet piece in the pressurized box one last time. You were going to extract the blooming liquid tomorrow - your one opportunity to test your prototype on an Avatar.
You slipped your gloves off and dropped them in the biohazard can next to the wall. Stretching your aching muscles, you allowed yourself a moment of peace and quiet as you reclined against your chair, your eyes closed.
This day had taken quite a lot out of you, leaving your body an empty husk that only the blissful presence of sleep could fill.
Preferably curled up against a hunky three meter tall blue man.
You groaned at the thought, rubbing your fingers that smelled faintly of polymer against the bridge of your nose, and finally stood up to stretch your aching legs.
You slipped your lab jacket off, threw it over your arm and headed for the door. You took one last look at the laboratory, making sure that there were no specimens left out in the air, and turned off the light, stepping out into the hallway. It greeted you with the sort of quiet you’d learned to cherish in Bridgehead - a rare opportunity for you to pretend that this was your first time walking these halls.
As you locked the door, you sighed, leaning your forehead against the cold metal. You were more exhausted than usual, you realized. Your bed was calling to you like a siren perched on a rocky boulder.
Yeah, it was time to go sleep.
Your feet led you blindly down the stretching hallways, your steps muscle memory by now. As you neared the gym made specifically for observing team Deja Blu, you heard the sound of one of the oversized treadmills whirring. Booted feet thudded against the machine, accompanied by the jingle of a dog tag. You stopped in your tracks, trying to guess which of the recoms decided that training this late at night was a good idea.
The footsteps were loud, the person’s heavy landings echoing in the gym and down the quiet hallway.
Wainfleet, perhaps - he had a heavy gait, or as you liked to call it: catwalk.
But no, it couldn’t be him. The recom loved his leisure time and while he was perhaps the most loyal to the cause, he never skipped sleep time if he had a choice. Sleep was sparse for Deja Blu considering all the test missions they’d been sent out on during the past few months.
You wracked your brain, trying to figure out which of them was the biggest workaholic and overachiever.
You didn’t need to think long, though, because a mere seconds later his voice reached your ears, muffled by the thin walls of the gym.
“Come out. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
With a surprised breath, you stepped forward, your eyes finally landing on the person running on the treadmill and, shit, you could feel your knees go weak at the sight.
Had the gods smiled at you? For the third time today, you were faced with your highly unattainable wet dream.
Quaritch joggled on the machine, his long legs eating up every whirl of the walkway in big strides. His dog tag jumped in the air with each heavy step, its jingle signifying every landing. The tank top he wore in the cafeteria now clung to his torso, sweat causing the fabric to mold to every ridge of his muscled abdomen.
The recom’s eyes took in your appearance - from the comfortable shirt on your shoulders, courtesy of your first paycheck, to the normal pants hanging off your hips. You looked ordinary, save for the lab coat clutched in your hands, and even here it made you just as ordinary as everyone else.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Colonel. I was just passing by.”
When Quaritch didn’t answer and instead chose to keep staring at you, his legs keeping up with their brutal pace, you decided that leaving was your best choice. You were more than pleased with the fact you got to catch a glimpse of him for the third time today - you didn’t want him getting annoyed at you, even if it was incredibly hot when he did.
So, you continued your walk down the hallway, your steps quicker this time. You hoped he’d seen you, gotten disappointed with the fact that it was you and not one of his corporals, and decided to let you go without commenting on your obvious ogling.
Just as you rounded the corner, you heard his voice call your name, the southern drawl of his accent stopping you in your tracks for the second time today.
You cursed under your breath, slowly turning back around and padding over to the big window providing a view into the gym.
“Yes, Colonel?”
The recom pressed a button on the treadmill, the machine slowing to a stop. He bent at the waist, picking up an oversized water bottle and his mask, and straightened, heading straight for the door.
You gulped, begging your racing heart to slow down. It didn’t work, and you hoped he wouldn’t be able to hear the way blood pumped in your veins in sharp bursts.
The air lock on the door hissed, the oiled hinges silent as it swung open with one push of the recom’s hand.
Quaritch stepped out into the hallway, his neck craned so he could look down at you. His fingers skimmed over the edge of his mask, lifting it to his lips as he took a deep, long drag of air.
From his position above you, his eyes looked lidded, and you had to tamp down the wave of heat that rushed over you at the filthy thoughts your imagination had conjured up.
“Schedule me at 0600 tomorrow. I need to get this over with early.”
Your mind whirled, your thoughts scrambled as you struggled to understand what he was talking about.
What’s tomorrow?
The colonel stood there, one eyebrow quirked in impatience. You could see his mouth twist into his usual scowl of annoyance and you gasped, suddenly remembering your scheduled experiment.
“Oh- yes! Affirmative, Colonel.”
You straightened up, your cheeks warm as you gazed up at him in confirmation. You had made a fool of yourself.
Affirmative, Colonel? Seriously?
You weren’t part of his squad, and even if you were, not even Wainfleet would say those exact words.
Quaritch grunted, lifting the mask to his lips once more. As he took another lungful of air, he straightened and gestured down the hallway.
Was he asking you to leave?
You moved, not wanting to push his buttons for the third time today, and started walking down the hallway. Just as you were about to say goodbye to him, you heard his footsteps follow not far behind you. His gait was much larger than yours and he quickly ate up the distance between you two, his hulking frame looming over your side as he slowed down to match your pace.
You looked up at him, bewildered, and he looked down at you, eyebrows quirked in question. Any questions you might’ve had died on your tongue, and you held his eye for less than a second before you looked back down at your feet.
You didn’t want to ask why he was walking with you - you were already lucky enough to get him to show up for his scheduled tests and now you’d probably won the lottery with this little stroll down the hallway.
Perhaps he was also headed for his room for the night.
But you knew that wasn’t true - Deja Blu’s sleeping quarters were in the opposite direction, placed between the cafeteria and the hangar.
You didn’t allow yourself to think about it, grateful that you got to spend some time with him off the clock as you neared your room. He had walked you all the way to the door, only stopping a few steps behind you. The moment he stopped walking, the hallway grew quiet as if he was never there to begin with.
You turned your head, expecting him to say something, but he just stood there, hand hanging off his belt. With shaking hands, you pressed the code for the door, the soft click of the lock mingling with the sound of your thundering heart.
“Where’s the rest of your team?”
You paused, your fingers freezing on the door handle. Why was he asking you about your coworkers all of a sudden?
“The.. rest of my team?”
The Colonel raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue, ticked off at your apparent lack of thinking skills. Why was it that when you were around him you turned into a mushy mess unable to form comprehensible sentences? Where was the brilliant xenobiologist sent to Pandora as soon as HQ got their eyes on her?
“Where are the others bunked?”
You blinked, your hand slipping off your door’s handle. Didn’t he know that all low-priority personnel were stationed in one of the numerous doors lining the long hallway?
You looked from side to side, your fingers pointing at your coworkers’ doors. They were conveniently close to yours - Fuller’s quarters were to the right with Michail and Richard occupying the rooms to your left. Headquarters had thought it a genius idea to clump all departments next to each other should they be forced to abandon ship - just so they could collect all important specimens before boarding the carriers.
“Fuller is on my right and Kabazov and Thomson are on my left.”
He eyed the other doors lining the long hallway and nodded, lifting the mask to his lips. He turned his eyes back to you and gestured at your room, his command broaching no argument.
“That’ll do. You’re dismissed.”
You hesitantly twisted the door handle, sending the Colonel a small, shy smile as you thanked him. You slipped inside your room and closed the door, leaning your forehead against the wood. His voice came from the small crack below, calm and unhurried.
“Lock the door.”
Your eyes widened as you waited for him to add anything else, but he didn’t. You stood frozen for a second longer, wondering if he had left, but no - he was still waiting outside. The shadow peeking from beneath your door and covering your bed in its silhouette proved that fact. Your fingers hesitantly found the small silver latch, twisting it in a slow, pointed motion.
Only when the sharp click of your door locking broke the silence did the Colonel’s footsteps echo down the hall, retreating and disappearing until you could no longer hear them.
That night, you went to sleep with an alarm wound up for four in the morning and awoke from a vivid dream sweaty and tangled in your bedsheets.
Your feet thundered down the pristine white hallway, the echo drowned by the hustle and bustle of scientists hurrying to their posts. It was five fifteen and you wanted to get to your lab early enough to air out the space and prepare your workbench. Today was the day you’d finally get to experiment with your modified dapophet and get a little treat out of it too.
Your heart leaped giddily in its cage as you opened the door, ignoring the sour scent that had lingered since yesterday evening. Your coworkers were nowhere to be found, courtesy of the Colonel’s imminent visit. You’d made sure to page them last night and warn them of the change in today’s schedule.
Ever since their first meeting with Miles Quaritch, they’d learned just how little he tolerated lousy, filthy people. Especially them. They fit the criteria perfectly, and as soon as they realized that he saw through their bullshit, they’d made it their mission to steer clear from him.
Yesterday’s visit was an unpleasant surprise for them, to say the least.
You left the door open, allowing clean air to do its job in fighting off the residue of farts and sweat, and busied yourself with meticulously cleaning your already pristine working area. You didn’t allow yourself to touch your coworkers’ desks out of respect for their work, merely throwing away the contents of their overfilled trash cans.
The water in your sink was ice cold as you scrubbed down your hands and forearms, slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves and padding over to your desk. Your bum hit the plush seat of your chair and you whirled on its axis until you were satisfied, resting your elbows on the glass surface of your desk.
Small vials, pills and syringes were neatly stacked on your desk, the bloomed dapophet still locked in its chamber. You fiddled with your instruments as you waited, the clock striking six on the dot. Ten minutes passed, and you shuffled nervously in your seat, your gloves squeaking as you readjusted the syringe titled “Miles Quaritch” for the fifth time in the past three minutes. It held your prototype, extracted from the fermented dapophet pod.
The prototype you desperately hoped the Colonel would show up to try.
A small puff of air left your lips as you glanced at the time on your holo-pad, your heart stuttering at the numbers displayed. Six thirty. The Colonel had never been late for your meetings when he’d deigned to show up, and you felt the sour feeling of disappointment slide down your spine.
He wasn’t coming.
You felt guilty for feeling disappointed and harboring any negative feelings towards him - and then you felt guilty for feeling guilty.
Because why should you feel bad?
This was precious time you could’ve dedicated to your research that went to waste because the Colonel just did not deem your experiments important enough.
A tiny part of you had latched onto his presence every time he walked into the laboratory - a small reprieve from the oppressive atmosphere that always seemed to cling around the cramped space. He had been a breath of fresh air every time he came for his routine tests, cracking small jokes the first time he noticed how uncomfortable you felt with probing him. You knew he did it so you wouldn’t jab him in the wrong spot with the needle, did it to calm your shaking hands.
You wondered why he hadn’t reported you to his superiors, but now you knew. It was an insignificant inconvenience to him - nothing worth noting.
The same applied to your scheduled experiments.
Nothing worth his patience or time.
You sighed, your eyes falling on the pressurized chamber that still hosted your dapophet. Your lips thinned and you stood, holopad in your clutch as you stormed out of the laboratory and down the hallway.
You looked nothing out of the ordinary, a few scientists hurrying towards their labs in the same frantic manner as you. Where you were headed to, you didn’t know, but you had to do something. You’d been disrespected by your coworkers, superiors and now the Colonel for the upteenth time.
Well, you weren’t going to take it anymore.
You stormed into the hangar, a face mask strapped to your face, the sound of barked commands reaching your ears. The scent of sweat and dirt assaulted your nose through the filter, but you ignored it, following the source of the rough voice. The southern drawl pumped adrenaline into your veins and you sped up, your feet eating up the distance.
As you rounded the corner, you came face to face with the Colonel’s muscled back, his hands resting on his hips as his tail swished in agitation. Barked commands slipped from his lips, accentuated by a flick of a muscled arm or a nod of his head.
“Keep your spacing, Lopez.”
Lopez and Wainfleet were locked in a scuffle, the soles of their boots slipping and squeaking against the smooth floor of the hangar. Their grunts permeated the space, the thump of flesh against flesh echoing as they grappled with each other for the upper hand. Lopez landed a solid punch to Wainfleet’s side, but not before Wainfleet hooked his foot over his boot, tugging hard enough for both of them to fall to the ground.
Z-Dog was the first one to notice you, an eyebrow quirked in confusion as she took note of your angry expression. The chewing gum she’d been working popped and she leaned from her reclined position against a crate. Her fingers wrapped around Mansk’s sleeve and tugged. The man’s head turned your way, his shades hiding the look in his eyes as he straightened. The other recoms took note of Z-Dog and Mansk’s change in attitude and looked your way, their heavy gazes no longer on the grappling Lopez and Wainfleet but solely on you.
You felt your cheeks heat, some of the fight leaving your body, doubt creeping in its stead, but then you noticed that Quaritch hadn’t torn his eyes from the ensuing scuffle. Your anger turned back tenfold, burning unfairly as you realized that, ironically, he was dismissing you yet again without even knowing it.
The Colonel was now pacing back and forth, his arms crossed across his chest as he barked yet another command.
“You’re getting sloppy, Wainfleet.”
Lopez had Wainfleet in a vice grip, having used his superior agility to get him into a headlock. Lyle tapped once, twice on the smaller recom’s forearm, and then gulped in greedy lungfuls of air when his opponent relented. Both marines straightened, trying to catch their breaths as their eyes fell on you.
“Who can tell me where Wainfleet screwed up?”
When no one answered the Colonel, he turned towards you, his eyes finally finding yours. His hands uncrossed, and one came to rest on the loop of his belt, the other hanging limp at his side.
You sent as much of the venom as you could straight his way, your eyes burning holes through his skull. Before Quaritch could even begin to question your presence in the hangar you spoke, your voice coming out surprisingly steady and calm.
“It’s 0700, Colonel. One hour past our scheduled meetup, which, need I remind you, you requested.”
The recom’s eyebrows raised at your courage to come up to him just to mention something so insignificant, and you saw the dismissal coming.
It made you SCATHINGLY angry.
“I’ve been so very patient with you. You’ve skipped almost every. Single. Meeting.”
Your feet moved on their own, moving you closer to the Colonel’s looming bulk.
“Ever since I came here I’ve been stuck in this fuckass laboratory with those creepy fucks, slaving off to work on stupid dapophets. Dapophets!”
You craned your neck to look up at him, his expression that of stunned silence. He hadn’t moved, the hand resting on the holster of his gun flexing as he watched your outburst.
“I’ve worked my ass off to develop enhanced healings supplies so you and your meatheads can go on missions and come back uncaring of the work you make for others.”
The Colonel’s eyebrows had climbed to his hairline, the recoms at his back standing unnaturally still. Their eyes were glued to their leader’s back, now coiled with tension. His tail lashed like an angry whip in the air, but you didn’t care. You were fed up. He could scream at you all he wanted - you refused to work with people that wouldn’t appreciate your hard work and knowledge.
“I’m a fucking xenobiologist, for fuck’s sake. Not a stupid little grunt whose time is insignificant. Everyone has been disrespecting me this whole time and I’ve had enough.”
You threw your arms in the air, the holopad clutched in your fingers flashing with a warning at the violent motion.
”And you! You refuse to give me the respect I am worthy of, which is especially bold considering the countless times you’ve escaped with your limbs intact due to MY research!”
A small, gloved finger found the rough surface of his belt as you poked at it, the motion moving his hand in the process.
“I refuse to work with a man so self-absorbed with himself he doesn’t give the time of day to the people that made everything he achieved possible.”
Your angry eyes found his, your lashes barely holding back tears of rage. You’d been disrespected for far too long and you’d had enough.
You could see a muscle in his jaw tick as he straightened up, his fingers slipping from their hold on his belt loop.
You didn’t give him the chance to speak, whirling on your feet and storming out of the hangar as fast as your legs could take you. The adrenaline still pumped in your veins and you sped down the sterile hallways, flinging off your mask in the process.
Fuck your coworkers, fuck your superiors, and most importantly - fuck Colonel Miles Quaritch.
The muted thump of your lab coat hitting the ground resonated inside your small room and you stormed to your bed, flinging your keycard at the thin covers. You raked a hand over your face, the adrenaline trickling out of your system.
You needed to sit down and drink some water.
Your eyes jumped to the pitcher you kept at the side of your bed, annoyance worming its way up your spine in lieu of the adrenaline.
Of course you didn’t have any. This day couldn’t get any worse.
You groaned into your hand and dragged the skin of your cheeks down as you looked at your door. You really didn’t feel like going to the cafeteria for water but you had to. Besides, now was your best opportunity - your coworkers were probably already in the laboratory, the time scheduled for Quaritch long having passed, and most other scientists were probably too engrossed with their work to slink around the hallways.
Your hands found purchase of your discarded keycard and you swung it around your neck, opening the door rather harshly as you stormed out. Your face collided with a muscled chest or rather - a muscled thigh - and you bounced back, barely managing to steady yourself.
It took you a second to recognize the familiar print of the recoms’ cargo pants and when you did, your head whipped up.
Colonel Miles Quaritch loomed over you, his neck craned as he clutched something in his hand. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he worked the joints, obviously struggling to get his words out.
You beat him to it, however, the final drop of adrenaline leaving your body as you wearily told him to go away.
The Colonel straightened up and presented his palm in front of you, a small syringe you didn’t even bother looking at nestled in the middle of it.
“We gotta talk.”
You eyed the syringe from the corner of your eye and sighed, your eyes rolling to the ceiling as you refused to look at him anymore. You were tired and done with the conversation.
“There’s nothing more that can be said, Colonel. Please return to your duties.”
The recom fiddled with the mask at his neck, bringing it to his lips and taking a drag of air.
“Nah, we gotta talk, all right.”
It seemed that he had made his mind, because before you could protest, he pushed past you in your room and situated himself on your bed. His comically large frame ate up the small-by-human-standards furniture, his tail dragging against the ground. In any other circumstances, you would’ve laughed.
But now?
You scoffed, disbelief coiling itself in your chest at the audacity of the man - didn’t he know when to give up?
You closed your eyes and took a steadying breath, willing yourself to not explode and give him more reason to judge you. You rolled your shoulders, releasing the pent up tension in the muscles, and stepped inside the room, your door closing with a soft click behind you.
“All right. Let’s talk.”
You leaned against the door, your arms crossed, and the Colonel slowly laid the syringe on top of your tiny nightstand. He laced his fingers, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward. In the cramped space his face was close enough to slap should you wish to do so, and you contemplated it as the muscles in his jaw worked with his inner turmoil.
After a moment of silence, something in him caved and he sighed.
“Look, doc. If I stepped on your toes, that wasn’t deliberate.”
His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as he inhaled, his eyes closing in an almost painful expression.
“I’ve been running ops nonstop. When I’ve got a target still breathing out there, lab work drops down the stack.”
The Colonel’s eyes flickered to yours and you could see the deep bone weariness weighing him down, the weight of his people’s lives heavy on his shoulders. As the leader of Deja Blu he had the responsibility of not only leading his team but also making sure they’d survive to see the next mission and you knew that.
You just hadn’t realized how much it had taken out of him and would keep taking as long as he breathed.
“Don’t mean I don’t value what you’re doing. I do. You’ve kept people alive. Hell, you’ve kept me alive.”
He leaned back, lifting his arms in a gesture of admission, his big blue palms littered with small gray scars. His golden eyes bore into yours, sincere, and you swallowed a sound of surprise. You’d never seen the Colonel this honest before and it jarred you.
You thought that your outburst would be just that - jarring. The end of your coexistence with Deja Blu and possibly your coworkers if any of the blue marines chose to tattle to HQ. What you hadn’t expected was Quaritch sitting on your bed, somehow trying to soothe the hurt he’d caused you.
Why was he even making an effort?
“But I don’t have the luxury of sittin’ still while someone runs tests on me when Sully’s still out there.”
That was it. The whole reason for his dismissiveness and his no-shows.
Jake fucking Sully.
The Colonel had always been obsessed with the betrayer, the memories from his past life adding oil to the fire, forcing him into combat after combat. His grudge had taken root deep in his psyche, rage and violence the only fuel it needed. He’d come back from every skirmish bleeding and limping, his hatred and admiration for Sully having grown piece by agonizing piece. The contradicting emotions had wormed their way inside his skull, always pulling and tugging one way or the other.
You could see that it ate at him, his inability to bring back the leader of the resistance - but why?
Yes, he had Colonel Miles Quaritch’s memories. But that’s all they were - memories. He could choose to live a different life. The life he never got to have before - one on a new planet with a living system that would accept him as one of its own.
You squashed the thought before it could spiral - you both knew it was impossible. The RDA would never let him roam free, his body a mere asset to the mission.
The same as you.
Your lips formed the words before you could think, your voice coming out soft as a whisper.
“Dead man’s memories.”
Both you and the Colonel froze, neither of you willing to move. His ears flattened against his skull, his gaze stuck on the floor next to your booted feet.
Your mind whirled with ways to apologize as you pushed yourself off the door, your hands raised in a placating gesture. His head rose slowly and his eyes locked on you, his face a mask of indifference.
“I’m so sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean that.”
Quaritch leaned back, his frame looming over you even while sitting spread-legged on your tiny bed. His expression didn’t change as his tongue flicked out, the tip probing one of his sharp canines.
“No, no. You meant everythin’ you said. Don’t walk it back now.”
Your hands twitched at your sides, lowering slowly if only to fondle the hem of your cotton shirt. Your mouth opened and closed of its own accord, your teeth clattering against each other due to the adrenaline coursing through your veins. Small tremors wracked your muscles and you convulsed as you waited for his next move.
The Colonel’s gaze jumped to your twitching limbs and he exhaled softly, his eyes finding the empty pitcher on your nightstand. His fingers traced the rim of his mask and he allowed the dizziness to get to his head, the lack of proper air bringing a feeling akin to being drunk.
He needed it.
His palm wrapped around the plastic and lifted it to his lips. After a brief moment of reveling in the cloudiness in his mind, he took a deep drag of clean air, his eyes closing with pleasure at the heady rush of clarity that washed over him.
His gaze found yours once more, sharper now, and his lips twisted in a smile - not the sardonic one you were used to seeing when someone made a mistake, nor the playful smirk reserved for Deja Blu. No, this smile was smaller, more sinister. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he shrugged, his massive shoulders lifting with the movement.
“You’re right, Doc. Dead man’s memories.”
The Colonel reminded you of a panther hunting its prey as he rose, his neck bent at an odd angle thanks to your infuriatingly low ceiling.
You pressed yourself further against the door, the wood digging into the trembling muscles at your back. You slid down the smooth surface, a wave of terror washing over you as your butt hit the ground.
His eyes peered down at you, tracking your slow descent, and his ears flicked at the soft thump of your ass landing on the cold floor. He took one step and crouched in front of you, his face close enough for your eyes to trace the small scars littering his smooth blue skin.
He tilted his head, his ears flickering in a playful gesture, and he lifted the hem of your shirt, his big fingers pinching and twisting the soft material. His golden eyes traced the shift of fabric, the smile slipping from his lips.
“Dead man’s experience.”
His voice had come out soft, the southern drawl dragging out every word like a deadly caress. His eyes lifted to yours and you struggled to place his expression. You couldn’t even if you wanted to - your brain too preoccupied with forcing your heart to pump more oxygen into your limbs, adrenaline a ticking time bomb in your system.
All you knew was that you had to get away from the looming threat before you.
The Colonel’s tail lashed behind him, thumping against the wooden leg of your bed. Your tiny room felt even smaller, the oppressive air cloying and constricting as it pressed in on you. His massive frame took up most of the cramped space, forcing you into a cage with no escape.
You had the keen realization that maybe you’d pushed his buttons too much - he was a man that could kill you if he wanted to, and no one would bat an eye. Your coworkers wouldn’t care enough to make a fuss and HQ would sweep the incident under the rug, unwilling to punish their expensive investment.
You had fucked up.
Your throat fluttered as you struggled to swallow and Quaritch’s eyes snapped to it, tracing the movement. His pupils expanded, zeroing in on the delicate line of your neck like a predator closing in on its kill. His lips twisted into the familiar sardonic smile he always bore when he was toying with someone, and he sat on his haunches, one of his long fingers hooking around the keycard strapped to your neck.
“Seems it’s working.”
Your mind short-circuited, confusion washing over you and adding to the unstoppable tremors wracking your limbs.
“What?”
The Colonel grinned, his sharp canines making their appearance as he tilted his head. His fingers tested the sharp edge of your keycard, the plastic digging a hole in his flesh. He pressed, the pointed rectangle finally piercing the first layer of skin. It didn’t stop there, however, sinking further into the rough pad of his finger until it met the resistance of bone.
“Your little prototype.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, your gaze stuck on the blood beading from the wound on his digit. The Colonel’s pupils searched for yours and he chuckled softly.
“C’mon, Doc. You’re smarter than that.”
Realization hit like a punch to the gut and your eyes tore themselves from the gorey display, snapping to the syringe laying abandoned on your dingy nightstand. The blue liquid that had once filled the small cylinder now shimmered on the edge of its needle tip.
A sort of quiet washed over you, the only sound in your ears the steady rush of blood.
He’d injected himself with your prototype.
Without your supervision.
You opened your mouth, ready to scream his ear off at his recklessness, self-preservation be damned, but he halted you in your tracks.
His hand lifted to your eyeline, bringing along the strapped keycard still clutched in its grasp. His fingers pressed the little plastic rectangle harder against the bone below, the synthetic material cracking under the pressure and breaking. The raw flesh surrounding the sharp edge grabbed onto it, almost sentient in its pursuit of stitching itself back together, and you gasped.
The broken edge of the keycard fell in your lap, the meat of his digit having pushed it out in one sharp burst.
You watched in real time as the deep cut on the pad of his finger closed, leaving a tiny, silver seam along the incision. Slack-jawed, you slumped against the door, your hand shooting out to cover your mouth.
“Three times faster. Your notes weren’t lyin’.”
Your lower lip trembled as a wave of relief washed over you, hot tears leaving salty tracks down your cheeks. Small sobs wracked your body as you stared entranced at where his skin had been pierced moments before.
You had done it. Your research had borne fruit worthy of a promotion.
The Colonel’s eyes traced your features, his limbs almost feline in their movements as he leaned his forearms on his knees. His hand dropped down, laying limp between his spread thighs. His head inclined, ears flickering as he took note of the tears of relief running down your face.
“Aren’t you gonna ask if there are side effects?”
You took a steadying breath and forced yourself into a state of calm. Hot tears still ran down your cheeks, but you suppressed the emotion - you had to document the results. And more importantly, you had to make sure Quaritch would live.
Your legs locked, muscles flexing as you stood, your hands steadying against the smooth expanse of your door. A small puff of air left your lips as you straightened your cotton shirt, your fingers fidgeting with the keycard around your neck. Fuck, you were grateful only the edge had snapped off and not one of the small strings of metal swirling along the plastic surface.
“All right. Let’s go to the lab so I can test you.”
The Colonel made no attempt at moving and instead used his arm as leverage as he sat on the floor. His back pressed against the side of your bed as he leaned, his bulging arms crossed in front of his chest. He tilted his head, an eyebrow raising in an annoying gesture of indifference.
“No need.”
His thighs shifted, one leg stretching so his booted toes could rest against the thin wood of your door, the limb bent at the knee. His shoe pressed against the door, throwing every chance of opening it out of the window.
“You’ve got what you need right here.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you glanced between his massive boot and his face, but his expression didn’t shift. Instead, one of his long fingers flicked, gesturing at the small desk nestled in the corner of your room.
“Grab a pen and paper.”
Annoyance at his refusal to comply with your demands bubbled at the surface, but you tamped it down.
You weren’t going to let this opportunity slip.
You climbed over his impossibly large leg and strode over to your desk, dusting off the metal in the process. You rifled through the drawers, your fingers landing on a long-forgotten notebook and a fluffy ballpoint pen your mother had smuggled into your luggage before you went into cryo.
Your legs brought you back to him, the side of your boot pressing against the rigid line of his inner thigh. Your teeth worried the dry flesh of your bottom lip as you gazed at him, unseeing. Your mind was preoccupied with sorting through the routine questions you had to ask and, after a few beats of silence, finally settled on a select few.
“All right. Any dizziness?”
“No.”
Your pen raced over the notebook, writing down your question and his answer.
“Visual distortion?”
The Colonel leaned further against the bed, resting one massive arm against his knee.
“No.”
You nodded and took one step to the side, his long legs bracketing you as you focused on your notepad.
“Nausea?”
A soft puff of air left his nose, almost bored, and he shook his head.
“No.”
Your hand worked slower thank your mind, the scrawl of your words messy.
“Paper’s cheap.”
Your eyes flickered up to his and back down at your writing, dismissive.
“Yeah. What did you expect from Bridgehead? Any elevated heart rate?”
He hesitated for a second, his fingers finding the smooth metal of his dog tag.
“No.”
Your head inclined in understanding and you paced to the side once more, scribbling in your notepad.
“But yours usually is.”
You froze in your tracks, unsure whether you heard him right or not.
“What?”
The Colonel watched you, his posture just as relaxed as it was a few seconds before. His fingers flipped the dog tag in their grasp, the jingle of the silver chain loud in the quiet room.
After a few tense moments of silence with him giving you no reaction other than a subtle raise of his eyebrows, you turned your eyes back to the notepad. Your fingers trembled as you squeezed the pen in your grasp and you swallowed, willing your heart to slow its errant beating.
“Any tremors?”
You could almost hear the subtle smirk in his voice but you refused to look his way, your back almost turned to him.
“No.”
The scribble of your words turned messier than it had already been, and you hoped you’d be able to read it later that night.
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
As you struggled to write down your thoughts in neat lines, he spoke, the southern drawl of his voice snaking down your spine and between your shoulder blades.
“You ain’t as sneaky as you think.”
Your pen froze in the middle of your sentence, the ink drying against the bruised paper.
What?
It took your already overworked mind a second to understand his words and when it did, you turned towards him.
He knew you’d watched him.
Fuck.
“Shit- Look, Colonel. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
From his position against the side of your bed, he looked like a man about to watch a stage play. His fingers released the dog tag, instead choosing to toy with the edge of his mask.
“You were just- I guess impressive? I mean I’m a scientist, right? Of course I’d want to look at an impressive specimen-”
The Colonel’s eyebrows kissed his hairline and he crossed his arms across his chest, the eagle tattoo on his triceps stretching with the movement.
“No, no- I mean you’re not a specimen. You’re a man. A big one at that and - yeah, sure, you’re hot as fuck-”
His lips tipped into a smirk, one sharp canine peeking beneath the plush flesh. He brough the plastic mask to his mouth, never breaking eye contact with your form as he dragged in a deep, long breath. He looked amused, all right - watched you stumble about the room like a woman on too much caffeine. You almost tripped over his big boot and finally steadied yourself, your eyes landing on his expression.
“And now you’re laughing at me. Does this amuse you? Yeah, I know what I did was wrong, but this isn’t funny.”
You looked like an angry cat, running around in fear one second and hissing the other, your finger jabbing aggressively in his direction. Quaritch found it highly entertaining, your shift in emotions betraying the panic that had your heart in a vice grip.
Your steps slowed as you stopped in front of him, your eyes pleading and brimming with nervous tears. Shit, you were about to cry for the second time, or was it third, in the past 24 hours. This was new for you - the last time you’d shed tears over anything in Bridgehead being your first night in the base.
This man held a hot poker in his hand and was using it to poke at your fraying nerves.
“Please, don’t report me to HQ.”
The smirk had slipped from Quaritch’s lips, a mask of calm taking its place. He looked at your eyes, brimming with tears, and waited a few seconds for your tremors to subside.
“When did I say I didn’t like it?”
Your eyes snapped to his, wide and shocked.
What did he just say?
“Pretty thing like you watchin’ me?”
His digits tapped against his bicep, the pad of a finger leaving small indentations on the edge of his black ink.
“Ain’t that a treat?”
It felt like the world had collapsed in on you, crushing and smearing the remainder of your sanity. What the fuck was happening?
Your mind raced as you struggled to place his expression to one emotion or the other, but his face stayed impassive, his fingers having ceased their incessant tapping. He watched you with infuriating patience, as if waiting for you to grasp his intentions.
“Colonel, I- this can’t happen. Look, I’m a scientist, you’re my test subject and I-”
His voice cut you off, so annoyingly steady and calm you worried you would fall into hysteria.
“You gonna keep pretendin’ this is clinical?”
Your fingers squeezed the notepad, the thick cardboard of the cover warping beneath the pressure.
“Or you gonna stop takin’ notes and start participatin’?”
Silence filled the cramped space of your room.
Even the sound your thundering heart disappearing to the back of your mind.
You’d been pushed to the sidelines ever since you stepped foot on Bridgehead. Forced to observe and work behind the scenes - never on the front lines.
Never on the same level as people like Quaritch.
He was giving you the opportunity to take something for yourself. To be selfish, consequences be damned.
And shit, was the thought tempting.
“You think I didn’t see what you’ve been doin’?”
Your hearing sharpened as your mind hooked onto his every word, his honeyed tone a balm to your racing heart.
“You’re hidin’ in plain sight. Ask your questions. Keep your distance. Call it research.”
His fingers drummed against the mask slung around his neck, the plastic swinging with the impact.
“Whole time your pulse is racin’ like a soldier’s.”
His arms uncrossed, one long limb bringing the mask to his lips. The air hissed as he inhaled, his eyes glazing over at the sweet clarity. The plastic thumped against his chest, the long strap hanging down his torso.
“You wanna participate?”
His gaze landed on yours, his eyes challenging as he tilted his head. His ears flattened to his skull, sharp canines peeking beneath his lips.
“Then come here.”
He leveled you with a stare, his posture calm. Your heart skipped a beat in your chest and the notebook clattered out of your hands. His eyes never strayed from yours, his silent challenge flickering deep in their depths.
This was real.
A short inhale, then an exhale - you didn’t know what you were doing, but you’d decided that you really didn’t care about the consequences, after all. So, you took a step.
Then another.
Your boots stopped a few centimeters short of his abdomen and you finally mustered up the courage to properly look him in the eye.
His pupils were dilated, the lines around his eyes smoothed as he watched you. Waiting.
“Closer.”
Your boots pressed against the taut lines of his inner thighs and you inhaled, his scent invading your nose. He smelled just as divine as he had a day ago and involuntary goosebumps rose along your heated skin.
He tilted his head, the dog tag at his chest shuffling with the movement, and nodded.
“Go on.”
Your fingers flexed at your sides as your throat struggled to swallow the lump of nervousness stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your lips parted, a shaky breath escaping you as you finally leaned down and hooked your finger around the chain of his dog tag. You pulled, the Colonel moving willingly as you dragged him to your lips.
Your mouth met his sloppily and you had to slow yourself down as you felt his tongue prod the seam of your lips. Small, human hands grabbed onto his muscular shoulders as you leaned in closer.
The vibrations of his chuckle rolled down your spine as his lips dominated yours, forcing you to move slower. His tongue bullied its way past your lips, tangling with yours and drawing out a gasp of surprise. It was massive compared to yours and you struggled to get used to its strength as it licked inside your mouth.
He tasted sweet, the special coffee prepared for Deja Blu more flavorful than any of the slop the cafeteria had to offer.
Or perhaps it was just him.
His arms hadn’t moved from their position against his abdomen and only when you released a whine of impatience did he finally relent. One muscled forearm wound itself around your waist and tugged, pulling you flush against his chest. You landed with a soft oomph, and rested your weight on his torso as you continued kissing him, struggling to gain the upper hand. The Colonel did not let you win, however, his fingers snaking over the expanse of your skull and dragging you closer to his lips.
His tongue wound around yours, wrestling it into submission, and he groaned deep in your mouth. Your hand had found the soft hair braided around his neural link and wrapped around the delicate strands. His arm pulled you closer against his chest, your breasts squished on his pecs.
His voice came mumbled against your mouth as his sharp canines tugged on your lower lip, pulling on the soft flesh.
“That’s what I call participatin’.”
His hand ran up your upper arm, causing goosebumps to erupt along the surface of your flesh, and followed the delicate curve of your shoulder. His nails raked the skin there, lightly, and dipped beneath the hem of your shirt.
His other hand moved from its previous position on your skull to graze up your thigh, stopping at the junction between your leg and your bum. After a brief second of appreciation for the dip separating you ass and thigh, his fingers finally wrapped around the flesh above and squeezed, kneading the muscle in circular motions.
His teeth released your lip, tongue flicking out to soothe the stinging flesh. He didn’t give you a second to recover as he descended on you once more, his much bigger mouth swallowing your pained gasp.
You moaned against his lips, his grip on your ass harsh enough to bring you pain but light enough to cause you to squeeze your thighs, your weeping cunt seeking any friction it could find. You sneaked a hand down your torso and past your legs, fingers finding your pulsing clit. You sighed into his mouth, his tongue licking yours as you rolled the pads of your fingers over your swollen nub, the pleasure causing your toes to curl.
The Colonel tsked against your lips and pulled away, a thin string of saliva stretching between you two and breaking when you whimpered at the loss of contact. He chuckled and delivered a quick slap to your ass cheek, his fingers resuming their kneading of the abused flesh.
“Did I say you could touch yourself?”
Your mind struggled to parse his words as your fingers rolled relentlessly against your clit. Quaritch hummed, shifting beneath you so you were sat on his clothed dick. The new position gave him a perfect view of the small, damp patch forming on your pants, and he exhaled softly in appreciation. His cock jumped in his cargo pants and you felt it press against your folds, forcing your fingers to rub harder against your clit for one blissful second.
In a slow, unhurried movement, the Colonel wrapped his big hands around your thighs, lifting you in the air like you weighed nothing.
Well, to him at least you didn’t.
You laved his muscled shoulders with attention, leaving open-mouthed kisses on his hot flesh like a woman starved. He grunted deep in his throat, a sound almost akin to a purr rumbling in his chest as your teeth scraped against the junction of his neck.
You felt the world around you flip as he laid you on your bed, his bulky frame hovering above you and snuffing out all remainders of the already dim light. The change in positions had forced your lips to part with his silky flesh and you groaned, squirming beneath him in an attempt to press yourself against his chest.
The Colonel chuckled at you, unmoving as he half leaned above you, half stood on the ground. One of his hands held fast to the bedframe, the wood creaking beneath his vice-like grip. His other hand laid next to your head, your sheets fisted tight in his fingers. He gripped the mask still strapped to him, taking a deep lungful of air, and resumed his lazy observation of your messy struggle.
His dog tag hung right above your face and you abandoned your futile attempts at getting closer, hooking your finger around the silver chain and dragging him down instead. Quaritch allowed himself to be pulled towards your inviting mouth, his teeth finding purchase of your swollen lower lip and tugging on the soft flesh.
He hummed in appreciation at your sweet sound of pleasure, his big hand sliding under your shirt and up your spine, his long fingers spanning your entire back. His fingertips found the edge of your bra band and he hooked one digit around it, tugging and then releasing, the smack of the strap jarring against your heated skin. A small gasp of surprise left your lips, quickly swallowed by his mouth as his tongue once again tangled with yours.
The springs squeaked and shuddered under your combined weight as Quaritch fully leaned on the bed. Both of you froze, not daring to move a muscle. Sharp bursts of air left your parted lips as you gazed at each other, waiting for the inevitable crunch.
And crunch it did indeed, the wooden frame warping underneath your bulk.
“Shit.”
Both of you looked at each other from your lowered vantage point, eyes wide in surprise. A shocked giggle bubbled out of your lips and the Colonel grinned, one sharp canine digging into his lower lip as he watched your eyes crinkle at the corners.
You really were a pretty little thing.
When you finally finished your surprised giggling, you became hyper-aware of his finger still hooked around your bra band. You dragged one nail down his neck and between his collarbones, landing on the edge of his tank top. Your eyes flicked up to his, challenging, and Quaritch grunted as he finally unhooked your bra.
“You little tease.”
The arm pressing against your back hauled you up until you were flush against his chest, and the Colonel dragged your shirt off with no resistance. The cotton fabric landed somewhere in your room, sweaty and discarded. Your bra followed, the cold air in the room finding its way to your nipples and causing them to harden. His eyes snagged on the stiff peaks and he dove, his lips wrapping around one of the soft mounds, his free hand gripping the other.
Your back arched as he pressed you further against his lips, his mouth enveloping most of your breast. You ran your fingers through his cropped hair, the digits landing on the strands braided around his neural link yet again. Quaritch released a guttural moan of pleasure as you touched the base of the braid, the nerve endings sensitive to the soft drag of your fingertips.
The hand that had hauled you up moved to your hip and you dropped to the soft mattress with a muted thump with him following closely behind. His lips hadn’t parted from your hardened nipple, finally releasing the flesh with a pop. His teeth found your other peak, tugging on the bud. You gasped at the sharp sting and pressed harder against his kuru.
The Colonel grunted against your skin, finally slipping your bitten nipple into his mouth. He bullied his hips between your thighs, the thick bulge of his cock settling right against your damp core. His rough fingers danced over your ribcage and down your waist, fingertips digging into the flesh as he squeezed hard.
You were sure you’d have bruises tomorrow and were grateful for the long lab coat you were obligated to wear to work.
Your hips rutted against his, the muscles in your thighs straining against the motion. He was massive, his body heavy and he refused to make this easier for you. You swore you could feel his lips pull into a smirk as he tugged at your nipple, but were quickly distracted by the feel of his long fingers prodding at the damp seam of your pants.
Quaritch left one final bite on the swell of your breast, his mark encompassing almost half of it, and straightened. His hands slid down your sides, nails dragging against your hot flesh as they settled on the waistband of your pants. He hooked one long finger in the belt loop and teasingly pulled on it, the band stretching against the intrusion.
“Off.”
You scrambled to sit up, clumsily bringing yourself to a half-leaning, half-laying position as you struggled to shimmy out of your pants.
The Colonel chuckled at your futile attempts and lazily tugged off his tank top, tossing the garment right next to your discarded clothes. He sat on his feet as he watched you wriggle all over the bed, his fingers resting where they were situated on his powerful thighs.
A lazy smile of pleasure curled on his lips as you finally managed to pop open the button of your pants, your cotton panties peeking from the small opening. You groaned in annoyance as the stiff material refused to slip down your legs and you pulled, one of the belt loops ripping off in your aggression. You gave zero fucks, however, pleased now that you’d managed to rid yourself of the oppressive layer separating you from Quaritch’s silky skin.
You looked up at him, chest heaving in an unashamed struggle to gulp in air, and hooked your fingers into the waistband of your panties.
The Colonel’s hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist as he tugged your greedy fingers away from your underwear. You whined in displeasure, the need curling low in your belly growing to an almost unbelievable pressure. Your other hand reached for your panties, his wishes be damned, but he grabbed it too, both of your wrists held snug in his much larger grip.
“Don’t rush, sugar.”
Quaritch pressed his free hand against your ribcage, pushing you until you were sprawled on the ruined bed beneath you. His eyes took their sweet time tracing your curves, finally landing on the obscenely damp patch on your panties. He tsked, his canines flashing as he smirked.
“Already so wet and I haven’t even touched ya yet.”
You sent him a scalding glare he chose to ignore, and he lowered himself between your thighs. His lips left wet kisses all over your stomach and down, his teeth snapping out to leave bites on the soft skin. You gasped at the pain, his canines leaving deep indentations in your already sensitive flesh, and he hummed, his tongue flicking out to lick a long strip over each and every mark.
His lips found the edge of your panties and he hissed. You could see his pupils swallow the gold in his eyes and he dove, burying his face in the damp patch right above your entrance. He inhaled and groaned, the sound deeper than anything you’d ever heard come out of him. His nose bumped against your clit as he pressed himself harder against your clothed pussy.
You didn’t even have enough time to react before his tongue flicked out, licking a long stripe along the seam of your panties.
A choked moan tore itself out of your throat as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. His tongue was exquisite even with a layer separating it from your wetness, and you begged any god that could hear you to make your underwear magically disappear.
The tip of the muscle pressed insistently against your clothed hole, lapping up the juices that had soaked the underwear. Another grunt of pleasure slipped past his lips and his jaw snapped, his teeth grabbing hold of the fabric. The sharp edge of one of his canines dragged against your clit as he pulled, the thin layer tearing where sharp teeth met cotton.
He had torn a hole into your panties.
With his fucking teeth.
Holy shit.
Before your mind could process how he’d ruined one of your favorite pairs of underwear, he dove, his tongue licking a long stripe up your weeping cunt.
Your hands struggled against his grip on your wrists and you almost screamed at the pleasure. His tongue was rough and so fucking massive it covered the entirety of your pussy and shit, you didn’t think you could go back to human men after this.
He let out a moan at your taste, his voice coming out muffled against your soaking cunt.
“Christ.”
He inhaled sharply, the sound wet as he pulled back, his eyes sparkling in admiration at the divine view in front of him.
“You taste better than I imagined.”
You took a second to process his words and when you did, you moaned his name out loud. He’d thought about eating your pussy? You would need to talk to him about it. Just… Not now.
Your toes curled as his tongue found your folds once again, the tip curled as he flicked it against your aching clit. Small sounds of pleasure left your lips as you struggled to breathe. The pleasure was overwhelming, the rough texture of the muscle dragging against your bud in a way that had you seeing stars.
His free hand snaked up your torso, big fingers pinching the bitten nipple deliberately. The digits twisted, taking your flesh with them and you released a gasp of pain, quickly swallowed by another moan as his tongue dipped into your entrance.
A deep groan of satisfaction rumbled up his chest and into your pussy and you tensed as you felt something coil deep in your belly. Even when his tongue devoted its attention to your hole, his nose bumped against your clit, sending sweet jolts of pleasure down your limbs and towards your core.
The hand that had been toying with your abused nipple left its post at your breast and slowly descended, his nails leaving small lines along your skin. His digits bullied their way past your thighs and found your entrance, replacing his tongue. His middle finger prodded the hole, its thickness dragging a pained gasp out of you as it slid past the tight ring.
“Breathe, sugar.”
You focused on his voice and nodded as you forced your muscles to relax. Your pussy clamped around his finger as he slowly pulled out halfway and slid back in with maddening patience. His tongue found your clit once more, curling in the way that had brought out the most reactions out of you, and pressed against it.
His eyes found your face, half-lidded and panting, and a hum of appreciation rumbled out of him at the sight. You looked so fucked out already and you weren’t even wrapped around his cock yet.
His grip on your wrists loosened and then disappeared, his free hand wrapping around your thigh and pulling it over his shoulder. The new position allowed his tongue to press harder against your swollen clit, his finger moving at a bruising pace and making space for another.
Your hands shot out and grabbed the short strands of his hair and tugged, your muscles fluttering around his digits. You felt your body give way as you relaxed around the two massive fingers, the scissoring motions making every slow drag more bearable.
“Atta girl. Just like that.”
Your gaze flittered to his face, but his eyes were closed, too engrossed with the divine taste of your pussy to look at anything. He could feel the way your cunt clenched around his fingers and it drove him wild to imagine what his cock would look like in their place.
You felt a third finger slide inside your pussy and you winced at the pain, the stretch becoming near unbearable. You felt so full you didn’t think you could take any more.
As if he could read your mind, the Colonel sucked on your clit, his voice muffled against your squelching pussy.
“You can take more. You’re a big girl aint’cha?”
He allowed your walls to loosen, even if just a little, and continued the slow pump of his fingers. He squeezed your thigh as it twitched against his head, threatening to press against his sensitive ears. He didn’t mind it, not at all, but he wouldn’t let you boss him around. He wanted to draw out your pleasure, flicking his tongue just enough to bring you to the peak, but not enough to tip you over.
He could feel your walls convulse around his fingers as you finally relaxed around them, your pussy weeping for release. Your small fingers dug into his scalp, struggling to press him closer to the one spot that would snap the coil in your belly, finally allowing you the release you so desperately craved.
You felt his lips stretch into a smile as he debated on your fate, his fingers scissoring and curling to stretch your walls.
You knew he’d made his decision when his head dipped, his tongue flattening just right, the pressure against your clit blinding. His fingers curled up, finding the spongey spot that had your toes curling, and pressed.
You swore you could see stars as the thread snapped, your orgasm washing over you like a torrent of pleasure. His name tore out of your lips like a broken wail, your nails leaving holes on the skin of his scalp. Your thighs clamped around his head and his fingers dug into the soft flesh, holding you in place.
His tongue and fingers continued their assault on your pussy, helping you ride out your high until you were a sobbing and begging mess, squirming underneath his vice-like grip. He licked off all of your release, leaving the flesh so sensitive that when he pulled away, the cold of the room felt jarring.
He tapped your thigh and you moved your legs away from his head, allowing him to straighten. He loomed above you, your come glistening on his lips. His fingers slipped out of your pussy and you whimpered at the loss of contact, clenching around the cold air.
He brought the glistening digits to your mouth and tapped your lip, leaving some of the sticky residue on the swollen flesh.
“Open up.”
Your lidded eyes slowly landed on his fingers. You were so fucked out but oh so fucking eager to please him.
So, you opened your mouth, your gaze finding his and staying there. You wrapped your lips around one thick digit, your tongue flicking out to lick off your own release. You saw his eyes darken for a split second, a twisted sort of pleasure falling over his lazy features. His own tongue slipped past his parted lips, tasting the wetness still coating them. His eyes closed at the pleasure.
Both of you moaned at the same time at the dirty realization that you were tasting your release together.
When his finger slipper out of your mouth, you lifted yourself to a sitting position, testing the waters. His bulge was visible in his cargo pants, straining almost painfully against the thick fabric. His eyes opened, tracking every slow movement. Your hands lifted to the buckle of his belt, the material rough against your skin. He allowed you to unbuckle it, followed by his button, the pop of its release echoing in the silent room. You grabbed the big zipper, looking for confirmation before you tugged on it, dragging it as far down as you could.
The Colonel straightened and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his cargo pants. You knew he wanted to tease you more, but you both also knew that you couldn’t take off his pants no matter how much you wished to. So, with one smooth motion, he dragged the cargos down his muscled legs, his cock springing free. You hadn’t expected him to go commando, and yet… It was oddly fitting.
You stifled a giggle as you banished the thought, your focus finally falling on his dick and.. shit.
He was massive.
His cock was a blue as deep as his skin, long and fucking thick, possibly even by Na’vi standards. Small, bioluminescent bumps covered the silky skin, making it look like a starry sky.
Your mouth watered at the sight of his dark blue tip, precum already oozing and smeared over the delicate flesh. You leaned on your hands, tongue sticking out past your lips and eagerly licked a stipe from his base to his tip.
Quaritch visibly shuddered above you and one of his massive hands slid down your scalp, gripping the back of your head. He pressed your face against the side of his cock, your tongue struggling to lick the heated flesh in the way you wanted to. You felt him shake as he chuckled and one of his thumbs rubbed your cheek, his palm more than big enough to envelop the back of your skull.
“Not tonight, sugar.”
You whimpered as he pulled your mouth off his dick, the underside glistening with your saliva. Your eyes searched his for an explanation and he chuckled, slipping his thumb past your lips. He hissed as you sucked on it, his mouth parting at the suggestive visual.
“I don’t have the patience.”
Quaritch leaned over you and forced you to lay on the bed, his hands finding your hips and lifting them. One of his fingers hooked over the edge of your ruined panties and tugged them off, leaving them discarded on the growing pile of clothes. His pants and boots followed suit, crumpling on the cold floor as he took hold of your thighs.
His fingers wrapped around the undersides of your knees as he pressed them against you. The position left you fully exposed to him and he grinned down at you, his sharp canines flashing.
From your point of view you could see the hard lines of his arms tense as he squeezed the soft flesh of your inner thighs. Your feet hung in the air, swaying as the bed dipped underneath you. Quaritch moved closer, his muscular thighs caging in your hips as he leaned over you. His cock slid over your sopping folds and he grunted, the feel of your silky cunt against the underside of his dick mind-numbing.
His half-lidded eyes dropped to yours and he exhaled slowly through his mouth, the tense muscles on his abdomen flexing with the motion.
“You sure you want this, Doc?”
You nodded and put your hands on top of his, forcing him to press your knees further towards the mattress.
“I want to hear you say it.”
He sure was specific when it came to consent, wasn’t he? He hadn’t touched you until you made the first move and even now when your pussy clenched around nothing he made sure to ask you for permission.
Shit, that made him so much hotter.
“Yes, Colonel. I want you to fuck me.”
That was all the motivation Quaritch needed, one of his big hands slipping out from underneath yours to grab the thick length of his cock. He angled his hips, bringing the swollen tip to your entrance, and you both inhaled sharply as it made contact with your wetness.
The Colonel licked his lips and spared one last look at your fucked-out expression before he pressed, the tip barely sipping halfway inside your pussy before he had to stop himself. Your eyes had squeezed shut at the painful stretch and you’d clutched the sheets around you in a tight grip.
You felt his thumbs press into your inner thighs, rubbing soothing circles into the tense flesh. His voice floated towards your ears, strained and coaxing.
“Shh, sugar. Deep breaths.”
You followed his directions, taking in a deep breath through your nose and exhaling out of your mouth, focusing on relaxing your muscles.
“That’s it. You’re doing so good for me.”
His thick tip slipped further past the tight ring of your entrance, finally notching itself inside with a pop. You gasped at the intrusion, your walls fluttering around him. Quaritch grunted at the feeling of your wet cunt twitching around him and his hands pressed on your thighs. You felt your knees kiss the top of the covers as the hand that had been clutching his cock returned to your other thigh. His restraint was the only reason you weren’t twisted like a pretzel and you both knew it.
Your eyes locked with his as he pressed in further, your body opening up to accommodate more of his inhuman length. You both moaned as one third of his cock slipped inside you, both sounds pained. You were so tight that it hurt him to move and he stopped, allowing your cunt to relax.
“In and out, baby. Good girl.”
Quaritch straightened, his head tipping with concentration. He slowly pulled out, a big portion of his dick still disappearing in you, and then pressed back in, slowly fucking himself deeper and deeper inside you.
Sharp bursts of air escaped your lips as his hips snapped with tiny motions, your cunt stretching further and further with every push of his cock. Your toes curled in a surprising burst of pleasure as one of the ridges littering his dick bumped against the spongy wall of your pussy, dragging against the delicate flesh inside.
Quaritch grunted as he felt you clench around him, your grip turning bruising as you moaned. He’d managed to fuck as much of his dick into you as he could, and he pulled out, only to slowly slide back in in one smooth motion. Almost one fourth of his cock still peeked outside your cunt and it drove him wild to see that even with your pussy stretched to its maximum you couldn’t accommodate all of him.
“Shit, would ya look at that? Taking me so good.”
You both groaned at the snap of his hips, the loud sounds of your pleasure echoing in your tiny room.
Your nails raked over his knuckles as he leaned fully on your thighs, your knees pressing against the mattress. Your hips lifted off the bed and you gasped at the angle his dick speared into. One of his hands left your legs to grab your pillow and shoved it under your ass, taking some of the pressure off your aching lower back. You looked up at him, grateful for his thoughtfulness, and were about to thank him just as his hips snapped, slamming his thick cock inside your wetness.
Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your neck arching as you struggled to meet his thrusts.
Quaritch dipped his head, his tongue licking a long stripe up the expanse of your throat. His teeth dug into the soft flesh and pulled it into his mouth, his lips suckling hard enough to leave a bruise. The idea of marking you caused his dick to twitch in you, his thrusts growing more urgent as you released a strained moan. He moved to your shoulder, biting hard enough to pierce the skin and you screamed, the pain mingling with the pleasure.
You’d never felt this full before, and with every drag of his dick against your walls you could feel that painful coil winding in your belly. You knew you would finish long before he did, but you didn’t want to - you wanted to feel his cum coat your walls as you convulsed around him. So, you focused on holding back your fast-building orgasm, your eyes shutting in concentration.
Quaritch felt your muscles tense around him and he pulled away, finally abandoning the bruised flesh of your throat. His eyes searched your face and when he realized what you were trying to do, he chuckled.
“No. We won’t be havin’ any of that tonight, sugar.”
His hand abandoned its tight grip on your thigh and found your clit instead, his big thumb flicking the sensitive bud. You groaned deep in your throat, the sound strained and airy. You were going to come and he knew it, because he angled his hips just right so that sinful ridge rubbed just right against the spongy part of your walls.
Your voice left your lips in a scream as you convulsed around him, your pussy twitching with every wave of your orgasm. Your release coated his dick as you kept falling and falling, and he leaned down, his lips swallowing your incoherent babbling.
“That’s my girl.”
Your eyes had glazed over, the last of your orgasm slipping your body as you sagged against the sheets. You felt the snap of his hips slow, the drag of his cock less punishing against your sensitive walls. The thought of thanking him crossed your mind, but he interrupted it.
“What do ya think about another one?”
You looked up at him, the view hazy as his dog tag dangled in your face. You tried to form the proper words, but his movements quickened, his hips angling so his tip could reach deeper. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your nails raking bloody lines down his corded forearms.
Quaritch grunted, grinning as you struggled to speak. Your words tumbled out of your mouth like an incoherent babble, drool running down your cheek.
“Yeah? What was that baby?”
You struggled to speak, but every sharp snap of his hips against yours had you going back to the starting line. His thumb had found your pulsing clit once more, and you were reduced to a moaning, groaning mess as you strained to meet his thrusts with your own.
“Where’s that mouthy xenobiologist, huh? Don’t have much to say now do ya?”
He enunciated each of his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, the tip of his cock slamming against your cervix. The pressure was almost too much, bordering on pain, but the unrelenting rub of his thumb didn’t let you dwell on it too much.
“Shit, look at you. Fucked you stupid.”
You felt his cock twitch in your pussy as his movements quickened. His breaths came out in sharp bursts and he groaned, his head inclining so he could capture your lips in a filthy kiss. Your teeth clashed against each other as the kiss turned sloppy, the coil in your lower belly just about to snap.
He could feel it too, your walls twitching around his cock like a ticking time bomb, and he pressed against the backs of your thighs. Your ass lifted off the pillow as he drove into you, his dick slamming against your g-spot with each sharp thrust. His thumb flicked your clit in a steady motion, the pressure consistent as he coated the pad with your wetness.
You cried out as your third orgasm crashed over you, black spots dancing over your eyes as you twitched underneath him. Tears trickled out of your eyes, his name spilling from your lips like a broken mantra.
Quaritch grunted, the feel of your pussy milking him bringing him closer to the edge.
“Yeah, that’s right sugar. Come on my cock.”
His thrusts sped up just as you came off your high, the snap of his hips growing erratic as he chased his high. His teeth bit into your shoulder as he sank his dick deep in you, spurts of his cum painting the inside of your pussy. His voice broke as he moaned out your name, his tongue flicking out to lick the bloody mark on your skin.
Quaritch leaned his forehead against the nook of your shoulder for a few blissful seconds, both of you struggling to catch your breaths. Your hands roamed over his shoulders in a soothing manner and he inhaled, finally pulling away from you. His cock slipped out of you as he stood and you whimpered at the loss of contact. You felt so empty inside - literally, not figuratively.
Your mind wasn’t coherent enough to sort through your emotions yet.
He padded over to the pile of discarded clothes, his ass flexing with his movements.
You sat up, confusion creasing your brows as you watched him pick up his cargo pants. Your arms trembled as you struggled to lift yourself to your feet. One look from him, however, had you stopping in your tracks.
“Sit.”
You sat back on your ass, your aching muscles more than happy to agree with him. You watched him slip on his cargo pants silently, dread pooling low in your belly.
“So.. that was it?”
The Colonel raised an eyebrow in your direction and pulled up the zipper.
“What are you talking about?”
You fiddled with the wrinkled sheets beneath you, your nail catching on a hanging thread.
“You’re leaving now, right? I hope you know I don’t regret this. We can.. pretend this never happened, if you want.”
Your lips twisted into an almost painful scowl, the thought of having to pretend that you didn’t just have his cock in your pussy agonizing.
He huffed and slotted his mask over his mouth, dragging in greedy gulps of air.
“Insecurity doesn’t suit you, Doc.”
You bristled at the pointed jab and opened your mouth to respond with a retort of your own, but he wasn’t finished.
“Stay put. I’ll get water.”
He looked pointedly at the empty pitcher on your nightstand.
A wave of relief washed over you and he noticed, his lips tipping into that sardonic smile as he slipped on his boots. He walked over to you and leaned over your sitting frame. His finger tipped your chin up as he licked the still- bleeding flesh on your neck.
“Doesn’t feel like just a dead man’s memory anymore, does it?”
Your eyes widened as you looked up at him and he straightened, his palm tapping against your cheeks as he walked towards your door. His still-shirtless torso glistened with sweat and you swore you could count each individual muscle if you tried hard enough.
“Besides, I want to see those nasty fucks figure it out.”
Before you could ask what he meant, he slipped out of your room. Your door clicked softly behind him and you allowed yourself to collapse on your bed, exhausted.
Nasty fucks?
You gasped as realization dawned over you.
He wanted your coworkers to know.
Shit, they were going to think HE was your pretend husband.
A giddy smile wormed itself onto your face and you turned, inhaling the musky scent still lingering from his presence on your bedsheets.
Colonel Miles Quaritch had just fucked you silly.
And judging by his actions, this wasn’t going to be the last time.
You were going to enjoy more than just your promotion, after all.
🍓 pairing: miles quaritch x human fem reader x varang
🍓 tags: nsfw, alien cultural misunderstandings (you guys know the drill at this point), oral sex, scissoring, vaginal sex, threesomes, fingering, size kink, miscommunication
masterlist
reblogs are always enormously appreciated!
General Ardmore might just be the scariest woman you’ve ever met. You don’t think you do a very good job at hiding how intimidated you are when you’re sitting fidgeting at her desk under her narrow-eyed, cold stare.
On the other side of the desk, Ardmore hasn’t looked up from her datapad since she first grunted a greeting at you when you’d sat down. It’s a powerplay – you both know it’s a powerplay. But damn, it’s working.
“Um… Ma’am…” You start to say, awkward and stilted, but she raises a hand to stop you.
You shut up immediately, cowed.
Ardmore flicks through whatever it is she’s reading for another minute. In the silence of her sparse, impersonal office, it feels like an eternity.
Finally, she lifts her head and fixes you with a stern look.
“You know, I’m trying to figure out just what it is you do, exactly.” She says, and her voice is just as cold as her eyes.
You swear it feels as though the temperature in the office drops.
“Oh.” You say. You’re trying to keep your voice light, but it just comes out strained. “I, um. Well, I suppose I manage the–”
“The purpose of the Recombinant Support Team,” Ardmore cuts across you cleanly, as though you had no voice at all. “Was to handle the administration for the unit so that they could focus on their missions.”
There’s a slight pause.
“Yes.” You say weakly, though you’re not sure if she was actually waiting on a response or not.
“As far as I can see, you do very little of that.” Ardmore is staring at you with an impassive expression. “You seem to spend most of your time doing their laundry.”
You feel your skin get hot and prickly with embarrassment. You don’t always do their laundry. Just… just a handful of times. But you don’t get a chance to defend yourself before she’s continuing.
“You have no experience, no real skills. I can’t rightly see how you got hired in the first place. You should have been reassigned when the useful members of your team were killed.” She huffs, the first edge of irritation beginning to creep into her tone. “But Quaritch has always liked a pretty young face.”
The prickling humiliation gets worse. Your shoulders are hunched, and you can’t meet her eyes.
What she’s getting at is something that you have been aware of on some level, despite your attempts at denial. You know that you were always the least efficient member of the team, but you had thought that you had worked with enough enthusiasm to make up the difference. And even when you were the only one left, no one had ever complained.
But you weren’t completely stupid. You know that the Colonel didn’t treat you like just any assistant.
“I–” You start to say, but she interrupts you yet again.
“I’m going to give you a choice.” She says, folding her hands in front of her.
There’s a pause, but this time you don’t speak. You just wait, your tummy clenching anxiously. This doesn’t sound like it’s going to be good. Are you being fired? Or demoted? Or finally reassigned? You suppose it was just a matter of time.
“The Colonel has become increasingly difficult to handle of late,” Ardmore says, setting the datapad down in a way that comes across as too casual. “He’s unruly, resistant to command. Seems to think he knows how to deal with the Na’vi insurgents better than anyone else.”
You blink. You had been aware on some level that there had been tensions between Quaritch and Ardmore, but you don’t know why or what happened. No one tells you anything around here, and you’re too focused on just getting by to really worry about the bigger picture of the RDA’s long-term goals on the planet.
“You’re aware that he left the city, unsanctioned, three days ago?’
That makes you tense. It’s an accusation, really.
Of course you knew – there had been some kind of disagreement. You knew that Quaritch had asked for a ship and been denied, but not the particulars. You also knew that they had received some intel about Sully’s whereabouts, and had disappeared on their ikran mounts before anyone even knew they had gone.
You’re aware of all of this because you’ve already been chewed out by the higher ups in SecOps. You’re meant to be up to date with the Recoms every move, after all, so it’s easy to drop the blame in your lap.
“Y-yes,” You say, guilty and anxious all at once. “I didn’t sanction that–”
Ardmore continues over you, once again completely ignoring your attempt at speaking. It doesn’t seem like she cares much if you know what she’s talking about; you get the impression that she’s off-loading some of this onto you like this is a stopgap therapy session.
“The reason he was brought back was to complete a specific mission, and he has failed that mission several times.”
Retrieving or killing the betrayer and insurgent, Jake Sully. You know this one. It’s hard to miss the holovids shimmering all over Bridgehead, declaring him an enemy of humanity.
“So… is the Colonel being recalled, or something?” You ask.
Ardmore looks as though she’s stopping herself from rolling her eyes through sheer will power.
“The Recoms represent a significant investment by the company, so no, they’re not ‘being recalled, or something.’” Her voice is harsh in a way that makes you sit up straighter, your stomach curdling. “But they do need some… incentive to ensure they stay in line.”
You nod dumbly. “An incentive.”
“And that’s where you come in.”
Truthfully, you haven’t been following along with her reasoning very well in the first place, but now you’re flummoxed.
“Me, ma’am?” Despite your confusion, you work to keep your voice as even as possible. Ardmore is clearly already irritated about your very existence; you don’t want to give her a reason to hate you even more.
Your caution goes to waste, because Ardmore’s eyes flash in aggravation anyway. You suspect that there’s nothing you can do to please her, and it makes your spine go stiff. Your knees are watery, too – if you were standing, you might have gone weak.
“Yes, you.” Ardmore says sharply. “Next time the Recoms are sent out, you’re going with them.”
The order falls between you two like a lead balloon. You blink at her, turning the words over in your head. It takes you a moment to parse their meaning, and then another moment to discern that she’s one hundred percent serious. The General isn’t the type of woman to make jokes, but the statement is so bizarre that you honestly can’t quite get your head around it.
“Out.” You say at last. “Into… into the field?”
The General’s nostrils flare slightly as she takes an inhale, like she’s trying to regulate her patience. Then she forces a smile.
“That’s right.” She says. “Quaritch has been reckless recently. Let’s see if he takes the same type of risks when he’s toting you around behind him.”
You gape at her. You understand the basic premise. Quaritch has become a pain in her ass, so she’s decided to shackle a weight to his ankle to ensure he doesn’t go rogue like he’d done before.
But why does that ankle weight have to be you?
Your mouth is dry when you swallow. “Uh… I don’t… I don’t know if that… I don’t think the Colonel would care too much if I got killed in the field, ma’am.”
Ardmore snorts a little, which isn’t a reaction you had been expecting.
“Right,” She murmurs, glancing at the datapad. “You were on sick leave the day we rolled out against the Metkayina. The rest of the Support team were with the Recoms, but not you.”
You blink, picking anxiously at a hangnail on your thumb. “Uh… Yes, ma’am. I had a cold.”
You swear her cold blue eyes actually flash at that.
“A cold.” She says the words slowly, as though tasting them. “A bad cold, was it?”
You hesitate, because no, it hadn’t been a bad cold. It was really little more than a case of the sniffles, but Quaritch had looked at you with such an expression of disgust when you had blown your nose near him that you had thought he was going to have you quarantined. Instead, he had ordered you to take a few sick days.
You hadn’t thought about it too much at the time; you had been all too happy to take the excuse to skip what you had thought was going to be the straightforward arrest of Jake Sully. But now, you can recognise that it’s a little strange that you were pulled off duty just for a runny nose, especially by a hard-ass like Quaritch.
“It could have been contagious.” You say weakly.
Ardmore ignores that.
“Pack a bag. Keep it light.” She says bluntly. “They want to head out tomorrow.”
There’s any number of reasons you could give to illustrate how this is a bad idea. You’ve never been outside Bridgehead, you have no combat training, you aren’t even very good at the job you have! The Recoms may not have complained, and Quaritch may not have demanded your reassignment, but that doesn’t mean that he actually wants you around. In the last few months, you’ve hardly seen him at all!
But you’re stressed and confused and not thinking clearly, because the only thing you blurt is; “Tomorrow? But they just got back!”
“Quaritch has a fire under his ass at the moment.” Ardmore grunts, already picking up her datapad again. “But that isn’t much good if he fails again.”
She redirects her attention to her datapad and it’s clear that you’re dismissed. But you’re not quite ready to go.
This is the stupidest plan you’ve ever heard. You’re not the smartest around, but even you can tell that this is irresponsible, ridiculous. Why send a civilian out with two Recoms, who have been engineered to fight back against the nine feet tall, vicious hostiles that want all humans dead?
“You said there was a choice.” You manage to say without your voice trembling. “What… what’s the other option?”
Ardmore’s eyes flick up to you.
“Other option.” She repeats without inflection. She sets the datapad aside again, then clasps her hands to look over you properly.
The once-over is brief, and you get the distinct impression that you’ve been found wanting.
“If you choose not to go, then there is no need for you on this planet.” Ardmore says after a pause. “Your presence here is superfluous. With only two Recombinants left, there’s not much need for a Support Team as they now report to me directly.”
“So–” You begin, blinking.
“So,” Ardmore cuts across you again. “You’ll be sent back to Earth.”
The words land like a suckerpunch to the chest. Your breath hitches, and you stare at Ardmore with wide eyes.
You’ll be sent back to Earth.
You can’t let that happen. There’s nothing for you back on Earth. Your city is a wasteland, buckling under the weight of a population that it doesn’t have the resources to sustain. Pandora had been a new start for you – signing up for the RDA had been an act of desperation. The thick smog of the cities had begun choking up your lungs, the oppressive atmosphere of the dying planet contributing to your chronic migraines, and you had known in that instinctive, bone-deep way that if you didn’t get off-world soon you would die in that dark, mouldy apartment that you were spending most of your paycheck renting.
You couldn’t go back there. You couldn’t.
And judging from the way Ardmore is looking at you right now, she knows it.
“I’ll go pack my bag then, ma’am.” You say, defeated and dull.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ
The jungles of Pandora are beautiful. You’ve only ever seen photographs, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of it. It pulses with energy and life, vast swathes of lush greenery stretching up towards the sky like hands. When you stare down from the Samson aircarrier, you can see the lines of rivers criss-crossing like veins. Up here, you really can almost subscribe to the idea of the planet as one big living entity, like the native Na’vi believe.
It’s so different to the decaying atmosphere of Earth and the industrial hellhole of Bridgehead, but you don’t really get the opportunity to admire it properly because you’re so focused on the fact that Quaritch is angry with you.
It’s not necessarily obvious, but you’re rather embarrassed to admit that you’re incredibly attuned to Quaritch’s moods. It’s partly a survival instinct; Quaritch can be a scary motherfucker, and you feel a certain pressure to ensure that he’s kept happy. You tell yourself it’s because you’re the last member of the Support Team, but that doesn’t quite ring true.
The truth is, you have a big fat embarrassing crush on the Colonel.
You tamp it down the best you can, but Quaritch doesn’t help things. You know that he’s aware of your crush; it’s obvious in every interaction he has with you. He calls you pet names – baby, honey, cupcake – he pats your rump when you walk by, his hands linger all over you.
You’ve become so accustomed to his attention that when he turns surly, you swear to god you turn into a sad wilting houseplant taken away from the sun.
You know you’re acting like a total loser, but it’s like you can’t quite help yourself. Quaritch’s attention is intense, and it feels all consuming in the most exciting way, so when it’s taken away it feels like a shock to the system.
It’s not that he’s ignoring you or anything, but for the few days after you’re first assigned to follow him and Wainfleet, he’s cold. He doesn’t engage much in conversation, just grunting at you, and there’s no head pats or even little ass slaps. You pretend it’s not completely pitiful to be so affected by his irritation, and you pretend not to see the sympathetic looks Wainfleet sends you when you gaze after the Colonel.
You’re good at pretending.
But one day, maybe four days after you first set out, he softens again. You’re not sure what the trigger is, but you’re so relieved that you’re not about to question anything.
And that brings you to… whatever this is. The unconventional part of your dynamic with your boss.
His cot on the air transport is tiny and narrow by Recom standards, but you fit on it just fine. With Quaritch on it too it’s a narrow squeeze, but neither of you mind. The low hum of the Samson engines thrums through the metal floor of the cargo hold, a steady rhythm beneath the quiet creak of the cot’s frame and the slick wet sounds of your mouths moving together.
Quaritch is massive even in repose, resting heavily on his back. You’re curled against his chest, one of his big arms looped around your waist to keep you anchored against him. His lips are much bigger than yours, but you’ve done this so often now that the honeyed slide of your mouths together fall into an easy, languid rhythm.
The dim red standby lights paint Quaritch’s broad Na’vi features in warm contrast, the little freckles on his face incandescent in the gloom. His golden eyes are heavy-lidded – you’re not sure if it's from arousal or fatigue. It’s the end of a long-day, and he and Lyle had been trekking around various tribes all day. He hadn’t said anything when they’d gotten back, so you had assumed that it hadn’t gone well.
When he’d tugged you into the small room where the cots are held, the only compartment on the transport where the air is regulated for humans, that only confirmed it. Lyle had watched the two of you go, rolling his eyes.
Your breath catches as his tongue slips against yours, dominant even in leisure. One large hand slides down from your neck, tracing the curve of your spine before settling firmly on your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you squeak.
His mouth moves over yours with practiced ease, coaxing you to open, to sigh, to melt. And you do, instantly. Your hands slide up his arms, over his shoulders, fingers tangling into the knot of his braid at the base of his skull, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat.
When he pulls his big head back, breaking the kiss, a thin string of saliva pulls taut, creating a bridge between your swollen mouths.
“Damn, you’re messy,” he huffs, thumb swiping over your glistening mouth, smearing moisture.
His gaze darkens, but he doesn’t lean in for another kiss. Instead his broad nose nuzzles at the side of your neck, placing slow wet kisses to your jaw. Your body is quivering under his attention at his hot breath huffs against your sensitized skin.
“I gotta favour to ask, sweetpea,” He murmurs, tongue lashing just under your ear.
“A-a favour?” You repeat, shivering.
“Mhm,” He hums, reaching up to prod a thumb at your lower lip again just to watch the soft flesh give. “Just a small one.”
You blink, trying to collect yourself. Your skin is hypersensitive, feeling every point of contact between you and your boss right now. God, this is so inappropriate. You’re pretty certain that if Ardmore were to learn of this little routine, where you make out with the Colonel every damn evening as a fucked up form of stress relief, you’d be reassigned to work in the onbase McDonalds so fast your head would spin.
“Uh… yeah.” You say, sounding completely fucking stupid. “A favour. Mm. What is it?”
There’s a soft huff of breath against your damp throat, and it takes a moment to recognise it as a laugh.
“Need you to approve a weapons requisition for me.”
You’re still feeling a little damn slow on the uptake, but you nod anyway. That’s not really a favour, is it? That’s part of your job. Weapons requisition forms are pretty standard, and he usually just leaves any paperwork he wants you to sign on your desk. Maybe he’s only asking because you’re out in the bush, and there’s nowhere for him to drop it off or something.
“Of course I can do that.” You say breathily, already leaning up to him in the hopes of getting another kiss. You’re so relieved that he’s not angry with you anymore that you think you’d agree to anything.
God, you know you’re pathetic, but when he gives you that sharp, arrogant smile, sharp canines gleaming, you feel your stomach give a sharp lurch. You try not to squirm too obviously, but your thighs press together instinctively.
“That’s my good girl,” He purrs, his chest rumbling as he leans down once more. “Keepin’ the team goin’, aintcha?”
It’s so obviously not true, just a bone he’s throwing you, but you nod your head anyway. It’s good to feel wanted, to feel useful. It’s not a feeling that you’re used to here on Pandora, always living with the heavy awareness that you’re only here because Quaritch has taken a liking to you on a whim. Even then, you’re not stupid enough to think that just because he likes to make out with you whenever he’s had a hard day, that he’s sweet on you.
The Colonel is a man on a mission, and you’ve never been under any illusion of where your place with him is. It’s just… stress relief. When the Colonel has a mad day, he often seeks you out for lazy make out sessions, fingering, a little groping. Never any more than that, no matter how you writhe and beg.
“You gonna get that?” He murmurs against your throat, teeth dragging over your pulse point.
“Huh?” You pant, mind hazy and a little stupid.
Your conscious awareness has narrowed down to his mouth on your neck, the suckling motions of his tongue as he licks over the marks he’s leaving. A prey instinct in the back of your mind has kicked in and is screaming at you for allowing such an enormous predator to pin you down and press his sharp teeth to your throat, but you’re so horny and dazed that you stuff that survival impulse down deep.
“I said,” He nips at your earlobe, pulling a breathy squeal from you, “Are you gonna get that?”
At first you don’t notice the beeping, too busy chasing his mouth again, lips parting eagerly. But then he pulls back to look down at you, cat-like eyes darting over your sweaty, dazed expression, and you begin to come back to yourself.
Your head snaps around, your eyes falling on your datapad where it sits across the room on your own cot. The screen is lit up as it vibrates, emitting steady beeps.
General Ardmore calling.
You let out a startled shriek, scrambling out of the cot.
Quaritch lets out a low huff, falling back onto the standard issue bunk and lazily pillowing his head with his two arms. He watches you with darkened eyes, looking both amused and annoyed.
You scramble to straighten your uniform—it’s wrinkled, blouse misbuttoned, one strap of your bra peeking out near your shoulder. You yank it back in place, flustered.
“Oh, god,” You hiss, panicked. “Shit.”
You ignore the low rumbling chuckle from behind you as you grab the datapad. Low-level panic is causing your fingers to tremble, but you clear your throat and affect a pleasant expression as you answer the call.
The connection is a little spotty this far out, and the video feed flickers as Ardmore’s familiar scowl appears on-screen.
“Ma’am.” You greet, attempting to surreptitiously smooth down your hair.
Even through the fuzzy video, you can see her cold eyes narrow.
“Sitrep.” She barks, audio crackling.
You clear your throat, struggling to gather your thoughts. “Yes. Um. The… the Recom unit scoped out another one of the Reef clans–”
“Any sign of the kid?”
Behind you, the cot creaks as Quaritch shifts, listening in.
“Not yet, ma’am.” You say, fighting the urge to glance over your shoulder.
Even through the shitty videofeed, you can feel Ardmore eyeing you, assessing you. You’re hyperaware now of the rumpled clothes, you’re messy hair. Can she see the hickeys Quaritch’s sharp teeth have no doubt left on your throat? All you can do is pray that the connection is too bad for her to see details.
“And Quaritch?” She asks.
You hesitate, just briefly.
“He’s conducting interrogations with the clan.” You say. “Within mission parameters.”
Truthfully, you don’t have much of an idea of what goes on when Quaritch and Wainfleet move out into the wild. They leave you on the transport with the other humans, mounting their ikran and flying off to intensify the search for Quaritch’s son. When they get back they smell of gasoline and ash, and neither will offer any information about what they’ve done.
“That wasn’t my question.” Ardmore’s voice crackles, but you can hear the undertone of impatience.
You steady your voice. “He’s focused, ma’am.”
You don’t look behind you, afraid of what you might see on Quaritch’s face. He knows that Ardmore calls every night for a sitrep, he knows that she’s using you to check up on him, but you’ve never talked about it. It’s probably part of the reason he’s so reticent with information, why he keeps you in the dark on his plans.
But Ardmore doesn’t seem happy.
“Have you been out in the field with them?” She demands. “That’s what you’re there for.”
There’s no point in lying. You can tell by the look on her face that she already knows the answer, and you know where this is going.
“Um… no, ma’am.” You say hesitantly. “It was deemed too dangerous for a non-combatant–”
“I want you out there with them tomorrow.” She barks, as you had suspected.
You deflate a little, anxiety curdling in your stomach. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes flick briefly past the camera, then back to you, calculating.
“And you are not to involve yourself beyond observation,” she adds. “No heroics. No fraternisation.”
Your cheeks burn, hearing the unspoken accusation. “Understood.”
There’s another pause, during which Ardmore studies you like a pawn on a board she hasn’t quite decided how to use.
“Keep the channel open,” she says finally. “If anything changes, I expect to hear it immediately.”
You’ve barely begun to answer when she hangs up, the videofeed going dead. In the ensuing quiet, the hum of the air carrier and the low hiss of the oxygen tanks only seem to emphasise Quaritch’s silence.
Finally, you turn, and as soon as you catch sight of Quaritch you flush. He’s still stretched out on the cot, right where you’d left him, but what you hadn’t noticed was the unmistakable bulge in his cargo pants. God, you’re glad you hadn’t glanced behind you in the middle of that call – you’re certain you would have lost your train of thought and humiliated yourself in front of Ardmore.
But then your eyes lift to his face, and the warm simmer of arousal that had started in your belly is tempered. His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark – no longer in arousal, but now in unmistakable annoyance.
“I guess I’m coming with you two tomorrow,” You say, keeping your voice as light as possible as you stand. “Where did you say you were going?”
Instead of answering you, Quaritch stands up. He fixes his vest, ignoring his hard-on. His ears are flattened against his skull, and your stomach sinks as you realise that he’s angry.
“Next time,” he says, voice rough, “you tell her less.”
“Oh.” You say, voice small. “Right. I’m sorry. I just–”
But he’s not interested in speaking to you, because he doesn’t wait for you to finish speaking. He just grunts, stepping past you and heading for the door.
You watch him leave, lip trembling.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ
Quaritch and Wainfleet are keeping their plans from you again.
It’s obvious in the way that Quaritch doesn’t look up from his datapad once, even with you sitting by his side jabbering away. He towers over you, enormous even when sitting, with his broad shoulders and lithe waist. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he stabs a big finger at the holodisplay. He’s not the best with technology, and his ears are pinned flat against his skull in irritation.
The transport judders, an air pocket causing the small aircraft to lurch, but it barely puts a pause in your story as you lean into his side.
“But Elena said that if Kyle was going to keep sleeping around on her, then she may as well…” You trail off slowly, realising that the only one listening to you is Lyle.
Quaritch is still frowning at something at the datapad. You squint and crane your neck, but can’t quite catch a glimpse of what he’s looking at.
“Do you want help with that?” You ask.
You’re already reaching for the pad, used to helping him with whatever he needs, but this time he lifts it up out of your reach.
“No,” he grunts. “Leave it.”
You blink, surprised. He never usually refuses your help. If anything, he usually shoves whatever piece of tech he’s messing around with into your hands and leaves you to sort it. But this time, he angles the datapad out of sight so you can’t see what he’s doing.
It shouldn’t be surprising at this stage, but you still feel the little sting of hurt.
Lyle leans forward. “What did Elena do next?”
“Huh?” You blink, distracted now.
Lyle is watching you, tail coiling impatiently, waiting for you to finish your story.
“Oh, right.” You clear your throat, gathering yourself. If Quaritch is going to be like that, fine. You’ll just ignore him for a while until he decides to act right again.
“Right. So, Elena said that if he was going to keep sleeping around, they may as well just open the relationship.”
Lyle gasps, letting out a low cackle of delight.
The rest of the flight is quiet, the silence only broken by you and Lyle murmuring together. Quaritch is distant, focusing on whatever is on his datapad. His huge hulking body is pressed right against yours, but he may as well be miles away.
It’s not until later that you really regret not asking more questions, demanding answers.
It’s late by the time the air carrier landed at a sort of village, and you’re forced to rely on the too-bright artificial floodlights to illuminate the surroundings. It’s some sort of Na’vi settlement, though it doesn’t look like any that you’ve seen photos of. It’s built between the roots of what had once been an enormous tree though its surroundings are sparse, as though the plantlife has been purposely burned back to create an ashy expanse of dirt on which they’ve constructed their raw-hide tents and wooden yurts.
The people, too, come as a shock. You’ve never actually seen a Na’vi before – the Recombinants don’t count, too human in nature to really count as alien – and you’re a little taken aback by how… different they look. It’s not just the red and black paint, or the shaved heads, or the near nudity. It’s the way they move; catlike, crouching low to the ground, hissing at each other.
Mangkwan, Lyle had muttered to you lowly.
Crates are hauled off the carrier and dropped into the dirt with heavy, final thuds. The Mangkwan swarm the crates immediately. Someone laughs, sharp and breathless. Another lets out a shriek of delight when a crate is cracked open and the contents revealed. Long blue fingers drag over dark metal like it’s something holy. The rifles are lifted, weighed, admired, before being passed hand to hand with reverence that tips quickly into glee.
You watch with a dry mouth, feeling sick to your stomach. You’re not sure what you’ve agreed to be a party to by ordering those damn weapons, but watching the exhilaration in those strange alien faces has you feeling an irrepressible feeling of sinking dread.
And then there’s the woman.
Nine feet tall, slender in that muscular Na’vi way, she towers over you. She moves like a panther, as though she’s aware of every inch of her body as she saunters around, her face lit up with a dangerous sort of delight.
You can only assume that this is the leader of the clan. Her skin is ash-streaked like the others, but unlike the others her body modifications are minimal, and she hasn’t shaved her head. Her tight braids are crowned with a headpiece that fans out in a way that reminds you a little of a frill-necked lizard you’d seen once in a nature doc.
She’s a little bit terrifying. It’s difficult not to stare.
Quaritch is sauntering around. Ostensibly, he’s overseeing the weapons drop, but to you it seems like he’s… showing off. Peacocking, almost, displaying how powerful he is, how strong, how he keeps his promises. It’s important to emphasise those things to his new allies, you know this, but the way he looks at the woman makes you… edgy.
He had pulled you in front of her, his enormous hands cupping your shoulders and pinning you in place for her perusal. The way the Na’vi around you treat her with nothing short of obeisance only solidifies your initial impression that she was the leader of the clan.
“Here she is,” He says, his chest all puffed out. “The little girl who organised all these weapons for you.”
He says it in English, then repeats it in Na’vi. You bristle at being called little girl, but don’t dare to correct him. Not while the woman is staring at you, mouth parted, like she wants to eat you alive.
You’re pretty sure you’re the first human she’s seen up close, though admittedly she doesn’t seem too interested in the human soldiers behind you who are unloading the crates. She stares at your face and features, your hair, the dimensions of your body, as though she’s trying to unravel you with her eyes alone.
When Quaritch shows the strange Na’vi woman – Varang, he had called her – the FT-M3A1 Flamethrower, he stands so close to her that he’s practically pressed up against her back. His hands linger in a way that you’re so familiar with, because it’s usually your body that they’re lingering on.
And Varang leans back into him as they press the trigger together, hungry flames spraying out and catching onto the raw hides that they use for the village tents. Her girlish laughter rents the air as she watches the fire catch and spread across her own village.
“Booyah!” Quaritch booms, grinning wide as he watches Varang torch one of her own people’s tents.
“Booyah!” Varang echoes, almost girlish with excitement, hollering it like a war cry.
The smell of gasoline is choking even through the breathing mask, and you have to tamp down your nausea as you watch her spin on one foot, grabbing at Quaritch’s hand as the other Mangkwan descend on the shipment.
Quaritch disappears into the tent after Varang, the beaded curtain parting just long enough to swallow his broad shoulders before falling closed again.
Your stomach clenches so hard you thought you might be sick, though you try to brush your instinctive panic away. You tell yourself that he’s just gone to talk strategy, to negotiate, to do whatever it is he does when he’s being the Colonel instead of… whatever he’s been to you.
But the way Varang had smiled at him, so thrilled and coy, the way the curtain settles behind them, the finality of it, makes something ugly twist in your gut.
You wait for them to come back out, flinching as a Mangkwan man lets off a spray of gunfire behind you. But the curtain remains still, and no one returns.
An hour later, you’re still sitting by the cookfire in the Mangkwan camp, with Wainfleet tense at your side. Your fingers fiddle constantly with the pack at your side, the one keeping breathable air flowing steadily to your mask.
“Stop messing with that.” Wainfleet grunts without looking at you.
His eyes are fixed on that stupid beaded curtain hanging over the entrance of Varang’s tent. He’s barely looked away since the Colonel had disappeared inside.
You had realised pretty quickly that the leader of this tribe, Varang, was crazy. Like, clinically fucking insane.
It was the way she had laughed, high and girlish and totally incongruous with the way she had wrought destruction on her own village. Her eyes had glinted wildly in the reflection of the inferno, and when she had turned to Quaritch you had seen desire there. Admiration, even.
“What do you think they’re doing in there?” You ask, unable to help yourself.
Wainfleet finally tears his eyes away from the beaded curtain, only to give you a look of disbelief.
“What do I think they’re doing?” He repeats.
Under his disbelief, there’s the unmistakable thread of sympathy. God, he feels sorry for you.
You wince, then turn away again. Probably best not to think too much about it, or you might be ill.
Behind you, the air is rent with sporadic gunfire and ululations from the triumphant Mangkwan who are still messing around with the brand new shiny weapons. You don’t even flinch anymore; they’ve been like this for the last hour, and it doesn’t seem like they’re going to stop anytime soon.
Wainfleet barks something at them in Na’vi. Your grasp on the language is poor; you’d taken a few classes when you were new and idealistic, but it was tough. Still, you know enough to know that he’s ordering them to stop wasting ammo. You doubt it’ll make a difference though – the only person they seem to respect enough to take orders from is Varang herself.
Sure enough, the two causing the ruckus merely sneer at Wainfleet, hissing.
The ones that aren’t shooting into the sky are dancing around the fire, their movements rough and hypnotic. When the fire spits sparks, they cheer. The atmosphere is charged, celebratory. You’re not sure what the weapons mean to them, but it doesn’t feel good.
A few are sitting near you and Wainfleet at the fire. They’re staring at you, hard. Anytime you make eye contact with them, they hiss at you, chuckling throatily when you flinch. Again, you suspect you’re the first human they’ve seen up this close. Or maybe it’s just that they usually kill your kind when they’re this close. It certainly looks as though they’re thinking about it.
Ever since you stepped foot on Pandora, the RDA had been impressing upon you how dangerous the Na’vi were, how vicious and bloodthirsty. Looking at these people before you, you can believe it. The relish that they wield the weapons with is alarming, and you feel a seed of panic in your stomach.
You had done this, even if you didn’t realise it. It was you who had ordered the weapons, it was your signature on all those forms.
“Fuck,” You moan, burying your face in your hands. “Ardmore is going to kill me.”
Wainfleet doesn’t bother reassuring you. He just keeps watching the curtain.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ
Varang has taken to watching you. A lot.
It feels… challenging. Or appraising, maybe.
You avoid her to the best of your ability. You can’t look at her without thinking of the way she and Quaritch have gotten so much closer recently. They spend most of the day together; ostensibly talking strategy, but you see the way their touches linger. Even the way they look at each other like they’re the only two people in the world, as though everything else is just background noise. When she laughs at something he says, his mouth quirks in a way you’ve only ever seen when he’s pleased. Really pleased.
It makes your chest ache.
But as the days pass, you realise something. When she’s not watching Quaritch with those bright, lamp-like eyes, she’s watching you.
It had been easy enough to ignore at first. You’ve taken to avoiding Varang, and by association Quaritch, since that night the weapons had been delivered. Perhaps part of you had been hoping that Quaritch might notice and come looking for you, leaving Varang’s side just to ensure that you are okay, but you were destined to be disappointed on that front.
You only make it two days without seeing them. You had hoped that you would be returning to Bridgehead after dropping the weapons off, convinced that your little excursion out into the wilds of Pandora had come to an end.
But instead, Quaritch insisted that you were staying.
You’d been too flustered and bewildered to argue, simply retreating back to the aircarrier.
It was big enough to comfortably transport everyone it needed to transport along with its cargo, but it wasn’t built for staying on longterm. The bunks are narrow and cramped, and highly uncomfortable. The only net positive was that you could take that stupid mask off and breathe the stale processed air.
That’s where you are, all curled up on the bunk that Quaritch had been sleeping in before he met… her. The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but despite yourself you still find his scent comforting.
You’re trying to catch up on reports, but your mind is buzzing and you job at the datapad more violently than you should. You’ve never been very good at keeping your paperwork in order, and you know that your quality has slipped even further since all this started.
You’re currently struggling through a report for Ardmore, chewing absently on your lower lip as you try to find a neutral way to word your explanation for just what’s happened over the last few days. Things had spiralled out of control so quickly, and it’s hard to ignore the hard knot of anxiety in your tummy when you think about it.
Apparently, Quaritch had met Varang before, on the Recoms last excursion into the forest. She had connected their neural queues together and performed some kind of freaky alien connection, and now Quaritch seems to be obsessed with her.
At least, you’d like to blame the freaky alien connection; Wainfleet certainly did. He’d told you all about the connection, all about what Spider had told them. The first connection for a Na’vi baby was their mother, then father, then the trees. You’d be lying if you said that you understood it all, but Wainfleet speaks with such grim gravity about it. You know the only connection he’s ever performed is with his ikran, and the idea of connecting with another person seems to unnerve him. He also seems convinced that the reason Quaritch is so… enamoured with Varang is because she’s taken the place of the first connection.
You’re not so sure. You’re not blind, after all. You can see that Varang is one of the hottest women you’ve ever seen in your life. She might stare at you, but when she’s not looking you stare right back.
You had been fascinated by the Colonel’s Na’vi form, no matter how you’d tried to hide it, but despite the new body his body had still very much been human. But Varang? She’s so alien to you. Your eyes trace her narrow waist, her small bound breasts, the way her hips sway like a metronome when she walks.
How could you blame the Colonel for being so enchanted with her? You can see why. They both have the same wildness to them, like their sharp edges fit together.
You’re so lost in your miserable thoughts, that you barely notice the door sliding open or the heavy footsteps approaching.
“The hell you doin’ in here, kid?”
The Colonel’s voice has you jolting, looking up in surprise. And the sight of him standing there, breathing mask around his neck, with Varang at his side? Oh, that has you bolting upright.
Quaritch approaches with the ease of navigating familiar surroundings, and normally the sight of him coming to seek you out might have your heart thrumming. But instead, your attention is drawn to the woman following behind.
Varang’s big golden eyes are flicking around the bunks, curious about the surroundings but clearly finding them wanting. Within seconds, her eyes land on you and stay there.
“Sir,” You blurt, your voice pitched higher than is entirely natural. “I– The General wants a report.”
He lets out a low, unimpressed rumble.
“She’ll survive without one for the next few days,” he says. “We’ll report to her when we’ve got something to report.”
That makes you hesitate. You absolutely do have something to report. Several things, in fact; starting with Quaritch’s new infatuation with the tsahík of the Mangkwan. You had also been hoping to do a bit of damage control before Ardmore learned through the grapevine that the weapons that had been requisitioned by you had been gifted straight to a hostile Na’vi tribe.
“I don’t want to get in trouble.” You murmur, frowning.
That makes Quaritch laugh, the familiar low chuckle that has the hair on your arms standing up. Up to this point Varang had been standing quietly by his side, eyes fixed on you. It feels like being under the watchful gaze of a predator, and you’re afraid to make any sudden movements. In this environment, in the air carrier with its sleek metal walls and artificial air, she seems more naked than ever.
Next to Quaritch in his fatigues and vest, and you in a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, her long legs and lean waist draw your eyes like they’ve been magnetised.
You look away from her, flustered.
Quaritch turns to say something to Varang in Na’vi. Your grasp on the language is still weak, but you catch the gist of it. Something along the lines of; ‘Such a good girl, isn’t she?’
You’re not sure if you understand all the nuances, but Varang finally looks away from you. She raises her eyes to Quaritch, and her mouth splits into a wide, fanged smile. She looks wild and fierce under her paint, and you feel gooseflesh beak out on your skin. If she wanted to, she could split your spine up the middle with one hand. And with the way she looks at you, sometimes you think she does want to.
You feel distinctly humiliated. They’re talking about you in another language as if you’re not right in front of them, and Varang’s eye contact feels predatory and feline. You don’t miss how Quaritch’s big fingers coast over her waist, or how she coyly sways into him.
Quaritch turns back to you then. “Pack your things. You’re staying in the village.”
You double take.
“In the– what?”
Quaritch isn’t waiting around for you to wrap your head around that new order. He’s already stepping back, heading back to the main control centre of the aircarrier, but he speaks over his shoulder.
“The air carrier is rolling out tomorrow alongside the Mangkwan.” He says. “Varang here has so kindly agreed to help us with our search for Sully.”
“Oh.” You say, determinedly not looking in Varang’s direction. “Okay. But why do I–”
“You’re staying here.” Quaritch says firmly. “Don’t need you out there gettin’ in the way, or gettin’ yourself hurt.”
Getting in the way?
You stare at him in disbelief.
“But–” You begin, “Sir, my job is to–”
“Your job is to do what I tell you to do.” Quaritch barks. “Ain’t much good to me if you get yourself killed in the field.”
And with that he’s gone, already yelling orders at some of the soldiers in the control centre. You’re left alone with Varang, who isn’t even blinking as she looks at you.
You simmer with rage, feeling like a pot that’s about to boil over. This is such bullshit. You’ve done nothing wrong! Why have you been sidelined like this? It’s true that you’ve never been an essential member of the team, but you’ve received direct orders from Ardmore to stick with him. And besides that, you were hoping that he wanted you to stick with him.
It’s not like you and Quaritch were ever in a relationship. He never struck you as the type, anyway. If anyone had bothered to ask, you would’ve said he didn’t want strings, didn’t want expectations, didn’t want to answer to anyone. You’d never talked about what the two of you were doing. You’d just fallen into it, assumed there was some kind of unspoken understanding there. It hadn’t been serious, but it had been consistent. He’d pulled you into dark corners of his office for quick kisses, his hands always finding your ass when you walked past, and you’d spent too many long evenings pressed against him, making out like it was nothing more than stress relief. Something easy. Something contained.
And now he’s found some local tail to occupy himself with, and you’ve been quietly shuffled out of the picture like you were never more than a convenience to begin with.
It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
And even worse is that fact that even though he’d walked off without a second glance, Varang is still there.
Her braids are pulled tight to her head, and with her ash-painted skin and black-rimmed eyes, there’s nothing to soften her features. But her eyes are what unsettle you the most. They’re such a clear shade of honey-gold, but there’s nothing bright about them. They’re dark, always sharp. You don’t know how to place the look she gives you.
There’s no open hostility, no contempt, but you can’t help but feel as though she hates you. There’s too much energy in her stare to be anything else.
She’s a full foot shorter than Quaritch’s towering frame, but her presence is palpable. Ignoring her is impossible; it feels like she’s sucked all of the air out of the room.
When she steps closer, you don’t manage to stifle your flinch. She crouches, peering closer at you, and you feel like you’re a bug under a magnifying glass.
You keep your eyes fixed on her face, wary and on guard. Her tail coils behind her, slow and undulating like a rattlesnake.
And when she speaks, her voice is almost menacing in its softness. You’re a little distracted by how close she is, so your attention isn’t solely on her words, but you’re pretty sure you catch the gist of it.
“I will take your mate.”
Your spine stiffens, and your eyes dart to the door Quaritch had disappeared out of. There’s no chance that he had heard her, of course.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Did she think that Quaritch was your mate? And if so, she was planning on taking him from you? To steal him for herself?
Maybe you were overreacting. It’s not stealing if he was never really yours. But you’re shocked by her boldness. There’s not an ounce of apology in her smug gaze as it flickers over your face, watching you carefully. Her tail is coiled and pleased. She seems confident, as though she doesn’t have an ounce of doubt in her ability to do so.
And you hate to admit it, but you don’t doubt she could take him from you, either. You’ve seen the way he looks at her, the way he wants to please her. You can’t really blame him, either. She’s… well, she’s alluring as fuck. Even now, with her in your space and vaguely threatening you, your body strains towards her like you’re entranced.
She’s still staring at you, as though waiting for an answer.
There’s nothing you can do but muster up your best glare, then gather up the scraps of your dignity and stalk past her. You don’t look back once as you flee, unwilling to spend one more second under her golden-eyed scrutiny.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ
Varang’s tent is one of the most solid structures in the village, with stitched animal hide reinforced and anchored into the ashy ground with wooden posts that have no doubt come from the remains of the enormous burnt tree that this village is nestled under. You hadn’t thought that Na’vi built with wood – something about not upsetting the flow of nature – but every dealing you have with the Mangkwan makes you think that you know nothing about the Na’vi at all.
Maybe you need to break out that little Pandora for Beginners book you had downloaded on your datapad back when you first arrived here.
Quaritch had left you here hours ago, saying something about staying out of trouble and seeing you when he got back, but he was distracted. His mind was clearly elsewhere, taken up with hunting Sully and retrieving Spider. And, you suspect, taken up with Varang, too.
So now you wander around this weird little yurt, unsettled by the… decor. There are bones everywhere, threaded into hanging decorations like windchimes and suspended from the tent ceiling, or carved into strange little bowls containing all sorts of powders and ointments. There are other decorations made from woven plant fibres that you can only assume have been stolen from other clans, as they don’t match the style of anything else. It seems cluttered on first glance, but as you look around, trying not to feel as though the strange skins overhead are about to fall down on you, you begin to see that everything is arranged with some kind of order.
You step around the various decorations hanging from the animal hide ceiling – narrowly avoiding what you think may be a spine – and continue your exploration.
At the back of the dwelling, past yet another beaded curtain, is what you can only assume to be the sleeping area. It looks… cosy. The floor is lined with plush furs, providing a soft-to-the-touch cushion that you’re sure would be very comfortable, if you could stop imagining Varang coiled around Quaritch upon them.
You’re trying not to feel too bitter about whatever the hell it is that’s going on between them. You think you’ve been doing a decent job, but watching the Mangkwan mount up on their ikran and take off after the air carrier, leaving you behind like a spare part, is kind of doing a number on you.
She’s my Jolene, you think miserably.
You spend the day in the tent. You finish a preliminary report to Ardmore that you don’t send, and then you just… lounge around, lost in your thoughts. There’s nothing to do but think – you don’t even nose around, because you’re terrified of disrupting something of Varang’s that might cause her to come back and eat your head off.
Quaritch has always sort of treated you like a little pet. The worst part though, was the way you kind of liked it.
As the least competent person on the Recom Support Team, hired last and trusted with the least amount of work, you’ve always been aware that the Colonel hired you because he thought that you were soft and pretty to look at. You had thought that you would be offended by that, but instead you’re… kind of flattered. No one else had ever seen anything worth remarking upon when it came to you.
You liked the head pats, the pet names, the way he’d guide you by the elbow or keep you tucked just behind him like something fragile but owned. It was humiliating, if you thought about it too long. It was also intoxicating. Being useful was nice, even if you knew he was only indulging you.
It’s stupid and humiliating to admit, even to yourself, but you miss the attention, the casual possessiveness, the way he used to keep a hand on you like he was absentmindedly checking you were still there. You miss being noticed, being managed. Being indulged. Now his focus slips past you too easily, caught by something sharper and louder and far more interesting than you ever were, and it leaves you painfully aware of how conditional your place with him has always been.
And why were you being kept in Varang’s tent anyway?! It felt like salt being rubbed into an already raw wound.
‘I will take your mate’, she had said. There was nothing ambiguous about that.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ
To your bewilderment, even when Quaritch and the Mangkwan return from their outing, you’re not permitted to return to the air carrier.
It feels like the worst kind of joke, having to share a tent with the two of them. Quaritch had returned with a supply of spare masks for you, but there had been no conversation about it. It’s like he had just assumed you’d be happy to move in with him and his weird witchy alien girlfriend.
God, it boils your blood.
Varang had even set up a tiny little sleeping area for you, right next to theirs! She had maintained eye contact with you as she had done it, arranging those small plush furs so close to theirs that it was impossible to take it as anything other than mockery. Why the hell did she want you so close if not to wave in your face what you couldn’t have?
And then to watch you so closely for a reaction! God, she’s the worst.
You refuse to give her the reaction she’s so clearly hoping for. You just turn up your nose, and move the furs immediately to the other side of the yurt.
She watches you set up your new sleeping station, scowling, and you feel a rush of triumph. She’s not going to get to you that easily.
You’re so used to having Quaritch’s attention all to yourself, but now it’s split. He doesn’t even really ask you to do anything anymore. Now, it’s like you’re a pet for real. You spend most of the ensuing days lounging in the furs, bored out of your mind.
When Quaritch had first come back to the tent and seen your new bedding set up on the opposite side of the tent, he had rolled his eyes and huffed in irritation.
“Sulkin’ don’t suit you, baby,” He warns even as he steps past you. “Gotta adapt.”
You scowl, and don’t bother answering.
Quaritch is always busy, either planning with Wainfleet or whispering and grinning with Varang. When they come back to the tent, you make yourself scarce. You really don’t want to see whatever goes on between them when they’ve got privacy. The scenes that your imagination offers up when you finally sneak back into your little furs at night to sleep are bad enough.
One good thing that comes of your strange little stint in the Mangkwan village is that your grasp on the Na’vi language improves drastically by being so immersed in it.
During the times that you’re avoiding Quaritch and Varang, you wander around the Mangkwan. They’re not as scary as they had initially seemed to you. They don’t bother you when you walk by them, at least, and some even exchange some words with you. You assume it’s down to your proximity to Quaritch, or maybe the fact that you’re currently staying in their tsahìk’s tent.
But their tolerance doesn’t extend to Wainfleet, who they often brush off, hissing at him.
You’ve spent the day wandering the village, eager to escape Varang’s relentless staring. You swear that her scrutiny has gotten worse recently, or maybe it’s just because now that you’re sharing the tent with them, it’s difficult to escape her attention unless it’s fixed on Quaritch.
By evening time, you end up sitting with Wainfleet for a while, watching while the Mangkwan eat and dance and wrestle with each other. Sometimes you can’t tell if they’re playing or fighting – everything just seems so violent, enough that you flinch into Wainfleet’s side every time they clash.
At your side, Wainfleet is cleaning his sniper rifle. His eyes are watchful, darting around the gathering in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t trust anyone around him. On your other side is Zari, a Mangkwan woman who has taken to the human-style weapons with great relish. She’s learning how to use a rifle just like Wainfleet’s, and she’s watching him and trying to copy his cleaning motions with her own gun.
A few days this week you’ve tagged along with Wainfleet to watch him train the Mangkwan with the weaponry, just to get out of the damn tent. Zari is one of the few that deign to exchange some conversation with you in Na’vi, so that you can improve. She was injured in a raid, so she seems to find extra enjoyment out of training with the guns, and she has plenty of time to speak with you.
As you hold a fairly clumsy conversation with Zari, you struggle to ignore the stare piercing into the side of your head.
You’ve begun to get a little better at pretending you don’t notice Varang’s ceaseless staring, but Zari is quite clearly affected by it. She’s tense at your side, ears pinned to the side of her head and tail held very still at her side. Occasionally her eyes dart towards her tsahìk, before glancing quickly away again.
You simply refuse to look in Quaritch and Varang’s attention. You know that they’re sitting together, probably leaning all into each other’s space, tails entwined like usual. Watching them like this makes you feel a little crazy. Bad enough you need to share a sleeping space with them, listening to them whisper and giggle like goddamn teenagers at a sleepover. You don’t need to watch them playing footsie over dinner, too.
Zari is shifty enough under Varang’s watchful eye that your stilted conversation doesn’t last very long. You huff quietly when she ducks her head to return her full attention to her gun again.
Varang is doing this on purpose, you know it. At first the staring had felt like a challenge, like she was mocking you. But now it feels as though she’s trying to be intimidating, like she doesn’t want you making friends around the village or getting too comfortable. But then why invite you to stay in her tent?
Sighing, you turn to Lyle to speak in English.
“I still don’t get why I’m not allowed to stay on the air carrier with the rest of the humans.”
Wainfleet just grunts. “Boss doesn’t want you staying with the soldiers.”
You frown. There’s a kernel of logic there, you suppose. As the only civilian woman on this mission, it could be argued that you were removed for your own safety. But that argument fell apart when you considered that you had been moved into a tent with an alien woman that hated you and probably wanted you dead for being previously entwined with your boss.
“I don’t like staying in the tent,” You complain, feeling like a petulant child. “Why can’t I just stay in your tent? You know I don’t take up much space.”
Wainfleet doesn’t answer, his attention taken up with oiling the bolt on his rifle.
You scowl, irritation settling heavily over you. Around you, the Mangkwan are still eating or dancing, shoving each other and issuing challenges, or yipping in victory. While a few of them still side-eye Wainfleet, not fully happy with his presence, you don’t even seem to register to them. Quaritch, at the other side of the fire, is the subject of reluctantly admiring glances.
As eclipse approaches and the sky darkens into a deep burnt umber, Zari pauses her cleaning in favour of turning to you.
“Tsahìk will want you to return to tent before dark.” She says, speaking slowly for you.
Despite yourself, you like Zari. She’s been nice enough to you, though her shaved head, bone piercings, and war paint is still alien enough to you to give you pause. But just like all the Mangkwan, she has that weird, almost worshipful reverence towards Varang.
You hum to show her that you’ve heard, but make no move to return to the tent. Why the hell would Varang care if you were back before dark?
Instead, you look at Wainfleet with a pout.
“I hate her.” You grumble, kicking your feet.
Wainfleet just grunts.
Irritated, you turn your scowl on him. “Seriously? Is that all you have to say?”
“Kid,” he says tiredly, finally looking around at you. “I ain’t stupid enough to get all twisted up in… whatever this is.”
He makes a vague hand gesture that seems to encompass you, and Quaritch and Varang, and the tent behind the gathering.
You bristle instinctively.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Wainfleet finally sets the gun down, giving up the pretense of distraction. When he turns to you, he looks a little bit pained.
“Look, I didn’t really get what was between you and the boss even before this,” He says lowly. “But whatever the hell is going on between you two and the witch lady really ain’t my business.”
You gape at him, mouth open and stunned.
“Nothing is going on between us!” You say when you finally manage to regain your senses. “I thought that maybe the Colonel– that maybe– I don’t know! But there’s certainly nothing now that he’s with her.”
Wainfleet gives you the kind of look that suggests he thinks you’re an idiot.
“You sleep in their tent with them.” He points out.
“Not with them!” You snap reflexively. You feel like a prickly cat, overdefensive. “That’s just– that’s where the Colonel put me!”
He just huffs, shaking his head, and turns away.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Whatever. If you wanna get fucked nasty by them, I’m pretty sure all you gotta do is spread yourself out in that crazy lady’s stupid furs and wait for them to pounce.”
Once again, you’re struck dumb. Wainfleet has never spoken to you so bluntly. You’ve seen him in action mode, intimidatingly serious and quiet, but most of the time around you he’s been pretty light-hearted. He plays up the stereotype of stupid army grunt, but he’s wicked sharp and unfailingly loyal.
He’s been stressed lately, on edge around the Mangkwan and tense ever since they’ve been armed, but this is the first time he’s directed any of that stress towards you.
“I– I don’t–” You say stiffly, but you can’t even bring yourself to finish.
God, this is embarrassing. Do you want to be fucked nasty by them? You’d been so distracted by your changing circumstances that you haven’t thought anything of the sort. At least, not really. Nothing that you’d be willing to admit to.
Wainfleet has picked up his gun, finishing cleaning and oiling it with quick, jerky moments. The conversation is clearly over.
Humiliation simmers in your belly as you gather yourself up, refusing to look Wainfleet’s way. To your immense frustration, you feel tears pricking at your eyes.
Since you came to Pandora, you’ve been so damn lonely. You’d been a bit of an outcast within the Support Team, with such an obvious gap between capability and experience. The way that Quaritch had treated you had set you apart from them, and you’d never managed to make any friends even after they had been wiped out in the battle with the Metkayina.
You weren’t friends with Wainfleet exactly, but there had been a sort of camaraderie you’d had with him that you’d taken comfort in. Now, you’re embarrassed as hell.
What had you been thinking, dumping all your problems onto Wainfleet? He’s a soldier, and he’s currently got much bigger problems with the ongoing conflict – he doesn’t have time to listen to you whine.
You slink away from the cookfire like a kicked dog.
The idea of returning to Varang’s tent and having to watch her and Quaritch curl up close whispering to each other feels like way too much for you to deal with right now. So you decide instead to return to the air carrier. You doubt Quaritch will even notice that you’re missing.
As you slip out of the village, you garner a few curious looks from the Na’vi you pass. Thankfully, no one tries to stop you.
The huge shining metal frame of the Samson air carrier is tucked into the sparse vegetation a short walk from the village. It sticks out like a sore thumb; the Mangkwan avoid it, and the human soldiers avoid approaching the clan without Quaritch’s directive.
It feels like it’s been an age since you’ve been to the Samson, though it can’t be more than a week since you’ve arrived with Quaritch and he’d struck the deal with Varang. So much has happened in the last week, but at the same time you’ve been doing hardly anything other than stewing in your own thoughts.
Still, you’re eager to get inside the carrier, looking forward to the opportunity to remove the damn breathing mask and get some sleep. The cots are austere and uncomfortable, but at least you’ll get a break from Varang’s stupid yurt.
As you approach the Samson, you see some of the soldiers gathered around outside, guns in hand. You think for a moment that they’re just practicing their shooting, though it strikes you as off that they’re doing so as dark falls.
Then you get closer and hear the sloppy laughter, and see the glassy eyes, and you realise that these morons are drunk. They have their guns, but they’re just shooting at some of the glowing mushrooms that are growing in the underbrush. They’re not hitting much, either, their shots going wide and spraying dirt up.
The sound of their slurred goading and snickers has your steps faltering.
Shit.
You know exactly what these guys are like when they’re drunk, and you know it’s not a good idea to go anywhere near them. It’s an even worse idea to go near them without either of the Recoms near you – their enormous stature is usually enough to scare off even the most persistent of creeps.
You think of the way Quaritch had insisted that it was safer to stay in Varang’s tent, how he had been insistent that you weren’t to stay on the Samson. As much as you hate to admit it, he might have been right.
But you’ve already stormed away from the village, and the air carrier is right there. Maybe you can slip by without them noticing.
You aim for nonchalance as you attempt to skirt around them, giving them a wide berth. You figure if you don’t look at them, if you don’t acknowledge them, there’s a chance they’ll stay in their own little orbit of stupidity and leave you alone.
The ramp to the air carrier is within a stone’s throw when one of them staggers back, laughing, and catches sight of you.
“Hey,” he calls, voice thick and sloppy. “Hey, sweetheart.”
You don’t respond. You pretend you didn’t hear it, your feet crunching softly over ash and dead leaves as you keep walking. When Quaritch had started going around barefoot, you had copied him without thinking too much about it. You regret that now – if you have to run, it’s going to be harder.
There’s snickering behind you, and even without looking you’re unnerved to find that they sound like they’re closer now.
“C’mon,” another man says. “Don’t be like that.”
A shot cracks through the air, close enough that you flinch despite yourself. Dirt sprays up a few feet ahead of you, glowing faintly where some bioluminescent spores are disturbed. The laughter spikes, ugly and filled with macho overconfidence.
You freeze, shoulders tense. Jesus Christ.
“Whoa, she jumped,” the first guy snickers. “Didn’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.”
Slowly, you turn your head just enough to look at them, keeping your body angled away. There are three of them. Maybe four. It’s hard to tell in the low light, as they’re still standing in a loose group. You can’t see their faces all that well behind their masks, but their weapons are loose in their hands and their posture is sloppy in that particular way that means they think they’re untouchable.
The moment feels fragile, and you have a distinct awareness that these men are drunk and reckless enough to snowball things well past the point of no return.
“I’m just heading back to the carrier,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even. “You guys should probably pack it in. It’s, uh, getting late.”
There’s a beat of silence, and for one wild and naive moment you actually think they might listen. But then they share a look, and burst into ugly, snickering laughter.
“Jesus,” one of them says. “Hear that? She’s givin’ orders now.”
Another takes a step closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. “You ain’t supposed to be out here alone, are you?”
Your pulse starts to thud in your ears, acidic panic rising up your throat.
“I– the Colonel knows I’m here.” You lie.
“Oh, yeah?” He grins, slow and ugly. “‘S the Colonel able to look beyond that little blue piece of ass he’s been hangin’ out of?”
“He’s–” You start to say, but cut yourself off when they start to move.
They don’t move quickly or anything, but there’s nowhere for you to go as they start spreading out. They box you in, so there’s no way to slip past them.
“I don’t want any trouble,” you say, hating the way it comes out smaller than you intended.
“That’s good,” the first man says, grinning as he steps forward. “Neither do we.”
“Just thought maybe you’d keep us company for a minute,” the second man adds. “Gets lonely out here.”
You swallow thickly, and your dry throat clicks in the silence. “No, I– I should be getting back to Quaritch– actually.”
A few of their expressions change at that, smiles dropping into something unfriendlier. The two at the front keep their sloppy drunk grins plastered on, though irritation flickers over their faces. You know you’re dealing with the fragile egos of men who aren't used to being told no, and they feel unpredictable.
“You need to relax,” One of them says with the air of imparting sound advice. “You’re wound tight as hell. You been neglected, huh?”
Your skin prickles as he steps forward, and you tense.
You stiffen as he closes the distance, every instinct in your body screaming at you to move, to run, but there’s nowhere left to go. The Samson ramp is behind them now, blocked by broad shoulders. Their size is nothing compared to the towering Na’vi you’ve been spending so much time around recently, but they’re still big bulky military men. You know you don’t stand a chance against them.
The third one laughs, low and ugly. “Bet she’s bored stiff. All alone in that ash pit with the freaks.” He steps forward, reaching for your arm. “Want a good time, sweetheart?”
Your jaw tightens. You can feel your heart hammering, loud enough you’re half-convinced they can hear it too.
“I said no,” You say, your voice thin but sharp. “Back the fuck off.”
That finally wipes the grin off his face. Not completely, but enough. His eyes harden, the drunken amusement souring into something resentful.
“Watch your mouth,” he snaps. “You ain’t in Bridgehead anymore.”
You’re so busy running through scenarios in your head – which way you’ll dodge, how you’ll escape, how you’ll lose them if they follow, how you’ll scream – that when they actually make a grab for you it catches you totally by surprise.
You squeal, attempting to twist out of his grip, but several things happen in quick succession.
In your panic, your mind registers the low hissing sound as being akin to air being let out of a pressurised container. It’s low, steady, accompanied by an odd snarling rumble.
Nearly in the same moment, the man who had grabbed her is town roughly away. You yelp as his blunt fingernails leave scratches on your arm, though it’s more from shock than pain.
Everything happens so fast that your mind barely keeps up. The men are yelling, and then one of them staggers back and knocks into you, hand cracking across your mask hard enough to rattle your skull. You go down hard, sprawling in the dirt and knocking your head on the way down.
By the time you pick your head up, your eyes are watering and two of the three guys are unconscious on the ground. The last, the one who had grabbed you, is the only one left standing, though it doesn’t look like he will be for long.
Towering over you all, face contorted in a look of poisonous rage, is Varang. But you’ve never seen her like this.
She seems impossibly tall, her spine curved as she bares her teeth at the man cowering below her. Her red headpiece flares over her head, giving the impression of a threat display as if her wickedly sharp canines aren’t enough. In the dark, she looks like some sort of vengeful demon.
The man is babbling something, panicked and frantic, but it falls on deaf ears. Varang doesn’t understand a word he’s saying, nor does she seem interested.
She brings her hand down on him in one hard, brutal slap, and he hits the ground with an ominous crack. He doesn’t get back up again. In fact, he doesn’t move at all.
“Oh god,” You babble, scrambling to try and get to your feet again. “Jesus, fuck–”
Varang turns on you then, and for a wild moment you’re certain that you’re next. You flinch when she steps forward, whimpering.
But no blow comes. She crouches in front of you, that familiar stare darting over you, assessing. She’s angry – you can feel it rolling off of her in waves.
Ridiculously, your eyes begin to sting, welling up with tears. Maybe it’s delayed shock from that horrible encounter, or maybe it’s the fact that Varang is angry with you, but it all suddenly feels like too much.
The first sob that escapes you is so loud that it hurts your chest, jarring your whole body.
Varang stiffens.
A large hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to your feet. Bizarrely, you think she’s actually trying to be gentle, but she’s twice your size and doesn’t seem to really understand how much stronger she is.
You yelp once when she yanks you after her, and she seems to make some attempt to slow, but the pace she keeps is clipped and rushed. You stumble after her, sobs melting into anxious gasps as you try to keep up with her. She’s holding your wrist, and you end up toddling clumsily alongside her like a child.
She leads you back to the village quickly, hissing at a few Na’vi who are in her path. They scramble aside, their large eyes watching curiously as you stumble alongside their tsahìk. Some of them call after her, asking questions, but you’re too distracted to parse the words and Varang isn’t stopping to answer.
For the first time since you’ve gotten to this place, you’re relieved when you make it to the tent. Sometime during the walk you’d started clinging to Varang’s hand, and she’s not shy about towing you behind her.
Inside the tent, Quaritch lounges shirtless in the furs. To your surprised bewilderment, all he’s wearing is a loincloth, same as the other Na’vi you’ve seen. He’s scrolling through a datapad of his own, his tail curling languidly at his side.
He glances up when Varang appears, shoving aside hanging hides and bone decorations, but you don’t think he really registers the expression of fury on her face or the tears on yours. His eyes have instead fallen on your joined hands, and a pleased smirk spreads across his face.
“You finished throwin’ your hissy fit then, sweetheart?” He drawls, setting the datapad aside so he can lean back lazily. “Good to see you’ve finally come around to–”
But then he catches sight of your faces, and he sits up again. His sanguine grin disappears, replaced by a furrowed brow as his Colonel personal falls down like a curtain.
“What the hell happened?” He barks, and his eyes linger on your tear-streaked cheeks under mask.
Varang finally releases your hand; to your surprise, it’s you that clings to her. When she lets out a little rumbling noise you snatch your hand back, but there’s no time for shame to set in before she plants one of her large hands between your shoulderblades and starts pushing you towards the furs.
All the fight in you has gone, because you simply allow yourself to be pushed.
She says something to Quaritch, but it’s fast and angry and you only catch a handful of words; ‘man’, ‘take’, ‘mine’, ‘slap’.
Quaritch’s back is stiff as he listens to her, frowning. His eyes fall on you then, and he reaches an arm and quirks two fingers at you, the command clear: ‘come here’.
You don’t even hesitate. You practically fall into the furs, clambering on your hands and knees like a whimpering little kid as you crawl toward him. You’re vaguely cognisant of Varang crawling after you, twice your size and still emanating waves of irritation.
Quaritch’s big hand cups your jaw just beneath the mask, tilting her head back so he can take a look at your face. You’re still sniffling, eyes red and puffy, and your nostrils are beginning to itch where the blood is drying and crumbling.
“Got a crack across the face, didja?” He murmurs lowly, thumb stroking over the corner of your jaw and earlobe.
Despite yourself, you bristle. Your shock is beginning to wear off a little, and now you’re getting defensive and angry. How the hell have you ended back up in the one place you were trying to avoid.
“Is that all you have to say?” You ask for the second time that evening.
God, you’re starting to get seriously sick of military assholes.
He raises a brow, then gestures at Varang. “Well, I’m guessin’ that she took care of ‘em.”
You think of the way she had brutally smacked them into the ground, the sickening crunch of their bodies hitting the ground. You’re pretty certain they hadn’t been moving. Jesus, had she killed him?
Varang sits behind you, her tail swishing lazily like a cat. She has no idea what you two are saying, but her ears had pricked up when Quaritch had gestured at her. Now, she’s looking at you as though she’s expecting something from you.
You glance away. Her stare is even more intimidating up close.
“I was just trying to–” You begin, but to your frustration your voice cracks in upset.
Two twin rumbles erupt, making you flinch a little. Then two big hands land on your hips and suddenly your world flips. You squeak, startled, suddenly finding yourself on your back staring up at the animal hide tent ceiling. But then your vision is filled with Varang’s face as she leans over you, and suddenly she’s all you see.
She begins tugging roughly at your shirt, and you squeal in surprise as the fragile fabric tears with a loud rip.
“Jesus, woman,” Quaritch swears in English, before switching to Na’vi. “Easy! I told you, slow–”
“Have been doing slow!” She hisses back, teeth bared. “Not working!”
You’re startled to see that her canines are a little longer than Quaritch’s. Maybe it’s just a difference between native Na’vi and Recom bodies, but it adds to the wildness of her.
Quaritch huffs, but he doesn’t seem annoyed. He seems… amused?
He turns back to you, grin turned a bit wry. “Sorry, sweetheart. Gonna have to take your clothes off.”
You goggle at him.
“Take my– what?”
Varang is tugging at your trousers now, but they’re proving more of a challenge for her. She seems to be familiar with the mechanism of the button and zip – and there’s a pang that comes with the knowledge that it’s probably from unbuttoning Quaritch’s fatigues – but the belt seems to be an obstacle. She hisses at the buckle, aggravated.
“She don’t like all these clothes,” He says, though he needn’t have bothered. You could see that. “Just take ‘em off while you’re in the furs, yeah? Make life easier for yourself.”
You’re a little annoyed that he capitulates to anything she wants, but with the way she’s so damn insistently tugging at your clothes even you have to admit that it’s the easier option.
“Okay!” You snap at her, unbuckling your own belt and shuffling out of your trousers.
She sits back, pleased, and watches. You try not to tremble under her big yellow unblinking stare as you strip down to your simple, functional cotton underwear. You wish you were wearing nicer panties, then you curse yourself for thinking something so stupid. The underwear issued by the RDA are simple, functional, and unflattering, but it’s not as though either of them were expecting lingerie.
Varang’s eyes dart over you. For a moment you think she’s checking you for injuries and you spare a second of surprise – you hadn’t thought she cared. But then you see her eyes linger on your tits in your ill-fitting bra and the greying cotton clinging to your hips.
“She’s staring.” You whisper to Quaritch, mortified. You raise a hand to press over your chest.
But when you look to Quaritch, he’s staring too.
“She’s been so excited to get to know you,” He drawls without taking his eyes off you. “But I told her to take it slow. That you’re a skittish little thing.”
You stare at him, feeling as though you’ve missed a step.
“...What?”
Varang has nestled herself into the fur now, coiled like a jungle predator. A tiger, maybe, or a lioness. Even at rest, her long grey-blue limbs folded in elegant lines, she gives the impression of latent energy, of danger.
When she reaches out with one long dusky finger and begins to trail a light touch over your bare shoulders, you have no idea how to react.
Up close, her scent floods your senses even through the mask-filtered air—hot earth, cinders, salt, something musky and deep. When you don’t flinch away from her she rolls closer, as though taking your stillness as tacit permission to keep touching.
“What’s happening?” You whisper, and your voice comes out pitched higher in uncertainty.
Quaritch just chuckles. He’s leaning back with his arms folded behind his head, looking for all the world like this is a totally normal occurrence. His interest is betrayed though by the flicking of his tail and the intensity of his eyes as he watches Varang’s fingertips coast over your collarbone.
“We’ve been waitin’ for you to get your damn panties out of the twist you’d knotted in ‘em,” he says. “But Varang ain’t a patient lady.”
“My panties are not in a twist.” You snap reflexively, before actually thinking about what he’d said. “Patient?”
Quaritch huffs, rolling his eyes.
“Jesus, kid,” He says in exasperation. “I know you ain’t always the quickest, but c’mon now.”
You fumble for an answer but before you manage to say anything, there’s a weight in your lap. Varang’s every movement is so quick and sinuous that you barely even see her begin to move – one minute she’s reclining at your side, and the next she’s swung herself to straddle your legs.
“Eep.” You let out the least dignified sound you’ve ever made, staring up at her with wide eyes.
Beside you both, Quaritch lets out a breathy snort. “Like I said, impatient. You've been playin’ hard to get for too long.”
Hard to get?
Varang looms over you, the size difference stark and shocking. She’s so tall but so lithe, her proportions alien and alluring. Her tail flicks behind her as she stares down at you with quiet intensity. Up close like this as she leans over you, you can see the small round bumps from scarification over her hairless brows and the bridge of her nose, down her long abdomen. You had originally thought that she didn’t have as many little glowing freckles as Quaritch did, but now you can see that they’re just covered by the scars or the ashy streaky paint she’s covered in.
She leans down, nostrils flaring slightly as she inhales your warm human scent from your neck. You hold very still, eyes wide. The prey instinct in the back of your mind is screaming – she could so easily bite through tendons and sinew with those sharp teeth, and she’s very close to your throat.
But then she leans back, huffing in a way that sounds pleased.
Her fingers are calloused from archery, and they tickle a little as they slide over your collarbone, pausing at the worn strap of your bra. That strange little half-smile of hers lingers around her lips as she tugs at it just to watch it snap back into space.
Her large thumb brushes over the swell of your breast, lingering on the nub of your hardened nipple through the thin cotton.You squeak, startled, but there’s nowhere to escape to; it feels like Varang’s bulk is encompassing you, like she’s the only thing left in the world.
She tugs at your bra. The fabric strains, stitches popping, but holds firm.
“I do not like this.” She says to Quaritch, her expression turning a little scowly. “How do I remove, Quaritch?”
The way she says his name, accented and all drawn out, is actually a little bit cute. You don’t get much time to think on it though, before Quaritch’s big hands are worming their way under your back.
“Hey–” You start to gasp, but then Varang takes you by the shoulders and pulls you up so that you’re sitting, giving Quaritch more access to your back.
With a practiced hand, he undoes the clasp of your bra in one easy snap.
You gasp as Varang tugs the shitty fabric aside, tossing it carelessly over her shoulder.
You think you should probably be giving at least a token protest, even just to maintain your own dignity, but you’re embarrassed to find that you can’t. It’s been a very long time since you’ve been bare in front of anyone. And even longer since someone has looked at you so hungrily.
Sure, you’ve had your lazy make out sessions with Quaritch in his office, or in the Recom bunks when no one else was around, but you’ve never been unclothed. Even those few times he’s fingered you with those gloriously big long fingers of his, you haven’t been fully naked.
“What’s happening?” You whisper, eyes darting between them uncertainly.
Quaritch says something to Varang, and she shifts. As she swings her leg over you, moving off of you, you’re distracted by the coiled strength in her thighs. She’s pure muscle, the carbon fibre-infused bones adding even more weight to her, but she moves with an ease that you’re grateful for. One wrong move would probably crush you, but she’s too nimble for any stray hits.
You’re able to sit up now, and you do so slowly. Now that her tall body isn’t curtaining you, you’re more self-conscious than ever. You feel exposed, and you cross your arms over your chest in embarrassment.
“Overthink it?” You repeat in disbelief. “She took my clothes off!”
Varang is still smiling; just a coy little curve to her lips. She might not understand your words, but she still looks amused by you. Maybe your human modesty is a novelty to her.
“‘Cause she wants to fuck you.” Quaritch says bluntly. “Thought that was obvious.”
It feels like your world has been turned on its head, again. For a very long moment, all you can do is stare. The words ‘fuck you’ and ‘obvious’ keep replaying in your mind, and you can’t quite decide which element to address first.
“Fuck me?” You repeat at last, eyes darting anxiously towards Varang and her coiling tail. “You mean… like, fucking me up?”
Varang smiles, a finger reaching out to brush over your nipple. To your mortification, it stiffens further under the attention. You don’t quite have the presence of mind to pull away.
But Quaritch is staring at you, looking stumped and a little irritated.
“What?” He says. “Why would she–”
“She hates me!” You hiss. “I thought–”
“Hates you?” Quaritch has the nerve to look flummoxed. “Kid, she’s groping your tits.”
“I can see that!” You shriek, voice cracking.
That makes Varang pause, her broad brow furrowing in confusion. She looks to Quaritch, clearly seeking an explanation for your distress.
Quaritch just snorts, leaning back. The fact that he’s not taking you seriously only makes you more irritated. You’re sure that you’re stiff like an angry cat, your expression like thunder.
“You’ve been ignoring me all week!” You accuse. You want to sound angry, but you fall just short. Embarrassingly, you sound hurt instead.
You attempt to rally yourself, scowling weakly. “You don’t get to ignore me and then try to drag me into a threesome–”
Quaritch has the audacity to roll his eyes.
“Come on, honey. It’s not like that.”
“What is it like, then?” You shoot back.
Honestly, you’re a little impressed by your own spine. You usually find the Colonel scary enough to have your knees weakening, and you’ve never managed to work up the courage to express your feelings to him. But this time it’s different; you’ve had a shit day after a shit week which has followed a shit few months. You feel like you’re about to burst.
“I’ve given you space, sweetheart, but my patience is at its limit.” Quaritch sighs. “Can a man not want his girls to get on?”
His girls? You blink, thrown off. Quaritch doesn’t seem to notice your pause, and Varang is still curled behind you – despite not understanding your conversation, her elegant long fingers are tracing curious patterns over your ears, the sides of your neck, the length of your spine and each knob of your vertebrae.
“Can’t help that we’re mated now,” Quaritch says, his eyes darting over you to Varang. “Not like it was planned, but there’s no gettin’ out of it. These people do it for life, you know.”
He reaches over your head to brush one of her thin braids behind a pointed ear, and she playfully nips at his finger. You feel a deep throb of envy.
Mated. You had suspected that they weren’t just fucking, but it hadn’t been confirmed until just now. It feels like a punch to the gut, but Quaritch continues before you can wallow.
“I gave you space to think about things, but you shuttin’ down ain’t helping anything. Varang’s been chewing my ear off all week to get you into the damn furs with us.”
The whole conversation has been one bizarre revelation after another, but this one might actually take the cake. Varang wanted you naked and in their furs? You had thought she wanted you dead.
“She hates me,” You blurt. “She doesn’t want me near you.”
That earns a harsh bark of laughter from Quaritch. You’re aware, of course, that it’s a ridiculous thing to say when you’re all hunched almost naked in her weird witchy tent. They’re both looming over you, practically sandwiching you, and Varang hasn’t taken her hands off of you once since your bra came off.
“Well,” Quaritch drawls, grinning. “As much as I like the idea of havin’ two pretty girls fightin’ over me, I'm not all too sure that’s what was happenin’, baby.”
There’s a beat of silence as that settles over you. The events of the last week begin reshuffling and recontextualising in your head. You had thought that Varang had been mocking you after mating with Quaritch and pulling him away from you, but now you feel stupid and self-obsessed. But why would she want you like that? Just to satisfy a curiosity?
“It’s normal for ‘em,” He continues as though you have any idea what he’s talking about. “They got no hang ups about it.”
You stare at him. Slowly, you’re beginning to put the pieces together. You’re not stupid, but it all seems so silly and unlikely that you’re having a hard time believing it.
“Threesomes?” Even saying it out loud has your body flushing with embarrassed heat.
God, you’ve never done anything like that before. It feels like a fever dream that this is even being suggested.
Quaritch shrugs, the motion lazy and almost insouciant. “Well, it’s the natural solution, ain’t it?”
Wet heat runs up the side of your neck, and you lose track of the conversation instantly. You jolt, squealing, but Varang’s tail has wrapped around your waist and she’s baring her teeth.
“Too much talk, Quaritch,” She says, her voice low and smokey. “Stop distracting her.”
Quaritch just grins and lies back, outstretched in the furs in just that tiny loincloth. The yurt is dimly lit with small flames in the braziers littered around the place, and the flickering light casts the musculature of his lean Na’vi body into sharp relief. God, he’s so hot. His arrogance should probably be a turn off, but you’re embarrassed to admit that it only adds to the wetness between your legs.
“She screws like she fights,” He whispers like he’s sharing a secret. “Brutal and fiery. But I’ve told her to take it slow and easy.”
And with that he folds his arms lazily behind his head, cushioning his skull with his biceps as he watches the two of you with a grin.
For a moment you just sit there, feeling like a spare part. You’ve never had a threesome before, so you’re not sure what you’re meant to do right now. Are you both meant to suck his dick at once? Do you, like, fight for who goes first? Is there meant to be a weird sort of competition over his dick? You’re not sure you could beat her–
But Varang isn’t moving on Quaritch. She’s moving on you.
All you can do is gasp as she pushes you down. It’s not that she’s rough, but she moves with purpose and she’s so much bigger and stronger that even a light nudge completely flattens you. Now that you’re looking at her in this new light, her smile doesn’t look so mocking. Now it looks pleased, excited even.
Your legs are splayed open and Varang crawls between your thighs. Every move is deliberate, and she’s slowed right down. You think she’s going slow on purpose – obviously, Quaritch’s words have stuck with her. Where she had been forceful earlier, she’s cautious now.
You swallow thickly, and hear your throat click in the quiet.
“Off.” Varang coos, her long fingers hooking into your cheap panties. She’s smiling at you like she thinks you’re a bit stupid.
You glance at Quaritch reflexively. He’s watching the two of you closely. You think, a little uneasily, that he looks like he’s trying to guess her next move.
Still, when she tugs at your panties again, you allow her to pull them off you. She tosses them aside carelessly to join your bra, and then her big eyes fix between your legs.
When she sees you fully naked for the first time, her reaction surprises you. She laughs, high and girlish.
Your legs snap shut so quickly. It doesn’t even matter that she’s still between your thighs, blocking them from shutting fully, because you scramble to get up. The immediate impulse is to flee – you don’t even know where, because it’s not like you have options, but you’re so embarrassed that you almost feel like braving the air carrier despite the soldiers.
“Calm down,” Quaritch hastily, reaching out to place a big hand on your shoulder. He doesn’t exert much pressure, but he’s strong enough to hold you in place. “It’s the hair.”
“What?” You snap, feeling like a cornered animal.
“The hair,” He repeats, gesturing at the thatch of hair between your thighs. “Unclench, sweetheart. It’s new to her, s’all. She did the same to me.”
You really hadn’t thought too much about Na’vi pubic hair, but you suppose it makes sense that they don’t have any given their lack of body hair overall. Equally, hadn’t thought about Quaritch having pubes – maybe a holdover from his human DNA, like his eyebrows.
Varang is looking between you, head tilted. She’s assessing you, trying to figure out what the problem is. She glances down between your legs again, and this time she shifts so that she’s laying on her belly between your legs.
You’re trying to keep your legs closed, but Quaritch shifts so he’s lying behind you now. He pulls you flush against his chest, your back to his front. His arms wrap around your waist, one large hand splayed possessively over your stomach, with the other dropping to ease your legs apart so Varang can have a proper look.
Utterly exposed, all you can do is lay there and try not to melt in embarrassment.
Between your legs, Varang lets out a low, churring rumble. When her nostrils flare and you realise that she’s scenting you, your embarrassment reaches its peak and you simply can’t take anymore.
“Why am I the only one naked?” You practically shriek, wriggling. Then you screw up your bravery and make a stab at using the meagre Na’vi you have. “Clothes off!”
Varang stills, and for a moment you think you’ve made a mistake. This is a woman comfortable in her own authority, who is used to getting things her way. What if she takes badly to you attempting to order her around in her own home?
But then her smile blooms into a sharp, delighted smile. It’s broad enough to crinkle her eyes but with an edge to it, as though you’d offered her a cache of weapons all over again.
“Little Sky Girl speaks Na’vi?” She purrs, leaning down.
She licks a line from your sternum up your throat, and you jolt a little in surprise.
“A little,” You say shakily. “I’ve been learning.”
Without your panties, the wetness between your legs feels completely obscene. Your thighs feel sticky in a way that you really don’t want to examine considering you’ve barely been touched.
“Full of surprises,” Quaritch chuckles. He’s looming behind you, watching you with Varang as if you’re his favourite TV show.
You don’t reply, because your attention is captured by Varang now. She’s reached behind herself, beginning to untie the thin length of animal hide binding her breasts. Every move is a provocation, fluid and intentional – she tosses the binding aside, revealing her small, proud breasts. She starts on her loincloth next. Though you can practically feel the impatience radiating from her, she doesn’t rush.
She maintains eye contact with you as she tosses the loincloth aside next, and your cheeks burn.
You glance down, unable to help yourself, and your eyes stick.
Jesus.
You’ve never seen a Na’vi pussy before, and you’re a little struck by the sight. It’s both alien and familiar in a way that jars you. The anatomy is similar to yours, except for the fact that it’s… well, blue.
She has a perfect seam of blue, neat and glistening with arousal. Her folds are a few shades darker than the rest of her skin, and to your fascination, the inside of her winks purple, not pink. Her clit peeks out from beneath its hood, glinting almost pearlescent in the dim firelight of the tent.
You feel a little dizzy. You’re naked in Varang’s tent. Varang is sat in front of you, also naked, spreading her legs for you proudly like she wants you to look.
You should do something. Say something.
You point uncertainly at the indents in her skin from the tightness of the binding that had bound her breasts. “Pain?”
Varang just looks at you. You get the impression that she’s assessing you, like she doesn’t quite know what to make of you. She had undoubtedly been expecting a different reaction from you after showing off her cunt.
Then, she laughs, low and pleased.
“No pain.” She says it as though she thinks you're adorable.
It’s a little condescending, but you feel your nipples tighten anyway, puckering into hardened nubs. Quaritch noticed too; you can hear him chuckle, and then he shifts so that he’s beside you.
“You’re gonna make her real happy, baby.” Quaritch says. His words come out in a low, pleased rumble that you can feel vibrating into your back. “She’s been wantin’ to play with you for a while now.”
“Wanting to–?”
You’ve barely even gotten your sentence started before Varang decides to lay down on her back, legs spread and cunt exposed. You stare, struck dumb yet again. Fuck, that’s a sight. Her body is long and lithe, small breasts and shifting musculature under her velvety skin. The length of her legs! Have they always been that long?
She’s unself-conscious in a way that makes you sweat. Her eyes are fixed on you again, but now her impatience seems to be simmering at a low boil.
She barks something at Quaritch, but this time she speaks too fast for you to catch it. Her tone is unmistakable; whatever she said, it was a demand.
You had never pegged Quaritch as a man who would take orders from someone who was once an enemy, but his hands scoop under your armpits and lift you before you can protest. You’re not all too sure where he’s taking you; until he lifts you right over Varang.
You squeak as you’re settled into her lap, your legs slotting right between her much larger ones until you’re settled with your pussies pressed together, slick against slick.
“Oh, now ain’t that a sight.” Quaritch purrs out.
Your breath catches, staring down at where you’re scissoring with an alien. Her powerful thighs bracket your hips and waist, her powerful muscles flexing as she grinds up in slow, rolling motions. With a commanding sort of pressure she pulls you down against her further.
She doesn’t start slow, and she’s certainly not gentle. When her clit glides over yours, aided by the slick slide of your joined arousal, you both moan.
“Jesus,” Quaritch’s voice has dropped huskier as he shifts closer to get a better view. “Look at the two of you, all juiced up. You hear that?”
And you do – as Varang uses her grip on your hips to pull you down as she humps her cunt up against yours, the room fills with the wet, squishy sounds of your aroused cores rubbing.
Every roll of her hips is hypnotic; even on her back below you, there’s not an ounce of submission in her body. She’s grinning, wild and unrestrained with her teeth glinting, as she uses her grip on your hips to set a steady, hungry pace.
There’s no teasing – it’s a straight to the point sort of pleasure that soon has you panting. With an audience that responds to you so vocally, purring and moaning every time you roll your hips of your own accord, you soon find yourself responding eagerly with no real care for how you appear.
The bead of her clit is much larger than yours, serving as a perfect little bump to rub yourself against. It serves the dual purpose of stimulating you until you’re sweating and whimpering, and also satisfying her. Her head is thrown back as she pants, eyes half-lidded as she watches you rub yourself against her. Her long-fingered hands remain on your ass; you may have the illusion of control, but there’s no mistaking who’s really calling the shots.
“Like two cats in heat,” Quaritch says. He’s watching with an amused expression that does a poor job at hiding his avid interest.
“Ah!” Varang’s back arches as your cunts slot together just right, clits rasping over each other with a friction that has stars flashing before your eyes.
The moan that’s torn out of your mouth is long and low, a little breathless. You don’t think you’ve ever made such a slutty sound before, but you don’t have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed about it because Varang is still moving, her grip on your ass encouraging you to keep humping your pussy into hers.
You’re both so wet that the slide is easy, syrupy and sticky. Pleasure is sparking through your veins, your breath catching every time the eager beads of your clits grind together. It doesn’t take long before your hips are rolling against her with a desperate sort of speed.
It feels so good, enough so that you actually don’t have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed. Varang doesn’t seem to care that you’re grinding against her faster now; you’re both panting, sweating.
“Oh god.” You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel a trembling down deep in your pussy. “I’m–”
You don’t even get the words out before you cum in a convulsive wave. Your cunt clenches in a series of hard spasms, twitching against Varang’s as your clit grinds against hers.
“Fuck!” You shriek, clinging to her blindly.
She bares her teeth in a victorious grin, and doesn’t pause. You ride out your orgasm against her, whimpering as the glide gets wetter and slicker as your pussy grows juicier with release. Varang milks every last shock of sensation out of you, until the catch of your clits together grows too much.
You shiver, wanting more and less all at once, when suddenly a big four-fingered hand is clasping over your mask.
“I want your mouth.” Varang is saying, her large fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar mechanism of the mask.
You’re very horny. That’s the only excuse you have for the way your hips keep rolling lazily, your jaw soft and dropped as you pant. Even in the face of your only source of breathable air being pulled from you, you keep humping against her pussy.
Thankfully, Quaritch still has some firing neurons left. He swoops in quickly, grabbing Varang’s hand away and placing it on your loose breast instead.
“No mouth today,” he says. “Next time, when she has air.”
Varang hisses at him, but it seems more reflexive than anything because she doesn’t appear upset. Her attention has already been captured by your breasts; softer than a Na’vi’s, with more fleshy give to them when compared to the much firmer breasts of Na’vi women.
“Soft.” She mutters thoughtfully, her thumbs rolling over your beaded nipples with relish.
Quaritch chuckles.
Then, suddenly, she twists up and pulls you from your perch slotted against her. You yelp, but there’s not much you can do other than go with the flow and allow her to manhandle you. She moves quickly, flipping you onto your back and settling between your thighs on her hands and knees.
“Quaritch.” She says, glancing over her shoulder. Her tone has hardly changed at all, yet it’s clear that this is a demand.
Quaritch, still laying on his side as he watches the two of you, raises a brow. He seems quite content to watch, amused and pleased by the sight of Varang on her hands and knees between your legs. Varang is seemingly always aware of the eyes that follow her, and this time is no different – her back is arched, her narrow hips swaying as her tail undulates playfully in the air.
“Tsahìk.” Quaritch purrs her title lazily, though he doesn’t come closer.
Her title pleases her, you can tell by the way her tail flicks. Still though, she frowns impatiently at him.
“Come.” She says, a little clipped with impatience. “You will pleasure me, as I pleasure her.”
The steady, practiced amusement on Quaritch’s face breaks, only to be replaced by a genuine grin.
“Oh, will I?” He asks sardonically, though he doesn’t bother maintaining the pretence for a full minute – within fifteen seconds, he’s moving closer to slot himself up behind her.
Varang only arches more, the pert globes of her ass offered up to him like fresh fruit on a platter. She even waves it a little, tauntingly. Quaritch must be used to this sort of taunting, because he just snorts a little and delivers a quick open-handed smack to the side of her ass. It’s not particularly gentle, and the sound rings out in the yurt.
Varang gasps, jolting at the blow, before letting out a sharp laugh and grinding back against him.
You watch with widened eyes and shortened breath as Quaritch reaches down to untie his loincloth. Though he seems collected, the roughness of his movements as he shoves his pants down reveals his restlessness. You take a breath as you crane your neck, eager to see what he’s packing.
But to your bewilderment, there’s nothing but smooth space between Quaritch’s legs. Well, there’s hair, coarse and straight, like he had said. But it doesn’t border anything at all. Where you had expected a cock, there’s nothing at all.
You gape. What the fuck? He’s like a big blue Ken doll with pubes.
“Where’s your dick?” You blurt, unable to control your reaction.
Quaritch huffs a short laugh, but his ears lower a little. Shit, is he embarrassed? Maybe it was rude to point it out, but… Varang was acting like she wanted to be fucked. Was the Colonel dickless? Jesus, was that why he’s been so angry recently?
But no, that can’t be right. You’d seen the bulge in his pants after long makeout sessions, and you’d felt him the few occasions you’d dry-humped like horny teens.
“It’s still there, smartass.” He grumbles. “Gotta work for it now, though.”
That doesn’t answer your question at all. You frown, embarrassed and confused and too horny for this. Thighs squeezing together lightly, you glance at Varang. She’s already looking at you; her ears had pricked up the moment you spoke, clearly interested by what you have to say.
“Where?” You ask clumsily, pointing at Quaritch’s smooth blue crotch.
Varang tilts her head and for a moment you think she doesn’t understand what you’re asking her. But then her eyes dart to Quaritch’s crotch and she grins, sharp and eager.
She moves, pushing herself back up so that she can spin round and push him onto his back in the furs.
Quaritch allows himself to be pushed down. He’s rolling his eyes and huffing, but you know it’s for show because his lips are curving into a smug, self-satisfied grin. He looks as though he’s exactly where he wants to be.
“Come,” Varang demands, gesturing you closer.
This time, you don’t hesitate at all. You crawl closer until you’re at her side, both of you kneeling between Quaritch’s large, densely muscled thighs. Varang leans into your personal space, confident in the knowledge that you’re not going to be running away any time soon. Her smooth blue skin is hot to the touch against yours, and she maneuvers you closer with ease until you’re right where she wants you; tucked half under her as the two of you lean over Quaritch’s groin.
Now that you’re so close that your breath is brushing his skin, you can see that your initial impression of there being just blank space isn’t entirely correct. Under the light dusting of hair, you can see… Well, you’re not entirely sure what you’re looking at.
It’s not until Varang reaches out to touch him, parting the hair and prodding at the soft mound there, that you realise there’s a small vertical slit.
“What’s that?” You ask curiously.
Varang says a word that you’ve never heard before, her fingers pressing on either side of the slit and tracing it playfully. She doesn’t quite touch the slit itself; rather, she plays with the slightly swollen flesh on either side.
“Is that a pussy?” You blurt, eyes wide.
The concept of the Colonel, the scariest man you’ve ever met, with a pussy has you reeling. But just as soon as you’ve voiced the thought, Quaritch is huffing in irritation.
“Don’t be a jackass, kid.” He grunts, his voice a little gravelly. Clearly, whatever Varang is rubbing feels good.
Under her fingers, the slit seems to dilate slightly. The tip of something seems to be poking out from just inside, and when Varang leans in to lick at it, Quaritch throws his head back with a groan.
Under her attentive tongue, what appears to be Quaritch’s cock begins to extend. It doesn’t happen all at once; rather, it distends in increments. Feeling bold, you reach out to stroke your fingers along the squishy blue base of his length. He doesn't seem to have a scrotum; you wonder if it’s internal, same as his cock was.
And his cock is big. Fully proportional, long and thin (but still bigger than any human cock you’ve taken before). Those little glowing freckles are dotted along the underside, forming a pretty little trail all the way up to his purple mushroomed head.
“Shit.” Quaritch picks up his head so that he can watch you and Varang play with his cock at the same time.
He must like whatever he’s seeing, but his pupils are so dilated that there’s nothing left of his iris but a thin ring of gold. Varang clearly notices too, because she bares her teeth in a grin before licking up the length of his cock. If Quaritch is nervous about her sharp fangs near his delicate bits, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he humps his hips up to get more of himself inside her mouth.
Rather than indulge him though, Varang just gives one teasing suckle to the swollen, purplish tip before pulling away. Quaritch huffs as though he’d been expecting that, though he doesn’t complain. He’s watching her closely, waiting for her next move.
You’re watching her closely too, taking your cues from her. When she takes a hold of your arm and pulls you like a ragdoll onto your back in the furs in front of her, you go easily. Then she settles on her elbows and knees, settling low with her ass in the air. Her tail is held high, swaying coyly in the air in a way that is unmistakably teasing.
Your attention is fixed on her pert little ass, distracted by the way she’s waving it to taunt Quaritch, so when a dextrous, hot wet tongue slides through your sticky folds, you nearly shriek.
“O-ohhh, fuck.” You sigh, spreading your legs eagerly.
You feel like a bit of a slut with the way your every inhibition has flown out the window, but you refuse to let your mind linger on any shame. It feels too good – you can’t remember the last time someone ate you out, but it feels like a lifetime ago, and it certainly had never felt like this. Your makeout sessions with Quaritch had often ended with his big fingers stuffed down your panties to rub you until you creamed, but while it scratched the itch for a while, the wet heat of Varang’s mouth is making your eyes roll back in your damn head.
It feels like you’re boiling up inside. Your temples are sweat-slick, hair sticking to your forehead in a way that you’re certain can’t be attractive. Your cunt is so wet and sticky that every lap of Varang’s tongue against you makes a squelching sound that is truly mortifying. You don’t even know how much of the wetness is your own arousal or Varang’s saliva.
She’s sloppy about it, which you hadn’t expected. She just always seemed so put together, but she’s tonguing into your cunt like she wants to lick the flesh off your bones. You mewl and arch and wriggle, but her powerful hands keep you pinned so she can mouth at you as she likes.
You’d almost forgotten about Quaritch until he settles himself behind Varang. He looms over her, even taller than she is, and leans over so he can get a better look at her licking your cunt.
“Slow down,” He drawls, though he sounds amused. “You’re gonna lick her raw.”
He wraps a big hand around the base of Varang’s tail and tugs lightly, playfully. She pulls back from you just so she can hiss over her shoulder at him.
“She wants it now! You deny her–”
“I am not denying her.” Quaritch rolls his eyes, exasperated. His accent is thick, causing the words to form a little clumsily in his mouth, but you find yourself grateful for it. It’s much easier for you to understand the language when it’s pronounced slow and intentional.
His yellow eyes turn to you then, and he lifts a brow. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Okay? You don’t think you’ve ever felt so excited in your life. You’ve been content with Quaritch’s lazy makeout sessions and the clandestine fingering, but that was because you hadn’t dreamed of expecting more. Laying here sandwiched between two enormous bodies that could crush you with ease has you gooey between the legs in a way you couldn’t have expected.
You nod, breathless.
He gives you a sharp grin, and then drives into Varang in one short roll of his hips. Varang keens, high and drawn out, before it tapers into a moan. You watch her face, enraptured by the way her expression slackens in pleasure. The self-satisfaction that she’s been carrying herself melts away, replaced by raw want.
The thing that so fascinates you about her is that even like this, bent over between you and Quaritch, there’s not an ounce of submission in her. She’s so self-assured in her own desire that it makes you feel small, like you’re blessed and lucky to be allowed so close to her while she allows Quaritch to sink inside her.
But then her eyes fix back on your face, piercing even through the transparent plastic of your mask, and she lowers her mouth to your cunt again, laving over the sticky arousal that has collected in your folds.
Your eyelids flutter as you sigh, finally allowing the last of your tension to melt out of your spine.
God, that feels good. Maybe it’s okay to just let yourself enjoy this. You’ve never had an illicit encounter like this, and the thrill adds to the airy, electric build up in your cunt. If a nine foot tall sexy alien woman wants to involve you in her sex life with your boss, who the hell are you to deny yourself? Especially when you don’t think you’ll ever experience anything this crazy again in your life.
When Quaritch starts fucking into her, the rhythm of her tongue is disrupted against you. You try not to be too disappointed but you can’t help the whine that slips out of you unbidden. You think that maybe they miss it, considering the air is filled now with the wet slap of skin against skin and Quaritch’s low grunts matched by Varang’s little gasps.
But then both of their eyes swing around to you, and Quaritch grins.
“Feeling neglected again, baby?” He asks, a little mocking.
You nod, mortified. Then you wonder why the hell you had nodded at all. Was he making fun of you? It all abruptly feels too overwhelming – you don’t think you’ve ever felt so vulnerable in your whole life.
He says something, too low and quick for you to catch, and then Varang is grinning. Her head lowers between your legs once more, purring lowly, and begins licking again. Her tongue rasps over your clit and your thoughts evaporate, all higher level thinking disappearing in favour of sheer instinctive desire.
When you spread your legs wider, breath hitching, Varang’s purring kicks up a notch. The rumbles from her mouth make your eyes roll back in your head – it’s like having a hot, wet vibrator that licks at you. You feel too hot, too overwhelmed, like your skin is several sizes too tight.
Your eyes slide closed in an effort to block out some of the world before you get sent into sheer sensory overload, but when Varang squeals you snap them back open as if your eyelids were spring-loaded, unwilling to miss a thing.
Quaritch has taken a grip of Varang’s tail in his hand, pulling her back to meet her every thrust as he sets a brutal pace.
She’s letting out high, vulgar moans of pure delight. The sounds she makes are absolutely outrageous; completely lewd, wanton, and totally shameless. You don’t think you’ve ever heard sounds like that outside of a porno, but there’s not an ounce of disingenuity in her noises.
There’s no performance at all; just sheer enjoyment. The fact that she’s making those noises into your already sensitised cunt makes you feel like you’re going insane. Each little yip, purr, and moan thrums against your clit whenever she’s not suckling sloppily at it.
Your nerves spark, and your legs convulse without conscious thought. You can feel another release bubbling in your lower belly and the tips of your toes, your mind narrowing down to those points of pleasure as Varang’s rough tongue undulates against your swollen clit.
“Oh god,” You pant, your hips twitching up into her mouth again. “I’m gonna– I think–”
Quaritch is humping into Varang like a dog in rut, low intense grunts spilling from his lips as his hips move in brutal, near frantic spasms. You think – as much as you can think right now, with your higher-order awareness beginning to slip away from you – that you would love to watch him fucking her properly, from a different angle.
The thought takes you by surprise even as it floats through your mind. Even earlier that day, such a thought would have had you stewing in a bitter sort of envy. But everything seems softer right now, fuzzier around the edges – encapsulated in their furs, warm and buzzing like a live-wire, you can’t imagine allowing a single negative emotion to touch the sides of you.
You can feel your climax build deep in your belly like a cresting wave, and your toes curl in anticipation of it.
You orgasm violently. When that pleasure snaps it feels like it ricochets through every nerve and synapse in your body – your legs clamp shut around Varang’s skull hard enough that if she was human, you’re sure it would have hurt. As it is, you think she actually enjoys it, because she starts to lick you harder, faster.
It’s too much almost immediately, but you can’t form the words to tell her to stop. Your hands form fists in her glossy micro braids, though you don’t remember reaching to grasp them. All you can do is cling to her, keening wordlessly as her rough textured tongue works you into a cascade of bliss that feels endless.
You’re a pathetic little puddle of sweat and spit and spasming limbs, hardly able to tell up from down. You’re vaguely aware of Varang squealing in a way that suggests her own orgasm has knocked her out of the running at the same time as that heavenly, too-much tongue pauses in its tireless licking.
“Oh, fuck,” You breathe, your eyes blinking hazily up at the hide ceiling of the yurt.
The wet slap-slap-slap of flesh against flesh is still echoing as Quaritch fucks Varang almost brutally hard. You blink rapidly, trying to clear your head and regain some feeling in your numb buzzy fingers after your orgasm as you watch the two of them.
Varang is loose-limbed and soft, the expression on her face satisfied as she rests her face against your naked belly, panting. She’s clearly already came, small tremors running through her slick thighs, but that doesn’t stop Quaritch from chasing his own end.
“Fuck,” He snarls. “Fuck, fuck–”
His movements turn sloppy, then jerky, then he stiffens with a hissed moan. Your own spent cunt clenches around nothing as you watch his face, drinking in the details as he cums; his pinched brow, slack mouth, glassy eyes. God, he looks good.
Your thoughts are slow and soupy; you wish you had had the presence of mind to watch Varang’s face while she came. You want to be filled. You want to curl up right here and never move again.
Quaritch lets out a low groan of pure male satisfaction, his broad shoulders going lax as he hunches over Varang’s back. She’s still laid out on top of you, her back arches and hips tilted towards him, but once Quaritch pulls out of her she practically collapses onto you, spent.
The weight of her body slumping onto yours forces all the air from your lungs in an exhausted ‘ooof!’, and Quaritch hastily pulls her off. She goes easily, allowing him to settle her gently on the furs next to you.
She curls around you almost immediately, her chainsaw-like purring reminding you of an overlarge sundrunk housecat. It’s almost endearing enough to forget that you thought that she was a total psychopath.
Quaritch reclines next to you. He’s still grinning, no doubt immensely satisfied. It seems like his orgasm has softened some of the tension that’s been running through him like a steel rod in his spine. When he slides down on your other side, there’s a boneless quality to him that certainly wasn’t there before.
You stare up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and a little stunned. As the feeling comes back into your fingers and toes, reality is sinking in.
Jesus Christ, you just engaged in a threesome with your rogue boss and his new alien mate.
Varang is sleepily playing with the shell of your ear, one of her long lithe legs is draped over your hips – it’s long enough to reach over to Quaritch, her toes playfully prodding at his thigh. He grunts, grabbing at her ankle and coasting his hand the whole way up her leg before groping at her pert ass.
You’re squashed right in the middle, still a little bewildered about how you managed to get into this situation.
“Should I– go fur?” You ask in badly accented, halting Na’vi. In case it wasn’t clear what you meant, you point over to the small pile of furs that you had dragged over to the other side of the tent.
You’d been sleeping in that sad little pile for the last week, and you just assume that they’ll want you to return now that they’re satiated. You’ve tried to avoid them at night, slinking in after they’ve fallen asleep or curling up with the furs over your head, so you’re not all too sure what their night routine is.
Do they always cuddle like this after fucking? How often do they drag a third person into their furs? Or is this the first time?
It certainly seems… adventurous to drag you into this considering they’ve only been together a week, you think a little sourly.
But when you look up at the two of them, they’re both looking at you as though you’re speaking in tongues.
Had you misspoken? Maybe what you said meant something completely different. You scramble for a moment, working back over your words in your head.
But then–
“Mates sleep together.” Varang says, frowning.
She seems irritated, and the sight of her painted brow pinched in a frown has you nodding swiftly. You pull back, unwilling to linger in the furs when they don’t want you there.
But before you can go anywhere, Varang’s leg tightens over your hip and an arm winds under your waist as she hisses softly. You go very, very still.
“She told you to stay.” Quaritch grunts, though he doesn’t bother to open his eyes.
“No she didn’t,” You whisper back, keeping your voice low as if that might keep Varang soothed. “She said that mates sleep together.”
Quaritch peels one eyelid open just so he can give you a look like you’re a little slow.
“What’s the difference?” He grumbles.
He’s relaxed enough after his orgasm that he doesn’t seem to be able to work up enough energy to devote to the conversation. As a result, he doesn’t see the way you’re gaping at him blankly.
Admittedly, you’re not always the quickest, and the Na’vi language and their customs are so foreign to you that you don’t understand a lot of it. But it sounds as though Quaritch is including you in the mates statement.
Which is ridiculous, because you’re barely even a situationship to him. At least, you hadn’t thought so. Now, you’re bewildered. You lay still, compressed between their much larger bodies as they curl around you and each other in the most surreal three-way cuddle pile you’ve ever experienced.
It takes a bit of wriggling to sit up, since neither of them seem all that interested in lifting their heavy limbs to make it easier for you.
“Did you…” You manage to say, your voice cracking. “Did you sign me up for some kind of weird alien polyamory without asking me?”
“Hah?” Quaritch squints at you through one lazily opened eye, but you don’t wait for him to say anything further.
You smack at his arm. You’re so much smaller than him that it bounces off ineffectually, but it makes you feel a little bit better.
At least, it does before Varang lifts her head, looking between the two of you. You stiffen a little, wondering if she’s going to smack you down for daring to strike her mate the way that she had smacked that soldier outside the air carrier.
But she surprised you by smacking Quaritch instead, a little harder than you had but right over the same place.
This time Quaritch moves, his thickly muscled arms moving to wrap around your waist and Varang’s at once. He hauls you both atop of him, grumbling something about “Two damn women at once… pain in my ass”.
You wriggle, still unsettled, but Varang grins wide, settling down against the length of his body like she belongs there. She purrs, and her tail coils playfully around your upper thigh.
“Not like there were many conversations.” Quaritch mutters. “You mad about it?”
You can feel his words rumble lightly in his chest as you lay against him, and despite yourself you find yourself relaxing against him. The steady thrumming of Quaritch’s voice and Varang’s purring, their velvety skin, their encompassing warmth, has you melting reluctantly against them.
You allow yourself to think. It’s difficult to answer the question. You’re not all too sure what’s happened tonight. One moment you’d been angry with Quaritch for tossing you aside for Varang, the next you’re squashed between them in their furs and they’re talking about mates like it was a given that you were part of that arrangement.
“I… don’t know.” You say slowly. “I’m not sure I really understand.”
Quaritch just snorts.
“Yeah, me neither.” He grunts, reaching down to scratch at the light thatch of hair above his cock. To your fascination, you see that his length has retracted back into that little internal pouch.
“She said that she was going to take my mate.” You protest, mortified even to be saying it out loud. "As in, you."
Quaritch huffs a lazy, tired laugh. He says something to Varang in her ear, too quick and quiet for you to hear. She grunts, eyelids fluttering, and mumbles something back.
Whatever she said has Quaritch rolling his eyes back to look at you with a single sardonic brow raised.
“You gotta improve the language, honey.” He mutters. “She said she’s gonna take you as a mate.”
You gape at him. Even with it being stated in plain English, your brain cycles around the words without engaging with them fully.
“What the fuck?” You blurt.
Had they known the whole time that you were involved in this weird little ‘mating’ situation? Was that why they had been so amused with your sulking, your insistence at sleeping apart?
What you had thought was mockery from Varang might just have been an expression of interest.
“Too much talking.” Varang mumbles in Na’vi.
She’s clearly trying to sleep, her ears twitching in irritation every time someone speaks.
You quiet down, biting your lip. It seems like you’re the only one confused by any of this. They’re certainly not wasting much time having moral quandaries or wondering what this means for your standing among them.
A little hesitantly, you allow yourself to relax fully against them.
Never in your wildest dreams would you have first imagined this when you came to your pencil-pushing job in Pandora – squashed between two enormous alien bodies, one of them your resurrected boss, in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere filled with Na’vi that are hostile to basically everything.
But the furs are warm and comfortable, and paradoxically you feel small and safe pressed against the bulk of Quaritch and Varang. Everything outside of the tent feels distant and hazy, like the only real thing in the world is right here narrowed down to the palpable heat of your bodies in a post-coital pile.
Just maybe, you could postpone your little meltdown until tomorrow.
Quaritch must feel you surrender to the situation, your body relaxing against his, because you feel his lips curve into a smile where they’re pressed against the top of your head.
When he leans down to speak in your ear, you shiver lightly.
“Best leave this out of the field report to Ardmore.” He says with a low laugh, his large hand delivering a quick, fond slap to your ass.
Warning: 18+, minors dni! Selected mating/breeding, rough, p in v, masochism, choking, mounting, first time/loss of virginity, belly bulge, cum eating, mating press, mentions of scarification and genital piercings, some use of Y/n, proofread by me, mlw, wlw. I was going for a threesome, but it can be considered a mix of that and cucking wife/spouse. Drug/heat-induced sex. Wax play mixed with stimulating lubricant activated by heat (I don't know how to tag that lol)
Taglist (including those who wished to be tagged when I got this idea): @pandoraslxna @freakypandoratimes @glass-rosette @loakstahni @dollfaceglow @coloclaocla @mooniequeen @avatar-lover @anemonelovesfiction @taronyuhunter @li-da-savage @tiswanye @tootstoots
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Varang emerges from her dark dwelling once the familiar sounds of the Sky People's flying machines draw near. A smirk curling onto her lips, she follows her people out into the open, beyond the remnants of their hometree. They scatter along the barren, ashen field to greet their new allies as their propellers kick up ash and dry winds. Metal suits walk forward and present boxes of weapons, more than the last shipment, while the man who made this all happen walks toward Varang.
The tsahik's gaze softens into her alluring guise while greeting the man she claimed as hers, "Quaritch."
"Another shipment for ya, baby," Quaritch's southern twang tickles her ears as he chuckles, "Since you folks tend to go through ammo like it's going outta style."
Her posture is approving, gazing over his shoulder to watch her people rummage through the storage containers. When her sharp eyes flick back to the colonel, hunger replaces approval, "Come. I have something to thank you."
Without another word, she takes his hand in hers, pulling him back toward the village. Quaritch grins knowingly, his voice playful, "Thank? I wasn't under the impression you were the thanking type."
"Hm." Her smile is sly, like she knows something he doesn't. She pulls back the flap of her yurt to allow him in first, "But you will thank me for this."
He's admiring her body slowly, pointedly unashamed of his open stare. He makes a show of deciding whether or not to follow, but predictably gives in and ducks his head into her 'cozy' abode.
He lifts a hand to pass through the beaded curtain, his nose immediately crinkling when the scent of something potent invades his nostrils. The colonel can point out a few things he remembers from the last time he was here, such as the incense with a hint of spice, the haunting totems carved from nightmares, and the gentle smoke from the firepit at the center. However, his tail stiffens mid-sway when he takes a deep breath and catches an overpowering aroma that immediately brings saliva to fill his mouth.
A quiet noise echoed in his ears, and as he looked down, he realized he was not alone with Varang as she finally entered the yurt. Another female, clearly Mangkwan, was writhing as if in agony on the floor... completely naked. She was making soft sounds, sighs, and moans that implied she was trying to fight something trying to get out of her, curling in close toward the lit fire in the center of the room. The aroma he smelt earlier fills his nose again as she rubs her thighs together like she was relieving a deep ache. The source of the scent.
"Who's this?" He asks.
Varang stands off to the side, inspecting the colonel with eyes glowing from the fire while she extends her arm out to your direction as if presenting a meal to him, "She is Y/n. One of my most strongest of females, and she is in need of your help."
Quaritch's eyes inspect you thoroughly, a mess of limbs as you writhe on top of Varang's furs, making some noises that sound like an injured animal. Varang clearly has you high on one of her various concoctions of aphrodisiacs, the pupils of your eyes blown wide until the irises are just thin rings. Your panting fills the room, along with the crackling of the fire, your breasts rising and falling with each desperate gulp of air like a bitch in heat.
Once that last particular thought crosses his mind, Quaritch's eyes narrow, flicking back to Varang, where she can see a growing suspicion in his gaze. Her eyes gleam with mischief, swaying her sultry hips as she moves around her yurt, removing her twin blades from her back and setting them aside.
"We do not breed weakness. Only strength. My people do not mate unless I allow it," she explains to the demon, flashing a smile at him from over her shoulder, "Mangkwan children will only be born from two strong parents. Until then, my people prove themselves to me. They hunt, they kill, and only when I am satisfied, they can finally be allowed to breed."
She moves to a bowl nestled close to the fire just at your feet. Cupping it in one hand, she dips her fingers into the contents, pulling them back out to reveal a honey-like substance. Varang marvels at the sticky residue on her fingers, hardly looking away from it as she kneels beside her female warrior, intently watching as she angles the bowl and lets the substance drip out onto your abdomen.
The groan that leaves your throat sparks a sudden hunger in Quaritch's belly, his cock twitching with interest beneath his pants. He watches as you spread your knees further apart, arching your back to allow whatever Varang dripped on you to slide down, slowly, moving like molasses until it mixes in with the slick of your dripping cunt. Once it meets your clit, your hips try to catch onto any form of friction, humping the air while Varang grins like a cat that got the cream. The tsahik draws closer to you.
"Y/n and her family have served me well. Her brother was one of my divers who readily gave his life for our cause. His sacrifice brought my attention to his sister."
Her red hand traces your jaw and runs down your neck, your flesh rising with small bumps that flicker a thin smile on her face, her eyes transfixed on your movements, "Y/n was eager to show her worth, bringing me six Tlalim kuru braids in our last raid. She has finally proven to me that she is ready to mate."
Quaritch watches Varang dip down, swiftly pulling you into a rough kiss, grasping your bottom lip with her fangs and biting down until she draws blood. Your hips jolt from the sting, raising them high in the air, which ensures the Recom gets a nice waft of your arousal.
Her hand continues down your body, past your chest, your ribs, until she finds the sticky residue on your stomach. Quaritch couldn't help but be transfixed on the sight, watching Varang spread the substance over her fingers and then dip down to push it deep into your cunt.
Your response was immediate, moaning into her mouth while your hands twitched at your sides, debating on where to hold onto. Your tsahik pumps her fingers in and out for several moments, until she feels more than just her thick concoction slicking up her hand.
Varang finally releases your lip, her teeth stained with blood as she tilts her head in Quaritch's direction, flashing that bloodstained smile with giddiness, "And who better to breed her than the sky man who taught us how to make thunder?"
Silence fills the room apart from your labored breaths and the crackling of the fire. Quaritch eyes his woman down with feigned surprise, genuinely impressed, "You folks are into some kinky shit."
"I will give you permission to mate her, Quaritch. All night long," her wispy little giggle fills the thick air, "Pay no mind if she grows limp. The senses can get overwhelming to a female in heat."
Nonplussed, he gazes between you and Varang, "What makes you think I'd be interested?"
Her sharp eyes not-so-subtly flick down to the obvious tent in his crotch before slowly moving back up his body, "Intuition."
Damn. Got 'im there.
His chuckle is a bit breathy already, unable to help it. The scent coming off you was beginning to affect him like one of Varang's drugs. Not one to turn down such a tempting offer, he moves his hands down to unbuckle the belt in his pants, allowing them to drop to his ankles. Varang grins approvingly as her gaze rakes over his form, her tail swaying behind her with interest. Best not to keep the tsahik waiting, Quaritch finishes undressing completely before he crouches down until he's hovering over you and leaning his face into Varang's space.
The malevolent tsahik pulls her hand out of your cunt at this point, causing you to whine from the ache of being empty once more. She brings her fingers to Quaritch's lips, making him taste you. His ears and tail twitch simultaneously from the burst of flavor that pricks his tongue, the taste tangy and sharp, like a juicy, bloody steak. It's strange but not unpleasant, chalking it up to the carnivorous diet of the Mangkwan and the outside substance that mixes with your slick.
Quaritch licks around Varang's fingers to oblige her before pulling away, "Any rules?"
"Only one," she reaches around his head and makes a point to grip the base of his kuru tightly, emphasizing with a faint snarl, "You are not allowed to make tsaheylu. This pleasure is for breeding only."
"Whatever you say, cupcake."
In the midst of your daze, you're faintly aware of large, alien hands gripping your thighs and using untameable strength to slide you down, bringing you closer to the large mass of heat that looms over you, the air in between suffocating. The same hands push your thighs until they part beneath the weight, going as far as to press your knees so close to your shoulders and leaving the most intimate parts of your body exposed. Shivers run down your spine as the undeniable length of Quaritch's cock presses down against your cunt, grinding up and down a few times to spread your natural lube along its underside.
Quaritch's breath stutters for a moment, not expecting your heat to feel so warm, sparking desire to quickly ignite his arousal further. The honey-like substance that pooled down to your cunt was warm, just barely on the cusp of too hot, likely activated by the fire. Once he focuses on it, he can feel it start to tingle, adding more friction and pleasure between the two of you. Oh, the Mangkwan are definitely kinky.
Knowing there are no limits besides the bond, he doesn't bother containing himself or holding back. Gripping his girth in one hand, he pumps up and down a few times before looking down to lead the tip to where the tingling substance disappears inside you, catching against your entrance. Without ceremony, Quaritch snaps his hips forward and plunges deep inside your depths.
"Ngh-!" You cry out, immediately tensing around him, your body trying to fight back and push him out when pain erupts below your hips. The stretch burns white-hot, keeping you tense without taking a breath. He doesn't hesitate to grind down to fit himself deeper, immediately bumping up against the spongy entrance to your cervix. He fits in every crevice, almost digging in, molding your body around his cock's shape and leaving your thighs shaking around his cradled hips.
"Jesus--" Quaritch exhales sharply, bowing his head until his chin almost touches his chest as he tries to focus, "She's so tight."
"Well, of course," Varang grins, her pupils dilated as she carefully observes the joined pair, "She has never been bred before, and you are not made like any Ash men, Quaritch."
He groans at the boost to his ego, continuously grinding his pelvis right up against your clit, the friction beginning to soothe the burn inside you. Varang's hand moves down until she reaches your breast, pulling one of the nipples taut, and to a point, her expression pleased from the way your back arches to push your chest further into her touch.
"I did not properly prepare her for your size, but she had begged me to keep it that way. She wanted it to burn."
The word echoes in his ear until he can't take it any longer. He pulls all the way out of your cunt, and then slams back in, growling deep in his chest when you clench around him again. Your cries grow louder, eyes hazy and barely peeking out beneath your lids as you writhe beneath him, unsure if the feeling is too much or not enough once he starts to find his desired pace.
Plap, plap, plap.
Sounds of sweat and skin slapping together fill Quaritch's ears as his quick and steady rhythm has him rising up and grinding down on top of you, his fingers curling roughly into the furs on either side of your head while heat narrows down to one point deep in his abdomen. The colonel looks down to where he's fucking into you, enthralled as your cream and the amber-colored substance fills the room with the most obscene sounds of sticky slick each time his cock disappears between your puffy lips. It clings to his pelvis and thighs in thick strings every time he draws back, leaving the scene before him downright filthy.
"Many of our men try to make up for their size with bone," Varang absently explains while leaning down to pull your neglected nipple into her mouth, the threat of her fangs causing your hips to jolt, meeting Quaritch's mid-thrust and leaving you both moaning simultaneously.
Varang preens from your shared reactions as she licks over your nipple and presses her cheek to your tit, peering up at Quaritch while her voice drops to something akin to sweet and sultry, "They smooth the bone and pierce it into their flesh, made to leave more pleasurable ridges."
She giggles sadistically, the vibrations reverberating against your nipple, "You would not believe how often the piercing gets stuck inside the female, forcing the mates to stay intertwined for endless time or until they eventually have to come to me for help. I make sure not to let the process of separating them be painless. It is the consequences of their foolishness. At the very least, it ensures that the female is properly bred."
It shouldn't be so seductive, but this was Varang talking, and Quaritch hadn't realized his thrusts were beginning to pick up speed. You whine each time he thrusts back in, bullying his way into your cunt with possessiveness similar to a male in rut.
The Mangkwan tsahik hums with approval, leaning up to bite at his ear, letting her warm breath go down his neck, "But you do not need such trivial objects to pleasure a woman, do you? My sky man. He does not need anything because there is nothing to make up for."
The sudden impact of his hips against yours sends you keening, the barbed tip of his cock beginning to zero in on the little entrance of your cervix, precum soothing the sting. A guttural noise escapes your throat, your hands beginning to claw at whatever you can reach: his hands, his forearms, until they settle on scratching down his abs. Tears prick your gold eyes, smearing the ash paint around them
Quaritch is ramming into you now. Plapplapplap--
Beads of sweat collect in his frown lines, his tanhì flashing bright in tandem with his thrusts, growing faster and faster, ripples and heat running up your stomach in response, elicting soft howls from your lips. Instinct that he didn't know he had told him to stop his pace for a moment to just simply grind down, gritting his teeth as he feels the sensitive tip of his cock incessantly rubbing against the roof of your cervix, the small opening now softened and a bit wider with the help of his precum.
Gritting his teeth together, the colonel's lips pull back in a deep snarl, "Need to flip 'er over."
Delight sparks Varang's expression, quickly sitting back and admiring her strong man pulling out of your sopping pussy and harshly flipping you over onto your stomach. You make a startled noise before it's cut off by the male pressing you down into the furs with his full weight, his chest rubbing against your back while his muscled arm wraps around your throat and pillows your head in the crook of it. You cough from the pressure on your neck, only to quickly forget it when his cock slides back inside you, eyes rolling back into your head as he mounts you.
He's not deterred by your screaming, knowing how much you like this angle from the way you squeeze him with each thrust. However, it is starting to ring in his ears, so he tightens his arm around your neck, his cock twitching as you wheeze and choke. His free hand roams down and slides under you, finding your stomach.
Ears pinning back, Quaritch presses his forehead hard against your shoulder blade, "Shit--"
Beneath his fingertips is your skin, roughened by a harsh life of ash and scarification. But underneath that, he can feel it. His cock can be felt sliding in and out of you, forming a bulge to mark how deep he is inside you. The colonel can't help but press his hand against it, groaning loudly when it only adds more pressure.
The pressure leaves you crying and clawing all over his forearm, desperate for some sort of reprieve. Sounds of your pussy squelching as he pistons in and out fill your ears, your walls like suctions trying to pull his cock in further and further. You tail loops around his arm that's pressed against your tummy, breath leaving your lungs as he digs in his knees and drills into you like he's the one in heat.
Varang tilts her head while watching, mischief and sadistic delight all over her face. She leans down close to your face, her thumb brushing a bead of sweat that almost fell into your eye.
"Oeyä tsamsiyu," [my warrior] she coos callously, "Do you wish for him to breed you?"
You cry and hiss, trying to push your rear back against the man pinning you down, "Yes, tsahik. Please let him fill me."
She bites back a grin, "You will continue to serve me?"
"Yes, tsahik, until your fire consumes me." A sharp gasp is punched out of you when Quaritch thrusts particularly hard to a point he pushes you forward, your breasts grazing the ticklish furs beneath you as you jolt. You're panting for breath, practically rambling in your desperation, "I will bear you more strong warriors and hunters. They will feed your flames for all time."
Your vow thrills her immensely, cupping your face in her hand with reverence, "Such devotion should be rewarded."
You whimper with relief, your face burrowing into Quaritch's arm once Varang lets you go. There's a different kind of pressure building deep inside you, ready to burst and run down like hot magma. Quaritch grinds his teeth together, trying to concentrate, his balls tightening up with the threat of release.
Varang's voice suddenly sounds loud in his ear while her hot breath pricks his skin, "Breed her, Quaritch. And do not stop until every drop is seeded inside her."
There's a roar bellowing in his chest, unable to contain it as his orgasm finally washes over him, breaking out into a fresh sheen of sweat, unable to stop his hips from continuously pumping you full of his cum. It flows into your womb in small pulses of thick ropes, flooding your insides and your senses. It's a rush that manages to push you over the edge as well, clawing at the ground while your pussy clamps down around his twitching cock, keeping him locked inside while every inch of your body shakes in ecstasy, your juices running down both of your and Quaritch's thighs.
Quaritch continues to growl and thrust, both a little sluggish and half-assed now, drawing out the high and the exhaustion. He doesn't stop until you've ridden all the way through your orgasm and grow limp beneath him, your walls finally relaxing to the point he can finally pull out. Your body releases him, and he unceremoniously lets go of your unconscious form, falling to his side, panting for breath, his cock spent between his muscled thighs. Every inch of him is covered in sweat, dampening his hair while he sits up on his elbow.
Varang shuffles down your body, a low hum of approval vibrating in her chest as she finds your used cunt trying to push out white droplets of your breeder's cum, her fingers finding their way back inside you to ensure none of it goes to waste. The sight before her is erotic, to say the least. You, passed out on your stomach, curled into the furs, while Quaritch is still trying to calm his racing heartbeat, chuckling whenever he gets an ounce of oxygen. Varang rubs her own thighs together to relieve some of her own ache.
He wheezes out one of those signature chuckles when he catches her looking at him, "All night long, huh?"
"Yes."
His grin is feral yet exhausted, "I'm gonna need a small respite before the second round."
"Well, then, you can make yourself useful by lying down," Varang swiftly moves until she's straddling his chest, pushing him onto his back without waiting for a reply, her eyes bore a hunger that would make many people think she was out for blood, not for relief, "I will ride your face for my own pleasure until you are ready to flood Y/n with your seed once more."
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A/n: It's been a while! I'm hopeful in keeping this blog alive with Fire & Ash out now. I haven't played From the Ashes yet, but I'm excited to!
