but when you’re in love with someone

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reading episode synopsizes will be the death of me bc now i just don’t wanna keep watching smallville. i’m so irritated

[makoodles]

ミ field trip

🍓 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

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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.

“Jesus,” Quaritch says. “Don’t overthink it, kid.”

“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.

[ohlovxr]

so who’s writing the dialogue for season 5 i just wanna have a little chat

[souliloqui]

18+ | clark x f!reader

cw: mating press, slight brat tamer!clark

you love a good mating press, adore being up into one while you're being fucked. the angle allows him to hit it deep, hit it to the point you feel him at the back of your throat.

but you ask him not to do it often because;

"i cum too fast when you do." you admit shyly, and clark nearly explodes from how hot that sounds. how hot and adorable you sound. so he promises not to put you in a mating press unless you ask for it.

but.

you can be a brat sometimes, something no one would expect from you. and when you start acting up, purposefully disobeying him and causing his blood to boil?

well.

"c-clark, w-ait!" you squeak, eyes wide as he manhandles you into the meanest mating press he's ever done. your thighs are squishing your tits, knees by your ears, and feet touching the sheets behind your head.

he's literally folded you in half.

your cunt gushes a little.

"no, darlin'," clark grunts, hands beside your head and gripping the sheets. "since you decided to be a brat, then you gotta be punished, yeah?"

you sniffle, already losing your ability to think as his cock presses in so deep it's at your cervix. your mouth hangs open, lips shaping around words that never come out. all because you're already dumb with it, eyes crossed as you start to drool.

"yeah," clark hums, drawing back his hips before slamming into you with a low groan. your cunt spasms around his cock beautifully, slick gushing out as your back arches sharply. "that's got you all quiet now, huh?"

[corensweat]

🌲 road trip.

scott miller x reader Synopsis: when your camping trip with scott gets cut short because of a work emergency, you nearly kill him and every member of storm par, intent on making your ire well known on the drive home. but when you push scott too far, his impatience has other plans. or “If I have to pull over, you won’t be able to walk for a week.” Word Count: 13.3k Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!, no use of y/n, bdsm, established dom/sub dynamic, pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby), brief mentions of serial killerisms (teasingly… maybe), semi-priv public sex (in a truck), scott has a whore mouth (again), groping, belting (f! receiving), spanking/slapping (f! receiving, breasts & v), oral (m+f), nippleplay (f! receiving), unprotected pinv, orgasm denial, fingering (f), cumplay, breeding A/N: when the "just a quick one shot" turns into a beast... oops? 😬 thank you to my proud sponsor aka the scott rot™️! if you enjoyed, pls feel free to reblog or give it a like and as always, my inbox is open if you want to chat!!! 🤍

On hour two of the drive back to OKC, you think you’ve lost your mind.

What had begun as a much-anticipated weekend road trip with Scott — an incredibly overdue escape, though you weren’t exactly keeping track — had swiftly turned from enjoying the fresh, open air and the promise of an entire weekend distraction-free, to a mountain of frustration that battled the ones in the distance. All because your charming, secretly sentimental boyfriend had wanted a picture of you and the sunset for his lock screen.

If you weren’t so upset about it, you probably would’ve laughed.

But this was the fourth (fourth!) time that something had gotten in the way of your Scott Time, and, look — you needed it. So. Fucking. Badly.

Which was why when his phone had gone off again, after Scott had ignored the voicemails Javi left him, you were so, so very tempted to hurl the fucking thing into the pond. Instead, you sat there, already trying to think of a way to get your lick back with the fact that he was the one who’d insisted that going off the grid meant going off the grid and electronics simply took away from the nature of it all, the hypocritical ass. And you’d watched, with dawning realization and equal devastation, as Scott’s entire demeanor had shifted from peeved that Javi even had the audacity, to shutting his mouth and speaking in yes, sir’s and I understand, sir’s.

Oh, Marshall Riggs was going to get an absolute earful the next time y’all sat down for Sunday dinner.

But first, you had your sights set on Scott. And, quite frankly, he deserved every second of petulant that you were giving him.

When he adjusted the air conditioning, you dropped the temp lower. When he found a good station on the radio, you changed it. When he asked for one of the snacks by your seat, you munched on it first, mumbling a fake apology when you passed him a small piece. And when you finally started talking, it was one word answers: yes, no, dunno, sure, fine, whatever.

And every time he gripped the steering wheel just a little tighter, you felt vindicated by the fact that it was ticking him off.

Good. You were ticked off. And unbelievably, atrociously bored. There were only so many things you could do in his truck while you were half giving him a cold shoulder. And, well, after the last time you’d reached for the volume and he’d caught your wrist with a stern ‘knock it off’, like you were a child, you’d resorted to pouting out the window, then sifting through his middle storage, and then snooping through his glove box.

All of which were boring, in the exact way that only a man’s truck could be boring. Who didn’t have a car Chapstick, but could have packs of gum hidden everywhere? And where were the just-in-case napkins? And what did he even use pliers for?

Your brattiness — no, curiosity — wins over the agitation that still simmers just under the surface. You turn to Scott with a mischievous grin as you hold up the pliers. “Be honest. Are you secretly a serial killer?”

Scott glances at you, then at the pliers, before rolling his eyes with a faint smirk. “Caught me,” he deadpans, his voice carrying just enough sarcasm to draw out your giggle.

“I knew it.” You dig further into his glove box like you expect to find a pair of gloves, which stupidly has you giggling because you’d lost your mind, see, and there was no way there’d actually— Oh. Shit. He really did have gloves. “You’re the worst serial killer I’ve met. Your whole murder kit is in here and you haven’t even tried to kill me yet?”

“Getting close to it, honey,” Scott quips, a teasing edge to his voice that makes your heart flutter. His eyes stay fixed on the road, but you catch the slight twitch of his lips, betraying his amusement.

Until you keep it up, making an exaggerated show of pulling out every item you find, each discovery more dramatic than the last. The subtle tightening of his jaw tells you that rummaging through his stuff is getting more of a rise from him than your earlier silence had. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, the whites of his knuckles glowing under the moonlight, and you can’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction at the sight.

Curling your knees to your chest with his newest item in your lap (a bundle of zip ties), you bat your lashes up at him with feigned innocence. “Am I bothering you, baby?”

“Nope.” Scott, to his credit (you pretend it’s not because you’re his girlfriend but because he just chooses to be kind), swallows down whatever shitty retort is on the tip of his tongue as he shakes his head. “Not at all.”

His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to the road, as if anchoring himself, before he plasters one of his obnoxiously fake smiles on that doesn’t reach his eyes. Your own smile slips at the blatant irritation bubbling just beneath the surface, hating that look, knowing he knew you hated when he was fake with you. He reaches over, his hand finding your knee — not in the usual affectionate squeeze, but more as a grounding gesture, a silent plea for you to stop before you push him too far.

“You might want to close that now,” he adds, his voice soft but laced with an unmistakable edge as he jerks his chin toward his still-open glove box. “Before I really lose my patience.”

“But...” you start, pouting a little, your fingers lingering on the edge of the glove box. “I was just having fun. I mean, what else could be in here? Secret spy gadgets? Hidden treasures?”

Scott’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. His patience is fraying, each word clipped and precise as he says, “Close. It. Now.”

You relent, closing it with a dramatic flourish and an equally exaggerated sigh. “Okay, okay. Glove box exploration time is over.”

Scott exhales, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Thank you,” he mutters, though his eyes still carry a hint of irritation as he changes the radio station a couple of times, scowling at the country crooning through his speakers, before just shutting it off.

“You sure you’re okay?” You test, still pushing his limits. You figured that Scott knew you better than that. That you knew him better than that. Nearly seven months together — again, not that you were counting — and he really thought you couldn’t tell when something was off?

You continue, “Just because… Well, you seem a little stressed. Is it because you didn’t get to tie me up and torture me back there by the pond? I mean, I’m sure you’ll get another chance someday, like when cows fly, but—”

“Are you done?” Scott huffs, shooting you a look.

You don’t back down from it, leveling him with your own hard expression. When he’s forced to return to the road, breaking eye contact first, that prideful part of you purrs. He sighs. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but I don’t have any other choice. So sit down, shut up, and stop fucking with my system, please.”

He says the last through gritted teeth, and as much as you loved to antagonize him, you knew when to push and when to not. Putting the last of the stuff back where you’d found it exactly how you’d found it, you stuff your hands under your thighs and pout quietly until he visibly relaxes again.

“You’re not being very nice,” you mumble, the silence that encases you both too much to bear.

Scott runs his tongue over his teeth, then looks over at you, his expression hard. “And you’re lucky I haven’t spanked your ass raw for that attitude yet.” Surprise must flash across your face, because a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth that he quickly masks. “What? Did you think I would just let all that slide?”

“No.”

Maybe.

“Liar.”

Damn it.

Before you can say anything else, Scott reaches over, gently but firmly tilting your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze as his eyes leave the road for a second. “Do I need to remind you of the rules?” he asks, his tone shifting from frustrated to something far more controlled and deliberate — each word laced with a quiet authority that sends a shiver down your spine and makes your blood run hot.

It’s a tone you’ve come to know all too well, one that signals a subtle shift in the dynamic between you, a reminder of exactly who’s in charge.

To anyone else, it might have sounded like another classic Scott lecture — a stern word from someone who was used to being in control. But you knew this side of him intimately well, understood the depths of what he was really asking. This wasn’t just about a conversation or setting you straight; it was a command, a subtle but potent assertion of the power he held over you.

“Answer me,” he prompts, his voice dropping to a low, steady hum that makes your pulse race. “Yes or no, honey.”

“No,” you breathe, testing the waters of defiance.

“Let’s try that again.” Scott’s grip remains steady on the wheel, but the weight of his gaze feels like a tightening hold around you. “No, what?” he asks, his voice low and demanding, leaving no room for anything but the correct response.

You swallow. The tension between you is thick and electric. “No, sir.”

He holds your gaze for a moment that feels like an eternity, long enough for you to actually worry about him being behind the wheel. But a quick glance at the road reassures you — he’s in complete control, staying perfectly between the lines, maintaining a comfortable distance from the cars ahead and behind.

His eyes flicker to your mouth, lingering there with a deliberate intensity. “We’ll see.”

A noise of discontent escapes you immediately when he returns to his side of the truck as if nothing happened, all the air leaving your lungs. We’ll see. That was it? No good girl? It’s a reprimand all on its own, defiance filling you quickly.

What was the point of his rules if he wasn’t going to listen to them?

First with his phone, which had gotten you here in the first place, and now this. You pout, crossing your arms as you glare at the car in front of you, hating everything about this weekend. God, you’d both been so exhausted from the drive to the campsite that you hadn’t even touched him like he’d promised you could **— **on top of the week he’d already instructed you not to touch yourself.

And now Scott was going to be buried in work again. He’d drop you off at home just to drive another hour or two to who the hell knew where, and from there it was back to the office to get the paperwork rolling, call the banks, pouring hour after hour into making sure this deal went through. All because Riggs had decided his time off was more important than yours.

But it wasn’t. You’d waited eons for this. And you were damned if you were going to let both him and Scott stop you.

Slowly, so slowly, you angle yourself toward your boyfriend, his eyes distant as he readjusts in his seat and fishes absentmindedly for a piece of gum to smack on. For a moment you can’t help but admire him, appreciating the way he filled out the seat, the way his jaw worked with the gum, how when he got lost in his thoughts and had a particularly interesting idea he swiped his fingers along his perfect, full mouth.

He was masculine without any effort, intelligent and calculating, and, despite this weekend, was the most attentive boyfriend you’d ever had.

And you ached for him.

Just that tone shift alone — from Scott to sir — had spiked your temperature, leaving you warm with the lack of air conditioning. You knew better than to reach for the knobs, even if the thought of him pinning your wrist down had your thighs pressing together. So you shift forward to unzip his jacket you’d stolen, meaning to shimmy it off, when you catch his eyes on you.

Instead of taking it off completely, you let the gray fabric bunch to your elbows. His eyes slide from the way it now sits on you to your white tank top before focusing back on the road, his gum making that unmistakable snap! he always did. “What’re you doing?” He asks, stealing another glance as you wriggle in the seat.

“Just hot, baby,” you hum, which wasn’t a lie.

But there’s no way to be subtle as you collect your hair into a ponytail and tie it with your scrunchie, just like there’s no way Scott can be subtle as he zeroes in on your hair being up or the fact that your tits jiggle with every bump or dip in the road. His hand flexes on the wheel, quick to snap his attention to the mirrors, as if he’d been checking them in the first place.

You bite back a smile.

By the time Scott is pressing on the brakes, an accident brings the two-lane down to one, one foot is propped up on his dashboard, your head turned to face him with every sigh that leaves your lips. With nothing to pull his attention now other than the slow crawl, his eyes catch yours again, his guard dropping as he falsely believes you’ve listened.

And that’s when you make your move.

“Baby,” you groan, wetting your lips as your fingers brush across his sleeve. Your other hand rests against your knee, slipping down along your thigh while you bat thick lashes up at him. “Can you turn the air on, please? I’m dying.”

“Mhm.” Scott does, following the invisible line your fingers paint across your skin as the air kicks on. The cool air is welcomed and the content noise that leaves you isn’t entirely fabricated. When his hand drops to rest on your thigh, you know he feels how flushed you are under his cold touch. And you know he feels you arch into it. “How’s that? Better?”

“’ Little.” Not even close, but you play it up now that you’ve got him. “Still too hot.”

“Sorry, honey,” Scott’s deep voice is genuine, frowning a bit as he squeezes your thigh. “Got it the lowest it can go. Need me to roll a window down?”

You shake your head. “It’d just bring all the hot air in.” Something he should’ve known, but you couldn’t blame him for being a little distracted. You press on, confident, still inflecting that whine in your voice. “Your hand feels good, though.”

His touch inches up your thigh in response, sure that he’s not even aware he’s doing it. As your touch moves in time with his, you drag your free hand across your chest, pressing against the leather of his seats and pushing a strap off your shoulder. The cool air directly hitting you causes a flurry of goosebumps to rise and your nipples to poke through the fabric, chest rising and falling as you make a show of overheating.

Scott snaps his gum again, removing his hand to tug gently on his jacket. “What did I say about going through my stuff?”

“Oh, you left it at my place. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” You try to play innocent, but the smile you give him is nothing short of mischievous as you intentionally arch up into his touch. “Do you want it back, sir?”

He’s quiet for so long that you think he’s returned to the road. Instead, his eyes are locked on the thin tank top that clings tight around you. A quiet hum echoes in the back of his throat as he runs his knuckles over the swell of your breast, dragging slowly across your nipple, before he seems to think better of himself and places both hands back on the wheel.

“Keep it.” He grunts, “It looks better on you, anyway.”

“Really?” Despite how you try to hide the happiness from your voice, you fail miserably. Scott didn’t offer many liberties, especially not with his personal belongings. You don’t let the distance keep you far, unhooking your seatbelt and leaning over the center divider to beam up at him.

“Really.” Your heart pitter-patters in your chest when he hums again, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. His eyes slide back to the road, still at a slow crawl. “Don’t get any ideas, honey.”

Oh, you had about fifty different ones, most of which included seeing how far you could go down this new avenue. You drop a kiss to his shoulder, nuzzling against his cold skin, slipping your arm through his and guiding his hand back to your thigh. Scott squeezes again, a small warning to behave. But since when did you do that?

“Come on,” he taps an index against you after a few minutes, “Buckle up. Safety first.”

“But—” You pout, wrapping your arm around him tighter. He could drive with one hand, and besides, you were barely moving enough for a seatbelt to matter. “You feel so nice. And you’re always away for sooo long, baby. And now you’re gonna be gone again?” Brushing your nose along his jaw, you let your hand drop casually to his thigh. “I just miss you.”

“It’ll only be for a few days.” He shifts under you, chewing his gum slower. No doubt weighing whether he should let this continue or end it early.

“A few days too many.” You feel him inhale as your touch roams, sliding over his muscled thigh and across the zipper of his jeans. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him growing more apparent as you continue, “Do you know how lonely it gets without you? Knowing I can’t cuddle you… Kiss you… Touch you?”

You grope him where you know his weak point is while leaning up to scrape your teeth against his earlobe. His hips lift of their own accord as he instinctively searches for more, his grip on the wheel tightening as he squeezes your thigh in his big hands.

You hide your smile as he thickens under your palm. And smile wider at the growl in his voice as he orders, “Behave.”

“Am I breaking any rules, sir?” With your lips at his ear, every needy breath against him has Scott tensing in response.

Your shorts ride up — and so does his hand, until he’s close enough that you can grind your clothed heat into him. It’s just a single roll of your hips, keeping pressure where you crave him, but it has you whining all the same.

“Please, I missed you so much… I miss touching you, feeling how big you are in my hands…” You drag your palm against his thick length, fully straining against his zipper now, his breath coming out heavy as you grip him. “Please, please, just let me taste you. I’ll be such a good girl, I promise. Wouldn’t I look so pretty with your cock stuffed down my throat? Sounding so pretty as I choke on you?” You whimper against him, the sound small and needy. “Please, sir?”

The combination of your fingers wrapped around him and the feel of your tongue lapping at that sweet spot on his neck has Scott groaning, the noise coming from deep in his throat. Before you can react, he presses you firmly back into your seat, keeping you pinned with his hand across your sternum while you try to fight against the distance he forces between you two.

“Behave.” His gaze meets yours, dark and heavy and no-nonsense.

Your cunt clenches at the authority in his tone, nipples peaking in response. Scott slips his palm under the fabric of your shirt, kneading your heaving chest and rolling the hardened nub between his index and thumb. You writhe at the sensation, a moan spilling out of you, until he pinches you hard enough that you gasp. Just as quick as it happens, he pulls out just enough to bring his palm down roughly against your tit.

The sting of the impact has you arching off the seat as your cry pierces the silence.

Scott presses his index to your mouth in warning as the police lights finally illuminate his truck, the accident off to the side. You’re breathing too heavy to pay attention to it beyond that, not caring about anything happening outside of this truck, and you pass by quickly without any incident.

The air is still heavy as you meet his gaze. And you can’t help when your fingers grip the sides of your shorts to bunch the material in your hands, greedily grinding into the taut seam aligned perfectly with your center.

Scott watches it all silently. “You want to be my good girl?” His fingers draw invisible lines down your thigh, spreading your legs apart with just a touch. You comply easily, nodding as he smooths his hand along your skin and ignites a fire inside you. “Then fucking act like one.”

There’s no warning when he slaps your pussy hard, the denim digging painfully into you. Your hands fly out to grip whatever you can as your hips stir against the pain, crying out as another smack sounds, punishing your disobedience.

And still, you can’t help but whine out for him. “But I need you! I’ve been so, so good this whole time, I swear. Even when you told me not to touch, even when I wanted to so badly— I listened, I swear I did.” Pouting over at Scott, you whimper. “Please, I promise.”

“Go on. Keep it up. Do you think you’re listening now?” His hand tightens to a fist as he rests it hard against the center divider. His gaze pings to the time display on the dashboard, then to you. “The more you misbehave, the longer you wait. Was a week too short, honey? Do we need to extend it to two? Three? Can you even wait that long without disobeying me again?”

You can barely answer, only whimpering out as you press yourself into his arm, careening out of the seat. His hand clasps hard around your wrist when you reach for his zipper again, cutting off whatever noise is in your throat with a low growl.

“If I have to pull over,” he grits out, looking you dead in the eyes, “You won’t be able to walk for a week.”

You level his hard gaze with your own even as your heart pounds heavy, his threat thinly veiled as his grip tightens around your wrist.

And you swear you don’t mean to, but the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Can you go that long without fucking me? If I can’t touch, neither can you. Not a kiss, not a hug, I won’t even let you fuck my mouth!”

As your frustration boils over, you breathe raggedly against yourself, fighting to rip your hand out of his strong grasp. He’s quiet as he watches you, the look in his eyes betraying nothing that simmers underneath the surface.

Calmly, too calmly, he continues driving, following the road as the dark trees pass you by. When he moves off the pavement to turn down a dirt road, your heart flies to your throat.

“What are you doing?” You squeak, looking behind you as if expecting anyone else to follow, but it’s just you on the solitary single lane, his tires crunching on the dirt road. “Scott?”

His mouth stays shut, turning into a clearing of trees. You usually love the outdoors, but the forest around you looks foreboding and eerie, the trees looming large overhead. You glance out the window to the night sky, but there’s not even a twinkle of starlight here. Just inky black nothingness.

He shuts the engine off, taking the headlights with it.

You think you stop breathing.

“Get in the back.” His order is quiet against the silence but travels along your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Now.”

As much as you want to protest, the words catch in your throat, refusing to form. Instead, you wordlessly climb over the center divider, dropping his zip ties into the cupholder with a deliberate clink. Your bags, shoved angrily into the back when he’d asked you to pack up, tumble to the floor, landing in a haphazard pile as you settle into the backseat.

The sudden darkness engulfs you, your eyes straining to adjust to the dim light. You can barely make out Scott’s silhouette, his intense gaze fixed on you before he opens his door with a determined click.

Silently, Scott slips out of the driver’s seat, the slam of each door echoing through the night like a final verdict. You hold your breath as he rounds the truck, each crunch of his boots against the twigs and leaves sounding louder than meant to be. The backseat door opens, and he slides in beside you, the leather creaking softly under his weight.

You find your breath again when his hand, warm and steady, smooths around your ankle, his touch both grounding and possessive. He makes room for himself, his presence filling the confined space with an electric charge. The air grows thick with anticipation as you sit there, the darkness around you deepening, your heart pounding in your chest.

Scott’s fingers trail up your leg with deliberate slowness, each movement precise and controlled. His eyes never leave yours, the intensity of his gaze holding you hostage. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easily, did you?” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, searching for some sort of escape. But it was too dark outside to see, the woods maybe terrified you a little bit without Scott by your side, and even if he chased after you — and you weren’t bratty enough to do that — you had absolutely no idea how to get back to a road, let alone the road.

And, well, you didn’t really want to get away from him. Just the punishment you knew he would dole out for your disobedience.

Still—

“I thought we had to get back to the city,” you squeak out, voice trembling against your better efforts as you try to plead your case to deaf ears, “Riggs– Riggs said you needed to be back, right? And you know how far my place is from your office, and—”

“We have time for this,” Scott interrupts, his voice firm, a low rumble that leaves no room for argument. He presses his index to the pout of your mouth, silencing you. It sends a jolt of electricity through you, your breath hitching as you squirm under his grip, eyes wide and pleading.

If you were a deer in headlights, Scott was a hunter. And he was a damn good hunter.

Scott’s beautiful mouth curves into a grin, his eyes darkening with a hint of amusement. He leans in closer, his presence overwhelming, the scent of leather and the outdoors mingling with his intoxicating scent. The tension in the air thickens, every sound amplified by the stillness of the night. The rustling leaves outside, the distant hoot of an owl, even the faint hum of the truck’s cooling engine — all seem to echo the pulsing beat of your heart.

You can feel the rough texture of his jeans against your skin as he shifts, making himself comfortable, his body pressing against yours in the confined space. His hand, warm and commanding, moves from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips.

“You’re not going anywhere until I say so,” he states, his eyes gleaming, all possession and affection. His words wrap around you like a promise, binding you to this moment, to him.

You swallow hard, your throat dry, the gravity of everything sinking in. Scott’s eyes lock onto yours, a silent command for your complete attention. His other hand slides down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, before settling on your waist, pulling you even closer.

“Relax,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re safe with me.”

Your lashes flutter as a noise sounds in the back of your throat, caught between a plea and a whimper. You trusted Scott more than anything, and knew, without question, without fear, that he would never do anything you didn’t want.

And god, you wanted him bad enough that it ached.

“I need you to understand a few things, honey,” Scott continues, his voice still that deadly calm, his finger dragging slowly down your chin, tracing a deliberate path down the column of your throat. “I can tolerate you being upset. I’m not happy about it, either, despite what you might think.”

He pauses for a moment, letting his gaze lock onto yours, his eyes dark and unwavering. “But what I won’t tolerate,” he says, his tone sharpening as he closes his hand around your throat with a possessive grip, “is your disrespect.”

“But—”

“Shut up.” Scott’s voice is a low, dangerous growl as he tightens his hold on you, his thumb pressing firmly into your pulse. The pressure is confident and calculated — the kind of control that comes from having done this countless times before. “I’m not done.”

Defiance bubbles up and fights Scott at every turn, and despite the way you wriggle under him, your eyes grow hazy with need at the feel of his hand around your throat. God, you knew exactly what those hands were capable of; sweet, delicious torture, doling punishment and reward with equal passion. “But—”

“Why can you never fucking listen?” His voice drops to a growl that vibrates against your ear, his body shifting so that his weight presses down on you. You whimper at the added pressure, your fingers instinctively fisting the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold onto something solid.

Scott notices. With a swift motion, he knocks your wrists away, gripping both of them together with a firm, unyielding hold. When he pins them above your head, possessive and commanding, you can’t help but moan, growing pliant under his weight.

“Maybe I do need to remind you of my rules,” he says, his voice a dangerous purr, “since you seem to like breaking them.”

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. Every word is low and steady, completely in control. “You’re going to pay attention now, aren’t you? You’re going to listen to every word I say.”

Your pulse races under his thumb, the pressure making it difficult to focus on anything other than the commanding presence of his body pressed against yours. The conflicting emotions — fear, need, frustration — swirl together, drawing the breath from your lungs.

Scott’s eyes meet yours again, the dark intensity he’d first set on you softening slightly. “Do you trust me?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, carrying with it both a challenge and an invitation.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe. Always.

“Good.” He presses a tender kiss to your temple and cheek, nudging his nose into the curve of your shoulder and kissing the column of your throat. Your body responds in kind, arching up into his generosity, the calm before the storm, as he slowly releases his hold on you. One tap against your wrist is a silent order to keep them there, and you thread your fingers together, looping them into the door grip as he kisses his way back up to your mouth. “Because you’re going to hate me tonight.”

You want to tell him that such a thing is impossible — there was nothing Scott could do that would make you hate him, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he was sometimes — but he doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Lifting you up, or at least as much as he can in the truck with his hulking size, Scott draws a hand around the curve of your waist, pushing his jacket aside to expose more of you.

“Take this off.” He orders. His expression melts back into one of superiority, one you’re all too familiar with, and you try not to pout when he continues with, “I changed my mind. I want it back.”

“Want what back?” You hum, fingers twitching. You debate the pros and cons of pointing out that you can’t take off his jacket with your hands still pinned in place, but bite your lip instead. You were already pushing the envelope — a lot — by feigning innocence.

“You know what.” Sensing that you’re still… sort of… listening, Scott, taps your wrist twice, freeing you of your position. Under his tone, your fingers close around the material of his comfortable clothing, lifting to slip it fully off your frame. You drop it next to your stuff with your eyes trained on his. “When I’m convinced you can behave, I’ll consider giving it back.”

That snaps your mouth shut. Pressing your lips together, you nod as you place your hands back in their previous position, the only tell that he’s satisfied by your change of heart being a slight twitch of a smile.

“I didn’t say you were done,” he drags his gaze along the length of you, his touch following where his eyes roam until he hooks a finger around the belt loop of your shorts. “Take these off, too, and turn around.”

Electricity charges through you at the command in his voice. Your movements are slow, careful, as you try not to bump into anything as you slide out from under him and remove your shirt. Your shorts follow, but he stops you as you hook your thumbs under the waist of your panties, both of his large hands sliding on your hips to face you opposite him.

He’s massive against you, your back pressing against his chest as his hands roam freely, trailing up the length of you and then down your arms to place your hands back in their previous position, fingers curling around yours in a silent gesture. And then his touch returns, calloused fingertips dragging over every spot of your soft skin, cupping your breast in his hand as he sighs against your neck.

You feel the hard length of him straining against his jeans as he pulls you to him, every caress coaxing a fire in you. Even though you want nothing more than to touch him, to take him into your hands, he has you caught. You really wanted that jacket.

And you hated disappointing him.

His touch wanders to your ass, squeezing the flesh in his hand before he smooths a hand up your spine, signaling for you to bend over. You comply with shallow breaths, the warmth of him missing when he puts even more space between you.

“How many times do you think you disobeyed me tonight, honey?” He asks, the question making your heart stutter. He continues to knead your skin, but with your angle, you can’t see anything happening behind you. “I’ll let you guess.”

You try to think back, but everything is hazy now. When you got in these moods — which was more often than not — you had a hard time telling which rules were broken and which weren’t, because, well, you tended to do it a lot. And you knew Scott well enough by now that even if you guessed any number, it wouldn’t be specific. It wouldn’t be right. Guess lower, and he’d add more. Guess higher, and he’d use your number, then remind you of the true one after it was all said and done.

A gasp escapes from you as your eyes flutter shut. Fuck. “I– I don’t know, sir.”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he just hums, adjusting the twisted straps of your underwear higher up on your hips. “Thirty-two times.” He lets that sit heavy in the air for a moment, your breath stalling in your throat. “You know what happens when it gets that high, honey.”

“You use the belt,” you whisper, the words barely audible.

Scott nods. “Mhm. I use the belt.” The soft, metallic clink of his buckle coming undone is followed by a steady hand against your hip, smoothing circles along your skin as you begin to tremble in anticipation. “Shhh. You know the rules. Count.”

The first point of contact is always the worst. He lets the moment play out, your body tensing and easing as you wait for any sign that it’s coming, but he gives no indication when he stops touching you. And then the sharp sting as leather meets your rear, the folded-over halves biting into you with practiced efficiency.

Your eyes squeeze shut, fingers tightening around the handle as you gasp out, “One.”

By the end, your muscles are taut and your backside is red and flaming, your whimpers spilling freely from your mouth. It takes more effort than you’d like to admit to hold yourself up, trembling with exertion. Scott rubs his hand along your curves, having given equal attention to both cheeks, a content noise sounding in the back of his throat as you still careen toward him.

“Last one, honey. You’re doing so good.” He praises quietly, the only encouragement you need as his belt goes sailing toward you again, leaving another welt in its wake.

“Thirty-two!” Escaping through gritted teeth, you jerk forward with the impact, breathing hard and heavy when you hear the clink of his belt falling to the floor.

Scott taps twice along your stomach as he brings you up to his chest, careful to leave space between you as he smooths over your sore muscles, easing the pain. He presses kisses along your throat, your shoulder, letting you shake against him as you lulls you down from the high, every touch soft and affectionate. “That’s it, I know… Shhh… Did so good for me, honey…”

Each sweet nothing brings you down, continuing to press kisses against your skin until your breathing evens out. Scott sets his hands to your hips, holding you firmly, nudging the space just behind your ear.

“If you just listened, I wouldn’t have to punish you.” He reminds, letting your hands drift over his. Despite the softness of his tone, you still catch the authority seeping through every word, and you know it’s far from over. “I don’t like how you spoke to me today, honey.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you breathe, meaning them truthfully. Scott presses another kiss to your skin in acknowledgment. “I was just upset. I wanted to spend this weekend with you, and—”

“Am I not making this time now?” He questions, cutting you off. When his touch wanders between your thighs, fingers circling your clothed clit, soaked despite his brutal treatment, he groans against you. “What was it you said earlier… That I couldn’t touch you? That you wouldn’t let me?”

Vaguely, through your hazy mind, you remember saying that. But you keep your mouth shut, quiet little noises escaping as he continues to please you, easing away the pain he’d caused. Your desire for him, so neglected because of his orders, coils deep inside you as he recites your perfect tempo — having spent hours exploring, learning, and committing what you enjoyed to memory.

“Let’s make one thing abundantly clear,” he continues. “Every part of you is mine to touch, spank, suck, lick, and fuck as I please. Any time. Any day. Any place. Those are the rules you agreed to. If I want you just like this…” Adding pressure, he holds you up as your knees buckle against him, “I will, for as long as I want. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Your words come out shaky, breath hitching with every skilled circle of his fingers. “I understand, sir.”

“Then show me you understand.” Within a second his touch is gone, leaving you delirious as you search for him. You hear the rustle of fabric behind you, twisting to watch him slip off his shirt, then ease himself down on the backseat with a foot firmly planted on the floor. His fingers hover over the button on his jeans, flipping it open as his dark gaze trains on you. “Come here.”

You comply immediately, drawing forward as his hand slips in your hair. Scott pushes down the restricting fabric, slipping his hand into his black briefs, freeing himself from his jeans. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, thick and veiny and dripping with precum, his fist stroking himself as he holds you there, coating his length with his desire.

“Look what you do to me,” he whispers, drinking in every shallow breath, the way your eyes remain fixed on his hand, how your hips stir with every twist like you imagining yourself riding him. “Even when you’re a fucking brat, I can’t get enough of you, honey. Always so fucking hard for you. You have no idea…” He releases himself to cup your chin, spreading himself over the swell of your mouth. You greedily taste what he offers, tongue lapping at him before sucking on the tip of his thumb. “I’d spend an eternity inside you if I could.”

Those words — the claim, the rare admission — makes your heart somersault in your chest.

Without waiting for his command, you crawl between his legs and sink to draw your hand along his jean-clad thigh, a silent plea echoing in your eyes. As he wets his lips, you grip his length in your hand, his girth barely allowing you to wrap fully around him. Scott’s breath hitches as you stroke him exactly how he prefers, your hand sinking lower with each slow, deliberate movement.

He’s hot and heavy in your hand, the tip of his cock as pink as his lips, and you pay special attention to it, thumb smoothing along the sensitive underside of him. The soft action has his hips bucking up into your touch, breath hissing between his teeth as he wraps your hair around his fist.

No matter how many times you were in this position, nothing changed how exhilarating it was to have brief a moment of power over him.

When you move to take him into your mouth, your tongue flat and eager, Scott wraps his fingers around your throat, that playful glint in his eyes replacing quickly with hellish intent.

“Did I tell you that you could touch?” He murmurs, releasing his grip on your hair to pluck your hand off him.

You want to point out that he didn’t seem to have a problem with that when he’d been half-thrusting into your hand, but the look in his eyes silences the retort on your lips. So you let him grip your wrist, and your throat, sure he can feel the heavy pound of your pulse as you whimper at the interruption.

“I just want a little taste,” you plead, jutting your bottom lip out and batting your thick lashes up at him through a heavy-lidded gaze.

Scott just shakes his head. And you feel the coil of defiance begin again.

“Don’t you want my tongue on you, sir? Licking up every thick inch of you? Seeing how much I can take in my hot little mouth?” You know you’re pushing it with how his grip on your wrist tightens, but fuck, you needed to feel him, to touch him, especially after he’d denied you the pleasure of it for so long.

You shift so your free hand wraps around his shaft again. Scott grunts as he watches you play with him, your small hand moving effortlessly along his girth. With both his hands occupied, he has nothing to stop you from doing what you want, what you need, as your gaze flickers down to openly admire his masculinity. “Don’t I look so pretty when I choke on you, baby?”

Despite how his gaze darkens and he twitches in your hand, Scott releases your wrist enough to rest his hand on the edge of the backseat, his brow raising. “You’d look prettier if you listened, sweetheart.”

The condescending nickname rolls through you, your face twisting in disgust at it — he knew you hated it, knew it reminded you of the old men who often tried to make passes at you. It disgusts you enough that you release him from your grip, watching a smile slowly spread on his face.

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to sound weak with his fist still around you.

“And I thought I told you to listen, but you don’t seem to be doing a good job of that even after the belt.” He shifts his grip from the front of your neck to the back of it, pulling you closer. “What’s my name?”

You hesitate at how hard his gaze is trained on you. “Sir.”

He nods. “And what did you call me earlier?”

Oh. As the dots connect, realization flickering across your features, Scott’s eyes mirror your understanding. He doesn’t give you a chance to say it, continuing, “Until you can learn to listen, you don’t get to cum until I say so.”

You wait for a day, an end time, something that’ll make counting the days at least a little worthwhile — but it never comes. Instead, he just stares at you, waiting for you to defy him again, waiting for you to open your mouth, to push back. But his fingers twitch like he’s going to reach for his belt again, and the thought of that on your already raw backside makes a whimper escape.

“I understand, sir.”

His gaze softens for a moment — and a small part of you hopes that he changes his mind, that he’ll take it back… But Scott was never that type of man. Once something was final, it was final. No amount of begging or pleading could win your case.

He cups your face in his hands like he knows what he’s asking may push you past your breaking point. Never in the months you’ve been together has he implemented something indefinitely, but you’ve never pushed back this much. When his mouth roams over yours, gentle given the circumstances, you taste the sharp spearmint of his gum as his tongue explores you, soothing your whimpers and whines until you’re somewhat relaxed under his touch.

“Are you going to be a good girl if I let you blow me, honey?” He asks, lips ghosting over your mouth, your jaw, pressing a kiss against the column of your throat. You nod, not trusting your voice. “I mean it. No whining. No pleading. No biting.” His gaze flickers up to yours as a memory passes through both of you, your cheeks heating up, caught. He knew you too fucking well. “If I want you to choke on me, you’re going to choke. If I want you to wrap those pretty lips around my head, you will. And if I want your mouth not on me at all…”

“I’ll listen, sir,” you promise, breathless, squirming with need.

Scott’s eyes flash with approval, pressing one more kiss to your mouth before he settles back down against the leather. You follow, slow, cautious, your hands pressing into his thighs as he grips himself.

And when you wrap your lips around him, everything else fades away. You take him at his pace, slower than you would prefer but dutifully obeying his silent instructions, your hair coiled around his fist. The taste of him on your tongue has your eyes glazing over with desire, flickering up to watch him watch you, your head bobbing around his length, spit sliding down his shaft as he makes you take him deeper, deeper, until he’s hitting the back of your throat and there’s still inches between you.

Scott groans as he pushes you further, trained on how your body instinctively fights him, taking his cock entirely in your mouth when your nose brushes the soft skin of his abdomen. Your core drips with need, soaking your panties, at the guttural sound that escapes him: all masculine and intoxicating. You crave more of it, more of his approval, more of him — but he pulls you off with a pop, a trail of saliva traveling from his swollen head to your mouth, before doing it again and again, each time longer than the last.

“So fucking good,” he pants, pulling you off him again, his eyes blown as you suck on his tip like a lollipop.

Your tongue swirls around his head, wrapping your hands around the rest of him that you don’t swallow, little moans escaping.

And then he’s pressing you back down again, his grip holding you stationary as he thrusts into you like he can’t help himself, every action powerful and erotic as the sound of your throat taking his vigorous pace fills the truck. As he fucks your mouth, you knead your breast in your hand, pinching hard at your nipple when the desire to slip your hand between your thighs nearly overcomes you.

Scott watches it all with a growing arousal, his voice deep as he groans. “Fuck, honey, just like that. Want you to remember this next time you think of talking back,” he says, eyes closing briefly at how good you feel. “So fucking perfect with my cock down your throat. Does that make you hot, honey? Wanna rub that fucking clit while I fuck your face?”

You moan around him in response, something between a yes and a please that sounds more muffled than an actual word. Every time you take him deeper you feel that hot flash of aching desire pulse through you, your blood hot, sure that even through your panties you were dripping all over his leather seats.

The thought has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Scott’s growls turn positively primal as he pulls you off. “Keep making that face and I’m gonna cum right down that pretty throat.” He lifts enough to bring you to your knees, wrapping an arm around you to pull you flush against him as he drags his heavy touch along your naked frame. “You don’t want that, do you, honey? Fuck, I can smell how soaked you are for me.”

He wastes no time as he slips his hand beneath your panties, fingers sliding easily between your slicked folds as he groans. “My dirty girl. You like my filthy fucking mouth, honey, is that it?” Scott pushes a finger inside you, your body arching up into his as you nod, a breathy noise escaping. “Like when I tell you how good you feel? How fucking hard it gets me? How I dream about fucking you every single night when I’m away?”

God, yes. You assumed — but never asked — about what he thought when he couldn’t be near you, but the confirmation that you were on his mind just as much as he was on yours makes you clench around his finger.

“I’m gonna taste you,” Scott promises, his voice ragged. “And then I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’ll hear you in the city.”

It’s all the warning you get before he presses you down onto the seat, his mouth capturing yours as he settles atop you. Your body is pliant underneath his, gripping every inch of him, while he trails his mouth along your soft skin. Fuck, you felt like heaven to him — so smooth to his calloused hands.

And you made the prettiest noises when his mouth descended on your nipple, sucking and flicking at the hardened nub before giving equal attention to the other, all too aware of how your hips roll helplessly as he kisses his way down your tummy.

“I love how desperate you get,” he groans, hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties, drawing them down your legs. He nudges your legs apart with his nose, dragging his teeth along the sensitive skin of your thigh. Thick fingers spread your folds apart as he takes you in, the touch making you reach for something to hold onto.

“Please,” you whine, running your fingertips along his shoulder, propping yourself up as he sucked a possessive mark into your thigh. Scott just hums, moving to the other, relishing in the sharp intake of breath as he nips at you. “Please make me feel good, sir?”

“You gonna be good for me?” He asks again, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours, his question serious as he nears the apex of your thighs.

You nod, tongue darting out between your lips as his focus momentarily breaks, darting down to watch how his fingers slide effortlessly over you, teasing your clit. “I’ll be good, sir, I swear.” Just as long as he keeps touching you like that, you’ll agree to anything.

Scott hums, playing with you for long enough that you think he’ll tease you into oblivion. But then his tongue darts out. licking a hot stripe up your center, and he groans, and you… You have just enough time to fall back to seat before his mouth is upon you.

The way he claims you with his tongue makes the wait worth it. Scott isn’t shy about feasting on you, his wet fingers slipping to spread your thighs further apart for him, lapping at you like your pussy is a melting ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Every swirl of his tongue, every flick against your clit, every long drag that has you gasping for breath, your mouth falling open while he readjusts his grip to keep you steady.

Scott groans as he collects your desire on his tongue, pulling back enough to revel at how spread open you are for him. He spits, the lewd action making your head spin, before his fingers rub it through your folds, circling your entrance while his other reaches up to knead your breast.

“I wish we had hours for this.” The admission is low in his voice, ragged from claiming you, pressing a kiss to your thigh as you try to still your hips against his torturous fingers. “Just as sweet as I remember, honey. Better. Fuck, you taste so…”

He doesn’t finish his thought, descending upon you again as his mouth attaches to your clit. You cry out at the special attention he gives it, teasing you just right, his tongue swirling and flicking and lips closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your hips move on their own accord, fingers digging into his brown curls as you grind in time with his tongue. Scott gasps as his touch abandons you to stroke himself, the angle uncomfortable in the cramped space of his backseat.

You clamp down on your bottom lip when your orgasm builds faster than you expect it to, hoping to stifle the increase of noise as he brings you closer and closer. Scott just keeps his brutal pace, those dark blue eyes drinking in the sight of you.

“Sir—” Your breath comes out hot when he groans, the vibrations of it nearly toppling you over the edge. You want so desperately to listen, fighting the way he coaxes it quicker, something heady and mischievous sparkling in those eyes, but it’s too much, he’s too much, that invisible rubber band pulling tighter and tighter, your control slipping, the wet sounds of his tongue dragging over your heat too much to bear—

You scream out as Scott pulls away entirely from you, all that tension coiling tight with nowhere to release, and watch helplessly as his expression flickers somewhere between smug and disappointed. You tremble against the loss, little twitches that give away how close you were from disobedience, your whine high and keening.

“Oh, honey, were you close?” Scott coos, his tone full of condescension as he rests his cheek on your thigh, an evil, wicked, vile grin teasing the corners of his mouth. You glare at the dimple in his cheek. “You think I’m dumb enough to not know when you are? That your pussy doesn’t tell me when you’re trying to be quiet? I know all your tells, honey. Every. Single. One.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply, his palm coming down hard against your open heat. The slap has you spiraling, a cry escaping you as your back arches up off the leather, the pain lingering uncomfortably as your ass grinds against the seat. Scott wastes no time crawling up your body, swallowing all your pitiful noises as you taste yourself on his tongue.

His teeth sink into your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Not tonight, honey.”

Your heart seizes in your chest at the confirmation — having suspected it, but half-hoping that he’d forgive your past sins if you were good enough. Scott just grins, lifting so all his weight isn’t settled atop you, running his hands down the still-twitching frame of your body, pushing his jeans down further as one hand drags along your hip.

“Please?” You beg, taking his face in your hands, blinking big doe eyes up at him. “I can’t—”

“You can.” His confidence in you is unwavering, pausing his movements to give you his undivided attention. One kiss, two, three, to the corner of your mouth, each softer than the last, bringing you down from a high he stole away. “We’ll test those limits properly another time. I have so many ideas…” He trails off with a groan, seeming to think better of listing all the ways he could make you bend to his will. “But you can. And you will.”

A whimper escapes at the finality, but you manage a weak nod. It’s all the encouragement Scott needs to draw your leg around his hip, slotting himself between your parted legs. The weight of him dragging through your slicked folds presses a gasp into his shoulder, your arms sliding around his broad frame.

And then he’s sinking into you, stealing the breath from your lungs as your taut body stretches to accommodate his size.

He’s massive — and delicious and throbbing and every other perfect word in the dictionary as you forget how to breathe, how to think, the more he buries himself inside you. You hear his strangled moan against your neck as your head tosses back, pulling him closer, hissing as he draws back just to press right back into you.

He works you just like that for what feels like hours, pushing and pulling, slow as he presses kisses to your skin, holding your hips steady. You know he’s holding himself back, that he’s letting your body get used to him after so long apart, after little more than a press of his fingers and tongue at your entrance. It makes your heart flutter in your chest — he could have fucked his way ruthlessly through you and you would’ve taken every second of it just the same, but the fact that he pauses to take his time now, to lengthen a moment that he shouldn’t be having in the first place…

God. You loved him.

You both moan as he bottoms out inside you, his hips driving forward just a little further on instinct. “Fucking missed this,” Scott pants, careful as he slides a palm under you, lifting your ass off the seat to thrust inside you again. Your gentle touch trails across his broad shoulders and down his arms, a silent message for him to keep going.

And then he fucks you like he promised.

It’s a combination of everything: the time apart, the time you had left, how neither of you could seem to get close enough to each other. He splits you apart and brings you back together with every snap of his hips, filling you exactly how you need, gasping against each other as you angle up to meet him halfway.

Your mouth presses feverishly to his, the sound of your desperate moans filling the small space against the way your body greedily accepts his. Scott stalls his tempo just enough to pull away, sliding his hands back to your hips to lift you onto him before returning to his brutal pace, the new angle giving you a perfect view of his cock stretching you out.

“Being so good for me,” Scott hums, pleased, his fingers splaying over your belly as he ruts deeper into you. The intensity of it, of him, makes you blink back stars as his heady gaze is trained on yours, grabbing onto him as he continues, “Feels so fucking good, honey, fuck.“

Your eyes slip down to watch as he slides in you, the sight of him hard and coated with your arousal making you moan. Scott grips the back of your neck to keep you there, your body curled up into whatever mold he desires, pressing your knee back to the cushion as he shifts himself closer.

“Dirty fucking girl, you like that?” Scott’s voice turns guttural with how you tighten around him, your pretty moans like music to his ears, “Like watching your little pussy take my cock? Seeing how fucking good I stretch you out?”

You nod, another moan spilling from your mouth, only to whimper when he slides fully out of you. The crude smack of his cock against your clit only makes you hotter, your skin on fire as he plays with you, always in control. “Tell me,” he groans, teasing as he grinds himself against you. “Let me hear you, honey.”

“I love it,” you pant, unable to tear your gaze away from his thick length. You want desperately to reach down and press him where you crave him most, but you resist, fingers curling into fists at his sides as you plead, “Please fill me up, sir, I need it. Need you to fuck me, need you to claim me, need you to make this little pussy all fucking yours, please.”

It’s all Scott needs to press into you again, his pace hard and demanding with your wishes. He slides an arm underneath you to hold you steady, his teeth leaving marks on your neck, your shoulder, your collar, pressing moans into your skin with every rough piston of his hips, the sound of skin on skin, and your hard, labored breathing filling the space. And then he’s flipping you over, your hands and knees pressing into the leather as you push back against him, delirious with the new angle as he tugs you up, your back to his chest.

The possessive, strong grip on your waist slides up to knead your breast while he thrusts into you from behind, his lips at your ear, growling every profanity under the sun.

“This what you want, honey?” His hips snap hard into you, the contact against your sensitive ass making your eyes roll back into your head. The mix of the pleasure and the pain he gives you is unlike anything else you’ve ever felt. Scott always finds the perfect balance, his hand sliding between your thighs to tease your clit, your body wanton against him. “Being claimed? Owning you completely?” At your answering moan, he grins. “Could you handle it? Being mine in every way?”

“Yes,” you moan, trying in vain not to swirl your hips and failing, searching for more while he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “I’m already yours, sir.”

“Yeah, honey, I feel it.” They come out strangled as you clench around him, your body responding eagerly to every touch. “So sweet right now, aren’t you? Wanna cum so badly, don’t you?” You whimper out as he angles himself deeper inside you, hitting that spongey spot in time with his ministrations. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, as he finds the perfect pace to drive you closer to the edge, dangling just on the precipice of release. “Bet you’d agree to anything right now just to cum, wouldn’t you, honey?”

Head tossing back against his shoulder, you dig your nails into his jeans where you hold him to you, looking at but not seeing the reflection of how he commands you, his mouth drawing along your neck. “Please,” you beg, trembling with the exertion of holding yourself together. “Scott— Sir, please, I’m so close—”

“I know.” Cooed, mockingly, along the column of your throat, he ceases every torturous move as he stills inside of you, his hands quick to press your hips down against his. The sudden lack of attention makes you cry out, chest heaving, as he steals your orgasm away again, the frustration and desire mixing until you’re growling through clenched teeth.

Scott just grins, watching it all with a gleeful expression, that dark look swirling in his eyes as he doesn’t dare move an inch. “You can be as nice as you want, honey,” He presses a patronizing kiss to your shoulder, that alone having you twitching against him, small little sounds that you can’t control escaping as he toys with your fraying edges. “I’m still not letting you cum tonight.”

“But—” You think better against talking back, clamping your mouth shut as you whimper again. “When?”

“When you’ve earned it.” Scott slides his hands over your body, dragging along your peaked nipples, taking both breasts in his large hands and groaning as he touches you. “You want to earn it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp automatically, your hands fisting handfuls of his brown locks as he sucks another possessive mark on you. “Please, sir.”

“How far would you go?” His voice carries that inquisitive tone that speaks of danger, the kind that has your cunt fluttering around him in response. He grunts against you at the sensation, still unmoving, just thick and hard and throbbing in you enough to leave your mind reeling. Your breath stalls when his touch wanders down to press at your belly. “Would you let me cum inside you?”

Every thought in your brain scatters at those words, wanting and needing before you can even voice it. He’s never asked; always pulling out to paint your chest, your back, your face. But the way he asks, his voice quiet yet desperate, the unmistakable edge to it that tells you he’s been thinking about it for a while, waiting for the right time, the right moment — suddenly his insistence on if you’d brought your birth control comes to the front of your mind, and you know. Know he’s been planning this. That if it weren’t here, it would’ve been sometime this weekend.

Scott is patient as he lets it all sink in, studying you, waiting for a shift of an expression, or your body responding against his desires. Something dark awakens in him at your whimper of approval.

“You’d look so fucking pretty like that,” he continues, slowly resuming his pace, much slower now than it was before, as he groans every fantasy he’s dreamt of for the past week into you. “So full of my cum… It wouldn’t all fit, would it, honey? But you’d beg me, wouldn’t you? Beg me to fuck it deeper in your sweet cunt?” Your breath labors as he grunts out, teeth sinking into your skin. “Beg me to put a baby in you?”

Fuck, yes.

You writhe against him with every word out of his mouth, your moans spilling freely as you nod, desperate, agreeable, unaware of how much he wanted it, obsessed about it. How the sight of you in his clothes made him want to put a ring on your finger, how every time you came over to his place he had to fight to ask you to move in, how the idea of your belly swollen with his child made him so horny he couldn’t think about anything else some days, how the thought of you and forever were so intertwined to him now that he couldn’t imagine anyone else to spend the rest of his life with.

All sappy, sentimental things that he didn’t dare voice, locked tight between his teeth, letting only a little spill out.

The need to own you, to claim you, was overwhelming. Scott wanted nothing more than to fuck you hard enough to make your brain flicker off until you couldn’t even speak, until you were completely at his mercy, until every drop of him was spent inside you. Possession and desire bleed into one — just waiting, aching, throbbing, bruisingly so, for your voiced consent.

“I need it,” you finally choke out, trembling, your voice utterly broken. “Please give it to me, sir? Please, please, pretty please?”

Scott moans, long and deep and loud, as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. And then he’s pounding into you, every muscle of his body pulled tight as you wrap around him like velvet perfection, his grip hard and unyielding against your hips as every rough slam of his hips into yours sends your body jolting forward. Your hand slaps to the window in front of you, leaving prints against the foggy glass, and he follows greedily, pressing his weight into you as he spreads your thighs further apart with a growl, fucking you into the seats.

Your orgasm painfully lingers, every needy moan spilling from your mouth only driving him further into you, wild with need, no longer the controlled man you knew but something more animalistic, primal.

“Fucking take it just like that,” he growls, not even sounding human, every word gritted through his teeth as you feel every thick inch of him around your slick walls, his hand slotted between your thighs to part your folds, sinking deeper until there’s no space left. “F-fuck, that’s so fucking— Perfect, honey, fuck— Pussy’s fucking made for me—”

He’s close — you can feel it in the way his thrusts grow uneven as he chases his release, the way he roughly grasps your chin to kiss you, sloppy and more tongue than lips, how his fingers leave Scott-shaped bruises wherever he grips you, his blunt nails biting into your hip, your sides, your breasts as he struggles for purchase. You don’t realize you’re sobbing in pleasure until he wipes your tears away, until he praises how good you’re being taking him like this, groaning when your body responds eagerly to his positivity.

You dance in time with him, meeting him halfway, angling your hips up just right. And you feel, rather than hear, the way Scott moans in ecstasy as he finds that perfect spot in your heat, numb to anything and everything that isn’t his thick cock pounding your weeping, used hole.

You think you cum — or maybe it’s just the last shreds of sanity leaving as Scott reaches his peak, nothing but your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he fills you with his seed, rutting up against you until it’s painful, the warmth of him spreading into you. His heart pounds against you as he slips his hand to your belly, pressing you closer, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as his hips twitch until he’s emptied out, fucking the last drops of his cum into you exactly like he’s dreamt.

And when you come down your orgasm sits uncomfortably high and untouched, a broken sob escaping you as he pulls out with a wet pop.

You feel his cum slide down your swollen cunt and flinch with sensitivity as he’s quick to collect himself on his fingers, fucking it back into you. The tension coils tightly inside of you until you’re sure you’re begging him to stop, the pleasure and pain completely overwhelming, exhausted with the effort of obeying his orders as he presses his digits into your used hole.

When you think just about to break, he stops.

And you know you’re going to kill him as he steals your release for a third time.

“Good girl,” Scott whispers, pressing kisses along your soft skin, his hands soothing every part of your twitching frame. You don’t have the strength to ask for more as he pulls you into his arms after sliding your panties back into place, letting you come down as he finds his peace in caring for you, murmuring sweet nothings while your body is pliant against him.

You nuzzle into him when you feel more in control of yourself, your heart slowing to a more steady pace. His name falls softly from your lips, your arms snaking around him to hold him close, his fingertips soft along the small of your back.

When he presses his mouth to yours, you melt into his embrace, exploring him lazily until he’s pulling away, brushing your unruly hair out of your face. “Mine.” He praises with a smile, that dark expression gone, leaving nothing but bright, shining blues you could drown in for hours. “All fucking mine. I own you.”

“Mmm,” Despite the weary in your bones, you can’t help but smile back, a giggle escaping, “Do you?”

Scott doesn’t need to slip his hand between your legs for you to get the picture, just hooks a finger along the waistband of your ruined panties. “You just let me prove it, honey.” He leans forward to kiss you again, slower this time, before pulling away with a regretful sigh when the distinctive chime of his phone goes off. “Need help getting back in your seat?”

“Already?” You whine.

“Gotta go, honey.” He taps your hip, twice. Non-negotiable. “Come on, before the bears smell you and want you for themselves.”

That has you cracking a grin. “You wouldn’t fight a bear for me?”

“What do you think the murder kit is for?” One last kiss to your mouth. “’Course I would. Just not tonight.”

You pout further, but let him grab your long-forgotten clothes off the floor, making yourself presentable again before he does the same. And when you settle back into the passenger seat as he starts the engine, you let your head rest against the window, bubbly and content and happy. Even if you know it won’t last when he has to leave.

As Scott drives through the familiar city streets, you hate the knot of apprehension that clogs your throat when your mind wanders too far about him being gone. Out on the field, anything could happen, even if it was just one of his routine visits. The people he spoke with — if he approached the wrong one, it would be so easy for them to lash out. Scott was a big man, he could take care of himself, but that didn’t stop your fears from pressing down against you.

His hand is firm on your thigh, thumb stroking soft lines in your skin as he catches your expression. And then his truck takes a turn in the opposite direction of your apartment, heading toward his house.

“Where are we going?” you ask, your voice tinged with confusion as you try to shake off your emotions.

Scott’s grip on the steering wheel tightens just a fraction, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “My place,” he answers simply. “You’ve been up all night, and I’m not about to drop you off and leave you alone like that.”

You frown, the earlier emotions fighting to come back; you glance quickly out the window, cheeks flaming as you’re caught, hating that he’d noticed your weakness. “I’m fine, Scott. I can—”

“No,” he cuts in gently, but firmly. “You need rest. And I’ll rest better knowing you’re somewhere comfortable.” His eyes flick toward you, catching your reflection in the dim light of the street lamps. “Besides,” he adds, his voice lowering to something more intimate, “I’ve got a bed that’s been missing you.”

It’s not a request, and the way he says it makes your heart skip. You know he’s right. As much as you’d wanted to protest, the thought of sleeping alone in your own bed feels wrong, especially with the lingering warmth of his touch still buzzing under your skin.

By the time you pull into his driveway, the familiar sight of his place is almost a comfort in itself. Scott’s fingers brush over your thigh before he parks the truck, a silent reassurance. “I’ll be gone for a few days,” he murmurs, shutting off the engine, “but I want you here. I want you safe.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with a meaning he’s too stubborn to say out loud, but you feel it all the same. He reaches over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek. “Let me make sure you’re okay.”

You nod, unable to find the words, so you just lean into his touch. Scott doesn’t need more than that. He’s out of the truck and rounding it to your side before you can even blink, opening your door and offering his hand.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” he says softly, tugging you out and pulling you close against him. His arm slips around your waist as he guides you to the front door, his hold steady and reassuring.

Once inside, the warmth of his home envelops you both, and you feel the tension in your shoulders start to melt away. He’s quick to guide you to his bedroom, knowing the layout of his place better than anyone, but still taking the time to make sure you’re comfortable, handing you one of his shirts to sleep in.

As you slip under the covers, Scott pauses at the edge of the bed, eyes lingering on you. “Get some sleep,” he tells you, his voice gruff but tinged with affection. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You reach for him, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide in beside you, pulling you against his chest. For a moment, you both just lie there, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear soothing you into a drowsy haze. Scott presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand resting protectively over your hip.

“Sleep, honey,” he murmurs, his voice the last thing you hear before sleep claims you.

In the morning, you wake to the sound of his alarm, the room still dark. Scott’s already dressed, but he hasn’t left yet. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you with a softness in his eyes that he rarely lets show. He reaches out, brushing his fingers through your hair as you try to rustle yourself awake.

“Go back to sleep,” he says quietly, his thumb grazing your cheek. “I’ll be back in a few days. Promise.”

Before you can respond, he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his lips. You smile, eyes fluttering shut as you drift back into a peaceful slumber, the last thing you feel is the comforting weight of his hand slipping from yours.

When you finally rise, well rested but achey from the night’s exertions, the sun is high in the afternoon sky and his house is empty, his truck missing from the garage. You wander into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea, pulling the kettle out from underneath his cabinet. And when the steaming mug is in your hands, settling into the breakfast nook that overlooks his backyard, your eyes fall upon his jacket, folded neatly atop all the stuff he’d unpacked while you were sleeping.

And you know he loves you as much as you love him.

[80460290]

was thinking of being the glass child, but not in a traditional sense. always there but never remembered, wants and needs set aside in favor of your brother-

-clark kent.

it’s to be expected, the baby boy they prayed for crash landing on their farm when the girl god gave them comes running straight to ma and pa, crying about an earthquake when it was just your new brother. watching your parents extract him from the pod he came in, cooing over the baby who destroyed their property. you should’ve predicted they’d focus all their attention into him when they did nothing to usher you inside, left alone with your eyes wet and your nightie clutched.

there is never a moment where you forget how special your brother is. the day doesn’t start until your parents praise clark for doing the simplest things.

walking, talking, eating, flying - they holler when that happens - and any other mundane task they deem is deserving of their praise. honey-coated words that drown you, the thick of their words suffocating when it helps clark breath.

it’s no surprise you hate him, the older sister younger brother dynamic but at it’s worse. while you can still harbor some love for your folks, there’s no space in your heart for clark. a beacon of hope to all, a reminder of childhood neglect to you.

(if only you could see inside like he could. could hear how his heart beat a bit faster every time you were nearby. if only you knew how deep his love for you went, past the point of philia and diving headfirst into agape.)

a shame that the only person who sees you is the last person you want to see.

[buckygasm]

You love it when Clark fucks you like he means it

Its brutal — not at all unkind. More... primal. Less hair stroking and nuzzling and less love making and more biting and grabbing and more fucking. More sinking his teeth into your flesh like he's trying to consume you.

He manhandles you when he gets like this; tired from whatever Superman bullshit he's faced in the hot August air in Metropolis. He's all caloused hands and unrestrained when he jolts you towards the bedroom. Large hand guiding you by the base of your neck to the bed.

It's a display of restrain and strength bleeding together into something you can only recognize under the weight of him and the way he gently coaxes you onto your hands and knees.

The cotton comforter is cool against your heated knees and warm hands, teasing contrast to the warmth of his hand behind your head, hair wound around his large fist.

Those first moments when he fills you are always your favorite. Where his corded girth strokes your walls and his balls pressed up against your sopping folds and his weight smothering you just sends heat straight to your clit.

You love it when he let's you bask in it for those first few moments that you're completely full of him.

He gingerly lays himself onto you. Back to your chest and cock weighing heavily against your heat. And the stretch is so delicious and he's so fucking deep you swear you can taste it.

You rest your temple to the cool wood of the headboard. Clark's hand comes into vision, pressing into the headboard just close enough that you're able to wrap your hand around his forearm.

You drop your head between your shoulders with a choked sob. Nails digging into his soft vanilla skin — leaving a pinkish red in their wake.

Moving your hair over your shoulder, Clark presses a line of kisses from your shoulder to the base of your neck before running his tongue against your clammy hot skin.

Its erotic and exhilaratingly vulgar.

You mewl at his touch. His hand rests on yours on the comforter, weaving your fingers together with a comforting squeeze.

"Oh—oh fuck, Clark."

Clark groans into your hair.

The way he pumps into you is enough to have you moaning and whimpering incomprehensible nonsense into the warm air of the room.

Your lips fall open with a breathless whine and Clark slips his hand under your jaw, forcing your head upright. He wastes zero time slotting his thumb passed your lips to rest against your tongue. He strokes the curve of your jaw with his free fingers.

Your lips wrap around the salty digit, welcoming the warmth of his taste. Your eyes flutter shut with a moan. He doesnt let you rest in the peaceful moment for long before he's pulling his hand from your mouth and pressing his hand to the dip of your back.

"Arch y'r back fr'me, sweetie." His hand follows the curve of your spine smoothing your skin as you slip further into an arch, resting on your forearms.

Clark's hand on your jaw brings you rest your head against your arms, looking back at him as he pulls nearly all the way out – watching the way your walls hug around him until the bulbous head of his cock reaches your entrance.

He runs the pink head up and down your folds. His bottom lip pulled between his teeth and a black curl stuck to his temple. His face is flushed and his chest rises with each bated breath.

"Y'keep lookin' at me like that n this isnt gonna last long, missy." He chuckles wryly, hand stroking up and down the base of his cock.

The restraint that frays through his fizzured resolve makes you slip further against the comforter. Clark slaps his hand onto the curve of your ass, squeezing and pulling at the flesh. A loud and rather indecent moan slipping past your swollen lips.

"Oh, you're just full of surprises aren't ya."

You just nod, eyes fluttering shut.

"Who'd you have to fight today?" You're not even entirely sure why you're asking. Maybe to break the tension he seems to struggling and losing to keep at bay. "Were they after something or someone?"

Clark slips his cock back into you and you gasp. Grabbing at the sheets and comforter in a mewling breath.

Clark, stressed and just too plain tired to be bothered, pumps into you lazily. Whispers your name gently. Sighing, his eyes fall shut. The frustration evident in his furrowed brow, "honey, I dont know."

"Sorry."

Clark hums, "S'okay. Just relax."

"M'kay."

You can tell Clark likes your willingness to comply in the way he offers himself up to you. Thrusts deeper and more intentional. Like a reward.

He props a foot up, the angle letting him sink deeper into your heat. Loud and choked moans fall from both of your lips in an erotic synchronicity.

You reach a hand back to hold his thigh. Urging him deeper and stroking the hard muscle as a way to ground yourself.

Clark presses himself into you once more. Clammy chest to your back and his arm slinks around your shoulder so that his bicep rests right beneath your jaw as he presses kisses to your cheek and temple.

Moans of uh uh uh echo throughout Clark's bedroom.

"Atta girl," he whispers against the skin of your cheek.

The pap pap pap of his balls against your folds has your head fuzzy. Messy and clouded with a foggy heat. You know youre close to cumming when he reaches his free hand down to weave his fingers with your smaller ones again. Helping to ground you in the heat of it.

"M'here." He whispers into your hair, "I've — fuck, — I've gotch'you."

Your hand comes up to hold his bicep beneath your chin. Tears stream down your raw cheeks as you nod through sobs against him.

You cum without warning. Sucking him in, walls flexing and tightening around his girth. The pleasure so intense that he forces himself to stop pumping into you, tearing himself away from your face to sink his teeth into your shoulder.

"Jesus." you shiver, hissing when Clark's jaw tightens a little too much.

He cums like that – teeth sunk into your shoulder and hair a disheveled mess of raven curls.

When he pulls from your heat, a ring of white coats the base of his cock. He spreads the globes of your ass to watch the way his cum seeps from your pussy. White trickling down your folds and threatening to rush down your thighs but Clark scoops hia fingers through your heat and stuffs his seed back passed your folds.

You fucking squeal. Kicking your legs and shifting your hips invitingly.

Clark chuckles at your display before sitting down on the bed and pulling you by the hips towards his mouth.

He stays there for what feels like thirty minutes. Tongue stroking and circling your clit and velvet folds. There's no doubt he tastes his cum on your soaked folds – something about that makes you keen.

"Mmm," you press yourself further into him, "think im ovulating."

Clark chuckles against your pussy lips, giving kitten licks to your folds. He presses a kiss to your pussy before pulling away.

"Know you are."

You furrow your brow curiously.

"Can smell you, y'know." He taps your ass before heading towards the bathroom. "Y'gonna make me take a bath all alone?"

[ohlovxr]

clark kent def plays with your clit every time he’s balls deep.

no really, every time. without fail. because why wouldn’t he want to feel your soft walls pulsing around him? why wouldn’t he want to have your heated body squirming under him and listen to your pretty sounds getting higher and more desperate?

he almost thinks it’s cute how much of a mess you turn into because of it.

the thing is, he doesn’t get it. he doesn’t really realize how big he is, not since the first few times he’s fucked you, and just how good his fingers feel playing with your swollen little nub.

it’s infuriating and it makes you want to fight him off of you every time because of how overwhelmingly fucking good it feels having him roll your sensitive clit between his fingers while his cock bullies his way in and out of your poor little hole.

it’s worse when he decides to shove his way so deep into you that you can feel him in your stomach and stay there, all while he plays around with any and every part of your pussy he can touch. it makes him feel so much more fucking bigger than he is.

[buckygasm]

Sometimes Clark goes a little feral in the middle of blowing your back out

Sometimes — so rare you almost think you've imagined in memory — when Clark gets really into it in the middle of fucking you; with his balls pressed up against your sopping folds and his weight smothering you into the bed, the plush of your ass pressed into his hips and his chest to your back, he slinks a hand up to hold your jaw.

And its not at all aggressive but its not soft either. An element of gentle retrieve noticeable in the understanding that he could be much rougher if he wanted to.

Its still enough to make you sob and your cunt to suck him in to the point that he's pulsing against your flexing walls and grunting into your hair.

Him claiming ownership over you as he turns your head to make you watch him behind you — black curls stuck to his forehead and corded veins trailing up his vanilla biceps like pretty baby blue and red lace.

And he looks fucking feral as he pounds into you. Brows furrowed and eyes dark with lust and love and the heat of it.

You could cum just looking at him — just at the idea that he's holding back for you. That he's allowing you to have a semblance of control in the way you reach back and wrap a shaky hand around his wrist; clammy fingers thumbing the "friendship" bracelet you made him how many years ago that he still wears.

Patience weaning thin, practically unraveling in front of you as he moves his wrist from your hand only to press your hand into the dip of your back, holding you still as he pounds into you.

Your moans are broken and shattered, deep and filled watery cries.

Clark whispers a restrained "yeah," behind you, his large hand squeezing and pulling at the globe of your asscheek. Like you're something to played with. You love it. Love the dynamic when he gets like this — throwing all resolve and restraint through the windows. Ironically, hes never been reminded you more of Superman in your whole life when he gets feral while balls deep inside of you.

There's something so inherently primitive and alien to his nature. It sends chills up your spine, reminding you how he's all that more powerful, strong, and bigger than you are.

You try to bait him, attempting to wiggle somewhat out of his grasp but he only tightens his grip on your wrist and spreads your asscheek wider.

"No," he grunts, pushing your hand harder against the hot skin of your back, "m'keepin' the hand." But he slows a bit. Pumping long and torturous thrusts that have your walls begging to hold onto him and your hands flexing to for him to steady you.

You watch him with lidded eyes as he drops a glob of spit right onto your asshole, inhaling sharply when you shiver and try to buck back against him.

Clark holds you there and circles the pad of this thumb over your tight ringed hole before slipping it past the muscle and hooking it into you.

Its so vulgar as he thrusts into you. So obscene to know he's watching the way your tight hole pulses around his digit and the way your walls grip and flutter around his girthy length.

You keen and he fucking chuckles.

Leaning over you, he drops your wrist from his hand rather roughly, reminding you to hold yourself there. You obey.

What he does next you hadn't expected in a million years.

Clark takes ahold of your jaw in one hand, so sultry you moan, his hand squeezing your cheeks so that your plush lips pout.

"Just need someone to fuck some sense into you, huh?" He coos, cock still pumping into your heat deliciously slow, "S'that it, y'just need someone to pay attention t'you?"

You sob tearfully, tear-strewn lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks.

Clark licks a fat and wet stripe up the side of your cheek and you gasp, pulling your hand around from behind your back to hold his bicep.

You appreciate that he lets you off the hook for that one.

When he pulls back to look at your fucked-out and shocked expression he just fucking laughs at you, hand still squeezing your cheeks and puckering your lips for him.

"Didn't expect that, huh?"

You cant even think when he drops his hand from your face and presses kisses down the spine of your back before pumping into you again.

"Silly girl," he coos, thumb still hooked past your tight ring of muscle, "just needed to ask if she wanted to get fucked. Isn't that right, sweetie?"

You're nodding and moaning and incomprehensible, mumbling his name brokenly into his pillow.

The smell, stretch, touch, heat, sound of him is overwhelming in the best possible way. You let yourself cry.

"Thaaaats it," Clark wraps a hand around your hair, pressing your face a little rougher into the bed only so that you stay still, "juussst like that, huh?"

Neither of you last long. With you cumming around his girth and his hips sputtering and his voice hitching as he spills into you.

Clark's hand is soft on your hair, stroking the back of your head and pulling strands back from your clammy face.

He lets a moment of quiet pass where its just the two of you panting in the warm air of his room before he coos: "hi there, pretty thing."

Youre wiggling beneath him and he rises a bit so that you can slip out from under him. You try to coddle yourself, but he catches you before you can reach the headboard.

He pulls you against his chest, wrapping your legs around his waist and moving to rest against the headboard.

"Was that scary?" He asks softly, a hand massaging the base of your neck.

You shake your head, hiding yourself under his chin.

"No? Then can you look at me?"

Another head shake.

"Y'okay?"

You nod, "m'okay." Your voice is slurred and heavy.

"Y'just a little shy?"

Another nod.

Clark chuckles a bit and presses a kiss to the top of your head with a hum, "hmm, okay. I'll wait here until you're not shy then." He tries to dip down to catch a glimpse of you but you hide away deeper into his chest "How's that sound?"

You dont say anything for a moment. Fiddling with your fingers.

"D,'okay."

"Okay." Clark hums, stroking his hand over your hair.

[lovelybucky1]

clark kent has a big fucking dick. he's well aware of it, having been told since he was in high school, changing in the locker rooms after football practice. the girls that he's been with complimented his size, staring at it with awe and a little bit of fear before trying so swallow as much as they can handle. clark knows his dick is big, which is why it didn't come as a surprise to him when you weren't able to take it.

he had you on your back, legs bent and your feet dug into the soft mattress. he was on his knees between your legs, his impressive, otherworldly length aimed at your soaked pussy. he warmed you up with his fingers and his mouth, and he warned that it would be a lot to take, but you were determined.

he began to push in, his thick tip bullying its way through your soft insides. he went slow, making you feel every inch of him and giving you time to adjust. but when he hit your cervix, your back arched and you instinctively squirmed away, scooting yourself up the mattress towards the headboard. he pulls out of you so you don't hurt yourself, and he smiles down at you, giving you that handsome, blinding, all-american grin.

"don't run, honey. you can take it, i promise."

and you do. he coaxes you through it, giving you another orgasm before he even has all of it inside. you're impossibly full, feeling like you could burst, but every time he pulls out a bit, emptiness aches in your belly.

[fear-is-truth]

18+ clark kent fucking you in a headlock.

“i bet you could keep me in a chokehold and fuck me stupid at the same time.” you’d announced to your boyfriend, using your best fuck-me eyes, nudging your knuckles under his chin with that bratty smile he hadn’t built up any resistance to. the full arsenal which you knew would short-circuit his conscience.

he’d lasted maybe two hours after that. and now—

cheek’s mashed into the mattress, one of your arms is pinned awkwardly under your chest, the other caught between his body and yours, useless. he’s sunk in balls-deep and barely pulls out more than a few inches to build momentum before slamming back, his pelvis crashing against your asscheeks like he’s trying to fuck you through the bedframe. every ounce of his body wants to let go, to let you feel the full brunt of what he’s truly capable of. but he doesn’t. he won’t.

he’s got you in a tight headlock, arm flexed around your throat, just shy of a blackout. tactically tight, so not as to crush your windpipe, all the while giving you exactly what you desired: the pressure, the floaty, hotheaded rush from getting fucked like a dog and being half-strangled simultaneously. your mouth stretches around the thick curve of his bicep, teeth sinking into the firm meat. it’s right there—so yummy and tempting, and biting down is the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely. you drag your tongue along the veins, moaning into his skin. clark barely reacts to all of this: he simply groans through clenched teeth, hips still slamming into you mercilessly, the wet plap-plap-plap of skin loud and obscene.

“s-sorry,” he pants, voice cracking. heat sears between your connected bodies, sticky with sweat. “you’re okay? you—you can tap out, you know that, right?” a weak, muffled noise from you. doesn’t matter though, as your pussy’s doing all the talking, squeezing the life out of his cock like it’s trying to milk him dry.

“should’ve stopped,” he mumbles to himself, almost remorseful but apparently not enough to stop. “should’ve—shouldn’t be doing this to you.” but he is. still is. and you’re taking it all the same, pussy sucking him in greedily like a vacumn. your vision goes blurry right before you cum—air thinning out of your lungs, brain neurons misfiring. clark feels you clench again and groans into the crook of your neck, hips pistoning viciously through your orgasm like a man possessed. not even for himself—just to wring every bit of pleasure out of your body.

[innorality]

cw// squirting, dumbification

somethings different, clark can feel it.

and he doesn't know why.

he's pounding into you the same way he usually does, rubbing your clit the same direction, whispering the same praises as usual... but something is different.

in all honesty, no—not everything is the same. tonight, you both decided to try and push past your limit to see how far you could go during sex with clark.

your mind was foggy with pleasure and your eyes were rolled back into oblivion, the sensation of the veins running down his cock grinding against your slick walls had rendered you stupid. your speech wasn't even coherent anymore—every other word was slurred and your sentences bled through eachother.

he wasn't much better either—his cheeks were an interesting shade of pink and his curls were frizzy, canines biting down into his lips to stop himself from cumming too quick. his mind was a bit clearer than yours, and he could still form somewhat correct sentences like, "j-just like tha– oh my- fuck, it's so warm and— shit..." which only contributed to making you go even dumber.

but this, all of this, was the norm during sexual encounters like these. so why couldn't he shake off the feeling that something was different?

a suddenly clear sentence from you interrupted his thoughts, "holy shit– clark, I'm g'nna cum! gonna cum so fucking hard, i– shit, it feels—" and he knows to double down, intensifying every movement of his.

then, he heard things. truly unusual things.

he heard you heart beat at a pace he's never heard from you before, he heard your blood rushing around your veins faster than it ever did, and he heard... liquid?

though his hearing was disturbed by a loud cry from you, a sweet and desperate "m'cumming, m'cumming!" that had him moaning almost as loud as you did.

what took him by surprise, however, is that right when he was expecting the usual increase in wetness and contractions, he got something entirely new.

liquid. streams of your cum coming out in short squirts, seemingly following the rhythm of at which he was rubbing your clit. it was so messy and warm and sticky, and then he looked at your face, and saw an expression of utmost pleasure right before his body contracted and almost crumbled before you as he felt your pussy squeezing down on him like never before.

clark kent was surrounded by lust, by pleasure—blinding, intoxicating, and so fucking good.

so he succumbed.

he gave in.

he suddenly grabbed you and pulled you up from the bed, wrapping his arms around your head and holding you flush against him as his hips involuntarily kept bucking into you, his cock uncontrollably twitching inside your wet cunt before he spilled into you, moaning your name so loud you both were positive the entire neighborhood got a piece of the situation, filling you to the brim with his seed.

your ograsms lasted longer than normal, sending you into an ecstatic haze that had the both of you shaking and twitching.

when it ended, you both finally collapsed on the bed, sticking to eachother thanks to the liquid evidence of your pleasure.

"s-shit... I didn't.. I didn't know this would happen I'm sorry about the– about the sheets.." you apologized between pants, gulping down the saliva that had pooled inside your mouth.

he chuckles, caressing your shoulders lightly, "its okay... I didn't know you could.. squirt." and he looks at you with his kryptonian eyes, like a predator about to bounce on his prey.

"I know what you're thinking but you're gonna have to wait atleast two weeks for me to even think about attempting that again."

"oh, come on!"

[cenomaso]

Imagine getting oral from the monster under your bed.

Walking into your room one night, in your skimpy pjs, ready to hop into bed and go to sleep, when a hand reaches out from underneath and grabs your ankle. You shriek and try to yank away, but it holds tight, making you fall onto your ass. Another hand comes out, taking your other ankle.

It pulls you, your lower half disappearing under the bed, but thankfully, your torso is too big, and you can’t be pulled under any further. No matter, the monster can work with this. You feel your bottoms being ripped away, then your panties. Soon, your bare cunt is on display for whatever is lurking in the darkness.

You want to cry out, but as you part your lips, your legs are spread and a warm, wet tongue presses against your folds. Your breath hitches and your face turns red as the large tongue starts to lap up and down your slit, taking time to swirl around your hardening clit.

You can’t see what’s going on under the bed, but it feels so good, too good. You close your eyes and let it happen. The monster’s tongue pushes inside you, and it’s long and thick. It snakes its way to your g-spot and starts to thrust in and out.

One of your ankles is released and a clawed thumb presses against your clit and starts rubbing in quick circles. Your hips buck, your head is thrown back, and your back arches as your cunt is tongue-fucked and clit is stimulated at the same time.

It doesn’t take long for you to cum hard, shuddering as the monster draws out your orgasm. It lets you go, but you have a feeling that this is only the beginning of a strange relationship.

[ohlovxr]

someone please please please give me full length fic recs for steve harrington or jim hopper please i’m begging you i need them and i can’t find them 😭😭😭

[ohlovxr]

GUYS

my girls got four more sisters today

[ohlovxr]

so um does anyone have any like alien/orc/monster smut books recs… bc i’ve gone through the orc sworn series, the alien meat market series, the chosen series (except the last book lol idk why im putting it off for some reason) and like… i need something similar asap bc ive reached a whole new level of horny

… 🫣 pls and thank you