Goddess!Reader as a forgotten deity— a small temple hidden in a cave, completely overgrown with vines and moss. The marble of the flooring is cracked and split with the dripping water and the roots of the overgrowth. There is a statue of you— life sized, not grand or impressive. The skylight of the cave bathes it in sun and moonlight as the days go by.
Warrior!König who finds your little shrine and is enchanted. He has always felt like an outsider— that he has never belonged, and never looked at with familiarity. Maybe it’s his loneliness getting to him, but he feels warmth in the gaze of the statue. You’re a beautiful figure. Despite the state of the place, he feels at home. He doesn’t have much— but he clears some vines and dust off of the offering altar and leaves a fig and a handful of oats.
In his next battle, he finds some uncanny things happening around him. He’ll be dueling an enemy, when a stray beam of light will move in just the right way to blind him for a moment, allowing König to land the killing blow. He’s about to be struck from behind with his assailant’s sword catches in the scabbard for just a moment— long enough for König to turn and fend him off. Could this be his offering at work?
He comes back. This time with an orange, and a gold piece. He gives himself a few moments to admire your form— your breasts perfect, your smile gentle and content. He uses his sword to clear a bit more debris— enough to leave you more clearly visible.
He continues to excel. Not through any supernatural strength, but due to these small strokes of luck finding him at the perfect moment. His sword striking at just the right angle to land in the chip of his enemy’s weapon, cracking it in the fault and rendering it useless. One of his arrows manages to pierce through one target and into another.
He becomes your single worshipper— and the most devoted. He brings fruits, coin, fresh cloth, milk…. And his visits become longer. He lets his hands linger when he touches the cool marble of your statue. He’s taken in a moment of weakness— infatuated with the one figure that seems to care for him— and he touches himself to your image, spilling his seed across your altar— against the red grapes he’d brought for you.
König falls asleep looking at your form. There is no plaque nor writing in your temple— he doesn’t even know your name. When he wakes, the pedestal holding your statue is empty, but he feels a warmth curled into his side, looking down to see you finishing the last of a stem of grapes.
Hi! Can I get an Earthspark Megatron and a Bot!Reader who’s a bit of a cryptid to cybertronians. Like the Maltos and Terrans see no difference with her but to other cybertronians she’s off and unsettling. She’s very kind and friendly though. Thank you!✨
Uncanny
I love writing the Terrans so much. I get to draw a lot of inspiration from my own siblings growing up.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 300+
“Why don’t people like you?”
“Hashtag! You can’t just say something like that,” Robby chastised.
“What? I wanna know. Best to go straight to the source, right?” Hashtag smiled.
“It’s fine, Robby,” you laughed, “I get asked about it often. Truthfully, I’m surprised it took you all so long to ask.”
“We were trying to be polite,” Twitch said.
“Yeah, but we were starting to get a little worried,” Thrash added.
“Is everything alright?” Nightshade inquired, “Others tend to avert their gaze in your presence.”
“I know,” you smiled, “I’m used to it. Besides, they can’t help it. I know it doesn’t affect you guys, but to other cybertronians I’m a bit of an oddity.”
“Really?” Jawbreaker asked.
“Mm-hm. I was just forged this way. Something about my appearance is barely strange enough to unsettle others, so they tend to look away. It makes eye contact with me very uncomfortable for most bots.”
“Aw, but your eyes are so pretty,” Mo said.
“Thank you Mo, that’s very sweet,” you smiled back at her.
“Wait, so it's like the uncanny valley? I know about that, but I didn’t think it happened to cybertronians too,” Hashtag said.
“How do you know what that means?” Robby asked, furrowing his brow.
“Top ten creepiest animatronic videos, duh,” Hashtag replied smugly.
“Would your mother want you watching those?” you all heard a deep voice inquire.
“Megs,” you smiled as he came to rest a servo on your shoulder.
“Aw, let her have fun,” you teased, “If she wants to scare herself awake at night, she can,” you winked at Hashtag. “She’ll just have to pay for it when she’s exhausted at training the next morning.”
“Yeah!” Hashtag nodded.
“Bumblebee won’t be very happy about that,” Megatron said.
“Well then don’t tell Bee either!” Hashtag replied.
Neither you nor Megatron would tell. It was her siblings she’d have to watch out for.
in which you discover a little secret of your boss'...
maybe i'll make a continuation to this fic if i feel like it (or if there's enough demand for it)
UPDATE: part 2 of this fic is here!
warnings: VERY suggestive, boss x employee relationship, not proofread!!
work below the cut!
It hadn't been long now that you'd been working under Mr. Ant Tenna at the TV station. For the most part, you kept to yourself, unless your assistance was needed by the film crew. You kept Tenna's station running smoothly thanks to the work you did.
Which was exactly why he wanted to do something to thank you.
His plan was simple, really. Surprise you with a cake (with help from Ramb, of course), give you a fancy pen, and then sincerely thank you. You'd be smiling and on your way, and Tenna could get back to his regularly scheduled broadcast.
"Mr. Tenna?" You knocked on the door to his office, stack of papers in hand. You had made sure to painstakingly scrawl out the schedule for next week's broadcast on paper, after copying it from the spreadsheet you made on your computer at home. Tenna didn't need to know that, though. He hated anything to do with emails and whatnot, meaning on office hours, you worked by hand. About a week into working for the TV-headed man, you realized how inefficient that system was, and opted for secretly configuring schedules at home before transferring them over to bring to work. What your boss didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
The door flung open, nearly knocking you over with its gusto. "Y/N! My most valued employee, the star of the show! Come in, come in!" His beaming smile never seemed to waver as he ushered you into his office.
The sheer size of him never failed to take you aback for a moment. Your boss towered over you, and his larger-than-life personality certainly didn't help. You offered him a small smile back before dropping the papers off on his desk.
"Here's the schedule for next week, sir. I'm guessing that's why you wanted to see me?" Your tone was slightly cautious. You knew that Tenna could be a bit unpredictable, which was why receiving a one-on-one invitation to his office worried you-- just a bit.
Tenna barked out a laugh, shaking his head. He slid into the seat behind his desk, gesturing to the chair in front of it.
"Not at all, actually!" He laughed again before pausing, pulling on his collar. "But- Well, that's not to say that your efforts aren't appreciated, of course!" A light blush appeared on the white screen of his face before he straightened out his suit jacket, sitting up taller.
"What I meant was... That's not why I called you in here today. You see..." Tenna's grin grew impossibly wider as he reached under his desk, before re-emerging with a large white box, "I wanted to thank you!"
You blinked, mind going blank. Thank you? Was that really the reason he'd set up a private meeting? "Oh- Really?"
He nodded, much too eagerly, before pursing his lips and ducking back under his desk.
"And that's not all!" He chimed, mimicking the tone of someone off the shopping channel. He came back up, holding a nicely wrapped gift before setting it down in front of you. "I figured it was the least I could do for my best employee."
You could feel your heart thrumming in your chest at his words. Sure, you'd had a workplace crush on your boss of all people since you started working there, but this... This was almost too much, even for you!
"S-sir, I-" You began shakily, quickly being cut off.
"You can just call me Tenna, really. We don't need all of those... stuffy formalities." He waved off any concern you had before opening the larger of the two boxes and pushing it towards you.
You nodded at his words before peering into the box, which held a nicely decorated cake.
'Thanks for all you do, it's true! You're the best :)'
If your face wasn't already flushed, it certainly was now. Your gaze snapped up to Tenna's screen in an instant. His smile, usually so wide and practiced, had softened as he looked at you.
"I wanted to do something nice, for all the work you put in to make things run smoothly around here."
You were speechless for a moment, a million thoughts racing through your head. His smile faltered at your silence, growing self conscious under your gaze.
"B-but if it's too much, then, uh..." He pulled the box away, shame creeping into his features. You snapped out of your daze, hands flying to the cake box.
"No! No, not at all, Tenna. I think it's really sweet."
You gave him an encouraging smile, hands resting over his. You could've sworn you saw his screen flash to static for a split second before he straightened back up, smile growing.
"Well, I'm glad! Can't get much sweeter than cake, right?" He laughed loudly to himself in a desperate attempt to cover up his nerves, slapping his hand down on his desk as he lost himself in his hysterics. The smaller, carefully wrapped box fell to the ground.
You let out a noise of surprise, rising out of your seat. "Oh, I'll get th-"
"I CAN GET IT!" Tenna cried out, swiftly ducking under his desk to grab the gift. Your brows quirked up in confusion as you approached him.
"Tenna, it's alright, I-"
"YEOWCH!"
You were once again cut off, only this time by the bang of Tenna's head against the underside of his desk. You heard him hiss out in pain before you rushed to his side.
"I'm fine, really, Y/N! Nothing could shake me up more than the digital switchover," he joked, rubbing the back of his head as you carefully pulled him up by his other arm.
You tutted, shaking your head. "I was trying to tell you I could grab it, Tenna. You're much too stubborn."
He sighed, shoulders dropping. "Right as always, of course." He seemed to shrink at your light scolding. You led him to the couch at the far end of the room, sitting him down tenderly. He sunk down onto the cushions, still rubbing at the back of his head as you sat down next to him.
Even when in one of his moods, he was still a sight to behold. You took him in as he sat beside you, scanning over his form. His antennas were out of place, likely due to the force of him hitting the desk.
"Oh, you knocked your antennas out of place. Let me just..."
Before Tenna could protest, you reached over to fidget with his antennas. A deep blush immediately spread across his face, slapping a hand over his mouth as a whine nearly slipped out.
You looked down at him, concern etched on your features. "I'm sorry if it hurts, I've almost got them back in place." You continued to fix his antennas back into place, completely oblivious to Tenna's internal conflict beneath you.
He could have blacked out at that very moment. Your hands gently sliding over his antennas, taking care of him in more ways than one... It was almost too much for him to bear. A groan slipped past his lips as you straightened out his left antenna.
"Shit, sweetheart..." he breathed out, mind hazy. The dim glow of his screen cast up on your features as you looked down at him, realization dawning on you.
Oh. Oh.
Your hands stilled. Tenna gazed up at you, practically panting at this point. You could feel the heat radiating from his screen, as if it were threatening to engulf you, too.
You had two options at this point. Stop what you were doing and profusely apologize to your boss for accidentally engaging him in such an inappropriate way, or...
Gazing down at Tenna, he shot you a lazy grin.
You swallowed hard, grip subconsciously tightening on his antennas before sliding into his lap.
Rodimus would babywear his sparkling everywhere. They are now his new best friend
rodimus keeps asking his sparkling's opinion on everything from making purchases to making decisions as the ship's captain
Ultra Magnus and Megatron find it ridiculous that he's taking his bitlet to meetings and actively babytalks it. He also insults them when he's pissed by complaining about them to his sparkling during babytalk like they're not in the room. It's the most undignified they've ever felt
I can't believe Megatron knocked up a human during what's essentially the trip to his execution. Will he even see his sparkling grow up? He's grief-maxxing everyone
Either way, it's nice to think of him being cute with his bitlet before that. Grown ass ex-warlord is responding to its little chirps and squeaks while Ravage watches on. He's cupping it in his servos like a baby bird
Congrats to Megatron for developing enough of an attachment to a human to frag and accidentally impregnate them. How are they supposed to tell Ratchet about Megatron's monumental fuckup??? Nevermind the fact hybrids are possible
Yandere G1 Decepticons w/ an Autobot darling whose outlier ability is using Toon Force.
The G1 show already has a bunch of wacky shit in it, so you fit right in! They've been trying to capture you for eons so Shockwave can test on you, then brainwash you so you'll be on their side. Unfortunately for them, you slip through their grasp every time―quite literally. You only get caught when you want to, and even that means something bad for them.
You're a fixation that's vexed their faction for so long that they're obsessed.
Your shenanigans have included:
Looking at nothing in particular, shushing, and then dropping an anvil on Starscream's head.
You put up misleading signs that always seem to get them. "That blasted Autobot has tricked us once again!? How hard is it for your buffoons to realize their poorly painted signage is fake!"
Swapping Soundwave's cassettes with large human ones that play obnoxious music and/or sound effects.
Oh, Primus. The sound effects that you're able to conjure up nearly drive their processors to frying. You're worse than Jazz.
Kissing them to stun them during pivotal battle moments.
Disguising yourself as Megatron and giving fake orders.
Making them fall on their pedes right in front of you. Okay, some of them may just be that clumsy, but they still blame it on your outlier ability.
Switching the entirety of their energon reserves with dyed water cubes.
Grabbing their afts and making honking noises as you do so.
Switching out Starscream's null ray beams with confetti.
Sneaking past their security to glue googly eyes all over Shockwave's helm.
Switching their data pads with paper and crayon.
The list goes on. Yes, Megatron has a physical list with all of the things you have done. It is comically long, and for some reason the paper is indestructible.
They all want you so fucking bad that it's pathetic. Their optics have hearts in them when they see you. When they've been knocked on their afts, small versions of you flutter around their helm. Sometimes they can't even speak properly in your vicinity.
Megatron will never forget saying "awooga" when he saw you standing behind Prime.
Optimus dislikes you being out in the field for this reason. He's all about a bit of fun when absolutely kicking Decepticon aft, but it's becoming too dangerous. They'll gang up on you, ignoring the other Autobots. They'll only remember the presence of other bots when they attempt to come to your aid.
Besides, if they learn your weakness, then you're done for. A secret so sound that no one dares utter it: using your outlier ability too much can put you into a suspended stasis. It's happened before, but the Decepticons have never seen it. You always push yourself too hard. It's reckless.
Thankfully your Toon Force always seems to be on your side.
Synopsis- You are Varang's quiet and sweet mate. When Miles Quaritch comes taking her attention, you develop a distaste for the demon—that is until it becomes glaringly clear they're in competition for you.
Warning-Smut, dirty old perv Quaritch, toxic!Varang, dubious consent, power-imbalance
A/n- MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! I managed to (barely) make it... At least for my time zone hehe! This was my first time writing smut and omg... I have so much respect for Smut authors... It was so hard???? Anyway, as always, I hope you enjoy!
Part Two Part Three
Varang knew exactly what kept her breathing.
Spite.
It sat in her lungs like soot and settled behind her ribs like a coal that refused to die. Every memory she carried tasted of burned soil—blood soaking into blackened ground, screams rising like smoke. Hers. Her clan’s.
“Please, great Mother. Eywa, save us.”
It left her mouth in a whisper. Not a prayer, never a prayer.
She bent over a grove of saplings—young, thin things, barely taller than her waist. Infants compared to the old thunks that once crowned the forest. Their green made her stomach turn.
“Please, great Mother, balance of all. Eywa,” she crooned.
Her hand closed around a thin trunk, green where wood would grow. She drove it into the earth until it snapped with a soft, wet gasp.
She paused.
Do they pray? Did they beg Eywa when the sky-people burned the forest? Did they learn what refusal felt like, too?
“Tsahik.”
The voice came from behind her. Yepa stepped around a bushel of leaves, stripes still damp from the paint he had earned only days ago. A boy-turned-hunter, proud and awkward in the same breath.
Varang turned just enough to meet his eyes. Smiled. “Yes?”
He read the violence in her stance, the splintered tree at her feet, and managed a small, careful grin. “It’s Y/n. She asks for your presence.”
Ah.
Y/n.
Varang’s breath softened, just barely. Yes—spite kept her alive. Spite moved her hands, her teeth, her every step through the burned forest.
But there was something else that pulled herfrom the ruins. Something gentler. Warmer. More dangerous than any hatred she’d survived.
“If she asks for me,” Varang murmured, straightening. “it is only natural I answer.”
She stepped forward, leaving the crushed sapling behind her.
Y/n.
Y/n.
Y/n.
Her name throbbed in Varang’s chest like a second heartbeat.
“Y/n.”
You were crouched beneath a leaning pillar of old wood, shoulders tight, attention fixed on something beyond Varang’s first glance. When she stepped forward, she saw it. Him. Sapok.
The elder’s breaths were slowing, the chest rising more from will than its usual habit. A man held together by tendon, and even those were loosening.
You lifted your gaze to her, a soft frown creasing your features.
“It’s time.”
Those two words carried the finality of the situation. The kind that meant a soul would not return through the roots of the Tree, not tonight, not ever. Time meant the moment Eywa reclaimed what was left—unless, as in Sapok’s case, He refused.
Sapok had been split open long before his body began to fail—grief hollowing him when fire took his children, then his grandchildren, then the home his mothers grandmother had woven and built. Some wounds refused to close.
Grief had rotted him from the inside, until madness carved out his eyes with his own hands.
“I curse Eywa,” he’d spat at Varang once, voice shredded. “Do not let me return. Let my energy be mine, and mine alone.”
And she had promised.
Varang lowered herself beside you, knees against the soft earth. With deliberate care she drew her blades—curved shypers that caught what little light seeped through the smoke. Sapok could not see her, could not know whose hand would free him—but she swore his breath steadied, as if some part of him knew she was there.
She angled the blade.
Then she opened his throat.
With a second practiced motion, she severed his queue. The neural tendrils sparked with a frantic, chaotic flutter before collapsing.
Varang laid the queue against her hip, another to the collection.
“To the fires we will see you,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the cooling skin of his brow, “and in the ash of your remains, we will carry you.”
You joined her in the ritual. Together you washed his body in ash, coating every wound, every ridge, every piece of him that grief had kept. You bound the flesh with cloth and quiet hands, sealing him for the journey he had chosen.
Tradition demanded quiet before the flames rose, and so you held your breath. Thinking.
Varang leaned in first (she always did) and brushed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. You shifted, shy. “Not now,” you muttered.
But she only hummed and wrapped an arm around your waist anyway.
“Why not?” she whispered against your skin. “Life should be savored when death sits so close, no?”
You shot her a look. Annoying. So annoying. You gathered your tools, bowls—your things, and packed them into a hollowed gourd. “Do not be like this.”
One ear flicked. “Like what?”
“Crude,” you snapped.
Varang smiled. She always smiled. It never meant anything except whatever she wanted it to.
“You’re angry,” she said. She caught your hand and pressed her mouth to each knuckle, slow, though her eyes never left yours. “Tell me. What have I done?”
Your lips thinned. Your tail gave you away.
“The sky-person,” you grumbled. “The one with the strange voice and the uglier face.”
Varang paused. And for the first time, her smile shifted into something fond. Now that angered you. You pulled your hand away and turned, jaw tight.
“Oh. Him?” she said at last. “Miles Quaritch.”
She reached for you again, palms gliding up your forearms, barely touching. She tried to catch your eye again.
“Him?” you mimicked her airy tone. “Yes. Him.” With a sudden twitch to your tail you groaned. “Eywa preserve me. I will not have a lovers quarrel beside Sapok’s dead body.”
“He would laugh,” she offered lightly.
You hissed and shoved her back with a flat hand. She pouted, and somehow that made it worse. “I need to do some things.”
You slipped out of the hut, brushing past the hanging beads. Of course she followed. Her stride matched yours.
“That is very vague, Y/n,” she said, tone almost sing-song.
You turned your head back, hands failing about. “Oh that's very vague?! You-”
You suddenly hit someone's chest. “Oh!”
Your eyes looked up. Golden eyes, hair along the brows and a meatier, softer impact. Who else other then:
“Miles Quaritch.” You said his name clumsily. It was the demon language, English. But it earned something of a smile from him. Like Varangs, cocky. Unlike Varangs, surprisingly warm.
“Watch where you’re going, cupcake.”
You barely understood him. Varang seemed to, though. Her demeanor changed, she tilted her head. “Demon.” She briefed a nod, and he tilted his head back, gesturing to a nearby Yurt.
“We got some things to discuss.” He grumbled.
Varang soothed a hum, before gently taking a strand of your hair and pinching it. “I’ll see you in the evening.”
You watched as she led him, and glared at Miles Quaritch, who eyed you before following her.
Great.
.
.
.
You had seen death stare at you.
It wore a woman’s face—pleasant, almost gentle. Golden-amber eyes that caught the light, hatred folded neatly behind patient lips. Black against black: wax-dark hair braided with bones of past loves.
Death came as kisses pressed to your cheek, as queues offered in submission, heads bowed. Death had a name here.
Varang.
Quaritch was not death, but the feeling curled similar in your chest. It lodged beneath your ribs and dragged its way down your spine, coiling into your legs until instinct screamed. Move, idiot. Move until he catches you.
You stared at him as he stared at you, the bonfire crackling between. Varang had told you his story: human once, died, reborn na'vi. That's why the pair made sense together, you supposed—he'd crossed the threshold and returned, and if Varang was death itself, then he must be the one who guards her door. Gatekeeper. Guardian. Something worse.
Now the spirit would not stop looking.
You turned away first, fixing your attention anywhere but him. Your mouth pulled into a soft pout as you drank from the skull-cup—nectar cut with water. Too sweet, you felt your teeth ache.
“Your pet has a staring problem.” You grumbled.
Varang lifted an eye, her smile widened, and she played with your beaded top. “He is curious.”
“He should be curious somewhere else.”
“Now, Y/N,” Varang chided softly, “do not be hostile.”
You almost laughed at that. Do not be hostile. When has Varang ever uttered such words?
You flickered back at him, and he winked. His lips quirked up at your sneer, too-perfect-teeth reflecting the orange of the fire. Like stained blood. Then he drank from his cup, and then lifted up.
You had actually flinched at the movement, cocked your head to Varang in slight panic, but she only laughed. He moved, settling heavy beside her. “Evenin’, girls.” He tipped his head in your direction. You scowled back. “Mhm, not so touchy huh?”
“She does not understand you, Quaritch.”
He paused, cup halfway to his mouth. "Huh." A beat, then that grin widened. "Well. Guess I oughta teach her. She'll be talkin' to human grunts soon enough."
Varang's grin widened. She glanced at you, and you felt the weight of her attention like a hand at your throat. "He says he will teach you the demon language, Y/n." You knew that tone. "Take it."
"But Varang—"
And there it was.
The shift. The moment her eyes turned sharp and her smile crooked just enough to bare a hint of fang.
Your ears flattened. You looked at Quaritch—that stupid, shit-eating grin still plastered across his face—and swallowed every word clawing up your throat. Barely managed it.
Varang's fingers—meanwhile, found your hip, she dug in hard enough that tomorrow you'd wear the shape of them in bruises and adorn them like a kiss. That’s all you could do, anyway. She wouldn’t allow for anything else.
You bowed your head before you could stop it, face twisting despite yourself.
"F-Fine."
You turned the glare on Quaritch instead. Poured every drop of frustration and helpless fury into it, let it burn there where Varang couldn't track it. Never at her. Never where she could see. She wouldn't forgive that.
Her grip released. She rose—graceful and already dismissing you. She shoved you toward him with one careless hand. The push sent you stumbling forward before you caught yourself with Quaritch’s bicep.
"She'll do it, Quaritch."
"Atta girl," he drawled around a mouthful of meat.
You hissed at him. “Teylupil,”
.
.
.
Quaritch was everything you'd imagined and worse—arrogant, obtuse, swaggering through life with the blissful ignorance of someone who’d never met a problem his fists couldn’t solve. Worst of all, though? The man was charming, and with the several weeks spent between you two… fond.
You'd never say it aloud. Eywa could strike you down first. His ego needed no more compliments, it was swollen enough to crowd a room. Yet there it was: he made you laugh.
"Aww, c'mon. Like this." His tongue curled with exaggerated precision. "Patient. Pati-eee-nt. Feel that? The tongue goes up, not back."
You mimicked the shape of his mouth, lips pulling awkwardly. "Pati-eee-nt."
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. His palm landed twice against your thigh—approving pats. "That's right. Good job."
Your ears flicked traitorously forward. Heat crept beneath your skin as a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. Varang had never been this patient, this rewarding. Good things from her meant extra morsels of food. But Quaritch kept a pocket full of those wrapped things—candy, he called them, and handed out those small, colorful spheres when you or another na’vi did something good.
"Patiee-nt. Patiee-nt," you murmured again, testing it.
One brow arched. His mouth quirked. "You're picking up my accent. That's a Kansa's special right there."
"Accent?" The word felt strange on your tongue. Your grasp on this language remained amature at best. You frowned. "Accent... what?"
"What's an accent," he corrected, softening his tone. "What is an accent, you mean, doll."
You tipped your head forward, eyes wide, a question within the angle. Something in that expression pleased him—his thumb caught your chin, tugging playfully. "It's like... hm. Well, not everyone talks the way I do." A laugh escaped him, warm like the sun. "S'funny, actually. You and the other Na'vi pickin’ up my way of speaking. All of you runnin’ around sounding like cowboys. The guys'll lose their minds if they hear you."
"Funny." You paused, tail curling uncertainly behind you. "Not... normal?"
He nodded, something careful entering his expression. "You ever listen to Wainfleet talk?"
"Bald one?"
Quaritch barked a laugh. “Yeah, the bald one. But don't let him hear you say that or he'll yank your tail."
That drew a smile, even if you struggled processing the words.
"Speak—" your tongue was slow and clumsy against the language. "—sloowwwlly." You tapped at your flickering ears. "Hear. Is trying to."
He hummed, tilting his head in consideration. "Yeah, that's right. Alright, I think that's done for the day." He lifted himself up and carefully reached for your hand.
The fourth finger still felt strange against your palm—foreign in the way the knuckle was twice your size. But it was nice, too. Bigger than any of the other males in your clan. No wonder Varang liked holding it. She always liked different.
"You're a quick learner, cupcake. Better than I ever was learnin' Na'vi." His voice carried some old frustration. "My boy, Spider—he tried getting it through my thick skull. An' I could barely string a sentence together."
"Spider. Son." You gave a distant nod. Varang had mentioned him once. He had a son. Wanted him back. No harm to come to him, you remembered that much.
"Mhm." His gaze drifted somewhere past your shoulder, through the woven walls to a place you couldn't follow. For once the mask of bravado slipped, and beneath it was grief of missing someone.
You didn’t really care. That was his business. And yours…
Your lower lip jutted forward in a small pout. Hand reaching out, expectant.
That snapped him back. The grin returned, easier now, and he dug into his cargo pants before pulling out the small bag. "You really like Skittles, huh?" He poured a few into his palm, fingers sorting through the colors before plucking out the red ones. You seemed to really like those. "There you go, little lady."
The taste was different from anything on Pandora, but you liked it. "Mh, good." You nodded. You immediately plopped them into your mouth and chewed. Yum.
He watched you for a long moment—longer than necessary—then bit his lower lip and reached over to tug gently at your cheek. "You're the cutest of the bunch, y'know that? Not so bad when you're like this." His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, voice dropping quieter. "No wonder Varang keeps you around."
"She is, isn't she."
Varang sauntered through. Her body shifted like the dancing of flame, but you knew her enough. You saw her for the fire, not the warmth. You bowed your head and drew your shoulders in. Small gestures for necessary ones.
Varang's mouth was a thin, bloodless line—aimed directly at Quaritch.
She stepped to your side and pressed her hip against yours. You felt the decorative bones pricking your side, stabbing your soft skin. The contact pinned you there while her gaze carved into him. "I told you to teach her."
"And what am I doing?" Quaritch's head canted, dismissive. He wasn't the yielding type.
“Making her weak.”
He scoffed—an amused sound that bubbled into genuine exasperation. His hand found your forearm. “Hm? And how am I makin’ her weak, buttercup?”
Varang hissed.
That surprised you both.
She hauled you back, fingers tight enough to bruise. "You may see. Not touch." Then she stepped closer to him, and the tension in her shoulders melted into something silk-smooth. Run, Quaritch. You tried telling him with your eyes. You are prey. But Varang had a way about her, captivating.
"Besides," Varang murmured, trailing one finger along the freckles of his throat, "you already have me." her lips ghosted over his pulse, and her fingers trailed down to cup the front of his pants. He hissed, a different one—a pleased one. "Do well to remember that."
She turned then, and the sultriness drained from her the moment her back faced him. Her hands found your arm again and you winced as she dragged you forward.
You cast one glance back at Quaritch. His face had gone stony.
Her grip on your arm tightened and you winced, allowed yourself to be turned.
"Varang—" you began, stumbling to keep pace.
She didn’t slow. She dragged you into her yurt, shoving you down onto the woven mat with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. Firelight dnced along the walls, casting her in molten gold as she paced before you.
You breathed slowly, words aching to come, yet withheld under her stare.
She paced forward, steady. You lowered your head, looking anywhere but her—the woven floor, the yurt’s wooden beams, the way ash fell between the light. Her fingers found your chin, and forced your face upward. "See me."
You did. You looked up. "I... I do see you."
That made her calm, just a bit. Her heart gentled and her expression softened into something sweet. She tilted her head, studying you with the intensity of someone memorizing a dying lover, before pressing a kiss against your lips. Her eyes never shut. They watched for your reaction, golden and unblinking, and you knew exactly which one to give.
You closed your own eyes, kissing her back, hands gripping her shoulders. Warmth bloomed where skin met skin—hers fever-hot, yours clammy. "You make me weak," she finally whispered against your mouth.
That gave you pause. She either didn't notice or didn't care.
"Varang." You tilted your head up, felt her lips brush underneath your jaw, trailing heat. Your eyes felt particularly hazy—fatigue, pain, something else entirely. She slowly brought her own queue over her shoulder, and your eyes caught the restrictive tie wrapped around the tendrils.
You glanced, freckles flashing in slight embarrassment. "R-Right now...?"
She gave a nod.
You brought your own queue forward with trembling fingers, a headache already forming. She let the tendrils bond together. The both of you shuddered. Her anger crashed over you first—the frequent memory of the volcano. The screams of her mother, the passive voice of her father: “If it is Eywa’s will, Varang… be like your sister, Varang.” Then her hate followed, the taste of salt and rock.
But underneath it lay something girlishly needy, embarrassingly seeking. A vulnerability she showed no one else. Only you were allowed such a look into her soul.
"Hm."
She walked backward then, pulling you with her until she hit the hammock. It swayed under the combined weight as she settled, then drew you into her lap, tugging at your hair. “Shhh,” She cooed.
Varang pressed a hand underneath the wrapping of your top, lifting it to kiss the skin there. You’d pierce your nipples months ago, and the bone that settled between the nubs made her mouth water. “Such fear,” she whispered against your damp skin. “But you love me. I see it. I know it.”
She licked a broad wet stripe across the sensitive areola, then drew the tight bud between her mouth, swirling her tongue around the piercing and faintly tugged.
You whined, frowning, fingers finding the ridges of her collarbone. "You always question it."
"Naturally." She nuzzled your shoulder, breathing in the ash still clinging to your skin. Her lips switched to its twin, finally fluttering her eyes close to gently suck, saliva coating your breasts. You grinded against her thigh, pressing your face against her shoulder. “Such a needy little thing, come—”
“Tsahik,”
Yepa stood where the privacy cloth was, eyes cast down. He knew better than to interrupt Varang when she kept you to herself. Her eyes sharpened, fingers pausing where they'd been toying with the piercing. Heat crawled up your neck. You looked away, cheeks burning.
"Speak." She said.
Her hand drifted lower, tracing the edge of your loincloth, circling just above your mound while her mouth pressed dizzying kisses along the curve of your cheek. "Forgive me, Tsahìk," Yepa murmured. "We've spotted a new caravan. The windtraders."
Varang exhaled through her nose. Her touch stilled. For one fleeting moment, she looked at you—something almost apologetic flickering behind her eyes.
Then it was gone.
You made a soft, plaintive sound, fingers curling around her wrist. "Stay." The word came out smaller than you meant it to, and you hated yourself for it. Varang despised weakness. You were weakness.
She pushed your hand away with her usual ease. "Others hunt the meat you eat, Y/n." She didn't look at you again, said it in a cooing tone that made it all the worse.
You rewrapped your chest with fumbling hands, tail lashing hard enough snap at the air. You shoved past Yepa without meeting his eyes, head bowed low.
Not fair. The thought curled bitter in your head. She could refuse you. You could never refuse her.
Around you, the clan stirred with new activity. Warriors readied their ikran, voices risingto prepare. Blades were sharpened, the new demon-weapons brandished with eager hands.
You weren't allowed on raids. Varang forbade it.
So instead you sat on the edge of camp and kicked rocks, watching them disappear into the embers of the sun.
"You're not going?"
You froze mid-motion, glancing back.
Quaritch.
Your frown deepened.
"Varang angry," you said quietly. She’s angry, and doesn’t want you near me. Is what you meant to say. But how could you? He was an idiot. Or maybe it was you, for not knowing how to say it.
You moved to walk past him, but his hand caught your shoulder—firm, four fingers pressing and encompassing most of it.
"So?" He snorted. "She throws a hissy fit and what? Law doesn't apply to me."
They do. Your eyes narrowed. You are one of us now. They apply.
But you didn't say it. Instead, you sighed and looked away, fingers tapping absently against the skin where your heart was underneath. "I…" You hesitated. "Weak. Not strong. Varang worry."
A pause.
"Don't tell," you grumbled.
Quaritch gave a slow nod, tail tracing a lazy arc. He leaned forward, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. "You ever use a gun?"
You blinked. "Gun…?"
He lifted one of those compact metal bows from his holster, blocky and compact—nothing like the carved wood your people used. "Yeah. A gun. You've seen Varang use it." He jerked his chin toward the distant yurts. "Come on. I'll show you. Just don't blow my tail off."
Your gaze drifted to Varang's yurt, then skyward where the war party had departed hours ago, her Ska'avum among them. She'd be gone until dusk at least. You pressed your lips together.
"Yes. Okay."
.
.
.
The first shot made you jump, ears pressing flat against your head.
"Yeah! Booyah!" Quaritch's hands landed on your shoulders, shaking hard into your frame. "Clear damn shot. You're a natural at this, kid."
He thrust his palm upward, some human gesture you'd never seen before.
You stared at it, confused.
Then lifted yours suspiciously, mirroring the angle.
His hand met yours with a sharp smack.
"High-five. Well—high-four," he amended, grinning wide enough to show molars. His palm found your spine, a push that was encouraging and commanding. "Come on. Again. Let's see if it was a fluke."
He was close now. Close enough that if Varang were here, if she saw—
You swallowed the thought. No. This isn't about Varang.
You adjusted your stance the way he'd shown you: shoulders angled, weight forward, breath held. The target swam into focus. You squeezed.
Bullseye.
Your tail betrayed you, wagging before you could stop it—then his hand cracked against your ass and you squealed. "Ngh!" The hiss tore from your throat, glaring at him. You almost forgot he was an asshole first, friend second.
He was already moving past you, plucking the gun from your slack grip. "And she calls you weak." A scoff. He studied the target, grinning like some prideful mentor. "Feel pretty powerful, huh?"
You nodded slowly, studying the cluster of holes punched through the painted target. When you glanced back, he was counting the rounds with his usual efficiency.
"Think we'll add firearms to your training rotation." He didn't look up. "No point wasting time on that bow sissy-shit when you've got real stopping power available."
You stepped closer, watching his hands work. "What doing?"
"What are you doing," he corrected. "Grammar, kid. Makes me sound like some kind of assh-shat teacher." He whistled. "Anyway, I’m cleanin’ and reassembling. Maintenance. All this volcanic shit clogs the mechanisms. Messes with the equipment."
This was news to you. You paused. "Varang…knows?"
The question landed betwene you two.
His lips peeled back—too much teeth. "Nah." He didn't look up. "Keep it that way."
A secret. You had a secret now. The thought bloomed warm, and Quaritch must have seen it written plain across your face because he chuckled, low and knowing. "You're a little minx, aren't'cha?"
You didn't know what that was, but nodded anyway.
He dug into his pockets again, fingers closing around the crinkled bag. Your hand shot out before you could think to stop it, palm up, giddy.
He caught your wrist to steady it—the tips of his fingers padded in callouses. “You’re spoiled, you know that?” He shook the bag near your ear, grinning. "Never had much of a sweet tooth myself. Spider did, though." A pause. His jaw worked. "I traded my good socks for this."
The silence came. Then he pressed the entire bag into your palm, closing your fingers around it like it was something precious.
"Just keep it." It came out rough, almost embarrassed. "And don’t let the others see." He looked away.
You stared at the bag. Bright red plastic stamped with the strange alien letters from his world. Red. Yellow. Orange. Green. Purple. You traced each color with your eyes before lifting your gaze back at him.
You didn't know what you were thinking.
You kissed his cheek.
Quaritch actually stumbled back half a step. His ears snapped forward, eyes gone wide and startled as a spooked hexapede's. Before he could recover, you pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. You felt reckless, daring. The power that Varang held, you wield it now.
You skittered backward, clutching the candy to your chest, a shy smile blooming despite yourself.
"Thank you, Quaritch," you whispered.
His lips quirked, just a bit. He tilted his head back, pushed air between his teeth in a low whistle that might've been a laugh. "Yeah," he muttered, but you think it was more to himself than you. "Yeah, alright."
You left then, the bag pressed tight against your chest, tail swaying in wide arcs all the way back to the yurt.
Another secret.
.
.
.
Things were different now. You felt different, you supposed.
This shared secret between you and Quaritch had festered into something physical. It lived in the space between breaths, in the pause before he spoke your name.
And Quaritch? Quaritch was all physical.
You couldn't walk past him without a slap to the rear or a pinch to your side, something too boyish for a man his size (and his age, as you liked to remind him). But there it was anyway, that grin splitting his face, the wink that followed. "That's it, baby girl." The words dripped easy, thick as the molasses you once tasted.
The lessons were no different. Or rather—no different in how he touched you now. Instead of sweet candy he'd nudge your lips apart and kiss.
"Say it. Patient."
"Patient."
Quaritch just grinned against your mouth. "Still got that accent. It's cute." Your eyes fluttered shut. You licked away the chapness of his lips, tasted salt and something faintly bitter.
Evening meals were distant, of course. Formal. When Varang sat beside you, eating whatever meal she'd presented—she’d present a kuru, sometimes several, gifts of power and affection—you'd accept with the usual grace. The usual smiles.
And later, after you'd ignored him through dinner and feigned disinterest, Quaritch would return. That all-too-easy smile waiting for you in the dark.
Varang wouldn't know. You were happy with that.
"Stop moving," you grumbled.
You painted the whites and reds against his face in careful strokes, slapping his hands when they wandered.
"It's damn cold," he hissed. But he remained still, huffing through his nose. The pigment was thick, it had to be. Smelling just a bit of crushed minerals, rendered fat, and berries. You had to change the recipe for him, he sweat too much and smeared it everywhere—too impatient to let it dry.
You rolled your eyes. The two of you were tucked beneath the newly constructed yurt. Varang had moved everyone to the RDA base, and Quaritch had been more than eager to accommodate the clan into the facility's sprawling guts. If he wasn't with her, or the strange pink-skins, then he was with you.
"It's cold because you take too long." You swept your thumbs in parallel lines along his cheeks, forming a sharp V that cascaded down the bridge of his nose. The pattern was traditional, though your hand trembled slightly as you worked.
You watched him through your lashes, heat creeping up your neck when you realized he'd been staring back. "What?"
Quaritch clicked his tongue, angling his head low. He pressed his cheek against your palm, the paint smudged just a bit, but you didn’t correct him. "Nothin'... just—sweet is all. You're sweet."
Your fingers drifted to your songcord almost unconsciously, tracing the amber bead you'd added most recently. Inside, suspended in golden resin, a single red skittle.
"I didn't think you'd be so sappy," you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth.
"Sappy? Now where'd you learn that word?"
"Lyle." You said innocently. “The bald one."
Quaritch grinned, and his hand found your back—thumb pressing the base of your tail. "Course it was. The bastard—"
"Do you think I am a fool?"
Your tail went rigid mid-sway, ears swiveling before the rest of you caught up. You turned, careful, already knowing what you'd find.
Varang stood at the threshold, stripped of her usual paint and accessories. She looked exactly as she had when you were both girls and the forest still held its green—Vulnerable.
"Varang," you started, placating. "We were almost—"
A hiss tore from her throat. Her nose wrinkled, lips peeling back from her teeth. "Do not." She lifted one hand, fingers curling through the air in a white-knuckled clench.
You'd never seen her this furious. Not even since—
Your ears flattened against your skull.
"You do not ask permission, sky-man." She began to circle Quaritch now, and her hands drifted to the twin buugeng blades strapped at her hips.
Quaritch's expression didn't shift. If anything, it settled into something lazier. Bored, almost. He tracked her with his eyes, then let out a low chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "And when have you?"
He rose slowly, joints popping, and your handprint still blazed red across his cheek.
Varang faltered as she eyed the paint. For just a heartbeat—her brows pinched into something wounded—but then she shook her head, and the mask slammed back into place.
"Seems to me, cupcake," Quaritch drawled, stepping into her space, "that you and I are too similar."
His gaze slid to you.
Then his hands found Varang's shoulders, turning her to face you instead. "She don't seem too concerned." His voice dropped rough, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "And I bet she'd take both of us sweetly. Hm?"
Varang stared. Her expression smoothed into something unreadable, eerily calm, yellow eyes locked on yours.
"Have you two bonded?"
Your stomach dropped. "No. Varang, we—"
"Nah." Quaritch's answer came quicker than yours, easier. "We haven't. You can keep that if you want." His lips grazed the curve of Varang's neck, breath hot against the delicate skin there. His hands slid lower, palms molding to her waist, then dipping to the swell of her hips. "If it makes you feel special."
He grinned.
Varang twisted free in one fluid motion, closing the distance between you in two strides. Her hand fisted in your hair, dragging you close enough that you could see every fleck of amber in her yellow eyes. "You smell like him."
Then she kissed you.
Hard.
Her canines caught your lower lip, tugging until you tasted copper. A sound escaped you, swallowed just before it turned pitiful..
Behind you, Quaritch shifted closer. You couldn't see him, but you felt the heat of him, the broad wall of his chest almost brushing your shoulder blades. His hand came down heavy on the curve of your ass, grabbing an absolute fistful.
And you, you felt multiple hands now. Varang's fingers worked the braided top, peeling it free until your breasts were bare beneath her palms. They bounced just a bit, purple nipples perking. Behind you, Quaritch's thumbs traced the curve of your ass before lifting the weight of each cheek. He let them plop down, and groaned.
"Fuck," he muttered, voice dropping to gravel. "Won't you look at that." His knuckles grazed the stripes that contoured around the flesh, mesmerized.
Miles…" You turned your head, the syllable half-formed. Instinct seeked his face, but Varang's fist caught your braids and wrenched you back.
Her teeth found your lower lip.
"Not at him." The growl rumbled against your mouth. "Me."
Quaritch's laugh was low, almost lazy. "Think she likes me better. I ain't so punishing." His palm cracked against your rear—only once, but something purple was already forming. "Say my name again, doll."
"Miles—" But Varang swallowed it, mouth sealing over yours, and she shot him a look that could've drawn blood.
"You ain't playing fair," He had that smile, you knew he did even if you couldn’t see it.
Both hands rose to cradle your jaw, now. Thumbs stroking the jaw where tension pooled. She pressed kisses all over—the corner of your lips, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder where your scent glands were located. Marking you with her own scent.
"If you can only win by fairness," she whispered, lips brushing your shoulders "you are no true warrior."
Then she kissed you again
Quaritch's mouth twitched. Without warning, he hauled you back against him, fingers sinking into your hips, grinding you into the hard line of his pelvis. "So you wanna play like that?"
Varang pulled back with a hiss, chest rising. She looked at you—just once—then stepped forward. She wore seduction in her hips now, curling her lips, tasting her skin. "Only if you think yourself capable."
"Hm. Challenge accepted." His attention dropped to your chest, dismissive for just a moment before he took another look. He pinched a nub. "Fuck, baby girl. You had these the whole time?"
He flicked the other with his thumb, feeling the bone piercing. Your body jerked, a gasp wriggling out. “O-Oh…” His mouth went lower, descending a hot trail while his hands lazily hooked your loincloth to the side. His calloused fingers found your clit, the rough pad of his thumb circling.
"Miles, please…" Your head fell forward, brows pinching together, and the sound that left you was barely coherent.
Before you, Varang sank to her knees.
You'd never seen her like this—all that fierce pride folded into something softer, reflective of her soul. Her palms smoothed up your thighs, reverent. When she looked up at you through dark lashes, blinking slow, you blushed.
“You beg for him,” She undid your loincloth properly now, throwing it over her shoulder to the fire nearby. “Now you will beg for me” She simply lowered her mouth and licked—a long, flat, possessive stripe from your entrance to your clit, pushing Quaritch’s thumb aside with the force of it.
He only grunted. His fingers traced your ribs, mapping each curve, each rise of skin. Up, then down. Feeling. Always feeling. He nudged your legs apart. Varang needed room, afterall.
She took it.
Varang nudged her face, nuzzling the purple flesh and mouthing your pussy. Suckling the flesh. When she looked up, her eyes were hazy with peace—and if you dared to call it—love. You watched her tail sway behind her. A soft huff escaped you.
She spread your pretty pussy lips with her thumbs, then spat. You watched the silver strand descend, sliding down your slit in complete arousal.
“So pretty,” she cooed. “You like this, yes?”
Her finger brisked along the opening, pinching your folds together. They were undeniably swollen, plump. She always liked how engorged they became when you were aroused. Like a dumpling. She thought.
She pressed one fingertip to the left lip, and watched it bounce back. “Varang.” You pushed your hips forward, pouting.
Both chuckled. “What did I say?” Quaritch mused. “Spoiled. Absolutely spoiled.”
He lifted you—just slightly—and chucked his loincloth aside. You glanced down.
Your mind emptied of everything but his cock.
Your hands flew to his forearms, fingers digging into the muscle there just as your legs kicked in a brief instinctive pedal. “Wait—wait!”
He went still, swallowing. “Somethin’ the matter?” He glanced over your shoulder to look at Varang, who now leaned back on her hands, head cocked into something teasing.
He settled you on his thick thigh instead, tracing numbers over your stomach.
You dragged your gaze back down, helpless. It was… big. Long, thick, veined with ridges that made your mouth water and your lips tremble all the same. The head was a broad, blunt crown, flushed a deep, violent purple, and below, his balls were heavy and full.
A low, involuntary sound escaped you as you gave a tiny, shameful shuffle, the slick heat of you grinding against the muscle of his thigh. You bit your lower lip until you tasted the copper hint of blood.
“Well… it’s…”
“She’s never taken a man.” Varang’s murmur was matter-of-fact. Her eyes shifted to you, her smile softening.
For once, he seemed surprised. “What? But you and her have—”
“I have never allowed a man to touch her.” Varang’s scoffed, as if the idea was ridiculous. “Any who’ve tried I’ve killed myself.” She leaned forward now, before going on a crawl. Her eyes, now heavy-lidded, inspected his cock.
She bit her own plump lip, then leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip. Her eyes fluttered shut as she did it, and above you, Quaritch hissed—no doubt pleased.
“It doesn’t bite, Y/n.” Varang stroked your trembling thigh, her touch gentling, before she turned back. She opened her mouth, suckling the broad head, wetting it thoroughly, then licked a long, torturous stripe from root to tip. The sound was obscenely wet.
“Ngh, fuck…” The groan was torn from Quaritch’s chest, you never thought you’d hear such a sound from him.
It felt right, strangely.
He buried his face against the junction of your neck and shoulder, his arms locking around you, binding you to the solid wall of his heat. His breaths came in uneven puffs. His large, warm hands splayed across your stomach, fingers pressing in rhythmic, almost absent-minded taps. “Not so much now…” he managed, voice strangled.
Varang only scoffed around him, the vibration earning another jerk of his hips. She bobbed her head, taking him deeper, her cheeks hollowing. “This is not for you,” she shot back, pulling off with a wet sound. “So weak. Cannot even last.”
That earned a guttural grunt. He fluttered his eyes open, the yellow within them hollowed by the black of his pupil.
He turned his head and bit the shell of your ear. “You listenin’ to her?” he hummed. You felt his pout. “So mean to me. But you ain’t, darlin’. You’re good. All good and sweet stuff.” He nuzzled, then placed a softer, startling kiss on your cheek.
You both watched, mesmerized, as Varang returned to her work. Your own hands reached and took what she couldn’t. He groaned then, thighs bouncing, dragging against your clit.
“Ngh,” You whined.
Finally, she withdrew with a slick, echoing pop. She slowly unraveled her tongue, giving one last lon lick from across his shaft.
“There.” Her cooed. “Nice and wet for you to sit on, my beloved. A proper throne.”
“T_Thank you, Varang.”
You thought it was so strange, how someone like Quaritch could be so… gentle at times. His hands found the back of your knees, planting a squeeze against the delicate hinge. Then, he pressed your cheek against his.
“You ready, buttercup?”
You felt the vibration of his voice against your back, rumbling from his chest to your bones. He was like that, of course—all consuming.
Your eyes found themselves downward before you managed the smallest nod. “Y-Yes.”
It was all he needed. “Good girl.” The praise sent warmth all around your body. “Knew you could.” He pat your thighs.
Then he lifted. It was an easy strength he had, lifting as if it were nothing. He shuffled, bringing your knees to your breasts, cocking his head to the side to see. Instinctively, your hands flew behind you, fingers searching for the anchor of his shoulders.
You felt it first, the wet head jutting against your cunt. The broad slick head grazing your slit, parting it just enough to make it audible. Your pussy clenched, and you drew in your breath.
“Shh… relax.” He cooed. “I won’t move until you want to.”
He began the slow work of getting you used to it. His hips rolled in a shallow, circular tease, moving his hips so his dick coated itself with your slick.
Then, with a controlled shift, he gathered both your knees in the vice of one formidable arm, the other hand wrapping around the base of his shaft.
A groan, raw and deep, tore from his chest as he notched himself at your entrance.
Varang watched, transfixed at the sight.
He pushed.
The burn was instant.
Your eyes flew wide, seeing nothing and everything. “Big—it’s big, Miles—” You babbled, already trying to claw away.
He grunted, and his teeth found the end of your flickering ear. “The more you squirm, the more it’ll hurt. Shh… shh, it’ll be okay, sugar.”
You tried to obey—really you did, but you couldn’t help the tears that flowed down in wet fat blobs. “Thats it.” He settled you down slow, inch by inch. “See? Its not so—Fuck!”
Varang pushed your hips down, and naturally you screamed, suddenly impaled. Miles, caught off guard, bucked upward with a startled hiss, his ears pinning flat against his skull. Varang’s giggle was a light, airy thing that quickly boiled over into a full-throated laugh.
“So weak,” she snarled, the sweetness evaporating. She patted your trembling thighs before pushing them wider, folding you open and giving herself a perfect, obscene view of either sex.
“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Miles breathed.
Your belly was full of him. A distinct, visible bulge swelled at your lower tummy. Your cunt was stretched to a painful pink halo around the thick blue of his cock. You just breathed, glancing down—at her, at him.
“Ngh… j-just go…. Please, Miles.”
The words left you in spent sigh, so fragile.
He shuddered where he held you—and nodded. “Alright, buttercup.” He pressed a single fat kiss to the crown of your head, then moved.
Miles Quaritch did nothing by half-measures. His hands locked around the curve of your hips, fingers biting into flesh as he pulled you down and drove himself up. You swore you could feel the tip bristle against your cervix.
“Oh… fuck.” The curse was low, a rumble you absorbed through your spine. “So fuckin’ tight.”
The force of him made your world condense to sensation. To the deep, stretching fullness, the slap of skin, the dizzying bounce of your breasts. One of his palms slid up to capture a peak—holding it to a squeeze.
And then, because he relished in it, he buried his face against your shoulder, his breath coming in delicious puffs. You could feel every stifled groan turn into a grunt, only to dissolve into a moan.
He likes this. He likes me. You blushed.
Varang shifted closer. Her cool fingers traced the sweat-slicked tension of his balls, cupping the heavy weight before her tongue swept over your clit.
You squealed. “Oh!” You pressed both hands over her head, eyes wide.
“You look so pretty, Y/N,” she murmured, her voice a honeyed smoke against your fevered skin. “So perfect, split open like this.” You heard the rustle of her loincloth, the wet sound of her own fingers working between her legs, the slick rhythm of her thumb on her clit.
Her moan was low, and the vibration of it against your most sensitive nerve sent pure pleasure tearing through your core.
“I love you—” The confession was a needy thing, meant for both, owned by neither. But they knew, you were sure they did. “I’m…ah…!”
Miles stole most of your speech, dragging your hips to meet his punishing pace, folding your body to fit him deeper. The angle was brutal, perfect. “Fuck. Gonna cum inside this pussy,” he growled. “Gonna flood you.”
Varang’s mouth left you with a soft pop. “No,” she hissed. “You will not.”
He laughed, somehow teasing and joyful…maybe a bit disbelieving. “Fuck yeah, I will. Gonna pump this tight cunt full. Gonna fuck a baby right into her.” He was sneering at her, a direct challenge even as his hips began to lose their rhythm, succumbing to a ragged, urgent pounding.
“Thrones do not talk, Quaritch.”
“T-This one does.” A stutter from him, a victory for her.
You could feel it. The ache of release. His balls drew up tight against you. Varang felt it too. Her hand tightened around a ball sack, vise-like warning.
He hissed. “Agh—Shit! Woman, don’t you—!”
And then you clenched. Not a voluntary act, your inner muscles clenching around him in a series of frantic, milking pulses.
A broken yelp escaped you as you came, turning liquid and mindless around his huge dick. Now he was trapped: between Varang’s iron hand and your sweet, convulsing vice.
“Ngh—Christ!” His whole body locked, eyes rolling back in a spasm.
Varang moved, she wouldn’t allow him. She hauled you off him, a gasp torn from your lips at the sudden emptiness, and her fist was around him, stroking, pumping, directing. His release shot in thick, pearlescent ropes across her cheek, her chin, the proud arch of her neck.
She blinked slowly, unimpressed. A single, sticky strand dripped onto her collarbone. She caught it on a finger, flicked it away with utter disdain. “You will not get her pregnant,” she stated, and it was final.
Miles was a spent force, chest heaving. He let out a winded puff, then a low, sated laugh. One eye slid open, crinkled with admiration. “You’re evil,” he rasped, pulling your boneless form against his solid thigh. He nuzzled into your hair, both hands coming up to weigh your breasts, holding you to him as if claiming spoils.
You on the other hand were dazed, trying to remember how to breathe.
Varang scoffed. “Well.” In one smooth motion, she took your wrists, pulling you from Mile’s slackened grip toward her. He yielded with a grunt, shifting heavily on the mat, already feeling exhaustion in his bones.
“Our turn,” Varang said. And she smiled, a true sweet thing.
You blinked. “...Uh… What?”
She laid you back on the woven mat, the fibers imprinting on your sweat-slick skin. Her loincloth fell away. “You haven’t made me come yet,” she pouted. “It’s no fair.”
You offered a weak, sheepish smile. “Let me—Oofmp!”
She pushed you flat, and climbed over you. “Shhh…” Her thigh brushed your cheek, then she settled her weight, the hot, musky scent of her arousal enveloping you. She sank down onto your waiting mouth with a soft, shuddering moan.
Then she glanced over at Miles, already snoring softly. She scoffed, rolling her eyes, and her hips began a slow, commanding grind against your lips.
“Weak.”
A/n- I tried challenging myself to 5000... It was not 5000 it was 8000 . I should be called the slow-burn queen. How people write 3000 or less... I wish for their skills. Anyway—have a Merry Christmas everyone! Remember to drink water and eat well!
summary: short ficlet of Ratchet freaking out about your human lifespan :p
a/n; CHUNNKEEEYYYY!!!
— 🚑 [cw: prejudicial thoughts]
The thought of you unconditionally, overwhelmingly sparks his spark. An entirely different concept compared to how Ratchet felt about the kids.
A burst of wonderful, adoring emotions fill him to the brink—it almost hinders his ability to function. Not that he realizes that.
"An old man picked up my wallet today."
Legs idly swinging over the edge, you watch as Ratchet taps on his control panel, absentmindedly nodding his head to your words. "Uh-huh."
Despite his lack of interest, you continue, wanting to vent about your day. You're used to this behavior anyway; you know he always listens. "I thought he stole it at first. I mean, I turn around and some guy is holding my wallet. Haha, but we made up quickly. It was just a misunderstanding. He was so sweet."
Ratchet shuffles over to you. He begins to do some tech things that you fear you will never understand. You reach a foot to lightly tap his armplate. He offers no reaction.
You smile. "Wanna know my first thought when we talked?"
"...What would that be?" he murmurs, his words smudged over the whisper.
"I found his voice sounding like you." With your rather cheery words, Ratchet pauses, his gaze lingering over you much more than usual. "Caught me off guard and all. Then, I imagined, what if that old man was you as a human? But nah. Sure, he sounds like you, but his fashion wasn't you. In my most humble opinion, of course."
You're yapping now—you know that. Ratchet even stopped trying to understand you a few kliks ago, returning to his own devices. Not that you mind.
"Ratchet, you're old," you say bluntly, earning a whip of a bewildered expression from him.
He grunts. "I may be rusty but—"
"No, sweetie, I meant—you're a million years old," you grimace, letting your head fall. "I can't even imagine living that long." Especially if a long period of that time was nothing but war.
A few moments of hanging silence. Ratchet lets his optics shift from you back to his work, sighing as the weight of choosing you this time settles on him.
"What is this about?" he softly asks, approaching your side, careful with the volume of his footsteps.
Suddenly, you chuckle, startling him. The mech scrunched his faceplate in confusion. "Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about the kids. To them, I'm so much older—but compared to you Autobots, I'm basically nothing."
"Nothing?" Ratchet repeats with a furrow.
"I don't mean it in a bad way. Just realizing that one day, I'll grow old, like you—but much, much quicker," you say with a weak smile. "We humans only live for about a hundred years, and that's if you're lucky."
Your word and your tone strangely crawl into Ratchet's spark with incomprehensible devastation. Earth years are in a different timezone from Cybertronian standards; that in itself is a tragically distant line.
"Your species is fragile," the medic mutters, his optics glancing slowly over your figure. "Small. Organic. Squishy. One step and you're dead."
Helplessly, you snicker, unable to feel not offended. "And your species... Big. Metal. Tough. You guys probably live long enough to watch a sun die."
"I have, in fact," he murmurs, "twice."
You blink. "Wow, Ratch, I have deep respect for you. Mm. Everyone does. It must have been hard."
He's just staring at you. Tilting your head, you make a look. He returns it with a look of his own. "See, I may not show it, but for your lifespan... I believe my respect runs far deeper than yours."
"Yeah?" you gasp. "Ratchet, you're actually—"
Ratchet stops listening to you after that. It's the usual—albeit annoying—teasing about him being indifferent to humans in general. Halfheartedly, he is listening, with you being the only noise in the headquarters, but his mind wanders somewhere else.
He has witnessed many sparks fall.
Even then, for a long, long time, they stay as his company. Valued memories that are never lost to his repository. Honorable contributions that are still relevant to this day. A mark that has never left both the Autobots and the Decepticons.
But you?
You're a human.
It could so happen that after one recharge, you'd be gone.
As if nothing ever happened. Just like the rest of the others who died.
Blue eyelights start to tremble the longer they stare at you. So full of life. A voice so new and refreshing. Ratchet hates to admit it—he's grown deeply fond of you and the kids.
"Now I guess I have to make you free of humans," you snicker, standing up and brushing off your clothes. "It's getting late anyway. Thanks for having me."
... What? Are you leaving?
The thought weighs on Ratchet, swelling like pressure inside his chassis. Like an hourglass with sand that falls and falls. The farther you are, the less time remains.
He watches blankly as you take a step. And another. Then carefully down the stairs.
Until you're walking straight to the exit. "I think I'll tell Raf tomorrow too—"
CLANG.
A powerful thud from Ratchet's pede slams into the ground, knocking you over with the sudden tremor. You grunt as you set a hand on his ankle for support. "Woah! Ratchet! What the hell?"
As you lift your head, your eyes meet an expression you've never seen Ratchet in before—you can't describe it. Disturbed? Apprehension? Fear? Hysteria? He's not saying anything. Engines are running louder than usual. Not bothering to move the colossal mech foot in front of your body.
"Ratchet?" you frown. "Are you okay?"
"Don't leave."
The words were so quiet. Almost pleading. You wait patiently. But he doesn't say anything else.
"...Is something wrong?" you urge.
Much to your dismay, he doesn't answer immediately. His eyelights shift.
"Mh—A report came in. Decepticons... They're moving. It would be safer for you to stay a little longer."
...
"...Okay. I trust you."
Maybe you imagined it—but for a moment, it looked like he sighed with nothing less than relief.
