I write for The Last of Us and Iâm currently very fixated on Avatar (it has me in a chokehold, respectfully)
Requests are open! I try to write as frequently as I can sometimes life gets busy, but Iâm always creating when inspiration hits.
︾âżď¸ľâżŕ¨âĄŕ§âżď¸ľâżď¸ľ
This is a positive space
Please donât bring discourse, negativity, or drama into my inbox â Iâm not interested in engaging. Iâm just here to write, have fun, and share stories with people who enjoy the same characters.
Synopsis: You wake in the Backrooms with a note: Donât trust Bobby Franklin. He always finds you. Always keeps you alive. Always make sure you donât reach an exit.
Then you find his journals and realise: youâve escaped beforeâŚmany times.
And every time⌠he brought you back.
The warning note? He wrote it.
Iâve genuinely been so obsessed with the Backrooms movie; itâs not funny. The Bobby fics available are just amazing, so I decided to throw my hat into the ring. Sorry for any mistakes; Iâm dyslexic. Hope you enjoy
Warnings: none, sfw, angst
The first thing you find in the Backrooms is a note.
Not food. Not water. Not another person.
A single folded scrap of paper waits in the centre of the yellow-carpeted hallway, as if someone set it down just seconds before you appeared.
The handwriting sprawls, jagged and urgent, pressed so hard into the page it nearly tears.
DONâT TRUST BOBBY FRANKLIN.
No explanation. No signature. No context at all.
Just that.
You stare until the words unravel, losing their meaning, dissolving into shapes instead of language.
You flip it over, blank on the other side. You stuff it into your pocket, keeping it anyway.
Because here, even paranoia feels like a compass.
You learn quickly that the Backrooms donât behave like a place that wants to be understood.
Hallways stretch when your back is turned; doors bloom from blank walls. Fluorescent lights buzz in broken rhythms, sometimes fading just long enough to make you doubt they were ever real. If you stare too long in any direction, it feels as if the space itself begins to watch you in return.
By the third day, you abandon any attempt to track time.
It stops mattering anyway.
Thatâs when you meet Bobby Franklin.
He finds you in a maintenance room you donât remember entering.
Youâre half-asleep on the floor, so dehydrated your thoughts lag behind reality. When the door squeaks open, you flinch so violently it hurts.
A man stands there.
Late twenties, maybe. Blonde hair with piercing blue eyes. A flashlight in one hand. A bottle of water in the other.
He doesnât raise his voice. âJesus⌠hey. You okay?â
You donât answer, not trusting your voice yet.
He crouches slowly, like you might run even though thereâs nowhere to go.
âIâm Bobby,â he says. âYouâve been here a while?â
The name hits something in your pocket. You remember the note.
Donât trust Bobby Franklin.
Your fingers curl around it instinctively, but he gives you water before you decide what that means.
Maybe thatâs the first mistake. Or maybe itâs the first kindness.
Youâre not quite sure yet.
â
In a place that relies on instability, Bobby becomes your anchor, the only thing tethering you to something like reality.
He teaches you survival, not with instructions, but with the weary wisdom held by someone whoâs failed too many times to forget.
Which floors are stable
Which sounds mean something is creeping too close
Which doors are wrong even when they look open
âDonât trust symmetry,â he tells you once. âThis place hates it when things line up too neatly.â
You ask him how long heâs been here.
He pauses too long before answering.
âA while.â
Thatâs all you get.
And somehow, whenever you get separated, he always finds you again.
Always.
At first, youâre grateful.
Then you start noticing the pattern.
Whenever Bobby finds you, his face never shows surprise.
Like he always knew exactly where youâd be.
Like losing you was never really a possibility.
And every time you mention escaping, Bobby changes.
Not dramatically.
Small things.
A pause too long before answering.
Eyes flicking away too fast.
A smile that doesnât fully reach his face.
As if the thought of you leaving is something heâs already ruled out as impossible.
The Backrooms twist themselves into impossible shapes around you. Hallways shift. Rooms disappear. Entire routes vanish overnight.
But Bobby never looks confused.
Never seems lost.
If anything, he seems more at home here than anywhere else.
Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night and find him already awake.
Watching the hallway.
Watching which.
You can never tell which.
You stop asking how he always finds you.
You stop asking how he always knows where to go.
You stop asking how long heâs really been here.
Because every answer only leads to more questions.
And because being with Bobby is easier than being alone.
Even if part of you is starting to wonder whether the Backrooms are whatâs keeping you trapped.
Or if itâs him.
â
You stumble on the journals by accident. Or so youâll tell yourself later.
Bobby is asleep beside a wall stained yellow with age, one arm thrown over his eyes. The Backrooms are unusually quiet. No distant humming. No strange sounds from behind the walls.
Just silence.
His bag sits a few feet away.
Half-open.
You donât mean to look.
You really donât.
But something catches your eye.
A notebook.
Then another.
And another.
Your stomach knots. You slide one out, slow and careful. The first pages look harmless enough.
Maps. Level layouts. Supply lists.
Then you turn another page.
And see your name.
You freeze.
The next page has your name too.
And the next.
And the next.
Your fingers race along the pages. Every entry is about you:Â
what you ate
how long you slept.
The way you pace when youâre anxious.
The things you mutter when you think nobody is listening.
Things Bobby should never have known.
Things you donât remember telling.
A chill floods your veins.
The dates donât make sense; some are older than when you remember arriving in the Backrooms.
Much older.
Years older.
You flip through pages faster.
Your name appears. Whole notebooks devoted to you.
Then you find the entries that make your stomach drop.
Reset 14. They still donât remember me.
Reset 22. Escaped again.
Reset 31. Found them after six months.
Reset 38. Had to bring them back.
The words smear and blur.
You read them again.
And again.
As if repeating them might change their meaning.
It doesnât.
Your hands begin to shake.
What resets?
What escapes?
What is he talking about?
You grab another journal.
Then another.
The deeper you dig, the worse it becomes.
Sketches of your face.
Descriptions of conversations you donât remember having.
Places youâve never been.
Moments that feel familiar anyway.
As if those memories hover just beyond your grasp.
One entry catches your attention.
The handwriting is shakier than the rest.
Almost desperate.
They found the note again.
You stare at the sentence.
The note.
Your hand instinctively moves to your pocket.
The folded paper is still there, worn soft from countless unfoldings. A chill creeps up your spine.
Slowly, you keep reading.
âMaybe this time theyâll listen.
Maybe this time theyâll leave before I find them.
I hope they do.â
Your heart hammers in your chest.
Because for the first time, the handwriting doesnât feel like Bobbyâs.
It feels like someone is trying to warn you.
A floorboard creaks.
You freeze.
Suddenly, the room feels suffocating.
âYou werenât supposed to find those.â Bobbyâs voice comes from behind you.
You turn slowly.
Heâs standing there, and judging by the look on his face, he knows exactly which page youâre reading.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The journal feels heavy in your hands.
Bobbyâs gaze moves to the page, then to the note sticking halfway out of your pocket.
Something unreadable flickers across his face.
Not anger. Not panic. Something that looks almost like resignation.
Like heâd always known this moment would happen eventually.
âYou wrote it,â you say quietly.
Your voice sounds strange in the silence.
âThe note.âÂ
Bobby doesnât answer immediately.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The sound suddenly feels deafening.
Finally, he nods. âYeah.â
The word knocks the breath from your lungs. You glance at the note, then back at him.
âWhy?â
Bobbyâs jaw tightens. âYou werenât supposed to stay.â
The answer only confuses you more.
âWhat does that mean ?â you exasperated out
Bobby laughs softly. Not because itâs funny, but because heâs tired, like someone carrying a burden that has fused with his bones.
âIt means I was trying to do the right thing.â
Your grip tightens around the journal.
âAnd then?â
Bobbyâs  eyes meet yours.
âAnd then I found you again.â
A silence settles between you. A silence heavy with dread. The kind that seeps deep into your bones.
You look down at the entries.
Reset 14.
Reset 22.
Reset 38.
There are dozens.
Maybe more.
âYouâve done this before.â
Bobby closes his eyes briefly.
âYes.â
âHow many times?â
When he opens them again, something in his expression has changed.
A sadness so old it barely looks human anymore.
âI donât know.â
The answer sounds honest.
Which somehow makes it worse.
âI stopped counting.â
The room seems to tilt.
Not physically.
Just enough to leave you unsteady.
âYou keep bringing me back.â
âNo.â The response comes too quickly. Too sharp.
Bobby immediately softens.
âI find you.â
âYou keep saying that like thereâs a difference.â
His face twists. Because there is a difference to him. A massive one.
But standing here, staring at pages filled with years you donât remember living, you canât see the difference.
âYou donât understand what happens when you leave.â his voice is quieter now, dangerously quiet, like heâs speaking to himself more than you. âYou disappear.â
âIâm standing right here.â
âNot now.â The words come out broken, frustrated.
âYou leave, and everything changes.â he runs a hand through his hair, paces once, stops. The movement feels practised, repeated, like heâs stood in this exact spot and had this exact conversation many times before.
âYou leave, and you forget.â his eyes lift to yours. âAnd then I spend months trying to find you again.â
A cold weight settles in your gut.
Months.
Not days.
Not weeks.
Months.
The journals suddenly make sense.
The maps.
The notes.
The observations.
They werenât records.
They were search efforts.
Attempts to reconstruct you every time you slipped away.
âYou were looking for me,â the realisation escapes before you can stop it.
Bobby goes still.
For a second, he looks relieved.
Like youâre finally understanding something.
âEvery time,â the answer is immediate, certain, absolute.
Every time.
The words hang in the air between you.
You think you should feel comforted.
You donât.
You feel trapped.
Because now, every rescue feels different.
Every time he appeared when you were lost.
Every time he found you.
Every time, he seemed to know exactly where you were.
Not luck.
Not a coincidence.
Relentless determination.
Obsession.
You take a step backward.
Bobby notices instantly.
His eyes drop to your feet, then back to your face. He tenses, worry settling into his shoulders, as if heâs watching history loop again.
âYou always do that.â
âWhat?â You freeze
âThe step back,â his voice is barely above a whisper, âyou always do it right before you leave.â
Your heart stops.
The certainty in his voice is the worst part.
Heâs seen this before.
Maybe dozens of times.
Maybe hundreds.
You donât know anymore.
The realisation hits you all at once.
Every conversation.
Every shared meal.
Every quiet moment walking through endless yellow hallways.
Bobby remembers all of it.
Every version.
Every cycle.
Every reset.
And youâre the only one who doesnât.
Your eyes drift to the journals spread across the floor.
Years.
Decades.
Maybe longer.
All of it reduced to ink, because memory alone was never enough.
Because memory slips away.
But paper couldnât.
âYouâve been alone for a long time.â
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Bobbyâs expression changes immediately.
A flicker.
Gone almost as soon as it appears.
But you see it.
And suddenly all those notebooks donât feel obsessive.
They feel achingly lonely.
His gaze drops. For the first time since youâve met him, he looks tired.
Not physically.
Existentially.
As if exhaustion has soaked into every part of him.
âWhen youâre goneâŚâ he begins quietly, then stops, swallows, tries again. âWhen youâre gone, itâs just me.â
The confession hits harder than anything else.
Not because itâs romantic.
Not because itâs sweet.
Because itâs devastating.
You believe him because part of you understands how someone could become this after years, maybe decades, alone in a place like this.
The silence stretches.
Neither of you knows what to do with it.
Then Bobby looks at the note again. The worn paper pocking out of your pocket
The warning heâd written to a version of you long ago.
A version heâd once wanted to save from himself.
His voice is almost inaudible.
âI meant it when I wrote that.â Bobby laughs once, bitterly and broken
âAnd I ignored it anyway,â you whisper.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
The Backrooms shift somewhere beyond the walls.
And for the first time since finding the journals, you realise something even more frightening than the thought that Bobby has kept you here.
You realise he might be just as trapped as you are.
Synopsis: The forest is too quiet. You expect to find a stray machine, or maybe a lost Sky Person who wandered too far from their metal walls. What you find instead is a human soldier half-dead beneath the roots, bleeding, dangerous, and very much alive. You should have killed Miles Quaritch where he lay. What begins as a prisoner watched at Arrowpoint becomes something much more dangerous: a bond. But soldiers always return to war, and monsters never forget what they are. Sixteen years later, the forest delivers him back to you. this time, the man you once spared is dead, and the thing with his face is hunting your people.He remembers nothing. Your heart remembers everything.
soon youâll learn that mercy was your first mistake.
Note: we're finally here, I will say I need to start planning my stories cuz I've been mulling over on how to transition the time skip but I've finally done it and hope it meets expectations. Hope y'all enjoy đ
Warnings none,
<<Part 4 masterlist
16 years later
The seasons no longer flowed smoothly.
Once, the forest followed predictable patterns: growth, death, renewal. Balance. Even loss had its place.
Now, everything felt off.
Too fast. Too loud.
The Sky People did not return as they once did.
They arrived heavier.
Stronger.
Angrier.
The war didnât erupt suddenly. It spread like fire through dry roots; village to village, clan to clan.
You heard them long before any proof appeared.
Machines moving like beasts.
Sky People who didnât retreat.
And then, the stranger stories.
You first heard them from a hunting party that should have known better than to embellish; the mightiest warriors who are unafraid of battle and have seen the worst.
âThere was one,â one said, eyes on the ground instead of the fire. âNot human. Not one of us.â
You listened silently.
âThey wore our skins,â another added, voice strained. âBut they moved wrong.â
Wrong
That word stayed with you.
You said nothing, but your chest tightened.
âThey fought like Sky People,â the first said. âNot like hunters. Not like us.â
Your fingers froze on your blade.
Avatar, you thought. It made sense.
You had seen one before.
Jake Sully proved that the possibility of Sky People's minds in Naâvi bodies was a bridge between worlds.
But this was not like him.
No one mentioned Toruk Makto.
No respect was shown.
Only unease.
âThey do not connect to Eywa,â someone else whispered. âI saw one fall. No song. Nothing passed on.â
A silence fell.
That was wrong.
Deeply wrong.
Everything returned to Eywa.
Everything.
You felt it, then, the same subtle shift you had sensed in the cave so long ago.
A disturbance in the pattern.
You told yourself it wasnât your business. That whatever the Sky People created now was separate from what came before.
Separate from a cave.
From firelight.
From a sky man who once chose silence over survival.
Miles Quaritch.
Dead.
You clung to that.
You had to.
Because the alternative
No.
You refused to mull over the possibility
âââ-
You do not stay in one place long.
Not anymore.
The war made sure of that. But sometimes, the forest has a way of pulling you toward certain places, whether you plan to go or not. Sometimes, it pulls you toward people.
Towards trouble Heading to a balance that has yet to settle.
That's how you find yourself at the edge of the Sully clanâs territory.
Neither as a member nor a stranger.
Just a wanderer.
You trade when needed. Herbs. Salves. Knowledge of the deeper forest where others no longer walk. You do not stay long enough to belong.
But long enough to see.
To hear.
To understand.
Jake Sullyâs name carries weight here. Not just as a leader, but as something more. A bridge. A warning. warning, of what the Sky People might become.
And what they can destroy.
You are gathering when it happens.
Your focus is steady, breath even, kneeling low, fingers brushing along the leaves of a plant that only grows where the soil stays cool and damp.
The forest is quiet around you until it isnât.
The first sound is distant, a hum, low and wrong. Your body stiffens instantly. Then shouting, closer now, children. You rise in one smooth motion, your head snapping toward the sound. Not out of fear, but alarm.
You move before thinking, fast and silent. The forest blurs around you as you close the gap, your feet barely touching the ground. The hum grows louder, rotors slicing through the air, jagged against the natural rhythm.
Sky People. Too close. Too fast.
You burst through the brush just in time to spot them. The Sully children, Scattered and running. And above, a Samson roars through the canopy, its presence rattling the trees as ropes drop and figures descend.
Not sky people
Not Naâvi.
Something in between.
Your stomach drops.
They hit the ground hard and moving, weapons raised, voices sharp and controlled. Soldiers.
Hunting.
âMove! Move! Secure the targets!â one of them barks.
Your Instinct takes over; you don't think about clans, alliances, or consequences. You move
The smaller ones stumble, too slow, too exposed.
Youâre there before the soldier is.
Your arrow flies first.
Clean.
Precise.
It hits, not to kill but enough to throw him off, to disrupt the advance. The shot draws attention instantly.
Too much.
âContact!â someone shouts.
You grab the child and shove them toward cover.
âRun,â you snap. âDo not stop.â
They hesitate only a second, then obey.
Good.
You turn back And for a second, your mind refuses to understand what youâre seeing.
One of them.
Thatâs your first thought.
One of the Sky People soldiers is in a stolen body.
Youâve heard the stories, seen enough to know what theyâve done.
But then he steps forward, and your breath catches.
Your eyes lock on his face. Not the blue.
Not the stripes.
Just the face.
Your grip loosens on your bow without meaning to.
No.
No, thatâs
Your gaze flicks over him again, faster this time, trying to correct what you saw, to set it right.
Blue skin. Taller. Broader. Built like one of the People.
But the shape of his face.
The set of his jaw.
That scar.
It all hits you at once.
Thatâs his face.
Miles Quaritch.
Heâs staring straight at you now; focused and alert. Your stomach drops. He doesnât react. Not the way he should.
No recognition. No pause. Nothing.
Just that steady, assessing look.
Your mind races to catch up.
âYou...â The words get stuck, your voice shaky now. âWhat..â
You stop, because you donât even know. What youâre asking.
What are you?
How are you here?
Why do you look like that?
Your gaze drags over him again, slower this time, as if you look long enough, itâll make sense.
It doesnât.
It only gets worse.
Because the more you look
The more certain you are.
It is him.
And it isnât.
Your pulse is loud in your ears now. You take a step back without meaning to.
His eyes narrow slightly at the movement.
Tracking. Reacting. But not knowing.
Thatâs what hits hardest.
He doesnât know you.
Heâs looking at you like youâre nothing, just another savage to deal with.
Quaritch is supposed to be dead.
You know he is.
You built your understanding of balance around that truth.
Now heâs standing in front of you, wearing another body like it means nothing.
âNoâŚâ the word slips from you before you can stop it.
His gaze sharpens instantly, locking onto you with that same intensity you remember, but something is missing.
The longer he looks at you, the more that focus shifts.
Just slightly.
His brow tightens, like something isnât lining up..
Your grip on your bow loosens, not lowered, not raised, caught somewhere useless in between.
Not Naâvi.
Not the sky man from the cave.
But not not him either.
Your chest tightens painfully.
Because you know that presence.
You remember the way he stood. The way he watched. The weight of him in a space.
And itâs still there.
Inside something that should not exist.
Around you, the fight is still happening, but it feels distant, muffled, like it belongs to another world.
All you can see is him.
All you can hear is your own pulse.
He takes a step toward you, Slow and Measured.
approaching you as if your frightened prey.
Your body reacts too late to the arrow lifting, but your hands arenât steady anymore.
âYou died,â you say, the words coming out sharper than you expect.
Quaritch head tilts at your words. Thereâs a flicker of confusion that's real and unguarded only for a second.
Your grip tightens on your bow.
This isnât the man from the cave. This is something made. Something sent to kill.
âLady,â he says, voice rough, âI donât know what you think you saw, but..â
He cuts off mid-sentence.
Something shifts.
You see it.
Feel it.
That same pull, Stronger now. Closer.
His eyes narrow as he looks at you again, not like a soldier sizing up a threat. But as a man trying to remember something just out of reach.
ââŚhave we met?â he asks.
It lands wrong.
Too casual. Too unaware.
Something in you hardens instantly. He should know.
After everything.
After the choice you made.
He should remember.
Your grip tightens again, anger cutting clean through the shock.
âYou donât remember,â you say, quieter now.
Not a question.
A realization.
âIâd remember you,â he says flatly.
You almost laugh at the undeniable truth thatâs standing right in front of your face.
He truly doesnât remember, but thereâs still a part of him deep inside that still knows.
You donât know if that makes this better Or just a whole lot worse.
âTargetâs hostile,â one of the others calls. âTake her down!â
Quaritch doesnât move. Not immediately; his gaze locked on you, unwavering.
Your pulse hammers, because you feel it too.
That pull is stronger now, like something unfinished snapping tight between you.
He steps forward, slow and measured
You stare at him,there it is again, that split second where his focus wavers. Where something almost surfaces
Then itâs gone as quickly as it came.
Your chest tightens.
Because he doesnât understand it.
Whatever that is
He doesnât know itâs there.
Behind him, one of the soldiers calls out, âColonel, weâve got movement; what do you want done with her?â
Colonel.
Of course.
That lands exactly where it should.
Your jaw sets.
Right. That part didnât change.
Your movement fractures
Too slow.
A sharp crack.
Pain explodes through your side.
Your body jerks as something hits you from behind. hard, fast, enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The arrow slips from your grasp as you drop to one knee, vision flashing white for a second.
A Stun round.
You try to move but You canât.
âGot her!â a voice snaps.
Rough hands grab you, forcing your arms back, binding them before you can recover.
You try to move
Nothing.
Your gaze snaps up through the haze straight to him.
Heâs already moving toward you, fast and focused
He crouches in front of you, studying your face with an intensity that feels invasive, searching for answers he cannot find.
Quaritch lifts his hand, quickly pausing for a brief moment, then grips your jaw, turning your face slightly toward the light.
You jerk against it, anger flaring despite the weakness in your limbs.
âDo not touch me,â you hiss.
Something flashes in his expression. ââŚIâve seen you,â he says, quieter now. âSomewhere.â
The cave.
The fire.
His tiny pink hand engulfed in yours
You hold his gaze. Cold and Unyielding.
âNo,â you say.
The lie sits heavy between you.
Because part of you wants him to remember.
And part of you is terrified of what happens if he does.
Behind him, one of the soldiers calls out, âColonel, weâve got the others moving. What do you want done with her?â
Quaritch doesnât look away from you.
Not once.
His grip loosens slightly, but he doesnât let go.
Synopsis: The forest is too quiet. You expect to find a stray machine, or maybe a lost Sky Person who wandered too far from their metal walls. What you find instead is a human soldier half-dead beneath the roots, bleeding, dangerous, and very much alive. You should have killed Miles Quaritch where he lay. What begins as a prisoner watched at Arrowpoint becomes something much more dangerous: a bond. But soldiers always return to war, and monsters never forget what they are. Sixteen years later, the forest delivers him back to you. this time, the man you once spared is dead, and the thing with his face is hunting your people.He remembers nothing. Your heart remembers everything.
soon youâll learn that mercy was your first mistake.
Note: Sorry if itâs short, Iâve been hit recently with a lot of medical issues, so writing has been difficult as of late. This is the final arc of human Quaritch, so weâll be moving onto the recom era, which tbh Iâm still thinking of how to go about it cuz I donât plan out my stories, I'm making it up as I go lol. Sorry for yapping, hope yaâll this enjoy this chapter
Warnings none really except the fact it's formatted so weird đ
<part 3 Masterlist
The fire had burned down to a low, steady glow, its warmth clinging to the stone long after the flames had settled.
Quaritch sat opposite you, resting back against the rock, his posture controlled despite the strain beneath it. He hadnât said much, and neither had you.
The forest moved in its usual rhythm. The distant calls of creatures echoed, leaves whispered in the breeze, and the quiet pulse of life carried on undisturbed.
Until it shifted.
It was subtle, but you felt it immediately.
A change in the pattern.
You stilled, ears flicking to the entrance. Across from you, Quaritch caught it too, his gaze sharpened
A guttural growl rolled in from the darkness,
Quaritchâs hand moved on instinct toward his side before stopping abruptly. There was nothing there. No weapon. No fallback. His jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before the reaction disappeared as quickly as it came.
âIt smells blood.â you said quietly.
âYeah,â Quaritch replied, his voice low. âI figured.â
Another sound followed, closer now, the careful movement of something just beyond sight. The growl came again, more certain this time.
You rose smoothly to your feet, already prepared. Quaritch shifted forward as well, his instincts screaming at him to act, but he had nothing.
You saw it clearly, the flicker of frustration, the vulnerability.
Without a word, you reached to your side and drew your spare blade, the metal catching faint firelight as you stepped back once, giving him space before holding it out.
He looked at it, then at you, with disbelief.
âYou serious?â he asked.
âTake it,â you said calmly. âIf you are to survive, you will not stand empty-handed.â
The growl outside sharpened, closer now, pressing at the threshold.
For a brief moment, he didnât move. Then, with a quiet exhale, he reached out and took the blade from your hand.
The viperwolf lunged out of the shadows with a burst of muscle and fang, its golden eyes glowing in the firelight as it tested the air with its tongue. Its claws scraped the stone just outside the cave entrance, leaving faint dark streaks. You instinctively loosed your first arrow, releasing it before the beast could reach the cave's mouth.
It struck the creature deep in the shoulder, but it did not falter. The viperwolf let out a roar that shook the air, a sound neither fully animal nor fully alien, and lunged again, quicker than you expected. Quaritch moved with precision, stepping in front of you now, blade raised, every muscle tensed for the strike.
Without hesitation, you nocked another arrow, drawing it higher and letting it fly straight for the creatureâs throat. It reared back in a wild, twisted charge before collapsing just beyond the caveâs entrance.
The fire's embers crackled softly as you moved toward the fallen viperwolf, kneeling carefully beside it. Your hand gently pressed against its mottled hide, feeling its warmth and firmness under your touch.
âEywa,â you whispered, bowing your head. âI see you in this life. I thank you for this gift. Your strength will not be wasted.â
Quaritch stood behind you, still holding the blade, watching without comment.
You dragged the body inside the cave with steady determination, separating meat and organs with precise, respectful cuts. Nothing went to waste.
Quaritch finally spoke, his voice quiet, almost a question.
âYou donât celebrate it?â
âIt is not victory,â you said turning to him âIt is balance.â
As you gazed at him, he didnât resemble a commander. He looked like a man surviving on borrowed mercy.
â
Eventually, exhaustion drew both of you in. You moved the moss bedding closer to the fire, seeking its warmth, and settled in.
Quaritch followed suit, positioning himself with his usual measured precision, the blade resting casually across his lap.
Quaritch drifted asleep beside you, body coiled, still alert even as he let himself rest.
Sleep came gradually, dragging you under quietly, gently, for Quaritch its was not peaceful.
A sharp, strangled gasp escaped him. His body jerked suddenly, muscles tensing as if he were caught in an invisible struggle. The blade slipped from his grip with a soft clatter, his hand trembled uncontrollably, eyes snapping wildly open, searching desperately.
You stirred instantly, watching him tense.
âQuaritch,â you whiepered quietly
His gaze met yours, unfocused, shadowed. He didnât speak. He didnât move. Only his chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths that fogged up his mask.
Slowly, his shoulders loosened just a bit, the stiff tension in his body easing, though the tremor remained.
You instinctively offered your hand. Quaritch hesitated, his pride and instinct clashing, before he gave in. The warmth of his grip was steady and grounding. For awhile, neither of you let go.
For now, the cave contained only the two of you. The nightmare had gone, but its echo stayed, lodged in the muscles he refused to relax fully.
And you both knew that this fragile stillness was only temporary.
â-
Morning came, brushing the cave walls in soft light. You stirred first, stretching slightly and letting the warmth of the moss bedding seep back into your muscles.
Quaritch was already awake, watching you. His body shifted slowly, a grimace flickering across his features as pain caught him mid-movement.
You held out your hand before he could even speak. Quaritch looks down at your hand and hesitates for a moment, then ultimately accepts it. His grip was tight, as if measuring the strength of the person offering it.
Then you felt a faint vibration through the stone floor. Quaritch tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
âA Samsonâ, he murmured.
The distant mechanical hum grew clearer, steadier, and more insistent. Before you could speak, he reached toward the seam of his collar, fingers pausing over something small and rigid. His brow furrowed
âYouâve got to be kidding me,â Quaritch muttered.
You stepped closer, examining the tiny metal object.
âDid you know!,âYou hissed out.
âIf I did, we wouldnât be having this conversation,â he replied, voice low but measured.
The vibration through the cave floor intensified, almost insistent. You ripped the tracker free, and once it hit the floor, you crushed it with your foot
Both of you knew it was too late. The hum of the metal birds above told you that.
Voices came then, calling from the outside.
âColonel! Sir, you good?â
Quaritch didnât flinch. He stepped out into the dim light at the caveâs mouth, every movement precise and controlled.
âTracker signal dropped. Thought we lost you,â another voice said.
âIâm fine,â he answered flatly.
âAlone out here?â
âYeah,â Quaritch replied
You watched in the darkness as they moved to escort him into the metal bird.
The cave settled into silence once again. The distant hum of the metal birds and the crunch of sky people's boots had faded.
Once completely gone, you moved forward cautiously, following the trail Quaritch had left behind, your eyes noting the imprints of his boots pressed into the soft earth.
He had spared you. Just as you had him. The silent weight of that thought hung in the air, filling the void left by absence.
You knelt beside the moss where the fire once burned, your hands resting on the cool stone floor. In a hushed whisper, you called out, âEywa⌠may his energy find its rightful place.â
â-
Seasons shifted.
War spread.
Whispers travelled through the People of a human who had chosen them: a Toruk Makto, the sky person who had defied his own kind.
Jake Sully.
With his name came battle.
Home Tree falling.
Sky burning.
The Colonel leading the assault.
Miles Quaritch.
And then
His death.
Shot down in the same metal suit that you found him in.
The forest began reclaiming what it had been left behind
You expected to feel relief.
Instead, there was only something that felt unfinished
You remembered the cave.
The silence.
The light of the fire reflected in his blue eyes.
The moment he chose not to expose your existence.
Not to betray you.
The man. The soldier. The predator who had survived on borrowed mercy.
You told yourself it did not matter.
The balance had been kept.
That He was gone.
But you did not know
That death on Pandora is rarely the end.
And that one day, beneath a different sky, you would see him again.
Synopsis: Youâre one of the few humans still allowed to remain on Pandora. Varang hates humans. She reminds you of that often.
Yet somehow sheâs always nearby. Watching you, shadowing your steps, and keeping you within her sight.
Which raises the question
why does she refuse to let you out of her reach?
Warnings: tension,possessive varang, jealousy.
Note: I've been sitting on this for a while, injuring my back, which has bound me to my bed has given me the time to get it done. Short and probably not the best, but yolo.
Masterlist
The exopac hums softly against your ears, filtering the thick smokey air. The mask feels foreign, but necessary a reminder that you are only human.
Varang assigned herself to oversee you, though it isnât said aloud. She simply appears wherever you are, silent and impossible to ignore.
You sense her presence before you see her: a shift in the air, a silent pressure that curls around your body, a glint of gold catching the corner of your vision. Varang is sharp-tongued, intimidating, and physically overwhelming.
You are smaller, perhaps too bold for your own good. You notice how close she leans to your shoulder as you record plant data, her tail brushes the roots just behind your ankle. She does not touch you. Not yet.
The land is dead. Dust and ash coat everything. The soil beneath your boots shifts, loose and powdery.
âYou move too fast,â she says one morning, voice low. âAnd with too little awareness. Pandora will not forgive such carelessness.â
âIâm fine,â you reply, adjusting a pack strap. âI know what Iâm doing.â
Varangâs jaw tightens. âHumans are weak. You should know better.â
You meet her gaze boldly, a twinge of defiance in your eyes. A spark of heat flickers in the silence between you.
The day continues with each movement observed and each glance recorded. Varang remains near but avoids contact, Her presence is unavoidable, and intentionally overpowering.
ââ
A few days later, the land is just as dry, the soil blackened, ash drifting over what little life survives. You kneel to inspect a tiny sprout, one of the few signs that anything will grow again.
Your foot slips on the brittle, ash-covered soil.
Before you can fall, a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, steadying you. A young mangkwan warrior, who had been trailing murmurs quietly, said, âCareful! Here, lean on me.â
âThank⌠thank you,â you breathe out, relief washing over you.
âYouâre welcome,â he says softly. âNeed help finding anything?â
Before you can answer, a low hiss cuts through the air. Varang steps forward, ears flattened, tail flicking sharply. She moves with coiled precision, like predator locked onto prey.
âYou do not touch her,â she hisses at the warrior. âShe does not require your assistance.â
The warrior freezes. Eyes wide. He mutters apologies and retreats quickly into the dust-choked landscape.
Varang turns her attention fully to you. Her hands are deliberate: one clamps your waist, the other lifts slightly at your jaw, guiding you backward.
Dust swirls in the still air, settling on your exopac, hair, and shoulders. Varang presses you as gently as a Naâvi can be with a human, but still quite firmly against a blackened tree trunk. Tail curling protectively around your ankle. Her cheek brushing against your shoulder, pressing her scent into you.
âIf you hate me so much, why are you always the one who comes looking when I wander too far?â
Varang leans down, voice low, dangerous âyou do not know how to survive here.â
inhaling sharply âThen teach me,â you whisper
Her gaze sharpens, Fingers tightening around your waist.â You provoke me,â she murmurs, low and tense.
Varangâs nostrils flare. Cheek brushes your shoulder again. âYou smell like him,â she growls
Confused, you ask, âLike⌠who?â
âThe one who caught you,â she rumbles out, tail curling possessively around your body, entrapping you . âBut he is not yours. You are mine.â
You swallow, pulse racing. âMine?â
âYes,â she hisses. âI claimed you the moment I decided to supervise you. No one else touches what is mine.â
âYou are reckless,â she murmurs. âAnd infuriating. And entirely mine.â
You tilt your head toward her, exopac hiding your expression. âThen⌠what do I do?â
âNothing,â she replies, voice low and tethered with possession. âStay. Here. With me.â
Ash swirls between you. Dust coats your boots and gloves. Every touch, every coiled tail, every scent mark communicates her claim. You are hers.
âYouâre⌠dangerous,â you murmur.
Her eyes soften just barely, still sharp, still claiming. âSo are you,â she replies.
You remain pressed to the scorched tree, ash drifting around you, heat pressing down. The barren land is silent, the world is reduced to dust and two figures.
Synopsis: The forest is too quiet. You expect to find a stray machine, or maybe a lost Sky Person who wandered too far from their metal walls. What you find instead is a human soldier half-dead beneath the roots, bleeding, dangerous, and very much alive. You should have killed Miles Quaritch where he lay. What begins as a prisoner watched at Arrowpoint becomes something much more dangerous: a bond. But soldiers always return to war, and monsters never forget what they are. Sixteen years later, the forest delivers him back to you. this time, the man you once spared is dead, and the thing with his face is hunting your people.He remembers nothing. Your heart remembers everything.
soon youâll learn that mercy was your first mistake.
Note: Thanks so much for the love on this series! Sorry if itâs short. Iâve been sick. The next chapter will be the last human Quaritch. I already have it planned. I was gonna add it in this, but it didn't flow well.
Warnings: none really? Tension, injuries
<Part 2 Masterlist
The cave mouth opened between twisted roots and stone, half-swallowed by vines. Bioluminescent moss pulsed faintly along the rock like a slow heartbeat.
âIt will keep you alive,â you said flatly. âIf you donât ruin that too.â
He didnât rise to it.
Good.
He was getting tired.
You pushed them aside and ducked through without hesitation.
Quaritch followed, slower, one hand bracing against the stone.
Inside, the space opened wider than it first appeared. Not a cavern, a hunterâs rest. Carved deliberately from stone and time. A shallow fire pit in the centre. Bundled dried moss tucked into a wall niche. Old markings scratched into the rock tell tales, symbols, quiet stories.
âThis isnât random,â he said quietly.
âNo,â you answered. âHunters use it during storms. Or when tracking takes longer than expected.â
You moved toward the back wall, kneeling to check the moss bedding. Still dry. Still usable.
The cave breathed cool air around you. Outside sounds dulled to a distant hush.
Quaritch remained near the entrance for a moment, reluctant to delve further in.
âYou can come in,â you said without looking at him. âThe forest wonât strike you dead tonight.â
A faint exhale, not quite a laugh.
He stepped forward. The movement cost him more than he let on.
You pretended not to notice. Silence settled between you, not sharp like before, just heavy.
You began rebuilding the small fire pit with practised motions. Stone. Kindling. Dry fibre.
After a moment, Quaritch lowered himself against the opposite wall with a restrained grunt. His back hit stone. His breathing steadied slowly.
âYouâre not tying me up,â he observed.
âIf I wanted you dead,â you replied evenly, âyou would not be sitting.â
That earned a glance. Longer this time. Not defensive, just assessing.
The fire caught with a soft bloom of blue-orange light, reflecting against the cave walls. Shadows stretched. The space shrank.
For a while, neither of you spoke. Dripping water echoed somewhere deeper inside. Quaritch watched the fire, and you watched him watching it.
Then, quieter than before, stripped of bravado, âGrace believed this place could work,â he said, not looking at you. âHumans and Naâvi.â
The words werenât mocking.
Just⌠tired.
Your fingers tightened around a small stone.
âShe was right,â you said after a moment.
Quaritch glanced up.
âMaybe,â he murmured.
The fire cracked softly between you. Not forgiveness. Not peace. Just two beings in the same shelter, breathing the same air.
You could feel the warmth against your skin, the quiet rhythm of the flames filling the space.
Quaritch's breathing was uneven, subtle but noticeable, a hitch every time he shifted against the wall, trying to find a position that didnât pull at his side.
You sighed, standing and moving closer. Quaritchâs eyes snapped to you instantly.
âDonât,â he warned.
âI did not say anything,â you murmured.
âYou donât have to,â he added, his voice low.
You crossed the space anyway, kneeling a careful distance from him. The light from the fire cut across Quaritchâs torso, and there it was. Dark blood soaking through the wrap, slow but persistent.
âThat wound was not cleaned properly,â you said evenly.
âItâs fine,â he replied shortly.
âIt is not,â you stated, tone flat.
His jaw flexed.
âI said itâs fine,â Quaritch repeated, sharper this time.
You reached for the edge of the blood-soaked bandage.
His hand shot out, catching your wrist mid-air. The grip wasnât violent, but it was firm.
âDonât touch me,â he growled
Quaritchâs bright blue eyes locked on yours, sharp and unyielding. Not quite fear. Something harder, revulsion, restrained, but there.
You went still beneath his grip.
âBecause I am Naâvi?â you asked quietly.
Quaritch's grip tightened just slightly.
âYou donât know what you are to me,â Quaritchâs voice rougher now. âYou donât know what that does.â
Your gaze didnât waver. âI am trying to stop you from bleeding out on sacred ground,â you said.
His breathing hitched again, pain flashing across his face before he forced it down.
âI donât need your help,â Quaritch bit out.
âYou cannot even sit upright without bracing,â you replied.
Silence settled between you. The cave held its own hush, broken only by the soft crackle of fire and the distant drip of water somewhere deeper inside.
The fire shifted. Quaritchâs grip slowly loosened, though he didnât let go completely.
âYou think this changes something?â he muttered, eyes fixed on the flames. âYou patch me up, and suddenly Iâm grateful?â
âI expect nothing from you,â you stated.
That landed. Harder than if you had demanded thanks. Quaritch searched your face, maybe looking for mockery, for superiority, for some quiet triumph.
He didnât find it.
His hand finally fell away.
âDo it,â Quaritch muttered, turning his face slightly away. âBut donât pretend this means anything.â
You carefully began unwrapping the bandage.
Quaritchâs muscles tensed under your touch, not from pain at first, but from restraint. From forcing himself not to recoil.
When the cloth pulled free from the wound, he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
You worked in silence. Gentle and efficient. The contact was clinical but close. Close enough to feel the heat of Quaritchâs skin. Close enough that he couldnât ignore that you werenât trembling.
You werenât judging.
Just⌠helping.
âYou hate me,â Quaritch said suddenly, staring at the cave wall.
âYes,â you answered.
A pause.
âYou shouldâ, Quaritch replied, voice low, still staring at the wall.
You cleaned the wound carefully, pressing new herbs into place. Quaritch flinched again, harder this time, but didnât pull away.
When you finished rewrapping him, your fingers brushed Quaritchâs side briefly as you secured the knot.
He froze at the contact.
Not pulling back, not leaning in. Just⌠feeling it.
You withdrew first.
âThe bleeding will slow,â you said, sitting back. âIf you survive the night, you will walk better tomorrow.â
A faint, breathless huff. âThatâs your bedside manner?â Quaritch asked.
âIt is more than you deserve,â you returned.
And yet.
Quaritch didnât argue.
He leaned his head back against the stone, eyes closing briefly, not in defeat, but exhaustion.
The firelight softened the harsh lines of Quaritchâs face.
For the first time since entering the cave, he looked less like a commander.
More like a man.
âYou shouldnât have helped me,â Quaritch murmured, not opening his eyes.
âProbably not,â you said quietly.
Another long silence settled between you. But this one felt different.
Synopsis: The forest is too quiet. You expect to find a stray machine, or maybe a lost Sky Person who wandered too far from their metal walls. What you find instead is a human soldier half-dead beneath the roots, bleeding, dangerous, and very much alive. You should have killed Miles Quaritch where he lay. What begins as a prisoner watched at Arrowpoint becomes something much more dangerous: a bond. But soldiers always return to war, and monsters never forget what they are. Sixteen years later, the forest delivers him back to you. this time, the man you once spared is dead, and the thing with his face is hunting your people.He remembers nothing. Your heart remembers everything.
soon youâll learn that mercy was your first mistake.
Note: Thanks for all the love of part 1! It will probably be 1-2 chapters of Human Quaritch before the time jump (i havent decided yet).
warnings: mention of past RDA violence, tense scenes, Quaritch is a villain. not good at warnings just be advised
Part 1 Masterlist
Quaritch shifted under your gaze, pain engraved into every line of his body. The awkward angle of his leg made him grimace. Dirt, bruises, and burn marks covered his torso from the ruined sky demon suit.
His fingers jerked toward the small cluster of Atokirina hovering inches above his face. Without thinking, he swatted at them.
You hissed sharply. âDo not!â
The forest exploded in light.
The Atokirina lit up, sending blue-green sparks across the roots and leaves. A tide of energy swept over the clearing, making your bones vibrate. Leaves shook, vines moved, and the air swelled with a low, steady hum, like the forest was scolding him.
Quaritch yelped and pulled his hand back, eyes wide as sparks sizzled on his bare skin. âWhat... what the hell...â he rasped, stumbling backward, scraping against a root. Pain sharpened his breath.
He flinched, arms lifting instinctively to protect himself, and you could see the strain in his bare shoulders, the way every muscle coiled. âEasy!â he barked, voice rough. âI didnât meanâ
âMeaning doesnât matter,â you snapped. âThis is their world. Their rules. You break their balance, you pay.â
The Atokirina flared again, brushing closer, their sparks dancing over him without truly harming him but enough to make him stumble, to make him taste fear that no Sky People could command away.
After a tense pause, he straightened a little and forced a brittle smirk. âAlright, alright, loud and clear, tree lovers,â he muttered, his voice coarse and his body still shaking from the energy.
You stayed still, letting the Atokirina flare and pulse around him so he could feel the full force of the forestâs authority. You waited until their glow faded and they hovered protectively near your shoulders before you spoke again.
âThis is what it feels like,â your voice low and steady. âTo be seen. To be judged. To be powerless. Out here, there is no machine, no armour, no firepower. Just you. And every action youâve taken, every life youâve destroyed is laid bare.â
Quaritchâs jaw tightened. He looked down at his bruised torso, then back at the tiny glowing spirits still circling, reluctant but watchful.Â
ââŚGuess Iâm⌠gonna learn the hard way, huh?â
âYes,â you said quietly. âYou will survive, but only because I allow itâ
For the first time, he seemed small, human, stripped bare not just of armour but of control.Â
âUp,â you ordered, gesturing with your bow. âI said up. Donât move unless I tell you.â
Quaritch exhaled slowly, testing his injured leg. He grimaced, but he obeyed. Slowly, painfully, he rose first to a sitting position, then to his feet. His gaze never left yours. He was studying you now, the weight of the forest pressing against him, forcing him to learn, to submit.
You pointed toward the thicker part of the clearing. âMove with me. Step carefully. One wrong motion, and the forest decides your fate.â Â
He nodded, still limping, his bare skin catching the twinkling light of the Atokirina as he followed.Â
âCareful,â you warned, tail flicking, pointing to a low-hanging branch. âStep there, and youâll fall. Donât test me.â
Quaritch muttered something under his breath, but made no move to disobey.Â
âYouâre stricter than I expected,â he said at last,  eyes flicking to the spirits. There was no mockery now, just  acknowledgment. âAnd this place doesnât care who you are.â
âGood,â you said, not slowing down. âIt should terrify you. Every creature in this forest follows its own rules. You, Sky Demon, obey me. That is your first lesson.â
He swallowed, head bowed a little, and you saw something dangerous flicker in his eyes: challenge, curiosity, desire, or maybe all three. You ignored it. For now, the forest demanded his respect more than his ego.
He limped a step ahead, silent for a few moments, letting the forestâs pulse fill the space. Then he muttered, his voice rough and edged with something sharper than curiosity:
âHow do you know English. Graceâs school?â
ââYes. Grace convinced my clan to send a few of us to the Omatikaya clan for learningââ
Quaritchâs eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened. âOmatikaya hm?â His voice dropped low, almost a hiss. âI know that school.ââ
âI was there when some of your young hotheads torched one of our bulldozers. Thought they could take a swing and hide behind Graceâs little peace project.â His lip twitched faintly. âI led the response.âÂ
Your heart stilled for a moment, but your face remained carved from stone.Â
âYou⌠did what?âÂ
Quaritch finally looked at you.
âMy men opened fire,â he said flatly. âEnded that whole peaceful little experiment in one move.â A pause. âAfter that, your people never came back. The place was abandoned soon enough.â
The forest around you hummed, sensing the tension and danger, the human standing bare and vulnerable but still dangerous.
You tightened your grip on your bow, tail lashing once behind you.
The anger inside you coiled tightly but you forced it down, eyes scanning the shadowed trail ahead.
âYou will learn quickly,â your voice calm and cold, âEywa does not answer to your version of justice. She does not care about your fire or your weapons.â Your ears flicked back. âOut here, your choices still have consequences, just not the ones you control.â
âSo,â he muttered, breath uneven, âIâm supposed to follow you now. The blue-skinned wrath of Graceâs protĂŠgĂŠeâ
You didnât look at him.
âKeep walking,â you ordered
The forest pressed in around you, too quiet, too aware.
After a moment, he let out a low, humourless breath.
âNever figured that school would come back to bite me like this.â
Your jaw tightened.
He noticed. Of course he did.
âSo, you still want me walking⌠or you gonna cash in that look youâve been giving me since I opened my mouth?â
Synopsis: In his new Naâvi body, Colonel Miles Quaritch is sharper, stronger, and unequivocally drawn to you. What starts as a controlled observation quickly turns into a dangerous, magnetic bond. As he begins to lose control and his desire grows, it becomes clear that once Quaritch decides youâre his, thereâs no turning back.
Inspired by the song "I'm Your Man" by Leonard Cohen.
warnings: possessive quartich, dominant quartich, strong sexual tension(i guess?), but no smut, sorta feral quartich, bonding.
Masterlist
The first thing you notice about Quaritchâs new avatar body isnât the size.
Itâs the stillness.
Quaritch had always moved like a loaded weapon, sharp, efficient, ready to snap. But now, standing half-shadowed in the biolab doorway, heâs too quiet. Too controlled.
Like heâs holding something back.
âYou gonna keep starinâ, sweetheart,â he drawls, âor you got business with me?â
You donât look away.
Because something is wrong.
Not broken.
Just changed.
âYouâre adapting fast,â you say carefully.
His golden eyes narrow, but thereâs something else underneath.
Recognition.
Possession.
He starts showing up more after that. Not officially. Never on the logs.
Youâll turn around in the lab, and heâs there leaning against the far wall, massive arms crossed, tail flicking slowly and thoughtfully behind him.
Watching you.
Always watching you.
âYou keep hoverinâ,â you finally tell him one night, not looking up from your samples. âPeople are gonna start talkinâ.â
âLet âem.â
Your fingers still. That wasnât the answer you expected. You glance up.
Big mistake.
Because heâs closer now. Much closer than before. Close enough, you can see the faint striping along his jaw, you see the way his pupils have blown wide.
Like a predator locked onto prey.
âFor a soldier,â you say lightly , âyouâre developing some real bad habits.â a nervous gulp caught in your throat
His mouth tilts, not quite a smile.
âFunny thing about this body,â Quaritch murmurs.
He steps closer.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The air shifts with him; warm skin, jungle heat⌠and underneath it...
Smoke.
Metal.
And something dangerously, quietly fixated.
Your pulse stutters.
âWhat thing?â you manage.
He stops just inside your space.
Close enough that one more step would...
âEverythingâs louder,â he says softly. âSharper.â His piercing gaze drags over your face, slow and deliberate. âHarder to ignore what a man wants.
Every survival instinct youâve ever had is screaming at you to put space between you and the massive recom soldier crowding your air.
You donât.
Quaritch notices.
Something dark and satisfied flickers behind  his eyes.
âCareful,â he murmurs. âYou keep lookinâ at me like thatâŚâ
His thumb drags lightly along your jaw.Â
ââŚIâm liable to start thinkinâ you mean it.â he drawls
Your pulse is completely out of control.
âI didnât say anything,â you manage.
âYeah,â he says quietly. âThatâs the problem.â
The bond pulls tight.
Invisible and Unmistakable.
Quaritch goes still.
âYou feel that?â he asks roughly.
Your breath catches. Because yes. God, yes.
âI donât know what that is,â you whisper.
âI got a guess.â
His hand braces beside you, caging you in without quite touching.
âNaâvi instincts,â he mutters. âBodyâs⌠real interested in you right now.â
âThat sounds like a you problem, Colonel.â
He huffs a quiet laugh.
âSweetheart,â he says softly, leaning closer, âyou got no idea how much I wish that were true.â
The bond snaps tighter.
Your knees wobble.
Quaritch moves instantly, one arm locking around your back, hauling you firmly against his chest.
âEasy,â he mutters, voice rough. âI got you.â
His tail tightens sharply around your leg.
Possessive. Instinctive. Very Naâvi.
Your head feels light, too warm, too aware of him.
âQuaritch,â you manage faintly.
Something in him snaps another notch.
His forehead presses firmly to yours.
âHey,â he says, low and focused. âStay with me. Breathe.â
Large hand sliding slowly up your back.
Grounding. Steady. Something instinctive.
Your breath finally drags in shakily.
ââŚthere you go,â he murmurs.
But he doesnât let go.
You lean closer.
Big mistake.
His breath goes sharp.
ââŚyou keep doinâ that,â he warns, voice fraying, âand Iâm gonna start thinkinâ you like livinâ dangerous.â
But his thumb is already moving.
Slow and Intentional.
Your pulse jumps.
A rough sound rumbles in his chest.
The bond surges again.
Stronger. Hotter.
This time, it hits him just as hard.
His head drops briefly toward your shoulder, breath uneven.Â
âhell,â he mutters.
Your fingers curl into the front of his vest.
That nearly does him in.
Quaritch goes very still.
Then slowly, dangerously, His hand slides more firmly around your waist and pulls you flush against him.
âYou got any idea,â he murmurs near your ear, âwhat youâre doinâ to me right now?â
Your breath stutters.
His grip flexes. âYou still ainât said stop,â he says quietly.
You donât.
ââŚthatâs it,â he murmurs.
He moves decisively until your back meets the lab table.
Solid. Trapped.
His arm braces beside you, massive frame boxing you in completely now.
Certain and Possessive.
He lowers his head slowly, giving you one last chance.
You donât take it.
The last thread of restraint snaps.
His mouth finds yours, rough but controlled, heat held on a tight leash.
His hand slides up your back, pulling you fully against him as the bond itself demands it.
A low, wrecked sound leaves his chest.
ââŚsweetheart.â
When he finally pulls back
Itâs only far enough to breathe.
His forehead pressed to yours, arm still locked around you.
Synopsis: The forest is too quiet. You expect to find a stray machine, or maybe a lost Sky Person who wandered too far from their metal walls. What you find instead is a human soldier half-dead beneath the roots, bleeding, dangerous, and very much alive. You should have killed Miles Quaritch where he lay. What begins as a prisoner watched at Arrowpoint becomes something much more dangerous: a bond. But soldiers always return to war, and monsters never forget what they are. Sixteen years later, the forest delivers him back to you. this time, the man you once spared is dead, and the thing with his face is hunting your people.He remembers nothing. Your heart remembers everything.
soon youâll learn that mercy was your first mistake.
Note: probably not an original thought but I couldnât help but wonder what it wouldâve been like if it was Quaritch instead of Jake. Iâm dyslexic so I apologise for any mistakes
Masterlist
The forest had gone too quiet.
You stilled mid-step, ears flicking as the usual chorus of insects thinned into uneasy silence. Something was wrong.
Then you saw them. Atokirina, wood spirits, tiny, glowing, ethereal, floating like living sparks circling above the roots of a fallen tree. Their light pulsed in rhythm with the forest, brushing the figure beneath in halos of soft blue-green.
Your fingers tightened around your bow as you lowered into a crouch, scanning the undergrowth. The disturbance had come from the western ridge, close enough to the clanâs territory to matter.
A shadow slipping between roots and glowing flora, following the broken trail no forest creature would have left behind. Crushed ferns. Heavy footprints. The faint metallic scent that always clung to the demon machines of the Sky People.
But beneath it
Blood. Fresh.
You slowed.
There, half-hidden beneath the sprawling roots, lay the source of the disturbance.
A sky demon
breathing through some sort of mask strapped to his face, the kind you've seen Sky demons always wear when they came into clan territory with their small handheld machines and taking plants.
You noticed His metal shell in ruins a few feet away, dented, scorched, and unrecognisable. A cracked helmet rested on the ground, half-buried in dirt and roots. Yet somehow, the man beneath it had survived.
Your arrow was nocked in an instant, bowstring drawn tight.
âDo not move,â you warned coldly.
The humanâs eyes snapped open. Not the wide, panicked stare you expected. Sharp. Focused. Despite being injured, a dangerous Aurua surrounded him
Recognition hit you. War leader. You had seen his scarred face before, barking orders, moving with the confidence of one who believed this place already belonged to him.
Miles Quaritch.
Of all Sky People, the forest could have delivered to your feet⌠it had to be him.
âWell,â the human rasped, voice rough but steady, âainât this my lucky day.â
Your arrow did not waver.
âYou are far from your machines, Sky Demon.â You snalred
His mouth twitched. A cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
âYeah,â he wheezed â, Not exactly where I planned to park.â
He was bleeding heavily from his side. One leg sat at an angle that suggested damage. His weapon lay just out of reach, but not far enough for comfort. Â Still dangerous. Still watching you like prey.
âYou crossed into forbidden territory,â you said. âGive me one reason I should not end your life now.â
For the first time, something flickered in his expression. Not fear. Assessment.
Slowly, Â he lifted his empty hands a few inches off the ground.
âBecause,â Quaritch said evenly, âif you were gonna kill me, sweetheart⌠You wouldâve done it already.â
Heat flared in your chest, anger, or something more dangerous, you refused to name. Your tail lashed once behind you.
âYou think yourself very clever,â you scoffed.
âBeen called worse,â he shrugs.
Despite the situation, the blood loss draining the colour from his face, his gaze remained locked on yours. Steady. Measuring. Like he was memorising you. You did not like that.
Then the Atokirina moved closer, hovering near his shoulders, brushing his armour with their glowing tendrils. They pulsed with the forestâs rhythm, almost protective, almost⌠insistent. Your arrow wavered.
Eywa is speaking. Not yet.
You lowered the bow just an inch. His eyes sharpened immediately.
âDo not misunderstand,â you warned. âYou are still my prisoner.â
A slow breath left him, almost like relief, though the tension never fully left his body.
âWouldnât dream of misunderstanding,â he murmured.
You stepped closer at last, gaze sweeping clinically over his injuries. Up close, he smelled of smoke and scorched metal, sharp and harsh, but beneath it something warmer, alive, almost magnetic, pulling at your senses.
âYou will move when I tell you. If you try to escapeââ
âThat arrow ends my day. Yeah, yeah, I got the memo.â
Your eyes narrowed. Arrogant. Even now. Still⌠he had not reached for the weapon. Not yet. That, more than anything, was why he was still breathing. For now.
You gestured sharply with your bow.
âUp, Sky Demon,â you barked.
Quaritch exhaled slowly, like a man bracing for impact.
âAfter you, blue.â
Your tail lashed again. The Atokirina hovered protectively around him, their glow painting the clearing in alien light.
This was going to be a very long night.
Part 2
Note let me know what you guys think and if I should continue.
đ pairing: miles quaritch x human fem reader x varang
đ tags: nsfw, alien cultural misunderstandings (you guys know the drill at this point), oral sex, scissoring, vaginal sex, threesomes, fingering, size kink, miscommunication
masterlist
reblogs are always enormously appreciated!
General Ardmore might just be the scariest woman youâve ever met. You donât think you do a very good job at hiding how intimidated you are when youâre sitting fidgeting at her desk under her narrow-eyed, cold stare.
On the other side of the desk, Ardmore hasnât looked up from her datapad since she first grunted a greeting at you when youâd sat down. Itâs a powerplay â you both know itâs a powerplay. But damn, itâs working.
âUm⌠MaâamâŚâ 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 sheâs 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.
âYou know, Iâm trying to figure out just what it is you do, exactly.â She says, and her voice is just as cold as her eyes.Â
You swear it feels as though the temperature in the office drops.
âOh.â You say. Youâre trying to keep your voice light, but it just comes out strained. âI, um. Well, I suppose I manage theââ
âThe purpose of the Recombinant Support Team,â Ardmore cuts across you cleanly, as though you had no voice at all. âWas to handle the administration for the unit so that they could focus on their missions.â
Thereâs a slight pause.
âYes.â You say weakly, though youâre not sure if she was actually waiting on a response or not.
âAs far as I can see, you do very little of that.â Ardmore is staring at you with an impassive expression. âYou seem to spend most of your time doing their laundry.â
You feel your skin get hot and prickly with embarrassment. You donât always do their laundry. Just⌠just a handful of times. But you donât get a chance to defend yourself before sheâs continuing.
âYou have no experience, no real skills. I canât rightly see how you got hired in the first place. You should have been reassigned when the useful members of your team were killed.â She huffs, the first edge of irritation beginning to creep into her tone. âBut Quaritch has always liked a pretty young face.â
The prickling humiliation gets worse. Your shoulders are hunched, and you canât meet her eyes.
What sheâs 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 werenât completely stupid. You know that the Colonel didnât treat you like just any assistant.
âIââ You start to say, but she interrupts you yet again.
âIâm going to give you a choice.â She says, folding her hands in front of her.
Thereâs a pause, but this time you donât speak. You just wait, your tummy clenching anxiously. This doesnât sound like itâs going to be good. Are you being fired? Or demoted? Or finally reassigned? You suppose it was just a matter of time.
âThe Colonel has become increasingly difficult to handle of late,â Ardmore says, setting the datapad down in a way that comes across as too casual. âHeâs unruly, resistant to command. Seems to think he knows how to deal with the Naâvi insurgents better than anyone else.â
You blink. You had been aware on some level that there had been tensions between Quaritch and Ardmore, but you donât know why or what happened. No one tells you anything around here, and youâre too focused on just getting by to really worry about the bigger picture of the RDAâs long-term goals on the planet.
âYouâre aware that he left the city, unsanctioned, three days ago?â
That makes you tense. Itâs an accusation, really.Â
Of course you knew â 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 Sullyâs whereabouts, and had disappeared on their ikran mounts before anyone even knew they had gone.
Youâre aware of all of this because youâve already been chewed out by the higher ups in SecOps. Youâre meant to be up to date with the Recoms every move, after all, so itâs easy to drop the blame in your lap.
âY-yes,â You say, guilty and anxious all at once. âI didnât sanction thatââ
Ardmore continues over you, once again completely ignoring your attempt at speaking. It doesnât seem like she cares much if you know what sheâs talking about; you get the impression that sheâs off-loading some of this onto you like this is a stopgap therapy session.
âThe reason he was brought back was to complete a specific mission, and he has failed that mission several times.â
Retrieving or killing the betrayer and insurgent, Jake Sully. You know this one. Itâs hard to miss the holovids shimmering all over Bridgehead, declaring him an enemy of humanity.
âSo⌠is the Colonel being recalled, or something?â You ask.
Ardmore looks as though sheâs stopping herself from rolling her eyes through sheer will power.
âThe Recoms represent a significant investment by the company, so no, theyâre not âbeing recalled, or something.ââ Her voice is harsh in a way that makes you sit up straighter, your stomach curdling. âBut they do need some⌠incentive to ensure they stay in line.â
You nod dumbly. âAn incentive.â
âAnd thatâs where you come in.â
Truthfully, you havenât been following along with her reasoning very well in the first place, but now youâre flummoxed.
âMe, maâam?â Despite your confusion, you work to keep your voice as even as possible. Ardmore is clearly already irritated about your very existence; you donât want to give her a reason to hate you even more.
Your caution goes to waste, because Ardmoreâs eyes flash in aggravation anyway. You suspect that thereâs nothing you can do to please her, and it makes your spine go stiff. Your knees are watery, too â if you were standing, you might have gone weak.
âYes, you.â Ardmore says sharply. âNext time the Recoms are sent out, youâre going with them.â
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 sheâs one hundred percent serious. The General isnât the type of woman to make jokes, but the statement is so bizarre that you honestly canât quite get your head around it.
âOut.â You say at last. âInto⌠into the field?â
The Generalâs nostrils flare slightly as she takes an inhale, like sheâs trying to regulate her patience. Then she forces a smile.
âThatâs right.â She says. âQuaritch has been reckless recently. Letâs see if he takes the same type of risks when heâs toting you around behind him.â
You gape at her. You understand the basic premise. Quaritch has become a pain in her ass, so sheâs decided to shackle a weight to his ankle to ensure he doesnât go rogue like heâd done before.Â
But why does that ankle weight have to be you?
Your mouth is dry when you swallow. âUh⌠I donât⌠I donât know if that⌠I donât think the Colonel would care too much if I got killed in the field, maâam.â
Ardmore snorts a little, which isnât a reaction you had been expecting.
âRight,â She murmurs, glancing at the datapad. âYou 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.â
You blink, picking anxiously at a hangnail on your thumb. âUh⌠Yes, maâam. I had a cold.â
You swear her cold blue eyes actually flash at that.
âA cold.â She says the words slowly, as though tasting them. âA bad cold, was it?â
You hesitate, because no, it hadnât 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 hadnât 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 itâs a little strange that you were pulled off duty just for a runny nose, especially by a hard-ass like Quaritch.
âIt could have been contagious.â You say weakly.
Ardmore ignores that.
âPack a bag. Keep it light.â She says bluntly. âThey want to head out tomorrow.â
Thereâs any number of reasons you could give to illustrate how this is a bad idea. Youâve never been outside Bridgehead, you have no combat training, you arenât even very good at the job you have! The Recoms may not have complained, and Quaritch may not have demanded your reassignment, but that doesnât mean that he actually wants you around. In the last few months, youâve hardly seen him at all!
But youâre stressed and confused and not thinking clearly, because the only thing you blurt is; âTomorrow? But they just got back!â
âQuaritch has a fire under his ass at the moment.â Ardmore grunts, already picking up her datapad again. âBut that isnât much good if he fails again.â
She redirects her attention to her datapad and itâs clear that youâre dismissed. But youâre not quite ready to go.
This is the stupidest plan youâve ever heard. Youâre 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?
âYou said there was a choice.â You manage to say without your voice trembling. âWhat⌠whatâs the other option?â
Ardmoreâs eyes flick up to you.
âOther option.â 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 youâve been found wanting.
âIf you choose not to go, then there is no need for you on this planet.â Ardmore says after a pause. âYour presence here is superfluous. With only two Recombinants left, thereâs not much need for a Support Team as they now report to me directly.â
âSoââ You begin, blinking.
âSo,â Ardmore cuts across you again. âYouâll be sent back to Earth.â
The words land like a suckerpunch to the chest. Your breath hitches, and you stare at Ardmore with wide eyes.
Youâll be sent back to Earth.
You canât let that happen. Thereâs nothing for you back on Earth. Your city is a wasteland, buckling under the weight of a population that it doesnât have the resources to sustain. Pandora had been a new start for you â 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 didnât get off-world soon you would die in that dark, mouldy apartment that you were spending most of your paycheck renting.
You couldnât go back there. You couldnât.Â
And judging from the way Ardmore is looking at you right now, she knows it.
âIâll go pack my bag then, maâam.â You say, defeated and dull.
âââ シ ・ďžâ: .â˝ . :âďž
The jungles of Pandora are beautiful. Youâve 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 Naâvi believe.
Itâs so different to the decaying atmosphere of Earth and the industrial hellhole of Bridgehead, but you donât really get the opportunity to admire it properly because youâre so focused on the fact that Quaritch is angry with you.
Itâs not necessarily obvious, but youâre rather embarrassed to admit that youâre incredibly attuned to Quaritchâs moods. Itâs partly a survival instinct; Quaritch can be a scary motherfucker, and you feel a certain pressure to ensure that heâs kept happy. You tell yourself itâs because youâre the last member of the Support Team, but that doesnât 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 doesnât help things. You know that heâs aware of your crush; itâs obvious in every interaction he has with you. He calls you pet names â baby, honey, cupcake â he pats your rump when you walk by, his hands linger all over you.
Youâve 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.Â
You know youâre acting like a total loser, but itâs like you canât quite help yourself. Quaritchâs attention is intense, and it feels all consuming in the most exciting way, so when itâs taken away it feels like a shock to the system.
Itâs not that heâs ignoring you or anything, but for the few days after youâre first assigned to follow him and Wainfleet, heâs cold. He doesnât engage much in conversation, just grunting at you, and thereâs no head pats or even little ass slaps. You pretend itâs 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.
Youâre good at pretending.
But one day, maybe four days after you first set out, he softens again. Youâre not sure what the trigger is, but youâre so relieved that youâre 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 itâs 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 cotâs frame and the slick wet sounds of your mouths moving together.
Quaritch is massive even in repose, resting heavily on his back. Youâre 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 youâve 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 Quaritchâs broad Naâvi features in warm contrast, the little freckles on his face incandescent in the gloom. His golden eyes are heavy-lidded â youâre not sure if it's from arousal or fatigue. Itâs the end of a long-day, and he and Lyle had been trekking around various tribes all day. He hadnât said anything when theyâd gotten back, so you had assumed that it hadnât gone well.Â
When heâd 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.
âDamn, youâre messy,â he huffs, thumb swiping over your glistening mouth, smearing moisture.Â
His gaze darkens, but he doesnât 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.
âI gotta favour to ask, sweetpea,â He murmurs, tongue lashing just under your ear.
âA-a favour?â You repeat, shivering.Â
âMhm,â He hums, reaching up to prod a thumb at your lower lip again just to watch the soft flesh give. âJust a small one.â
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. Youâre 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, youâd be reassigned to work in the onbase McDonalds so fast your head would spin.
âUh⌠yeah.â You say, sounding completely fucking stupid. âA favour. Mm. What is it?â
Thereâs a soft huff of breath against your damp throat, and it takes a moment to recognise it as a laugh.
âNeed you to approve a weapons requisition for me.â
Youâre still feeling a little damn slow on the uptake, but you nod anyway. Thatâs not really a favour, is it? Thatâs 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 heâs only asking because youâre out in the bush, and thereâs nowhere for him to drop it off or something.Â
âOf course I can do that.â You say breathily, already leaning up to him in the hopes of getting another kiss. Youâre so relieved that heâs not angry with you anymore that you think youâd agree to anything.
God, you know youâre 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.
âThatâs my good girl,â He purrs, his chest rumbling as he leans down once more. âKeepinâ the team goinâ, aintcha?â
Itâs so obviously not true, just a bone heâs throwing you, but you nod your head anyway. Itâs good to feel wanted, to feel useful. Itâs not a feeling that youâre used to here on Pandora, always living with the heavy awareness that youâre only here because Quaritch has taken a liking to you on a whim. Even then, youâre not stupid enough to think that just because he likes to make out with you whenever heâs had a hard day, that heâs sweet on you.Â
The Colonel is a man on a mission, and youâve never been under any illusion of where your place with him is. Itâs 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.
âYou gonna get that?â He murmurs against your throat, teeth dragging over your pulse point.
âHuh?â You pant, mind hazy and a little stupid.Â
Your conscious awareness has narrowed down to his mouth on your neck, the suckling motions of his tongue as he licks over the marks heâs 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 youâre so horny and dazed that you stuff that survival impulse down deep.
âI said,â He nips at your earlobe, pulling a breathy squeal from you, âAre you gonna get that?â
At first you donât 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.Â
You scramble to straighten your uniformâitâs wrinkled, blouse misbuttoned, one strap of your bra peeking out near your shoulder. You yank it back in place, flustered.
âOh, god,â You hiss, panicked. âShit.â
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 Ardmoreâs familiar scowl appears on-screen.
âMaâam.â You greet, attempting to surreptitiously smooth down your hair.
Even through the fuzzy video, you can see her cold eyes narrow.
âSitrep.â She barks, audio crackling.
You clear your throat, struggling to gather your thoughts. âYes. Um. The⌠the Recom unit scoped out another one of the Reef clansââ
âAny sign of the kid?â
Behind you, the cot creaks as Quaritch shifts, listening in.
âNot yet, maâam.â You say, fighting the urge to glance over your shoulder.
Even through the shitty videofeed, you can feel Ardmore eyeing you, assessing you. Youâre hyperaware now of the rumpled clothes, youâre messy hair. Can she see the hickeys Quaritchâs 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.
âAnd Quaritch?â She asks.
You hesitate, just briefly.
âHeâs conducting interrogations with the clan.â You say. âWithin mission parameters.â
Truthfully, you donât 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 Quaritchâs son. When they get back they smell of gasoline and ash, and neither will offer any information about what theyâve done.
âThat wasnât my question.â Ardmoreâs voice crackles, but you can hear the undertone of impatience.
You steady your voice. âHeâs focused, maâam.â
You donât look behind you, afraid of what you might see on Quaritchâs face. He knows that Ardmore calls every night for a sitrep, he knows that sheâs using you to check up on him, but youâve never talked about it. Itâs probably part of the reason heâs so reticent with information, why he keeps you in the dark on his plans.
But Ardmore doesnât seem happy.
âHave you been out in the field with them?â She demands. âThatâs what youâre there for.â
Thereâs 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.
âUm⌠no, maâam.â You say hesitantly. âIt was deemed too dangerous for a non-combatantââ
âI want you out there with them tomorrow.â She barks, as you had suspected.
You deflate a little, anxiety curdling in your stomach. âYes, maâam.â
Her eyes flick briefly past the camera, then back to you, calculating.
âAnd you are not to involve yourself beyond observation,â she adds. âNo heroics. No fraternisation.â
Your cheeks burn, hearing the unspoken accusation. âUnderstood.â
Thereâs another pause, during which Ardmore studies you like a pawn on a board she hasnât quite decided how to use.
âKeep the channel open,â she says finally. âIf anything changes, I expect to hear it immediately.â
Youâve 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 Quaritchâs silence.
Finally, you turn, and as soon as you catch sight of Quaritch you flush. Heâs still stretched out on the cot, right where youâd left him, but what you hadnât noticed was the unmistakable bulge in his cargo pants. God, youâre glad you hadnât glanced behind you in the middle of that call â youâre 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 â no longer in arousal, but now in unmistakable annoyance.
âI guess Iâm coming with you two tomorrow,â You say, keeping your voice as light as possible as you stand. âWhere did you say you were going?â
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 heâs angry.
âNext time,â he says, voice rough, âyou tell her less.â
âOh.â You say, voice small. âRight. Iâm sorry. I justââ
But heâs not interested in speaking to you, because he doesnât wait for you to finish speaking. He just grunts, stepping past you and heading for the door.Â
You watch him leave, lip trembling.
âââ シ ・ďžâ: .â˝ . :âďž
Quaritch and Wainfleet are keeping their plans from you again.
Itâs obvious in the way that Quaritch doesnât 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. Heâs 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.
âBut Elena said that if Kyle was going to keep sleeping around on her, then she may as wellâŚâ You trail off slowly, realising that the only one listening to you is Lyle.Â
Quaritch is still frowning at something at the datapad. You squint and crane your neck, but canât quite catch a glimpse of what heâs looking at.Â
âDo you want help with that?â You ask.
Youâre already reaching for the pad, used to helping him with whatever he needs, but this time he lifts it up out of your reach.
âNo,â he grunts. âLeave it.â
You blink, surprised. He never usually refuses your help. If anything, he usually shoves whatever piece of tech heâs messing around with into your hands and leaves you to sort it. But this time, he angles the datapad out of sight so you canât see what heâs doing.
It shouldnât be surprising at this stage, but you still feel the little sting of hurt.
Lyle leans forward. âWhat did Elena do next?â
âHuh?â You blink, distracted now.
 Lyle is watching you, tail coiling impatiently, waiting for you to finish your story.Â
âOh, right.â You clear your throat, gathering yourself. If Quaritch is going to be like that, fine. Youâll just ignore him for a while until he decides to act right again.
âRight. So, Elena said that if he was going to keep sleeping around, they may as well just open the relationship.â
Lyle gasps, letting out a low cackle of delight.Â
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.
Itâs not until later that you really regret not asking more questions, demanding answers.
Itâs late by the time the air carrier landed at a sort of village, and youâre forced to rely on the too-bright artificial floodlights to illuminate the surroundings. Itâs some sort of Naâvi settlement, though it doesnât look like any that youâve seen photos of. Itâs 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 theyâve constructed their raw-hide tents and wooden yurts.
The people, too, come as a shock. Youâve never actually seen a Naâvi before â the Recombinants donât count, too human in nature to really count as alien â and youâre a little taken aback by how⌠different they look. Itâs not just the red and black paint, or the shaved heads, or the near nudity. Itâs 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 itâs 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. Youâre not sure what youâve 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 thereâs the woman.
Nine feet tall, slender in that muscular Naâvi way, she towers over you. She moves like a panther, as though sheâs 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 hasnât 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 youâd seen once in a nature doc.
Sheâs a little bit terrifying. Itâs difficult not to stare.
Quaritch is sauntering around. Ostensibly, heâs overseeing the weapons drop, but to you it seems like heâs⌠showing off. Peacocking, almost, displaying how powerful he is, how strong, how he keeps his promises. Itâs 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 Naâvi around you treat her with nothing short of obeisance only solidifies your initial impression that she was the leader of the clan.
âHere she is,â He says, his chest all puffed out. âThe little girl who organised all these weapons for you.â
He says it in English, then repeats it in Naâvi. You bristle at being called little girl, but donât dare to correct him. Not while the woman is staring at you, mouth parted, like she wants to eat you alive.
Youâre pretty sure youâre the first human sheâs seen up close, though admittedly she doesnât 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 sheâs trying to unravel you with her eyes alone.
When Quaritch shows the strange Naâvi woman â Varang, he had called her â the FT-M3A1 Flamethrower, he stands so close to her that heâs practically pressed up against her back. His hands linger in a way that youâre so familiar with, because itâs usually your body that theyâre lingering on.Â
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.
âBooyah!â Quaritch booms, grinning wide as he watches Varang torch one of her own peopleâs tents.
âBooyah!â 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 Quaritchâs hand as the other Mangkwan descend on the shipment.Â
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 heâs just gone to talk strategy, to negotiate, to do whatever it is he does when heâs being the Colonel instead of⌠whatever heâs been to you.Â
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, youâre 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.
âStop messing with that.â Wainfleet grunts without looking at you.
His eyes are fixed on that stupid beaded curtain hanging over the entrance of Varangâs tent. Heâs 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.
âWhat do you think theyâre doing in there?â You ask, unable to help yourself.
Wainfleet finally tears his eyes away from the beaded curtain, only to give you a look of disbelief.
âWhat do I think theyâre doing?â He repeats.Â
Under his disbelief, thereâs 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 donât even flinch anymore; theyâve been like this for the last hour, and it doesnât seem like theyâre going to stop anytime soon.
Wainfleet barks something at them in Naâvi. Your grasp on the language is poor; youâd taken a few classes when you were new and idealistic, but it was tough. Still, you know enough to know that heâs ordering them to stop wasting ammo. You doubt itâll make a difference though â 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 arenât 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. Youâre not sure what the weapons mean to them, but it doesnât feel good.
A few are sitting near you and Wainfleet at the fire. Theyâre staring at you, hard. Anytime you make eye contact with them, they hiss at you, chuckling throatily when you flinch. Again, you suspect youâre the first human theyâve seen up this close. Or maybe itâs just that they usually kill your kind when theyâre this close. It certainly looks as though theyâre thinking about it.
Ever since you stepped foot on Pandora, the RDA had been impressing upon you how dangerous the Naâvi 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.Â
You had done this, even if you didnât realise it. It was you who had ordered the weapons, it was your signature on all those forms.
âFuck,â You moan, burying your face in your hands. âArdmore is going to kill me.â
Wainfleet doesnât bother reassuring you. He just keeps watching the curtain.
âââ シ ・ďžâ: .â˝ . :âďž
Varang has taken to watching you. A lot.
It feels⌠challenging. Or appraising, maybe.
You avoid her to the best of your ability. You canât 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 theyâre 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 youâve only ever seen when heâs pleased. Really pleased.
It makes your chest ache.
But as the days pass, you realise something. When sheâs not watching Quaritch with those bright, lamp-like eyes, sheâs watching you.
It had been easy enough to ignore at first. Youâve 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 Varangâs 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.
Youâd been too flustered and bewildered to argue, simply retreating back to the aircarrier.Â
It was big enough to comfortably transport everyone it needed to transport along with its cargo, but it wasnât 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.
Thatâs 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.
Youâre trying to catch up on reports, but your mind is buzzing and you job at the datapad more violently than you should. Youâve never been very good at keeping your paperwork in order, and you know that your quality has slipped even further since all this started.
Youâre 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 whatâs happened over the last few days. Things had spiralled out of control so quickly, and itâs 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.Â
At least, youâd like to blame the freaky alien connection; Wainfleet certainly did. Heâd told you all about the connection, all about what Spider had told them. The first connection for a Naâvi baby was their mother, then father, then the trees. Youâd be lying if you said that you understood it all, but Wainfleet speaks with such grim gravity about it. You know the only connection heâs 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 sheâs taken the place of the first connection.
Youâre not so sure. Youâre not blind, after all. You can see that Varang is one of the hottest women youâve ever seen in your life. She might stare at you, but when sheâs not looking you stare right back.
You had been fascinated by the Colonelâs Naâvi form, no matter how youâd tried to hide it, but despite the new body his body had still very much been human. But Varang? Sheâs 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.Â
Youâre so lost in your miserable thoughts, that you barely notice the door sliding open or the heavy footsteps approaching.
âThe hell you doinâ in here, kid?â
The Colonelâs 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.Â
Varangâs 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.Â
âSir,â You blurt, your voice pitched higher than is entirely natural. âIâ The General wants a report.â
He lets out a low, unimpressed rumble.
âSheâll survive without one for the next few days,â he says. âWeâll report to her when weâve got something to report.â
That makes you hesitate. You absolutely do have something to report. Several things, in fact; starting with Quaritchâs new infatuation with the tsahĂk 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 Naâvi tribe.
âI donât want to get in trouble.â 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 youâre 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.Â
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 theyâve been magnetised.
You look away from her, flustered.
Quaritch turns to say something to Varang in Naâvi. Your grasp on the language is still weak, but you catch the gist of it. Something along the lines of; âSuch a good girl, isnât she?â
Youâre 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. Theyâre talking about you in another language as if youâre not right in front of them, and Varangâs eye contact feels predatory and feline. You donât miss how Quaritchâs big fingers coast over her waist, or how she coyly sways into him.
Quaritch turns back to you then. âPack your things. Youâre staying in the village.â
You double take.
âIn theâ what?â
Quaritch isnât waiting around for you to wrap your head around that new order. Heâs already stepping back, heading back to the main control centre of the aircarrier, but he speaks over his shoulder.
âThe air carrier is rolling out tomorrow alongside the Mangkwan.â He says. âVarang here has so kindly agreed to help us with our search for Sully.â
âOh.â You say, determinedly not looking in Varangâs direction. âOkay. But why do Iââ
âYouâre staying here.â Quaritch says firmly. âDonât need you out there gettinâ in the way, or gettinâ yourself hurt.â
Getting in the way?Â
You stare at him in disbelief.
âButââ You begin, âSir, my job is toââ
âYour job is to do what I tell you to do.â Quaritch barks. âAinât much good to me if you get yourself killed in the field.â
And with that heâs gone, already yelling orders at some of the soldiers in the control centre. Youâre left alone with Varang, who isnât even blinking as she looks at you.
You simmer with rage, feeling like a pot thatâs about to boil over. This is such bullshit. Youâve done nothing wrong! Why have you been sidelined like this? Itâs true that youâve never been an essential member of the team, but youâve received direct orders from Ardmore to stick with him. And besides that, you were hoping that he wanted you to stick with him.
Itâs 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 wouldâve said he didnât want strings, didnât want expectations, didnât want to answer to anyone. Youâd never talked about what the two of you were doing. Youâd just fallen into it, assumed there was some kind of unspoken understanding there. It hadnât been serious, but it had been consistent. Heâd pulled you into dark corners of his office for quick kisses, his hands always finding your ass when you walked past, and youâd spent too many long evenings pressed against him, making out like it was nothing more than stress relief. Something easy. Something contained.
And now heâs found some local tail to occupy himself with, and youâve been quietly shuffled out of the picture like you were never more than a convenience to begin with.
It shouldnât hurt as much as it does.
And even worse is that fact that even though heâd 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, thereâs nothing to soften her features. But her eyes are what unsettle you the most. Theyâre such a clear shade of honey-gold, but thereâs nothing bright about them. Theyâre dark, always sharp. You donât know how to place the look she gives you.
 Thereâs no open hostility, no contempt, but you canât help but feel as though she hates you. Thereâs too much energy in her stare to be anything else.
Sheâs a full foot shorter than Quaritchâs towering frame, but her presence is palpable. Ignoring her is impossible; it feels like sheâs sucked all of the air out of the room.
When she steps closer, you donât manage to stifle your flinch. She crouches, peering closer at you, and you feel like youâre 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. Youâre a little distracted by how close she is, so your attention isnât solely on her words, but youâre pretty sure you catch the gist of it.
âI will take your mate.â
Your spine stiffens, and your eyes dart to the door Quaritch had disappeared out of. Thereâs 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. Itâs not stealing if he was never really yours. But youâre shocked by her boldness. Thereâs 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 doesnât have an ounce of doubt in her ability to do so.
And you hate to admit it, but you donât doubt she could take him from you, either. Youâve seen the way he looks at her, the way he wants to please her. You canât really blame him, either. Sheâs⌠well, sheâs alluring as fuck. Even now, with her in your space and vaguely threatening you, your body strains towards her like youâre entranced.
Sheâs still staring at you, as though waiting for an answer.
Thereâs nothing you can do but muster up your best glare, then gather up the scraps of your dignity and stalk past her. You donât look back once as you flee, unwilling to spend one more second under her golden-eyed scrutiny.
âââ シ ・ďžâ: .â˝ . :âďž
Varangâs 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 hadnât thought that Naâvi built with wood â something about not upsetting the flow of nature â but every dealing you have with the Mangkwan makes you think that you know nothing about the Naâvi at all.Â
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 donât 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 â narrowly avoiding what you think may be a spine â 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 youâre sure would be very comfortable, if you could stop imagining Varang coiled around Quaritch upon them.
Youâre trying not to feel too bitter about whatever the hell it is thatâs going on between them. You think youâve 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.
Sheâs my Jolene, you think miserably.
You spend the day in the tent. You finish a preliminary report to Ardmore that you donât send, and then you just⌠lounge around, lost in your thoughts. Thereâs nothing to do but think â you donât even nose around, because youâre terrified of disrupting something of Varangâs 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, youâve 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 youâre⌠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 heâd 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.
Itâs 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 Varangâs tent anyway?! It felt like salt being rubbed into an already raw wound.
âI will take your mateâ, she had said. There was nothing ambiguous about that.
âââ シ ・ďžâ: .â˝ . :âďž
To your bewilderment, even when Quaritch and the Mangkwan return from their outing, youâre 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. Itâs like he had just assumed youâd be happy to move in with him and his weird witchy alien girlfriend.Â
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 couldnât have?
And then to watch you so closely for a reaction! God, sheâs the worst.
You refuse to give her the reaction sheâs so clearly hoping for. You just turn up your nose, and move the furs immediately to the other side of the yurt.Â
She watches you set up your new sleeping station, scowling, and you feel a rush of triumph. Sheâs not going to get to you that easily.
Youâre so used to having Quaritchâs attention all to yourself, but now itâs split. He doesnât even really ask you to do anything anymore. Now, itâs like youâre a pet for real. You spend most of the ensuing days lounging in the furs, bored out of your mind.Â
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.
âSulkinâ donât suit you, baby,â He warns even as he steps past you. âGotta adapt.â
You scowl, and donât 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 donât want to see whatever goes on between them when theyâve 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 Naâvi language improves drastically by being so immersed in it.
During the times that youâre avoiding Quaritch and Varang, you wander around the Mangkwan. Theyâre not as scary as they had initially seemed to you. They donât bother you when you walk by them, at least, and some even exchange some words with you. You assume itâs down to your proximity to Quaritch, or maybe the fact that youâre currently staying in their tsahĂŹkâs tent.Â
But their tolerance doesnât extend to Wainfleet, who they often brush off, hissing at him.
Youâve spent the day wandering the village, eager to escape Varangâs relentless staring. You swear that her scrutiny has gotten worse recently, or maybe itâs just because now that youâre sharing the tent with them, itâs difficult to escape her attention unless itâs 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 canât tell if theyâre playing or fighting â everything just seems so violent, enough that you flinch into Wainfleetâs 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 doesnât trust anyone around him. On your other side is Zari, a Mangkwan woman who has taken to the human-style weapons with great relish. Sheâs learning how to use a rifle just like Wainfleetâs, and sheâs watching him and trying to copy his cleaning motions with her own gun.
A few days this week youâve 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 Naâvi, 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.
Youâve begun to get a little better at pretending you donât notice Varangâs ceaseless staring, but Zari is quite clearly affected by it. Sheâs 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 tsahĂŹk, before glancing quickly away again.
You simply refuse to look in Quaritch and Varangâs attention. You know that theyâre sitting together, probably leaning all into each otherâs 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 donât need to watch them playing footsie over dinner, too.
Zari is shifty enough under Varangâs watchful eye that your stilted conversation doesnât 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 sheâs trying to be intimidating, like she doesnât want you making friends around the village or getting too comfortable. But then why invite you to stay in her tent?Â
Sighing, you turn to Lyle to speak in English.
âI still donât get why Iâm not allowed to stay on the air carrier with the rest of the humans.â
Wainfleet just grunts. âBoss doesnât want you staying with the soldiers.â
You frown. Thereâs 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.
âI donât like staying in the tent,â You complain, feeling like a petulant child. âWhy canât I just stay in your tent? You know I donât take up much space.â
Wainfleet doesnât 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 donât 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.
âTsahĂŹk will want you to return to tent before dark.â She says, speaking slowly for you.
Despite yourself, you like Zari. Sheâs 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 youâve 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.
âI hate her.â You grumble, kicking your feet.Â
Wainfleet just grunts.
Irritated, you turn your scowl on him. âSeriously? Is that all you have to say?â
âKid,â he says tiredly, finally looking around at you. âI ainât stupid enough to get all twisted up in⌠whatever this is.â
He makes a vague hand gesture that seems to encompass you, and Quaritch and Varang, and the tent behind the gathering.Â
You bristle instinctively.Â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
Wainfleet finally sets the gun down, giving up the pretense of distraction. When he turns to you, he looks a little bit pained.
âLook, I didnât really get what was between you and the boss even before this,â He says lowly. âBut whatever the hell is going on between you two and the witch lady really ainât my business.â
You gape at him, mouth open and stunned.
âNothing is going on between us!â You say when you finally manage to regain your senses. âI thought that maybe the Colonelâ that maybeâ I donât know! But thereâs certainly nothing now that heâs with her.â
Wainfleet gives you the kind of look that suggests he thinks youâre an idiot.
âYou sleep in their tent with them.â He points out.
âNot with them!â You snap reflexively. You feel like a prickly cat, overdefensive. âThatâs justâ thatâs where the Colonel put me!â
He just huffs, shaking his head, and turns away.
âYeah,â he mutters. âWhatever. If you wanna get fucked nasty by them, Iâm pretty sure all you gotta do is spread yourself out in that crazy ladyâs stupid furs and wait for them to pounce.â
Once again, youâre struck dumb. Wainfleet has never spoken to you so bluntly. Youâve seen him in action mode, intimidatingly serious and quiet, but most of the time around you heâs been pretty light-hearted. He plays up the stereotype of stupid army grunt, but heâs wicked sharp and unfailingly loyal.Â
Heâs been stressed lately, on edge around the Mangkwan and tense ever since theyâve been armed, but this is the first time heâs directed any of that stress towards you.
âIâ I donâtââ You say stiffly, but you canât even bring yourself to finish.
God, this is embarrassing. Do you want to be fucked nasty by them? Youâd been so distracted by your changing circumstances that you havenât thought anything of the sort. At least, not really. Nothing that youâd 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 Wainfleetâs way. To your immense frustration, you feel tears pricking at your eyes.
Since you came to Pandora, youâve been so damn lonely. Youâd 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 youâd never managed to make any friends even after they had been wiped out in the battle with the Metkayina.Â
You werenât friends with Wainfleet exactly, but there had been a sort of camaraderie youâd had with him that youâd taken comfort in. Now, youâre embarrassed as hell.
What had you been thinking, dumping all your problems onto Wainfleet? Heâs a soldier, and heâs currently got much bigger problems with the ongoing conflict â he doesnât have time to listen to you whine.
You slink away from the cookfire like a kicked dog.Â
The idea of returning to Varangâs 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 youâre missing.
As you slip out of the village, you garner a few curious looks from the Naâvi 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 Quaritchâs directive.
It feels like itâs been an age since youâve been to the Samson, though it canât be more than a week since youâve arrived with Quaritch and heâd struck the deal with Varang. So much has happened in the last week, but at the same time youâve been doing hardly anything other than stewing in your own thoughts.
Still, youâre 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 youâll get a break from Varangâs 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 theyâre just practicing their shooting, though it strikes you as off that theyâre 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 theyâre just shooting at some of the glowing mushrooms that are growing in the underbrush. Theyâre 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.Â
You know exactly what these guys are like when theyâre drunk, and you know itâs not a good idea to go anywhere near them. Itâs an even worse idea to go near them without either of the Recoms near you â 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 Varangâs tent, how he had been insistent that you werenât to stay on the Samson. As much as you hate to admit it, he might have been right.
But youâve 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 donât look at them, if you donât acknowledge them, thereâs a chance theyâll stay in their own little orbit of stupidity and leave you alone.
The ramp to the air carrier is within a stoneâs throw when one of them staggers back, laughing, and catches sight of you.
âHey,â he calls, voice thick and sloppy. âHey, sweetheart.â
You donât respond. You pretend you didnât 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 â if you have to run, itâs going to be harder.
Thereâs snickering behind you, and even without looking youâre unnerved to find that they sound like theyâre closer now.
âCâmon,â another man says. âDonât be like that.â
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.Â
âWhoa, she jumped,â the first guy snickers. âDidnât mean to scare you, sweetheart.â
Slowly, you turn your head just enough to look at them, keeping your body angled away. There are three of them. Maybe four. Itâs hard to tell in the low light, as theyâre still standing in a loose group. You canât 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 theyâre 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.
âIâm just heading back to the carrier,â you say, forcing your voice to stay even. âYou guys should probably pack it in. Itâs, uh, getting late.â
Thereâs 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.
âââJesus,â one of them says. âHear that? Sheâs givinâ orders now.â
Another takes a step closer, eyes dragging over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. âYou ainât supposed to be out here alone, are you?â
Your pulse starts to thud in your ears, acidic panic rising up your throat.Â
âIâ the Colonel knows Iâm here.â You lie.
âOh, yeah?â He grins, slow and ugly. ââS the Colonel able to look beyond that little blue piece of ass heâs been hanginâ out of?â
âHeâsââ You start to say, but cut yourself off when they start to move.
They donât move quickly or anything, but thereâs nowhere for you to go as they start spreading out. They box you in, so thereâs no way to slip past them.
âI donât want any trouble,â you say, hating the way it comes out smaller than you intended.
âThatâs good,â the first man says, grinning as he steps forward. âNeither do we.â
âJust thought maybe youâd keep us company for a minute,â the second man adds. âGets lonely out here.â
You swallow thickly, and your dry throat clicks in the silence. âNo, Iâ I should be getting back to Quaritchâ actually.â
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 youâre dealing with the fragile egos of men who aren't used to being told no, and they feel unpredictable.
âYou need to relax,â One of them says with the air of imparting sound advice. âYouâre wound tight as hell. You been neglected, huh?â
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 thereâs nowhere left to go. The Samson ramp is behind them now, blocked by broad shoulders. Their size is nothing compared to the towering Naâvi youâve been spending so much time around recently, but theyâre still big bulky military men. You know you donât stand a chance against them.
The third one laughs, low and ugly. âBet sheâs bored stiff. All alone in that ash pit with the freaks.â He steps forward, reaching for your arm. âWant a good time, sweetheart?â
Your jaw tightens. You can feel your heart hammering, loud enough youâre half-convinced they can hear it too.
âI said no,â You say, your voice thin but sharp. âBack the fuck off.â
That finally wipes the grin off his face. Not completely, but enough. His eyes harden, the drunken amusement souring into something resentful.
âWatch your mouth,â he snaps. âYou ainât in Bridgehead anymore.â
Youâre so busy running through scenarios in your head â which way youâll dodge, how youâll escape, how youâll lose them if they follow, how youâll scream â 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. Itâs 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 itâs 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 doesnât look like he will be for long.
Towering over you all, face contorted in a look of poisonous rage, is Varang. But youâve 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 arenât 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 doesnât understand a word heâs 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 doesnât get back up again. In fact, he doesnât move at all.
âOh god,â You babble, scrambling to try and get to your feet again. âJesus, fuckââ
Varang turns on you then, and for a wild moment youâre certain that youâre 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. Sheâs angry â you can feel it rolling off of her in waves.
Ridiculously, your eyes begin to sting, welling up with tears. Maybe itâs delayed shock from that horrible encounter, or maybe itâs 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.Â
Varang stiffens.
A large hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to your feet. Bizarrely, you think sheâs actually trying to be gentle, but sheâs twice your size and doesnât seem to really understand how much stronger she is.Â
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. Sheâs 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 Naâvi who are in her path. They scramble aside, their large eyes watching curiously as you stumble alongside their tsahĂŹk. Some of them call after her, asking questions, but youâre too distracted to parse the words and Varang isnât stopping to answer.
For the first time since youâve gotten to this place, youâre relieved when you make it to the tent. Sometime during the walk youâd started clinging to Varangâs hand, and sheâs not shy about towing you behind her.
Inside the tent, Quaritch lounges shirtless in the furs. To your surprised bewilderment, all heâs wearing is a loincloth, same as the other Naâvi youâve seen. Heâs 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 donât 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.
âYou finished throwinâ your hissy fit then, sweetheart?â He drawls, setting the datapad aside so he can lean back lazily. âGood to see youâve finally come around toââ
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.
âWhat the hell happened?â He barks, and his eyes linger on your tear-streaked cheeks under mask. Â
Varang finally releases your hand; to your surprise, itâs you that clings to her. When she lets out a little rumbling noise you snatch your hand back, but thereâs 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.Â
She says something to Quaritch, but itâs fast and angry and you only catch a handful of words; âmanâ, âtakeâ, âmineâ, âslapâ.
Quaritchâs 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: âcome hereâ.
You donât even hesitate. You practically fall into the furs, clambering on your hands and knees like a whimpering little kid as you crawl toward him. Youâre vaguely cognisant of Varang crawling after you, twice your size and still emanating waves of irritation.
Quaritchâs big hand cups your jaw just beneath the mask, tilting her head back so he can take a look at your face. Youâre still sniffling, eyes red and puffy, and your nostrils are beginning to itch where the blood is drying and crumbling.
âGot a crack across the face, didja?â 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 youâre getting defensive and angry. How the hell have you ended back up in the one place you were trying to avoid.
âIs that all you have to say?â You ask for the second time that evening.Â
God, youâre starting to get seriously sick of military assholes.
He raises a brow, then gestures at Varang. âWell, Iâm guessinâ that she took care of âem.â
You think of the way she had brutally smacked them into the ground, the sickening crunch of their bodies hitting the ground. Youâre pretty certain they hadnât 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, sheâs looking at you as though sheâs expecting something from you.
You glance away. Her stare is even more intimidating up close.
âI was just trying toââ 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 Varangâs face as she leans over you, and suddenly sheâs all you see.
She begins tugging roughly at your shirt, and you squeal in surprise as the fragile fabric tears with a loud rip.
âJesus, woman,â Quaritch swears in English, before switching to Naâvi. âEasy! I told you, slowââ
âHave been doing slow!â She hisses back, teeth bared. âNot working!â
Youâre startled to see that her canines are a little longer than Quaritchâs. Maybe itâs just a difference between native Naâvi and Recom bodies, but it adds to the wildness of her.
Quaritch huffs, but he doesnât seem annoyed. He seems⌠amused?
He turns back to you, grin turned a bit wry. âSorry, sweetheart. Gonna have to take your clothes off.â
You goggle at him.
âTake myâ what?â
Varang is tugging at your trousers now, but theyâre proving more of a challenge for her. She seems to be familiar with the mechanism of the button and zip â and thereâs a pang that comes with the knowledge that itâs probably from unbuttoning Quaritchâs fatigues â but the belt seems to be an obstacle. She hisses at the buckle, aggravated.
âShe donât like all these clothes,â He says, though he neednât have bothered. You could see that. âJust take âem off while youâre in the furs, yeah? Make life easier for yourself.â
Youâre a little annoyed that he capitulates to anything she wants, but with the way sheâs so damn insistently tugging at your clothes even you have to admit that itâs the easier option.
âOkay!â 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 itâs not as though either of them were expecting lingerie.
Varangâs eyes dart over you. For a moment you think sheâs checking you for injuries and you spare a second of surprise â you hadnât 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.
âSheâs staring.â You whisper to Quaritch, mortified. You raise a hand to press over your chest.
But when you look to Quaritch, heâs staring too.
âSheâs been so excited to get to know you,â He drawls without taking his eyes off you. âBut I told her to take it slow. That youâre a skittish little thing.â
You stare at him, feeling as though youâve missed a step.Â
â...What?â
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 airâhot earth, cinders, salt, something musky and deep. When you donât flinch away from her she rolls closer, as though taking your stillness as tacit permission to keep touching.
âWhatâs happening?â You whisper, and your voice comes out pitched higher in uncertainty.
Quaritch just chuckles. Heâs 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 Varangâs fingertips coast over your collarbone.
âWeâve been waitinâ for you to get your damn panties out of the twist youâd knotted in âem,â he says. âBut Varang ainât a patient lady.â
âMy panties are not in a twist.â You snap reflexively, before actually thinking about what heâd said. âPatient?â
Quaritch huffs, rolling his eyes.
âJesus, kid,â He says in exasperation. âI know you ainât always the quickest, but câmon now.â
You fumble for an answer but before you manage to say anything, thereâs a weight in your lap. Varangâs every movement is so quick and sinuous that you barely even see her begin to move â one minute sheâs reclining at your side, and the next sheâs swung herself to straddle your legs.
âEep.â You let out the least dignified sound youâve ever made, staring up at her with wide eyes.
Beside you both, Quaritch lets out a breathy snort. âLike I said, impatient. You've been playinâ hard to get for too long.â
Hard to get?
Varang looms over you, the size difference stark and shocking. Sheâs 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 didnât have as many little glowing freckles as Quaritch did, but now you can see that theyâre just covered by the scars or the ashy streaky paint sheâs 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 â she could so easily bite through tendons and sinew with those sharp teeth, and sheâs 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 thereâs nowhere to escape to; it feels like Varangâs bulk is encompassing you, like sheâs the only thing left in the world.
She tugs at your bra. The fabric strains, stitches popping, but holds firm.
âI do not like this.â She says to Quaritch, her expression turning a little scowly. âHow do I remove, Quaritch?â
The way she says his name, accented and all drawn out, is actually a little bit cute. You donât get much time to think on it though, before Quaritchâs big hands are worming their way under your back.
âHeyââ You start to gasp, but then Varang takes you by the shoulders and pulls you up so that youâre 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 youâre embarrassed to find that you canât. Itâs been a very long time since youâve been bare in front of anyone. And even longer since someone has looked at you so hungrily.
Sure, youâve had your lazy make out sessions with Quaritch in his office, or in the Recom bunks when no one else was around, but youâve never been unclothed. Even those few times heâs fingered you with those gloriously big long fingers of his, you havenât been fully naked.
âWhatâs happening?â You whisper, eyes darting between them uncertainly.Â
Quaritch says something to Varang, and she shifts. As she swings her leg over you, moving off of you, youâre distracted by the coiled strength in her thighs. Sheâs pure muscle, the carbon fibre-infused bones adding even more weight to her, but she moves with an ease that youâre grateful for. One wrong move would probably crush you, but sheâs too nimble for any stray hits.
Youâre able to sit up now, and you do so slowly. Now that her tall body isnât curtaining you, youâre more self-conscious than ever. You feel exposed, and you cross your arms over your chest in embarrassment.
âOverthink it?â You repeat in disbelief. âShe took my clothes off!â
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.
ââCause she wants to fuck you.â Quaritch says bluntly. âThought that was obvious.â
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 âfuck youâ and âobviousâ keep replaying in your mind, and you canât quite decide which element to address first.Â
âFuck me?â You repeat at last, eyes darting anxiously towards Varang and her coiling tail. âYou mean⌠like, fucking me up?â
Varang smiles, a finger reaching out to brush over your nipple. To your mortification, it stiffens further under the attention. You donât quite have the presence of mind to pull away.
But Quaritch is staring at you, looking stumped and a little irritated.
âWhat?â He says. âWhy would sheââ
âShe hates me!â You hiss. âI thoughtââ
âHates you?â Quaritch has the nerve to look flummoxed. âKid, sheâs groping your tits.â
âI can see that!â 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 heâs not taking you seriously only makes you more irritated. Youâre sure that youâre stiff like an angry cat, your expression like thunder.
âYouâve been ignoring me all week!â You accuse. You want to sound angry, but you fall just short. Embarrassingly, you sound hurt instead.
You attempt to rally yourself, scowling weakly. âYou donât get to ignore me and then try to drag me into a threesomeââ
Quaritch has the audacity to roll his eyes.
âCome on, honey. Itâs not like that.â
âWhat is it like, then?â You shoot back.
Honestly, youâre a little impressed by your own spine. You usually find the Colonel scary enough to have your knees weakening, and youâve never managed to work up the courage to express your feelings to him. But this time itâs different; youâve had a shit day after a shit week which has followed a shit few months. You feel like youâre about to burst.Â
âIâve given you space, sweetheart, but my patience is at its limit.â Quaritch sighs. âCan a man not want his girls to get on?â
His girls? You blink, thrown off. Quaritch doesnât seem to notice your pause, and Varang is still curled behind you â 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.
âCanât help that weâre mated now,â Quaritch says, his eyes darting over you to Varang. âNot like it was planned, but thereâs no gettinâ out of it. These people do it for life, you know.â
 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.Â
Mated. You had suspected that they werenât just fucking, but it hadnât been confirmed until just now. It feels like a punch to the gut, but Quaritch continues before you can wallow.
âI gave you space to think about things, but you shuttinâ down ainât helping anything. Varangâs been chewing my ear off all week to get you into the damn furs with us.â
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.
âShe hates me,â You blurt. âShe doesnât want me near you.â
That earns a harsh bark of laughter from Quaritch. Youâre aware, of course, that itâs a ridiculous thing to say when youâre all hunched almost naked in her weird witchy tent. Theyâre both looming over you, practically sandwiching you, and Varang hasnât taken her hands off of you once since your bra came off.
âWell,â Quaritch drawls, grinning. âAs much as I like the idea of havinâ two pretty girls fightinâ over me, I'm not all too sure thatâs what was happeninâ, baby.â
Thereâs 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?
âItâs normal for âem,â He continues as though you have any idea what heâs talking about. âThey got no hang ups about it.â
You stare at him. Slowly, youâre beginning to put the pieces together. Youâre not stupid, but it all seems so silly and unlikely that youâre having a hard time believing it.
âThreesomes?â Even saying it out loud has your body flushing with embarrassed heat.Â
God, youâve 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. âWell, itâs the natural solution, ainât it?â
Wet heat runs up the side of your neck, and you lose track of the conversation instantly. You jolt, squealing, but Varangâs tail has wrapped around your waist and sheâs baring her teeth.
âToo much talk, Quaritch,â She says, her voice low and smokey. âStop distracting her.â
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 Naâvi body into sharp relief. God, heâs so hot. His arrogance should probably be a turn off, but youâre embarrassed to admit that it only adds to the wetness between your legs.
âShe screws like she fights,â He whispers like heâs sharing a secret. âBrutal and fiery. But Iâve told her to take it slow and easy.â
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. Youâve never had a threesome before, so youâre not sure what youâre 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? Youâre not sure you could beat herâ
But Varang isnât moving on Quaritch. Sheâs moving on you.
All you can do is gasp as she pushes you down. Itâs not that sheâs rough, but she moves with purpose and sheâs so much bigger and stronger that even a light nudge completely flattens you. Now that youâre looking at her in this new light, her smile doesnât 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 sheâs slowed right down. You think sheâs going slow on purpose â obviously, Quaritchâs words have stuck with her. Where she had been forceful earlier, sheâs cautious now.
You swallow thickly, and hear your throat click in the quiet.
âOff.â Varang coos, her long fingers hooking into your cheap panties. Sheâs smiling at you like she thinks youâre a bit stupid.
You glance at Quaritch reflexively. Heâs watching the two of you closely. You think, a little uneasily, that he looks like heâs 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 doesnât even matter that sheâs still between your thighs, blocking them from shutting fully, because you scramble to get up. The immediate impulse is to flee â you donât even know where, because itâs not like you have options, but youâre so embarrassed that you almost feel like braving the air carrier despite the soldiers.
âCalm down,â Quaritch hastily, reaching out to place a big hand on your shoulder. He doesnât exert much pressure, but heâs strong enough to hold you in place. âItâs the hair.â
âWhat?â You snap, feeling like a cornered animal.
âThe hair,â He repeats, gesturing at the thatch of hair between your thighs. âUnclench, sweetheart. Itâs new to her, sâall. She did the same to me.â
You really hadnât thought too much about Naâvi pubic hair, but you suppose it makes sense that they donât have any given their lack of body hair overall. Equally, hadnât thought about Quaritch having pubes â maybe a holdover from his human DNA, like his eyebrows.
Varang is looking between you, head tilted. Sheâs assessing you, trying to figure out what the problem is. She glances down between your legs again, and this time she shifts so that sheâs laying on her belly between your legs.
Youâre trying to keep your legs closed, but Quaritch shifts so heâs 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 sheâs scenting you, your embarrassment reaches its peak and you simply canât take anymore.
âWhy am I the only one naked?â You practically shriek, wriggling. Then you screw up your bravery and make a stab at using the meagre Naâvi you have. âClothes off!â
Varang stills, and for a moment you think youâve 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. Itâs broad enough to crinkle her eyes but with an edge to it, as though youâd offered her a cache of weapons all over again.
âLittle Sky Girl speaks Naâvi?â She purrs, leaning down.
She licks a line from your sternum up your throat, and you jolt a little in surprise.
âA little,â You say shakily. âIâve been learning.â
Without your panties, the wetness between your legs feels completely obscene. Your thighs feel sticky in a way that you really donât want to examine considering youâve barely been touched.
âFull of surprises,â Quaritch chuckles. Heâs looming behind you, watching you with Varang as if youâre his favourite TV show.
You donât reply, because your attention is captured by Varang now. Sheâs reached behind herself, beginning to untie the thin length of animal hide binding her breasts. Every move is a provocation, fluid and intentional â 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 doesnât 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.Â
Jesus.
Youâve never seen a Naâvi pussy before, and youâre a little struck by the sight. Itâs both alien and familiar in a way that jars you. The anatomy is similar to yours, except for the fact that itâs⌠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. Youâre naked in Varangâs tent. Varang is sat in front of you, also naked, spreading her legs for you proudly like she wants you to look.Â
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. âPain?â
Varang just looks at you. You get the impression that sheâs assessing you, like she doesnât 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.
âNo pain.â She says it as though she thinks you're adorable.
Itâs 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 heâs beside you.
âYouâre gonna make her real happy, baby.â Quaritch says. His words come out in a low, pleased rumble that you can feel vibrating into your back. âSheâs been wantinâ to play with you for a while now.â
âWanting toâ?âÂ
Youâve 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, thatâs 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?
Sheâs 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.Â
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. Youâre not all too sure where heâs taking you; until he lifts you right over Varang.
You squeak as youâre settled into her lap, your legs slotting right between her much larger ones until youâre settled with your pussies pressed together, slick against slick.
âOh, now ainât that a sight.â Quaritch purrs out.
Your breath catches, staring down at where youâre 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 doesnât start slow, and sheâs certainly not gentle. When her clit glides over yours, aided by the slick slide of your joined arousal, you both moan.
âJesus,â Quaritchâs voice has dropped huskier as he shifts closer to get a better view. âLook at the two of you, all juiced up. You hear that?â
And you do â 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, thereâs not an ounce of submission in her body. Sheâs grinning, wild and unrestrained with her teeth glinting, as she uses her grip on your hips to set a steady, hungry pace.
Thereâs no teasing â itâs 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 youâre 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 thereâs no mistaking whoâs really calling the shots.
âLike two cats in heat,â Quaritch says. Heâs watching with an amused expression that does a poor job at hiding his avid interest.Â
âAh!â Varangâs 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 thatâs torn out of your mouth is long and low, a little breathless. You donât think youâve ever made such a slutty sound before, but you donât 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.
Youâre 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 doesnât take long before your hips are rolling against her with a desperate sort of speed.
It feels so good, enough so that you actually donât have the presence of mind to feel embarrassed. Varang doesnât seem to care that youâre grinding against her faster now; youâre both panting, sweating.
âOh god.â You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel a trembling down deep in your pussy. âIâmââ
You donât even get the words out before you cum in a convulsive wave. Your cunt clenches in a series of hard spasms, twitching against Varangâs as your clit grinds against hers.
âFuck!â You shriek, clinging to her blindly.
She bares her teeth in a victorious grin, and doesnât 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.Â
You shiver, wanting more and less all at once, when suddenly a big four-fingered hand is clasping over your mask.
âI want your mouth.â Varang is saying, her large fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar mechanism of the mask.
Youâre very horny. Thatâs 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 Varangâs hand away and placing it on your loose breast instead.
âNo mouth today,â he says. âNext time, when she has air.â
Varang hisses at him, but it seems more reflexive than anything because she doesnât appear upset. Her attention has already been captured by your breasts; softer than a Naâviâs, with more fleshy give to them when compared to the much firmer breasts of Naâvi women.Â
âSoft.â She mutters thoughtfully, her thumbs rolling over your beaded nipples with relish.
Quaritch chuckles.Â
Then, suddenly, she twists up and pulls you from your perch slotted against her. You yelp, but thereâs 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.
âQuaritch.â She says, glancing over her shoulder. Her tone has hardly changed at all, yet itâs 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 â her back is arched, her narrow hips swaying as her tail undulates playfully in the air.
âTsahĂŹk.â Quaritch purrs her title lazily, though he doesnât come closer.
Her title pleases her, you can tell by the way her tail flicks. Still though, she frowns impatiently at him.Â
âCome.â She says, a little clipped with impatience. âYou will pleasure me, as I pleasure her.â
The steady, practiced amusement on Quaritchâs face breaks, only to be replaced by a genuine grin.
âOh, will I?â He asks sardonically, though he doesnât bother maintaining the pretence for a full minute â within fifteen seconds, heâs 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. Itâs 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 heâs packing.
But to your bewilderment, thereâs nothing but smooth space between Quaritchâs legs. Well, thereâs hair, coarse and straight, like he had said. But it doesnât border anything at all. Where you had expected a cock, thereâs nothing at all.
You gape. What the fuck? Heâs like a big blue Ken doll with pubes.
âWhereâs your dick?â You blurt, unable to control your reaction.Â
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 heâs been so angry recently?
But no, that canât be right. Youâd seen the bulge in his pants after long makeout sessions, and youâd felt him the few occasions youâd dry-humped like horny teens.
âItâs still there, smartass.â He grumbles. âGotta work for it now, though.â
That doesnât answer your question at all. You frown, embarrassed and confused and too horny for this. Thighs squeezing together lightly, you glance at Varang. Sheâs already looking at you; her ears had pricked up the moment you spoke, clearly interested by what you have to say.
âWhere?â You ask clumsily, pointing at Quaritchâs smooth blue crotch.
Varang tilts her head and for a moment you think she doesnât understand what youâre asking her. But then her eyes dart to Quaritchâs crotch and she grins, sharp and eager.Â
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. Heâs rolling his eyes and huffing, but you know itâs for show because his lips are curving into a smug, self-satisfied grin. He looks as though heâs exactly where he wants to be.
âCome,â Varang demands, gesturing you closer.
This time, you donât hesitate at all. You crawl closer until youâre at her side, both of you kneeling between Quaritchâs large, densely muscled thighs. Varang leans into your personal space, confident in the knowledge that youâre 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 youâre right where she wants you; tucked half under her as the two of you lean over Quaritchâs groin.
Now that youâre so close that your breath is brushing his skin, you can see that your initial impression of there being just blank space isnât entirely correct. Under the light dusting of hair, you can see⌠Well, youâre not entirely sure what youâre looking at.
Itâs not until Varang reaches out to touch him, parting the hair and prodding at the soft mound there, that you realise thereâs a small vertical slit.
âWhatâs that?â You ask curiously.Â
Varang says a word that youâve never heard before, her fingers pressing on either side of the slit and tracing it playfully. She doesnât quite touch the slit itself; rather, she plays with the slightly swollen flesh on either side.
âIs that a pussy?â You blurt, eyes wide.Â
The concept of the Colonel, the scariest man youâve ever met, with a pussy has you reeling. But just as soon as youâve voiced the thought, Quaritch is huffing in irritation.
âDonât be a jackass, kid.â 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 Quaritchâs cock begins to extend. It doesnât 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 itâs internal, same as his cock was.
And his cock is big. Fully proportional, long and thin (but still bigger than any human cock youâve 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.
âShit.â Quaritch picks up his head so that he can watch you and Varang play with his cock at the same time.Â
He must like whatever heâs seeing, but his pupils are so dilated that thereâs 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 doesnât 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 heâd been expecting that, though he doesnât complain. Heâs watching her closely, waiting for her next move.
Youâre 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 sheâs waving it to taunt Quaritch, so when a dextrous, hot wet tongue slides through your sticky folds, you nearly shriek.
âO-ohhh, fuck.â You sigh, spreading your legs eagerly.Â
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 â you canât 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 Varangâs mouth is making your eyes roll back in your damn head.
It feels like youâre boiling up inside. Your temples are sweat-slick, hair sticking to your forehead in a way that youâre certain canât be attractive. Your cunt is so wet and sticky that every lap of Varangâs tongue against you makes a squelching sound that is truly mortifying. You donât even know how much of the wetness is your own arousal or Varangâs saliva.
Sheâs sloppy about it, which you hadnât expected. She just always seemed so put together, but sheâs 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.Â
Youâd 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.
âSlow down,â He drawls, though he sounds amused. âYouâre gonna lick her raw.â
He wraps a big hand around the base of Varangâs tail and tugs lightly, playfully. She pulls back from you just so she can hiss over her shoulder at him.
âShe wants it now! You deny herââ
âI am not denying her.â 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. Itâs much easier for you to understand the language when itâs pronounced slow and intentional.
His yellow eyes turn to you then, and he lifts a brow. âYou okay, sweetheart?â
Okay? You donât think youâve ever felt so excited in your life. Youâve been content with Quaritchâs lazy makeout sessions and the clandestine fingering, but that was because you hadnât 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 couldnât have expected.Â
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 sheâs 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, thereâs not an ounce of submission in her. Sheâs so self-assured in her own desire that it makes you feel small, like youâre 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.Â
God, that feels good. Maybe itâs okay to just let yourself enjoy this. Youâve 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 donât think youâll 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 canât 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 Quaritchâs low grunts matched by Varangâs little gasps.Â
But then both of their eyes swing around to you, and Quaritch grins.Â
âFeeling neglected again, baby?â 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 â you donât think youâve ever felt so vulnerable in your whole life.Â
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.Â
When you spread your legs wider, breath hitching, Varangâs purring kicks up a notch. The rumbles from her mouth make your eyes roll back in your head â itâs like having a hot, wet vibrator that licks at you. You feel too hot, too overwhelmed, like your skin is several sizes too tight.Â
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.Â
Quaritch has taken a grip of Varangâs tail in his hand, pulling her back to meet her every thrust as he sets a brutal pace.Â
Sheâs letting out high, vulgar moans of pure delight. The sounds she makes are absolutely outrageous; completely lewd, wanton, and totally shameless. You donât think youâve ever heard sounds like that outside of a porno, but thereâs not an ounce of disingenuity in her noises.
Thereâs no performance at all; just sheer enjoyment. The fact that sheâs making those noises into your already sensitised cunt makes you feel like youâre going insane. Each little yip, purr, and moan thrums against your clit whenever sheâs 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 Varangâs rough tongue undulates against your swollen clit.Â
âOh god,â You pant, your hips twitching up into her mouth again. âIâm gonnaâ I thinkââ
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 â as much as you can think right now, with your higher-order awareness beginning to slip away from you â that you would love to watch him fucking her properly, from a different angle.Â
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 â encapsulated in their furs, warm and buzzing like a live-wire, you canât 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.Â
You orgasm violently. When that pleasure snaps it feels like it ricochets through every nerve and synapse in your body â your legs clamp shut around Varangâs skull hard enough that if she was human, youâre sure it would have hurt. As it is, you think she actually enjoys it, because she starts to lick you harder, faster.
Itâs too much almost immediately, but you canât form the words to tell her to stop. Your hands form fists in her glossy micro braids, though you donât 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.
Youâre a pathetic little puddle of sweat and spit and spasming limbs, hardly able to tell up from down. Youâre 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.
âOh, fuck,â 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. Sheâs clearly already came, small tremors running through her slick thighs, but that doesnât stop Quaritch from chasing his own end.
âFuck,â He snarls. âFuck, fuckââ
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 Varangâs 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 Varangâs back. Sheâs 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 âooof!â, 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. Itâs almost endearing enough to forget that you thought that she was a total psychopath.
Quaritch reclines next to you. Heâs still grinning, no doubt immensely satisfied. It seems like his orgasm has softened some of the tension thatâs been running through him like a steel rod in his spine. When he slides down on your other side, thereâs a boneless quality to him that certainly wasnât 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.Â
Varang is sleepily playing with the shell of your ear, one of her long lithe legs is draped over your hips â itâs 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.
Youâre squashed right in the middle, still a little bewildered about how you managed to get into this situation.
âShould Iâ go fur?â You ask in badly accented, halting Naâvi. In case it wasnât 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.
Youâd been sleeping in that sad little pile for the last week, and you just assume that theyâll want you to return now that theyâre satiated. Youâve tried to avoid them at night, slinking in after theyâve fallen asleep or curling up with the furs over your head, so youâre 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?Â
It certainly seems⌠adventurous to drag you into this considering theyâve only been together a week, you think a little sourly.Â
But when you look up at the two of them, theyâre both looking at you as though youâre speaking in tongues.Â
Had you misspoken? Maybe what you said meant something completely different. You scramble for a moment, working back over your words in your head.
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 donât want you there.
But before you can go anywhere, Varangâs leg tightens over your hip and an arm winds under your waist as she hisses softly. You go very, very still.
âShe told you to stay.â Quaritch grunts, though he doesnât bother to open his eyes.
âNo she didnât,â You whisper back, keeping your voice low as if that might keep Varang soothed. âShe said that mates sleep together.â
Quaritch peels one eyelid open just so he can give you a look like youâre a little slow.
âWhatâs the difference?â He grumbles.Â
Heâs relaxed enough after his orgasm that he doesnât seem to be able to work up enough energy to devote to the conversation. As a result, he doesnât see the way youâre gaping at him blankly.
Admittedly, youâre not always the quickest, and the Naâvi language and their customs are so foreign to you that you donât understand a lot of it. But it sounds as though Quaritch is including you in the mates statement.
Which is ridiculous, because youâre barely even a situationship to him. At least, you hadnât thought so. Now, youâre 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 youâve ever experienced.Â
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.Â
âDid youâŚâ You manage to say, your voice cracking. âDid you sign me up for some kind of weird alien polyamory without asking me?â
âHah?â Quaritch squints at you through one lazily opened eye, but you donât wait for him to say anything further.
You smack at his arm. Youâre 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 sheâs 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 Varangâs at once. He hauls you both atop of him, grumbling something about âTwo damn women at once⌠pain in my assâ.
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.
âNot like there were many conversations.â Quaritch mutters. âYou mad about it?â
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 Quaritchâs voice and Varangâs purring, their velvety skin, their encompassing warmth, has you melting reluctantly against them.
You allow yourself to think. Itâs difficult to answer the question. Youâre not all too sure whatâs happened tonight. One moment youâd been angry with Quaritch for tossing you aside for Varang, the next youâre squashed between them in their furs and theyâre talking about mates like it was a given that you were part of that arrangement.
âI⌠donât know.â You say slowly. âIâm not sure I really understand.â
Quaritch just snorts.Â
âYeah, me neither.â 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.
âShe said that she was going to take my mate.â 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.
âYou gotta improve the language, honey.â He mutters. âShe said sheâs gonna take you as a mate.â
You gape at him. Even with it being stated in plain English, your brain cycles around the words without engaging with them fully.Â
âWhat the fuck?â You blurt.
Had they known the whole time that you were involved in this weird little âmatingâ situation? Was that why they had been so amused with your sulking, your insistence at sleeping apart?Â
What you had thought was mockery from Varang might just have been an expression of interest.
âToo much talking.â Varang mumbles in Naâvi.
Sheâs clearly trying to sleep, her ears twitching in irritation every time someone speaks.
You quiet down, biting your lip. It seems like youâre the only one confused by any of this. Theyâre certainly not wasting much time having moral quandaries or wondering what this means for your standing among them.Â
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 â squashed between two enormous alien bodies, one of them your resurrected boss, in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere filled with Naâvi 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 theyâre pressed against the top of your head.
When he leans down to speak in your ear, you shiver lightly.
âBest leave this out of the field report to Ardmore.â He says with a low laugh, his large hand delivering a quick, fond slap to your ass.
Synopsis: Amidst the ruins of a broken world, one survivor stands out from the rest - Joel Miller. With his sharp wit and unmatched ability to deceive, Joel has always managed to outmaneuver those around him. But when he meets y/n, an unsuspecting and trusting survivor, Joel sees an opportunity to take his game to the next level. As their relationship progresses, y/n unwittingly becomes entangled in Joel's web of lies and deceit, utterly unaware of the true extent of his cunning and manipulation. Will y/n break free from Joel's grasp before it's too late?
Notes: Itâs been a year since I first posted the prologue but Iâm back on my writing game so will update more often. thinking of instead using the term y/n as it can get tedious to write but use Bambi instead as a nickname Joel uses.
Warnings: a bit of possessive Joel but thatâs it really
<previous
Several months had passed since Joel and Bambi had stumbled through Jacksonâs gates. Tommy had vouched for them both,
A settlement tucked deep in the mountains offering something they hadnât dared believe in for years: safety.
Bambi had taken to the place quickly. Joel not so much. Too many years out there. A place where walls didnât mean safety and smiles often came before a knife in the ribs. But he stayed close to her, the way he always had.
Out in the ruins, that had been about survival. In Jackson, it felt different. He didnât like to think too hard about why.
That evening, the communal fire crackled in the center of the square, throwing warm light on faces Joel still didnât trust. He sat with his elbows on his knees, nursing a warm tin of coffee, his eyes following Bambi as she moved between people. She was smiling too easily in his opinion and chatting with one of the women from the stables.
Joel called out, âBambi,â just loud enough for her to hear over the talk and laughter.
Her head turned immediately. She excused herself and walked over, her boots scuffing the snow â
âYeah?â
âYou mind passinâ me that canteen?â
She handed it over, a small smile playing on her lips. âSure thing, Joel.â
He took a slow sip, watching her. âYou know, you remind me of someone.â
âOh? Whoâs that?â She queried
He hesitated, a old memory tugging at him. âA character from an old storybook. A fawn, fragile but stubborn. Just like you.â
Her eyes lit with amusement. âBambi?â
A low chuckle escaped him. âYeah. Seems fittinâ.â
She shook her head but kept smiling, probably thinking it was nothing more than a harmless nickname. Joel kept his face blank, inside the thought had already rooted itself deep: she was his now. She might not realize it yet , but he did.
The fire popped, and his gaze drifted then froze.
Across the circle, a tall, sandy-haired man leaned against the fence rail, talking to Bambi now that sheâd wandered away again. His smile was just a little too familiar. Joelâs grip tightened around the canteen.
Bambi laughed at something the man said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice carried in the cold air: âReally? Youâve been on patrol that far out?â
Joel stood. Crossed the space slowly, deliberately.
âBambi,â he said, his voice cutting through their conversation like a knife.
She blinked and turned. âJoel uhâ
âYou got a second?â His tone left no room for refusal.
She glanced at the man, offering a polite smile before stepping toward Joel. âUh, yeah⌠Is there something?â She mumbled
Joel didnât look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the other man until the smile drained from his face. The man gave a short nod, muttered something under his breath, and walked away.
âWhat was that about?â Bambi asked curiously as Joel guided her back to their seats.
âDidnât like the look of him,â Joel muttered. âYou donât know folks here yet. Canât just go talkinâ to anyone comes along.â
âHe was just being friendly.â She said, frowning
Joel shook his head. âFriendly can get you killed in this world.â
She went quiet, though he could tell she didnât entirely believe him. Joel stared into the fire, the manâs face already burned into his memory.
If he saw that smile again, thereâd be a conversation, one that man wouldnât forget.
Synopsis: Amidst the ruins of a broken world, one survivor stands out from the rest - Joel Miller. With his sharp wit and unmatched ability to deceive, Joel has always managed to outmaneuver those around him. But when he meets y/n, an unsuspecting and trusting survivor, Joel sees an opportunity to take his game to the next level. As their relationship progresses, y/n unwittingly becomes entangled in Joel's web of lies and deceit, utterly unaware of the true extent of his cunning and manipulation. Will y/n break free from Joel's grasp before it's too late?
Notes: thinking of instead using the term y/n as it can get tedious to write but use Bambi instead as a nickname Joel uses.
Warnings: none yet more will be added in each chapter
Joel trudged wearily through the overgrown remnants of what was once a thriving city. The air hung heavy with the scent of decay, and the dilapidated buildings echoed his every footstep, reminding him of the world that had crumbled around him.
His senses were on high alert, scanning the shadows for any sign of danger. Survival had become his second nature in this unforgiving landscape.
One day, fate intervened as Joel was patrolling the area, and he saw a movement amidst the rubble of an abandoned storefront.
He slowly approached, weapon at the ready, prepared for any threat. But as he drew closer, he realized it wasn't a runner or clicker. It was a survivor, like himself, but far more vulnerable than he could have imagined.
She looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes, and her face was illuminated by a faint glimmer of hope that still flickered within her.
Despite the grim reality of their world, she radiated an aura of innocence and purity that Joel found both unsettling and strangely captivating.
As Joel observed her, a comparison sprang to mind, one that surprised even him. She reminded him of a character from a storybook, a creature from a world untouched by the darkness that now enveloped themâa fawn, fragile and trusting, with wide eyes that held a spark of curiosity and wonder.
Bambi, he thought to himself, though he doubted she would understand the reference in this harsh new reality.
"Are you bit?" Joel's gruff voice betrayed his concern as he approached cautiously.
"No, I swear," she replied, her voice trembling.
After a few seconds of debating, Joel sighed, "Are you alright?"
She nodded, offering him a tentative smile that tugged at something deep within Joel's hardened heart.
âI'm fine," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just... scared."
Joel crouched beside her, his expression unreadable as he studied her carefully. He could see the fear in her eyes, and the uncertainty mirrored his inner turmoil.
Despite the danger that lurked around every corner, there was something about this girl that drew him in, a flicker of humanity amidst the chaos that consumed their world.
Without a word, Joel extended a hand to her, offering her comfort in a world devoid of kindness.
âCome on," he said gruffly, his tone softened by a hint of warmth that surprised even him. "You'll be safer with me."
And with that simple gesture, Joel's solitary journey took an unexpected turn, leading him down a path he never could have anticipatedâa path that would intertwine his fate with hers in ways neither of them could have imagined.
As they set out together into the unknown, they would discover that sometimes, in the darkest of times, it was the tiniest glimmer of hope that could light the way forward.
Synopsis:
In a world ravaged by chaos and desperation, Joel Miller emerges as a cunning survivor, skilled in the art of manipulation and deceit. When he encounters y/n , a naive and easily trusting survivor, he sees an opportunity to exploit her innocence for his own gain. As their relationship deepens,y/n finds herself ensnared in Joelâs web of lies, unaware of the true extent of his deception.
warnings: dark themes,eventual smut, more to be tagged