wait simply walk with me rq.
omega Jake x omega Quaritch x omega male metkinya avatar reader.
Like what knows what an omega wants best than another omega? Essentially when Jake gets captured by the rda (well he turns himself in but it’s not the point) . Bottom Jake who’s in heat, with top Quaritch and reader.
also do you write for Mha. I have plans here 🤔
-🕊️
I may potentially write for MHA.. PS btw this is a private cell instead of the very open one cause lmao + reader is a fellow Recom + omegas have pussies and dicks in this + Jake’s a slut lowkey
"You’re surprisingly quiet for a man who spent the last decade screaming at the top of his lungs," Quaritch remarked, his voice rattling against the reinforced plexiglass of the holding cell. He didn't look at Jake immediately; instead, he was preoccupied with the rhythmic clicking of a heavy-duty mag-lock.
Jake didn't answer, his spine pressed against the cold alloy of the bench, golden eyes tracking the same smudge of grime on the opposite wall for the hundredth time. He was a specimen now, stripped of his gear and his dignity, draped in a coarse, oversized orange jumpsuit that did little to hide the subtle, frantic tremor in his thighs.
The air in the cell was recycled and metallic, but as the door hissed open, it was sliced through by a scent that made Jake’s pupils dilate: a heady, suffocating mixture of smoke, expensive tobacco, and the unmistakable, honeyed musk of another omega.
You stepped in behind the Colonel, your presence a jarring contrast to the military rigidity of the room. You didn't enter with a flourish; instead, you let your rifle slide down the interior wall, the heavy metal clanging against the frame of the door with a dull, echoing thud that sounded like a closing coffin. The weapon leaned there, forgotten and precarious.
Your nostrils flared, catching the scent that had been leaking through the ventilation slats long before the door opened. It wasn't just the smell of a Forest Na'vi— the usual loam and rainforest— but the cloying, syrup-thick musk of an omega in the peak of a heat cycle. It hit the back of your throat like a physical weight, an invitation carved out of pheromones, screaming of a biological desperation that Jake was trying, and failing, to mask with his silence.
Your tail strikes the floor. You don't need words to communicate with Quaritch; a slight tilt of your head, a shared glance that lingers a second too long on Jake’s shivering frame, and the understanding is absolute. You both recognise the scent for what it is— a biological siren song— and the shared knowledge of it creates a sudden, predatory tension in the small room.
Quaritch doesn’t look away from you immediately, his eyes glinting with a cruel, amused understanding that this "traitor" has walked right into a trap of his own hormones.
The Colonel finally turns his attention back to the prisoner, a slow, jagged grin carving into his face. "Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with a mock sympathy that feels like a slap. "Coming back to the fold just as your body starts screaming for a knot. Tell me, Sully, did you think the RDA would provide a nursery? Or did you just figure a cage was the safest place to spend your week sobbing for someone to touch you?"
Jake bared his sharp fangs, but it, frankly, looked pathetic with his ears pinned back and his chest heaving in shallow, desperate hitches. The orange fabric of the jumpsuit was clinging to his skin, damp with a sweat that smelled of overripe fruit and salt.
He tried to shift his weight, but the movement only served to rub his sensitised thighs together, a friction that elicited a broken, involuntary whimper from the back of his throat. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated need, a biological betrayal that stripped away every ounce of the warrior he had tried to maintain.
Quaritch stepped closer, his heavy boots clicking with a slow cadence. He paused just inches from the bench, his presence looming over Jake like a shadow. "Execution is a waste of a good specimen," the Colonel mused, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in the small space.
"Killing you while you're in this state… it lacks a certain poetry. It wouldn't be nearly as satisfying if you died with your heart racing for a reason other than fear." He glanced back at you, a silent invitation dancing in his eyes.
"I think a deal is in order. A little 'stress relief' for the prisoner, provided by the staff. A reward for your cooperation, Sully— provided you can actually handle it."
You felt a slow, heavy heat pooling in your own gut, your instincts overriding the sterile environment of the holding cell. The scent of Jake's heat was becoming a physical pressure, a thick fog that clouded the air and made your own pulse thrum in your ears. Your tail gave a slow, rhythmic wag, a subtle flick of anticipation that betrayed your hunger.
The idea of breaking him down, of using your shared nature to dismantle whatever pride he had left, felt more urgent than any military directive. You didn't need to be told twice; the air between the three of you had shifted from interrogation to something far more carnal and suffocating.
Jake’s head snapped up, his eyes clouded with a hazy, gold-rimmed desperation, though his voice still tried to claw its way back to defiance. "You think… you think I'll just let two alphas use me as a toy?" he spat, his voice cracking, a raw edge of grief for his displaced loyalty cutting through the lust. "I'm not… I'm not betraying her. Not like this."
He was thinking of Neytiri, the fierce alpha who had claimed him, and the thought of another's knot— especially those of the RDA— felt like a sacrilege he was biologically wired to crave despite himself.
You didn't speak. You simply caught Quaritch’s eye and gave a slow, knowing nod, a subtle shift of your shoulders that signaled a shared secret. The Colonel let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, the sound echoing off the plexiglass. He leaned in, his scent shifting, shedding the facade of the dominant commander to reveal the same honeyed, heavy musk that you carried— a mirrored fragrance of an omega who knew exactly how to manipulate the hunger of another.
"That's the problem with you, Sully," Quaritch murmured, his voice dropping to a confidential, predatory purr as he stepped even closer, invading Jake's personal space until their chests nearly brushed. "You always assume we're the ones holding the leash. But…" He reached out, not to strike, but to let his fingers graze the damp fabric of Jake's shoulder, his own omega pheromones surging forward to envelop the prisoner in a suffocating, sympathetic wave of heat.
The shift in the air was instantaneous, a chemical tidal wave that turned the sterile room into a humid hothouse. You mirrored the move, stepping forward to flank Jake's other side, releasing your own scent in a slow, deliberate bloom— a thick, cloying musk that acted as a catalyst, amplifying the Colonel's signal.
It wasn't an attack; it was a biological synchronization, a coordinated sensory assault that told Jake’s body he wasn't being hunted by enemies, but welcomed by his own kind.
The combined weight of two omega scents, both primed and pulsing with a shared, hungry intent, snapped the last thread of Jake's composure. He didn't just whimper this time; he let out a shuddering, broken gasp, his head lolling back against the alloy bench as his pupils swallowed the gold of his irises.
"Fine," he rasped, the word barely a whisper, a surrender that tasted of salt and defeat. "Just… Eywa, just do it."
Quaritch stepped back a half-inch, though his gaze remained locked on the trembling line of Jake's throat. A jagged, triumphant smirk played on his lips as he shifted his weight, granting a silent, permissive space. "Go on then," the Colonel murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle the very floor. "You can go first. Give him a taste of what he's been missing while he was playing forest-dweller."
You didn't hesitate. With a slow movement, you caught your own reflection in the plexiglass for a fleeting second— eyes dark, predatory, and entirely focused— before giving a sharp, affirmative thumb-up to Quaritch. You stepped into the narrow gap, the heat radiating off Jake’s skin almost searing through the air.
Your hand moved with a clinical precision that betrayed no mercy, your fingers hooking into the heavy metal tab of the orange jumpsuit. The sound of the zipper descending was a violent, metallic screech in the sudden silence of the cell, carving open the fabric to reveal the flushed, glistening skin of his chest and the desperate, twitching heat trapped beneath.
As you peeled the coarse material away, the sheer scale of his arousal became an indictment of his supposed loyalty. Between his thick, trembling thighs, the contrast was stark: a dick strained to a painful, rigid limit, leaking a clear, frantic bead of pre-come that smeared against the orange fabric.
But it was the sight of his pussy that truly anchored the room, the delicate, ribbed folds completely saturated, glistening with a translucent, syrupy flood that drenched the inner seams of his clothing. He was overflowing, a biological spill that pooled against the alloy bench, smelling of salt and a sweetness so aggressive it felt like a physical blow to your senses.
You leaned in, not touching him yet, but releasing a concentrated, heavy surge of your own pheromones— a thick, musk-laden wave designed to signal a claim. The effect was visceral; Jake’s entire body jolted, his hips snapping upward in a sudden, violent spasm of longing. The internal muscles of his pussy clenched in a frantic, rhythmic pulse, squeezing out another desperate burst of lubrication that painted his thighs in a shimmering glaze.
You didn't offer a gentle touch or a comforting word; instead, you let a slow, jagged grin pull across your face, your eyes locking onto his blown-out pupils with a predatory hunger that promised absolutely no restraint.
Dropping to your knees was a singular, decisive motion, the heavy thud of your joints against the metal floor echoing the finality of a closing trap. You didn't tease. You dove in with a starved intensity, your mouth locking onto him with a sudden, bruising force that tore a near-scream of pleasure from his throat.
You ate him like a man possessed, your tongue scouring every glistening fold, drinking in the salt and the syrupy sweetness of his peak heat with a frantic, gluttonous desperation. It wasn't a caress; it was a consumption, a systematic dismantling of his remaining dignity through the raw, wet friction of your tongue.
Jake’s hands flew up, fingers clawing uselessly at the air before slamming into the alloy bench, his knuckles whitening as he tried to anchor himself against the onslaught. His tail lashed wildly, striking the metal with a rhythmic, metallic clang that timed itself to the frantic pace of your mouth.
Every lap of your tongue was a calculated assault, driving him further into a haze of submission. He was sobbing now, the sounds small and broken, his voice a shredded ribbon of noise as he begged for something— anything— to stop the overwhelming sensory overload that was currently rewriting his entire world into a single point of pleasure.
Above you, Quaritch remained a silent, looming sentinel, though his own breathing had grown heavy, his chest heaving beneath his tactical gear. He didn't intervene; he simply watched with a clinical, hungry fascination, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife as he tracked the way Jake’s body buckled and arched under your tongue.
The Colonel’s scent had shifted, the honeyed omega musk sharpening into something more aggressive, more demanding. He was waiting for the moment Jake completely shattered, for the exact second where the warrior vanished and only the craving remained, and the anticipation in the room was so thick it felt like it could be touched.
Just as Jake’s hips gave a final, violent buck— his back arching into a bridge of sheer, agonising need as he neared the precipice of a climax— a heavy hand clamped onto the back of your head. With a sudden, jarring force, Quaritch yanked your head back by the queue.
The movement was abrupt, snapping your jaw away from the glistening center of Jake's heat with a wet, popping sound. You were frozen, your head tilted back at an awkward angle, your chin and mouth dripping and painted in a thick, shimmering glaze of Jake's slick that clung to your skin like a second layer of lacquer.
Quaritch didn't let go of your queue immediately; instead, he leaned over you, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive heat. He looked from your smeared face to the shaking, ruined mess of the man on the bench, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Patience, soldier," he murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp that seemed to strip the last of the air from the room. "Don't go finishing him off just yet. I'm not about to let you have all the fun while I'm standing here getting worked up."
He shifted his weight, his hand sliding from your head to the small of your back, shoving you slightly to the side to make room for himself. The Colonel’s gaze was predatory, his focus locked on the frantic rhythm of Jake's core. "I think it's time we showed him how an actual team operates, yeah?"
Jake didn't just open up; he practically split himself apart. His knees fell wide, slamming against the cold metal of the bench in a desperate, ungainly sprawl that left him completely exposed, his thighs trembling with a violent, rhythmic instability. He let out a high, thin whine—a sound of absolute biological surrender that vibrated through the recycled air. It was a pleading noise, a raw, guttural request for the very thing that would destroy his pride, his hips twitching in a futile attempt to find a friction that wasn't there.
Quaritch didn't offer a soft landing. "Up. Now," he growled, the command vibrating in his chest like a landslide. When Jake hesitated, his movements sluggish and clouded by the heat-fog, the Colonel didn't reach for his arm. Instead, his hand shot out with a sudden, bruising precision, gripping the base of Jake's kuru with a firm, possessive squeeze. The sudden tension on the neural queue sent a jolt of sensory overload straight into Jake's spine, snapping his head forward and forcing a sharp, strangled gasp from his throat as he was hauled upward.
He was dragged to his feet, his legs barely supporting him, his body swaying like a reed in a storm. He leaned into the grip on his queue, his head lolling back, eyes unfocused and blown wide. The friction of the orange jumpsuit, now bunched and damp, grated against his hypersensitive skin, making him shiver with a mixture of terror and agonizing anticipation.
You moved back into his orbit, your own breath coming in shallow, hot hitches. You didn't touch him yet; you simply circled him, your shoulder brushing against his trembling side, letting the scent of your shared omega nature coil around him like a physical shackle.
Quaritch didn't wait for Jake to find his balance. He stepped back, his heavy boots clanging as he dropped onto the alloy bench with a jarring thud. He sprawled there, legs spread wide, the tactical fabric of his trousers straining against the sudden, aggressive surge of his own arousal.
He didn't look at Jake with kindness; he looked at him like a piece of equipment that needed breaking, his gaze cold and demanding. "On your knees, Sully," he commanded, the voice not a request but a directive that bypassed the brain and spoke directly to the heat-addled marrow of Jake's bones.
The collapse was instantaneous. Jake didn't just kneel; he plummeted, his knees hitting the metal floor with a hollow, desperate sound. He crawled forward, his palms slapping against the cold alloy, his hips undulating in a frantic, rhythmic search for relief. He didn't hesitate, his mouth opening in a silent, starving plea as he lunged for the Colonel's crotch, his head bobbing with a manic eagerness. He worked the fabric of the trousers with a clumsy, frantic desperation, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of the Colonel's scent through the cloth, sobbing into the rough material as he fought to uncover the thing he had been conditioned to crave.
While Jake was preoccupied with the Colonel's lap, you stepped in behind him, the sudden heat of your presence pressing against his shivering spine. You didn't waste time with formalities or tentative touches; your hand reached down, the metallic rasp of your own zipper cutting through the sound of Jake’s frantic sobbing. You gripped the back of his neck, fingers digging into the muscle to pin him forward, forcing his chest flush against the edge of the alloy bench so his backside was arched high and inviting.
The entry was a violent, singular motion. You didn't tease the entrance or wait for a signal; you simply aligned yourself and drove forward, your fully hard cock sliding into his tight, drenched pussy with a sickeningly wet, vacuum-like thud.
The fit was claustrophobic, the internal walls of his heat-swollen core clamping down on you with a rhythmic, desperate intensity that nearly stole the breath from your lungs. Jake let out a sound that wasn't a scream but a shattered, high-pitched keening, his fingers scratching frantic, useless grooves into the metal of the bench as your length filled every single millimeter of his available space.
At the front, Jake was a creature of pure, mindless hunger, his mouth working over Quaritch with a manic, gluttonous pace. He was trying to devour the Colonel, his cheeks hollowed and his eyes rolled back as he gagged on the sheer size of the man, the wet, slapping sounds of his efforts echoing off the plexiglass.
Quaritch didn't offer any stability; instead, he kept a white-knuckled grip on Jake’s queue, the sensitive neural fibers acting like a leash. He yanked the queue back in sharp, jagged intervals, timing the tension to the deep, punishing thrusts you were driving into Jake's backside.
You reached down, your fingers curling around the thick base of Jake's tail. You didn't hold it gently; you gripped it like a handle, pulling the appendage taut to arch his spine further, forcing his pussy to open even wider to swallow you whole. Every time you bottomed out, your pelvis collided with his with a heavy, meaty thud that vibrated through the alloy bench. The combination of the neural pull from the front and the physical anchor of his tail in the back left Jake completely pinned, a living bridge of shivering, overstimulated nerves.
Jake's movements became erratic, his hips jerking in a frantic, disjointed dance as he tried to reconcile the two points of penetration. He was sobbing into the Colonel's lap, his voice a ruined whisper of "please" and "more," his body vibrating with a frequency that suggested he was moments away from a total neurological collapse.
Quaritch looked down at the top of Jake's head, his eyes narrowed in a mix of genuine irritation and predatory satisfaction. He didn't offer a compliment; instead, he let out a sharp, mocking huff, his fingers tightening further on the neural queue to tilt Jake's head back just enough to see the glazed, vacant look in those golden eyes.
"For a traitor who spent his time playing house with the locals, you've still got a hell of a mouth on you, Sully," the Colonel spat, his voice a jagged edge of disdain. "Damn near a waste of talent, letting a little jungle fever turn you into a professional. You suck dick better than most of the recruits we've burned through at the academy."
The comment was a calculated blow, designed to strip away any lingering sense of nobility, but it only served to drive Jake deeper into his delirium. He let out a broken, guttural moan, his tongue darting out to lap at the Colonel's skin with a desperation that bordered on the pathetic. He wasn't just taking it; he was worshiping the very hand that held his leash, his body reacting to the insult as if it were a caress, the shame of the comment acting as a lubricant for his spiraling desire.
Suddenly, the Colonel’s grip on Jake’s queue shifted from a hold to a shove. With a sudden, jarring force, Quaritch slammed Jake’s head down, driving his face deep into the crook of his lap. There was no room for air, only the thick, pulsing reality of the Colonel's climax. As Quaritch let out a low, guttural roar, he emptied himself with a violent, rhythmic intensity, flooding Jake’s throat in hot, thick bursts.
Jake didn't choke; he leaned into the invasion, his throat working in frantic, rhythmic gulps to swallow every drop, his eyes rolling back into his head as he accepted the seed of his enemy as the only thing that mattered in the world.
The sudden, overwhelming surge at the front triggered a sympathetic explosion in Jake's core. The moment the last of the Colonel's release hit his tongue, Jake’s pussy clamped down on you with a terrifying, vacuum-like force.
It was a full-body seizure of pleasure, his internal walls squeezing you with a crushing, rhythmic intensity that felt like it might snap your cock in two. He let out a muffled, high-pitched shout against the Colonel's thigh, his entire frame shuddering in a violent, prolonged orgasm that left him limp and leaking, his muscles twitching in a series of dying spasms.
You didn't stop. The feeling of his core milking you with such mindless, frantic desperation pushed you past the point of control. You drove one final, bruising thrust into him, bottoming out so hard that the alloy bench screeched against the floor. You poured yourself into him, your own release hitting him in thick, jagged waves that filled his overstimulated depths.
Jake collapsed forward, his forehead resting against the cold metal, his breathing a series of shallow, rattling hitches.