Chapter Text
The Colonel and Jake, operating like a two-man slaughterhouse, shielded the children as they tore their way out of the Ash People’s territory.
By the time they hit the shore, the kids were exhausted. Jake’s nerves, usually wound like a wire, finally frayed into a momentary lapse.
When Jake glanced at the blade but refused the duel, Quaritch smugly accepted that flicker of vulnerability:
Sully begs, Sully gets. As long as this is about me and you.
"This shoal is too exposed. If those flying monkeys catch the scent, we’re sitting ducks," Quaritch rasped, his eyes scanning the treeline with predatory precision. "We need a more secluded spot for the night. Wait here." He motioned for Jake to watch the kids and vanished back into the brush with his rifle held like an extension of his own arm.
Minutes later, he was back. Jake led the children after him to a cave tucked behind a leeward slope.
The Colonel wasn’t a native who had spent sixteen years in the Pandoran wilds like Jake, yet thanks to thirty years of hard-boiled Marine service—and countless hours in the Ops Room scanning 3D maps with a viper’s eye over a cup of coffee—he still possessed a profound, tactical understanding of the terrain.
Jake was struck by the perfection of the hideout: slanted Cycad-like fronds concealed half the entrance, while Agave Orchids and translucent Pulse Grass—twitching at the slightest vibration—clustered around the mouth, serving as natural tripwires. On the other side, beneath several massive pitcher plants, a patch of bioluminescent agaric grew in a soft, sprawling carpet.
Kiri and Tuk drank greedily from the pitcher plants. "Dad," Lo'ak murmured, offering a leaf.
Unlike Spider, Jake’s children didn’t understand how this demon—buried at the bottom of the ocean by their father’s own hands—had returned from the dead. Nor did they understand why Quaritch, despite his obvious thirst for vengeance, had helped their father save them. The relationship was baffling, but their trust in Jake was absolute.
Jake reached for a high leaf, his muscles rippling under his blue skin. Quaritch didn't wait for an invitation; he stepped into Jake’s space, claiming a frond inches away. He watched, shamelessly, as Jake’s throat worked with every desperate swallow.
Jake drank too fast. A bead of water escaped his lip, tracing a glistening path down the column of his neck, over the glowing constellations of his chest, and down the hard planes of his stomach before dripping into the dirt.
Goddamn Sully bitch, the Colonel thought, his gut tightening. Even drinking water looks like an invitation. He forced himself to look away.
Lo'ak and Spider were the first to slip into the cave. The bioluminescence of moss and lichen flickered to life, dimming as the ground grew drier deeper inside. Past a bend, they found a flat, open chamber—a perfect spot for the night.
As the kids almost collapsed into sleep, Quaritch pulled a ration pack from his vest—a piece of dried chicken—and handed it to Spider. Recognizing it as a base staple, Spider immediately passed it to Kiri. Kiri sniffed it and passed it to Tuk. Quaritch rolled his eyes and dumped three more strips into Spider’s lap. Jake immediately shot the Colonel a shy, grateful smile.
Even after all these years, those eyes that couldn't hide a secret and that soft smile hadn't changed. It was the same look that made every man want to give him everything—or break him entirely. The little bitch knows exactly where his power lies, Quaritch seethed, even as a dark sense of satisfaction settled in his chest.
Today was a long day.
The children, spent from the day, soon drifted into sleep.
Quaritch took the watch at the bend, and Jake naturally curled up just a breath away. It was that old Marine rhythm—splitting the watch, trusting the man at your back. Jake was the first to go, his breathing deepening into soft, exhausted snores. Quaritch let a jagged smile tug at his lips. Kids slept because they trusted Jake’s protection, and Jake... Jake apparently still trusted him.
Memories of their sweet days at Hell’s Gate surged back—unbidden and hot. Back then, Jake gave him that same total, surrendered trust.
Using Jake’s wheelchair as an excuse, the Colonel had arranged a private room for him. He’d sneak in at midnight with real Earth food, telling stories of Pandoran dangers and personal embarrassments he’d never share with the squad.
Jake never said no. In fact, from the day he moved into that room, he’d left the door unlocked, flipping through Pandoran Botany, waiting on the bed with damp hair. The Colonel would play the concerned superior, checking on training, then bringing out the luxury earth meal for Jake to "stay healthy and strong."
At first, it was just a hand on the arm or a pat on the shoulder—he liked the kid too much and feared scaring him off. Until one day, when the Colonel leaned in, Jake was the one who pulled him down for the kiss. The Colonel’s gaze instantly sharpened, turning predatory and razor-edged, as if he had just marked his ultimate prey. But Jake didn't flinch; he stared back with a fearless, unwavering intensity.
That first time, the Colonel didn't just take him; he claimed him with a ferocity that left no room for doubt. He had to forge the entire duty roster the next morning because Jake couldn't even stand, let alone report for duty.
The possessiveness had become a fever. He wanted Jake broken, breathless, and beneath him every night. He’d use every ounce of his Marine-hardened strength to hoist that "little cripple" up, driving into him until the towels were soaked and Jake was sobbing his name. Jake quickly realized the scale of the Colonel's appetite and began trying to take the edge off by starting with his mouth.
He was a submissive dream, enduring the filthiest talk and the roughest handling with a desperate, clinging hunger. Even when Jake tried to fight back out of sheer exhaustion, it was adorable. Quaritch would crush the "rebellion" with a grin, relishing every second of the conquest.
The Colonel couldn't get enough. He thought they were a match made in heaven—or at least in the sheets—He thought he’d have him FOREVER.
When did it start to change? Probably when Jake got lost in the jungle for a whole night while piloting his Avatar. The alien world became a greater siren call.
When Jake wasn't in the link, he was busy recording logs or catching up on sleep. His time under Grace’s supervision grew longer.
Thankfully, Jake still applied for briefings—initially weekly, then every ten days, then every two weeks.
The last straw was the physical. Jake had lost too much weight; his obsession was literal starvation. The base demanded a full physical to see if he was still fit for the program.
Having not seen Jake for so long, the Colonel’s anxiety for control peaked. He braced a boot on the wheelchair and shoved himself into that rambling mouth that was so busy insisting on "completing the mission." Jake choked, clawing at his thighs for air. But the Colonel wouldn't let him go; he gave him only a sliver of a breather before grabbing that overgrown hair and working him until Jake swallowed every drop of his frustration.
You’re my bitch. You’re mine.
The Colonel had wiped clean Jake’s face and tucked him in. Jake curled into his chest, still fretfully mumbling about his mission. The Colonel said nothing, only slowly and irresistibly working his fingers into Jake’s heat. Jake’s body, sensitive from neglect, climaxed almost instantly. Driven by an indescribable sense of petty revenge, the Colonel chose to finger him through three more peaks until Jake could no longer utter a word he didn't want to hear, sinking instead into a deep, dark dream.
Two days later, Jake finished his physical and waited for the results. The Colonel slipped into the exam room. Seeing Jake in a hospital gown that opened at the back felt like an invitation. But Jake didn't look welcoming. The Colonel’s anger flared again and led to a stupid move: He pulled himself out and pressed against Jake’s cheek. Jake looked up at him, took him into his mouth...
And bit down, hard.
The memory hit like a physical blow. The phantom pain—the blinding white heat and the nausea—made Quaritch’s stomach churn even now. He recoiled slightly, his breath hitching.
That was the end. He lost his grip on Jake. Jake allied with the native girl, defected completely, organized an insurgency... the rest was history.
How the hell did I lose my cat? he wondered, a bitter ache in his throat.
Sixteen years passing by he was reborn. A 20-year -old Avatar. And Jake? Jake was a father. A mature, filled-out patriarch with all those kids. Seeing how Spider looked up to him made Quaritch’s blood simmer.
He’d heard rumors about the first-gen Avatars being intersex: Did he carry those kids? The thought of Jake’s body—now rippling with mature muscle and softer, fuller curves—being occupied by anything other than him was maddening.
Walking around with a chest that full, who was he trying to entice? Smiling at everyone like he's cheap... that must be how he united the tribes. Waist thicken with mature weight, and that loincloth... it was a crime. It bit into his thighs, showing off the meat of his ass with every rhythmic sway... How did it get so fleshy? Every big movement sent ripples through it, distracting man at every turn. And those powerful legs... it would take some real strength to get those over a man's shoulders.
Quaritch’s eyes devoured him, tracing the bioluminescent dots like a map to buried treasure. New Eye, New World. To the human Colonel, the Avatar was just a ridiculous tool. To this version of him, Jake was a goddamn masterpiece of raw, blue sex. He looked at Jake’s peaceful sleeping face, remembering how he used to wake up early due to his internal clock while Jake was still dead to the world beside him. The face was different, but the trust was still there, written in the softness of his jaw.
Quaritch dampened the fire in his veins, settling for the peace of the moment, and finally allowed his eyes to close.
TBC