#avatar recom

CHAPTER TWO | EYES ON THE PRIZE

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#SYNOPSIS. The recoms are tasked with a mission

#WARNING(S). None

#CHARACTER(S). Recom! Colonel Miles Quaritch

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“ We are not in Kansas anymore”

The words cut through the low mechanical hum of the carrier like a blade.

Colonel Miles Quaritch stood at the front of the briefing bay, arms crossed over his broad chest, blue skin catching the cold white lights overhead. The recombinants—recoms—sat in their seats, massive bodies packed into military precision. Identical faces, identical scars, identical discipline. Marines reborn in alien flesh.

Kansas had been Earth. Gravity. Familiar air. Rules that made sense.

Pandora was none of that.

“ Now, I know you’re all askin’ yourselves the same question.”

Quaritch turned around slowly, boots scraping against the metal floor, his Na’vi braid swishing behind him with the movement. The lights caught along the blue of his skin, striping it in harsh white as he faced them again. His hand settled on the top buckle of his belt, thumb hooking there out of habit, posture loose but controlled—the stance of a man who’d commanded rooms like this his entire life.

“Why so blue?”

Quaritch grinned, wide and unapologetic, his tongue lolling out loosely in a mockery of the very bodies they’d been shoved into. The expression was exaggerated, almost crude—and that was exactly the point.

For a heartbeat, the room held still.

Then the recoms broke.

Laughter rolled through the briefing bay, deep and rough, the sound of old Marines finding something familiar to cling to. Some turned toward the men seated beside them, nudging shoulders, exchanging looks that said ‘can you believe this shit?’ Others threw their heads back, sharp blue teeth flashing as they laughed, shaking their heads in disbelief at the absurdity of it all. A few slapped armored thighs or braced their hands against their restraints, still chuckling as they tried to settle.

Even the quieter ones weren’t immune—lips twitching, eyes crinkling, breath huffing out through noses as they smothered it.

Quaritch let it happen.

He stood there, grin still in place, belt hooked under his hand, watching the room loosen just enough

“For our sins in our past life, we’ve been brought back in the form of our enemy”

Quaritch’s voice was steady, almost conversational, as he gestured loosely to his own towering frame—blue skin, long limbs—

“That gives us their size. Their strength. Their speed “

He paused, letting it sink in

“And with our training? That’s a pretty potent mix”

A low murmur moved through the briefing bay as the Recons shifted in their seats, restraints creaking under the weight of new muscle. The realization was settling in—slow, heavy, undeniable.

Lyle sniffed, nodding along as if he’d already come to the same conclusion. He leaned forward and reached down, grabbing one of the dumbbell weights stacked near his seat. With a casual flick of his wrist, he lifted it one-handed, curling it a few times just to feel the pull. The weight rose easily, like it barely mattered.

“Do we have a mission yet?” he asked, still pumping the dumbbell, eyes on Quaritch.

Across from him, Z-Dog grinned and grabbed a weight of her own. She lifted it smoothly, testing the balance, then raised it higher, rolling her shoulder as she did. No strain. No hesitation. Just power. She laughed under her breath, shaking her head as if the whole thing was absurd.

Quaritch watched them with a faint, knowing smile.

“Indeed we do,” Quaritch said, his voice low and deliberate, echoing slightly in the metal confines of the briefing bay. He took a step forward, letting his gaze sweep across the rows of Recons. “Our mission is to hunt down—and kill—the leader of the Na’vi insurgency”

Lyle leaned back slightly in his seat, shoulders broad against the restraints. A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep in his chest, lips curling upward to reveal sharp, glinting canine teeth. His blue eyes narrowed, fixating on Quaritch as if he were already imagining the hunt. The rest of his body shifted subtly, muscles coiling, ready to spring even while seated.

Near him, Spike mirrored the energy. Nodding along to the briefing, he brought a massive fist up to punch his right pec, the force rattling the restraints slightly. A wide grin split his face, teeth catching the harsh white light.

Quaritch let the silence stretch just a moment longer, letting them feel it—the gravity of the name he was about to drop.

“The one they call Toruk Makto… Jake Sully “

Then the Recons erupted. A deep, guttural holler rolled through the rows, bouncing off the steel walls and echoing through the chamber. “Yeah!” The sound was raw, filled with satisfaction, the kind that came from knowing exactly what was coming next. Their voices overlapped, gruff and urgent, a storm of approval.

Some Recons leaned toward one another, exchanging hard nods and slaps on the armored shoulders—a wordless affirmation, a silent pact that they were ready. Others raised clenched fists high toward the ceiling, letting the motion carry their exhilaration outward.

From across the room, a few voices rang out louder than the rest. “That’s what it is!” It cut through the din, sharp and proud, met instantly by a chorus of echoes and renewed shouts.

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“ — I’ve heard good things about you, Colonel,” General Ardmore spoke, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of command, “But a lot’s changed since your tour here. Walk with me ”

She pivoted sharply, the mechanical exosuit hissing and whirring with every movement, servos flexing like a second skeleton. Sparks flickered as robotic spiders skittered across the walls, their tiny legs tapping against steel panels, eyes glowing faintly red. The air smelled faintly of ozone and lubricant, the tang of machinery alive with energy.

“The new ops center is over here,” she continued, gesturing to a massive cluster of consoles and holo-screens to the left. Light danced across the floor as panels hummed to life, projecting detailed layouts of Pandora’s terrain, “That just came online. Fully functional “

Her hand swept toward a row of massive spider-like machines crawling in formation, “ These are our swarm assemblers.” The mechanical arms moved frantically, pulling steel girders and welding components with precision, building structures almost impossibly fast. Sparks flew like controlled fireworks, “They can put up a building in six days. We have done more here in a year than in the previous 30 years “

Quaritch’s eyes followed her gestures, taking in the scale of it all—the humming machinery, the relentless motion, the sense that this base itself was alive.

“We’re not here to run a mine, Colonel,” she said, voice firm, carrying authority that didn’t require shouting, “ As on-world commander, I’ve been charged with a greater mission.”

She led him down a narrow corridor, the walls vibrating slightly under the weight of the equipment around them, until they reached a secondary mechanical base—steel and wiring crisscrossed like a scene out of a simulation.

A robotic arm extended smoothly, gripping a coffee mug and lifting it to her lips. She drank slowly, deliberately, as if savoring each sip, then set it down on a nearby console, “ Earth is dying,” she said. “Our task here is to terraform Pandora. Nothing less. Nothing short of making it the new home for humanity.”

Miles drew a slow, measured breath, the oxygen mask clinging to his neck hissing faintly as it refilled.

“But before we can do that,” she continued, picking the mug back up and taking another deliberate sip, “we need to pacify the hostile”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication, as the machinery around them continued its relentless, humming work.

The General led Quaritch and Lyle down the polished corridor, the hum of machinery and servos echoing through the base. As they reached the center of the operations floor, holographic screens flickered to life around them, projecting floating images of Pandora’s terrain overlaid with markers, movement paths, and recent incidents.

“Look at these,” she said, sweeping a hand over the displays. The screens zoomed in on scattered Na’vi activity—ambushes, skirmishes, and sabotaged equipment, “Sully’s raids are becoming bolder. More frequent. Strikes are well planned you’ve got tight coordination between his ground and air assets”

Quaritch’s eyes followed the paths traced on the holograms: ground units moving in formation, aerial creatures swooping in, coordinated attacks hitting multiple targets almost simultaneously.

She gestured toward the most recent assault: a moving supply train ripped apart by Na’vi warriors, crates of weapons and materials ripped from the cars as their riders swept overhead on banshees. Sparks and debris floated in the projection, suspended in midair as if the holo itself had caught the chaos.

“His forces are hitting our outlying sites—mines, pipelines, supply convoys,” she continued, voice steady but sharp. “They’re cutting off our supply chain “

Miles took a slow, deliberate breath through the mask, the soft hiss of recycled oxygen briefly filling his ears as he studied the holographic feed of the most recent attack. Burning wreckage froze mid-motion in the projection—twisted metal, scattered supplies, Na’vi silhouettes already gone by the time the footage ended. His eyes narrowed.

He turned back to the General, “Any intel on Sully’s base of operations?”

General Ardmore gave a single nod. Without raising her voice, she issued a clipped command to the technicians nearby. Fingers moved fast across consoles. With a sharp flicker of light, the hologram shifted.

Floating stone spires loomed in layered depth, mist curling around their bases, sheer cliffs suspended as if gravity itself had been negotiated into submission. Wind patterns and flight paths glowed faintly across their surfaces, red and amber markers blinking where human assets had vanished.

“It’s a cave system,” Ardmore said evenly, “ Somewhere in the Hallelujah Mountains. Exact location still unknown”

Quaritch stepped forward, moving directly into the holographic projection. The mountains phased through his body as he walked, light washing over his blue skin. He paced slowly between the floating spires, head tilting as he studied angles, distances, elevation. One hand lifted, passing through a projected cliff face as if he were tracing possible entry points.

Nearby, Lyle pulled his mask slightly away from his face, drawing in a deeper breath as he stared up at the towering holograms. His chest rose and fell heavily, eyes tracking the drifting rock formations.

“But every time we send our forces up there, we take losses,” Ardmore continued, “Our hardware really stirs up the hornet’s nest.”

With a sharp gesture, she shifted the display.

On a separate holographic panel, new footage burst to life.

Three aircraft cut through the air toward the floating mountains, rotors whining, gunships holding formation. For a split second, everything looked routine—then the sky exploded with movement. Wild ikran surged out of the clouds, wings snapping open like blades, shrill screeches piercing the audio feed.

The pilots shouted over comms, voices overlapping in rising panic.

“Mayday! Mayday— we’re going down—!”

The final aircraft spiraled, engulfed by writhing shapes and flapping wings before the feed dissolved into static.

“ we can only get ten minutes in enemy airspace— they are all over us “

The room fell silent again, the echo of screams lingering longer than the image itself.

General Ardmore turned on her heel, “Colonel,” she said, voice clipped, “we believe your blue team will be perceived as indigenous and will not trigger the immune response”

Quaritch tilted his head slightly, the movement slow and deliberate. One corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a grin, more a knowing curl. Interest sparked in his eyes, bright and calculating.

“And how exactly do you propose we test that hypothesis, General?” he asked, tone almost amused.

Ardmore didn’t hesitate. She gave a short, decisive nod, lips pressing together as if sealing the decision in stone.

“The hard way.”

For a split second, Quaritch was still.

Then his smile spread

It wasn’t friendly. It was sharp—wide enough to bare rows of pearly white, feline teeth, the expression stretching his features into something unmistakably predatory. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction, a gleam of approval flashing through them like a blade catching light.

“Outstanding,” he said, the word heavy with relish.

Beside him, Lyle’s reaction was immediate. He leaned back slightly, arms folding across his broad chest, a smug grin pulling at his face.

The decision had been made.

And none of them looked even remotely disappointed.

ONE SHOT | DISOBEDIENCE PROTOCOL

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#SYNOPSIS. You disobeyed a direct order from the Colonel

#CHARACTER(S). Yandere! Human! Colonel Miles Quaritch

#WARNING(S). Spanking, non consensual, sexual assult, forced proximity, him just being a creep overall, unhealthy fixation, inappropriate touching, hint of voyeurism(?)maybe(?), rest of the tags are on the masterlist

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The lab smelled like sterilized metal and the faint tang of sweat—your sweat. You'd been hunched over samples for hours, fingers twitching every time a distant squesk could be heard. That sound usually meant Quaritch was nearby, boots heavy on the polished floors.

Your spine went rigid when the door hissed open without a knock. The colonel’s shadow swallowed yours whole before he even stepped inside. "Still avoiding me, princess?"

His voice was gravel dragged over pavement, too close now—close enough you could feel his breath on the back of your neck. You didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Your throat tightened around nothing as his hand settled on your hip, possessive and warm.

Then his grip twisted, yanking you backward until your shoulders hit his chest, “ Orders were clear” His other hand snaked up to fist in your hair, pulling just shy of painful, “ No excursions outside the perimeter “ You hissed as he jerked your head back, “Yet here you are, smug as hell, waltzing back in covered in fucking pollen “

You sobbed, tears springing to your eyes before you could stop them. Your chest ached as each breath came out uneven, shaking, as though your body itself was betraying you. The weight of his presence pressed down on you.

Tears slipped free despite your efforts, blurring your vision as humiliation and fear tangled together in your throat.

His nose dragged along your neck, inhaling sharply,“ Smell like them, too”

You bucked violently—but the desk met your hips before you could gain momentum. The pencil skirt trapped your thighs, fabric biting into skin as he leaned his full weight against you. His exhale shuddered against your neck, humid and slow, before his tongue swiped a thick stripe from collarbone to jaw.

"Try that again," he murmured into your skin. His teeth grazed your earlobe, nipping just hard enough to make you freeze. The desk's edge dug into your stomach as he shifted, sealing your hips against cold metal while his free hand slid down your side—too slow, too deliberate—to grip your skirt's hem.

You jerked sideways, twisting with everything you had, but his thigh wedged between yours, pinning you harder. Heat bloomed where his cock pressed against the small of your back, unmistakable even through layers of fabric.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and rocked forward, dragging himself against you in a filthy, unhurried grind, “ Thought you'd like knowing how much this pisses me off”

You didn't answer—couldn't—your throat locked tight around an ugly, rising sob. The weight of him crushed your ribs with every breath, forcing the air out in stuttered gasps.

The sob broke free then—wet and ragged—as you twisted uselessly against him. Your palms burned from scrabbling at his thighs, nails catching denim but finding no purchase. "P-please," you choked, voice cracking mid-word like a snapped twig, "Dont do—”

Cold metal bit into your stomach as his palm slid down your spine—slow, deliberate—before gripping the hem of your skirt. A tear ripped through the air as he shoved it down past your thighs, “ Always knew you'd look pretty like this “ His calloused thumb pressed into the soft swell of your ass, kneading until you squirmed.

The first strike cracked like a gunshot, hissing through your teeth before the sting even registered, “Fuck—!" You arched, heels skidding against the floor, but his free hand anchored you in place, “ Ain't even started, sweetheart ”

His voice dripped honey-thick, that lazy drawl curling around each syllable as his palm came down again, harder this time. The heat bloomed in slow waves, each smack layering over the last until your skin burned raw.

"Help! Somebody—!" Your scream shattered against the lab's steel walls. Quaritch's breath hitched in amusement before his next swing landed with a wet smack, teeth gritted behind his grin, “ Louder, sweetheart. See if I care” Another cry tore loose, and his fingers dug into your hip, delivering two rapid-fire blows that made your knees buckle. The pain was a live wire now, snapping up your spine—so when your next scream choked into a sob, he merely hummed approvingly, rubbing circles into the throbbing flesh, “There we go. Knew you could be quiet when it counted”

Your forehead pressed onto the metal, tears dripping onto the keyboard below. His palm cradled your ass again, kneading the flesh, then suddenly flipped you onto your back like you weighed nothing. The overhead lights blinded you for a second—long enough for his hand to hook under your chin, tilting your face up, "Look at that," he murmured, thumb swiping through the streaks of ruined mascara.

His grip was almost tender now, callouses catching on your damp skin as he studied you, “Ain't you a sight” The contrast was dizzying: the man who'd just painted your ass red now tracing the curve of your cheekbone like it was scripture.

You flinched when his thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing tear-salty and sticky gloss. His nostrils flared, pupils darkening as he leaned in—close enough to share breath, “ Still wanna holler?" That drawl dripped molasses-slow, mocking. His free hand slid down your ribs possessively, squeezing just shy of pain, “ Or you finally gonna obey?” The question curled like smoke between you.

His hips pinning yours against the console’s edge. One jerk of his wrist and your shirt ripped open, buttons pinging across the floor.

Your breath came in shallow gasps, each one hitching as his rough palms slid up your sides, fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. You shut your eyes tight, focusing—disconnecting—on the hum of the lab’s air vents, the flickering lights overhead, anything but the way his teeth scraped your shoulder.

‘ It’ll get worse if I keep fighting him ‘ The realization slithered through your panic like cold water. You forced your knees apart, letting your thighs fall slack against the desk, even as bile rose in your throat. Grace needed those samples. If I could keep him occupied—stay gentle, stay agreeable—then Grace would have one more day. One more chance to mend what had been fractured with the Omatikaya.

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks at the thought of Doctor Grace Augustine—your brilliant, red-haired mentor with a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind. She was relentless in her devotion to Pandora, to its forests and floating mountains, to every living thing that breathed beneath its sky.

And her students— Oh, how she loved them fiercely. She taught them, challenged them, and raised them. Grace believed in understanding, in respect, in coexistence, even when no one else would listen. Remembering her now made your chest ache— for Grace

His fingers stilled against your ribs, grip loosening. “Oh? Whats this now? ” His chuckle rumbled against your shoulder blade as his other hand slid up your thigh, fingertips skating over gooseflesh.

You swallowed the whimper threatening to spill out, forcing your voice steady, “ M sorry—wont disobey again” The words tasted like ash, but you let your legs fall wider, hips tilting up in silent surrender. His breath hitched—a sharp, satisfied sound—before his palm smoothed up your stomach, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

Mile’s laugh was low, whiskey-warm as his fingers traced your jawline, “ There’s that good girl I know,” he drawled, dragging his knuckles down your throat. His other hand kneaded your inner thigh, rough fingertips skating dangerously close to where you burned hottest.

His voice dipped lower, honeyed with satisfaction, “Gonna remember this next time you think about wandering off, ain’tcha?” You nodded quickly, swallowing the bile in your throat, and let out a shaky breath, “ Y-yes, sir. Won’t—won’t happen again”

The words tasted like rust, but you forced your hips to stay lax, your thighs parted just enough for his wandering hand to drift lower. It was like watching yourself from outside your body—the way his fingers traced the lace edge of your panties with deliberate, maddening slowness, rough fingertips catching on the delicate fabric.

‘ Grace needs this— the na’vi too’ The thought anchored you, clinical and detached, even as your pulse fluttered under his palm.

The words tasted like copper when you forced them out, “I-I know I messed up, Miles” Your voice cracked—part performance, part genuine tremor—as his thumb brushed the damp lace between your thighs. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your hip just shy of bruising while his other hand traced idle circles on your inner thigh. The contrast was dizzying—the same hands that had split your skin with stinging slaps now stroking like you were something precious.

Miles hummed, low and satisfied, “Damn right you did”

His grip shifted, fingers digging under your knee as he hauled your leg over his broad shoulder without warning. The sudden movement wrenched a gasp from your throat—your spine arched off the desk.

His nose bumped against your damp panties, inhaling sharply before chuckling, rough and dark, “ Fuckin' soaked through," he muttered, tongue already pressing a wet stripe against the lace before you could even process the humiliation. His lips curled against your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you jerk—but his hands clamped down on your thighs.

The knock came like a gunshot—three sharp raps that made Quaritch go rigid, “ Colonel." Lyle's voice was tight through the door. "We got people. Whole crowd heard the ruckus, we got two minutes” His palm smacked against the metal frame again, urgent. Miles growled, nostrils flaring as his grip on your thighs turned vise-tight.

For one suspended second, you thought he might ignore it—his tongue flicked against your clit through the fabric, teasing—before he snarled and wrenched himself back.

Your leg slipped from his shoulder, bare skin smacking against cold metal as he straightened, adjusting his belt with one hand while the other dragged you upright by your forearm.

His thumb wiped roughly at your smeared lipstick before catching your chin, forcing your watery gaze up, “ This ain't over” The promise curled around you like smoke. Behind him, the door hissed open—Lyle's silhouette tense in the doorway—but Quaritch didn't turn.

His pupils were blown black, gaze raking over your dishevelment as if memorizing every undone button. "Clean yourself up," he ordered.

You hadn't realized your knees were shaking until he stepped back, his tactical vest brushing your exposed stomach as he moved past. The sudden absence of his body heat left you shuddering, fingers trembling against the desk's edge.

Lyle's jaw twitched as Quaritch strode past him, but his gaze—just for a fractured second—dropped to your thighs. His nostrils flared at the sight of your ripped skirt pooled around your ankles, your damp underwear sticking to your cunt making the shape obvious to his gaze.

His throat bobbed as he jerked his head away, but not before you caught the bulge straining against his fatigues.