"Very well, very well," the man babbled, straightening his stereotypical white coat, which immediately unstraightened and wafted around like a flag. "We'll be recieving our briefing in T minus one minute, so, if you'd please turn your attention to the display?"

"What are you, a tour guide?" Greenleaf muttered, unconcerned with the consequences of mouthing off at an RDA brain. They could get you iced, sure, but only if you let them think they were the boss. And Hardeaux was definitely not the boss here.

But who was?

"Something like that," Hardeaux chuckled. "I was involved in the construction of this station; I have a background in architechture as well as neurobiology, so they thought it was best if I--"

"That's nice. What do you know about the mission?" If Hardeaux knew anything, it could be invaluable to Greenleaf once he got to Pandora. The brains often let slip things they shouldn't to fellow RDA disciples, and it came in handy when the top boys didn't see fit to distribute information to the troops. Like the camouflage patterns of hellwasps, for instance.

"Oh, that's um, that's classified," Hardeaux said hurriedly, glancing at the silent and dark display. He nodded his head slightly at it. Greenleaf got the message. They could be listening.

"Of course," the sergeant muttered. "Naturally. So why did they bring me all the way up here? There's perfectly secure bunkers down on--"

The display blinked to life. Immediately a videopic of a chiselled middle-aged man with short white-blonde hair appeared, floating statically off the hologram platform and approaching them.

Greenleaf snapped to salute instantly, without thought except a wild shock of surprise and confusion. "Colonel Quaritch, sir!"

"Sergeant James Greenleaf. At ease," growled the square-jawed man on the opposite end of the feed. "Take a seat, son. You too, egghead."

Greenleaf maneuvered himself into a chair. Hardeaux was one thing, but when Miles fucking Quaritch told you to sit down, you fucking sat. Greenleaf's mind was racing with amazement and fear. How could it be possible? They'd all heard the reports. KIA, like any good officer, went down defending his men. But there he was--or someone much like him.

"Mister Quaritch," gabbled the egghead. "But um. I read the, ah, the on-site reports, aren't you supposed to be--"

"Dead? Yes. Well," drawled the colonel, smirking slightly, "dead isn't what it used to be. How did the man say it? Oh, yeah. 'Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.' All that shit. Now pay attention, kids. We've got a lot of fun new toys to play with and not much time."

Greenleaf felt like a new recruit, fresh out of the academy. Miles fucking Quaritch. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't help but lean forward slightly in his seat as he listened.

"The whole Pandora thing is fucked to high hell. The goddamn blue catfucks have gone and kicked us out. Troops are en route but they're not gonna do shit. The big brains are talking about abandoning the mission--apparently the entire planet's one big brain or something. Damn cheap of them, if you ask me. A whole planet full of hellbeasts and all it takes is one goddamn shitkicking race traitor to rile 'em up and put the entire world on alert."

"It's a moon, sir," mumbled Hardeaux absently.

Quaritch froze. His steely glare settled on the scientist. "Did you just fucking interrupt me?"

"I..." Quaritch didn't give him a chance to finish. Greenleaf flinched in his chair as the Colonel snarled at the biologist.

"I didn't ask your fucking opinion, Hard-on, and I'd damn well appreciate it if you shut the fuck up and recieve your mission briefing. Any more interruptions before Q&A-time and I'm going to shuttle up there and curb-stomp your smart little brains out. Got it?"

The mumble that came out of Hardeaux' mouth could have been 'yes sir.' It also could have been 'egg sandwich.' Quaritch didn't seem to care. He turned to Greenleaf without skipping a beat.

"Greenleaf, we need a tac-ops team to circle around the planet while we set an orbit pattern above Hell's Gate. The whole base is probably covered in plants and shit by now, but it's best to put our first foot there, to keep Sully and the blue fucks satisfied. Give them an enemy to lie in wait for, like the cowardly shits they are, and meanwhile you and the egghead are going to be running black ops on the opposite side of the world."

Hardeaux made a spluttering noise. Greenleaf smirked. Doubtless the scientist had thought himself above military operations. He'd probably never left the lab before. This would be fun.

"The button-mashers in the top labs have come up with an ace-in-the-hole," Quaritch continued. "A goddamn one-two punch. Or so they say. I've got no fucking confidence in these calculator types, but bullets weren't very useful the last time, so I'm willing to let them give it a try. I won't be present myself, but let me assure you, we are going to be watching every inch of your mission so you'd better not screw up."

Greenleaf's throat went dry. He nodded silently. He knew the penalty for failure on Pandora--he'd heard plenty from the grunts who had managed to come back alive from the last push. But coming back to Quaritch with nothing but failure in his hands would be even worse.

"Now since the entire goddamn world is mined with these...neural strands or whatever, we're going to toss you down on some rocks," the colonel stated. He tapped something and a topographical map began to scan beside his face. "Theoretically the planet shouldn't be able to do anything about you unless you start fucking around in the trees. That's where step two comes in."

Quaritch took a deep breath. "I don't fucking like it. I really fucking don't. But it turns out we have just one of those avatar bodies left from what's-her-face's big clustermug of a pet project--you know, the one that put us back in an economic nose dive."

Greenleaf nodded, frowning. The Avatar project. He'd heard rumors about it. The head brain on that one, Grace somebody, ranked right behind Sully in the RDA's Most Wanted list. Supposedly she was dead, but Greenleaf didn't quite buy it. If Quaritch could still be alive, he reasoned, anyone could be.

"You're going to take that body for a drive, Greenleaf." When the sergeant recoiled in horror, Quaritch nodded. "I know, pal. I understand. But it's the only way to get into that jungle without the entire planet swallowing you up like a damn Skittle. And you have to deliver the ace, kid. You have to bring the K.O. to these blue bastards. Fuck up their perfect little utopia. To do that, you gotta go right into the heart of their territory and deliver the one egghead project that might just save our asses."

The sergeant sat back, still disgusted. The idea of putting on one of those notorious blue skins and walking through the jungle was not his idea of a fun time. But orders were orders.

"That's pretty much it," Quaritch finished. "You boys will be on the next ride to Pandora. Any questions?"

"Sir," Greenleaf barked before Hardeaux could speak. "May I ask where you will be, sir?"

"That's classified, soldier," Quaritch snapped in a you-should-know-better tone. "But rest assured I will be close, and I will be watching. In fact, there's a little catch to the free blue-cat ride you need to know about."

"Sir, yes, sir?"

Quaritch smiled. Greenleaf didn't like that. Legend had it that whenever Quaritch smiled, someone died. Painfully. "There will be a remote bomb affixed to your blue-suit's spine, soldier. And there will also be a microcamera inserted into one of the body's eyes. If you show any sign of defecting to the smurf side--any indication at all that you intend to harm RDA representatives or soldiers--you are going to die. A very painful, slow death after your spine is blown out. Understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Greenleaf responded without any concern. "When do we leave, sir?"

Fuck yeah Quaritch.
He was clearly too badass for death

Also anticipatan, you got a good thing going here so far

Very yes. And that better be the REAL Colonel Miles Muthafuckin' Quaritch.

>>148

Of course it is. Unlike the RDA, Colonel Quaritch does not fuck around. He would be heading the mission himself, but he's too busy dealing with the RDA's current Xenomorph problem.

>>151
Wait...Quaritch...AND TENTACLES???
Stop tempting me, devil-writefag...

>>152

More like Quaritch with an army of exosuits vs. an army of facehuggers and Aliens. Guess who wins?

Also, in case you hadn't guessed, the RDA of Avatar is analagous to the Company from the Aliens series.

In fact, one of the RDA backup plans for killing off Pandorans is to dump a truckload of facehuggers into the jungle and see what happens. But that won't be covered in the fic.

>>153
As long as you give Quaritch upgraded, practical exosuits (i.e., NO FUCKING GLASS WINDSHIELDS).

>>153

Oh god, blue na'vi xenomorphs

>>153
And I always thought that the Company was a subsidiary of RDA...

But moar fatfic, plz.

>>156

Hm. Maybe it is. Doesn't matter anyway. No sexy Xenomorphs for you--this is going to be strictly Na'vi weight gain and a little bit of humiliation/domination. Oh, and of course feeding, force-feeding, overeating, and general female gluttony all around.

That said, it would be a lot easier to do this kind of thing with more incentive. Gnightrocks' pic above is stellar--anyone else feel like picking up the stylus and banging out some jiggly blue goodness? I don't own one, or else I would help.

Back to the writing.

>>158

Something new would be nice. But dun fear. I'm workin' on the next segment. Prepare for heinously researched Na'vi cultural references!

In the meantime, fat Dranei. a.k.a., proof that some form of deity exists and lurvs us. DAT BELLEH.

>>160
Sorry, my lack of drawfag talents is...disturbing. But so wanting the storeh.

CHAPTER DEUX! (More intro, still no weight gain. Sorry, folks, trying to be professional. I gotta set up house before I wreck it, I'm that kinda guy.)

(Also, I beg your forgiveness for the ridiculous terminology. Trying to go for an accurate depiction of Smurfy culture so I can burn it down with extra relish.)


Part 2: On the Ground

Molo wrapped his legs tightly around the mossy tree trunk, hanging upside down with his quiver hanging from a nearby branch. He notched his arrow to the bowspring, trying not to breath.

Across the river the slender blue quadruped leaning down to drink froze as the rustle of Molo's shins against the moss met its sensetory crests. It raised the colorful fans above its eyes, staring to and fro. Unwilling to wait another moment, Molo loosed his arrow.

The projectile flew true, and even the yerik's renowned reflexes could not save it from being impaled on the razor-sharp shaft, which plunged deep into its flank with a whisper of impact. The creature squealed and bucked, trying to leap into the trees, but it became entangled in a cluster of vines.

"Srane!" cried the young one in exultation. He dropped into an aerial somersault, snatching his quiver as he fell, and hopped onto a fallen log, crossing the river in a few eager bounds. His quarry thrashed in the undergrowth, but this time he had it, this time he would bring home the kill and come home as a man--

With a thunderous crash and a bloochilling snarl a titanic creature of oily muscle and hooked teeth plunged from the treetops, sinking its claws into the downed yerik. Its armor-plated head swung around to glare hungrily at Molo.

"Oh, no..." Molo stood as still as he could, paused in mid-run. The massive pelelukan bared its fangs, each longer than his finger, in a triumphant grin. It glanced at the frantic, dying yerik, and then back at the young Na'vi, as if deciding which one to eat first.

Molo's first instinct was to beg, but he knew better: the pelelukan, the bringer of fear, would only be encouraged by pleading. It did not know Eywa, and in moments it would pounce and rip him into so many pieces that it would take days for them to find his qeue.

"Shit," cursed the youngster in the tongue of his clan. The pelelukan's slinky form flowed over the yerik, and Molo waited to die.

There was a small snap. Molo winced. But the hunter had apparently chosen the already wounded prey. Its jaws had closed tightly around the neck of the small herbivore, and Molo heard several more of the little animal's vertebrae popping under the pressure of the thanator's massive jaws. The beast tipped its head back, letting the kill slide into its mouth, and prowled away with a murmuring snarl into the green depths of the forest.

Molo took a minute to compose himself, which involved several thankful prayers to Eywa and the act of washing his soiled loincloth in the river. The washing was accompanied by a litany of curses on the pelelukan's head.

"Of all the days to come, you had to come today," he muttered angrily, strapping on the worn animal hide and shouldering his child's bow. "Today, when I made the cleanest shot, at the perfect place. Even the vines to catch the yerik when it ran! Irayo. Irayo. I really needed that. Irayo, pelelukan, without you my life might have actually moved on."

He shuddered at the still-immediate memory of the glistening fangs, the huge curved claws. He knew the pelelukan; she was a widely known danger in these parts, but rarely hunted by day. Why she had to go after his yerik on the day of his manhood trial, only Eywa knew. Eywa also knew that there was plenty of better game out there--why Molo's prey? Why today?

"Probably the same reason that the first yerik fell on a riti nest, and the second one had to jump straight into a tawtsnegal," he grumbled. That was to say: pure, rotten luck. This would be his third manhood trial in as many days, and if the other Evi had laughed at him yesterday, he could only imagine what they would say now.

"That is, if any of them are still Evi, and not made the rite," he added morosely, climbing up the side of a rugged old tree. Most of the young ones, even Kalu, the smallest girl, would have doubtless made their first kill by now. They would be returning to the tribe overjoyed and prideful, and he would return as a laughingstock. Again.

(cont'd)

"Molo!" came a strident voice from up above. The Evi flinched as he hopped from tree to tree.

"Yes, Tstatka?" he called upwards. With a rush of air his sister landed on a branch near him, her hunter's beads rattling.

"Where in the name of Eywa did you go?" Molo averted his eyes as he launched himself to the next pan-leaf. His sister pursued him relentlessly. "You were supposed to stay near the lake!"

"Sorry, tsmuke," he muttered, but couldn't help grinning a little. If he had one talent, he reflected, it was sneaking. When he'd seen the junior yerik wandering from the herd he'd followed on instinct--and apparently he had hunted well. "I guess I forgot."

"Forgot? Eywa! You almost wandered into Juntae's territory! You could have been eaten!"

If only you knew, he thought to himself. "Yes, well, I'm fine now, so no need to worry."

His sister sniffed him as she swung past on a vine. "What smells? Did something piss on you?"

"No, I rolled in something bad so you'd leave me alone."

Tstatka growled as he outpaced her. "Little teylu! I'll toss you off the top of the Hometree! I was supposed to keep watch on you while you passed your test!" She paused. "You did past your test, right?"

"Do you see any kill?" he snapped back bitterly. "Of course I didn't."

"Well, why not? Don't tell me you didn't have the stomach for it," she teased. When he didn't respond, she grew more serious. "Was it another tawtsnegal?" He ignored her, bounding across a vast gap to land on a giant torukspxam mushroom. "Don't tell me you stumbled on a bunch of stingbats again. I already told you how to deal with ritis."

"No," he mumbled, rolling off the mushroom onto the soft undergrowth beneath it. His sister poked her head over the side of the fungus, her interlocked braids dangling.

"Then what? What happened? What was it this time?"

Molo took off running, following the marked trail of warbonnet fern leaves attached to the shadowed tree trunks. "Nothing," he growled. "Nothing."


(Aw, poor muffin. Next round will introduce more doomed female characters, the doomed Na'vi Clan and a peek at what our good friend Sergeant Greenleaf has been up to.)

(Also, any questions about the random vocabulary I threw in there are welcome. I was trying to incorporate Cameron's made-up language...not sure how useful/interesting/confusing it is to do so.)

Keep going. Good sex needs good foreplay. I can;t wait to see what happens next.

Haha, looking at what I've written so far makes me feel so fucking gay. Now I remember why I stopped writing fanfiction.

But I will continue, for the greater good. See you guys in about a week.

Moar?

MOAR! MOAR!! MOARRRRRR!!!!!!!

>>181
Quit shouting, man! You made me think someone got a Game Over in here.

Don't leave us hanging!

Where are you?

BUMP

>>232
>>200

Hey now, easy there. Some of us got busy real lives to attend to an' shit.

(Said the man sitting in front of his laptop in his underwear. . . )

Look, the fapfic's fallen behind in the grand scheme of things. For now, you'll have to be contented with some bona-fide, grade-A amateur shitscribbles.

Whaddya think? Ended up much more "Tigra" than "Ney'tiri" in my opinion. But I didn't feel like drawing ten hundred little lines to represent the Na'vi coloration scheme.

Oops, forgot to namefag.

Anyway, here's another product of my boredom. My pencil-fu is weak, but somehow it still excites me.

Tell me what you think.

>>249

Fuck! The hell is that wrinkly shit on her stomach? Need to correct that. . . Sorry folks.

LET THIS PALTRY SACRIFICE APPEASE OUR WRITEFAG MASTERS!

more pics plz!!!!!!!!!!

>>253

Your writefag master has recently misplaced his hard drive.

No, seriously.

The whole hard drive.

"Work" will continue if/when it is found.

>>254

Make them yourself.

>> 261
JESUSPALMED :D Like anon can draw >.>

>>261

>>261
...I have to admit, that kind of miraculous misplacement is almost respectable in its craziness.

>>270

I know. I know.

I'm working on it.

In the meantime, expect more shitdoodles because, well, I have a scanner and a paper. But not a hard drive.

This can only end well.

Courtesy of DWN

>>281

Um. . . dat face needs work, son. The rest is very fappable, though. Thank you. Anyway, on with the story.

(cont'd)

The Hometree was hopping with excitement. Molo watched from the branches of a unidelta tree, its twin trunks bending slightly at his weight. His yellow eyes scanned the gathering circles that had been stamped in the shadows of the mighty boughs high above: it seemed that although he had once again failed, no one had yet noticed him returning. Perhaps it would be best if he kept it that way. He’d gotten tired of being jeered at by the young boys who had dragged home their kills weeks ago. The thought of enduring such an insult gauntlet again sickened him.

Instead he hopped through the foliage outside the gathering circles, trying to look as if he was going about his business. His small bow and quiver felt heavy on his back. He was beginning to think that no one was going to bother him when a lithe, warm tangle of limbs slammed into his back.

Plunging several yards into soft grass, he yelped and shoved at the offender. Her chiding laughter rang in his ears; as he kicked her to the ground he saw it was Jeyli, one of the young females of his tribe.

“You didn’t see me? Come on Molo, I didn’t even try.”

He scowled at her. “Got more important things to worry about than some dumb girl ambushing me.” He rubbed his arm, which she’d bruised. He was no more frail than any other young man, but the Talioang tribe was not renowned for their meek women. Aggression was just as much a part of their culture as it was among the massive sturmbeests the tribe was named for.

She feigned looking hurt. “Aw, Molo, you don’t need to be so mean. I was only playing.” Her tail lashed as she hopped to her feet, and for a moment, Molo felt a surge of passion race under his skin. She was strong, alright, and fast, and very sleek, and. . . well, he liked her. That much he knew. He wasn’t sure what to do with the heat that built inside him when she was around, but he was certain he would figure it out when he was older. There was little that adults didn’t know.

But they would never tell him if he couldn’t catch that damn yerik. And that was why, when Molo heard the splintery rattle as he stood up, he barely paused a beat before cursing at Jeyli as loud as he could.

(Whoops. Name. Right. After all, that's how we tell one hormone-crazed fetishist from another, right?)

(cont'd)

“What? What did I do?” she said. This time the hurt looked more genuine.

“What did you do? You broke my Eywa-cursed BOW!” His hands clenched spasmodically. The two pieces on the ground blurred in front of him.
Several of Jeyli’s friends had begun to walk over. “What’s he crying about?” asked Hethlet, a tall girl with large eyes and a condescending frown.

“I broke his bow,” said Jeyli, sounding both surprised and a little sorry. “I didn’t mean to. . .”

“You had to come at me with your stupid pouncing trick when I was coming home with it,” Molo growled. “Why can’t you ever just leave well enough alone?”

Jeyli’s bead necklaces rattled as she leaned over the bow. “It’s not so bad. . . you can make a new one. . .”

“That will take me DAYS!” Several girls had now surrounded them, attracted to the fuss.

Oblivious to their presence, Molo raised his hand. This was it. This was the final straw. After these days of bad luck, and now this!
“Stupid hammerhead!” he screamed. “Stupid, stupid cow!”
Jeyli recoiled as he drew back his fist.

Fortunately for Molo, the world had kind fortune to offer him as well. Just as he was about to hit her, a larger hand closed firmly around his wrist.

“Molo. Stop.”

His sister’s voice gave him pause. Choking down sobs, he turned to her. “But she. . . “

“She didn’t mean to. It was an accident.” Tsatka’s usually stormy face was unusually placid. “Getting angry won’t make you a man. Now come with me. We’ll make you another bow.”

Breathing hard, Molo glared at Jeyli, who was looking at him like one might look at a teylu grub that had just sprouted fangs. He felt a momentary pang of regret, but then it was replaced by rage.

“Ewya curse that,” he said. “I’m going to go out and kill that stupid yerik with my bare hands.”

PART 3: CULTURE CLASH

Within twenty-three hours of defrost, Greenleaf found himself on the ground.

His muscles still ached from the months he’d spent as a human popsicle, but the retraining regimen was solid, and he had no complaints to make about the Venture Star’s workout wing. Flexing his arms, he watched with glee as the AMP suit reflected his movements, the giant metal hydraulic arms spreading.

Feeling elated, he pounded his chest. The suit’s fists hammered against the underside of the cockpit, sending tiny warning lights up and down the interface.

Grinning, Greenleaf howled up to an alien sky, the jungle stretched out before him. It was time to fuck up some alien bastards.

Meanwhile on the Star, Hardeaux waxed philosophical.

“Look at him. He’s like a wild animal. I wonder how different we are from the Na’vi, psychologically?” He chuckled. “Not much, I suppose. Because if we weren’t, this project would never have happened.”

“Indeed. Now, are you finished ruminating, sir?” asked Dr. Tannigan, a pale young Japanese-Chinese senior xenobiologist. “I do believe that we have an operation to get running.”

“Um. Right. Of course.” Hardeaux tapped the surface relay transponder. “Mr., ah, Greenleaf? If you would please proceed across the rock flats to the northern edge, there will be a modified hab-bloc for you there. Disembark from your ambulatory weapons platform when you arrive and you will be debriefed by the recordings there, after which you will be sent the BMD by airdrop.”

“Okey-dokey, Doc,” came Greenleaf’s response over the luminescent array. “Hab-bloc, northern rock flats. Got it.” A pause. “Hey, Doc? Is it okay to shoot shit I see in the jungle?”

Hardeaux rubbed his forehead. “Yes, yes. Fine by me. If anything large happens along, though, try not to anger it, the planet might notice.”

“Sweet.” A crackling murmur of static, then silence as Greenleaf switched off his array.
“Now then, Doctor,” said Tannigan, fingering her ID badge, “I am going to do a final test of the BM device in a closed environment. Please monitor the readings for me to ensure the device and the psi-relay are functioning properly.”

“Er. Are you sure you don’t want any of the interns to do it?”

Tannigan flashed a thrill-seeker’s grin. “No, sir. I’ve had a lot of fun making sure this machine is. . . “ She ran her tongue over her teeth. “Properly lab-tested. I don’t want to give up my last shot with it before we sent it planetside.”

Hardeaux blinked. Good god, he thought to himself, she speaks of it as if it were a lover. “So the effects are. . . as promised, then?”

“Oh, yes.” She sighed, a wistful look coming over her almond-shaped eyes. “And more. Have the interns get the storage crate from my room and. . . oh, maybe ninety pounds of MRE’s.”

Hardeaux gulped. “Right away. Miss. Ah, are you sure there are no lingering side-effects?”

Tannigan’s eyes narrowed. “What do I look like, a post-grad? It’s got absolutely no influence outside of the Na’vi brain structure, Hardeaux. I grab myself a CAT scan after every use to make sure.” She sighed, the wistful look returning. “Despite the production cost, we definitely need to look into more. . . personalized uses for the BM emanatory. It’s. . . “ She coughed. “Well. It’s very interesting. Now then. Shall we?”

Hardeaux nodded, watching Tannigan as she swept from the room. It had to be his imagination, but he thought she was humming happily under her breath.

He began to wonder if, perhaps, the BMD was working a little too well.

(cont’d)

Molo pounded through the woods, not bothering to conceal his trail or concentrate on stealth. His blood ran hot inside of him and his tiny skinning knife was clenched so hard in his fingers that his knuckles hurt, but he didn’t care.

“Break my dumb bow, will you?” he muttered angrily as he clambered over dozens of giant mushrooms. “I’ll show you. I’ll get myself a kill and I’ll come back with it and then you’ll be my mate, you stupid, clumsy—”

Hearing himself, he actually stopped, crouching on one of the great azure torukspxam fungi. Was that what he was really out here for? Was this how he should prove himself to Jeyli?

“Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe.” Just thinking about her gave him a rush of not only anger, but pleasure as well. Her smooth supple calves and lanky, graceful body. Not a full-grown woman yet by a long shot, but good enough for him.

And, apparently, good enough for his male-parts as well. Molo slapped his hand across his forehead. Running through the jungle would not be easy when something as important as that was trying to stand still. Still and tall.

He sighed, and waited for it to stop. And as he did so, he heard rattling from a nearby cliff.
Blinking, he angled his knife to prepare for an ambush, facing it upward so that any predator would at least get a nasty gash for its meal. He peered up at the crumbling ledge that he knew as the edge of Tskxe-Kllte, the stone earth fields. Useless as a grazing grounds, the rocky land was often used as a nesting ground for viperwolves. Molo bared his teeth to show no fear and growled up at the mossy stone.

Up above, he heard a massive thump, like stone on stone, and a hissing noise. This sound repeated over and over. It was like no sound he had ever heard in his life. Molo’s man-parts shrank at the noise—whatever was up there, it did not know Eywa. Nothing Eywa birthed sounded like that.
But if whatever it was, was big and slow—as it sounded like it might be—would it not be a wonderful first kill? If he could slit its throat, maybe he could—

Seizing on the idea, Molo began to climb, first nervously as his arms clung stiffly to the vines draping over Tskxe-Kllte, then faster as the sound began to recede. Whatever it was, it was HIS kill. And nothing could stop him from dragging it back to the village in triumph.

(cont’d)

Up on the Venture Star, Dr. Tannigan whistled cheerfully, sauntering into a chamber full of incredibly advanced computing equipment and two rather unusual features: a giant tank of fluid and what looked like a sleek metal coffin.

Hardeaux followed her shortly, wheezing at the pace she had set. “Ah, ms. Tannigan, how can I assist—”

“You can prepare the test chamber while I warm up.” She noticed him dawdling and smirked. “Come on, Timothy, don’t you know it’s rude to stare while a girl gets dressed?”
“What? I—that’s not quite what—well—that is to say—” Hardeaux coughed. “I’ll go have those MRE’s readied for you, then.”

“Good boy,” murmured Tannigan as he left the room. A nice guy, Hardeaux, underneath the bluster and scientific puffery. A little older, perhaps, but that couldn’t be helped. He was well-built for a man his age; with the right incentive, surely she could—

Blinking, Tannigan shook herself. “No side effects,” she muttered angrily to herself. “None. Or they take away the blueprints.” And that was what she couldn’t have. She needed those schematics. Because the Bioneural Manipulation Device, or BMD, was not something that she intended to give up. No, sir.

“Well, like Dad used to say,” she murmured, “’keep your nose clean, steal the scene.’” She sidled over to the huge tank that took up most of the small chamber. “And we are going to steal the scene, aren’t we, girl? One last time.”

The body floating inside the tank stirred fitfully, its tufted tail curling. Tannigan smiled. “That’s right. We are going to make history. Once the BMD is personalized and mass-produced we are going to have ourselves a good old time riding the history books to fame. . . Happiness. All those miserable people.” She ran one finger down the side of the tank, relishing the warmth of the glass. “I’m going to bring them joy.”

The large blue face suddenly turned toward her as the Na’vi body drifted, suspended in its amnio-fluid. One cold, sightless yellow eye opened slightly, staring at her with a mindless intent.

Shivering, Tannigan withdrew from the tank, composing herself. “But first. Science.”

She advanced to a bank of whirring computer towers, tapping a voice receiver. “This is Dr. Tannigan speaking. Date: Classified. Progress on the BMD has been excellent. Metabolic enhancers are still on standby, but so far the avatar body has done an excellent job of metabolizing the input it’s received during test sessions.” Tannigen sighed. “If only we could perform longer tests, we could ensure that the BMD is a flawless infiltration and societal sabotage device. Truth be told, folks, I’m pretty sure the RDA is going to weaponize it anyway, but establishing a more solid independent variable would be. . . greatly beneficial. Tank lights, please.”

The neurobiologist-cum-engineer turned back to the amnio tank, watching as rows of lights flicked on. “Video recorders on.” Cameras whirred in the ceiling.

She stepped towards the tank. “As you can see, the BMD’s psi-link has proved very successful. The accumulation of adipose tissue is noticeable on the avatar’s waist, chest and gluteal region.” She gestured to the various areas. “Unlike a regular Na’vi specimen, which have inhabited a stressful environment from birth and only take enough food to survive, this one has overindulged as part of a trial of the BMD’s effects. Granted, this is a hybrid human-Na’vi mix, as all avatars are. But I believe the effects will be just as impressive, if not more so, on the body of a creature that has spent its whole life on Pandora.”

Tannigan ran her eyes almost lustfully over the clone’s naked form. Its hips flared in a gentle curve, illuminated by the tank lights, and its large breasts bobbed gently in the fluid. As the creature rotated slowly in its liquid bed, its stomach could be seen to noticeably bulge. Tannigan continued her lecture to the cameras.

“As is obvious, no real examples of obesity have been as of yet recorded in the Na’vi culture. We are of course speaking of a species living on a planet which, essentially, chews up every animal it evolves and spits it out as a faster, sleeker, more refined version of itself. Not to mention the basics of Na’vi tradition dictating that one should only take what one needs to survive. For a more complete explanation of Na’vi society, please refer to the species file.”

The clone stirred fitfully as Tannigan placed her hand on the tank again. Its breasts quivered, soft spheres the size of overgrown cantaloupes.

“In stark contrast to humans, it seems the Na’vi are almost completely unfamiliar with the concept of overeating. In addition, they have been seen to be very exclusive in their sexual activity. These two components of their society have enabled them to maintain a lifestyle without excess, without hedonism, for at least several thousand years.”

She took a deep breath. “We. . . are going to change that.

"

(cont’d)

Molo clambered up the Cliffside eagerly, his knife clenched between his teeth. The bright noonday light limned the edge of Tskxe-Kllte, seeming to represent the prize therein. Dodging around the spiny daktarong plants clustered under the top of the cliff, he reached for the cliff’s edge.

In a cramped control room, miles and miles above on the Venture Star, an alarm beep sounded.

It was coming from Hardeaux’s datapad, which had been specifically keyed to retrieve incoming information and alerts from the modified AMP suit Greenleaf was piloting. Hardeaux gasped, fumbling for the pad as his attendants looked on in uncertainty.

“Just keep priming the xenon tubes, lads, I’ll uh, be with you in a moment!” Hardeaux flustered out into the hall, punching the data pad with his finger. The alarm was a radar alert—one Greenleaf was inexplicably failing to comment on or report.

“Sergeant Greenleaf, this is the Venture Star, come in!”

“Yeah, doc?”

Greenleaf’s mike squawked, and Hardeaux heard a jumble of raucous sound. “Good lord, Greenleaf! What is that awful racket?”

“That? Oh.” The pounding noise dwindled slightly. “That’s some old sound data we got out of the library back home. I think it’s called ‘Chickenfoot.’ Like it?”

Hardeaux seethed. “If you were paying less attention to your avian pseudopods and more attention to your radar, you would notice that there is an indigenous specimen en route to your position!”
Strolling along the cliff’s edge, Greenleaf paused. “What?” He noticed the red symbol pulsing on the display, and laughed. “Oh. Right.”

“This is no laughing matter. This is a serious jeapordization of your mission! Be serious!”

“No worries, Doc. I’ll smoke the lil’ bastard and we’ll be merrily on our way.” Moving with the rapid efficiency of thousands of hours of training, Greenleaf switched out his BushBoss flamethrower for a Gau 90 30-millimeter cannon, the weapon resting heavily in his suit’s mechanical hands.

“No, you will NOT! Any loss of native life is unacceptable! The Na’vi are a very close-knit tribal society, they will notice if one of their members goes missing, and they WILL investigate! I need you to listen very closely to my instructions!”

Molo hauled himself up over the cliff’s edge, grinning, ready to face his prey. However, when said prey turned around to face him, he nearly pissed himself.

The beast was like nothing any legends had ever spoken of—a bloated abdomen of watery hard stuff resting on two great legs of shining stone. In its arms it held a long black thing with little symbols on the side. The creature was twelve times Molo’s size and easily six times his height.

“Ah, there’s the little sumbitch now. . . “ Greenleaf chuckled, raising the Gau.

“No! Listen to me!” Hardeaux pleaded. “Don’t shoot it! Follow code 192!”

“The hell is Code 192?”

Hardeaux sputtered in fury. “That’s it.” He began sending reams of override code through the transmitters down to the AMP suit’s com relay systems, and Greenleaf shouted in protest as most of the readings in the cockpit went completely dark and the suit stiffened like a petrified glove.

“Keep still. I’m activating your stealth module.”

“My what?”

“Quiet! Give no sign of hostility! It might be able to see you through the suit’s windows.”

Molo did indeed see a shape inside the hulking beast, but he was far too petrified with terror to speculate on what it might be. He began crawling backwards, holding his knife out in front of him like a symbol of banishment.

Greenleaf saw the young cat-boy muttering something. “Hey, what’s it saying?”

Hardeaux oscillated the audio detectors slightly. “It’s. . . nevermind him. Just hold still. The stealth cloak is xeno technology, it’s not actually been tested on large systems yet with any success.”

“Uh, what? Doc, what was that about untested? I don’t like the word untested. You better not say that word again.” Greenleaf scowled at the juvenile alien, so close as to be within knife range of him on the flat expanse of rocks.

“Yeah, you better run, you little bastard. I’m going to fuck you up and all your little buddies. Gonna plant a virus. . . thing right in your fuckin’ home base. Run along home to mommy.”

There was a sudden pulse of power through the AMP and abruptly the entire suit crackled with electricity and vanished from view. Molo blinked.

“What the hell?” Greenleaf growled. “Doc, where’s the arms? I lost the arms, Doc!”

“You lost the whole suit. You’re in camo mode. Now we’ll see if he goes away.”

Molo peered at the space where the suit had been. There was. . . something there. A flicker of ambient light, a shine where nothing existed to give off a reflection. But for the most part. . . the air was empty. Sterile.

Molo whimpered, and dove headfirst off the cliff.

Aaaaaaaaaaand that's all I've got for now. Will continue when I have an hour or two.

Hope you enjoyed.

>>253

WRITEFAG WANT MOAR PALTRY SACRIFICES

. . . PREFERABLY FEATURING INTERCOURSE

THAT IS ALL

>>289

No. 253 here, I'll see if I can do something along those lines. But it'll probably take me a good long while to finish.
Lord knows I need something to do with all this free time I got. :P

>>290

Well, in the meantime, we can share art critiques!

Mine of course were >>249 & >>250. As you can see, my coloring is a bit. . . lacking. As is my shading, and detail, and depth, and pretty much everything that renders a 2D image less 2D. Critiques are welcome.

Comments/criticism on the story are encouraged as well. As of yet I have no new drawfaggotry or writefaggotry, but I would be glad to improve my "talent" for bizarre niche fetish works. You never know when it might come in handy.

Buggers always related. (A Halo weight gain fic. Now how would I even start that?)

After famine, we feast again! Not only erotic, but well written, a rarity in most fetishfic. Please to be giving with moar.

some1 draw a pregnant na'vi

>>330

YOU draw it. I lost my access to a scanner. Start sharpening those pencils, son.

Found one!

>>377

WELL DONE, MY DISCIPLE.

HAVE FAITH. . . YOU WILL BE REWARDED.

*scribble scribble scribble*





Dr. Tannigan closed her eyes as the neural uplink interface closed automatically over her prone, undressed form. The cold lattices of sensor-bands pressed into her skin, and she could hear a growling hum as computational arrays equivalent to ten supercomputer compounds whirred to life around the sleek metal coffin.

There was a rush of prickling sensations all across her body as she was scanned, her flickering neuron arrays analyzed, and then a sudden blast of darkness and void across her senses as her consciousness was temporarily destabilized. Minutes later sensation returned: wetness all across her body and cold shivering sensations.

But as she blearily opened her eyes she found to her delight that she was no longer in her puny human form, but in the almost Amazonian figure of her “avatar” clone. The sleek sheen of dripping concave glass that separated her from the chamber was the tank: the vitro solution had been drained in response to the consciousness transponder array firing up. The tank slid onto tracks and Tannigan, though slightly disoriented, relished the sensation of her new flesh quivering as the bumps in the track translated to gentle breast jiggles and unruly stomach wobbles.

Cautiously, she ran her slick hands up and down the avatar’s naked form. It was perfect, right down to the tiny bioluminescent pores that lined the creature’s stomach. Tannigan’s stomach.

Already, she was hungry, the sopoforic effects of the vitro solution wearing off swiftly to be replaced by a ravenous desire for food. My, but that machine’s done well, she thought. She rubbed her fledgling pot belly, just a tiny bowl of jello by comparison to most Earthly cases of overweight individuals, and grinned, baring her sharp new canines to the glass.

It was party time.

-- -

Molo plunged down the sheer rock face into the dense grove of giant mushrooms, his small form ricocheting off their soft surfaces. His quiver spilled half a dozen small arrows down into the stalks of the ‘shrooms. Tumbling down onto the wet moss of the forest floor he scrambled over the yellow reeds and dodged around fungal spores, sprinting back towards the Hometree with a scream stuck in his lungs.

He darted through a dense glade of blue danger-tellers, his small form giving the neon plants no reason for alarm, and lay flat for several minutes, his heart pattering. When after a while no pulsing echo of light flashed through the glade, he took a deep breath and rose to his feet. Whatever the thing was, it had no intention of following right away. He shuddered as the glossy surface of the thing rose in his mind’s eye: whatever it was, it was repulsive, alien. Much like the thanator, there was no place for that thing in Eywa’s songs.

He ran pell-mell through a field of banshees to cover the sound of his retreat: their wailing flowers covered the sound of his pounding feet quite well, and soon he found himself in the shallow ditches outside the Hometree’s sacred boundaries. Sliding down the wet moss, he took a gulp from the stream, already preparing what he would tell the others.

But would they believe him? He was just a boy, not even a man yet, despite the shape of his lower parts. He had not completed the trials of manhood and his tale would have no more merit to it than the ravings of a child in a fit of nighttime fright. They would not believe him. Tstatka and Jeyli would laugh at him and flee from him, respectively, and the other youngsters would likely have no part of him after his temper tantrum earlier.

No, he was alone. But what to do? That great and terrible thing-with-two-legs was still out there. It had vanished, invisible, into the air like some kind of ghost. Perhaps it was a spirit, a Na’vi who had lost his ties to the Tree of Souls and wandered the world begging for Eywa’s acceptance.

Then he remembered the great serrated blade on the underside of the thing’s arm and shook his head. No Na’vi would ever carry a thing like that: so bright and sharp it looked like it could cut a soul in half. No, that thing had been from somewhere else. Somewhere the tribes had no knowledge of.

He decided that the only ones who were likely to listen to him were the other boys. Younger than he were they all, but he was sure he could convince them to at least come see where the thing had been. Even on bare rock, some of them might be able to find traces of it, and then he could attempt some kind of plea to the elders to heed him in this peril.

Yes. That would do well. The younger boys might listen to him, and even obey him, whereas the girls would simply laugh and the adults would scoff. If he could organize them into a hunting party, he could warn the elders by nightfall. Nodding to himself, he climbed out of the ditch and headed for the childrens’ field.

--

Tannigan’s avatar took a deep breath and held it as the tank’s glass door slid off, propelled by hydraulics. Robotic arms lowered from the ceiling, providing her with a simply lab coat to wear that was just barely long enough to cover her new form’s knees. She sniffed the air, the new receptors in her Na’vi nostrils picking up the sterile reek of antiseptic cleaning fluids, the subtle stink of human presence, and the reassuring metallic tang of xenon gas.

“Atmospheric levels at Pandora approximate,” came a shaky voice over the speaker in the wall. “Can you hear me in there, Florence?”

She cleared her throat, coughing up small gobs of mucus. “Ahem. Address me as Dr. Tannigan in the work lab, Hardeaux, there’s a good boy. How are the mindlink readings?”

“Steady,” responded one of the interns behind the faded glass partition on the opposite side of the sterilized room. “Are you experiencing any lapses in consciousness?”

Tannigan did a short but graceful pirouette on her clawed toes. “Nope. I mean, negative, all mental functions seem nominal. Shall we carry on with the experiment, then? I’m starving.”

“Ah, Dr. Tannigan, we still need to do a forensic sweep of your avatar to insure that its genetic structure is staying consistent—”

Florence rolled her eyes, the catlike pupils narrowing as she peered through the glass. “Hang the sweeps. I’m hungry. Have you got the control group data compiled?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied an intern.

“Good, then, roll out the MRE’s. A girl’s got to eat and I’m not going to go hungry because you guys are so stuck on procedure.

She saw Hardeaux scribbling something in his clipboard behind the glass. No doubt making some niggling note about latent psychological impacts of the Machine. She scoffed at him, so tiny and crooked. All of them were so tiny, like toys almost in the shadow of her towering new height. She licked her lips; Chelsea the medical data associate looked almost good enough to eat.

The walls hissed and a hydraulic servo-arm rolled out a huge collapsible table loaded to the brim with foil-wrapped military-grade Meals Ready to Eat. Normally, Tannigan found the meals disgusting, dry and unpalatable. But she was already hungry from in vitro stabilization and she was about to give that control group a run for its money.

“Alright,” she said, toying with the sensitive end of the Na’vi brain cord uplink. “Turn me on, boys and girls.”

And behind the glass, Hardeaux activated the BMD.

Please to be having the MOAR!

>>482

Sorry, not until I get a job.

>>489
*offers burnt sacrifice to the Job God on Zob's behalf*

Fucking bump.
Please get a job quickly.

GET A JOB HIPPIE



But have this from me in the meantime =3

Greenleaf grumbled as he piloted the suit towards the end of the plateau. “Damn little jungle hippies. Doc shoulda let me chop ‘im up, that’d tell the blue fuckers to stay out of my territory.” He laughed as he imagined opening fire on a bunch of yowling cat-savages, and sighed, paging his satellite uplink.

“Hey Doc! I’m at the recon point, what do I do now? Doc? Hey!”

But it appeared the good doctor was otherwise occupied. Greenloaf scowled and fired off a squirt of napalm from his FD-11 ‘thrower. It spattered onto the rock nearby. . . and some of it hung in the air, sizzling, blue sparks flying off the air around it.

Greenleaf frowned. He extended his suit’s arm and gingerly waved the mechanical limb. It smacked into something invisible, which shuddered into existence for a moment in a flash of blue electric waves and then vanished again. “Jesus.” So his private base was cloaked. What else hadn’t the Doc told him?

He climbed out of the suit and began feeling around for an opening. Eventually he came across what felt like a hatch handle. Pulling it, he jumped back as a hydraulic grumbled and a steel door hissed out of nowhere to fall open horizontally at his feet.

“Damn.” He entered the open hole in the air, pulling the hatch shut behind him. Were they putting this “xeno technology” camo bullshit on everything? Where the hell had it come from? The Company was not above dealing under the table, and there were supposedly half a dozen xeno species they’d discovered and exploited without telling the biologist community about. Greenleaf wondered if the benefactors had given this invisibility tech up without a fight.

The Company’s own technology was openly displayed in the impressive array beyond the hatch door. A security booth, complete with cams monitoring positions all around the plateau (cloaked too? Greenleaf bet they were) ensured he’d know if anyone came hunting for him. Nearby that, a tiny dining area, with sitrep screens above the table scrolling out diagnostics for the little facility. Greenleaf thought that cute. Little bit of reading during breakfast.

The majority of the station looked to be taken up by what looked like a modified tanning bed. And beyond that—Greenleaf jumped and pulled his sidearm reflexively- -- lay a naked Na’vi, its body gleaming fluorescent under the blacklights. The huge table it lay on housed dozens of wires that ran up to diodes on the creature’s wrists and chest. The face looked all too familiar.

“Fuck.” Greenleaf holstered his firearm. So this was the “bluesuit.” He noticed a rack of native hides and primitive clothing next to it---more for his cover. Great. Because that turned out so well the LAST time.

“Well, I’m not him,” grumbled the soldier, marching over to the body. “I know my goddamn duty.” He snorted as he noticed a rather unusual modification to the body. “Guess I won’t have any trouble impressing the females. . . “ He prodded the limp oversized phallus with his holster, laughing.

Then, keeping a wary eye on the creepy blue form, he went to get his briefing from the screens.

>>709


- - -

“More! Give me MORE!”

Hardeaux swallowed as the technical assistants rushed to obey Tannigan’s shouted order. Inside the test chamber the huge blue amazon, covered only by an elastic surgery gown, tore open one of the last MRE’s in the room and dumped it down her throat, the various freeze-dried chunks of chicken and vegetables tumbling into the pink gullet of her avatar, which greedily licked the residue from inside the packet before tossing it aside and snatching up another.

“I said MORE, dammit, I’m running out in here!”

Hardeaux pressed the comm button. “Just a moment, we’re loading up the next batch right now, it needs to be properly sterilized—”

“FUCK sterilizing it! I’m hungry!” The enormously tall blue woman bared her teeth at him, the corners of her petulant mouth smeared with crumbs and bits of grease. Her belly bulged in a thick dome under the surgical gown, packed with more food than should have been possible, even for a nine-foot-tall woman. She looked freakishly pregnant, but her lithe movement suggested otherwise.

“Gimme that goddamn food right the fuck now,” hissed Tannigan, “or I swear—”

“Miss Chelsea, please note that the good Doctor is suffering hormonal extremes due to the effects of the device on her emotional centers,” snapped Hardeaux crisply as the blue goddess loomed up in front of the window.

Her eyes narrowed. “What was that? I’m fine, you little bastard. Just give me more food NOW!”

“Just a moment. We need to measure the metabolic processing rates—”

Tannigan snarled and raised a fist to smack against the glass. Only the terrified faces of the assistants caused her hesitation, and grudgingly she put it down, composing herself. “Sorry, Hardeaux. I didn’t mean to burst out like that.” Licking her lips, she stifled a belch. “You’re right. Increased hormone production is doubtless influencing my bevahior. Do me a favor and note it down.” She turned back to the MRE table and walked around it, her tail swishing and her ample rear swinging back and forth, barely exposed by the gown.

“Metabolic rates are through the roof,” Hardeaux breathed in amazement. “Processing speed in the avatar’s intestines has been increased sevenfold. And none of it is going towards active energy output!” He grinned. “Every last calorie is being stored, just as we predicted. By God, this device works perfectly!”

Tannigan fanned herself with an empty packet. “Whoo. A little too well. Did you turn up the temp in here?” She shifted awkwardly from one foot to another, panting. “Dr. Hardeaux, check my um. . . check my estrogen levels please. And testosterone. Just for posterity.”

Hardeaux knew the avatar’s body didn’t quite use those chemicals, but he checked the equivalents and was both surprised and perversely pleased by what he saw. “Impressive. Your avatar’s reproductive organs are hopping with activity. Your bloodstream is saturated with natural aphrodesiacs. I’m surprised you can even concentrate under these conditions.”

“it’s. . . difficult.” Tannigan knew she was vastly understating the situation. It was all she could do not to drop to the floor and finger herself. As it was, she settled for rubbing her crotch on the corner of the table, hoping her distended stomach adequately hid the activity. “Ohh God. Well, the hormonal beacon subsystems are certainly operating. . . at full capacity. Uhh-hh.” She drew herself away from the table with difficulty, trying to stay vertical.

“Good, good. The Na’vi culture is based around monogamous pairs; this kind of sexual tension will work like acid on their social structures,” said a young anthrobiologist behind Hardeaux. He seemed genuinely pleased by the prospect. Or maybe, like Dr. Hardeaux, he wa enjoying watching the normally tyrannical Dr. Tannigan growing helplessly randy inside a closed glass box. Voyeurism had never been so exotic.

The next batch of MRE’s finally emerged through the quarantine hatch and Tannigan dove for them. Watching her feast on the dry, tasteless meals, Hardeaux couldn’t help but feel sorry for the Na’vi on the planet below. They would quite literally never know what had hit them. This rampant hedonism would override their religion, their culture, and plunge them into a brief age of decadence unseen since the fall of Rome.

And then, of course, they would die. Because no matter what else Pandora was, it was ruthless. The carnivorous, semi-sentient planet had no place for an entire species of relentlessly fornicating gluttons. The Na’vi would fall out of the natural order and become extinct, and the Company would be free to move in and stake their territory at last.

From a historical standpoint, it was terrible. But the BMD was virtually untraceable—the wavelengths it operated on left no signature, no trace radiation or electromagnetic burn. Pandora’s favored people would consume themselves, and no one on Earth would be the wiser as to why.

Hardeaux thought it sad. But fitting. After all, who else to remove a race of pious hermits but the reigning kings of rationality and science? It had to be done. For profit. For science. But most of all, he thought secretly, for fun. Because when all was said and done, this was more than militaristic dominance. This was entertainment. Humiliation. And he had a front-row seat.

>>710

Excelsior! With all due respect, this is way better than I would have expected due to the intellectual property.

Many thanks Anon/Zob

>>710

Oh god, an update

There is a God

>>710
>>709

>>oeri key pehrr

>>719

Fwuh? Pic related.

Oh, and in case it wasn't apparent, I got a job. Or two. But due to the insane schedule I now have to deal with I miiight be pulling a dick move and sorta kinda holding further chapters hostage at the demand of drawfaggery (and of course one JILLION dollars.)

There won't be any like, 1/1 ratio or any shit like that. Suffice to say that pictures of fat Na'vi chicks will increase my productivity by 200%. Just something to think about.

Catch you cats later.

>>722

POW!

>>787

I SAID CHICKS, GODDAMMIT

although I still respect the effort required to make an image that complex. . . THE MASTER REQUIRES TITS

>>788
The Master's will be done.

Any continuation?

>>600
You posted this on /draw/ as well but I can't remember the thread, nor is it probably alive anymore anyway. Have to say it's pretty much the single best immobile drawing I've seen in terms of anatomy. People usually draw them unnaturally tall and the anatomy is all screwy most of the time as well. It's not like a person suddenly becomes 12 feet tall as s/he gets fatter. It bothers me to no end.

So, er, going off-topic here, but do you have a DA? I can't recognize the style.

Sage for off-topic.

>>1068

>sage

Son, it's okay. You're among friends here. It's okay to bump.

Sorry for no update guys, I kind of have to get off my ass and start an actual career and shit. Will update when possible/when horny enough.

Of course, any more doodles will be eagerly consumed and used to fuel the fires of creation that bring this horrible tale to life.

>>1068

Yeah, the fatter=taller thing bothers me a bit too, though i've been guilty of it too in the past, woops

As for a DA, i'm the same bloke who did the OP pic: http://gnightrocks.deviantart.com

I keep meaning to upload that second one sometime. Hell, I keep meaning to upload anything at all sometime, derp.

>>1077
Haha. I did think that it'd be you if it were to be someone I had already heard of.

I'm sad this is dead.

>>1156

You rang?

---


In the yellow glare of the Pandoran sun, Greenleaf waved at the security camera outside his enclosure. Breathing deep the xenon-laced air he laughed, shouldering his CARB rifle and taking his first long stride into the jungle.
The briefing had been extensive. After the Sully Incident, the planet itself was still on red-hot alert. Although Pandora’s neural network wasn’t necessarily sentient, it could be used by the Na’vi, much like a radar system or Internet search engine, to seek out and pinpoint potential intruders.
Given that this was the far side of the planet, Greenleaf doubted he’d be noticed by the local tribes. But just to be safe, he had decided to undergo his first mission in bluesuit rather than mech. It had been an excellent decision—his new body, while disturbingly long-limbed and alien, was incredibly fast, strong and agile. In addition the satellite relay uplink ensured that if he was accidentally disconnected, the body could pilot itself home.
He carried little more than his gun, some faux native clothes, and a sack full of BMD relays.
Given that Pandora was now sensitive to human technology (hence the base “on the rocks” as it were) the device Greenleaf was preparing had been meticulously engineered from Pandoran life form cell samples. It consisted of a main “engine”, the large, heavily armored transmitter in the base, a mesh of the Avatar system and xenomorph bioengineering from Weyland-Utani, and dozens of smaller nodes, which would meld with the Pandoran ecosystem and drive it completely haywire.
“Open wide,” Greenleaf chuckled as he approached a massive tree. “And take your medicine. . .” He drew a BMD node, a bulb-shaped silicone-plant, and stuck it into the bark of the gigantic “unidelta” tree. The tree actually shivered as it was plugged, making a keening sound Greenleaf didn’t like at all. He grimaced and moved on.
Immediately the bulb he’d left began emitting a tiny psionic-electric pulse that traveled through the tree and began spreading through the landscape. Anything female that lived in the area and carried a neural qeue would soon be occupied with one very primitive thought:
Eat. Eat. Eat.

>>1204

Oops. Spacing is off again. Sorry, editing my porn is not one of my first priorities.


Hardeaux shivered in disgust as Tannigan’s bloated avatar was rolled back into its sleep pod on a stretcher. The giant blue cat-person’s gut was so swollen that it barely fit back into the tank. Hardeaux ordered a new one made immediately; the avatar would continue putting on weight inside the tube and he didn’t want the damn thing getting stuck in there.

Ten minutes later Tannigan herself sauntered into the data chamber, hips swaying in a way Hardeaux didn’t remember them doing before. “Well, boys? What have we got?” She plucked a data pad from a student’s hand. “Mmm, yes, very impressive,” she purred, ruffling his hair. “See me on the bridge later, I like your addendums, kid. . .”

“Doctor Tannigan,” Hardeaux coughed as the students left the room. “How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” she sighed, parking her plush half-Asian rear on a computer bank and leaning back. “It’s quite the ride, that avatar.” She rubbed her stomach, as if it were still overfull and needed soothing. Hardeaux grew even more concerned as Tannigan spread her legs, reading over the data.

Unconscious mating displays. Yet another symptom of cross-body contamination. The BMD was proving far too effective; he’d need to modify this one. Tune it back a bit. Or else the good doctor might prove to be on a very slippery slope indeed. . .

“In fact,” Tannigan purred, pulling up her skirt a bit as the last student left, “all that eating got me a little hungry elsewhere. Care to dig in?”

Hardeuax grimaced, fighting his instincts. “Madame. I’m twice your age. And relations among colleagues are—”

“Illegal, I know,” groaned Tannigan, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to be such a crusty old prude about it. Fine. I’ll go hungry.” She pouted childishly. Hardeuax noted the immature behavior for further examination: the lowered intelligence rate in the Na’vi body was also carrying over. At this rate, she’d be a greedy bimbo inside of a month. He had to stop it now.

“Dr. Tannigan, I must insist—”

“Yes, yes, you’re old and pissy, I get it,” snapped the doctor, waving a hand. “Just. . . go fetch me something from the mess hall, will you? Make yourself useful. Go on.”

It was at that point that Hardeaux realized something. Tannigan was on the fast track to becoming a gelatinous Dr. Jekyll, and replacing her would be easy. Replacing her would also mean access to her grants, her experimental proceeds, maybe even her private funds. . .

And she was certainly giving him no incentive to save her from her greedy fate. The bitch.

Hardeuax smiled as best he could. “Absolutely. I’ll be right back.” He turned and left as Tannigan started to finger herself. He had no problem with the uppity young doctor losing herself to pleasure. With every intern she pounced and every pound she gained, he’d be one step closer to scientific glory. . . and watching her brilliant young career end in a spectacular display of gluttony and decadence might be very fun indeed.

>>1205

[[IT KEEPS HAPPENING!]]

“Molo, there’s nothing out here. You’re full of telyu dung.”

“Am not, Ansit,” snapped the young hunter as he led a motley crew of young boys through the forest. “I saw it. It nearly killed me!”

“Sure,” said Amhu, Ansit’s brother. “Sure it did. And today I killed ten viperwolves all on my own!”

“If you don’t want to see it, or you’re too afraid, go back,” challenged Molo brazenly, growling at his hunting party. “I’m not going to take any more dung from any of you.”

“They didn’t mean it, Molo,” said Tompani, the last of the party. He was level-headed and calm, even while others around him bickered and scared off any game. “Let’s just keep going.”

Suddenly there was a crunch in the brush ahead and all four instinctively flattened themselves in the bushes, reeds and mud disguising their blue skin. A tromping, crushing footfall approached. “Is that it?” hissed Amhu.

“Too small,” murmured Molo. “Shut up, it’s coming this direction.”

The noise turned out to be a Na’vi. The four of them would have risen, but immediately they sensed danger: the adult wore a strange brown head-garment and carried a sack full of glowing, buzzing objects.

Then there was the ominous square-looking metal object on its back. The tall, foreign Na’vi paused and took a look around, speaking in an alien language to itself.

Finally it plucked a buzzing thing from its bag and stuck it into a danger-teller plant. The plant flashed, terrified, but suddenly began to pulse irregularly. Like it was sick. In doing so, the newcomer agitated a swarm of hidden hellfire-wasps, which rose in a snarling swarm and attacked.

Shouting, the foreigner lifted the square thing and a blaze of thunder ripped through the jungle, scattering birds and leaving smoking holes in the leaves nearby. The boys covered their ears, and only looked up when the newcomer had fled, the wasps in pursuit.

“Who was THAT?” Ansit wondered.

“Whoever he was, he had no idea how to recognize a sleeping wasp,” laughed Amhu. “Even a child should know that! What an idiot!”

“I don’t think he’s from around here,” Molo said dourly, stepping over to the buzzing green-gray bulb on the danger-plant. It vibrated gently and produced a weird humming that made his queue tingle oddly. “Huh. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Sky people,” said Tompani quietly. “Taw-Tute. My uncle said they leave strange things to watch their paths.”

“Teylu-head. There have never been sky people anywhere in all the jungles on this land! Why would they come here?” Ansit scoffed.

Molo reached out to the bulb. “Maybe that IS why they’re here. . .” He recoiled as the bulb gushed a slew of glistening green liquid onto his hands. “Augh!”

The others drew back as he frantically wiped his hand on the plant. “Ugh! What is that?”

“Smells sweet,” Tompani observed. “Smells like. . . perfume? Mating perfume?”

“Whatever it is, don’t get any more on you,” Amhu said nervously. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want that dream-walker hitting me with any thunderbolts today.” The rest nodded eagerly, and Molo agreed. Two brushes with evil aliens was enough for one day. . .

[So as I've mentioned there may be some shota-on-fat-girl action later. Kind of like an alien, kinky, food-related Lord of the Flies. Errybody cool with that or will my target audience be utterly repulsed?]

“Sergeant Greenleaf, come in. This is base. Come in.”

Greenleaf fumbled for his satellite-com radio, cursing as he dropped the pack of fast-acter bandages into the forest below his treetop retreat. He’d finally evaded the last of the wasps, but now the damn egghead was bugging him DURING the mission? He should have turned off the stealth base’s receptor. Stupid scientists and their science.

“G-Greenleaf here. Over.” He couldn’t keep the rage out of his voice. The stinging had injured mostly his pride; his Na’vi body’s biology was resistant to the stings. But dammit, it hurt, and he hated blundering around in unfamiliar territory.

“This is Dr. Hardeaux. Beta testing is successful. Have you been placing the alpha version’s relay network as requested?”

Greenleaf paused. Hardeaux didn’t sound at all like his usual self. That was to say, quavery, reedy, and sixty. He sounded confident, reserved, even. . . smug? What did a science-obsessed old codger like that have to be smug about? Had his gout receded?

Greenleaf coughed. “Hey, boss. How’s things at Skybase?”

“None of your concern, Private.” The authority in the man’s tone was chilling. “Just answer the question.”

“Jesus, Doc, did someone shit in your prune juice? Alpha relay system placement is going fine. Hit a couple of, uh, ‘bugs’ you might say. But fine.”

“Hmm.” The doctor paused. “Your bio-monitor registers neurotoxins, Greenleaf. What’s your status?” He sounded clinical, detached. As if he didn’t really care. What a fuckin’ douche, Greenleaf thought. Typical brass attitude.

Except Hardeaux wasn’t brass. He was a tinkerer. A crackpot. What was going on? “I’m fine, dammit. Just ran into some local insects. I’ll get the body detoxed ASAP.” He hesitated. “Hey, wait, you guys are monitoring my vitals now? From. . . orbit?”

“Of course,” Hardeaux said smugly. “After what happened to the last one, we can’t be too careful, can we? All avatar life signs are now streamed directly to headquarters. You’ll be under our watchful eye every moment you’re in Na’vi form.” He chuckled. “Honestly, I’d be less concerned about that, and more worried about the mini-bomb in your spinal column, Sergeant.”

Greenleaf’s stomach turned as he reached under the Na’vi uplink to finger the numb of surgically overgrown tissue there. “Yeah. V-very funny, Doc. I’m really busting a gut over that one. . . I need to get back to the mission. Is there anything you need me to do?”

Hardeaux was humming. Actually humming. What the fuck? Greenleaf mused. “Oh, yes,” Hardeaux said absently. “We need visual confirmation of the BMD’s effects. Go ahead and use your ocular software to send us some images of the environment’s progression, would you, boy?”

Greenleaf bristled at “boy” but sighed. “Sure. After I read the manual and find out what ‘ocular software’ is. Greenleaf out.” He snapped the radio’s transceiver. “Christ what a nutjob.”

There was a thump from the branches above him. A crack as leaves showered down. Greenleaf yelled in surprise and hurled himself onto a neighboring branch as something huge, blue and scaly thundered down to the forest floor below him.

It was a Banshee, the dragon-like flyer predator that had been such a problem for Quaritch and company on the other hemisphere. This one was female, he noted from his sketchy knowledge of alien anatomy. It breathed laboriously as if it were about to give birth, its mouth stained with some kind of dark fluid.

Moving closer, Greenleaf realized the fluid was blood. But the creature didn’t appear to be injured. It did, however, appear to be carrying. . . cargo. The weird winged bat-lizard’s belly was round and bloated, bulging out under its ribcage like a giant striped balloon. The fluid, he understood, must be the blood of its prey. Lots of prey, from the looks of it.

“Damn,” he murmured. “This stupid BM-thing actually works. . .”

They were almost at Hometree when the viper-wolves attacked.

Normally the young ones would have easily been able to sense the approach of such dangerous predators, but today they were nervous, panicked, chattering. Running in a group like herd animals instead of spreading out and moving quietly.

It made them an easy target.

The first viperwolf closed on Amhu without even uttering its usual squeal of attack, leaping on him and knocking him to the ground. It was a juvenile, small and weak, but still quite heavy and Amhu went down with a cry of pain. The others turned to help him, swiping at the six-legged ant-panther and shouting to distract it. It backed off, whining, its limbs scuttling as it retreated back into the underbrush after merely scratching Amhu.

The three others pulled him up and he shuddered, gripping his knife tightly and scanning the bushes. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Molo panted, his teeth still bared.

“Its stomach,” said Amhu, unsettled. “It looked ready to brood ten pups, at least.”

“It quivered too much for that,” said Tompani with certainty. “That viperwolf wasn’t carrying pups. She’d eaten recently. Eaten a lot. . .”

“What? That makes no sense,” said Ansit, laughing weakly. “Why would any predator hunt right after eating? It’s not Eywa’s way. It’d be insa—’

He never finished the sentence. Two more viperwolves, yipping and snarling, hit them from the sides. This time the children were ready, their blades drawn, and they fended off the creatures with vicious lunges and thrusts. The wolves yowled, fell back, and circled ominously, looking for an entry as the young hunters stood back-to-back in a circle.

“He was right,” Molo muttered. “Look at them. They’re gorged!” The wolves, all female, were swollen with prey—and they seemed to have their twelve glittering eyes on Molo, for some reason. Sniffing at the air, they pawed at him, keening.

“What do they want from you?” Tompani asked, swinging at one.

“I don’t know, but all this noise is going to attract more of them!” Molo cried. “We have to climb, split up! Meet me back at Hometree!”

With an earsplitting battlecry, the group executed the split, each Na’vi charging out of the circle and onto the bark of a tree. Only Molo sustained any damage as one bloated wolf, its bulging gut standing out on its skeletal frame, nipped at his leg.

The four young men skipped up the side of their respective trees and leaped from vine to vine, separating in the foliage. Molo winced as his leg oozed blood, but struggled on, hurling himself from tree to tree. Something about the creatures’ behavior was bothering him.

Pausing for a breather as he clapped some healing leaves to his leg, he found his nagging question answered by experience. Those hounds hadn’t sounded coordinated, or hunted with any subtlelty. And even though they’d been replete with food, they’d made keening sounds of hunger. Of pain. Of starvation.

Something was very, very wrong here.


[Only a couple more posts today. Man, I need a fucking life.]

Greenleaf swatted irritatedly at buzzing insects as he fought to return to the stealth base. “Dammit! Stop biting, I’m on your team,” he grumbled, then bit his lip. If they were recording his vitals, what else could they record? His voice? His actions?

His thoughts?

He sighed, reloading his CARB as he did so. This mission might have favorable ends, but the process was a pain in the ass. Already he had been attacked by several different animals, their hunger in overdrive due to the BMD plant-machine nodes. Several of them looked as if they’d been feeding on the beacons’ discharge fluid, too. Bad move.

Following his trail of planted nodes, he was about to start climbing the plateau when he heard frantic panting from a grove nearby. He leveled his CARB, wondering if it’d be worth it to investigate. Reasoning that the brass might have his head if he missed any intel, he moved into the grove, gun primed to fire.

But it wasn’t a predator. Rather, it was a Na’vi—a mature female specimen, from the looks of it. She lay gasping, writhing and moaning next to a BMD-infected cycad trunk, her queue plugged into the tree’s bark. Her mouth was stained with the BMD transmitter node’s discharge fluid, a green gunk that supposedly sent the ingestor’s metabolism plummeting.

“You dumb bitch,” Greenleaf grumbled. She’d seen him, so he halfheartedly contemplated putting a bullet in her head. But that’d probably do more harm than good—the natives didn’t appreciate getting bulleted, as he recalled from the briefing. Besides, it looked like she was preoccupied.

Very, VERY preoccupied. Four long blue fingers jumped and stroked underneath her loincloth, her arm tensing and relaxing spasmodically. She blinked up at him through a fog of arousal, moaning in her strange guttural language. Her other hand was massaging her small bud of a breast furiously.

“God damn it.” Greenleaf rubbed his temples. Proximity exposure of this level to the BMD nodes wasn’t an eventuality he’d been briefed on yet, damn it. He had very little patience for the entire scenario, and part of him—his Na’vi body, he presumed—very much wanted to get savage with the nubile young woman in front of him.

“Ketuwong,” the woman gasped. “Uniltiranyu. Srung. Srung!”

“I knew I shouldn’t have left the damn translator unit behind,” growled Greenleaf. He shrugged at the girl. “Sorry. No speak-a blue people speak.”

She grimaced, trying to pull away from the tree, but fell back, gasping in mixed pain and pleasure. “Som,” she groaned. “Txim som.” She inched up under the BMD node and lapped pathetically at the green ooze, making pleasurable sucking and swallowing noises.

“Alright. This is pretty fucked up. I’m going now.” Greenleaf turned, trying to resist the urges in his biology. He could take her, right here. No one would know.

Except for the Doc, who would probably know instantly if Greenleaf even popped a stiffy in this blue suit. Which he already had. Besides, the BMD discharge fluid was already working: the Na’vi’s toned, tight abdominal muscles were melting into a stripey blue pot-belly right before his very eyes. And she couldn’t seem to unhook her braid from the tree, so she probably wasn’t going to be hitting the treadmill anytime soon.

“Sorry, sugar. You’re letting yourself go. Maybe once you start doing yoga.” He stomped off, leaving the sobbing native girl to plead in her peculiar tongue and sip desperately at the addictive green fluid of the glowing, bulb-like node.

It wasn’t his problem.

Molo reached Hometree before the others. Perhaps the viper-wolves had chased them deeper into the jungle, or perhaps they too had been wounded. He had no idea. All he knew as he hopped onto the mossy flat outside the huge tree-hive was that he was back where he’d started.

At the moment, he had no one to back up his story. No one to prove he’d seen not only a great dark lumbering beast, but a dreamwalker, a Sky-Person fake body, in the forest. The adult hunters were all out in the fields seeking herdbeasts to slaughter; none of them would have heard the boys screaming or the vipers’ howling.

In short, Molo was up a creek. He racked his brain as he sprinted over the field, limping a bit, trying to figure out how to rally the tribe to do something about this invasion. Then it hit him: Why tell the full story? They’d certainly find out soon enough that there was a dreamwalker in the woods. No need to get humiliated again, spinning “lies” to the village.

He saw Tsatska teaching a few girls the art of building a toy Banshee and hollered for her. She reluctantly rose and crossed the field, putting her hands on her hips as she frowned down at him. “What is it this time, Molo? Did you and the other boys go find another girl to tease into tears, hmm?”

“No,” snarled Momo. “We ran into some viper-wolves while we were. . . Hunting. I got separated from the rest and. . .” He noticed she kept perking up her ears at something, glancing off into the sky. “Tsatska! Are you even listening?!”

“What?” she said distractedly, eyes distant. “I’m sorry, I keep thinking I hear something. Like a. . . buzzing. And I’m really hungry. . .” Judging by the sun, mealtime had just ended, thought Molo. But no matter. He’d deal with his sister’s preoccupation later. There were young ones in danger.

“Please,” he implored. “We’ve got to go help them!”

“You’re hurt,” she said abruptly, suddenly paying attention. She knelt and examined his shin. “A viper-wolf bite? So you did run into them!” Her eyes turned steely. “The others. Are they alright?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed, clenching his fists. Finally she was seeing sense! But there was that glazed look again, coming back. . . “Pay attention! What’s the matter with you? Tsatska,” he murmured, sniffling, “you’re scaring me.”

Her pupils dilated. “Your hand,” she purred, sniffing the air. “It smells. . . nice.”

“What? Stop acting like a dumb talio-ang! We need to. . .” His lips and groin stiffened as she cradled his hand, and began licking it. Delicately, like a jungle beast lapping at a cool spring. The hand that had gotten the dreamwalker-stuff all over it. The hand that was still stained green with its taint.

“Momo,” she murmured huskily, “what is this. . . on your fingers? It’s. . .it’s amazing.” Her queue had unfolded and begun undulating softly. He tried to pull away but she clung tightly to his arm, suckling on his fingers like an infant. The image of his big sister kneeling in front of him, sucking on his digits was arousing and unsettling.

“In the forest. By the plateau,” he said quaveringly. “Tsatske. Please, don’t. . . You have to snap out of this. . .”

“In the forest?” she said, eyes lighting up, leaping to her feet. “Then what are we waiting for? I need. . . I need MORE!” She bounded over the grass and dove into the woods, even as he stood stunned, fingers dripping with her saliva.

“Tsatske! Don’t!” he found himself crying out, running after her. “Sister, please! Come back!” But she had vanished. With growing dread, he realized he’d have to go after her. He couldn’t risk losing her trail in the jungle—not while some dreamwalker spell was on her.

What had he done? he wondered to himself as he plunged back into the brush. What had he done to deserve this nightmare? And why couldn’t he shake the memory of his sister’s hot, urgent tongue wrapping around his trembling fingers?

[That’s all for today. God, I’m tired. I’m going to go try and get a job now like a normal human being. See you all in a week.]

Hey I got a present for ya.
Granted, it's not a great present, but I didn't want your efforts to go unappreciated. :V
Hope you like.

>>1215

[That's actually quite good! I commend your skill, and counter it with writefaggotry!]


Satellite recon was difficult on Pandora due to the low-hanging mists, xenon atmosphere, and inevitable unobtanium magnetic interference. But every so often, a “clean spot” popped up that was easy to monitor, as long as you carefully timed your viewing. Doctor Hardeaux had found such a region, and had arranged for Greenleaf to be deposited there.

Now he watched with pleasure as night began to fall over the Pandoran southern hemisphere. Shadow crept over the continent and cast the entire stealth-base region into darkness. But it was not to last: in minutes, the huge spit of land began to glow a vibrant blue, the massive bioluminescent display of the forests clearly visible from space.

But this too was short-lived. Xenomorph-based BMD nodes inevitably began to infect the neural network of the continent like a virus, spreading out from the trees Greenleaf had planted the nodes in. Spots of yellowy, sickening green luminescence began to appear. Entire swathes of jungle flashed with the terror displays of “warning trees” that served a symbiotic purpose for the fauna of the planet: it told them when predators were on the hunt. Normally, these flashes were quiet and quickly subsided as a carnivore claimed its prey.

Tonight, the entire continent was flashing.

As he watched Tannigan sneak back into the research chambers on one of the many security cameras he’d patched, Hardeaux smirked. Drawing a bottle of champagne from his cabinet, he brought it to the bridge, uncorked it and leaned back to watch the show, smiling as chaos unfolded next door and miles below.

He lifted his glass. “To the death of Pandora,” he whispered. “And to Miss Tannigan’s new career. . . as a mindless lab rat.”

-

Tannigan shivered awake in the avatar-body and was immediately struck by a feeling of claustrophobia. She was wedged so tightly in the drained aqua-pod that she felt like the inside of a sausage stuffed into a casing. And the metaphor was fairly accurate: the Na’vi hybrid body had bloated with fat since midday, ballooning into a pudgy, flabby parody of its former shape. Tannigan panicked, struggling to move.

“Calm down,” she told herself. “Calm down. The auto systems will detect the anomaly and void the tube. Calm down. . . Oh God, I’m so hungry.”

She tried to tell herself she was doing this for science. For her career. For mankind. But the urges that had awoken her in the middle of the night had nothing to do with the destiny of civilization. As a robotic arm unlocked the seals on the stasis tube, Tannigan burst free, jiggling and groaning as she staggered to her feet. Doughy and obese, the absurdly flabby Na’vi form was weak with muscle atrophy and screaming with hunger.

And Tannigan would obey. All her higher thought processes had been cleverly usurped by her own invention. She used her remote com-pad to begin ordering the ship’s robot cook to prepare a nice little snack for her as she waddled into the experimentation chamber, ass-naked, globular blue buttocks aquiver. Tonight, she would eat her fill. And damn the scientific progress.

-

Molo plunged through the jungle looking for his sister. Every few minutes he stopped to search for her tracks. Even for an amateur hunter, they were absurdly easy to find. Tsatske had abandoned all pretense of stealth in her desperate charge, and it was unsettling how quickly she had left clan territory.

Oddly, though, no predator tracks followed her. Molo found that soon her path wavered and she became lost, confused, blundering in random directions. Then her route straightened again, as she began to follow a new path: a trail of green slime, tracked through the forest by who knew what.

Terrified, Molo slung his bow and notched an arrow. The Pandoran night was not safe, especially for youngsters. But he had no choice. He refused to leave her to her fate. He was worried, though, and about more than Tsotske’s odd behavior. After leaving Hometree he had heard strange sounds from the clan sleeping grounds, and even more peculiar, found arrows and desiccated animals, stripped clean or dragged off. Something was happening. The screams of prey animals sounded more loudly and more prevalently this night than they ever had.

When he came upon a the pack of viperwolves, he immediately recognized the slashes in their pelt to have been inflicted by himself and his former group of young hunters. But these were not the same wolves he’d fought today—no, these were ridiculous balloons with legs! Six-eyed canine heads lolled pathetically, snapping at him as he passed. The poor things had eaten so much they literally could no longer move.

But why? All around him the forest flashed and rumbled. Something horrible had happened—something to do with the ugly buzzing he kept hearing in the corner of his ears. Molo ran faster, following the trail, preying to Eywa that whatever had caused this, it might leave his sister alive.

[And yes, I have been using actual Na'vi official language from the actual movie books. I really am that much of a colossal faggot.]

[Anyone have any requests for events in the story/kinks they'd like to see in it? So far I've got gaining, softcore vore, shotacon, hypnotism, and I guess slobbification.]

[Anyone else have anything they'd like to see? Does the story rub you in the right way or the wrong way?]

OH IT'S RUBBIN' ME THE RIGHT WAY

Keep on keepin' on, man.

another picture for yea

>>1228

What a strangely familiar image. . .

>>1228

Not sure if want, but thank you.

YESSSSS...THE MASSTER IS BAAACK...

>>1251

I can has moar art?

Glad to see this is back!

>>1252

Of Quaritch, the Man-God?

>>1259

No. Can has moar smexy fat Na'vis?

Someone asked for a pregmint Na'vi?

>>1456
Do Na'vi even get pregnant? I wouldn't be surprised if they laid eggs.

bamp

Offering a burnt sacrifice of art and text to summon the Zob.

>>1531

The Zob is summoned, but has an interview this week, so you'll have to wait about 7 days.

Hang in there, my disciples. I will heap gloriously obese blue flesh upon you soon.

Good luck, my liege.

(pant pant pant)

ALL HAIL THE ZOB.

FUCKERS GONE AND DOUBTED ME

NOW YOU AIN'T GONNA BE WIVVOUT ME

POP POP WATCHIN MOTHAFUCKAS DROP

(pic related, Taylor > Quaritch)

--

Tsotske shoved another Teylu grub whole down her throat, moaning in glee as it wriggled all the way down her gullet. When it finally plopped into her stomach, already full of writhing grubs and masticated fruit, Tsotske nearly fell over at the sensation. Thousands of nerve endings shivered and pulsed inside her super-sensitive form as she reached out to wipe another stream of green fluid onto her hand, drawing it towards her mouth.

A strong blue hand gripped her wrist. She looked up through her aroused, hungry haze to see the elder of her clan, a tall and powerful woman named Omaia, looking at her in disdain. “What is wrong with you, girl?” she scolded, hefting her spear as she stared at the dripping nodule. “What is that? Speak to me.”

“H. . . Hungry,” moaned Tsotske. It was the only word she could formulate, hormones rushing through her body in a surge that made the ground beneath her feet spin. She shoved a succulent citrus fruit into her mouth, letting the juices gush over her tongue, letting the thick, fat meat of the fruit slide into her hungry throat. She grabbed another. . .

Omaia slapped it away from her. “Get ahold of yourself, young one,” she murmured. “We need your help. Almost all the tree’s females have disappeared. Have you seen them?” When she found Tsotske could only groan and belch in response, she looked away in disgust. “Goddess. This is a disaster. This is. . .” She licked her lips, then shook herself, tail lashing. “This is a nightmare. What in Eywa’s name is that buzzing? It. . . it makes it hard to hunt. Hard to think. . .”

Tsotske could think just fine. Yes, she was scared, but the sensation of her own big, soft, fully belly hanging off her was more arousing and enrapturing than anything she’d ever felt. Lying back on the soft moss, she let loose another long, heavy burp. She realized quite suddenly that Omaia’s rump was looking very nice in that loincloth. . . Very nice indeed.

A scout appeared from the bushes, his stealth enabling him to slip seemingly from nowhere. “Elder Omaia, we have found some of the girls. And a few of the men, as well. The forest has. . . done something to them.”

“So I surmised,” Omaia grunted. She found herself breathing heavily. Why might that be? It looked as if the scout’s body was still tense from his quick sprint. Tense and hard and—What was happening? Why was she so Goddess-damned hungry?

“It seems to affect the women most. Elder, we must get you back to the Tree,” said the scout, and then he jumped as Tsotske latched onto her elder’s leg like a hungry viperwolf, wrapping her arms around the woman’s strong blue thigh. Tongue extended, she nibbled gently at Omaia’s flesh, stroking and licking.

“What in the world?” Omaia gently tried to pry her off, not wanting to hurt one of Eywa’s children. But then the girl’s fingers, coated in the odd green slime that appeared to be all over the woods, slipped up between her legs and pressed firmly down on her nethers. “OH! Oh, curs.” She leaned heavily on a tree. “Get her off me! Ohh, that feels. . . Get her off!”

The scout pried Tsotske and her jiggling, bloated belly off the elder, who collapsed onto a curling frond. “Ohh. You were right. It’s not safe. . . UNH! Safe here,” said the elder. “Get me back to the Hometree. . . and get me something to eat.”

AINT GONNA QUIT TILL MA CHUBBY CHASIN' HEART STOPS

[[BITCHES GOTTA BELIEVE, BELIEVE IN MEEEEE]]


--

Greenleaf left his avatar body on the table and stretched, watching the vid-screens of the various parts of the jungle he’d tapped with a satellite uplink. Everything was chaos. Six-legged wolves lapped greedily at rivers till they could barely move. Animals copulated everywhere. But most significantly, the Na’vi were all over the place. Eating. Fighting. Fucking.

It was weirdly beautiful, in a way. Greenleaf’s mother had been obsessed with this man named Bosch, a painter. She’d put his stuff up all over their first house before the divorce. Every painting was completely fucked up. . . yet strangely amazing. This was exactly the same.

“Jesus,” whispered Greenleaf. “Almost makes me feel bad for you alien scum.” As he watched, the same girl he’d found—her stomach now drooping down past her knees—was discovered by a male Na’vi, whom the girl tackled to the ground and immediately began sucking off. “Damn!” He began to wish he hadn’t left her behind.

Then the satellite vid-feeds flickered. His comm array began beeping furiously. Reflexively reaching for his pistol at the sudden noise, Greenleaf sighed and picked up. “Hello?”

“Greenleaf!” It was Hardeaux. “I need you to—“ A sudden crash on Hardeaux’s side of the comm. Startled Greenleaf, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Hey, Doc, I do have a title, you know. Would it kill you to use it?” Another crash. “Everything alright up there?”

“Yes, yes, it’s fine!” Flutes began playing in the background. “Oh shit, now she’s playing classical music. Give it up, Tannigan, we can still hear you passing gas!” Hardeaux coughed. “Sorry, Greenleaf. Er, we need you to accelerate the delivery process.”

“What?”

“The final stage. We need you to enter the final stage of delivery, Greenleaf. Or haven’t you checked the strategical feed yet?”

“The wah—Shit. I knew I should’ve paid more attention to those boring-ass briefing vids.” He flicked on the mass temperature reading feeds. And nearly shat himelf. “Oh fuck! What is that?”

Hardeaux sighed as a wild yell sounded in the background of his comm link. It sounded vaguely like “SEEEEEX!” He coughed again. “Uh, those would be the surrounding tribes. Horse Clan, Lemur Clan, and Squid Clan, if I’m not mistaken. Their neural net has informed them of the . . . developments around your target clan’s territory. They’re martialing for war.”

“Oh fuck.” Greenleaf pictured it: just him and his AMP suit against entire armies of blue-skinned murder machines. “They’re pretty good at that.”

“Yes. Yes they are.” Hardeaux’s link fizzed for a moment. “Sorry, the hard lines up here are under a lot of. . . pressure.”

“You best not cut out on me, Doc. Or I’m out of here, I swear!”

“No, no, don’t worry, we just have a lot of power being redirected to the newest test subject’s. . . um. Testing apparatus,” said Hardeaux. A bit nervously, Greenleaf thought. Then again, Hardeaux was always nervous. The motherfucker was like a bundle of tweak wrapped in a sheath of freak.

But three entire clans. . . He checked his armory. Everything was fully loaded. But those fuckers had killed Quaritch, hadn’t they? And he’d had the entire Hell’s Gate base behind him. Greenleaf felt himself beginning to panic.

“Hardegg, listen to me. Tell me what I need to do. Because if you don’t, I’m bugging out.”

“No! Don’t you dare. The project is too close to completion.” Hardeaux took a deep breath. “You see, Greenleaf, the serum and psionic relay modifiers are working very well. Too well. It’s having a massive overnight impact on the ecosystem. Everything is moving too fast. The females are acquiring adipose at an incredible rate, and the males, well. . .” Hardeaux cleared his throat. “I’d suggest avoiding the males if you have any holes you want to keep private.”

Greenleaf’s eyes widened. “Sit rep, Hardeaux. Now.”

“I need you to deliver the final node to the target tribe’s habitation. Their ‘Home Tree.’ Once the reverse-engineered bio-agents get into the Pandoran central network, they’ll start replicating on Home Trees across the planet. But only if you can get the final node connected before. . . Well.”

“Before the indigenies rip me apart,” Greenleaf growled. “God DAMN you, Hardeaux. Can’t you science fuckers get anything right?”

“Call me whatever you want, soldier. But this is no longer a matter of our respective rankings. This is a matter of extinction. Specifically, theirs or yours.” Hardeaux yelled at someone on the other line to get their hand out of their pants and keep feeding the test subject. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some. . . issues I need to take care of up here. Hardeaux out.”

Greenleaf severed the comm, staring bitterly at the floor. So, they’d left him stranded. High and dry, or maybe low and wet, as it was. He glanced at the shielded AMP suit outside, charging on the mini-base’s power cells. The suit would never penetrate the Hometree’s outer perimeter. It was too big and couldn’t gain the altitude necessary to deliver the node.

No, it was either take the blue suit or grab a gask mask and risk a run for it into the tribe’s village. They had to be pretty scattered by now, but still. It was going to be a gamble.

Striding over to the avatar’s docking bay, Greenleaf bit his lip. This was going to be one hell of a ride.


[[AW FUCK YEAR THIS SHIT JUST GOT REAL

SHIT IAM SO DRUNK ]]

[[I BELIEVE AH CAN FLY

I BELIEVE AH CAN TOUCH THA SKY]]




Molo gasped and coughed as he crouched low on a frond-branch, watching the bioluminescence of the jungle flicker and shiver occasionally. That was a rare sign, but every good hunter knew it: Eywa was confused. Not angry, not pleased, but confused.

He had lost Tsotske’s trail, but picked up many others: other People, making their way through the woods. He saw them occasionally—one angry hungry actually insisted he go back to the Tree. None of them would help him. They were looking for their own wives, sisters, children. It was madness. Molo knew he had to help somehow, but he couldn’t think how.

He had seen. . . other things, too, in the jungle. Na’vi not hunting or hiding, but just doing things to each other. Strange and sometimes fascinating things that he had never heard any fireside tales about. Even the whispered, lecherous rumors between the young boys about what happened when you linked head-tails was nothing compared to this.

He’d seen one girl, guzzling juices from a gourd. She’d gotten larger than he’d ever seen any woman—with huge hips, a belly so fat it shoved her breasts to either side, and a second chin of soft flesh under her first. Two of the Hometree’s male scouts had come upon her. First they had marveled, then they had argued. Molo had been about to go down to them when they suddenly began licking the girl, all over, and taking off what was left of her clothes. . .

Molo hadn’t stuck around to see what happened next. But he might as well have. Everywhere, it was the same: girls were eating, eating like they hadn’t feasted in weeks, and getting impossibly large. And when the Hometree’s hunters found them, well. . . either they joined in the feasting, or they simply linked braids and started touching.

He himself was shaking with strange desires. So far he’d been able to resist them, but with every glance he took down below at the jiggling blue flesh of his clan-sisters, he wanted to go to them, go to them and see if they felt as soft and as vulnerable as they looked. The buzzing in his head told him to lift their bellies, their big round gurgling bellies, and see what was underneath.

Yet he resisted. His own body had changed during the night as he traveled: every sense seemed alive, every movement he made was faster and more eager. He had finally left his loincloth behind; the organ underneath it was so firm and chafed so roughly that it was easier not to bother.

He knew he couldn’t do anything to help the poor girls and women below. He’d already seen that getting too close to those pulsing, dripping gray plants meant certain enslavement to one’s desires. He just wished he’d had time to warn more of the tribe before the hunters sent out search parties for the missing girls. Now everyone was out here, and in complete confusion.

Exhausted, hungry and shivering with weird urges, he finally picked up his sister’s scent in the bushes. Mixed with many other scents, yes, but it was there. He followed it urgently, disregarding all stealth.

When he finally found her, though, he almost wished he hadn’t.

[[As you can see I've run out of avatar-based images, hope my random jpg's don't ruin your fap.]]




Meanwhile, high up in space. . .

The testing had abated for the moment. They had moved through the basic motor skill and cognitive testing and were advancing to complex logical thinking. Tannigan’s Avatar body had grown far too large for the tiny test chamber—she had been moved to the mess hall hastily as she grew larger and larger.

Still capable of movement in the low gravity of the space station, Tannigan’s shape was nonetheless appalling to behild. No longer recognizable as a Na’vi, she was now a thunderous blob of overstretched blue flesh with tiny luminescent dots strung along her gorged, heaving, sagging girth.

Lifting another mess hall burger to her face, Tannigan tapped busily away at the console they’d provided for her. Leaving the documentation to the autodocs so the staff could take a break had been a mistake. Tannigan was no mindless lab rat, even in her current state. No, she was a scientific savant, and as much as it appealed to her, being a bloated test subject forever was not on her career plan. Something else definitely was, though.

Revenge.

She’d seen the look of disgust and horror on the scientists’ and students’ faces as they watched her glut herself on every ounce of food imaginable. She’d seen the mixture of nausea and arousal some of them displayed as she repeatedly demanded, used and then wore out an assortment of real and impromptu sex toys.

“Gonna look at me through the glass are you?” Tannigan mumbled through a mouthful of sauce-covered, processed meat. Belching loudly and scratching her gut, which had descended almost to the floor in a wobbling mass of jam-packed azure flab tissue, she wondered if anyone was listening in through the countless test devices. She decided she didn’t care.

It didn’t matter, anyway. When they’d given her a console for the advanced cognitive testing series, they’d put a couple safeguards on it, just in case. Childproofed it, really. Because giving her a computer meant giving her an item linked in to the ship’s complex informational networks, and in Tannigan’s current state, that was dangerous.

However, when they’d childproofed it, they’d forgotten one very important thing: Tannigan had been a child savant. And that was before undergoing the neurosurgery she herself had designed to streamline her thinking process. Now, of course, that thinking process was under fire by a million different conflicting needs and petty hungers, but with a constant supply of food and simulated sexual activity, she could think just fine.

And in their sadism they’d given her everything they wanted. She knew they loved watching her let herself go. And let herself go she had—this avatar body was approaching nine hundred pounds, most of it fat. Although some of it was probably food.

Belching like a foghorn and letting out a small rush of pressurized gas from her backside, the huge naked faux-cat-woman grinned through her meal as she tapped the final override commands into the ship’s computer systems. Hardeaux would know about her intrusions, of course, but not in time. Not nearly in time.

Ethically, of course, what she was doing was reprehensible. She knew that. But not only did she want to show those gawking geeks who was boss, she also felt the testing was progressing far too slowly. They needed independent variables. She was the control group, of course, but what about the extraneous data? One couldn’t compare and contrast without—

Another long, rumbling bout of flatulence interrupted her thought, and Tannigan winced. “That’d be *hic* a lot easier t’deal with if it didn’t get me off,” she grumbled, reaching underneath her vast thick apron of a gut to crank up the dildo’s vibration speed. “Ohhhhh yes. BURRp. That’s good. . .” She entered the manual safeguard mainframes and switched off the vibratory and neural shielding around the BMD device.

Waves of subtle neurological reconstruction and long-distance hormonal rewiring frequencies cascaded through the station. “That’s better,” she groaned, basking her huge bulk in the fully broadcasting BMD pulse. Chugging another few quarts of the green fluid component from the hose, she started poking around in the ship. “Now what else can I fuck with?” She grinned. She’d leave Hardeaux for now, of course; SOMEone needed to document this whole thing. Otherwise, how could she make history?

Of course, once the project could be documented fully, she would fuck that little prick till he died of exhaustion. But that could wait. Oh, yes, that could wait.

[[THE CLUB IS MY SKY AN I'M ON YO CLOUD]]


~

Greenleaf punched the code into the avatar’s bay console and laid down in his little metal coffin, shivering. Going into the bush with your buddies was one thing; but going in alone? This was suicide. This was. . .

The coffin started beeping and flashing loudly, and klaxons sounded throughout the base. Greenleaf yelled and tried to fling himself out of the avatar unit; smashing his forehead on the roof of the casket only made him angry. Punching the “release” button furiously, he heaved the lid open and glanced at the display.

CANNOT ESTABLISH CONNECTION flashed in bright red across the screen. “Oh fucking piss, you’ve got to be kidding!” Hurling himself onto the floor he slapped the limp avatar body. “You HAVE to break the minute I got an important job to do? Fuck you!” Grabbing the comm link he furiously tapped at the holographic keys, trying to get Hardeaux on the line so he could yell at the moron egghead about the equipment failure.

He got nothing. No frequency, no contact, no nothing. It was like the Star had simply dropped out of orbit. There was no hailing auto-response, even. But the station was definitely up there. His satellite vids were still online, and he was getting a steady power signal from the auxiliary readers.

“What the hell?” Someone had cut him off. Someone up there had actively and deliberately severed him from ground contact. That was the only explanation. Punching the connection screen, Greenleaf cursed. “No! NO!”

He was alone now. Stuck on this shitty moon without a single partner-in-arms to ride out with. The entire sphere of Pandora would rip him apart the minute he poked his dick out into the jungle. For a minute he considered just staying in the base, waiting, hiding until the light-camo broke down or the power ran out.

But then he remembered the flinty eyes of the man who had put him on this mission. He remembered the polluted hellscape Earth had been when he left. And he remembered Quaritch’s tone as he briefed them on the job they had to do. Greenleaf picked his head up.

He had a job to do. He had a duty, suicidal or not. Because at the end of the day, did he want to be like the scientist, cowering in a space station, or like the man who had fought tooth and nail to claim the resources Earth needed to survive?

Grabbing his knife and his GS-221 repeater, he realized all he had to do was ask himself: What would Quaritch do?

I think this is one of the few stories I've read where I'm genuinely interested in seeing how everything wraps up

>>1648

[[Son. . . When it comes to fat?

I do NOT fuck around.]]


Molo choked back a sob as he stared at his sister. What had the sky-people done to her?

Tsotske was tearing into a leg of raw sturmbeest, the huge haunch barely slowing her down as she gulped and giggled. “Ooh, mmf! Sho *URP* sho good!” Tossing back her head to swallow a particularly large chunk, she turned to Molo. “Oooh. . . HEY there, lil’ brother. . .”

If not for her voice, he wouldn’t even have recognized her. Her scent was. . . thicker, somehow, more musky and heady than usual. And of course she was splattered with a dozen different substances: juices, mud, ichor, her skin patterns glowing through it all. But it was her size that frightened him.

When Tsotske had left him, she had not been a powerhouse, but she’d been athletic and attractive for a female Na’vi of her age. Now she was a waddling blue eating machine: her cheeks were rounded and puffed out with food and fat, her fingers thick and pudgy. Tsotske’s thighs, caked with grass stains, were thick and heavy, her inherent stripes stretched over the new flesh. Her breasts had gone from subtly present bulges to round, bulbous fruits that bobbed when she moved.

She was nude except for her favorite bead necklace, which clattered as she approached him. Stumbling, not used to her size, she grinned through her own oozing saliva, belching. “What’s wrong, lil’ brother? Were you worried about me? I’ve been doing just. . . fine.” She rolled her hips, bucking her belly at him.

And what a belly it was. He thought a month’s worth of food had to be in there. And not only that—it was heavy, quivering, rippling with fat. Her navel was a sunken dot in the swollen expanse of her gurgling, slopping stomach. She noticed him staring and clapped her hands to its meaty sides, rubbing it sensuously.

“You *urp* you like my new look?” she purred, sidling towards him, her chubby tail flicking in an obvious mating display. “I like it *HORP* a lot. Many males will take a bigger girl over a smaller one, they say. . . What do you say? Am I big enough to mate with, yet?” She hefted her breasts, jiggling them, the dark blue areola creasing as she squeezed them.

“Tsotske. We have to get back to the village,” he stammered. His hand went to his belt, meaning to go for his knife. Just a precaution, he told himself. Just a precaution, in case she decided HE was her next meal.

But instead, his hand landed on something else. He’d forgotten he’d removed his loincloth, and the stiff hilt of something much warmer and heavier than a blade throbbed in his hand. “Oops.” He tried to cover it, but his arousal was too painfully evident to conceal. He just succeeded in making it worse, and groaned as his sister waddled to him, every step making her big belly shake. He wondered what her belly button would feel like around his. . .

“I don’t need the village,” she murmured, drool spooling out from between Tsotske’s plump lips as she leaned over his short form. Her breasts dangled temptingly in front of his face. “I don’t need *URRP* anything except for more. . . more food.” Her yellow eyes were glazed, dull, cow-like. “And some other things. I might *hiccup* I might need your help, Molo. You will help me, won’t you?” she whimpered, digging under her belly to touch something there. He heard a wet sliding sound. “Won’t you?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he said, backing away, “but I promise I’ll try and help you. Soon, once I find the sky-people. And make them. . . make them answer for this.” He saw a dripping node hanging from a nearby tree branch and an idea struck him. Maybe if he could destroy it. . .

“Please!” She reached for him, fat fingers grasping, but he slipped out of her reach and clambered nimbly up the tree. From the way the green stuff was splattered on her belly, he reasoned she must have been sitting beneath the tree recently, waiting for it to drip down into her. Into her hot, moist mouth. With those slick blue lips that would wrap so tightly around something as delectable as—

“Stop that,” he told himself sternly. He’d need a cold waterfall bath as soon as possible, it seemed. But for now, his objective was clear: Destroy the sky-people’s handiwork. He plucked his knife from its sheath and began sawing busily at the base of the strange, gray bulb. Its buzzing increased as he worked at it, growing almost unbearable.

“Ohhh, stop it!” howled Tsotske, clutching her head with one hand and ripping more meat into her mouth with the other. “Don’t dooo that!”

“I have to!” Finally the roots tethering the weird metal thing to the tree were almost gone. Triumphant, Molo twisted around and gave it a solid kick. . . and it popped off the branch, sailing through the air with a shrieking keening sound, to land on Tsotske.

It popped.

Green glowing fluid gushed all over her sister, coating her breasts, her face, her belly, her hair. She fell to the ground, jiggling and spluttering. . . and then began to squeal. It was the sound of someone crying out in the face of too much input, too much noise; or maybe, too much pleasure.

“Oh! Ohhh! OH!!”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Pulling at his hair in confusion, Molo burned with shame. Stupid! But he’d gotten the node off the branch, at least. Maybe that would do some good. . . and if no predators had found Tsotske by now, she would probably be safe for at least a little longer. “I’m so sorry,” he told her, and then sprinted across the tree limbs towards the Plateau.

Behind him, his sister’s pupils dilated enormously. Her mouth dropped open; her hips jerked. And she began to grow. . .

[[They see me scribing, they hatin' / You know they wanna catch me writin' dirty!]]


--

Greenleaf tried to take deep breaths. To move slow. But he couldn’t stop himself from pushing the AMP suit to its limits. How long before the surrounding war tribes got here? Hours? Minutes?

His robotic exoskeleton thundered through the woods, crushing tree limbs and turning beautiful multicolored plants into pulp. The closer he got to the Hometree, though, the more the forest looked like a battleground.

Plants had been ripped out of the ground and consumed. Trees, stripped bare of their fruit, drooped despondently as pale skeletons. Smoke rose above the canopy: probably cooking fires, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe the forest was burning.

Anyway, what did it matter to him? Greenleaf wondered as he thumped through the wrecked woods on steel legs. It wasn’t as if this was his world. These weren’t his people. He didn’t care. Wiping out entire species was old hat to him. He shouldn’t have a problem with it.

Of course, no other species he’d helped wipe out had looked so much like human beings.

Every so often he came across Na’vi. As the dawn approached, the alterations had nearly reached critical levels. Women lay gorged and replete, like small bioluminescent whales. Males stood guard, worshipped the glutted queens, or stuffed them—either with food, or with themselves. Many times he glimpsed an impromptu orgy unfolding as the men surrounded the sweating, panting girls and entered her prostrate, pleading form with no tenderness or foreplay.

It was rough. In a way, it was even brutal. He didn’t know how the BMD things worked, but he shuddered in terror at the power of this kind of science. “Fuck this,” he muttered, staring fearfully out of the glass. Thankfully, none of the Na’vi seemed interested in pursuing him very far: a couple males howled and threw spears at his AMP, but none of them made any serious effort to attack him. With the camo down due to his high speed, Greenleaf was grateful.

“I hope you’re having fun,” he groused as he sweated nervously, his AMP suit’s gun sweeping the underbrush for predators. “Because I’m sure as hell not.”

--

In the confusion of the dawn, with the forest stripped clean of wildlife and small vegetation, Molo found it almost impossible to get his bearings. Finding the plateau was easier than finding a single Na’vi, however, and he soon reached the bulky rock cliffs. Just in time to watch the giant gray beast with the hard-water face materialize and sprint into the jungle, weapon in hand.

“It’s headed straight for the Hometree,” Molo murmured, shivering as wind whistled through the newly stripped branches of the jungle. It’d had something big on its back, something green. Molo had a feeling letting that metal beast get anywhere near the Hometree was a very bad idea.

Dropping from his perch, he ran after it, still gasping from his tiring night of running and stifled desire. He quickly found it impossible to catch the thing: it was too big, and too fast. He needed a mount, but even the humble sturmbeests had fled the forest, running from his gluttonous tribe-sisters. Panting, Molo rounded the corner. . . and came face-to-face with the Thanator.

The hulking, six-legged tiger-lizard was just as razor-fanged as it had been when he’d met it during his ritual hunt. And its eyes glinted with the same sort of desperate hunger. Yet, the situation was very different.

When he’d run into the bringer of fear during his hunt, she (it was a female, he saw from the marks on her exposed belly) had been the ultimate predator, a merciless killer. Now, she bulged and jiggled just like her smaller, Na’vi counterparts. The fangs dripped with saliva. . . but the thanator’s stomach was so big she could barely haul herself towards him.

Drawing his knife, Molo dropped into a fighting stance. The big girl was full of meat, but in the current climate, that didn’t mean anything. Like his sister, she would still be looking for a meal. . . hopefully a different kind, though. “Come on, then,” he said, his mouth dry. “Come and get me if you’re still hungry after all that! I’m not afraid!”

The sinuous purple carnivore crawled toward him, her six legs pulling her fattened belly along like a snake moving across the ground. Fangs out, she opened her mouth wide. . . and belched. Seemingly surprised at her own eructation, the flabby feline-reptile squawked, its scaly ears twisting in confusion.

Molo sighed. “Had a bit too much to eat, huh?” He slowly sheathed his knife and circled around the monster, trying to stay out of reach of her huge slobbering jaws. “Well, I can help you with that. Just. . . stay. . . still.” He reached out his hands and pressed them into the Thanator’s swollen flanks. “Here. Let me help.” Rubbing and kneading, he worked out the knots and the most overstuffed parts of the creature’s hugely overfull stomach.

Trying not to think about what was inside of the animal, Molo smiled gently. “See? Isn’t that better?” The pele’lukan belched again, rolling over slightly and panting. “Yeah. That’s it. . .” There it was. The beast’s queue. Frilly and flopping, the neural jack hovered over the monstrosity’s fattened haunches, twitching occasionally. “Just. . .let me. . . rub you.” Pulling his braid up, Molo touched it to the thanator’s. And they linked.

The sudden rush of axions connecting shocked him so much that he actually fell onto the thanator’s stomach, the soft flesh catching him easily. Grateful, he took a deep, shuddering breath and clambered up onto her back.

“Alright. Now we understand each other,” he muttered, grinning. **Don’t we?** he thought at her through the queue. The thanator, his animal now, purred, her sides jiggling.

Reaching down, he patted her stomach. **Don’t just sit there, lazy-belly. Move along.** ** All it took was a little incentive: with that, she turned about and followed the metal-thing’s trail, their thoughts flowing into one entity. His thanator wasn’t the lightning-quick queen of the jungle anymore, but she was fast enough to close the distance.
“Good girl,” he muttered happily, urging her on as the wind swept over him. “We have prey to catch.”


[[IT'S ADVENTURE TIME, COME ON AND GRAB YOUR FRIENDS]]

(( Looks like the big finale's going to have to come tomorrow, guys. I kind of fucked up and forgot about my field work tomorrow. . . If you want more smut, though, there's always my Chel fic. Sort of. ]]

Not sure which side to root for at this point (feel a bit bad for each main character), but looking forward to the finish just to see how it plays out.

I don't suppose Quaritch is going to make a surprise appearance?

>>1655

((Over 40 miserable motherfucking pages. . . Let’s give the old girl a good send-off, shall we gentlemen? TALLY-HO!))

Hardeaux panicked as the monitors all flashed ERROR: FILE NOT FOUND or ERROR: SERVER DOWN. He frantically tried to override the systems, but someone had already entered the main override commands! There was literally no fixing this shitfest.

Echoes of passion and hungry cries roared from inside the belly of the ship. Hardeaux was certain of one thing: the other hybrid avatar bodies had been brought out of storage. All the indicators showed that power had been redirected from the cameras, security, and even the lights to fuel the massive transmitter net that allowed shortwave avatar control.

And all the override commands stemmed from one place. Hardeaux spluttered as he heard a girl squealing with delight out in the hall. “Crazy bitch!” He’d given her the equivalent of a Speak-and-Spell, and she’d managed to dominate the entire station! What could he do now? The BMD’s effects would not last on humans: it was meant to sink into a Pandoran neurological network and alter it. Even fully exposed humans would experience only a short burst of hunger pangs and hormonal imbalance, followed by headache and fatigue. But if those avatars had been activated. . .

Greenleaf sealed off his office manually and shut down all power except life support. Security would put a stop to this. She’d screw up somehow, the big fat whore. No one could take that much direct BMD influence to their hybrid’s neurology and stay rational.

No, all he had to do was listen. . . and wait.

--

Greenleaf’s AMP suit crashed through the primitive barrier of spears around the treetop village like a battering ram. Sweeping his suit’s gun arm across the clearing, he checked the area.

There were life signs inside the tree, and several of the simple tents around the campfires. But the life signs inside the tree weren’t moving, and the heat signatures inside the tents indicated. . . recreational activities. Greenleaf considered prepping his Bushkiller flamethrower and torching the perverts, but he decided against it. It would waste time.

And besides, it didn’t quite feel right. . . He couldn’t shake the sense that he was doing the wrong thing. He was doing it for his planet—hell, for his species, and it STILL felt wrong.

But he’d gotten this far. He couldn’t turn back now, especially with an approaching warband on his tail. It was do or die! Of course, if he had time later, he was totally torching those eggheads up on the Star. They’d left him in the middle of some kind of orgy war, after all. It was only proper.

Propelling his AMP suit into the roots of their Home Tree, Greenleaf surged into the inner sanctum of the Na’vi. It was only when he switched his suit’s headlights on in the darkness that he noticed the weave of huge vines strung across the floor. . . WHUMP.

The entire suit crashed to the floor of the sanctum, the windshield glass cracking under the force of the impact. “Shit!” Greenleaf sucked in a breath as he heard the telltale whoosh of xenon gas rushing into the cabin. . .

Grasping for his breathing mask, Greenleaf unbuckled as his suit thrashed and spasmed, gyroscopes attempting to right the thing. Pulling his AR-221 out of its sling he switched off the main power and punched the hatch release. Hauling himself out, he stepped into the vines. They appeared to have been strung across the entrance as a last-ditch defense.

“It fucking worked” he growled. “You happy?” No one answered him. From deeper in the sanctum, though, came loud moans and slurping noises. Greenleaf shivered and circled around to the back of his AMP. Unplugging the central BMD node, he slipped into into a satchel and slung it over his shoulder. “Time to dance, fatties.”

((Warning: Hardcore sex, female-on-male implied raep. STEEL YOUR LOINS, GENTLEMEN]]


--

Minutes stretched on and on. Inside his cramped office on the orbiting Star, Hardeaux waited. Surely the assistants had sedated the obese Tannigan by now, or at the very least, cut off her contact with the hybrid avatar she inhabited. He thought it might be safe to go outside.

Unlocking his office, the doctor slipped into the hallway. It was a mess. Spilled milk lay on the floor, half-chewed potato chips were smeared on the wall, and MRE wrappers were everywhere. The buzz of the BMD had faded to a deep, pulsing throb. Hardeaux felt it toying with his brain chemistry, but shook it off. He had a mad scientist to restrain. And fire. And possibly excommunicate, if he could get some strings pulled back on Earth.

He was certain of his immunity, of his authority, as he stepped out into the hall. Only one thing made him nervous: the impending wrath of the terrible Quaritch, once it was revealed that the station had gone out of control. “Well, then we just won’t tell anyone, will we?” mumbled Hardeaux to himself. He could clap gag orders on the staff faster than a Pandoran hellfire wasp could inject venom. God, but he was horny. It was just the BMD, he told himself. This mass hedonism would soon be under control. . .

Heavy footfalls sounded around the corner. Shrinking back, Tannigan wondered what could make such a sound. None of the security detail were enough to shake the floor like that. . . unless. . .

Around the bend came a Na’vi hybrid—one of the young interns, her DNA melded with the creature’s blank biological template. Clad in a crude bikini made mostly of napkins and soaked with ketchup and sauces, the huge blue cat-girl stepped towards him. She was obese: not nearly as big as Tannigan, but she’d clearly been gorging herself for the past few hours. Huge thighs, twice the size of tree trunks, rubbed together and quivered gelatinously, dimpled heavily with cellulite. Her stomach rolled off her body in a heavy “bell” shape, the navel a soft pit in the middle of a tiger-striped, wobbling mass of greed-fattened flab.

“Hey there, Doctor Hardeaux,” she slurred. “How’s it. . . Ooh. How’s it going?”

“You get out of that body at once, miss. . .” She’d pinned her name tag to her napkin bikini, he saw with surprise. Probably to identify herself to the sexual partners she’d no doubt solicited during her brief joyride. “Miss Cartwright. Return that body to its tank at once!”

Wobbling unsteadily, but cracking the office window she leaned on, the girl grinned. “Nah, I don’t think so, UURRP! Professor. I think I. . .” She licked her lips. “I think I’m hungry.”

“God damn it,” Hardeaux said, and flipped open the emergency switch on the wall. Tapping it, he hollered into the intercom. “Security! Get your asses down here! Where are you?”

The hulking, flabby intern’s tail swished. Hardeaux couldn’t help but do a double-take: even her tail had gained weight, becoming a thick blue tentacle topped by flowing hair. “I don’t think they can come, Doctor,” tittered the titanic avatar, staggering towards him, her belly gurgling as she churned out another huge belch. “Well.” She paused. “They CAN come. Just not here. Heh heh heh. Get it?” She reached for him. “Security boy’s’re in with Ms. Tannigan, Doctor. Why dontcha come down there? We’re havin’ a REAL good time. . .”

She jiggled her breasts at him with one hand. Heavy with fat, they popped the napkin bikini like it was. . . well, tissue paper. The name tag clattered to the floor. “Oh fuck.” His intellectual airs forgotten, Hardeaux scrambled in the other direction, making for the escape pods. But his way was blocked by a huge male hybrid.

Carrying one of the female staff under his arm, who appeared completely naked under her lab coat, the avatar raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, look who it is. We got some news for you, Doctor. The BMD works.” The male grinned, slinging the woman over his shoulder and rubbing tenderly at her groin with a huge blue thumb. “And we ain’t ever turning it off.”

Hardeaux flattened himself against the wall. “Are you stupid? You’ll all run out of food! You can’t just stay up here and fuck each other forever! Think about this!” Hearing the thumping of the obese female hybrid behind him, he swallowed, his throat dry.

“Who says we can’t?” smirked the male, extending a long tongue to lick at the lab girl’s plump pink rear. She squeaked, legs windmilling.

“Yeah. . . Who says we. . . Ooh.” Catching sight of the male, the female hybrid growled sensually, grabbing Hardeuax by his shirt with one hand, and the male by its throbbing phallus. “Mmm, three-way. Just like on my hard drives.” She tugged on the male avatar’s cock and dragged Hardeaux along roughly, her huge ass quivering like striped blue jelly. “C’mon boys. I got all sorts of things I wanna try out. And so does Tannigan.”

“Nooo!” Hardeaux flailed as he was hauled off into the darkened corridors by the fat-assed supersex-kitten. “No! You don’t understand! This isn’t a viable long-term strategyyyyyyy!”

[[Aaaand here comes the money shot. Hang on, folks—EXTREMELY GRAPHIC SCENARIOS of feeding and banging ahead!]]
[[p.s. yo’ momma so fat, she cameo’d in this fic.]]

--

By the time Molo’s Thanator reached the Hometree, she was panting and heaving, exhausted. Molo unhooked his queue from hers and slid off, leaving the massively obese feline to roll onto her side, giant belly gleaming in the morning sun. “Take a leg off, girl. You’ve earned it.” He swept over to one of the gathering tents, wincing at he accidentally surprised a couple in the midst of a furious mating.

“Hey, watch it,” groaned the girl, blinking as sunlight blasted into her yellow eyes and drenched her fat-roll-coated form in illumination. “We’re kind of. . . UNF. Busy here!” The male ignored Molo, thrusting into his partner with a look of ecstasy on his face.

“Sorry, sorry. I just need to, uh, borrow this.” He plucked the man’s ceremonial bow from the small leathern hammock of his possessions. Nabbing a few arrows, Molo stuffed them into their quiver and slung it over his back. He probably couldn’t even lift the thing properly, much less fire it, but it was better than nothing.

Scurrying out of the hut, he sprinted towards Kelutral, the inner heart of the Hometree and the place he knew the elders must be gathered, pondering this terrible plague. Perhaps they could help him? His hopes were picked up momentarily when he found the huge stone goliath walker stretched out on a web-of-vines trap.

But there was no sky person in it. The watery face was broken and the green thing was missing from the back. Cursing, Molo tiptoed over the vines and into Kelutral.

None of the tree roots were glowing. That was the first sign that something was wrong. When its people lived well, a Hometree sung its song of light. Everybody knew that. But this morning it was all dark. Not dead, but unhappy. Confused, just like the rest of the land was. Maybe even driven mad.

Pulsing, erratic drumbeats led him to the great fire at the heart of Kelutral. That wasn’t any tribe song he had ever heard. . . Pausing in amazement, he took in the disgusting sight at the center of the tree.

Almost a hundred Na’vi men were dancing or howling in a circle. Chanting, they stomped their feet and thrust meat roasts into the fire, letting the juices sizzle and the sinews soak and glisten. The ones who’d finished their odd cooking ritual withdrew over time and let more past. They filed along, chanting gutturally—it sounded more like moaning to Molo. Desperate, hungry moaning.

They were bringing the meat to a Na’vi woman so unbelievably fat Molo had to rub his eyes to prove he wasn’t dreamwalking. The red paint on her face marked her as Omaia, senior soothsayer and elder tribeswoman of the clan. But the rest of her was so grotesquely changed Molo could barely stand to look at her.

Waterfalls of blue fat emanated from Omaia, covering the entire wicker wooden seat that usually housed the senior clan member. Molo guessed the chair had long since snapped like a twig under her weight, as it looked as if she sat on the floor. Thick, roly-poly blobs of fat tipped by wriggling blue toes told him where her feet were. The rest was up to interpretation.

Her belly was an ocean, dotted by her tiny glowing markings in a kaleidoscope of jiggling blue lights. Grease and juices coated the upper half of her gut, which was so immense it could hold a small herd of hexapede gazelles. Those doughy, wrinkled appendages near the top of her must have been her arms. Or they used to be. Now she could barely lift them.

Her red face paint had been smeared out of order by her greed, but her eyes were quite hungry indeed, boring into the line approaching her. One by one the men came by and dropped their offering of meat or fruit into her slavering, whimpering mouth. Oddly enough, every other man in the line wasn’t carrying food. Molo soon saw why.

Instead of dropping a greasy, juicy sacrifice into Omaia’s lips, the alternating men undid their reed belts, climbed on top of her bulk, and placed their hardened members into her fat, suckling lips. Omaia slurped and sucked and pulled, her eyes glinting lustfully, until the male shivered and cried out. As Omaia’s cheeks bulged and spilled over with her special meal, the other males pulled away the spent Na’vi so he could begin cooking again.

Around the periphery of the campfire, many girls were gathered, all of them gasping and bloated. None of them were as fat as Omaia, whose tail had become a drooping snake of fat rolls. But they were all almost incapable of moving, making them easy prey for males who periodically fell out of the line and lifted their stomachs to stroke or lick passionately at their swollen lower lips. Molo sickened and looked away. The sight of his clan-sisters’ naked bodies did not disturb him—but his own desire to join them, to fuck the girls till they grew fat on his seed, was incredibly overpowering.

>>1661

[[i swear to god this thing has an ending]]
[[no seriously]]
[[it does]]




In a panic, Molo dashed about, trying to shake his tribemates out of their stupor. “Friends! Help! A skyperson’s coming! We have to stop him!”

“Molo? Is. . . that you? You’re late to the dance. . .”

The dreamy voice belonged to Ansit, one of his hunting friends whom he’d lost in the forest the day before. Except now Ansit was in no position to hunt: He was pinned beneath a girl over eight times his size, wheezing and flinching as she rode him in reverse. Rolls of her back-fat bunched and released as the coils of her queue curled erotically.

“Oooh, Ansit, who you *huff* talking to back there?” asked the ultra-slut, the fat of her ass and stomach entirely covering Molo’s friend except for his head.

“Something’s *oof* up with the females today, Molo,” said Ansit woozily, jerking and gasping as he climaxed inside the girl. Molo wondered how many times he’d done that this morning.

“Yes, I’ve seen,” said Molo grimly. He stared at Omaia in wonder, watching as her vast bubbling blue mudslide of a gut gurgled like a sturmbeest and surged out another few inches. “Ansit. You were always the best tracker and spotter out of us. Have you seen a sky person come in here?”

“What. . . you mean. . . that guy. . . over there?” Ansit grunted as the girl slammed up and down on top of him, her porky tail flopping onto his face. “Pffbpht!”

Molo turned, following Ansit’s eyes. Sure enough there was a small, pale form in strange clothes crouched high on a shadowy root of the Hometree. The skyperson was trying to sneak up into the boughs of the tree unnoticed. . . So much for that. Molo pulled out an arrow, notching it to the huge ceremonial double bow. Pulling back the string, he heaved and squinted. . . and released.

The arrow spun about ten feet in the air and then tumbled end over end to the ground, burying its gum-resin tip in the dirt. “Oh, come ON!”

“Wow, you suck,” huffed Ansit unhelpfully from beneath his enthusiastic, overweight mate.

“Yeah, well, you’re an awful mate. Look at you. You’re just lying there.” Molo notched another arrow, tracking the sky-person. The second one flew no farther. “Hexapede piss! Why do these bows even have four strings?”

“Hey, don’t look at me, it’s not MY fault. She’s too heavy! Oooh. Say, lady, what’s your name anyway?” said Ansit conversationally to his gorged partner, who was now openly drooling as she humped him. Molo shook his head. He was about to notch another arrow when a chubby fist closed around his ankle.

“You’re p-pretty good with that bow,” wheezed the huge young female who had grabbed him. “Are you as good with *huff* with other things?” Hauling a pot-stomach the size of a feast basket over the ground, the randy Na’vi teen clawed lustfully at his thigh, tongue flicking out as she tried to haul herself up to his groin.

“Gaah!” Prying her off as quickly as he could without hurting her, Molo made for the nearest tree root. It wasn’t safe down here: other females, neglected by the men serving Omaia, had begun to laboriously haul their wobbling buttocks off the sanctuary floor and jiggle toward him. He had no doubt what he wanted—his groin wanted it, too. But. . . “There’s a TIME and a PLACE!” he yelled, and started scuttling up into the tree limbs.

>>1663

[[motherfuckers had to go and doubt me, i'm doin it

fuck i'm drunk]]


--

Greenleaf was close. He could see it: the marker. At a certain point, moss began growing on the Hometree—or so the “boring ass briefing” had told him. It was at that point he had to inject the final node. Fuck, but the thing was heavy!

Glancing through the powerful rays of the sun he caught a glimpse of a rising cloud. It looked like a stormcloud at first. . . then he realized it was moving. “Aw, HELL NO.” Banshees. Hundreds of them, from the looks of it. The war parties were on the move.

Flinging himself up to the next handhold, he felt the straps of the field satchel tearing. The final node was like an anvil slowing him down. But at least none of the infected Na’vi were falling him. . . wait, who the fuck was THAT? “What? Oh for fuck’s sake!”

It was a kid. A Na’vi youth, gangly and thin—but for a Na’vi, that meant he was just about Greenleaf’s size. A “kid” that big could ventilate his intestines easily if he got close enough. “Oh fuck you, kid!” Scrambling up onto the next branch, Greenleaf wished he’d brought a grapple. Of course, he was supposed to be using the blue suit. . . but then he’d probably have ended up like those crazy sex maniacs on the ground. He wondered what the kid had that made him so special. “If only I hadn’t skipped EVERY bio class in college. Fuck!” He slipped, nearly tumbling off the tree. Whipping out the satchel, he used its weight as a counterbalance.

“Aww yeah.” Leaping from tree branch to tree branch, much like his ancient lumberjack ancestors might have done, Greenleaf finally reached the moss line—and an arrow the length of his arm whizzed past his head. “What the HELL!”

He looked down. The kid was on the branch below him, fumbling with some kind of. . . double bow-and-arrow? “This planet is fucking stupid.” Realizing he had to deal with the problem in the fastest way possible, Greenleaf hooked the satchel on a branch—setting up the node would expose him to enemy fire—and dove down, tackling the kid.

An impromptu wrestling match ensued as the idiotic double-bow tumbled to the forest floor far below. Greenleaf drew his knife and the kid drew his as they pulled apart. “Leave me alone, you little prick! I’m just doin’ my job!” Greenleaf yelled through his breathing mask.

“You. . . hurt. . . us!” Surprised by even the simple few human words, Greenleaf paused. He looked down at the orgy below.

“Yeah? So?” Wiping his face where the kid had scratched him, the soldier shrugged. “Not my problem! You guys just HAD to hang onto the crazy space rocks! You brought this on yourselves!”

The kid didn’t understand all of it, but he understood enough. “You. . . bad person,” growled the Na’vi child. “Go away!”

>>1664


[[I FUCKING DID IT BITCH. ALL HAIL TO THE KING.]]



--

“Like hell!” hollered Greenleaf. They circled each other on the huge tree limb, trying to find an opening. For Molo’s part he was just trying to figure out how not to get gutted by this crazy sky-person. They never came alone. What did this sweaty ape think he was doing?!

Greenleaf’s serrated combat knife twirled in his fingers as he tried to figure the best angle to shank the little squirt for interrupting his job at a time like this. The problem was, he didn’t really want to kill the kid. The boy was just doing right by his family. Greenleaf had to respect that.

A collective wail came up from beneath them. They both looked down. Stirred by the activity above, quivering blue feline shapes had begun heaving and sliding towards the Hometree’s roots. The girls of the clan were very eager to meet these unoccupied males. The fact that they were in the middle of a knife fight was apparently no concern to the horny females, many of whom ground their hips against the smooth bark of the tree as they climbed.

“Ah, crud. . .” Greenleaf considered his options. “Alright,” he said to the kid, holding up his hands. “We could kill each other. Alright? Or. Or we could not.”

The kid cocked his head, his catlike ears swiveling. He didn’t get it.

“Look. I don’t wanna risk dying at the hands of some brat. So it’s mano-a-mano. Okay?” Greenleaf reversed his knife—and stuck it into the side of the bough, the blade loosing a trickle of sap. “So how bout we don’t try and see whose knife is sharper? Huh?”

The kid put it together. Looking unhappy, yet relieved, he sheathed his knife before tossing it down into the tangled vines. “O-kay,” he mimicked, dropping into a fighting stance. Greenleaf smiled. Much better. He thought Quaritch would approve.

“YAAAH!” Charging forward, he swiped at the kid with his fists. The little fucker was fast, though, and dodged every swing. Finally, when he struck back, it wasn’t with knuckles: Greenleaf reeled as the Na’vi boy slapped him full in the face with a huge blue palm. “Ow! Fuck! What was that?!”

“That was. . . Fight!”

“That’s NOT how you fight!”

The kid shrugged. “Is. How. I fight.”

Greenleaf spat a mix of blood and saliva into the jiggling crowd of horny natives below, who were drawing ever closer. “You, sir, are a tremendous faggot.” The slap-fight then commenced in earnest.

Greenleaf quickly found he could gain a crucial few extra inches of reach if he opened his palm. So he was reduced to swiping clumsily at the Na’vi, landing quick but heavy smacks on the kid’s face and neck. All the while as their slaps rang through the sky, the obese herd of fat cat bitches dragged slowly up the tree towards their position.

“I think—OW! I’m starting to see the benefits—FUCK! Of a diplomat solution,” groaned Greenleaf, delivering a karate chop to the Na’vi boy’s stomach. Molo coughed and doubled over. “Yeah! That’s how it’s done on Earth, boy! Breakin’ it down like Mr. T!”

Molo suddenly whipped his tail up, knocking Greenleaf on his ass. The brawny soldier blinked as Molo raised a striped blue fist to finish him off. “Psyche,” whispered the cat-boy.

But then the fatty hordes were upon them! Greenleaf yowled as the moaning, obese blue alien women surrounded their branch and began clawing at his clothes. “Hell naw! HELL NAW!”

Molo similarly freaked out. Begging his clan-sisters to stop did no good; three of them pinned him to the branch while one gripped his erection. “Mmmm. . . Climbing so much work. Time to mate,” she purred, and crammed Molo’s shaft deep down her throat.

Meanwhile, Greenleaf was swimming to freedom through a storm of alien bitches. “Fuck. . . your. . . couch, blue alien fucks!” he screamed, pulling up to his satchel. “You all gonna die! Well. You all gonna get severely inconvenienced!!”

Pulling the final BMD node from his satchel, he primed it, pulling out the starter sinew and letting the device register his DNA signature. Finally, as one particularly blobby girl hauled down his pants and started slurping longingly on his Johnson, he rammed the BMD node into the Hometree’s bark.

A deep trembling rumble echoed through the tree as a fissure appeared in the bark, leaking green fluid. The gluttonous Na’vi girls lapped it up like starving pigs, oohing and ahhing over its perfectly tailored flavors and shivering as its narcotic effects overcame them.

“That’s. . . fucking. . . right,” breathed Greenleaf as the huge lardass of a woman pushed aside her braids to deep-throat him. “You don’t. . . fuck. . . with Earth, fuckers!”

As the approaching banshees suddenly wheeled with confusion and the green liquid trickled down the trunk to rain onto Omaia’s corpulent mass, the BMD node hummed and sparked. For a minute, Greenleaf thought it had broken. Had he failed? Had he braved toxic gas and alien blowjobs for this?

But then a holographic message flickered on. A familiar scarred, buzz-cut dome regarded him from the 3-D hologram. “Greenleaf. Or should I say, clone of my genetic material, #33-X. You’ve done well. Your planet salutes you, soldier. Carry on.” Greenleaf was so amazed he could barely ejaculate in the fat girl’s mouth. It happened eventually, though. She was damn good with that tongue stud.

The recorded message appeared wistful for a moment. “Hey, Pandora. If any of you blue creeps are listening right now, wondering what’s to become of your pitiful planet. . . Fuck you.” Quaritch gave Pandora the bird, stubbed out his cigar on his palm, and the message ended.

Leaving Greenleaf, Molo and a jungle moon full of obese hedon girls to fuck long through the night.

THE END

. . .

Whew.

That's it. Planet of the Nine Foot Tall Obese Sex-Crazed Catgirls is over. I hope you guys got what you came for.

Any criticism is greatly appreciated. I sort of accidentally turned the whole thing into an "experiment" of sorts for my writing style (if you can even call it that when there's so much fetish involved.)

So yeah, cut loose motherfuckers. I need your sick input on this clusterfuck I've let loose here. SO HIT ME UP

God, I need a nap. Never doing anything like this again. /tv/, I blame you for making me hate the movie so much I just had to stuff it.

I think I've moved on from that, though. This was oddly cathartic. Sort of therapeutic. What I'm trying to say of course is
WAS IT GOOD FOR YOU?
IT WAS GOOD FOR ME

or more simply

excelsior motherfuckers

and goodnight.

>slap fight
Oh you motherfucker, ha ha

WELL DONE

I've been waiting so long for this. This is one for the fucking ages.

you're my new pervert hero.

Zob, you glorious drunken bastard.

Shameless bump for commentary.

>>1790
dude i wish you would write more. your descriptions of fatness and lust are some of the best i've read. your plot is a little insane, but i think that makes for good entertainment. some parts actually got me to laugh amidst fapping. overall totally awesome. have read twice. like it a lot. nuff said.