Summary: Miles Quaritch thought hate would be enough to keep him focused, but on Pandora, he's trapped in twenty years of vigor while haunted by fifty years of cruelty—and nothing obeys his command. The hate has given way to an unknown heat, but his biological clock already knows exactly where it needs to burn to sate his desire."
Notes: Sorry if there are any grammatical mistakes, Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated! Enjoy the ride. 🔥
It was something hot, almost physical, thrumming constantly beneath his blue skin stirring dangerously with his urge for dominance. It was what he called hate, revenge—so raw, perverse that it had become a necessity. From it came the blindness that kept him awake with every memory of his failure at Sully’s hands, a direct affront to his wounded pride. It was there that his rage found strength in control, in the urgency to prove that Miles was still the one set the pace. But unfortunately, on Pandora, everything intensified; this new body responded differently—more sensitive, more violent—as if every breath made him more impulsive, cruel... hungry.
The climate of the Mangkwan people awakened exactly that: more hate, heavy as armor. It was no longer an explosive anger; it was something far deeper, cultivated with who had gleefully joined his quest for revenge. But joy was something denied there. Everything was so lifeless, gray, colorless, trapped in a suffocating heat that mirrored every feeling he pondered internally. It was something in the air that felt strange; perhaps it was the metallic scent, or the ash that constantly drifted across the sky, making everything even denser. It was hard to name, but it stirred buried emotions.
Hate remained in control, but it wasn't alone. Beneath it, something more primal began to stir—slow and inevitable, like a body responding before the mind could grant permission. An addictive feeling that ignited like fire deep within him every time he caught a glimpse of you... always lurking like a functional shadow, with those lifeless eyes devoid of empathy, moving only when necessary, stopping when you wasn't called. You was helpful only in form, never in spirit. And that very "non-gesture" sparked a biological call within him—a primary need that didn't obey military logic or the discipline of the hate that had blinded him for so long. The predator in him remained alert, aware that his senses were adjusting to a different kind of survival, a different kind of prey that whetted a new kind of hunger.
Miles recognized the sensation from afar—not by practice, but by memory—like someone who understands the meaning of something before experiencing it. There was a constant restlessness, a strange heat in his lower abdomen that didn't ask for violence or immediate action, only presence... constant, irritating, exposing his deepest instincts and pushing him to complete cycles he hadn't chosen. He was like a juvenile organism learning to respond to its own internal workings. He wasn't ignorant—just physically inexperienced in that body—and every time you was near, that sensation organized itself, gaining direction. It was as if your body were the food he craved: graceful yet firm. Your hips were light, like a wind blowing in his direction, carrying an irresistible scent that made his mouth water and his body sweat with thoughts that flourished so suddenly they bypassed any restraint he tried to impose.
Like your presence cut through the air of the yurt like a sudden change in pressure. Suddenly, you was there—standing at the entrance, observing his naked body without haste or a trace of shyness. Miles, lying on the furs, remained motionless. His blue skin, still marked by the day’s heat, looked relaxed, but he noted with contained irritation and raw satisfaction the reason you was there, written all over you somberly beautiful face. Your gaze lingered over him as your made yourself at home, prowling the yurt Varang had granted him, as if the place were already known to you.
Without permission, you approached. Your steps were too light for such a brutal environment. Your fingertips felt like feathers against his chest, sliding up to his kuru, from the base to the end of the queue. It was as if something profoundly wrong—and inevitable—had been triggered. It wasn't a caress; it was a recognition. A brief, firm touch, too intimate to be innocent. Miles’s body responded before he could react, and suddenly there was a soft, low chuckle permeating the place. His senses sharpened with aggressive clarity as he looked at you, searching for answers.
— "Mhm... it works," You said simply, keeping your r fingers there a moment longer than necessary.
The silence that followed was heavy. Miles understood in that instant what your meant... how could he not, when his length was visibly hard? It was his body—inexperienced but alert—already knowing exactly what that proximity signified. Miles didn't pull away.
On the other way around—his fingers closed calmly around yours; they were too thin, too cold, too na'vi compared to his five human fingers. The difference didn't go unnoticed. He felt it. He liked it. The realization came with a strange sense of a silent satisfaction, as if that detail were one more proof that this new body still carried something old, something that knew exactly what it was doing.
And with that, he pulled you, Not with force—but enough to break the distance you maintained by choice, not out of fear. And when you sat there, in his lap, there was a certain type of restraint he had only felt when he was still human; and that restraint was too much to maintain a mask of neutrality. Your weight against his body and his hardness made the air feel even denser. Miles kept his gaze fixed on yours, attentive to every micro-reaction, every involuntary adjustment of your posture, every second longer you took to move away.
— "You walk in without warning..." his voice came out low, raspy with something other than exhaustion. "Touch what you shouldn't..."
His thumb slid slowly over your knuckles. A small, calculated gesture.
— "...it's not just curiosity!"
There was a smirk there. Not kind, nor too provocative; just aware. Miles wasn't lost in the sensation—he was testing limits, as he always had, only now the battlefield was different. His body reacted, but his mind remained sharp, observing how you breathed differently, how you didn't get up, how you didn't release his hand. — "Cause you sat down," he added, leaning in a bit more. "So you know exactly what you came looking for."
The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was your loud, somewhat innocent laugh—but of innocence, there was none in her. And that made him smirk his ears perked at the sound of your shrill, somber giggle, which for a single instant made him understand why Jake betrayed his own race. A little thing, so feigned innocent, could make anyone lose their mind. Your laughter dissolved slowly, like hot smoke in the stifling air of the yurt. You was in no hurry to answer when tilted your head slightly, studying his face too closely, like someone considering something they’ve already decided to possess—they just haven't said it out loud yet.
— "Curiosity..." Your repeated, dragging out the word, almost tasting it. "It is what you tawtute call it when you don't want to admit something else."
Your fingers moved slightly, not to pull away, but to settle deeper into his hand, as if that contact had been accepted long ago. Your gaze didn't drop immediately; it stayed locked on his, testing if he would look away first. He didn't.
— "Varang said you were dangerous," You continued, in a tone far too casual for the moment. "But she didn't mention you being... interesting."
You leaned in closer, until the distance vanished entirely as you settled over him, straddling him without hesitation or excuse. It wasn't a delicate seduction; it was a silent challenge.— "And now," You added, her voice low, almost intimate, "I wanted to see if what woke up inside you..."
A brief, sharp, conscious look dipped down to his naked body, already knowing exactly the effect you was having.
— "...can easily quench the fire inside me."
The silence that followed was pure provocation; an action that made Miles lean in first by instinct, not by haste. There was something almost restrained in the gesture, as if part of him were still observing from the outside, considering his own decision even as he executed it. But when their lips met again, there was no rehearsed delicacy now. There was weight. Heat. A silent impact that rippled through his new body with unexpected intensity, making him thrum beneath you. And for a brief second, he expected resistance.
It didn't come.
You responded with the same dark firmness that marked everything about you—not receding, not surrendering immediately, but accepting, adjusting to the contact like someone recognizing an ancient language. When you tongue found his, slow and sure, Miles felt a shock, almost an irritated one, run down his spine. It wasn't unfamiliarity—it was surprise.
He hadn't expected that. There was something profoundly human in that gesture, something he carried in his memory as practice, not as a possibility here. The body reacted with a minimal delay, as if it were learning too fast as your tongue slid against his. The pressure increased, and his hand squeezed your hip with violence—but without the intent to hurt—and he felt how much you liked it. You followed every change, every adjustment, every hesitation he wouldn't allow himself to show.
To you, the kiss wasn't a discovery—it was a provocation. A silent game where the danger wasn't in the touch, but in how much he responded; and Miles responded on autopilot, following instinct like a wolf that has lost its teeth but never its scent. But the air between them grew short. Not for lack of breath, but because of the density of the moment. When he finally pulled back enough to face you, your gaze was darker, more attentive—not satisfied, but extremely stimulated. You returned to kissing, nibbling, licking the curve of his neck with a certain fury that broke his last restraint, making Miles release his breath in a low, raspy sound, as if you had touched something too deep to be ignored. The body reacted before he could reorganize his control—not in confusion, but in recognized hunger.
— "Fuck..." escaped him, almost a contained growl.
His head tilted slightly, offering the angle without being asked, while the hand on you back go lower, firm, guiding the movement of yiur hips, marking the rhythm as if saying without words: like this. His own hips also moved almost without him realizing, rising in search of more; an instinctive adjustment that made it clear how involved the body was now. There was no more attempt to hide the reaction. His hand moved up at once, firm, closing around the side of your body—not to push away, but to anchor your. His fingers made their presence known on the straps of your loincloth,, as if he needed to remind you that he now required more than just attention on his neck. It was a silent understanding that made yur chuckle softly, satisfied, when his nose brushed against the skin of your shoulders—not as a caress, but as a marking of territory. An almost animalistic gesture, loaded with intent, that made you pull back and stare at him with a smirk. It wasn't a sweet smile—it was slow, satisfied, almost cruel, revealing your fangs for an instant, too white against the ash-marked skin. Miles's eyes flared when you stayed close enough for him to feel the heat of your breath mixing with his.
— "Take it off, sky man..." It was lowly, you voice heavy with desire.
The word didn't sound like a hollow provocation. And his movement was neither slow nor calculated; Miles’s hand closed on the fabric with brute force, without care, without hesitation. There was a second of resistance—the cloth stretched, tense—and then the dry sound cut through the air of the tent.
Tear.
The noise was harsh, loud enough to echo off the walls of leather and bone, an aggressive snap that broke the heavy silence like a blow. The fibers shattered all at once, yielding under his strength, and the piece of cloth was ripped away without ceremony, still warm from your body. He didn't look at what he had done.
He simply flicked his wrist and tossed the loincloth aside, letting it fall into a corner of the yurt with a light thud. The cloth lay there, discarded on the floor, forgotten the same instant it left his hand. It was intense enough to mark the moment, because you inhaled in an immediate reflex, your body tensing for a second, pure surprise crossing your face. It wasn't fear—it was the shock of the unexpected, of the strength that asked for no permission beyond the word you had spoken. Your eyes widened for just an instant before something else emerged there, it was a short, raspy chuckle escaped, almost incredulous—not just at the brutality of him tearing the loincloth as you had ordered, leaving you naked just like him under your, but at the contact that finally came. Intimacy meeting intimacy: hard, wet, pulsing with an excitement that was read not only in their eyes but in each of their bodies. Miles didn't pull back either, but he gasped when you was the one to move her hips forward and backward slowly, as if you didn't know what you was doing. And that made him laugh at you feigned innocence again when you murmured soft.
— "Like this?..."
Miles responded with a low sound from the back of his throat—it wasn't a full laugh, but something close to it. A recognition. A reaction just as false as yours.
— "No," He said, his voice deep and precise, just like the palm of his hand that covered one of her ass cheeks with disere, touch hard. He used the grip to move her hips harder, faster, creating that wet, hot friction of you pulsing core against his cock—which was harder than it had ever been before...And then came a gasp from you, along with that silly little giggle when you tilted her head slightly, studying him for a second longer. Then you leaned you hand against his chest and pushed him back—not with excessive force, but with enough decision to make it clear it wasn't a request.
— "Lie down," You ordered, simple and direct.
There was a brief, loaded silence, but Miles did not deny you; there was a certain excitement in doing what he was told. He held your gaze for another moment before yielding to the movement, reclining slowly—not out of submission, but because he chose to permit it. The gesture was calculated, tense, like a predator who accepts to observe before attacking and that is what he did. His calloused palm slid up your ribs, tracing them at the same rhythm you moved your hips against his, focusing, delighting only in the sensation of how your cunt slid over his hard shaft, fluidly.
To you, it was as if his cock had been perfectly made to fit the curve of your lower lips, as if the slightly curved tip of his cock were made especially to stimulate your clit with every movement of your hips. A It was quite a scene, Miles admitted. It was intoxicating, the way you was using him for your own pleasure, the way you didn't fully moan—it was just a low, pleasurable hiss that turn on him even more just to hear. It made him almost desperate to hear more and that desperation made him pull hard at the thin strips of cloth covering your breasts, tearing them just as he had done with the loincloth.
This time, however, the air caught in his throat. Your breasts were exposed—firm like the rest of your body—but his pupils dilated at the sight of the jewelry glinting. It was just a piece of metal piercing a single nipple; he made a point to touch it with his fingertips, to squeeze. And then, finally, a long, dragged-out moan came from you, making your chest arch forward. His cock trobs inside the heat of her your iner cunt lips again and again not just at the discovery, or the sound of you, or the fact that you was still moving your hips, but because he was now hyper-aware of every detail about you—things that had gone unnoticed because he had been too focused on the sensation, barely controlling himself and then when he finally looked down, he noticed a slightly larger, transverse metal piercing your clit.
Immediately, he gripped your hips, stopping you movements; his thumb went there instantly, touching... swollen, Miles thought instinctively, his tongue licking his lips at the dirty ideas that clouded his mind.
— "What a dirty little thing you are," He murmured, his voice thick with arousal, moving his thumb precisely in circular motions.
It was only to see how you would react, but when you practically melted at his touch, hissing softly, Miles smirked, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It wasn't a laugh of tease or mockery; it was just that kind of satisfaction that takes hold of any man when a female reacts that way and he is the reason. And certainly, it brought a kind of power that made his body burn from the inside, as if an ignition had been lit. Now there was a great urgency looming over him: to hear more, see more, feel more... to know what it would be like to accommodate his thick shaft, finally inside her; to know what it would be feel a woman again after so many long years. The longing to feel such a sensation again was extreme, but it was put on hold; there was another more urgent desire that made his hand grip his own hard, trobing shaft against his palm when you moved your hips back, giving him space....An uníssono gasp hung in the place. It was as if the air had evaporated from your lungs, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of him, touch himself, taking pleasure in the sensation of his own palm sliding up and down his cock slowly. The tips of his fingers grew slightly tacky from the natural lubrication leaking from the tip, leaking more when you provided an unexpected, hesitant stimulus there, it made Miles stop for a second because a shudder too strong ran down his spine in pure pleasure. Although the gesture wasn't entirely welcome, you keep just a little longer before pulling your finger away, bringing it to your lips with a certain urgency, tasting him..... A pause. Miles watched you intently, his hand hold hard his cock slightly in expectation. Yes, he wanted to know the verdict. And soon he laughed when your tongue circled and licked your fingers without stopping; yiur cunt clenching around nothing leaving a wet trail on his thighs.
— "You like it like that, don't you, you dirty little thing!" It wasn't a question, but the answer came anyway when he felt her walls clench around nothing with more force, again and again.
Your hips began to move again, straddling his thigh mercilessly, and that made him laugh. His free hand pinched your pierced nipple between his fingers hard, making you melt again, it was clear that you liked it that way; it was written all over your face, in body slightly bending as he rubbed her nipple between his fingers once mlre. It was so pleasurable that you needed to seek support, resting your palm on his sweaty chest. He waited for your to move your hips in the way that satisfied you, then returned to giving his own cock greedy, anxious, sloppy attention that made the air in the tent even more stifling. The sound of wetness, of gasps, groans, hisses, and the sound of his cock fuck his own fist made his stomach churn with need.
— "I'll cum like this, sweetheart…" When he spoke, his voice was low, far too controlled for someone on the verge of losing it.
You tilted your head slightly, watching him. The silence that followed was dense, alive, as if the air itself had learned to watch. Your held his gaze without haste, but the movements of your hips gradually stopped. Your hand wrapped around his shaft with force, making Miles almost choke as he pulled his hand away and let you do as you pleased.
— "No." It was simple, direct. You leaned in a little more, enough so that there was no space left between their faces. Locking eyes with him, Miles knew what your wanted, and a smirk grew on his face—not a gentle one, but a famished one.
— "You want it inside," He said finally. "Go ahead."
And there, in that tiny space between decision and action, the action happened. Your hips moved forward; you rose, guiding his shaft to the sticky open of your cunt. He expected a provocation, but it didn't come; you went straight for it, lowered yourself, the tip of his cock forcing its way into you who let out an extremely loud gasp took every inch of his cock tha disappearing completely inside you. Your cunt warm, wet, tightly clenching so hard him that made him throw his head back. The memory finally became reality: hot, tight, deliciously good. It sent him into ecstasy, his mind going blank as he struggled simply not to come. Miles couldn't see because his eyes were closed; he couldn't hear because he was focused on maintaining self-control; he only felt—an indescribable, burning, welcoming pleasure every time you raised your hips, leaving only the tip inside her before lowering again. The movements were repetitive but precise, the sensation was indescribable, even more so when you moved your hips in a circular motion. Ah, that made Miles's head spin openimg his eyes to gaze at you, a satisfied growl resonated from deep in his throat at the sight of you there: both palms on his chest, your arms making your breasts look more curved and full; the piercing in the nipple glinting from the sweat dripping from your neck; her feet on either side of his narrow waist.
You wasn't just straddling him now; you was sitting, providing a perfect view of the glinting metal on your swollen nerve bundle , of your cunt hole swallowing his cock shaft, now with a milky ring around it marked by her arousal, which seemed to increase with every movement, very time you began to take him faster, gasping, moaning his name loudly, Miles found himself gripping both her ankles tightly as he thrust his hips upward to meet yours. Hard, deep, that was how his thrusts were now, hitting that spongy spot inside that made your mouth fall open slightly, your pupils dilating as you clenched around him with force, moaning.
— "Oh…" It didn't come out whole; it was broken. It escaped first too low to be intentional, but then: — "Like that!"
It was dragged out, but it vibrated in the back of your throat, as if the air had been pulled in too fast and didn't know how to get back out. The sound failed in the middle, turning into hot, irregular breathing. Miles felt even more satisfied, thrusting deep, resting completely inside for a second before fucking again in a sloppy, desperate way.
He admitted it—it was too much temptation to see your chest rising and falling, to hear the deep, slow sounds that escaped him in an almost inaudible "mmh...".
It was quite a physical blow that made him lock his jaw for a second; his breathing grew tense as his mind went blank. A delicious, aching pain stung the back of his neck, leaving him so dizzy that it took him a moment to understand, to see his kuru braided into your fist as you pulled hard once more. You voice was dragged out, breathless, just like your body, which looked as if it would collapse on top of him at any moment. It was clear you was still trying to keep her legs open as she bounce on his cock, but your knees seemed to have a life of their own as they tried to close; and Miles, with his hand still on your ankles, kept you open, letting you take him, letting your walls clench his shaft with spasms. Another tug on his kuru, and this time Miles hissed in disapproval... a growl that came out firm but sounded more like a plea.
— "Fuck... fuck me, sky man!"
No other words needed to be said. Miles returned to thrusting fast and hard before he could formulate any thought. He followed on autopilot, eyes fixed on every action, on your body, on how you gasped when he released one of your ankles and brought his fingers to your neglected clit stimulating it with force. And that was all it took: you arched, mouth slightly open, but no sound came out. No words were needed to know that you had finally reached the peak. The most erotic sight he had ever seen spoke for itself; your walls squeezing him with force spoke for itself. Not only did it speak, it made him feel hot inside with the thought that pushed him closer and closer to the edge, matter how much he tried not to go there, Miles wanted to enjoy every last drop. But not just him; even with almost no strength left, trembling on his cock with every thrust, you still had the strength to pull his braid,undoing the knot. It happened suddenly, and there was no way to control it; the rhythm of his hips faltered, he threw his head back and growled loudly as he felt the hot jet of his seed spray inside your used cunt without stopping. It was a delicious mix of finally losing himself to his orgasm and still being sucked in by sunch a greedy cunt hole, which drank every last drop before yiu climbed off him and lay down by his side. His cock, still half-hard, rested on his abs leaving the traces of his cum there... the traces that also dripped from you made him smirk slightly.
Synopsis: Despite assurances from the science pukes, your recom body still got a period. (I wrote this because I get quite heavy & painful periods), boyfriend Quaritch can't decide how to act.
Warnings: period, bleeding, Quaritch being mean about reader's hormonal/emotional state, bad cramping, mention of sex (is it a dirty joke?), I used the word uterus
You're a lieutenant colonel (one rank just above Quaritch), so you get an office. Nothing plush or cushy, it's the RDA let's be realistic here. But it's nice, there's a window that lets some light in if the sun is in just the right position, a relatively spacious desk with some filing cabinets in the corner. There are a few personal items, a photo of your parents on Earth, a lip balm that's too tiny for your big blue mouth now. Then there's a glass of water with two pink flowers in it. They glow when it gets dark. Quaritch said there was some "fuckin' litl' bat 'possum thing" that tried to bite him when he reached to pick more, so two it was.
On this particularly gloomy Tuesday, you're sorting through boring paperwork, writing up the 'incident' that happened (Wainfleet and Mansk got into an argument about who got the last of the peanut butter and Mansk somehow ended up with a black eye and plain toast).
There's a knock on your door.
"I'm pretty busy right now, could you come back later?" You call through with a barely concealed exhaustion, not knowing who it was.
"C'mon cupcake, I gotta talk to you a moment," There it is, the Southern, no syntax drawl of your... boyfriend? Not sure yet, it's never been properly discussed. You let him in, continuing with the peanut butter paperwork.
The door swings open with a little too much force and a slight bang from the lock. "You know there's a handle, right?" You grin, teasing him.
"Yeah yeah, also don't "come in" me like I'm some kinda rookie." He huffs, but there's an undercurrent of some form of nonchalant amusement. "So sugar, you wanna tell me why Lopez wasn't flat on his ass this mornin' when he was lookin' at'cha like that?" He regards you curiously, jealously. It's not subtle, he's not happy. "I don't like sharin', call it "only child syndrome", whatever, I don't do it."
You give a short laugh "Yeah? 'Cause you sure haven't made any moves on me in public, no wonder Lopez doesn't know, no wonder nobody knows."
"What, you want me to kiss you in front of the whole damn base? Mark you as my territory, for every one of those idiot jarheads to gawk at?" He huffs. "What, you want me to piss on you?" He smiles, finding himself funny.
"You piss on me you won’t have a dick to piss from. I'll cut it off, with those really blunt, shit secateurs in the old ass shed." You seethe, clearly annoyed about something other than just his bad joke.
He looks stunned for a second, then laughs loudly, closing the door behind him as he steps into the room. Him being 9'5 his presence is looming but not intimidating, not anymore. "Woahhh, somebody's got claws today. Down kitty." He grins at another stupid joke. "What's up with ya? This isn't just Lopez, or," he gestures vaguely "...papers. Or is this just an excuse for some hate sex?" He waggles his eyebrows until you smack his forearm. "Ow, fine okay no sex"
"Recombinants," you start with a disappointed sigh. "still get periods. They told me I shouldn't get them anymore but-" he cuts you off, looking not upset for you but more for himself. He doesn't really talk about this kind of thing but he knows he has to right now, for you. "Period as in, you're bleeding... down there?". His tone is hard to read, it's a mix between concern, annoyance and plain awkwardness. He shifts on his feet uncomfortably in front of your desk once you confirm the obvious. Now it's mentioned he can smell the metallic irony scent in the air with his new powerful nose.
He avoids your gaze, a hint of an embarrassed (what for nobody knows) blush spreading across his face, strange considering he could kill a man without blinking. But a period, that's what brings him down? "Does it, uh, hurt?" He offers stiffly.
"What's up with your face?" You ask bluntly
(the face, btw ^^)
He scowls, but it's half-hearted, more of a defensive reflex than actual anger. His tail flicks like an agitated cat's. He turns around before remembering he has it. "Nothing’s up with my face," he grumbles, "Just ain't used to you talkin' about this shit... You need painkillers or somethin’?" There it isss he does care, just nonchalantly. He looks a little miffed when you inform him you took some Tylenol earlier. He's bugged that his genius plan to care for you by getting you pain relief is now null, making him essentially useless to you.
"You're gonna be cranky as hell for the next couple days, ain't you?" he says, rolling his eyes. "Just my luck. The one week a month I get off is the one where you're extra bitchy." He complains, trying to regain his "I don't care" attitude. He lets it slip when he sees the face you pull after. Uh oh.
"Excuse me?"
He opts for cocky. He grins, canines peeking out, sharp and challenging. "You heard me. You're a hellhound on the best of days, now I gotta deal with ya when I'm lucky if I don't get my dick chewed off for breathing wrong."
"Or, perhaps, you'll get it chewed off for saying the wrong thing." You snarl, watching in surprise as his grin widens. Oh so he wanted a reaction, he was poking the bear. "Oho! There she is," he purrs, "My little hurricane." He braces one hand on the back of your chair, leaning over you condescendingly. "Go ahead. Tell me what’s wrong with me sayin’ it." He challenges.
You stand, stepping away from Miles. "What's wrong with it, colonel-" you say coldly, referring to him using his title instead of personally, "-is that you have no right to comment, no right to say anything."
"No right?" he quips back, tail swishing again. "I'm the guy that's been sleeping in your bed almost every night for the past few months. I think that gives me a little right to comment, sunshine." He grazes the underside of your chin endearingly with the nickname but you jerk your head away from it, much to Quaritch's disgruntlement.
"Well.. it's mean." You decide. You've frankly had enough of this. It's saddening to admit you still get periods, that was supposed to be one of the big positives of project Phoenix that you wouldn't. The promise of Na'vi being non-placental feeling empty and hollow now that your placental human DNA biffed it out of the way for your new uterus.
He just stares, unblinking, not quite knowing what to say to the childish utterance. Finally, he gets out "Mean?" he repeats himself "Mean? Sweetheart you think that's mean? God, how did you get LT if you think that's mean?" He shakes his head, kuru swaying behind his back. "Alright, so I was mean. You want me to be nice about ya period? 'Cause I can do sweet." You look at him and realise he's being sincere. You hold back a laugh. "Fine, be sweet, be nice."
"Don't you sass me," he drawls, a warning in his amber eyes. But there's a glimmer of amusement in them, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in the beginning of a smirk. "You asked me to be nice," he adds, voice softening to a low hum as he takes up your free space, crowding over you. "And I always deliver for my girl." (giggled writing that)
He takes a deep breath, preparing for the performance of a lifetime. Then, with perturbing sincerity, he asks "Do you need some chocolate?" You laugh, swatting his arm away "Okay, okay wrap it up." But he keeps going, looking at you with soft eyes. "We're not stopping, cringe all you want," he grabs your hand "baby". He runs a thumb over your knuckles "This is your fault." he reminds "You started this."
"I'm gonna sit here and be so nice about periods, sweetheart, you're gonna be begging me to stop by the time I'm done." He grins, absolutely loving this panto villain demeanour. "First off," he pulls you gently onto his ample lap, back against his chest, his breath warm against your skin, "I know you're in pain. And I don't like knowing you're hurt." He kisses your shoulder tenderly before continuing. "And I hate that this is a monthly occurrence for you." Another kiss. "And I know it's not your fault you're all cranky and irritable-" he checks your face to see if he said the right thing "nope- okay uh.." he hastily kisses your cheek. "I know I always say the wrong damn thing, and I hate that I can't do a thing about it." A final shoulder kiss before he moves you as he sits on your sofa.
It's more of a cradle now, you're sitting sideways in his lap, his face just up and to your left. "Hell, you even smell different." He says casually, but his alarm bells soon start ringing once he sees your expression drop. "I smell????" You panic, sniffing at your underarms and shirt, trying to identify any foreign aromas.
He sucks on his tongue to hold in his laugh. "No-" he stops you with a gentle hand on your cheek. "Well, yeah cupcake you smell. But not bad, just different, sweeter." You frown, but accept it, assuming it must be some sort of Na'vi physiological adaptation. "Weird..."
He smiles comfortingly, "Not really, probably just some kinda like, hormonal thing or somethin'". You seize the rare opportunity to tease him. "Woooow look at youuu all sciencey, didn't know you knew the word hormone.." You snicker.
Then you realise it, you're comfortable. For the entire conversation, right from the beginning you've had cramps, not the worst kind, but they're enough to be noticeable. A dull, consistent ache in the background, circling the back of your mind like a bad song. Yet sitting here, with him, Mr tuff guy extreme who once drank a bottle of ranch on a dare (Wainfleet's fault). Mr tuff guy extreme who once chewed out a medic for not handing him ibuprofen fast enough. Mr tuff guy extreme who picked a fight with a hormonal woman not even ten minutes before, and had somehow calmed her down so much so she's the most relaxed she's felt all day.
"Yeahhhh, I gotcha" He smiles lazily, rubbing circles into your lower back, like a massage. "You just lie there sweetheart, don't worry about nothin'." (chat I'm getting sleepy) "Why don't you sleep, cupcake? I'll be right here..." He repositions you so you're laying outstretched on the sofa, a special one for the giant recoms. Your head is now resting comfortably against his thighs, his hand is in your hair, gently scratching your scalp in what is an unexpectedly skilled head massage. He smiles at your happy "mmm", replying in a whisper "my mama taught me, said it's good to know how to please a girl without having to go in her panties." He smiles, knowing you're on the cusp of sleep. He wouldn't tell you that if there was any chance you'd remember it, no way he can be that soft... right?
Like, it's probably a paper you'd sign without giving it much thought. "Oh haha yeah when I go I'm coming back as one of them" even if it's not your subconsciousness in there it's still all of your memories and thoughts, it's a massive piece of you walking around for the next 100 years but now your essentially 18 again and in the military.
You're never retiring. Even if you do manage to die again, I'd bet that the RDA would bring out another avatar if you out ranked the rest of your troop.
And not only do you never retire, there's no going home for you now. The single place you grew up, where all your memories and family and friends are, is now as toxic as Pandora was before you died.
And for all of that, you get a new logo, a dead man's tags, and a body you no longer understand.
