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starmakermachine · 1 year

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Eternal Clown: The Facets of a Persona

By Kitty Quinn, Photographed by Milan Lazovski, Makeup by Kitty Quinn, Styled by Kitty Quinn & Milan Lazovski, Modeled by Viv Yarema & Robert Quinn

"I'm Pierrot. I'm Everyman. What I'm doing is theatre, and only theatre... What you see on stage isn't sinister. It's pure clown. I'm using myself as a canvas and trying to paint the truth of our time on it. The white face, the baggy pants— they're Pierrot, the eternal clown putting over the great sadness." - David Bowie, The Daily Express, 1976.

Not everybody is who they seem— whether performing on a stage or presenting to strangers in day-to-day life, there is a front almost everyone puts out for the world. Though seemingly deceptive by description, a persona can extend itself in a myriad of ways depending on who has curated it. There is no doubt that there is power in being your true self, but there is arguably even more in crafting a version of yourself that you’ve always wanted to be. Everyone has their reasons– confidence, selling a product, vanity, etc.– the possibilities are endless. However, whatever it may be, there are several factors that go into an effective persona and a number of pros and cons that follow suit.

A persona can typically be referred to as the mask we show others. Depending on the scenario, there are innumerable ways that these can manifest. While some personas are circumstantial, like an alter-ego situation, there is also a great deal of fixed personas that are life-long. The different people you interact with can even cause shifts in which facets of yourself that you present— how you act around your friends versus how you act around your family can serve as a blaring example of this theory. Even so, these can be grouped into a number of categories depending on how the user wishes to carry themself.

There are four titular personas in basic terms: goal-directed personas, role-based personas, engaging personas, and fictional personas. While used for social interactions, these four types were originally created with the design thinking process in mind. A goal-directed persona typically focuses on what the targeted audience can do with the created persona; like in business when a company is trying to market toward a certain demographic. As for role-based personas, they are not much different than goal-directed personas, save for a specific focus on behavior rather than a wider audience. Engaging personas combine both goal and role-based personas but are primarily focused on engaging an audience, hence the name. Lastly, a fictional persona is a master blend of all of the aforementioned persona types created as a front or character put out into the world. The four types aside, not all personas fit these guidelines exactly and can be casual projections of who someone may want to appear as in their public sphere.

Although it can be argued that everyone has their own personas, perhaps the most interesting ones were born from the minds of the world's greatest artists. Through writing, photography, music, and all other art forms, artists use personas as extensions of themselves to tell stories and express themselves in ways that using their true selves could not typically convey. Though alter egos most definitely used to be more apparent, they continue to live on in media in different ways. One of the most well-known examples of this is David Bowie’s quintessential character, Ziggy Stardust. Ziggy Stardust is an alien messiah bespoke in a menagerie of glitter and bright colors used to tell the narrative of the album Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, released in 1973. While this persona quickly became primarily associated with Bowie, throughout his entire career he was constantly inventing an assortment of different personas like Major Tom, the Thin White Duke, and The Blind Prophet, just to name just a few. David Bowie isn’t the only one who has created his own personas though— In the world of photography, American artist Cindy Sherman has also become renowned for her chameleon-like qualities. Unlike Bowie, Sherman shed her skin hundreds of times in order to create her iconic self-portraits that depicted her visual shapeshifting into various different characters throughout her career spanning several decades.

In the more present sphere, the study of personas within art continues to be observed popularly with the likes of Nicki Minaj, The Neighbourhood, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga and countless others. One of the most interesting examples of this outside of the modern music realm is British visual artist Nadia Lee Cohen’s approach. In her remarkable new book, HELLO My Name Is, Cohen dreamed up an assortment of personas based on name tags she has collected over time and physically transformed herself using intense prosthetics, clothing, and accessories. Looks aside, Cohen paired these transformations with clips of dialogue for each persona, stating that they had helped her fully immerse herself in the several different roles. There is an enormous amount of effort that goes into carefully crafting an effective persona that can tell an audience a story unlike any other. Bowie, Sherman, Cohen, and the endless lists of persona-possessing artists alike, it is an opportunity to create an immersive and complex experience that adds layers to fully understanding and conceptualizing a piece of art. However, graces aside, this dedication and effort do not go without its struggles.

The art of persona runs far deeper than creating a character as a mode to showcase one’s art. At times, personas can prove to be detrimental to the mental health and well-being of an artist. Using David Bowie as an example again, his eponymous neo-Fascist persona, the Thin White Duke, became a parasite that slowly gnawed away at his psyche from late 1974 to early 1977. During this period, Bowie was self-described as, “A very Aryan, fascist type; a would-be romantic with absolutely no emotion at all but who spouted a lot of neo-romance”. Later in his career, he expressed deep regret for his actions and attributed the persona taking over due to his intense addiction to cocaine at the time. Persona and identity go hand in hand, and with certain factors (like an addiction) one can begin to champion another. While persona is an important facet to life, one must not lose themself in the process of showcasing themself as someone else. It’s crucial to find a balance in order to not succumb to a level of all-encompassing darkness that comes forth once you’ve lost your true identity. As for anything in the world, too much of anything can have its negative impacts.

Benefits and drawbacks aside, there is a power to persona unlike anything else. A persona is a mask we all show to the world, sensationalized or not, that helps us navigate through becoming more self-confident and assured during day-to-day life. Clown, performer, business, or an average person maneuvering through the trials and tribulations of life, personas have proved to be instrumental in curating an identity outside of who one is at the core. Although its easy to get lost in keeping up a front for others or maintaining a character for a narrative, it’s critical to remain true to your values, interests, and life’s philosophy when crafting the persona that you showcase to the world.

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tojisun · 8 months

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our shallow graves — 02

recom miles quaritch x recom fem reader

!! smut (between fwb outside of main pair) - minors dni; heat (as theme); mean quaritch; power imbalance; reference to (made up) past; worldbuilding; fast slow-burn; switching povs; weapons; reader adopts a nickname (callsign) which gets used // 5.1k words

: luvv writing from a chara’s pov n not just the reader’s <33; my bff wanted a love triangle but noo there would never be, i swear; replaying lady gaga and thenbhd as i write this; i hope u guys would luv this!!

↦ hydra - recom machine gun (not the door gun in the samsons); y70 - bullpup rifle/skel bullpup

prev // m.list // next - tbp

camaraderie with the colonel seemed to deteriorate overnight. your only saving grace is that it seemed like no one understands why his slight recognition for your talents evaporated quickly, the team having been reduced to shooting you with concerned glances whenever quaritch continues to ice you out.

you wanted to believe that it didn’t bother you much, but the taste of failure sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. quaritch is your superior, someone you were willing to interact with at an arm’s length, but now, even that seems impossible.

��give him time,” walker says as you two enter the gun range, modified with an open ceiling to allow your na’vi bodies to breathe without the need for the respirator. “he’s probably still pissed because recon was delayed but c’mon now, we need extra time to take on the hellhole pandora’s about to be.”

you hum, your mind far away, as you begin to line up in one of the shooting stalls. you feel bare without your hydra but walker insisted on practicing with the Y70.

“for good time’s sake!” she said, laughing when you rolled your eyes at her, calling her out on the fact that she only preferred the rifle because it was what she was exceptional at.

your tail swishes behind you slowly before stilling, suspended in the air – a perfect imitation of your focus. you purge your mind of all thoughts, steadying your breath as you gaze at the moving targets. thrill runs down your spine at the first fire, the bullet going through the head of the target in a clean, single shot right at its temple. it is almost too natural how you were able to fire off the other bullets, muscle memory kicking in as your years of experience rush back to you, engulfing you with a single focus.

clean shot upon clean shot; head, heart, lungs – every vital organ and artery that you were aiming at were hit. it is like nothing existed in that moment, not your new life or your repeating nightmares of your death or even quaritch. it is just you and that rifle, against the world.

it was the first real taste of freedom you ever had from the moment you woke up in pandora, fifteen years after the war.

walker stalks towards you with a grin, her rifle slung on her shoulder, looking smug as she shows you her perfect tally. you grin at her, feeling your tail finally untense, swishing around in languid satisfaction.

“look at you with the perfect shots,” she says, dramatically whistling as though she wasn’t a better marksman than you are.

“i have a good teacher,” you reply, winking at her. she chuckles, shaking her head, and you wish she had her braids down just so you can see them bump against each other.

“and you are welcome.” walker places a hand on her chest before bowing theatrically, making you erupt in hearty giggles.

comfortable silence settles as you two walk back to your quarters, ears flicking at each sound that rumbles from the belly of the compound.

the sensitivity of your heightened senses brings you back to the night the colonel caught you sneaking out of mansk’s room, pure anger shimmering within his beautiful golden eyes and poison coating his hissed-out words. you do not know what set him off – you do not want to believe that it simply had been because you and mansk fooled around, not when quaritch has done worse.

(in your brief encounter with the human colonel quaritch, you have seen them together only once. the babe was swaddled in thick blankets, leaving only tufts of sandy hair visible to curious eyes.

you tried not to linger when you saw how the colonel walked around with the child in his arms, cradled gently, carefully, his usually-stern face melting into something kind. into something human.

the harbinger of destruction. a father.

you couldn’t wrap your head around the man. not even as you watched in silence, obscured from his line of sight, as he nuzzled his nose on the boy’s forehead, breathing him in.

pandora’s real first human, a boy blessed by eywa, and there he was, held in the hands of the man who would threaten her balance.)

“maria,” you call, slowing down your steps and turning to look at your friend.

walker hums, tilting her head to meet your gaze. “what’s up?”

“do you, uh, know what happened to the kid?” you didn’t need to specify who it is that you meant.

she stops walking, her brows furrowing in hesitant confusion. you lick your lips, wondering if you might’ve overstepped, after all, walker may be your friend, but her loyalties will always be with the colonel. even back in hell’s gate, she always separated her friendship with you from her duty – it felt like she constantly lived two different lives.

“it’s just that i can unwind with you,” she used to say, huffing when the clips she used to pin her bun got lost within the gelled strands of her hair. you would pull her to your bed, chuckling quietly, before taking over, gentle hands familiar with her hair like it was yours that you were grooming.

“why do you ask?” walker responds, twisting so she can fully face you.

you shrug. “i don’t know,” you say, a half-truth. “the memories are coming back to me slowly and one of them is him.”

walker remains quiet, studying you with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, before a sigh creeps out of her lips. you feel your heart lighten up, your body uncoiling from the tension, and you shoot her a small smile, grateful for her trust.

“i dunno, to be honest,” she says as you two begin walking again, your steps this time are more languid. you two don’t entertain the gawking humans who scurry out of the way as you and walker make your way back to your rooms, busy murmuring to each other.

“they probably sent him back to somewhere in terra where relatives could take care o’him.”

you grunt, nodding, choosing not to prod any more.

just before the two of you can part ways to enter your respective rooms, lopez comes running down the hallway, hollering your names.

“les’ go! colonel’s back from the meeting, and word is that we get our mission today!”

“thank fuck for that!” walker whoops. she meets your eyes. “rico, come on!”

you try to ignore the sudden swoop of paranoia that settles in your stomach, choosing instead to follow as walker and lopez run to meet with the others. you had hoped that you would’ve been able to fix whatever it was that happened between you and the colonel before the mission, but it seems like you don’t have that privilege anymore.

it seems like with quaritch, you don’t get mercy.

-------

just like what lopez said, the colonel returned with orders from the brass that you all would be sent out soon – the omatikaya stronghold changed upon the return of the humans, and now you are all tasked to draw jake sully out. you are all given a week to prepare for pandora’s beasts – you are aware that they meant the na’vi more than the actual animals roaming the lush jungle.

recon was cancelled, the new schedule no longer permitted such opportunity; the general had, instead, ordered your squad to move in and navigate the hard way. you tried not to shrink at the withering look that quaritch shot you as he mentioned that. mansk shifted close, as though to show that he stood with you even against the colonel’s seething glare, but it seemed like it was the wrong thing to do as quaritch only seemed to grow angrier.

you tried your best not to react, but your tail dropped, coiling around your thigh in the face of the colonel’s disapproval. you are too ashamed to look at the others, not wanting to see their own disappointment or even their pity so you kept your eyes on quaritch, using his authority to hide from the attention that your squad was giving you.

the meeting reaches its end, the colonel ordering wainfleet and zdinarsik to take over. mansk hovers, falling into step with you as you both move to leave the room together when the colonel’s voice stops you.

“rico, you stay. mansk, y’r dismissed.”

mansk shoots you a quick glance before nodding at the colonel and leaving with the rest. wainfleet had taken the lead as they all marched out with zdinarsik covering their back, the taller recom nodding at you upon meeting your gaze before closing the door behind her.

there is silence in the war room as you stand still, waiting for quaritch to make the first move. you rack your mind for another fuck up that he can berate you with, but nothing comes up, leaving you grasping at nothing but the bubbling anxiousness gnawing at you.

“i suggested to general ardmore that we bench you, rico.” he raises his hand at your visceral reaction – your jaw falling open as you flinch, protests about to slip from your lips, as a now-aborted step almost draws you close to him. “listen to me first, corporal.”

you blink at the realization that his voice doesn’t denote any malice, the rich baritone is painfully neutral, and you think, then, how hearing his indifference just stings a whole lot more.

you remain silent, watching with bated breath as quaritch pulls a chair out and motions for you to sit down. your legs feel like lead as you fall into it with no grace, your body going taut with tension when the colonel takes the one just in front of you.

the space between the two of you is decent – it is the normal distance – but you can’t help but feel the warmth emitting from his bigger figure, almost like your body is singing for him. you try to breathe through your mouth, afraid that you will get a whiff of his scent, reducing you into a puddle of uncertainty and need.

you blink your glassy eyes up at him, trying to focus, to listen, but it is like all those times that quaritch pushed you away had made you hypersensitive about him. he is all you can focus on; past the need to prove to him of your worth, he is all that fills you up. the way he smells, the way his eyes study you, the way his voice rips through the static – you want all of it.

heat builds up in the pit of your stomach.

fuck.

“you doin’ ok there?” the colonel asks, his indifference melting as worry bleeds into his tone.

“i, uhm,” you begin, your voice faltering. you try to reel in your mind, grinding your teeth to snap you from your trance.

“yeah.” you clear your throat, breathing in shakily. “i mean, yes sir.”

quaritch grunts, his eyes still pinned on you. “this is exactly why i wanted to leave you behind.”

that brings you out of the haze, your attention snapping back into a singularity. “permission to ask why, sir?”

quaritch sighs. “the science pukes mentioned how y’r still lagging behind. kid, i’m gonna be honest with you – i can’t afford a weak link.”

his words feel like knives carving into you. you’ve always thrived in your capabilities – you wouldn’t have gone far if you weren’t good, if not one of the best, and yet, in his eyes, your single fumble has cost so much.

“pandora is gonna eat you up and spit you out – well, it already did, otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. and yet, general ardmore still insisted that we take you.”

you watch as the colonel leans over, eating up the miniscule distance between yourselves to peer at you. “tell me, rico. just why are you so important to her?”

you wish you have the answer; you wish you have anything to give to him, to make sense of your own purpose, but nothing comes up. it is like you’re constantly floating around, untethered, and yet severely burdened at the same time. they tell you how the general favours you, and yet she has yet to tell you that herself, leaving you alone in navigating your position amongst the other recoms.

the loneliness doesn’t stop eating at you.

“colonel, i really don’t know,” you finally utter, breaking eye contact to stare at the ground.

quaritch clicks his tongue. “no, there’s gotta be somethin’ i’m missin’. i read your files, you know that?” he grins meanly when your eyes snapped back to him. “oh yeah, i did. and imagine my goddamn disappointment when it showed me nothin’ noteworthy.”

he stands up, his voice gaining strength, and you realize that you can now see his fury in its entirety.

“yeah, you’ve got a way with flying, but that skill’s practically useless unless we can get our own banshees. and even then, they ain’t machines – your skill’s obsolete. y’ve got a way with guns, sure, but so do the rest of my squad; it ain’t just lyle who’s got a great shot, after all. and yeah y’r hand-to-hand combat is good, but it ain’t the best.”

you feel tears pooling in the corner of your eyes as quaritch continues his admonishment. you feel like everything that you are is suspended in the air, carelessly peeled off and overturned until you are nothing but your skin and bones.

“y’know what i saw?” the colonel asks in a barely-contained snarl.

you do not reply, but it doesn’t matter to him anyway.

“i saw how y’r just a goddamn nobody because if you were any better, i would’ve taken you in before. so tell me rico, just what the hell are you doin’ here?”

you do not know what urged you to do it, but next thing you know you are standing mere inches before the colonel, breaching his personal space to poke at his chest. “i don’t need to prove myself to you,” you hiss.

(it was a lie. after all, it was all you wanted to do. for him to acknowledge you. for him to – what do the na’vis call it? – see you.)

quaritch scoffs, pausing, before he lunges forward to grip your jaw, forcing your head to tilt up and making you look at him. you feel your breath leave your lungs, the blood rushing to your ears and deafening you. anything else seemed to stop, leaving you alone with your petering rage as you gaze up at him.

his breath tickles your lips and you gasp, soundless, feeling the desire exploding in your chest. you do not know what it is that he originally wanted to do because in the next heartbeat, just a slight stutter, all you feel is his lips meeting yours.

quaritch devours your hiccuped squeak, his searing lips moving against your own, pulling out more of the little desperate sounds from your throat only for them to be swallowed hungrily by him. the kiss is hot, messy, but you can’t help but be obsessed with it.

his scent fills you up, settling deep in your chest and making you throb with want. you grip his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to touch more of him. but at the feeling of your hands, quaritch rips his lips from yours and scurries to back away from you.

you stand there, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, feeling your lips tingle from his kiss. you watch as his face crumples at the realization of what he’s done before it reverts back into faux stoicism, as though he isn’t affected by the kiss. as though he doesn’t feel the same burning desire that engulfed you whole.

“colonel-”

“no fraternizing with a squad member,” quaritch utters before he lifts his hand up to rub at his lips with the back of his palm.

“oh, so now we’re following the golden rule?” you mutter, the words bubbling out before you can stop them.

you know that you crossed a line at the mention of what he’s done with socorro but you are too filled with a blazing storm of conflicting feelings, rendering you uninhibited as they clash in your chest and drain you of all your energy. you feel yourself shake at the intensity of your emotions – of your yearning – but the colonel continues to stand far away. far from your grasp.

he’s made his decision.

“get going, corporal. y’r dismissed.”

you run out of the room, not caring of the way the tears slip from the corners of your eyes to drench your cheeks, and pretending that you cannot smell the faint scent of the colonel sticking to you.

pretending that you do not feel something in you break.

-------

looking for mansk was the easy part. not using him to drown out the weight of your conflicting feelings, that was the hard part.

mansk has taken you in his arms, cradling you close as you wept on the crook of his neck. he was silent, like he already knew what it is that aches you, and you wonder how could he. you barely knew why you feel betrayal sit in the pit of your stomach; why you feel so drawn to quaritch – attuned to the sound of his voice and the staccato of his footsteps.

why do you ache for his touch?

if it is heat, if it is all biology, mansk does a good enough job in extinguishing the flames of painful need curling within your blood. and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from seeking out bigger and rougher hands and a gruffer voice, the southern accent looping around the vowels, making your stomach clench with desire.

quaritch is all that you’ve ever wanted ever since he first called your name, unknown familiarity sinking in your chest like a rock chucked to the ocean – the paradox is a metaphor of your feelings. funny, isn’t it?

“i don’t understand,” you murmur, sniffling as you pull your head from mansk’s shoulder. you wipe at your eyes, groaning at the futility of it when fresh tears fall and drench your cheeks anyway.

mansk remains silent, his hands have fallen from your back to grasp at your wrists, the warmth from his palms not doing anything to soothe your nerves.

“it’s like he needed that little blip in my performance to finally rationalize the hate he feels for me, and then it just didn’t stop,” you continue, breathing in shakily. “and i wish i could just ignore him but, fuck, i can’t.”

you shake yourself from mansk’s touch, standing up from his bed to pace around his room. the pads of your feet are quiet on the metal floors and you ignore the shot of coolness that comes with every step. your braids, chopped just below your jaw, frame your face with stray strands sticking on your damp cheeks despite your frantic moving.

“he’s there and he’s nowhere at the same time, devin. like, i try my best to avoid him but he’s always a consistent presence in my life. it doesn’t fucking matter if he’s ignoring me, not when he’s always in the same room, within the same space.” your voice raises, scratching your throat as anger and hurt bubble up, ever-so expanding until you are grasping at the remnants of your rationality.

“and i want him. i feel like dying when i’m not with him and he-” you pause, a choked sob getting punched out from your lungs. mansk startles, clambering from his bed to hover by your side, not really closing in but standing just near enough that you can see the downturn of his ears, his worry etched on his face.

“he doesn’t feel the same way, dev.”

you crumble, feeling lightheaded from the explosion of anguish burning at your seams, and mansk finally embraces you.

the first kiss was hesitant, chapped lips meeting bruised ones, and he doesn’t move until you are pawing at his shirt and tugging him close. mansk falls into his role easily, nipping your bottom lip as a distraction which you take eagerly.

quaritch’s snarl from many nights ago creep into your mind, his southern accent tearing through the sudden buzz of mansk’s touch, taunting you – “you reek.”

you think just how upsetting it is to feel your desire expand into fanned flames at the memory of quaritch. at the memory of his anger – the only thing of him that he’s given to you freely.

mansk rips his lips from yours, panting, his eyes dilated with desire. “rico, y’smell so good.”

your shirt is torn from your body, your cargos thrown over broad shoulders – not broad enough, not tall enough, not angry enough.

you try to forget, to stop thinking, as mansk fucks you; thin fingers sliding along your slit and sinking into your heat, curling to prepare you for his length. not even the way three of his fingers overwhelm you with the feeling of being stuffed can silence the thoughts – ‘not thick enough, not long enough, not rough enough’ – and you bury your face on his pillow, trying to smother the tears.

the slide of his cock should’ve rendered your mind into white static, but it seems like your veins are thrumming with a visceral need, one that you know only quaritch can quell.

“choke me,” you mumble, blinking wetly up at mansk, your chest heaving at the muted desire filling you up.

“what?” mansk asks, breathless, his body shaking from the crashing heat.

“choke me,” you repeat, this time clearer.

mansk hesitates, his wide eyes growing bigger, his scent curling into something darker. the wrap of his hand around your throat is sure, gentle despite your plea, before he squeezes. the pressure grounds you, feeding into your desperation. into your delusions.

(you think of quaritch. it seems like you never stop thinking about him.

he will take you the same way lava takes everything – devouring beyond flesh, nipping right into the core until all it leaves is the flames of a thousand suns. his desires will crush you, filling up the spaces between your blood vessels and your synapses with nothing but him.

and you will love it. you will let yourself be scorched because ever since you have met him, all you knew was fire and how they lick up into your chest, swallowing your heart, almost like they are branding his name directly in you.

like you have belonged to him even before.)

mansk wipes you with a towel, murmuring soft apologies when your body jolts in oversensitivity at the rough drag of the cloth. he passes you his shirt and then pulls you underneath the sheets, tucking you in for the night.

“thank you,” you say, weakly smiling at him.

mansk returns the smile, brushing your braids away from your face. “just like old times.”

your eyebrows furrow, confusion triumphing over exhaustion. “old times?”

“yeah,” he grunts, falling beside you. “you’ve always liked the colonel and granted we didn’t fuck then, but you always vented to me so, y’know?”

mansk’s words wash over you like a crashing tide, pulling you from the shore and submerging you into the depths of the unknown. you grasp at your memories, flitting from one to the other, trying to find pieces of your affection for the colonel only to fall short. surely, you would’ve remembered. surely, the feelings, with how intense they are, did not just go away; that you did not just lose a piece of yourself.

you think of the haunting, how the colonel and socorro appear in your memories in fragments, and feel a twinge in your heart. was it not indifference? that all this time when you remembered her, when you used her to learn more about quaritch, it was because you liked him too?

were you always a fool like this? searching for bits of quaritch in the hands of another, trying to claim the stray parts like they could be yours to begin with.

“rico?” mansk’s voice breaks through your reverie.

“i… i don’t remember.”

he turns to you in surprise. “what do you mean you don’t remember?”

“just that,” you say, your voice faint. “i don’t- i can’t remember.”

-------

the moment miles saw his reflection – blue and distinctly not human – he knew there was little of himself left in the hellhole that pandora had become. autonomy and freedom no longer meant much, not when he’s become a weapon.

he’s died once, they said. had he still been the commanding officer in the compound, he’d have the shrink do drills at the stupidity of pointing out his untimely and obvious demise.

no fucking shit he died. miles would’ve remembered turning into a goddamn na’vi if he didn’t.

but, at the end of the day, his anger didn’t matter. like a freak show, he’s back – not really as the same man, but similar enough that the old colonel’s ghost thrums with hymns of vengeance, carrying over to miles’ own person. because miles may not remember his death, but he remembers jake sully’s betrayal.

the boy had chosen his people and miles had chosen his, it is that simple.

the mission was straight-forward, but miles isn’t deluded enough to assume that it would be just as easy. he’s failed once already, after all. perhaps being a na’vi could switch the tides; perhaps being one wouldn’t matter – whatever it may be, miles is ready to carry the burden of killing jake sully.

with a single focus, miles lets the unfamiliarity of his new body roll off his skin like dew before forcing himself to learn and to adapt. painstakingly, he even tried to salvage the pieces of augustine’s research, hoping to find any scraps of information regarding the na’vi in her ramblings, but the compound has scrubbed themselves off the traitor’s books. don’t mind the fact that augustine’s the best goddamn na’vi expert, apparently, they rather bitch around under the pretence of unnecessary patriotism, instead of taking advantage of her research.

when he asked who he should talk to regarding their physio, he was told that augustine was replaced by cooper. unsurprisingly, cooper was unable to fill in the shoes that augustine left, but miles preferred him anyway. the man has lesser empathy, lesser curiosity about the wonders of pandora.

‘that’s good,” miles thought upon meeting cooper. ‘checkups will be clinical. none of that bitchin’ about morals.’

which was why it should’ve been easy transitioning into his recombinant body. it should’ve been.

then, you came along.

sweet, little, pretty thing that you are. you don’t even know what you do to him, walking around looking like you’re pulled straight from miles’ spank bank material. you look darling with your short braids, pulled back with little clips like those that he remembers walker using, as your smooth voice ripples against the heavy tension building in miles’ chest.

there’s always this sweet scent that follows you, and it reminds miles of something that he couldn’t really pin down. it’s faint, teasing his senses with the little bursts until he began to be addicted to it. to be addicted to you.

he had been content with only getting a whiff from every time the two of you crossed paths, your chin ducking down in respect, saluting so beautifully that it had miles pretending that he didn’t have the itch to pat your head in approval.

(you looked like the type to adore praises; the type to want to hear how you’re being such a good girl. all for him.)

he didn’t want to pursue more, remembering what happened when he last made that mistake, but it just felt so impossible to dismiss his interest in you as something that is only fleeting; something that is only physical, bound by the biological nature of his new body.

maybe if he just pushed back harder against the general, then maybe he could be rid of you. maybe there would be nothing thrumming underneath his skin – he refuses to call it desire, afraid that by doing so, he would chain himself to the ache that he feels – and maybe you would no longer be his growing problem.

then: a spike in the air churned the insides of miles’ head, bolting his legs onto the floor. there was a sort of static, a rumbling charge that pierced past metal walls and choked miles into madness.

he didn’t even realize what it was until he picked up the sound of your voice, pleasure curling against your words as you cried out a name. miles felt lightheaded, warmth crept up from his fingertips to the base of his neck.

(a shackle, one that spelt out your name.

again, do you know what you do to him? what you reduce him to?)

the scent of your euphoria sent him into a feverish state, molten lava replacing blood as he burned. his breaths came out in ragged rasps, and miles gulped down the air as though he could taste you from it. as though that would’ve been enough.

miles knew what danger looked like, he knew what it smelt like, but he never expected that it would take your shape, testing him past his capabilities. so he lied, spitting in anger and lashing out as he held your hand, ignoring the way his skin tingled when it met yours, and he watched as your eyes glimmered with hurt.

fine. that’s fine. miles repeated this mantra until he clambered into his room, almost tripping over his boots, and made his way to his bed.

there was a heavy pressure in miles’ ears as he tore off his belt, his teeth snapped together as he pulled his length out and fucked into his fist, breathing into the other one to chase the fading scent that you left.

he lost himself in his thoughts, imagining that it had been him who reduced you into a moaning mess. that it had been him who you came to for your heat; that it had been him who made you cry, your whimpers slipping past shut doors until everyone could hear your sweet cries.

miles has always been possessive, he doesn’t need the soul drive to know that.

his orgasm ripped through him in muted pleasure, not enough to stoke the heat rumbling deep in his belly.

“fuck!” he growled, frustration bubbling up into his mouth as he screwed his eyes shut, trying to forget the way you look; the way you walk, the way you shoot your hydra or the way you maneuver a bird as though you and the machine are one.

but it was futile. he’s ruined.

you’ve ruined him.

tagging (pls lmk if you wanna be added or removed!) - @hinataashoyos @babyduk213 @ilovebluedilfss

#suns.f #miles quaritch x reader #quaritch x reader #recom quaritch x reader #recom miles quaritch #miles quaritch #atwow quaritch #quaritch avatar #avatar the way of water #suns

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