#colt is too good-natured

[mochimooon]

DTF Only - aot x reader 18+ masterpost and prologue - complete!

Summary: Barely twenty-four hours after getting dumped by your now ex-boyfriend, Colt, your best friends are quick to conspire your next course of action: slutting yourself out on Tinder.  Prologue word count: 1k+ Notes: Welcome to the world of online dating, featuring the men of AoT !! This was a project I started back in September, loosely based on my own (and my best friend's) weird encounters with online dating. Lighthearted, smutty, not to be taken seriously, this fic is pure crack. Although it does have a plot, it's not necessary to read every chapter if you just want to skip to your favorite AoT guy (each chapter is linked). Also, all characters (except two) are written to be in their early 30s. Lastly, the headers used don't directly depict what actually happens in the fics. Afab! reader using she/her pronouns Warnings: smut in every chapter (except prologue), explicit content, explicit language, lots of casual sex (more warnings included per chapter), mild Colt-bashing available to read on ao3

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+ !!

Happy Hour — Porco Galliard Out of Towner — Reiner Braun Let's Experiment — Connie Springer Girl Dinner — Jean Kirstein DTF — Zeke Jaeger Tinder Whore — Eren Jaeger Super Like — Levi Ackerman taglist: @moonmalice @daisynik7 @theragethatisdesire @squidalapobre @arlerts-angel @shepnicolo @porples-blog @jeanboyjean @fictional-d-supremacy

“Time to enter the hoe phase.”

Pieck’s eyes light up in Ymir’s direction, and together they turn to you with mischievous grins. 

Barely twenty-four hours after getting dumped by your now ex-boyfriend, Colt, your best friends are quick to conspire your next course of action: slutting yourself out on Tinder. 

It feels like a movie. Meeting up with your girlfriends on a Saturday night for overpriced margaritas (on them thankfully) to catch up and console you as you process the breakup. 

The only difference between you and those heartbroken women on screen is that you don’t know how to feel. You’re not sad, you’re not happy, you’re indifferent. 

Three years together you and Colt had settled into a routine. He lived an hour away, but you both put in the effort to see each other. You don’t know when things turned stagnant, only that the spark had fizzled a long time ago. The phone calls and visits became forced, and the sex…

“You’re single now,” Ymir explains, crunching on a tortilla chip. “Got to make up for lost time. Didn’t you say Colt was too stiff in bed?”

Heat blazes beneath your skin. “I never said that.” 

Colt was not stiff in bed. He was selfless, ready to please, prioritizing your needs first before he got in his kicks. You liked having sex with him, didn’t need the grandeur to enjoy it—

Ymir and Pieck deadpan in your direction. Without further rebuttal, you fall speechless, and to your friends that’s as good as a confession.

You hate them (you don’t). You hate that they’re right.

Although the sex did the job, it lacked the passion that was once there when you two first started dating a lifetime ago. Eventually you grew a little bored. It became repetitive, lackluster even, that you were only half-satisfied by the end of each session. To feed your sexual appetite, you resorted to your vibrator more and more, a toy that you had initially purchased for you and Colt to use together.

“Anyways…” Ymir drawls. “He’s history and so is the vanilla sex. Now, you can let your inner sex fiend out.”

You roll your eyes “You mistake me for someone else.”

Ymir snorts, leveling you with a knowing look. “Yeah right. You weren’t a Puritan before you met Colt. If online dating was more of a thing back in our twenties, you would have been kicking and slipping every night of the week, more than you already were.”

Your skin heats up again, burning the tips of your ears. Sure, in your twenties, you were what some would call ‘floozy’ in nature back then. In your defense, you were a university student, out on your own, and you were definitely not the only person partaking in hookup culture. Now, at thirty, with how normalized it is, you know you’re not the last one either.  If anything, being in a relationship these days is more of an anomaly. 

“Not judging you for your relationship by the way,” Pieck says as a buffer. “Colt’s a nice guy, but he did water you down, you stopped coming out—”

You turn to her. “It’s because—”

“He’s a lightweight, yeah, yeah,” Ymir supplies, bored. “You were too much for him. You’re fun, and Colt?” Ymir’s dark eyes go into orbit. “—snooze.”

As much as you’d like to defend your ex-boyfriend’s honor, your mind draws a blank.

“His loss.” Pieck licks the rim of her margarita glass.

Ymir crunches on another chip, smiling wryly. “Back to my genius idea: Tinder. You’ll have so many options now. You don’t need to find your next boyfriend on it, just meet new people and be down to fuck only."

She says it so simply, but you can’t help feeling like there’s a catch. 

“There’s no better place to explore sexual freedom than on Tinder,” Pieck says. “Scope out the market, see what you’ve been missing out on.” 

You take a hearty sip of the margarita, lip curling. “I don’t even know how to date anymore.”

Pieck tuts. “No one does. There’s no formula either. Tinder requires an open mind, if you overthink it, then you’re not doing it right.”

“It’s about getting to know yourself better while also getting laid. It’s a win-win,” Ymir says. “There’s nothing for you to lose, only gain.”

You raise a brow. “Doesn’t that seem…wrong? We just broke up.”

Pieck blinks, lowering her margarita. “Do you think Colt’s just sulking around?” 

You shake your head. “No, that’s not what I mean. He can go on dates, I guess. It’s just that it feels so new and so soon.” 

As you hear yourself, you realize how unsure you sound. Since Colt dumped you, it’s pointless to expect that he’d waste any time before diving back into the dating pool. If that’s what he’s doing, you’re not bothered by it. And the guilt you expect to feel for considering an idea like online dating is nowhere to be seen either. 

Perhaps it’s your way of making sense of why you feel so…nonchalant about the whole thing. Is there a politically or morally correct way to behave after a break-up?

“Of course not!” Ymir says with a lighthearted scoff. “The second you become a free agent, you can do whatever and whoever you want. Emphasis on the ‘free’ part.”

She’s right, you suppose. 

Ymir takes your brief silence to further argue her idea. “The whole point is to have fun, no strings. If you’re not going to wallow, then get out there and be a hoodrat."

Pieck laughs, and you feel the mood lighten. 

It’s not a bad idea. You’re still not sure how to process the break-up. You’re not hurt, but you are in this limbo of where to go from here. Carry on like normal? Cry? Neither align with your state of mind. 

You’re not hard to convince, reaching for your phone and downloading the app. “Let’s see what’s up.”

A look passes between your friends that could only be described as impish. You bite back the urge to roll your eyes and set up your profile. 

After Pieck and Ymir guide you on what to add to your bio, what you’re looking for, help you pick out the best selfies etc., the true fun begins. 

In the beginning it’s awkward, reading and checking a person’s pictures and deem whether he you want to talk to them. But it doesn’t take long for you to ease into it.  

The coaxing and the margarita might have played roles, but after a few profiles, it becomes an addiction. 

Swiping one after another, skimming through varying profiles (a lot of them have their height included), questionable choices of selfies (many shirtless at the gym), it’s all a rush that the three of you had far too much fun crowding over your phone that night. 

“Why does he have a screenshot of his credit score?” Pieck balks. 

“No fucking way, that guy’s in a diaper?” Ymir’s eyes go wide.  “This one says he and his wife want to be a throuple.” You swipe left.   

At some point, you do swipe right on a couple of profiles, purely based on their looks, hardly giving their bios a proper onceover.

At the end of the night, you’re past the point of tipsy, tired, but pleased to have had a fun night with your best friends. As you doze off in bed that night, your phone lights up with several new notifications on your nightstand. 

#aot x reader #aot fanfiction #levi ackerman x reader #attack on titan #porco galliard x reader #zeke jaeger x reader #reiner braun x reader #connie springer x reader #jean kirstein x reader #eren jaeger x reader #jean kirschtein x reader #eren yeager x reader #zeke yeager x reader #aot smut #mochi-writings #dtf only series

[blackopals-world]

Vil: ...

Epel: Good morning, doctor.

Vet!Yuu: Well isn't it my regulars. You seem to be the only ones that comes willingly.

Vil: ...

Vet!Yuu: Lost for words? A few weeks of waiting for a proper appointment really calmed you down.

Vil: Can you help us now?

Vet!Yuu: Well taking a look at the paperwork you put down "growing a tail" as your concern.

Epel: Yep, it's getting longer everyday. I can even move it around.

Vet!Yuu: I see. That's perfectly in line with equine physicality. I'll examine closer to see if it's the extension of the human tailbone being re-purposed for his equine beastmen development.

Vil: Is he going to be okay?

Vet!Yuu: (listing the back of Epel's shirt) Well if it grows wrong and he gets an infection from jutting bone and skin then we will have to have his tail docked. Like some dog breeds are due to brittle tails. but I see no such problem. I think thanks to Epel's amazing health he appears to have no such problem. His mane quality is quite nice. Adding tail care to your daily grooming routine will make you as pretty as a show pony.

Epel:Ah man...

Vil: We will do that.

Vet!Yuu: there is also the matter of his official paperwork. With Epel's development, he will have to officially change his identity from human to beastmen.

Vil: He's only half though.

Vet!Yuu: The growth of a tail changes things. His senses are already enhanced and accommodations will need to be made in the future. Latent natural instincts are always a concern. It's what is best for him.

Epel: What does all that mean?

Vil: Well you'll have to change rooms for a start. Somewhere more soundproof. Your furniture will also be swapped to be more sturdy. You'll also have to register with the beastmen rights organization on campus and they will handle everything else you'll need. They might try to move you to Savanaclaw as well.

Epel: (excited)Really?

Vet!Yuu: Don't look too happy. You'll be placed in a herd. You likely won't be able to spend much time with your friends. I also don't think they will be thrilled looking after a colt like you. We'll have to see after I'm done talking to them. As your doctor, I do get a say in the matter.

#vet!yuu #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland incorrect quotes #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu #vil schoenheit #twst vil #twisted wonderland vil #vil shoenheit x reader #epel felmier x reader #twst epel #epel felmier #twisted wonderland epel #epel x reader

[mrwavellswaps]

Swappers

Jordan was a twink. Plain and simple. He was skinny, hairless, could hardly grow any facial hair and was somewhat short. Now of course there was nothing wrong with this. He was still seen as very attractive and didn’t have much trouble getting attention from other gay men. The big issue for him however was that, because he was a twink, almost everyone assumed he was a bottom and most guys that were into him just wanted to fuck him. They would then be surprised and a little put off when Jordan reveals that he’s a strict top and doesn't want to bottom. At all.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried it before. He’d used a couple toys on himself and even let a guy stick it in him before in an attempt to fit this mould people would push on him. But it just wasn’t who Jordan was and therefore he didn’t really enjoy it at all much. He was the one that wanted to be sticking his dick inside a hot dude's ass, not the other way around. He just wished that more of the guys that were into him saw him as he saw himself. A dom top!

Of course the natural solution to this would be to bulk up. Get bigger, look manlier. But for some reason he struggled massively to put on any kind of size. Even after working out religiously for a year, he hardly passed for a twunk and still hadn’t been able to grow any body or facial hair. Not any that looked good anyway. Whenever he asked for advice he was told to just give it time and eventually he’d put on more muscle and maturity… but he was already 25 and some other dudes his age had full, thick beards and were built like tanks. It was infuriating and Jordan was growing more impatient with his own body by the day.

For a short while he believed he was doomed to look like a twink for the rest of his 20’s at least. That is until he met Colt. He was a man Jordan had met through a hookup site recently and as it turned out he had the opposite problem. He was only ever interested in bottoming but because of his massive muscular physique, well kept beard, deep voice and giant 8.5 inch cock, most assumed that he was the one that did the fucking. Colt had the exact body Jordan needed and Colt probably wouldn’t be too bad off with Jordan’s twink body either. It almost felt like the universe was teasing Jordan by allowing them to meet like this.

Naturally one thing lead to another and the two ended up meeting a fucking a multitude of times. Sometimes it would be at Colts place, other times it would be at Jordan’s. But one thing was for sure that was that by the end of the night Colt would have either his mouth or muscular ass full of twink cum. Sure Jordan’s dick might be a tad below the average in size but he certainly knew how to use it well and the moan’s he got out of Colt definitely reflected that.

Every time they had sex however, Jordan couldn’t help but feel this growing envy in his heart. Sure it was hot dominating a man so much bigger than himself and watching all that muscle ripple with every thrust but… he couldn’t stop wishing all that size and manliness was his. Of course that wish seemed all but impossible… right?

One day Jordan was just browsing through some gay porn sites to jack off too when he got a strange pop up. His natural instinct was to close it but something about the ad caught his eye. The headline was “Swappers!” And from what he could tell it seemed to be an advert for some type of poppers brand. He’d been with a guy once before that’d used them so he knew enough to know they were muscle relaxing inhalants. Only that wasn’t the only thing this particular brand of poppers seemed to be advertising…

A few days later a package arrived for Jordan and inside was a single “Swapper”. He inspected it a little and the tiny bottle looked exactly as it did online. He was sorta surprised that it wasn’t a scam. Truth be told he’d been starting to regret spending so much money on this thing but he felt a tad better now it was here. But he told himself not to get his hopes up yet. Not until he’s put it to the test.

Later that night Jordan messaged Colt, getting immediately to the point and asking if he wanted to hook up. As always Colt soon replied in confirmation and with that everything was set in motion. Now all Jordan had to do was pray this thing was legit and he didn’t spend his money for nothing.

As they’d agreed to meet at Colt’s place, Jordan soon showed up outside the hunky man’s apartment to which he was swiftly let inside. The pair chatted for a little while, catching up as they usually would, but Jordan was eager to get down to business. He cut Colt off mid-sentence with a swift kiss, leaning in close and running his hands over the larger man’s body. Colt didn’t seem to mind as he quickly returned the same energy and before they knew it they were pulling off their clothes and stumbling towards Colt’s bedroom.

Both men soon found themselves buck naked as Colt hopped onto the bed, causing it to creak under his weight, before beckoning Jordan to join him. The two engaged in plenty of foreplay beforehand. A little bit of dick sucking. A tad bit of ass eating. But Jordan just couldn’t bear to wait any longer as he reached over towards the bedside table and grabbed the little bottle before instructing Colt to lay on his back and throw his legs over Jordan’s shoulders. The bigger man did just that but couldn’t help question what Jordan had in his hands.

“It’s just a popper. It’s meant to make sex feel even more mind blowing!” Jordan reassured, withholding the whole truth from his lover. “Just try it. I promise you’ll love it!” He added before cracking it open, placing the bottle under his nose and taking a deep sniff. It hit him almost immediately. A surging pleasure vibrating through his body. Buzzing almost! And with it he had this strange compulsion to try to make another man smell it.

“Ehhhh I dunno. I’ve never done poppers bef—” Colt was quickly cut off once again but this time by Jordan practically shoving the swapper under his nose and forcing him to inhale it. He was taken off guard for a second but moments after his body was filled with the same euphoric sensation as Jordan’s. And now that both men had it in their systems, all they wanted to do was fuck!

Jordan wasted no time slamming his dick into Colt’s hole which had already started to loosen up a little. Immediately plunging it as deep as it could go. The feeling was beyond anything either of them had ever experienced before. Waves of pleasure washed over them which only seemed to intensify as Jordan started pumping. Every little motion sending spikes of euphoric across their bodies in a fashion they could never have imagined. Both men felt as though they could bust a load mere moments into fucking and yet somehow they didn’t. Not yet anyway. It was as if despite the incredible feeling of it all, something needed them to keep going. And of course Jordan was more than willing to oblige.

Minutes felt like hours as the couple submerged themselves in the experience. Jordan alternated between pumping slowly with care and fast with aggression. All while the huge man beneath him practically screamed his name with nothing but pure lust in his eyes. A lust that the man fucking him reflected right back. The more they stared at each other, the more fixated they became. Almost like they were hypnotising one another to the point where they refused to break eye contact. Simply staring at each other while they continued to fuck and moan when suddenly their eyes began to glow a deep purple. At last it began. As neither Colt nor Jordan could look away, they were unable to see the changes beginning to occur but of course that wouldn’t stop them.

Despite never having been able to grow much body hair, Jordan’s chest and stomach suddenly began to receive a light dusting of hair. A dusting of which would continue to spread across his body giving him some hairy legs, decent arm hair and even a furry ass. Colt on the other hand found all of his body hair suddenly retracting, vanishing in an instant and leaving him with nothing but smooth muscle all over. However it wouldn’t cease there as even Colt’s short beard vanished along with the rest of his body hair. It wasn’t lost for long however as moments later there was an itching on Jordan’s face before an identical beard sprouted on his face instead! The last of these hairy changes only completed when even their hair styles and colours switched with Jordan’s hair retracting slighting into a much shorter crop while Colt’s grew out slightly. Having somehow switched hair in all places of their bodies, they looked pretty strange for sure. But it was about to get a whole lot stranger!

As Jordan continued to thrust mindlessly, both men started to grunt but not just because of the fucking. It was their hands and feet! Had Jordan been able to tear his eyes away from Colt’s to look over his shoulder, he’d have been able to catch a glimpse of the other man’s feet shrinking multiple sizes. The same then happened to Colt’s hands as they shrunk smaller and skinnier. But of course Colt wasn’t the only one affected here. Jordan also found himself curling his toes a little while his own feet grew many sizes larger until it would’ve been impossible to put on any of his shoes now. And naturally his hands followed the same example, growing meatier with thick clumsy digits that would no doubt take some getting used to.

Despite being in some kind of trance, both men knew something weird was happening to them. Colt was of course worried underneath all the pleasure he was feeling but Jordan on the other hand was ecstatic! He knew exactly what was happening and he almost couldn’t believe it! In such he completely gave in to the experience with zero resistance while his cock pounding in and out of Colt’s hole encouraged the bigger, yet now hairless, man to do the same.

Speaking of cock, Jordan began to feel a strange pumping sensation in his. It felt as though someone plugged an air pump into his cock and balls and with every thrust he made, they pumped more air into them. Only it wasn’t air at all! His dick was actually growing bigger by the second! He could feel it! Becoming longer and fatter, forcing Colt’s hole to stretch even wider. Each thrust feeling deeper than the last while the smacking sound his balls made grew even louder as they too grew fatter and fuller. Meanwhile Colt’s moan’s grew even needier, not just due to the cock filling him up growing significantly but, because his own dick and balls were shrinking. Yet for some reason it felt incredible to him! It wasn’t long before Jordan found himself fucking with an 8.5 inch monster while Colt moaned with his new slightly under average cock bouncing with every slam into his ass.

So far the only changes they’d actually been able to see were the ones to their hair and facial hair but that was about to change as a distinct tingling sensation spread its way across the two men’s faces. It soon became obvious what was happening as they both began to scrunch their faces up in discomfort. This was due to their features rearranging. Jaw’s reshaping, noses remoulding, eyes shifting slightly. Jordan’s face grew sharper and more defined with a mature and masculine look while Colt’s began to look younger and softer and an opposing delicate look. The changes refused to stop until Jordan’s face looked identical to what Colt’s had once looked like before all this and vice versa. At this point Jordan looked like a small and skinny version of Colt while Colt himself looked like a huge muscle bound version of Jordan. But that wouldn’t be the case for long…

There was a growing heat spreading itself across both of their forms. Engulfing both men in what felt like a warm embrace as this heat began to massage their bodies. It took a moment or two to kick in but suddenly Colt’s body began to shrink. All of his huge, hard earned muscles starting to fade away. Pecs, biceps, shoulders, thighs. Everything was slowly diminishing in size. Even his height seemed to be reducing as his once 6’4 statue had decreased down to just 6 foot and was still going lower.

Jordan on the other hand was having the time of his life! Still being forced to stare into Colt’s eyes but pounding away like his life depended on it now. Getting so damn excited as he could feel his body starting to blow up with new muscle. His once skinny and toned arms pumping up with newfound strength and size while his chest began forming two thick slabs of muscle that only continued to grow. His legs growing thicker and stronger to match his new feet. Even his shoulders slowly formed into giant boulders while his torso grew wider. His supple twink butt growing into a large jock ass. And of course as Colt’s height decreased, his own could only increase!

At one point the two men were the same size but it wouldn’t take long for Jordan to surpass Colt. His muscles exploding bigger and bigger by the second. “Holyyyy fuuuuckkk!” Jordan is able to moan out as he feels his pecs growing as massive as watermelons before bouncing them involuntarily, unable to stop hulking out. Only coming to a halt at last when the man beneath him had been turn into a skinny little twink with only the tiniest bit of lean muscle. Leaving Colt looking like a tiny 5’6 twink while Jordan had become a 6’4 hairy muscle tank of a man

At last the purple glow faded from their eyes, releasing them from the forced gaze and allowing them to look down at their new bodies. A massive grin formed on Jordan’s face as he glanced down to see the massive physique he now possessed while Colt looked more confused than anything. He probably would’ve freaked out more if the feeling of getting filled by Jordan’s giant cock didn’t feel so amazing.

“J-Jordan… oohhh-what… happened to oouhhh-us!?” Colt asked frantically between groans. “Why do… Oouuuughhhhhh… you look exactly… like me!?” He continued, noticing his higher pitched voice. Confused but also strangely turned on by the fact that he was now being fucked by his identical twin. Or at least would’ve been his twin if he wasn’t so small and skinny now.

Jordan gave a cocky smirk with his new face. “Because this is how it was always meant to be! Me, a huge powerful muscle daddy with a hot hairy body and a monster dick made for destroying ass.” He brought both arms up into a flex and delighted in the sight of his biceps bulging before groping one of his giant hairy pecs a little. All while continuing to slam in Colt’s ass with enthusiasm. “And you, a cute little twink boy who struggles to put on any size and loves getting dominated by men like me…” Jordan sneered confidently, loving how deep and authoritative his own voice sounded now while stroking his new beard a little with satisfaction before leaning down and giving his former face a kiss.

After that the new hunk got down to business. Pulling his dick out for a moment so he could grab Colt like a rag doll and toss him onto his stomach. He’d never been able to man handle a guy like that before but by god did it feel amazing! Colt hardly had a chance to say anything before the body snatcher pressed his face down into the pillow and shoved his dick back inside the hole. Colt let out a long moan. Part of his brain was telling him this wasn’t right but the feeling of getting filled with the very same dick he used to own was too good! He knew he should be begging for his body back right now but all he wanted was to be dominated by all that muscle he built and have his former balls unload inside him.

“Oh fuck yesssss Jordan! Fuck meeeee!” Colt begged and moaned. After the whole transformation ordeal that’d gone, both men were already on the brink of orgasm. And yet for some reason Jordan stopped.

“No, no, no. I’m not Jordan anymore. You are. If you want my load you better start calling me by my real name. Colt.” Jordan demanded, shifting his cock around inside the other man’s ass a little but refusing to pump again until his demand was met.

Colt hesitated for a moment. Did he really want to do this? Would he be forfeiting his body if he did? He didn’t ponder for long however as the larger man shifted his cock around inside again prompting another grunt from Colt. That was it. His instincts took over. “Fine yes! You’re Colt! I’m Jordan! Just please fuck me!”

A large grin spread across Jordan’s face upon hearing the magic words. He immediately used his new strength to push Colt back down into the pillow before pounding into him once again with all his might. Roaring and flexing as he did, admiring his new body and revealing in all its size and power. Knowing full well that from now on nobody would mistake him for a bottom again! That from now on everyone would see him exactly as he saw himself. A dominant top who wanted nothing more than to destroy the ass of every hot guy he saw! And as a bonus, Colt certainly wouldn’t get mistaken for anything but the slutty bottom he was either.

Soon enough the hulking man let out one final passionate roar before finally unloading his heavy new balls. His cock shooting streams of cum inside Colt’s ass like a jet and seeding him in no time. He let out a massive sigh of relief before collapsing on top of the smaller man in exhaustion. Pinning the twink under his new muscle and weight while his cock still remained buried in that ass, causing Colt to shoot his much smaller load as well underneath them both.

After a few minutes of silence and processing, the new bodybuilder sized hunk pushed himself up and off the bed, allowing the other man to move again. “This was fun Jordan but you’d better get dressed and head home. After all this is my apartment now…” Jordan smirked as he made his way towards a mirror while riding the high of knowing everything Colt was and had now belonged to him. Even though he just blew a load his dick found itself twitching again when the reflection he saw shining back at him was that of a manly big dicked meathead. Perfect. “Unless you’d rather stay and become my exclusive little bottom from now on?” He raised an eyebrow in Colt’s direction.

There was some conflict in Colt’s eyes for a moment as he weighed the idea out in his head. But in the end he came to the conclusion that, just like Jordan, this is pretty much what he always wanted. To be seen as a cute bottom. He only got so huge and buff because of the pressure from his father and friends. But deep down this is always what he’d wanted to be. “If being your ‘exclusive little bottom’ also includes being your boyfriend then I’m in!… Colt.” He stated, not used to calling somebody else by his own name yet.

Jordan smiled. “Well it’s a deal then.” He gave his reflection one last look over before returning to the bed. He’d definitely be inspecting it more later but for now he and his boy needed to spend a little more time getting familiar with their new selves. And by that he meant he was smoother Colt between the very pecs he used to own until he blew another load.

#magic #male body theft #male body swap #male transformation #jock #muscle theft #musclegrowth #muscle loss #hairy #identity theft #permanent #cock growth

[manysad]

Thank you to everyone on the miraculous fanworks discord for brainstorming this thing with me.

So, the idea behind the au (which was spawned from a train of thought that's perfectly coherent to me but I'm not going to try to explain it) is that all the sentibeings created by Emilie and everyone after her are modeled as living inanimate objects (or rather, animate objects) instead of organics- Duusu's too incoherent to tell them that they can make humans.

From here there's multiple variants about how it all goes down but this is what I'm going with:

Emilie instead decided to focus on being a good cool aunt and/or godmother to kids that already exist. Like her good friend Andre's daughter, who seemed to be having a rough time of it and didn't really have any equal playmates or adults to pay attention to her. Since Emilie can only do so much and be around so often, she decided to use the peacock to make Chloe a little shoulder angel- so she wound up making Adrien anyway, as a plush cat. (He's mentally about the same age as Chloe with whatever voice coming out of his mouth reflecting that, but slightly more mature by design.) After a month or so preparing Adrien, she sneakily left him with Chloe and just let the two bond naturally. (The amok is a golden bell which she put in a box in the safe- Gabriel knows about it and knows what it is and while he didn't really understand why she did any of this he respected her decisions.)

Now, Amelie and Colt found out about this and Colt naturally insisted he be allowed to make himself a son. Colt does not have any imagination whatsoever so he just copies what Emile did, so his son is a plush cat. Duusu's still in no state to tell him that he could've made a human boy. Colt hates his son just as much as Amelie decided to love him. Felix is quite possibly more miserable than in canon.

Meanwhile, Tomoe, who IS creative, made Kagami as a life size porcelain doll, (think Battle Angel Alita)

So that way Kagami could be a fencing prodigy just the way Tomoe wants her to be. Her life is the least different between the three, but she is fully aware she's not human and hides her face in public.

As for how the plot goes down:

Adrien and Chloe grow up together, the list of people who know about Adrien being alive is pretty short but it does include anybody close to Chloe, so Andre, Sabrina, and even Marinette. He had some bad experiences early on (falling asleep out in the open in Chloe's room and getting put in the washing machine by staff because he was dusty, for instance. It wouldn't hurt, he can't really feel anything worse than extreme discomfort, but it would still be scary.) so he tries to avoid being seen at all by people he doesn't already know if he can help it.

Since Chloe can accurately be described as a good person now, having multiple people in her life care how she turns out did wonders, she passes Fu's test and is chosen to be the black cat. He slips the box into her purse (where Adrien also happens to be).... but she never finds out. Debris from Stoneheart smacks her in the head and she's knocked completely unconscious. Adrien and the box go tumbling out of her bag- since Chloe obviously can't wield the ring this way, and it's not like Fu ever tells him anything anyway, as the only conscious sapient being in the area Plagg gives Adrien the rundown and tells him how to transform, telling him that there will be a partner and that partner will have the power to reverse all the damage, so Chloe will be fine.

The transformation fully changes Adrien so that, for all intents and purposes, while he's transformed as Chat Noir he is a human (plus some cat features) and has no visible differences from how he looks in canon. (The same will go for Argos and Ryuko.)

Fu never double checks anything so going forward he thinks that Chloe is Chat Noir and just has some gender stuff going on. He's never around for any instances where Chloe and Chat Noir would be in the same physical space at the same time that couldn't be explained by other phenomena. He'd probably have a conniption if he found out the truth.

#miraculous ladybug #my art #sentimuppets au #and now back to that other thing i was doing

[heyitschartic]

Thinking about Rains whole deal in Ward, and I think I would have liked to see the version where she just was never forgiven. I understand to an extent why Wildbow decided not to do that. Rain's main motivations are all supposed to be internal guilt, can't forgive herself even if others do, I get it. But, I think a lot of story beats would have hit better if there hadn't been that absolution of what she did.

And by that, I'm talking about beats like the girl at the trial telling Rain to forgive herself or the members of her cluster being turned evil by the mechanics (not a direct absolution, but it acts like one in a lot of ways.) Stuff like that defused a lot of the tension around her previous actions and relations with the Fallen.

It really takes away from what she did to them, and I think all that stuff would fit so much better if it just wasn't there. At the trial, people are furious at her. Snag, Love Lost, and Cradle don't hate her because they're evil, but because she ruined their lives. The three of them descending to greater and greater extremes isn't cause they turned into sociopaths, but a natural consequence of them losing everything they loved and cared about because of her. Rain's story becomes a reflection of Victoria's but from the other side of the mirror.

When Colt finally gets added to the cluster, imagine how much more impactful it would have been if, for once, someone could finally literally see things from her side. When Colt realized Mama Mathers was haunting Rain during the mall scene, it feels like something that should have been much more impactful to the whole dynamic in the cluster and their understandings of her, but it just didn't really feel like it mattered, because by that point they were already too far gone.

I didn't really like Rain when I first read Ward and I think this sort of stuff was a lot of the problem (also I like evil women and she's like the opposite of that, but nevertheless.) The story does a good job of building up her past and reasons she should be hated and makes a way for us to understand her actions. But, it feels like the story is also afraid to actually focus on those actions, focus on the human element of what she did, and so tries to find ways to resolve it without her input.

I think it does a disservice to her story and would have liked to see Rain really tackle what it means to absolve yourself to others when you have truly done them wrong.

#wardblr

[wttcsms]

daylight [pt. iii (1/3)] ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 22k synopsis colt grice's life has never been easy, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse. content contains sw!reader, canon discrimination against eldians, derogatory terms towards women, deployment author's notes this is a shortened version of the chapter; i got too excited to share my work with everyone, and also, i know your attention spans are all lacking. if you survived reading 20k+ words in one sitting, pls soldier on and leave a comment expressing ur thoughts x much love <3

part three: no falling in love

“Name?” The bored voice of the administrative assistant tasked with filing away the paperwork for all deployed soldiers stares at Colt with a mixture of disinterest and delight. It leaves him feeling unbalanced, halfway wanting to put on a good show for her and halfway wanting to disappear into thin air. She’s bored, probably thinking about what she’s going to eat for lunch after this, but Colt knows all too well that bored Marleyans make for the most dangerous ones. Best not to get on her bad side and remind her that prior to doing this lineup, she was the one who had checked him in and confirmed his name. 

“Colt Grice.” He answers, and she frowns, like she was expecting any other answer than the one that actually answers her question. 

“Unit?”

“Warrior.”

“Blood type?”

“O negative.”

“Race?”

The energy in the room comes to a standstill. He knows that this is just a formality, that she’s just doing her job, but he also knows that she’s staring directly at his armband. He also knows that most people tasked with dealing with people like him don’t enjoy doing their jobs and would actually prefer to do anything but. 

“Eldian.” He says, and she repeats it back, slowly, exaggerated. 

She makes a note on her clipboard, checking all the boxes that correspond to the answers Colt has given her. The bright red pen of hers matches the bright red she coats her lips in, and she tears at the perforation in the paper, handing Colt the lower-half of the sheet. 

“Turn this in to the people running the clinic.” She tells him, looking more disinterested than ever now that her interrogation with him is over and that Colt has proven himself to be a very boring and painfully polite young man. 

When Colt gets to the clinic, which is nearly half a kilometer away from the administrative office, he turns in the slip. The lady at the front desk glances at it, then hands him a clipboard with a form for him to fill out. He’s not sure how to feel when he realizes that the form is asking the same exact questions that the administrative assistant asked him, and he feels like he should point out the fact that all the answers the clinic needs have already been turned in to them through the slip of paper he just handed them. 

He doesn’t say that, though, because he knows doing so will only slow down the process some more. So, he fills out the form, hands it to the front desk lady, who then looks down at the form and compares it to the slip of paper he gave her, as if checking to see if there are any discrepancies. 

“I’ll let you know when the doctor is ready to give you your physical.” 

Colt spends the whole day like this: just going through the motions and complying with anything the Marleyans ask of him because that just so happens to be the natural order of things around here, around anywhere. For a country that prides themselves for their innovation and intellect that helps them maintain their superiority over everyone else, Colt (and perhaps every other Eldian soldier forced to waste their time with this deployment process) thinks he can spot some internal inefficiencies in their military. 

(Not like he’s going to say anything about it. Not like he can.)

After being poked and prodded by the doctor (who, just for good measure, wastes five minutes to ask Colt for his name, unit, blood type, and race), Colt is then sent off to the on-base barber who shaves his hair off to the standard buzzcut given to all Eldian soldiers who are fresh to the fight. Colt isn’t vain by any means, but the haircut takes less than a minute to complete, and he feels foolish for hoping that this process would be just as lengthy and meticulous as everything else he’s had to endure. His last stop of the day is to the uniform repository, where Colt is given a brand new uniform and dog tags to wear for when he’s sent off to the war. 

The sun is already setting by the time Colt makes his way back to his barracks, and when it seems like the world is giving him a good and proper beatdown, it usually sends him somebody to mock his misery and make the sting of being the universe’s punching bag burn deeper. 

“Heard the news,” a familiar voice stops Colt in his tracks. Porco stares at the crisp uniform Colt’s holding, and scowls. “For deployment?” 

“Yeah,” Colt says, even though he knows that Porco knows. 

He snorts. “Great. Maybe the enemy won’t bother shooting at you once they realize what a shame it’ll be to let top-tier drycleaning go to waste.” 

Once again, the world is ending when Porco makes a valid point. The whole process of preparing for his deployment feels silly and senseless; after all of this, all Colt has in his brain is “Name: Colt Grice, Unit: Warrior, Race: Eldian.” The craziest part is that no actual combat-active military official has given him any details on what’s happening at Fort Helena, and why he’s been chosen to be deployed there. 

The uniform feels heavy in his hands, and the weight only becomes more burdensome when Porco asks him, “Hey. Does Falco know yet?” 

It’s Falco’s first year in the program. Because he’s so young and still too early in the process to be considered as a Candidate, he stays in the youth barracks, which are appropriately stationed far away from the actual soldiers. From the ones who will actually have to answer the call to arms. 

“No. I just got the letter last night.” 

Something indiscernible softens in Porco’s features. “I’d hate to be the one who has to tell him.” 

Colt forces himself not to make a face. Falco won’t take the news well, no matter how Colt gives it to him. Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time someone hasn’t wanted to be in Colt’s shoes. Sometimes, not even Colt wants to be himself. 

“Yeah.” He finds himself agreeing with Porco. “What an unlucky guy.” 

All soldiers cleared for deployment are confined to staying on base at all times, probably because when you tell young men that you are essentially sentencing them to death (or, at the very least, forcing them in a situation where it’s more likely than not that they are going to lose a limb — and most people happen to like having all their limbs, thank you very much), they get scared and start thinking up stupid things like deserting their country or trying to kickstart a munity. 

Then again, the only people who are allowed to be frightened enough to pull stunts like that are the same people who have nothing to lose. Colt has a titan to inherit, a family to feed, and you. All of the Eldian soldiers getting prepared to be shipped off to Fort Helena are in similar boats.

The Marleyan unit assigned to Fort Helena, however, is in a state of all sorts of distress and chaos, and Lieutenant Michael Sells is enjoying every second of it. 

Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the top bunk of the barracks, Michael looks down at his fellow Marleyan soldiers who fucked up badly enough to be receiving the same punishment as him. Marleyan soldiers aren’t supposed to be the ones who get sent to the frontlines; sure, there are some idiots with ideas of grandeur, and those are the ones who volunteer to see some “real action,” but for the most part, joining the military just seemed like a better alternative than spending their young adulthood stuck in a university’s lecture hall. 

The thing they forgot to consider is that when you mess up in college, you get sent to the dean’s office. When you mess up in the military, you get sent off to the shitty deployments that no one wants. War is war, an enemy soldier who doesn’t know anything about you but is hellbent on shooting at you is a pain in the ass wherever you go, but like with everything else in life, there is always something better. Considering that Michael is on this assignment, and every soldier here has a long list of transgressions (long enough to the point where their officers can no longer turn a blind eye to them), this is an indicator that Fort Helena is going to be literal hell on earth. 

Early on in the war, the first wave of soldiers to come back from the battlefield all complained about rats in the trenches and the lack of plumbing. One group was fighting closer to a mountainside, though, and they actually had sufficient enough coverage from the enemy to set up a decent camp. Trenches or tents. Both aren’t screaming luxury, but one is infinitely better than the other, that’s for damn sure.

“We’re fucking screwed!” Jude scowls, kicking at the uniform hanging by his bed. 

“Can’t be that bad,” Elliot rationalizes from the top bunk across from Michael. “They’re sending off Eldian units with us, and they outnumber us by quite a large margin. Chances are, we won’t even be on the frontlines.” 

“It’s true,” Oliver is sitting at the singular desk crammed in the barracks. He claims he’s writing a farewell letter to his girlfriend — all three of them. “This is just a scare tactic to get us back on the straight and narrow. You think they’d be willing to sacrifice us for that fort?” 

Jude’s frown doesn’t disappear, but he’s silent. Elliot and Oliver have a point, and everyone here knows it. That’s because the boys in this barrack aren’t enlisted soldiers, but officers. They’re the ones who’ll get the nicest benefits package, the better meals, the high ranking titles. They’re the ones who society holds up to a pedestal. Elliot, just like Michael, is a legacy — someone who already has a generation of their family who served as an officer. For most Marleyans, this is something you can boast about. 

“Don’t worry, Judy. If Captain Baron decides he’s sick of us and forces us to be human shields for the Eldian soldiers, he’d pick me first.” Michael sounds too cheerful at the prospect, and Jude glares at him. 

You either love Michael, or you don’t. There is no inbetween, there is no merely tolerating him — only like or dislike.  Everyone else in the barracks is on decent terms with the lieutenant, even going so far as to consider him not just a comrade but a friend, but Michael’s the type to sniff out the few who despise him, and then he antagonizes them for sport. Jude belongs to the group who dislikes. 

“Don’t call me Judy, and don’t spout off bullshit like that, either. Don’t act like you wouldn’t willingly fight alongside those damn devils. We all know why you’re here.” 

“Really?” Michael’s eyes go wide. “Why am I here?” 

In the office, there is a big, fat file labeled SELLS, MICHAEL (LT.) with a very long record of transgressions committed by the angelic-looking young man who is anything but. What a shame, the officers who have to update his file muse, that he is nothing like his father who was honorably discharged as an Admiral for the Navy. The only thing Michael seems to have inherited from Admiral Sells are his looks. 

The fact of the matter is that Michael is here because he is a problem child who manages to stir up trouble no matter where he is and no matter who he is with. At least on a battlefield, they can make good use of his restless energy, and hopefully the fear of being killed in action will be enough to get him to behave. 

He’s been a pain in the ass since the moment he came into this world (a C-section baby, which is a universal indicator that someone is destined to be annoying), and he’s only grown into a walking, talking, migraine-inducing bastard ever since. 

“Don’t act all innocent. We know you started the fight with Brutus.” Jude sneers, as if Brutus the Brute didn’t deserve the one singular punch Michael managed to get on him before getting his ass handed to him. 

“If you can call that massacre on Michael a fight.” Oliver pipes up.

“Hey! Whose side are you on?” Michael asks him, not offended in the slightest. 

“The real question is, whose side are you on?” The look Jude gives Michael reminds him of the same glare one of the other Marleyan officers, James, gave him during visitation day. The visitation day where James’ girlfriend couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of Michael. It’s a look that’s full of contempt and vitriol. 

Everyone likes to act all holier-than-thou when it comes to Michael, and it’s because nobody is more openly rebellious than him. They think that he can’t keep a secret, that his heart is constantly on his sleeve, and they’re right; too bad no one can actually read him. Michael gets into fights all the time, and he’s either stupid or brave with the way he shows no fear in attempting to take on guys twice his size. In middle school, he lost a tooth (that has since been replaced with a fancy implant that blends seamlessly with the rest of his pearly whites, despite the fact that he thought the gaping hole would’ve added character) because he picked a fight with a high schooler about to graduate. Everyone misinterprets his bold actions for recklessness, but he does stupid shit like this because he cares. No one knows he picked that fight because the boy said something downright vulgar and disgusting about Claire, one of his older sister’s friends. Just like how no one knows that Michael didn’t swing at Brutus because he took the last brownie during dinner, but because Brutus was the one who nicked Colt’s face. 

“The right one.” Michael cheekily answers, not elaborating further. Let everyone make their assumptions about what that means.

Alize Evans is no one’s fool. 

When the universe deals you a shit hand in life, the least you can do is not be stupid. Alize might’ve came into this world as an accident, the result of a drunken mistake (perhaps she inherited bad luck from her mother; she can’t be certain, considering that the only mother figure in Alize’s life had been the stern mistress of her orphanage), and it’s because of this that Alize is very careful in not making mistakes in her life. 

Maybe ending up at The Gentleman’s Club wasn’t exactly a part of her master plan, but Alize remains adamant that she is not stupid — just down on her luck. 

It isn’t stupid to walk the streets of the red light district alone. Alize knows the area better than the back of her hand. She lives here. She knows the strip of street to avoid unless she wants to have the stray dogs’ shit under the soles of her too-tight shoes. She knows that the drunkard who looks like the type to harass women is quite the opposite; in fact, he’s probably one of the kindest men who stay around this area. She bought him a bottle of cheap liquor once, just because decent people are hard to find and the least she can do is show her gratitude in a way that doesn’t automatically demean her. (Deep down, she knows that he wouldn’t have accepted free rein of her body, the only currency she has unlimited access to. It had cost her a week’s worth of wages to gift him that bottle.) 

Turns out, he’s not stupid either. He’s just down on his luck, too. 

Alize’s bad luck seems to be on a winning streak. Not only did she wake up late, but the bruises scattered on her body have turned a ghastly shade of purple with a sick, faint green ring around one of the abstract shapes. In the winter time, she’s paler. She already sees a lack of sun, and the darkness of this season doesn’t do her any favors. She likes it when it’s spring; she tans easily, for one, and everyone says spring is the season of possibilities, of new beginnings. 

Alize isn’t stupid. She doesn’t believe in those sorts of things. But it’s nice, she supposes, to indulge every once in a while and believe in things like that. 

Her bad luck clings to her as she walks down the street, quickening her pace. She knows the creepy, distorted shadows in the corners of her eyes are just figments of her imagination; the street lamps are all cracked and now line the street just for show. They don’t actually work. The whole district is shrouded in darkness, with only the censorious moonlight to look down on her. She hates moonlight. Nothing good has ever happened to her when it makes its appearance. 

That fact won’t change, either. She knows this when she hears the predatory whistle coming from behind her. 

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows she doesn’t stand a chance if she tries to run. She knows that there is nowhere to run. She knows that she wants to try, anyway. She knows that things will only be worse if she does. 

Alize pauses. She takes a deep breath. And then she turns around. 

It’s a Public Security Authorities officer. Mid-forties, at least. He looks like today is his lucky day. 

She wonders what that might feel like.

“What’s a young girl like you doing around these parts? Don’t’cha know it’s dangerous?” He smirks, and she can see every wrinkle and crease on his face, all thanks to the moonlight. She curses the wretched thing. She hates everything that looks down on her. Not even the solar system can escape her wrath. 

She doesn’t say anything. He’s leering at her, licking his chapped lips as he eyes her, his excitement evident as he openly admires the armband circled around her left arm. 

A piece of fabric that defines her entire being. A piece of fabric that is the reason why she receives the worst customers in the brothel. Men like the one standing in front of her liken her to something inhumane, filthy, but they’re the ones who fuck her like savages, like devils. The irony isn’t lost on her. 

“Let me walk you home, sweetheart.” The man grabs her left arm, gripping her armband. He tugs her with such a force that she almost wishes to see the piece of gray fabric come loose. She remembers when someone used it to choke her with it, and then she decides that with the way her luck is going, he’d probably have the same idea. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe he’ll be quick. Maybe Willa will feel bad and brew her a cup of tea when she manages to limp her way to the brothel. 

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows to let the man drag her away. She’s resigned to her fate. 

And then, the strangest thing happens. 

Another man is strolling down the street. Traffic here is usually light considering that there isn’t much in this area, save for abandoned buildings and the occasional homeless trying to seek shelter from the harsh, biting wind. Alize thinks her luck is getting worse when she notices this one is wearing a cream colored uniform, too. 

When he comes closer, she’s pleasantly surprised. At least he’s cute. Say what you want, but having an ugly bastard slobbering over her is awful. If she’s going to be used, why can’t she at least have a decent view? It might distract her from everything else. 

“What’s going on here?” The young man says, blue eyes focused on the officer before traveling to Alize. She looks at him briefly before focusing on the gravel underneath her feet. 

“Nothing for you to worry about.” The officer spits on the ground. “Go run along and find your own hole to get your dick wet in.” 

“See, when you say stuff like that, it does make me start to worry.” Alize dares to take another look at him. He’s blond. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and he has such an easy-going manner about him. The top two buttons of his military issued coat are undone, and she spots a peek of bright white cotton from his undershirt. He’s tall. Taller than her, and even taller than the man who has her in his grip. “I don’t think she likes the way you’re handling her.” 

“You think I give a fuck about what a bitch like her likes?” 

The blond man’s eyes narrow. Gone is his easy-going manner. Alize can feel the shift even from her current position, which is her being all cowered and looking like she wants to be as small as possible. Apparently the man senses the change in his demeanor, too, seeing as he loosens his grip enough for Alize to slowly free herself. 

“I think you should give a fuck on how I feel about it.” He says, taking a step forward. “You know that PSA officers with a rank as low as yours are only allowed jurisdiction in his designated internment zone.” Another step forward. “This isn’t an internment zone.” 

“You’re a fucking greenie. You’re barely a second-rate private in the military.” The man snarls, spotting the lack of any high ranking adornments on the blond’s uniform. 

The blond shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t an internment zone, meaning that as an officer in the military, I have more authority here than you.” He smiles. “Bet you give a fuck that a greenie like me can tell you what to do, and you have to sit down like a good dog and listen.” 

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows that she has the opportunity to run. But she’s frozen in place, admiring the way this young soldier seems to greet a fight like an old friend, with welcoming arms. If it came down to physical blows, she thinks he’d win, easily. 

The man’s hand seems to gravitate towards his side, but the blond is quicker on the draw. Before the PSA officer can grab his gun, he finds himself staring down the wrong end of this private’s pistol. 

“I’ll let you take out yours, too, if you want. It’s only fair that you show me yours after I showed you mine.” The moonlight illuminates the smug expression on the soldier’s face. “But know this: the law won’t give a damn what went down here. All they’ll care about is that a PSA officer broke the law and drew his weapon against a Marleyan militant officer in the military’s jurisdiction. You think you’ll have any power from a jail cell?” 

“I have connections.” The man snarls, still hesitant to whip out his own gun. 

“Really? What a coincidence, so do I.” The soldier releases the safety on his pistol. “Do you mind sharing who those connections are? My uncle, the commanding officer of the PSA, might be interested in knowing, too.” 

The man’s face pales. “You’re that Sells kid.” 

“Yeah. Trying to make a name for myself, though, so take out your damn gun and let’s try to make headline news, okay?” 

They don’t make headline news. Instead, the man apologizes to this “Sells kid”, and then he turns and apologizes to Alize after the Sells kid tells him to. 

“Get on your knees and kiss the ground she walks on.” The soldier commands him to do. Alize feels a sick sort of satisfaction witnessing the man slowly get down and press his lips to the dirty ground. For once in her life, Alize is the one who is looking down. What an addicting feeling. 

When the soldier gets bored of humiliating the man, he sends him off by tapping his shoulder in farewell; he does so with the barrel of his gun, whose safety is still conveniently off. One wrong move, and a bullet could be pierced through the man’s shoulder blades. 

“You want me to walk you to where you wanted to go?” The soldier asks her, clicking his gun and sliding it back into its holster. 

Alize isn’t stupid. She nods, and he lets her lead the way. 

She starts to foolishly believe that maybe her luck can turn around. 

But then he drops her off at the front door of the brothel, hands in his pockets. 

“What’s the matter?” He asks her, when she doesn’t immediately walk in. “Is it not safe for you in there?”

He sounds like he actually cares. Gone is the stern soldier with the cocky attitude and smirk. The gentleman standing here doesn’t seem like he just shoved his gun in someone’s face less than ten minutes ago. He’s interesting, this soldier. 

She shakes her head, giving him a tiny smile. This brothel might actually be the only safe haven for her here, perhaps even safer than the shitty apartment she rents a couple of blocks away.

“Will you come in and join me?” I won’t even charge, she wants to add. 

He seems to pick up on her suggestion, and he gives her a small smile, too, while shaking his head. “I’d feel a lot better knowing that you’re somewhere where you feel safe. I think some time alone would be good, don’t you agree?” 

Alize’s never been alone for long stretches of time. She grew up in an overcrowded orphanage, then traveled with a small group of runaways when the original mistress died and got replaced by some creep who eyed like the girls in the house like a butcher looking at a prize pig. Even when sleeping and begging on the streets, she always had at least one other person right with her. Renting this apartment is the first time in forever that Alize’s ever lived on her own, and even then, she spends so much of her time in the brothel, surrounded by her chosen sisters, blanketed in their warmth and comfort, that she forgets all about living on her own.

“I don’t know how else to repay you.” She admits. Out of all her meager belongings, she’s come to terms with the fact that her body and Eldian fetishization are her most valuable. 

“You don’t have to repay me.” He says, and she almost wants to roll her eyes. 

Alize isn’t stupid. Life is a series of transactions. You receive, you have to give back. Otherwise, karma will intervene. Karma is a sick and twisted bitch who balances the scales in the worst way possible. Her luck might be starting to turn around, but she’s not going to push it.

“I can’t have you walking around with my favor in your pocket. Let me pay you back now.” 

He waves a hand carelessly. “You don’t owe me anything.” 

For once, Alize dares to go against a soldier and stand her ground. “No. I really do owe you.”

He lets out a thoughtful hum, staring at the closed door of the brothel. 

“Fine.” He says, but then he follows it up with something she isn’t expecting. “Pay me back by going inside and taking care of yourself. Take it easy tonight, okay?” 

Alize isn’t stupid. She takes the offer. 

But, of course, seeing him changes her perspective on things. Meeting him while flat broke, weak, and defenseless proved to her that her luck could change at any time. This hope that builds up in her causes her to seek him out, to expect him to walk through the brothel doors and maybe the story Willa tells her comes true. The story about the girl who saves the businessman and gets her happily ever after. 

Alize is stupid. He doesn’t come back. Which means he doesn’t come back for her. Luck can turn around, but it can go back right where it was, too. The disappointment that follows serves as a cruel reminder of what being stupid does to a girl. 

When she looks into the worn faces of the girls working alongside her, Alize decides right then and there to protect them from the soul crushing discovery that no one in the world is coming to save them. Don’t even bother dreaming about it. 

So when she turns her attention to you, demanding you to spill the details on the soldier, you mistake this interrogation for being an unwanted intrusion. If you had realized sooner that it came from a place of care, you wouldn’t have immediately played dumb. 

“What soldier?” You ask innocently, perhaps playing a bit too dumb.

Margaret lets out a loud laugh. “You’re so full of shit! ‘What soldier,’ my ass! Nadia, can you believe her?” 

Nadia looks at you for guidance on how to react, what to say. All you can do is shrug helplessly. Hurricane Alize has already touched down, and there’s no stopping this force of nature. 

“The soldier who visits you and brings you gifts and just wants to talk.” Alize says, crossing her arms. “Tell us about him.” 

“I don’t know much about him.” Besides the fact that he ran away from the girl who gave him his first kiss. Besides the fact that he loves his family, especially his little brother, Falco, as easily as breathing. Besides the fact that he kisses you with poorly concealed restraint; you think you can taste the hunger for more on his lips, but he’s too much of a gentleman to cross that line. You don’t know much about him, besides him enlisting in the military for his family. He was supposed to go in sooner, to prove his family’s loyalty after his uncle got exposed for being an Eldian Restorationist. 

He had been a sickly child, he tells you, back against the wall as he resigns himself to the floor, letting you have your bed all to yourself. He’d be bedridden and useless to the Marleyan military if they took him in, and luckily, they saw some sense in that. His parents foolishly dared to dream that the government forgot about wanting to take him, but after his father falls ill and it lands on him to handle his family’s finances, of course he enlists. Of course they remember him. Of course they make him pay for everything with interest. Always waiting for him to slip up, always delighting in punishing him. Mocking him. 

You know that he had to learn how to take it all lying down. To grit his teeth and bite back any protests. To resist the urge to ask the Marleyan officer what did I ever do to you? 

You know that he’s gentle. Genuine. Sweet. Soft.

No — maybe soft isn’t the right word. You’ve felt the smooth ridges of hard-packed muscle underneath his shirt. You’ve seen the flex of his biceps, felt the rough calluses of his fingers every time the ghost of his touch lingers on your skin. You’ve seen the way he delivers his words, how he can say something with such strong conviction. He never raises his voice to make a point, but the stern look and his steadfast adamance that he wants you to be happy, even if it’s not with him, because he cares about you, was strong enough to knock some sense into you. You think of how it’s his natural instinct to protect. You think of the way his body immediately went to shield yours when that bar fight broke out, his stance that seemed so formidable, unyielding to any external force. 

You think of his casual discussion of the abuse subjected to him. How he tells you, in the same soft voice he always uses, as if he’s telling you the weather today, about how one time some Marleyan soldiers pulled a prank on him and handed him his food in a dog bowl, with DEVIL DOGGY crudely etched into the metal. He had to eat out of it, he explains, because he was hungry. This was his only meal of the day, and it was one against too many. He’d never be able to get a lunch tray. 

Despite it all, he didn’t let it turn him bitter. Vengeful. Mad at the world and seeking to take it out on others. You wouldn’t blame him for turning cold; anyone else would. But Colt lets it bounce off of him. 

You like that. You like everything about Colt, you realize, but you like his resilience. His unwavering good character. He isn’t soft; maybe tender. You could cut him to the bone, but he still wouldn’t lose shape; he might even put up some resistance. 

“Really?” Alize narrows her eyes. “So what exactly do you two talk about then?”

Everything. A story for a story, you decide one day. You’re sitting on your calves, knees digging into the stiff mattress, and the excited expression on your face makes Colt give in to your whims before the request even fully leaves your mouth.

A story for a story, he agrees.

You tell him the bits and pieces of your childhood that you remember. You tell him about how it feels strange to cling to a culture you think is dying, that soon no one will remember, but stranger yet to not take pride in it, to not want to hold on to what generations before you have held on to. He tells you about how he doesn’t like the feel of a gun in his hands, but that he’s such a good shot, his officers want him to constantly be on the frontlines, armed with it. He’s never been on the frontlines, he reassures you, when he notices your horrified expression. A couple of simple deployments, as a reserve in case the battle doesn’t turn in their favor, is all the action he’s seen so far. Probably will be that way for the foreseeable future, since the military doesn’t like risking the Warrior Candidates with the most potential. 

“Anything that comes up naturally, I guess.” You say, holding all your conversations with Colt close to your heart. “Alize, what does it matter what I do with this soldier?” 

“It matters because every time I mention the soldier, you get this look on your face.” Alize is not a mean person, but the way she says look — dripping with disgust, topped off with pity — you suddenly go on the defensive. 

“I can’t make facial expressions anymore?” You ask her, and the girls in the room shift their bodies awkwardly. Someone clears their throat. Alize is silent, but she doesn’t lower the intensity of her glare. 

“I’m worried about you.” She sounds like admitting this is a painful ordeal. “I don’t want you making a mistake.” 

I don’t want you making a mistake. You’ve whispered this exact phrase in the dark, saying it so softly you almost think he won’t be able to hear it, but he does. Of course, he does. He notices everything about you. 

He looks at you, that same unwavering conviction coating his words as he reminds you, nothing about you is a mistake to me. 

“So what if I make a mistake? It’s my life.” You regret telling her this the moment her stern expression falters, revealing something hurt and pained, before she brings back her perfect poker face. You’re so used to being the older sister that sometimes it’s jarring to come here and interact with Alize, who is the designated older sister in this room. You don’t know how to handle being the one that is cared for, too used to having to be the strict one, the one who does the caring in a less-than gentle manner. 

“Mistakes hurt.” She says flatly. “But by all means, continue living your life how you want. It’s yours.”

You don’t make mistakes often. 

When Marleyan forces destroyed your homeland, sent you and the rest of the survivors running to a false salvation (the sprawling, abandoned hills on the outskirts of Marley’s cities), you made many mistakes. You were too trusting. Just shy of fourteen years old, you had a six-year-old little brother to take care of and parents who left behind nothing to help you. It’s not their fault; who anticipates their young daughter to take on the role of matriarch? There’s no instruction manual, no how-to guide on what to do when you’re a refugee with no skills, no talent, and nothing to offer to a country that already looks down on you. You used to be so desperate that when it seemed a citizen was taking pity on you, you chose to trust them. To believe in their goodness. 

You quickly learn to stop making that mistake. 

You can’t talk to strangers, then. You only stay close to the other refugees, only trusting their kindness, sometimes hesitant and fearful that they could turn on you, too. 

You make more mistakes. You misjudge how long food can last, what the weather will be like, the intentions of the people around you. Sometimes, you reject kindness because you think it’s viciousness in a clever disguise; gone are the times you accidentally identify cruelty as care. 

(You don’t make the same mistake twice.)

Occasionally, when you think about who you are, you think you’re a dog backed into a corner. A dirty alleyway. Surrounded by bigger, hungrier dogs, with no room for escape, no chance for survival. Some days, you think there’s something admirable in not backing down without a fight. Other days, you find that playing dead and hoping they lose interest is more reasonable. Every day, you know that it doesn’t matter what you do — you are still a dog backed into a corner.

You don’t like being backed into a corner. 

You don’t like feeling small, and you certainly don’t like feeling vulnerable. Weak. Defenseless. 

You know your position in life. The men who filter in and out of your room remind you of this. 

Cheap whore. Loose fuck. Good for nothing. Bitch. 

Katie, one of the quieter girls in the brothel, admits to everyone that sometimes she takes sleeping pills in the hopes that it’ll get her drowsy and she can filter in and out of consciousness when she’s working.

It’s better when you’re dead to the world during the sex, she says. If I could be asleep and unaware of everything happening to me, I’d be so happy. 

Everyone handles this job differently, but you could never let yourself be so unguarded. No matter how tired you get, your body refuses to go limp and allow you a brief moment of sleep when you’re in the presence of a strange man who paid a price to have his way with you. You made a lot of mistakes in your life, but falling asleep in this brothel will not be one of them.

But one night, you find yourself fighting the urge to let your eyelids droop and your body to sink into the mattress. Colt’s telling you about how he finds it odd that Michael is actively avoiding some investigator who’s visiting the base. Colt can’t seem to fathom why. The investigator supposedly only covers cases concerning Eldians, and he doesn’t look like someone who would want to get into a fight with Michael. You’re struggling to follow along, and the last thing you remember hearing is oh no, I’m stopping you from sleeping. 

When you do wake up, your mind is on high alert. You instantly sit up, heart racing. 

Calm down, nothing bad has happened to you. You try to swallow, but your mouth is dry. You can’t tell if the pounding noise in your ear is from your heart or the rush of blood to your head. You sat up way too fast. You can hear your ragged breaths, and you close your eyes, resisting the urge to chastise yourself for being so weak. You’ve never fallen asleep here before. You followed the same routine you’ve always done, so you shouldn’t have even been tired. There’s no reason why you should have fallen asleep, just as you realize there should be no reason for the thin sheet on your bed to be covering you, a pitiful excuse for a blanket. 

You pause. Calm your breathing. Reassess the situation. 

You didn’t have the sheet covering your body before you fell asleep. You know this because you never use the sheet as a blanket. You slowly turn your head and find Colt slumped against the wall, his eyes shut, his breathing calm and steady. The position looks uncomfortable, and when you move to sit on the edge of the bed, letting your sock-covered feet hit the wooden floors, you can still feel the chill of hardwood biting through the cotton. 

He didn’t do anything besides tuck you in. You glance down at the watch on your wrist, only feeling safe enough to wear it when he’s around. Not even thirty minutes have passed. There’s still an hour left of your time that he is promised. 

You didn’t make a mistake, you realize. 

You take the thin sheet and drape it over his body, hoping that it provides some sort of comfort. You do this, and then you climb right back into bed, turning to the side so that you can get a view of his peaceful expression before you allow sleep to drag you under its spell once more.

After that, Colt insists that you go to sleep whenever you feel tired. You tell him that that isn’t fair, and he gives you a look. 

Fairness is a foreign concept to him. 

You never realized just how late into the night your shift takes you. You never realize how sweet a peaceful slumber truly is. The first few times you go to sleep, Colt still remains on the floor. Then, one night, he’s helping you readjust your watch and suddenly your right arm is hanging from the bed as you sleep, and he’s holding your hand, equally unconscious to the world. You wake up to the comfort of his hand still securely wrapped around your own, the rest of his body relaxed on the cold floor. You don’t let go, feigning sleep when you notice him stirring and about to wake up. You want to see what he does when he thinks you’re still asleep; every time before this, you’ve always been open about being the first one to wake. 

You wonder if this is when you relearn the lesson of never trusting outsiders. You hear him shift his body, try to reawaken muscles that have gone slack. And then, he’s moving your hand, slowly bringing it upwards. You fight to keep your eyes closed, your body relaxed.

A quick brush of his lips against your knuckles. He squeezes your hand, and when you shift your body, prepared to finally “wake up,” he’s quick to drop your hand, acting as if he’s done something he shouldn’t have. Like a kid caught with his hand in the jar of cookies. 

(He’s been that kid before; you couldn’t stop laughing at his retelling of the whole ordeal. He turned pink, telling you that it was because Falco wanted the cookies, and he refused to listen to Colt’s explanation of how they weren’t allowed to have any until after dinner. 

“Did you take the blame for everything?” You ask him, with tears in your eyes from how hard you’ve been laughing. 

“Yes.” He admits to taking the fall, acting as if he was the one who wanted the cookies, and Falco was just a tiny witness and not the reason for getting him into this situation. 

You start laughing again, to the point where your stomach aches. You’re unaware that he thinks the sound of your laughter is the soundtrack to his life, and both of you are unaware of how he’s pulling you in even deeper. 

For someone with a fear of falling, you sure don’t know how close to the edge you really are.)

In the months leading up to you kissing him in front of your whole community, these are the moments shared. Every conversation, every secret, every story for a story, every shared slumber, the singular barely-a-kiss upon your hand — all of it fills the cracks and crevices of your heart. 

(You refuse to admit to being scared of a lot of things, but the meaning behind him taking root inside your heart — that’s the scariest thing to you.) 

You try to steady the beat of your — slowly transitioning into his — heart every time you watch the door handle twist. You know not to expect him too often nowadays; his training more grueling, more intense, as his inheritance of the Beast Titan is fast approaching. If it’s not hope (and the inevitable disappointment that soaks you to the bone when you realize it’s not him) that’s serving you a slow death, then it’s the waiting.

You have experience in waiting. Waiting in long lines at the food bank during the cruel heat of the summer, knowing that leaving the line in search of water would be fruitless and only result in you losing your place in line (and as a result, food for the next two days — three if you limit your own portions). Waiting for your parents to miraculously come back from the dead and to give you a big hug, tell you that you did such a good job taking care of yourself and Ramzi. Waiting for your particularly rough clients to finish having their way with you and to leave you be. You’re always waiting. Always in a constant state of looking forward to what comes next; a side effect that stems from the fact that your current standard of living always leaves much to be desired. 

And you know about desire. As much as you’ve tried to avoid it, to avoid the senseless action and feeling of want, you’re only human. You dream of a better life; nothing too luxurious. A small apartment instead of a tent. A real school for Ramzi to attend instead of the volunteer tutors who come by once or twice a week, covering material that kids Ramzi’s age have already learned years ago. A different job, even. You’re fine with labor — your current work already is laborious — but a respectable job. Something that won’t have people who know what you do sneer and spit at you. Cleaning houses, watching over spoiled children — yes, those are preferable jobs. You’re not a person accustomed to selfishness, to letting your desires run rampant. You are not asking for pleasure from the world; you’ll gladly settle for a reduced sentence of pain. 

But desire grips you by the throat, winds itself around your body, chokes you, strangles you, in all matters involving Colt Grice. The unfamiliar, devastating punch of want hits you in your heart as all you can do is stand frozen in your room, trying to let what he tells you sink in. 

It doesn’t sink in. It hangs stagnant in the air, looms over the both of you before expanding, surrounding you two on all sides. Takes the shape of the four walls, and suddenly, it’s closing in on you, everything is closing in on you. 

Why is it that you always have to wait? Haven’t you waited long enough for just a glimpse of something bright to enter into your world? You’ve dealt with all this shit for years, suffered in silence, took everything lying down, and Colt stumbles into your room, stuttering over his sentences, and you dare to think that this is your luck turning around. That the universe is throwing you a bone. That nature says spring is coming early, spring is here to stay. Every time he walks through that damn door to enter your room, you see the sun peeking through the storm clouds. 

“You’re leaving?” You don’t like the way you practically choke on the question. 

Regret roughs up the soft features of his face. 

“Yes.” 

Colt Grice is handed a metal container that is roughly the size of a shoebox and is informed that anything placed in there will be sent to his family in the case that he does not return. 

He’s sitting on his bed, staring at the empty box resting on his lap. Whatever is supposed to go in here is meant to be a satisfactory consolation; sorry you lost your older son, here’s some junk he found in his barracks to help you remember him. He places the lid back on the container. How is anyone supposed to fit a life inside something not even a foot long? 

He lays down on his bed, savoring the stiffness of the mattress and the cold sheets neatly tucked with military precision. This will be one of his last days of enjoying the comforts of a real bed, and Colt is not the type to be ungrateful. He can take pleasure in the little things. 

He has to be able to — if he waited for anything major to happen before he started considering it to be a win, he’d never have a cause for celebration. 

There’s this funny feeling he gets sometimes. Moments in his life where he feels like everything is moving too quickly for his liking. One second he’s tossing a ball back and forth with Zeke, then he blinks and he’s in the mess hall, listening to Porco complaining about “the fucking slop” they’re being fed that day. He knows it’s silly, knows that the impending deadline of thirteen years won’t loom over his head just yet, but the idea of this life — his life — being cut short has never bothered him before. 

And then he meets you, and suddenly, life stops moving at a pace where everything around him is a blur and leaves him feeling dizzy, unable to find his footing. Suddenly, time stands still for him. He finds his footing. He can stand tall. Everything is in hyper focus, and he’s all too aware that the future is bleak. 

His future’s always been destined to be bleak; if he wasn’t in the Warrior Unit, there’d still be a chance that he’d be used as a titan for war. Just not the kind that grants some form of glory. Just the kind used as a weapon. Just something in a military general’s arsenal. He’s certain that “unleash the titans” is written on a slip of paper and is put inside a case alongside grenades and guns. 

He shuts his eyes, thinking about his sheer impermanence. His lack of a future has never been a major cause for concern. Eldian families know what to expect when their sons and daughters end up in the Warrior Unit. But then you kissed him and all he could think about when he felt the pressure of your lips against his for the first time was maybe there is a future out there for me. One worth chasing after. One worth being alive for. One with you. 

He wants a future now. He wants it so badly, so desperately, that all he can do is lay here and curl his fingers around the bedcover, ruining the hard work that went into perfecting the appearance of his bed. All he can do, all he’s allowed to do, is grit his teeth and force down the bitter truth: he has no future. 

And he would really, really love to have one now.

It’s not like this dream is new — just repressed. He’s gotten too good at pushing down his selfish desires in favor of thinking about what’s best for the collective good. If he becomes the Beast Titan, his family will be elevated in status; better healthcare, better home, better paycheck to mail to them. There would be less pressure on Falco to do well; there would be no point. The Grices would have given up one son; surely, even Marley would have pity and tell them to do everything they can to hang onto the last one. As a child, he used to skip recess breaks to help his teachers clean up the classroom or grade papers. He’d wipe down the windows, pretending that he doesn’t want to be one of the carefree kids swinging on the monkeybars. Because of his volunteering to help the teacher, she was less stressed, with no frustrations to take out on the students. No one ever thanked him for doing this. No one even acknowledged it. 

“What’re you thinkin’ so hard about?” Porco drops the metal lunch tray onto the table. It’s the sound of the tray making contact with the aged wood that snaps Colt out of his thoughts and back into reality. 

“I wasn’t thinking about anything.” He’s lying, but Porco doesn’t need to hear about his inner turmoil. 

“Don’t bother lying if you’re not even going to try to be good at it.” Porco snorts, digging his spoon into the mushy vegetables steaming on his plate. “You’re being sent home tonight, aren’t you?” He’s in the middle of chewing a mixture of too-soft carrots and green beans. Colt pretends not to notice the way the vegetables are being blended together in his mouth. Pieck complains that Porco needs to learn how to chew with his mouth closed, and out of spite, he chooses to do the complete opposite. 

“Yeah.” Colt uses his fork to play with his food, poking at an overcooked steamed carrot. “Falco gets to spend the night at home, too.”

“Damn. How’d he take the news?” 

Colt cringes. “Didn’t get a chance to tell him.” 

Porco gapes at him, but then his stomach growls and he’s back to shoveling more food in his mouth. He has the decency to swallow first before resuming the conversation. “You’re fucked, Grice.”

It’s not like leaving Falco in the dark was intentional. He stays in the barracks designated for younger kids, and Colt’s been running around the base, trying to make sure that he’s properly preparing for his deployment. He meant to take the walk to Falco last night, after he finished finding things to put in that damn shoebox, but thoughts of you, his mediocre life, his wasted time and lost chances, his family — all of those thoughts weighed him down, kept him chained to the bed. He couldn’t even get a decent night’s sleep. And his box still remains empty, shoved underneath his bed. It’s gotten to the point where he’s even debating asking Porco to fill it on his behalf, but who knows what he considers appropriate? 

“The worst part is, Falco’s definitely been notified that he has the opportunity to be sent home, and the reasoning they’ll give him is because an immediate family member is being deployed. He knows I’m being sent away, and now he’s just waiting for me to actually tell him.” Colt sighs as Porco beats him to his drawn conclusion:

“Yeah. You’re super fucked.”

After a few minutes of silence, Porco finds even more stuff to ponder about. “Hey, how’d your girlfriend take the news?” 

Seriously, since when did Porco suddenly become so chatty? Was the tasteless lunch food not enough to keep him occupied? Colt takes this moment as an opportunity to shovel a heaping of hot, bland mush into his mouth in order to avoid answering that question. He thinks he burns a few taste buds in the process, but with the food that’s being served to them, it’s not like they were being used in the first place. 

Colt wishes Porco didn’t have such a stubborn streak. He sits there, unimpressed, waiting for Colt to finish eating, which takes no time at all. The silence and his bemused expression say enough: hurry up and answer.

“Didn’t really get a chance to tell her, either.” 

Porco blinks. 

“Damn it, Grice. Who does know about your deployment?”

He thinks for a second, mentally doing a count. “Well, for starters, you—”

“Okay, so no one. No one knows you’re being deployed.” 

Well, when he puts it like that. 

“I planned on telling them.” 

“When? When you’re already on the battlefield?” 

Colt flinches. “When they would have less time to worry about me.” 

Porco pauses, the snarky comment sliding back down his throat. For once during this conversation, Porco seems at a loss for words. 

“They’re always going to worry about you.” Porco says, all sarcasm gone from his tone and replaced with a seriousness that Colt doesn’t get from him often. 

Colt thinks about how Porco used to react when Marcel would be sent away, even if it was just for a training camp sponsored by a different town’s military unit. He’d be even surlier than usual, and with no Marcel to stop him from picking a fight, he’d get into more trouble, too. People’s worry seems to manifest in different ways. When he first made it into the Warrior Unit, his mother pulled out his baby album and started tearing up at the rare photos of a baby Colt. The six year old boy with a front tooth missing, smiling for his elementary school photo, is the son she sees being taken from her. 

Colt doesn’t know how to verbalize his feelings on the matter without embarrassing himself. If it were possible, Colt would gladly shoulder the weight of everybody’s worry for him. He doesn’t like the idea of his parents and little brother anticipating Marleyan officers coming to them, presenting them with a shoebox filled with trinkets meant to represent his life. He especially doesn’t like the idea of you anxiously waiting for him. He sees the split second of desperation in your eyes when you watch the door crack open, trying to see who’s behind it. He knows the relaxed slump of your body when you see it’s him is reserved just for him. He doesn’t want to try and imagine the reaction you have when it’s anyone else. 

(Because it will be, for at least several months, someone else.

And he will be miles away, trying to dodge a spray of bullets coming from men he doesn’t know, powerless to help you and maybe even himself.)

“That’s the problem.” He admits to Porco, before pushing his tray aside, losing his appetite.

When Falco is born, Colt can’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that this crying, red-faced gremlin swathed in a baby-blue blanket is his brother. 

“This is your baby brother, Colt,” his mother cooed, rocking a newborn Falco and beckoning Colt to come closer. “His name is Falco.” 

Colt doesn’t know what baby brothers are supposed to do. For the first few days since they’ve brought him back from the hospital, Falco sure doesn’t do much besides cry and sleep. There’s a funny feeling he gets, though, whenever he hears his little brother cry. He wants his little brother to stop crying; not because the noise bothers him, but because he doesn’t want tiny Falco to be in any sort of distress.  

Colt’s still too young to worry about things like life and death, but he does find himself on his tip-toes, peering into Falco’s crib, seemingly worried that if he doesn’t watch over Falco himself, Falco will just disappear into thin air. He doesn’t ponder on it too much, but as Colt stares at the peaceful state his normally loud brother is in, Colt realizes two things: life is very precious, and he wants his brother to enjoy this life for as long as he can. 

He offers to carry Falco at any given moment, telling his mother that she’ll have her hands full while cooking and can’t carry him herself. He watches with morbid fascination (and a little disgust) as his father explains how and why he has to change Falco’s diaper, and even though he’s just joking when he asks Colt if he wants to change Falco the next time, he grins when young Colt nods solemnly. 

“You’re a good big brother,” his father tells him, squeezing him on the shoulder. 

A good big brother. 

This praise becomes one of Colt’s goals in life. He’s a dutiful son, a capable soldier, and a dependable older brother. He’s the one who Falco looks up to in this world. Falco’s the reason why he doesn’t ever fight back against the blatant disrespect some Marleyan soldiers show him. Falco’s the reason why he’s careful about who he hangs around with; Colt was never meant to be with the group who walked him straight to the red light district. Falco’s the reason why Colt finds himself nervously trying to build up the courage to give a request to Zeke. 

“They’re sending you to Fort Helena.” Zeke says rather than asks, tossing the baseball in a wide arc. Colt winces, but not because of the impact of the ball landing neatly in his palm. 

“Just my luck, I suppose.” He says, throwing the ball. 

It’s an ancient-looking thing, discolored from age and dirt. Colt can’t understand why Zeke hangs onto it, but asking him that seems even scarier than the prospect of asking him for a favor. 

“Do you?” Zeke raises an eyebrow. “Think you’re lucky, that is.” 

Colt catches the ball once more, hanging onto it for a few more seconds than necessary as he mulls over the question. He thinks about his family gathered around the kitchen table, no fear of ever starving, a nice roof over their heads. He thinks about Falco falling just short of making the preliminary list of future titan inheritors; with Colt inheriting the Beast, the Grice name will be restored. There will be no reason for Falco to chase after a meaningless legacy full of empty glory and an early death. He thinks about you.

“I’ve lived a better life than most.” Colt answers carefully. 

“Gonna be a bit of a short life, huh?” Zeke holds a hand up to stop Colt from tossing the ball back to him. Zeke fumbles with the inner pockets of his jacket, taking out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “My advice to you is to start doing whatever you want, otherwise the deadline starts to get to you.” 

“Is that what you’re doing?” 

Zeke takes a drag of the cigarette, casually exhaling smoke. “I don’t want to leave behind unfinished business.” And he leaves it at that, choosing to not elaborate any further. Colt doesn’t press him for more details; they don’t have that sort of relationship. Despite the fact that Zeke’s been a full-fledged Warrior for so long, Colt has a feeling that Zeke doesn’t really have any relationships that allow him to confide in others. “On that note, do you have any scores you’re trying to settle before you go?” 

Sometimes, Colt gets the funny feeling that conversations with Zeke are more like interrogations. Unlike Porco, who outright asks what’s on his mind, Zeke meticulously pokes and prods at all the weak points Colt wasn’t even aware he had. Colt finds himself shifting his weight around, the baseball suddenly feeling too heavy, his uniform too restrictive. 

“I just want to ensure that the people I care about are well taken care of, long after I’m gone.” 

Zeke studies him for a moment. The more time they spend together, the more layers of Zeke Colt thinks he unravels; the only issue is, surface level stuff is easy to understand. It’s when you start to dig deeper into a person’s being that they start to become confusing. He makes an effort to try to get to know Zeke, not for his own personal gain, but because no one really knows Zeke. How incredibly lonely it must be, Colt thinks, to not be known. To not even have anyone willing to try to learn you.

Of course, he knows that eventually he’ll understand what goes on in Zeke’s mind, that one day, Zeke’s memories will blend in with his own. But Colt’s not the invasive type. He needs to be invited in. 

“You’ll do a lot for your family.” Zeke comments.

“They’re my family.” And Colt leaves it at that, certain that nothing more could be said on the matter. In typical Zeke fashion, he pokes and he prods. He’s perfected the talent of softening the words that come from his sharp tongue, though.

“Your parents and your brother; they mean that much to you?” 

They mean the world to me. I’d die for them without any hesitation. I’d give up anything to ensure they live good lives. Those answers come to Colt naturally. He doesn’t have to think about saying them, but he does pause. Thinks to himself what a good answer might be. 

When he was younger— the Beast still wholly belonging to Zeke, Colt uncertain of what his bleak future might hold — Zeke had always seemed to be an enigma. All Colt knew about him was that he mostly kept to himself, that he proved his loyalty to Marley by betraying his family (and by extension, revealing Colt’s uncle as a dirty Restorationist), and that he knew much more than he let on. Colt figures out this last bit of information through years of conversation and mentorship. Zeke’s trick, Colt realizes, is that he lets everyone else around him do the talking. At best, Zeke will offer up the most bare minimum reply he can get away with.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” It’s a cheekier reply than what Colt would normally give, but he relaxes his shoulders when he catches the barest hint of a smile on Zeke’s lips. 

(That’s another thing Colt notices about his mentor; he doesn’t ever seem to smile.) 

“You worked hard to inherit the Beast. The appeal of being a Warrior so enticing that you would shorten the time you could spend with your family?” 

Colt sometimes forgets that Zeke technically has no family; his parents are either deep in the dungeons or dead due to their betrayal to the country. Colt hasn’t decided which fate is worse, and now he wonders if Zeke knows what has become of his parents. Zeke also doesn’t have any siblings; he probably can’t see where Colt is coming from.

“What I do affects my family entirely. If I become a Warrior, they receive the benefits and retain the status of honorary Marleyans.” Colt clears his throat. “Even after I’m dead.”

“Your brother — I heard he wants to inherit one of the Titans, eventually. Maybe follow in his older brother’s footsteps and take the Beast.” He’s not asking a question, but Colt can’t help but answer.

“That won’t happen.” He’s quick with the reply, tightening his grip on the battered baseball. “He’s already ranked close to the bottom of the list of candidates, and there wouldn’t be a point to him inheriting a Titan anyway.” 

“There’s always the opportunity to make Marley proud.” Zeke’s being sarcastic; his actions might indicate that he’s nothing but loyal to the motherland, but his expression and attitude suggest otherwise. “That’s not a pointless ordeal.”

Yeah, but this conversation is starting to feel like one. Colt loosens his grip on the baseball, unsure of what direction Zeke wanted to take this conversation in. Maybe it’s just a setup, and he’s trying to gauge Colt’s loyalty to the country before he officially inherits the Beast. Having someone who can transform into a powerful monster at will is already dangerous enough; imagine if that person just lost control or wanted to take their anger out on the people who abused them on a daily basis. 

(Honestly, the more he considers it, the more he realizes the amount of self-restraint Porco truly possesses. 

That, and the fact that he’s a mama’s boy. If he went rogue, Mrs. Galliard would surely pay the price for his transgressions.) 

“I just don’t see the point in him wanting to be on the frontlines of war.” Colt decides to say. It’s the truth. “There’s nothing to be gained from it.” 

“You’ve got a point there, Grice.” Another drag of his cigarette, another puff of nicotine-infused smoke being exhaled. “War’s only glorious when you see the pretty posters telling you it’s an honor to enlist. Won’t be long ‘til he’s being sent out there. The disillusionment they feel after their first deployment is always worse than the shell shock.” 

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Colt locks eyes with Zeke, and he continues speaking before he loses his nerve. “Falco still has some time where he’s considered a child, and you know that war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He looks up to you. Could you possibly… make some time to throw around the ball with him, maybe convince him that some fights just aren’t worth joining?” 

Zeke doesn’t answer immediately. He finishes off his cigarette, drops it to the ground, and stomps on it, still possibly mulling over Colt’s request. 

“If it’s a request from my favorite successor, then sure.” A brief flash of a smile. “Hopefully he throws half as decent as you.” 

As a baby, Colt wasn’t very fussy. His mother used to tell him that she was worried about him while he was growing up because he wouldn’t make a lot of noise. She tells stories about how, as a child, he would curl up in bed, trying to make himself as small as possible, almost as if he was scared of taking up too much space. This anxious reflex was something he grew out of, probably because that growth spurt of his resulted in him taking up a lot more space everywhere he goes. It’s hard to hide in plain sight when you’re the one who has to grab stuff on the top shelf for others.

Falco isn’t like that, though. Colt remembers the long nights of constant crying that came from his baby brother’s crib, the way he could never hold in his wails of pain when he would skin a knee while playing on the decrepit public playground in the internment zone, the excited shouts of joy he let out as he barreled straight into Colt’s outstretched arms on the days a young Colt would return from the military base. Falco might be nearing ten years old now, but he still hasn’t outgrown much of his childhood; tufts of feathersoft hair that still sticks out against his longer strands, baby fat that makes his cheeks appear to be chubby, adult teeth that fits awkwardly in his mouth, and most incriminating of all: his innocence. 

Falco doesn’t know anything about war. It’s because their father doesn’t like to discuss it, and Colt will do anything to ensure that Falco never learns. He complains that everyone in their family babies him, and Colt doesn’t know how to tell Falco that it’s because to them, he still is a baby. When Colt looks at him, he still sees the little brother who would hide behind his back, wiping his tears and snot against the fabric of Colt’s shirt. 

Colt isn’t the type of person who speaks up for himself, but it’s an entirely different story when it comes to others. Growing up, he would get teased on the schoolyard, yelled at by his instructors in the military, sneered at, spat at, laughed at. He took it all in stride, and when it comes to matters concerning only himself, he still does — take it all in stride, that is. Just last week, he was on courtyard cleaning duty, except the Eldian units had no brooms to sweep with. He had to make do with a crutch (loaned to him by an injured soldier who felt bad for him) shoddily attached to some raggedy broom bristles. 

The alternative would have been to ask a superior officer for a proper broom, but Colt already knows how that would have ended: with him getting yelled at in front of everyone, absolute humiliation and shame coursing through his veins, and still, no broom. 

When you spend most of your life being someone’s go-to punching bag, you start to get a feel for what’s a losing battle, for what fight is worth having. 

Even if things will only prove to get worse for him, Colt jumps to the defense of others. Even if it’s a losing battle, when it comes to matters concerning Falco, it doesn’t matter what odds are stacked against him, what cruel punishment awaits for him; defending Falco will always be a fight worth having. 

It’s why he’s the big brother who kills all the bugs, the brother who checks the closet and under the bed to make sure there are no monsters in the room, the brother who couldn’t hold in his shout of disapproval when he saw the youth commanding officer punishing Falco. He’s the brother who enlisted so Falco would never have to. 

And now, picking him up from his barracks so they can take the train home, Colt realizes that he will have to be the brother who leaves. 

It leaves a bad feeling in his stomach, punches him in the gut, and it’s silent as he and Falco board the train. It’s no more than a twenty minute ride to the internment zone from base, but the silence between them makes the seconds drag out and feel like years. Even worse — no amount of time seems to be sufficient enough for what Colt wants to say to him. 

Sorry I didn’t tell you I was getting shipped off to war. Hey buddy, looks like I’m heading off to war! You’ll never guess where I’m going! Don’t be selfish; let your brother get some glory for you to brag about!

He thinks he’d rather get waterboarded than say any of those statements to Falco. If the roles were reversed, if he was the younger brother feeling betrayed over his older brother’s silence, what would he want to hear? 

The truth. 

“I didn’t want to tell you because I was scared.” 

Falco looks up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted in surprise. He’s sitting on the seat across from him, and Colt can’t help but notice the way he’s still short enough to where his feet don’t even hit the ground. It makes him swallow hard, before continuing. 

“I was scared you would be worried about me.” 

“But I am!” Falco interjects, looking like he’s about to hop out of his seat. “That’s why I’m training so hard, so that I can be the one who fights alongside you in the future!” 

The thing about little brothers is that they can’t fathom a scenario where they’re not right by their brother’s side. Falco doesn’t think about how awful going to war will be; just that it’s important to him that they’re with each other when it happens. Colt thinks back to the way Porco used to go around bragging that one day, he’d be fighting side by side with his older brother, Marcel. 

Then Colt thinks about the haunted look on Porco’s face when he realizes that his older brother is dead. When Porco’s birthday comes around, the one where he reaches the age Marcel never had a chance to be, he doesn’t celebrate. Colt stares at the earnest expression on Falco’s face, memorizes his childlike naivety, and prays that nothing changes about him when he comes back from Fort Helena.

(Because he will come back. There’s too many people waiting for his return.)

It’s barely late in the afternoon, but there’s a darkness that smothers the internment zone of Liberio.

The sun is shining, and Colt can feel himself already getting overheated in his uniform as he steps off the train, but even the sunlight does nothing to wipe the grim expressions off the faces of his fellow soldiers. Everyone’s excited to be off base and to see their loved ones, sure, but this isn’t a holiday visit 

When there’s active war and their enlisted sons are stuck on base, Eldian parents know what it means when they see their child on the doorsteps of their home, no prior explanation given except for a letter in the mail sent just a day before the dreaded arrival of their son. 

Opening the door and seeing their baby in uniform isn’t a cause for celebration. It’s the chance that this very well may be the last time they ever see their child again.

No one is out in the street. Parents and families have received their letters in the mail, telling them that in twenty-four hours, they can expect to see their soldier returning home for the night. 

Not even a full day, Colt realizes. He’s back a few hours before supper, but what really can he do with his family before he wakes up at the crack of dawn to head on a train to a warzone? Maybe, in the few hours he has with them, he’ll figure out a proper way to say farewell. 

The Grice family home is modest, unassuming. Much like its inhabitants. 

Barnaby Grice is where Colt inherits his height from, but he’s developed a slouch (a disappointing consequence of his chronic back pain) that makes it hard to believe. His shoulders sag, and he looks tired. Mom says it’s because he can’t sleep at night; too much restless energy. His father is good with his hands; before the illness took over, he had been one of the engineers — one of the few Eldian engineers, too — that worked on the Navy’s ships. He still wants to work, offering to help fix up neighbor’s boats, free of charge. It’s a slow death, to be a busybody whose body is failing them. 

Amelia Grice fusses over her husband constantly. With both of her boys now out of the house, it’s easier to manage the household, but that doesn't mean she can’t find problems that need her attention. If keeping an eye on her husband proves to be not enough to keep her entertained, she spends her time flipping through old family albums, seeing her little boys, and then wondering what she can do to help them. She’s taken up knitting; sewing is essential, but knitting is purely for pleasure. There’s a stack of sweaters and blankets she’s managed to make, and they’re all going to be stuffed in her sons’ knapsacks before they take the train back to base. 

(She knits every time she thinks about them.

It’s going to be impossible for them to take all her completed projects back with them.) 

As plain as it appears to be, it’s home to Colt. He stares at the faded red brick exterior of the house, the shutters black (and the color too saturated, indicating that it’s been freshly painted since the last time he’s been here), the welcome mat swept clean from any outside debris. 

He doesn’t even have to knock on the door for it to swing open, revealing the tired, worn, but relieved expressions on both of his parents’ faces. 

“Colt, Falco, you’re back home!” His mother ushers them into the house, and Colt is slapped in the face with the strong wall of nostalgia. 

When was the last time he’s been back home? 

(Will this be the last time?) 

No matter the time that’s passed, Colt can tell that his mother’s been cooking her famous roast; the spices are still marinating on the meat, and he can recognize mom’s cooking from miles away. If he faints on the battlefield, the scent of her cookies should be enough to bring him back to full consciousness. 

He sees his father’s work boots still resting by the front door, and as he walks further along the narrow hallway of their home, he spots the pencil marks etched on the wall. It’s markers for his (and then Falco’s) new heights as they went through their childhood years. Amelia is back in the kitchen, fussing over the food, and Falco follows her, probably in the hopes of sneaking in bites when she’s not looking. 

Barnaby watches as Colt looks at the pencil marks he left behind all those years ago. He can still picture his son barely able to reach his shoulders, and now Colt is easily taller than him. 

“Should I get out the tape measurer and pencil?” He asks, smiling as Colt seems to be broken out of whatever trance he was in. 

Colt gives him a sheepish grin. “I just couldn’t believe I was ever this tiny. Even Falco was taller than me when we were the same age!”

“I can remember when you weren’t tall enough to reach the cabinets so you would have to climb on top of the counters.” When he catches the faint blush on his son’s cheeks, Barnaby laughs. “Bet you would rather not remember that, huh?” 

“Mom screamed at me to get down because she was scared I was going to fall off and break open my head or something. Her yelling was what nearly made me lose my balance!” 

“Ah, your mom just worries about you too much.” 

“Don’t play Mr. Tough Guy!” Amelia peeks her head out from the kitchen. With her back turned, only Colt and Barnaby can spot Falco mischievously popping one of the baby potatoes from the pot roast into his mouth. They hold in their laughter while his mother continues. “Just so you know, Colt, your father’s been up all night ever since we got that letter! He even started sifting through our trashed newspapers for any articles he might’ve missed on Fort Helena.” 

“I was just curious about the crossword.” Her husband mutters, but she rolls her eyes. 

“Falco, go set the table! You two, come in here and sit down. I’m about to serve supper.” 

Nothing beats a home cooked meal, but when you’ve been fed nothing but indiscernible mush and questionable protein on a military base, the Grice boys can’t help but devour everything on the table like they’ve been starved. Too happy at having the whole family over for dinner, Mrs. Grice ignores the way they forgo table manners and instead encourages them to eat some more. Right when Colt’s plate is almost cleaned off, she’s forking over more meat and potatoes onto his plate. 

Colt tries to savor the taste of the meal, hopes and prays that his taste buds retain the memory of his mother’s cooking so he has something to substitute for the tasteless protein bars they serve all soldiers on the battlefield. He’s been trying to actively avoid thinking too much about it, but where he’s headed, there will be no pot roasts or mothers to serve it up on a nice plate for him. 

Later on in the night, Colt gets that funny feeling again. The one where he feels like time seems to quicken its pace when it comes to him. He blinks, and he’s suddenly not at the dinner table, laughing at what the neighbors have been up to. He’s no longer washing the dishes, either (he does it despite his mother protesting that he shouldn’t have to worry about cleaning when he needs to be up early tomorrow); Falco still finds it funny when Colt makes funny shapes out of the bubbles and suds from the dish soap, and their boyish laughter fills the house, makes it feel like a home once more. Time gives him some grace, though, when it comes to tucking in Falco. 

“A lot nicer than the bunk beds in the barracks, huh?” Colt teases. Falco’s sheets are still the same baby blue, but they smell fresh. His mother must have washed them while waiting for them to come home. 

“Smells a lot nicer, too.” Falco comments, and Colt laughs. He’s sitting on the edge of his little brother’s bed, and Falco’s all snuggled up in his blanket. With the sweat and grime washed off from his face, his pastel colored jammies fitting only a bit too snug, and the way he fits so perfectly in his childhood bedroom, Colt knows that this is what Falco’s nights should have still been looking like. Falco will take the later train back to base, but Colt’s happy that he’ll at least get to eat lunch with their parents; maybe even find some time to catch up with the other neighborhood kids. 

“If you think the barracks are bad, I don’t think you’ll want to be going where I’m going.” He’s trying to keep his voice light, teasing, but Falco immediately frowns. 

“I’ll always follow you anywhere! I don’t care how bad it gets! You told me that as long as we’re together, everything will be okay.” 

People aren’t supposed to go back on their word — especially not older brothers. Colt cringes as he thinks about how he’s going to have to make an addendum to that particular promise. 

“You know, Falco, war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s dirty, and disgusting, and the officers are all harsher than they usually are.” 

“I know that!” 

Not really, not yet. 

“Then why do you want to go with me so badly?” 

“Because you’re my brother. Because I don’t want you to go through that alone.” 

“You know that I love you, right?”

“Of course, I do. I’m not an idiot.” He mumbles, pulling the blanket closer to his chest, covering his chin. 

“And it’s because I love you that I’m telling you to not follow me to these places. I’m your big brother. I want to do all of this so you’re never obligated to.” 

“But—” 

“Do you know why I thought inheriting the Beast was such an honor? It wasn’t because I wanted to make Marley proud, or because I was finally giving our country reparations for what Uncle did. It was an honor for me to inherit it because it meant that our family would be safe. No one else would have to fight anymore. It’ll all be over, don’t you get it? You can live better lives now.” 

“But I don’t want to live a better life without you! It won’t be a better life without you!” Even in the dark, Colt can spot the familiar shine in his brother’s eyes as an indicator that he’s about to cry. 

“Falco—” Colt pats him on the head, feeling babysoft hair underneath his calloused palm. “Everything will be okay in the end. I promise.” 

That’s the first promise of the night that Colt makes. The next comes a few minutes later, when he heads downstairs and sees that the living room light is still on. His parents are seated next to each other on the couch, and they seem to be waiting for him.

If Colt was still a teenager, he would be feeling nervous. They’re seated almost as if they’re about to confront him about breaking curfew or a bad grade (neither scenarios have actually happened; the nickname of “Golden Boy Grice” didn’t spring out of nowhere). 

“Hi.” He sits on the armchair adjacent to them. 

“It’s still early in the evening, but you might as well go wash up and head to bed. You have an early morning ahead of you, sweetie.” His mother suggests this, but there’s a reason why she’s still up and waiting for him. It’s because she doesn’t want him to go to bed, not yet, not when she finally has her baby within reach. 

“Too early for me to be able to sleep.” Colt tells her, because he knows how she’s feeling. “Besides, I feel like there’s some stuff I didn’t get to share with you two during dinner.” 

Colt explains about how the paycheck he’ll receive while he’s actively on the battlefield will increase; not only has being a Warrior greatly increased his earnings, but being on the frontlines will leave plenty for his family. Half of his paycheck will go to them, of course, but he loses his confidence in his speech when he reveals his plan. 

“And a portion of my earnings will be going to someone else.” 

“Someone else?” His father raises an eyebrow; it’s not out of malice, but curiosity. He doesn’t care what his son does with his money, but throughout this entire day, Colt hasn’t given any indication of anyone important entering his life. 

“A girl.” Colt answers, suddenly quieter than he’s been all night. “I’ve made the proper arrangements so that you two won’t have to worry about manually divvying it up yourselves, especially if I… don’t return.”

(It had been an awkward affair. He knows that you don’t have a bank account, and his only choice was to turn to Willa, the redheaded woman running your brothel. 

“You want my bank account information so that a portion of your paycheck can be deposited into my account, and then you want me to cash it out and hand it over to her? Is that correct?” 

“I understand if it’s too much of a hassle. If necessary, I can pay you—”

“I’m not going to kick someone when they’re down.” Willa interrupts him, and he can’t help but feel like maybe she’s even insulting him. Does she think he’s poor? 

He kind of is, but he makes a far more decent living than many others in his neighborhood!

“Of course I can do it. Did you tell her about you sending her money?” 

“No.”

“Good. She would have refused it.”

He knows you would. That’s precisely why he didn’t tell you.

“I don’t meddle in the affairs of soldiers, and I certainly don’t micromanage my girls. I’m asking this because I care about her. What are your intentions, truly? Are you going to steal her away from this place? Are you going to keep on giving her your paychecks, even when you find yourself a wife and start a family? Are you going to leave her with nothing but a few memories of you?” Willa’s green eyes are too sharp; just like Zeke, she pokes and prods, but it’s her intense stare that seems to whittle away at his very soul. 

“I want to do whatever she wants.” 

Willa’s eyes soften, just the slightest bit, before she promises to hand over the money to you every week, and then she sends Colt on his merry way.)

“A girl?” His mother repeats, and his father only continues to look more concerned. 

“Did you do something with this girl to make her your responsibility?” Barnaby asks, scared of what answer he’ll receive. 

“No! It’s not like that!” Colt exclaims, nearly jumping out of his seat. “It’s different. It’s… A delicate situation.” He tries to avoid looking into his parents’ eyes when he says this. 

“Is she Eldian?” His father presses, leaning forward, practically holding his breath. 

“She’s from the refugee camp.” Colt explains, and he watches as his mother processes what he’s just told them, along with the relieved slump of his father’s shoulders. 

Refugees aren’t treated much better than Eldians; at least most Eldians have houses as opposed to tents. 

“Is she a nice girl?” Amelia enters her Mother Hen mode, knowing that it’ll do no good to worry over her son. She shifts her anxieties onto you instead. “Oh, that poor girl, she’s going to be freezing in the upcoming weeks! You know we have some of the harshest winters here. Maybe I should knit her some sweaters. Do you think she would like that? What’s her name? I’ll head down to the camp one of these days, and—” 

“Mom, it’s okay! She’s doing well.” 

She doesn’t seem to believe him, but she eases up on her questions. 

“She must mean a lot to you, though.” His father brings up. “Enough to mention her to your dear old parents. About time you bring a girl home to us, boy.” 

Colt looks down at his hands. “She does. I’ll bring her back home if I make it back.” 

The if stabs him in the throat, but he knows better than to make the promise of when.

“Well, we can’t wait to meet her then.” His mother is smiling at him, her hands clasped with his father’s. “I have a great feeling about her.” 

There’s a breach in the barbed wire surrounding the back outskirts of the internment zone. Legend has it that a Marleyan officer once fell in love with an Eldian girl, and he sneakily cut this discreet opening so that they could make an escape and run off into the woods to be together. 

Truthfully, Colt believes the other version of the origin story of the hole. It goes something along the lines of how a Marleyan officer once fought on the battlefield with an Eldian, and the Eldian saved his life by taking a bullet for him. Feeling bad, the officer returned, took his name off for active duty volunteer, and became a patrolman for the internment zone instead. When he heard that the Eldian’s brother was going to be shipped off next, the officer, not understanding that deserting his duty would lead to the Eldian’s death, decided to cut open this part of the fence and let him know that running away was an option. 

Colt’s not sure what to believe, but he does know that this opening in the fence has been used for the past decade or so, and will probably continue to be of use long after he’s gone. No one’s ever used it to desert their duties, and Colt thinks this is precisely why it’s never been fixed. You can loosen the leash on a dog to give them some semblance of freedom, and it’ll make it feel better when it heads back to its owner. 

He checks his watch. He’ll make it to you just short of ten at night; he has to be back on the train by five in the morning. He needs more time, but he knows he’ll never get it. Instead, he finds himself awkwardly sneaking through the poorly cut opening of the fence, glad that it’s an unspoken rule that the Marleyan officers don’t patrol the streets on deployment nights. 

If anyone was actually idiotic enough to escape, they’d find all the officers waiting for them at all the possible exits. 

Even entering the brothel starts to feel too familiar to Colt. The sparsely furnished entrance puts him at ease since the space is so narrow, he’s bound to bump into something or knock over a vase if they had it. The lightbulb burns brightly; one night, he stopped by and offered to change the bulb while he waited for you. Now, he even can recognize some of the girls photographed on the wall.

Even Willa doesn’t seem as intimidating as before — still intimidating, yes, but Colt can almost muster up the courage to look her in the eyes for prolonged periods of conversation. 

But there’s someone here that feels the most familiar to him, the one person who puts him at ease, the one person who makes time stand still for him.

You.

Just looking at you makes his anxieties momentarily freeze, and he resists the urge to scoop you in his arms and hold you close to his chest. 

“Why so serious, soldier?” You giggle, smoothing down the dress you put on just for him. When Willa went down your list of appointments, she didn’t miss the way your face lit up as she mentioned Colt’s name. You had some free time; you wanted to look pretty for him. 

He’s taking you in, eyes unsure of what to focus on, just knowing that he wants to focus on you. You’re wearing a pretty, colorful dress that reaches down to the floor and accentuates your figure. The fabric looks light, soft. He likes it when you wear your colorful clothing. It makes you stand out even more. You brighten up his life, and you don’t even know it. 

“You’re beautiful.” He breathes out, still standing there, a man stunned. 

“I knew you would appreciate all the time and effort I put into getting ready!” You give him a pleased hum, before looking up and gasping. “Your hair!”

“Huh, what’s wrong with it?” He runs his hand through his fresh buzz cut, worried that a branch or leaves had somehow created a nest on top of his head.

“Why is it so short now?” You look so concerned that he can’t help but laugh. You’re taking his hand, dragging him to bed, forcing him to sit down as you balance yourself atop his lap. He wonders if you’re as hyper aware of how intimate this position is. He wonders if he’s a bad person for having to restrain himself, trying his best to chase away any unchaste thoughts about you. Instead, he chooses to focus on you. 

Colt’s used to being scrutinized. Every move he makes is under the careful, unremitting surveillance of Marley. There’s probably a counter for every blink he’s ever done, just to ensure he isn’t communicating to his fellow brethren via morse code. He’s used to the watchful eyes of Marleyan soldiers and officers who eagerly wait for him to mess up; no matter how minor the infraction, there will be a punishment to serve for his mistake. He’s used to the feeling of eyes focused on him. The harsh glares, the fearful looks, the disgusted glances, the pitiful gazes. 

You’re looking at him intently, your eyes trailing over every centimeter of him. 

Curiosity. Wonder. Appreciation.

Your eyes are full of them, and so much more, and all of it is meant for him, because of him. 

Even from this position, with you straddling his lap, it’s still hard to peer over him. He has impossibly nice posture, always with his back straight and stiff. Still, you play with the hastily shaved hair, running the tips of your fingers against the incredibly short strands, so concentrated on your little exploration that you almost seem to have forgotten you even asked him a question.

Until you pause, let out a little gasp that has him looking up in worry, and now you’re asking him a question you couldn’t possibly be distracted from obtaining your answer to. 

“What’s this?” You ask him, fingers pausing at the two scars dangerously close to his forehead. You’ve never noticed them before; they’re too close to his hairline, easily hidden when his hair is grown out and covering it from the world. With the buzzcut, the twin scars stick out against his fine, blond strands. 

“My scars?” He meets your eyes, reaching up to gently place his hand over yours, the one that was tracing his scars with morbid fascination. 

You nod, not wanting to speak out of fear that the words are going to get tangled in your throat. He lets out a soft laugh, even though nothing seems very funny to you right now. He stops when he sees your frown, your sad eyes. 

He squeezes your hand. “They’re just scars. Nothing to worry about.” 

“How long have they been there?” 

“Since I was fourteen, I think.” Colt’s other hand finds its way to your waist, and he holds you, keeps you steady. “See, I can’t even remember all the details from how I got them. Not that serious, okay?” 

But it is serious, you want to tell him. Because it’s him. Because a scar indicates an injury. Because it’s Colt getting hurt.  

You swallow down those sentences, and instead let out a shaky, “How’d you get them?” 

Now he winces, almost like the memory is being played out in his mind. Colt doesn't think too much of how bad his luck is, but he is acutely aware of how lame his life sounds when he has to actually verbalize what he’s been through to you. “It was during one of my earlier sparring matches. They had all of us get dressed in full military uniform to simulate what combat as an active soldier would feel like, and you’ve seen it before, the helmets we wear. Bulletproof, so the material isn’t the softest.” He chuckles a bit, but it’s clear that he failed to lighten the mood. He clears his throat, continuing. 

“It’s not a very interesting story. A Marleyan soldier was just being extra aggressive that day, and I happened to be the one paired up with him.” Because that’s typically how Colt’s luck goes. “And he managed to take my helmet off and rammed it against my head. None of the officers noticed until after he got the second hit, which is why there’s only two. So, could be worse, huh?” He’s smiling, trying to make you feel more at ease, but the look you’re giving him makes his heart ache. 

Only two? Only?

“Did the officers not notice or did they just refuse to acknowledge it until it looked like you would bleed out to death on the training field?” Your voice is shaking, and Colt moves your hand from his hair to down on the bed. 

“Hey. Look at me, please.” Always gentle, always kind, always soft. You like that about him, maybe feel something even more for him because he’s like this, but where does that gentleness, that kindness, that unwavering softness, lead him to? Bloody wounds and lasting scars? Bad memories and story retellings that leave a bitter taste in his mouth? 

You comply, still frowning at him. 

“I’m okay now. I’ll always be okay.” 

He squeezes your hand as if to punctuate his promise. 

“I can’t believe I never noticed you had these scars.” You sound upset over this fact.

He laughs lightly. “Even the people watching the match probably don’t remember if it left me scarred or not. You shouldn’t feel bad. Besides, when my hair grows out, it’s hard to see.” 

“Why did you get a haircut?” You ask him again; the soldiers you’ve seen all grow their hair out. It’s not a bad look; you think Colt is so handsome he could pull off just about anything, but still — your soldier doesn’t strike you as someone who wants to venture out and try new haircuts.

You don’t miss the hard swallow and the tightness of his jaw. He’s stressed about something. He’s hiding something.

“Colt—” Despite the nervousness of what his answer could possibly be, you still say his name gently. 

He closes his eyes, memorizing the way you say his name. You always say his name gently. You even say your brother’s name, Ramzi, gently, too. You treat names with care, like they’re something precious, fragile. 

He’s a soldier, yes, but there’s something nice in knowing that the person you adore the most believes that you are something precious, fragile, meant to be handled with care. 

“—why did you get your hair cut?”

He opens his eyes. Your pretty features are contorted into a look of confusion and concern. He wants to tell you not to worry about him, that he’ll be fine, that he has everything handled. Instead, he swallows hard and takes you in, commits the image of you to his memory. He’d forget his own name in favor of remembering the way you look when you smile, pure joy lighting up your usual melancholy expression. 

“Tonight is my last night seeing you before I get deployed.”

“You’re leaving?” He doesn’t like the way your question sounds, coming out raw and scratchy. Disappointed. Hurt. 

And he’s so close to you right now, your weight resting comfortably on top of him, that he can witness all the emotion flickering across your facial features, pooling around in your eyes.

“Yes.” 

Gone is your good mood. You’re staring at him, lips slightly parted, his hand still holding yours. You’re looking at him like he’s going to disappear at any minute now, and he’s so scared that he’ll blink, and he’ll really be gone, already on the train off to war. 

Don’t look at me like I’m already a ghost. He wants to beg you. Stare at me for as long as you want, but trust that I’ll still be here.

“When will you be back?” You finally manage to find the strength to ask him.

“As soon as I can be.” It’s the most honest answer he can give you; the answer that will crush you the least. The truth? He’s not even sure if he’s going to make it back. War promises a lot of things: honor, glory, heroics. It never promised a safe return. 

“You’ll come back, though, right?” You’re staring at him so expectantly that Colt Grice knows he’ll do anything on the battlefield to ensure that he’s on the train back home, back to you. 

“If that’s what you want, I’ll find a way.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You scold him, and he can’t help but smile at a fond memory of you telling him the same exact thing just a few weeks prior. 

Before the kiss that he relives in his memories constantly, before deployment was even a thought on the forefront of his mind, just barely a fortnight before now, Colt’s sitting on the floor, back against the side of your bed, looking up at you from an angle that surely hurts his neck but he doesn’t protest. He never complains.

Sometimes you wish he would, just so you could know what to do to put him at ease, like how he always seems to be able to comfort you. 

In this moment, Colt’s finishing up telling you a story about the blind date mishaps that happen on base. The girls-to-boys ratio on base is absolutely abysmal, he says, and the girls hold all the cards. 

“The girls on base must find you handsome, don’t they?” You’re on the bed, but you’re sitting upright, knees up so you can rest your chin atop them.  

“Um, well, I don’t know—”

“They do.” You say, suddenly wanting to curl up and make yourself feel smaller. You know it’s silly to feel the way that you do; scared that one day Colt will just look at you and not see anything worth looking at. If Colt stops and thinks about the future, you wonder, where do you fit in it? You know that you don’t exactly resemble the beautiful Eldian girls that he’s grown up with, the same ones who are probably more than happy to pursue him. They’re connected to him by the same culture, the same background — surely whatever connection he feels with you couldn’t possibly be as strong as what he can share with them. 

“I don’t care that they do. I only care if you find me handsome.” 

The expression on his face is so earnest and honest that you find yourself practically melting into the mattress. You’re not good at being vulnerable, never as open with your feelings as he is, but it’s almost like he can tell when you’re on the brink of insanity. When you’re close to blurting out that you don’t want him anymore, even though that’s far from the truth. 

“Well, what happens if the most beautiful girl on base approaches you and says you’re the most attractive man she’s ever seen, and she wants to let you do all sorts of depraved, nasty things to her? What then?” 

Colt likes to think that he’s managed to get a good read on you. You don’t often say what’s exactly on your mind, but he thinks he can fill in the blanks most of the time. There is no beautiful girl on base for you to be concerned about, and just the hypothetical that you’re bringing up is so comical that he almost wants to laugh. Even if it seems silly, he holds back his smile. You’re not asking him because you think this scenario is likely going to happen; you’re asking him would you choose me over someone else?

The answer is you’re the only one for me. 

“I would scream for the authorities to take her away from my vicinity.” 

“Hmm.” You mull over his answer, secretly pleased that he’s playing along with your antics that stem from places of yourself that you don’t want to explore; the insecurity, the fear, the anxiety that comes with being someone who you’re so certain is too good for you. 

The more of himself he hands over to you, the more comfortable you feel with him. But the more you have of him, the more frightened you get at the prospect of losing him, because as the days go by, there’s more of him to lose. He’s not the stuttering boy who brought you socks one time. He’s the only man who knows your name and says it with such tender care that you start to believe that if you dare to fall, he’ll be there to catch you. 

“What if you go out drinking with your friends, and the bartender is a very pretty girl, and she offers you free drinks and flirts with you all night?” You know Colt can’t turn down a good drink. Him not turning down the opportunity to go to a bar practically led him to your room all those nights ago. 

Is your favorite vice more appealing than me? 

“I would pay off my tab immediately, and let her know that I took a vow of sobriety. I wouldn’t even finish my current drink. I would just run and get the hell out of there.” 

This makes you laugh. When his time is up, and he has to pass along the Beast to the next successor, he hopes they know how blessed they are to be able to hear your soft laughter in his passed-down memories. This is a melody that cannot be replicated by any trained orchestra. 

“A vow of sobriety? You would never!”

He pretends to be hurt at your comment. “If you asked me to give up drinking, I’d never let a single drop of liquor in my system ever again.” 

You mean more to me than any vice. There is no pleasure on this planet that can compare to the euphoria I feel when I’m with you.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” But you’re still giggling, adjusting your position so that you’re laying on your belly now, looking at him like you believe him. 

(You should. He means every word he says to you.)

“You always tell me that.” He brings your hand close to his face before he’s pressing a kiss against your knuckles. Like heat hitting butter, you melt into him, suddenly finding yourself sinking against his chest, hiding your face from him in the space between his shoulder and jawline. The top of your hair tickles his chin; you breathe in deeply, catching the faint whiff of cologne and soap on his neck. 

“No I don't.” You mutter, knowing damn well that you do. 

You always ask him wild hypotheticals, usually out of the blue, too, as if you’re trying to catch him off guard. As if you’re waiting for him to slip up and admit that one day, he really will just run away with some other girl and drop you like a bad habit. 

“What if you find a girl who doesn’t bother you with her stupid questions?” Your hands grip the material of his uniform, fingers curled around the dry cleaned cotton blend. 

“There’s only one girl who keeps my attention, whether she’s asking me questions or not.” You feel the familiar touch of his hand pressed against the small of your back. Warm. Comforting. 

Refusing to give in to him too soon, you soldier on, picking your next set of questions. These are a bit more serious.

“What if the war never ends, and you’re stuck on your deployment forever?” 

“I’ll pretend to be insane and get sent to the mental facility back home, and then you’ll be the one who has to do all the running around to visit me.” 

You don’t have to look up to know that he’s smiling when he says this. You should chastise him for not taking this seriously, but then the warmth of his body pressed against yours keeps you grounded. Helps you to remember that no one else in the world would be taking this barrage of stupid questions as seriously as him. 

“Well, what if you’re fighting and get horribly injured, and then some cute nurse saves your life? I heard that’s how a lot of soldiers meet their wives.” 

You can feel him playing with the ends of your hair as he tries to decide on a proper answer. It feels nice, to have him twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, and it’s almost enough to get you to ditch all these hypotheticals, but you stand your ground. “Well?” 

“That won’t happen because I won’t let any nurse work on me, cute or not. If I get hurt, I’ll fix myself up.” 

You think about the scars permanently embedded on his skin. The casual violence inflicted on him. The indifference of every doctor he’s dealt with.

“Don’t say that.” You mumble, trying to sink yourself even deeper into him, curling up against his chest and almost shyly burying your whole face into the stiff material of his uniform jacket. “I don’t want you to not get medical attention.” 

Colt catches himself smiling. First, you’re worried about him running off with a nurse, next you’re telling him that he needs to get aid if he needs it. He doesn’t mind answering all your questions if it’ll put your mind at ease, but he does wonder why the terms of engagement keep switching. 

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell the nurse that just because she saves my life, it doesn’t mean I’ll run away with her.” Then, after really taking the time to consider a scenario in which he does need medical attention, he adds, “I don’t think I’ll look like someone worth marrying when I’m bleeding out and covered in dirt.” 

You let out a little huff of laughter at the idea of Colt ever looking unattractive. As if. Still fresh in your memories is the vision of him from months ago; even with his bruised face and body limping from exhaustion, he still looked handsome. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“That you would think anyone wouldn’t want to marry you.” Now you tilt your head to look up at him. He has an unreadable expression on his face, almost like he’s deep in thought, but you’re not sure what he could be considering. 

“I wouldn’t marry just anyone, though.” He finally says, looking down at you. One hand is still playing with your hair, constantly toying with the ends of it. This time, the action isn’t enough to distract you. 

He wouldn’t marry just anyone?

You’re aware of your heart beating and from this position, you’re certain that he can feel it, too. Hating this sudden overwhelming sensation of vulnerability, of being exposed, you feel yourself trying to edge away from him. You must have been easy to figure out, or maybe Colt just knows you too well already, because he’s prepared, gently pushing his hand against your back to keep you settled next to him. 

“Hey,” he says this softly; just when you think he reaches peak gentleness, it’s like he unlocks some hidden reserve of it. Like he has an unlimited amount of kindness stored in his battered body. Softer still, he’s telling you, “Ask me another question.”

“What if you find the one you want to marry?” You can’t look at him when you ask this. 

“I already did.” This is the quickest he’s ever answered you, and you know that he gives you outrageous responses for every silly hypothetical you throw his way. You want to tell him that out of all these questions, this is the most serious one. He needs to take this seriously. The implication drawn from his answer frightens you as much as it excites you. 

“But what if you don’t come back?” Your voice sounds so small that he can practically see the words shrinking in size as you speak. 

“I will.” You feel him tracing a shape against your back. He swallows hard. “I’ll come back to you. I always will. I promise.” 

Out of all the ridiculous statements exchanged this night, you think this one takes the cake. Even more unrealistic than him giving up drinking. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You don’t like the way your words come out when you’re with him, all coated in emotion. He makes you feel things to the point where all those feelings struggle to be contained ‘til they’re spilling out your lips and drowning the both of you in them. 

“Okay. I’ll promise not to make promises I can’t keep.” You wonder what he’s outlining on your back with the tip of his index finger. It could be letters, and you try to focus on following his movements, but you can’t. Something about it seems to calm you down, steadies your heartbeat. Makes it feel like you won’t drown from the overwhelming urge to beg Colt to run away with you, that you’ll survive this tidal wave of emotions and live to see the start of a new day.

And then he says something that pulls you under, drowning you, crushes you with the intensity of something indescribable. All you know is that you’re full of this foreign feeling when he tells you, “I promise to come back. Always.” 

He can tell you that he’ll try to come back, or that he wants you to forget all about him if he doesn’t make it. Those are more realistic. Those are promises that are easy to keep. 

But Colt can never seem to take the easy way in life. He’d rather take the roughest route there is, all the while, he’s fixing the road so that the others who follow have a smoother path to take. 

“I’ll come back to you.” He repeats, cradling the back of your head as you try to bury yourself into all the empty spaces of his body.

He catches a glance at the face of his watch; it’s nearly midnight now. He’ll have to head back soon, even though he thinks he could spend the rest of his life with you on top of him, his arms wrapped around you. 

He whispers your name, and you barely stir, but you let out a little hum to let him know you’re listening. 

“Do you want to know how to send me letters while I’m away? Just in case you ever need to reach me for anything, or just in case you want to hear from me?” He sounds almost afraid, like he thinks your answer is going to be a rejection. 

“Of course I want to! I didn’t know we could send letters to soldiers.” You actually sound excited, but then you pause. “Oh, you should let me know if there’s a limit to how many letters I can send. I don’t want you to get sick of seeing my name in the post. And, you’ll be busy, obviously, so I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

You’re used to your gentle, soft soldier. Colt, who always ends his sentences with a chuckle or a good natured jibe (usually self deprecating). This is one of the first times you’ve ever heard him sound so serious. The gentle ministrations of his finger tracing letters and shapes against your spine don’t cease, but his voice is hard. Full of conviction. It leaves no room for your insecurities to rent out. 

“You’re never a bother to me. Write to me as much as you would like. I always want to hear from you.”

It’s the truth. Always honest, always open, Colt is telling you the truth.

(He loses count of how many times he’s traced stars across your back, and in shaky, anxious letters — fearful that you’ll figure it out — I love you.) 

In 852, roughly four thousand Eldian soldiers and twenty-two Marleyan officers are sent to capture and restore Marleyan order in Fort Helena. Only nine hundred Eldians and twenty Marleyans will come home.

The train ride to Fort Helena is a rowdy one.

The train rides to all deployments usually are. 

Even if they want to believe (desperately) that they’ll come back, Eldian boys are raised to be practical. Despite their wishes for it to not be important, they all found themselves getting their affairs in order. Telling their families that they love them, what to do when they’re gone, how they want to be buried, where to spread their ashes. It’s hard to have a reunion with your family and reminisce on the good old days when they know that there’s a chance they’re about to become just another memory to share. 

But thinking about that would put a damper on things. They’re already on a speeding train to death and demise; there’s no point in acting like it. They’re not sure for who, most for most of them, this may be the last time they get to create cheerful, happy memories. Something to keep them warm when the rain is pouring on their battered bodies, hailstorms of bullets flying overhead, the thunderous booms of cannonfire. 

Someone is singing a song from their childhood; joyful chants butchering the melody and swapping the innocent lines for something dirty are filling the train, and nearly every compartment can hear the anthem, regardless of whether anyone in said compartment is singing or not. A bunch of soldiers managed to sneak in some liquor; half-full bottles of whiskey from their family’s liquor cabinets, cheap bottles of beer from bartenders pitying the deployed soldiers, homemade moonshine. 

They’re not allowed to bring too many personal items with them on deployment. As the officers like to remind them, this ain’t a vacation, ladies, so pack light and pack sharp. The alcohol should be fine; Colt knows that the officers are indulging in their own (the only difference being that theirs is top shelf). Some have snuck in baked goods from their mothers and sisters; photographs tucked away in jackets and pockets; handkerchiefs from girlfriends. Colt has a knitted blanket from his mother. It takes up more space in his pack than the thin military issued ones, the ones created in a lab and supposedly designed to retain body heat. 

While it’s Colt’s first time being the first group of soldiers on a deployment — meaning he’s the first to be on the frontlines — this is Michael’s first time ever being deployed. Colt wonders what type of soldier he is. You can tell a lot by a person based on what personal item they choose to bring with them.

The flash of a light hits Colt right in the face. 

“Aren’t you just a handsome fella?” Michael has a large grin on his face as he yanks out the rapidly developing photo from his camera.

An instant camera. Michael brought an instant camera to the deployment.

Most Eldians have only seen large, bulky cameras, and getting your photo taken was a big deal. It’s a pain to find time (or money) to get it developed, and most Eldian families can’t afford a personal camera. The instant camera is a shiny, brand-new technological feat, and expensive. Of course Lieutenant Sells would be the only one able to afford one — able to afford to bring it to an active warzone, too.  

He’s been going around, snapping photos of all the soldiers, even the Eldians. He’s not in the compartment designated for Marleyan officers only. He’s been roaming around, jumping from compartment to compartment, ignoring how every Eldian who doesn’t know him is on edge until he’s goading them to take a photo. 

Before they had gotten on the train, Michael made Colt pose for a picture with him. The only person nearby and readily available to take it for them was a displeased Porco who begrudgingly agreed but was frowning the whole time. Colt was sure Porco nearly burst a vein from annoyance when Michael requested he take two pictures; a copy for him, and a copy for Colt. 

Michael seems as cheerful as ever despite the fact that he’s being sent off to war. Perhaps it’s his good spirits and the fact that he interrupted Porco’s farewell to Colt that had Porco on edge. Truthfully, Colt’s glad for Michael’s interruption; the conversation they were sharing had reached very serious, very deep territory. 

“You seeing me off?” Colt tries to tease Porco, but he doesn’t smile back. He’s got his hands shoved his pockets, army green bomber thrown over his clothes. 

“Why wouldn’t I? This is the first time you’re being deployed without me.” 

“I know. I grow up so fast, don’t I?” 

“You don’t need to joke around with me, dickhead. You can tell me you’re scared.” Porco’s not looking him in the eyes; he’s staring at the space above them. Colt wonders if he’s staring at his now-visible scars.

“Well, it doesn’t matter if I’m scared or not. It won’t change the fact that I’m about to be sent off.” 

“Just don’t be stupid out there, got it, Grice?”

“Gee, is this your idea of a proper farewell? It’s not my first time going to the battlefield, Galliard.” 

“Listen, things are different with this deployment. You’ll be the first person they think to send out in enemy territory. Zeke has a bad feeling about this assignment, and I do, too.” Porco is finally looking him in the eyes. “And I know you. You’re the type of idiot to take a bullet for someone, enemy or not.”

Porco isn’t a cold-blooded killer. He’s the type of soldier who learned to develop the mentality that when it comes down to his life or an enemy’s, he must do everything in his power to ensure that he’s the one who will be returning home — preferably in one piece as opposed to being shipped back in a box, a broken body for his mother to bury.

“You need to finish the job. Ghosts haunt you in your memories, but a soldier with a vendetta against you can haunt you in real time.” Porco claps Colt on the shoulder, and they’re looking into each other’s eyes. There’s no malice evident in the hazel color of Porco’s eyes, but there is worry. Genuine worry. 

Colt is nearly frozen in place at the fact that Porco would be affected deeply if he didn’t make it back. Another person he has to promise to come back to. 

“Do what it takes to get back home.” Porco tells him. “Don’t worry about anything else.” 

Colt is the type of guy who could be actively getting shot at, but he’d still find the time to be more concerned about the lives of other people. His parents, Falco, you. 

Trying to lighten the mood, Colt swallows and lets out an awkward, breathy laugh. “Well, if I wasn’t scared then, now I sure as hell am.” Knowing Porco’s status as the Jaw, Colt asks his comrade, his friend, for a favor. “Just don’t let Falco know I was scared, okay? Tell him his big brother had it all under control.” 

Porco scowls. “Tell him that yourself. When you come back.” And then, looking like he’s about to say something else, Michael comes around the corner to brush Porco’s hand off of Colt’s shoulder so he can swing his arm around Colt. 

Porco’s scowl only deepens as Michael waves his camera in his face. “Hey, Galliard, mind snapping a quick pic of me and Colt?”

The photos Porco takes of them have found their respective homes; Colt’s copy rests in his jacket pocket, and Michael’s will also be carried in his pocket, too. Right now, though, his copy is turned on the blank side, residing on the traincar’s table, and Michael’s got a pen out, scribbling something on the back. 

Colt leans over to see what he’s writing down on it. Probably something stupid and embarrassing. Michael doesn’t show it off like Colt expects him to; instead, he tries to discreetly slip it into his jacket, turning it over to its proper side, where the image of Colt and Michael standing side by side, Michael’s arm slung over his shoulder, can be seen.

But Colt catches a glimpse of Michael’s surprisingly neat handwriting.

Colt Grice & Michael Sells — brothers in arms

“The ladies are gonna loooove this.” Michael shows Colt the photo he’s just taken of him. Colt is staring out the train window, looking to be deep in thought. He’s glad that Michael didn’t catch him when he was staring stupidly at the flash, mouth open in shock. The only person who would loooove that would be Michael, because it’d be a new addition to his blackmail folder, probably.

There’s only one lady that Colt cares about whether she loves this image of him or not. He left instructions to you on how to send him mail while he’s deployed, and it’s not like it’s just letters he’s allowed to send. 

“Can I have it, please?” Colt finds himself asking, realizing that he really doesn't look half-bad in the photograph. 

Michael pretends to sigh. “I was really hoping to be able to hang onto this photo. Cuddle with it when the nights get cold, and I need a comforting presence. That, and I was gonna sell it off to one of the many lovely nurses back on our home base who are dying for a chance with you.” He gives him a cheeky grin before sliding it over to Colt. “Whatcha gonna do with the picture?” 

“I’m sending it to someone.” Colt goes back to staring out the train window as Michael slides into the seat opposite of his. 

“Oh? Is it a girl?” Michael wiggles his eyebrows mischievously, which makes Colt instantly regret looking at him. 

He doesn’t answer, but the tips of his ears turning pink gives Michael all he needs to know.

“So it is a girl!” Michael leans forward excitedly. “Tell me everything about her. Is she a stick in the mud like you are?” 

“She’s not a stick in the mud.” Colt makes a face. “Stop being so nosy. It’s not a good look, Michael.”

He pretends to have been shot, clutching his heart and making exaggerated, wounded noises. “Ah, you’re breaking my heart, Colt! Oh, it hurts so bad to be insulted by you. Please, make the pain go away. I’m in agony!” 

Michael’s antics make the corners of Colt’s mouth turn upwards. “You know, you’re the reason why I met her.” 

“Oh?” He immediately stops his dramatics. “How’d you meet a girl that I know? No offense, but we don’t necessarily live in the same neigh— Wait a minute!” Michael gapes at him. “Willa found you a girl who showed you a good time!” 

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Colt mutters, almost regretting letting Michael know about you. 

“You dirty dog! And here I was, sitting and thinking that you’re the most gentlemanly out of all of us.” Michael is smiling. “So, what’s her name? What’s she like? Don’t tell me any of the sordid details of what you two get up to, though. It’ll give me nightmares.” 

“Shut up, Michael. I told you it’s not like that.” Colt is blushing, but there’s something nice about being able to talk about you in public. He doesn’t want you to be a secret, to be the girl who he sneaks out to hold in his arms in a windowless room. He carries your name in the interior breast pocket of his uniform jacket, close to his heart. Ignoring Michael’s initial question, Colt smiles as he tells him, “She’s everything.”

Michael lets out a whistle that gets drowned out by the train’s own whistle. The brakes squeal and when the train comes to a full stop, the boys’ bodies are lurched forward.

Colt looks out the window and sees nothing but rolling hills; save for the mutters fluttering throughout the compartments, it’s completely silent.

They have reached their destination.

author's note: remember when the synopsis said that his life is about to get a hell of a lot worse? chapter three, part 2 is when we go full throttle into the war arc <3 but dw!!! reader's life ALSO gets worse too!!!! equality!

#colt grice x reader #colt grice x you #aot x reader #snk x reader #one shot #fluff #angst #smut #series: daylight #attack on titan #colt grice

[the-guilty-writer]

The Big Game and Revelations

Agent Rossi-Reid

Anthology Masterlist

David Rossi x daughter!reader,  Spencer Reid x reader, Criminal minds x BAU!reader

Summary: A fun night out with the team turns into a case, which turns into a disaster, which turns into Rossi-Reid’s own personal Hell.

A/N: Ah, yes… this one should be interesting and after the Super Bowl I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I did try to get this out on the night of the Super Bowl but I fell asleep trying to finish it. I think it was worth the extra week it took to write it though.

CW: Rewrite of S2E14 and E15 so it’s heavy, very minor suicidal idealation.

---

You were actually excited about the Super Bowl this year for one reason and one reason only… 

The Chicago Bears were playing.

And you had a bet with Derek Morgan. The two of you had pooled a week's worth of paperwork each… and the loser had to do all of it.

Of course Derek had his love for Chicago and team spirit on his side.

But you had Peyton Manning.

And Spencer Reid.

Before placing the bet, you had pulled up all the statistics and you and your husband spent your day off deciding mathematically, who would be the most likely to win Super Bowl XLI. Ultimately, the formula that Spencer had come up with predicted the Colts would come out on top. The next day you didn't hesitate to challenge Morgan, and with his competitive spirit and hometown honor on the line, he couldn't resist the bet.

A hopeful blow to Morgan's ego wasn't the only reason you had wagered with him, though. With a whole week of paperwork off your plate, you'd be able to take the Friday after Valentine's day off so you and Spencer could take a mini vacation.

Spencer knew this was the plan the moment you'd given him the stack of papers filled with player stats. He was looking forward to it too.

The entire team, with the exception of Gideon, was at a local bar. You and Spencer were sitting at a table with a few people you'd met, Spencer impressing them with his extensive knowledge of Star Trek. Morgan was on the dance floor, Penelope was shamelessly watching him, JJ was kicking ass at darts. You saw Prentiss bringing drinks toward a table, noticing that Hotch had even brought Haley for the occasion. Quietly, you excused yourself to go say hi to them.

Besides, it was good for Spencer to be left without you sometimes. The last few cases you’d spent more time with other members of the team. Part of that had to do with the nature of the cases, but part of it also had to do with the fact that Gideon had asked you to watch over Emily. You weren’t sure if it was as Agent Gideon who trusted your evaluation of another agent's abilities, or Uncle Jason who knew that you really needed more friends; but it meant that you’d worked with her on a few consults and even been paired together on a case.

The shift in dynamics had forced a shift in Spencer. You could see that slowly, but surely, the confidence in him at work was growing, and you loved to see it. It was in the little ways he would tease Morgan back now, or that he didn’t hesitate to bother Prentiss while she was in the middle of paperwork. Even though the ordeal with Nathan Harris had been tragic, watching Spencer take a role of someone older and wiser, yet still compassionate and still himself, showed you how much he had grown since you’d first met him.

“How are they treating you at the BAU, Emily?” You heard Haley say as you approached them.

“She means, am I being nice to you?” Hotch said.

“Actually, everyone has been incredibly nice.” Emily smiled.

“I think it’d be nice if the boss covered all our drinks tonight,” you said as you walked up beside Emily.

Haley laughed and Hotch cracked a smile. “For everyone but you, (Y/N),” he said.

You faked offense, bringing a hand to your chest before turning to the Hotchner. You knew she always got a kick out of your theatrics. “Haley, do you see how he treats me?”

Haley laughed again. “You be nice to her,” she scolded Hotch playfully. He pouted and she laughed again. “I swear you two bicker like siblings.”

Hotch was about to say something when Garcia interrupted. “Look at him move.” The 'him' in question was Morgan, and the move in question was… questionable. He hadn’t even noticed the Bears had lost. “He’s like a cat.”

“More like a dog!” You and Emily said at the same time. Both of you grinned. Gideon had truly created a monster by making the two of you work together.

“He did not ask them to dance. They asked him,” Garcia defended.

“Okay,” Emily said. “Okay, he’s a cat.”

“An alley cat,” Haley commented. You nodded in agreement.

“Come on, Haley, let’s go show them how it’s done,” Hotch said as he grabbed her hand.

“I’m game if you are!” Haley looked at you as Hotch led her away. You faked a retch, making her giggle.

“That’s so sweet!” Emily sighed a bit.

“It gets a little gross after twelve years,” you told her. “Especially when I had to listen to him pin nonstop for the first two years they dated… "Oh I never thought she’d love me, why do I have to go on a case for twenty four hours away from my love, oh why, why, why’…” You tried your best to mock young Hotch in love.

“So you and Reid won’t be gross in another eight years?” Emily asked.

You watched Hotch spin Haley around on the dancefloor, both of them simply enjoying the presence of one another. The way they moved with one another had nothing to do with acts of lust (unlike Morgan who was… being Morgan), and everything to do with knowing a person inside and out. Hotch leaned in to whisper something to Haley and she threw her head back with laughter. Her laugh made him smile.

In all the years you had known Aaron Hotchner, no one could make him smile like Haley Brooks did.

“Maybe a little,” you said, just low enough that no one could hear you over the music.

“Hey,” JJ said as she approached from behind. You could already tell by the tone in her voice what was coming next.

“We have a case, don’t we?” you said.

JJ sighed. “Yes. We do.”

---

The case was odd, to say the least. With so much evidence, the team should have been able to put a profile together easily, but things just weren’t adding up. The religious obsession combined with the technology, the dominant and submissive team dynamics that weren’t constant, the obvious organization with, what seemed to you to be, a disorganized system.

You were out in the field with Morgan when you got the text that there was another crime scene. Morgan was on the phone with Garcia. “Yeah, baby girl. Tell him we’re on our way.” He whipped the car around. 

When you arrived on the scene, you got straight to work, but just like before, nothing seemed to make sense. The religious ramblings were beginning to irritate you. You understood them enough, but you didn’t have extensive knowledge on different analysis on the passages over the centuries or know the actual wording in Latin like Spencer did. But Spencer wasn’t anywhere to be found.

“Hotch,” you called to him. “Where’s Spence?”

“I sent him and JJ to go interview someone who might know something,” Hotch told you. The vagueness of it all told you that it was probably nothing- that it was a stretch.

But hours later, the distress on Hotch’s face and the strain to keep his voice steady made it obvious to you that it wasn’t a stretch. “Hankle?”

“Hotch, what is it?” Morgan’s voice was filled with concern as well.

But when Hotch answered, he wasn’t looking at Morgan, he wasn’t looking at Gideon or Emily; he was looking at you. “JJ and Reid went to interview him. He’s the unsub.”

---

The drive to the unsub’s house was a chaotic collage of names and tactical plans, of kevlar and lights and sirens. But you hardly remembered any of it. Your mind was on Spencer.

There was always a chance that he and JJ were fine; that they realized he was the unsub and parked out of cell service, waiting for the rest of you to arrive. But there was also a chance that they weren’t fine.

When you arrived on scene, your brain kicked into a different gear- it wasn’t wife gear, but it also wasn’t Agent Rossi gear. It was a strange inbetween that you had never felt before- a collected calm caused by panic. You went with Morgan and Prentiss to the barn, only to find yourself on the wrong side of JJ’s sidearm.

“JJ,” Morgan called. “It’s Morgan, Rossi, and Prentiss. Don’t shoot.” JJ lowered her gun and Morgan did the same, approaching her. “It’s okay. Are you hurt?”

You approached JJ alongside your other two team members. Your mind was cloudy and clear at the same time, your body shaky but still. In JJ’s frazzled state she continued to talk, ignoring Morgan’s question- the one you wanted to know the answer to- where was your husband?

When Prentiss got her to slow down, telling you that they had split up and Reid took the back, you didn’t hesitate to follow Morgan out into the cornfield. There were obvious signs that someone had been dragged and then the trail stopped. You could see it in your head like a nightmare- Spencer being drug through the vegetation and thrown into the back of a vehicle.

Somehow you ended up in the house with the rest of the team, hearing, but not truly listening to what they were saying. You stood at the window, the flashing blue and red lights highlighting the streaks in the grass. The whole world was slow and blurry, but not from tears; it was from shock. You recalled the first time you ever got shot- it wasn’t bad, but the sudden impact of the bullet and the instantaneous pain that followed made it feel as though your brain had disconnected from your body. But that sensation had ended in a few minutes… this one felt never ending. That was, until, Gideon asked the question.

“Where’s Reid?”

“Gone,” you answered before Morgan could.

Your head came back to you, the shakiness of your hands stopping, something building inside you like a dormant volcano- destined to explode, but no one would see the signs until it was too late. You looked at the team. They were lined up in a semicircle, each of them looking at you with a different adverse emotion- Morgan, resentment; Prentiss, pity; Hotch, anxiety; Gideon, disbelief; and JJ; guilt.

“Spencer’s gone.”

---

You didn’t sleep that night, but Morgan was adamant that you take breaks, drink water, and provided you with many gentle squeezes on the shoulder when he walked by. Prentiss sat down with you and together, the two of you began unpacking the journals before going through them. She was less about sympathetic looks and more about action. It was a good combination for you at the moment.

The rest of the team on the other hand was… Well, JJ avoided you at all costs. Gideon didn’t actively avoid you, but he couldn’t seem to look at you and when you spoke he always left the room. Hotch up and left- driving all the way back to DC to get Garcia and then all the way back. He could have had any other agent do it, but he did it himself. You weren’t sure if it was because he didn’t trust anyone at the moment, or if it was because he needed to run.

When Gideon got the call that Hotch and Garcia were on their way, all of you gathered in the room downstairs, surrounded by boxes and journals and things that would hopefully lead you to finding Doctor Reid. That’s how you had to think of him right now; not as Spencer, your husband, of Agent Reid, your colleague, but of Doctor Reid- just some smart guy with three PhDs. You knew that it was distancing yourself from the situation, but you couldn’t help it. If that’s what you had to do, you would do it.

“Welcome to our nightmare,” JJ said as Garica walked through the door.

It might just be a nightmare to you, but it’s worse than Hell for me. You swallowed your anger and told the voice at the back of your head to shut up. You had a job to do. She shouldn’t have let them split up.

Morgan and Garcia got started in the room full of computers, JJ went to take a break, and Gideon and Emily went to do some more searching upstairs. You sat down at the table and went through more of the journals. The entries weren’t long, but there were a lot of them.

Spencer would get through these in less than an hour.

“(Y/N),” the voice was strong, but more gentle than you were used to. “You should take a break.”

“I don’t need a break, Hotch,” you told him, looking up to meet his unblinking eyes for just a second.

He didn’t argue. He knew better. “I’ll be back to check in later.”

You went back to the journals.

---

Night had fallen and it felt like you were no closer to finding Doctor Reid than you had been when the sun rose. Most of the journals were religious ramblings, and Garcia was working as hard as she could on the computer system, but it still wasn’t matching up. The profile was still a mess. The whole thing was a mess.

“Rossi,” Morgan said. You didn’t respond. He plucked the journal out of your hand. 

“Morgan-”

“I’m going to check the perimeter.”

“Okay?”

“Come with me,” he said.

You hesitated. “Okay, lead the way.”

You followed Morgan out of the house and into the night. He walked ahead of you, flashlight in hand. You had to admit that the fresh air was relieving, helping clear any residual fog from your brain. You scanned the sides of the house, the broken boards that needed to be repaired, the roof that needed new shingles, and the gutter full of leaves. Your eyes trailed downward, landing on something strange, something new…

“Morgan!” You called. You jogged over to the cellar doors, drawing your sidearm on the way.

Morgan ran up next to you. “Hey guys, I think we’ve got something!”

Hotch and Prentiss were quick to join you. No words needed to be spoken- Hotch would go in first, then Morgan, and you and Prentiss would stand guard outside. The two men entered the cellar, glocks drawn. You listened carefully, but you couldn’t quite make out all their words.

When Hotch and Morgan came out of the cellar, both of them looked disturbed.

“Anything?” Emily asked.

“We found Hankle’s father,” Hotch said. “He’s dead.”

---

It felt like time was moving at the speed of light and standing still all at the same time. You continued to be able to catch small bits of information- JJ and Prentiss were going to look into Hankle’s Narcotics Anonymous meetings, Hankle’s father had been dead for six months, Garcia was making progress on the computer system- making the day fly by and slow down all at the same time. Around noon, your brain failed you and you fell asleep at the table for just a few hours. By the time you’d woken up, the rest of the team had figured out that Hankle was living as three different people and he had a serious drug problem.

You sat in the room full of screens with Garcia, feeling absolutely like the most useless agent in the world. Of course all the progress had been made while you were asleep. You were hardly paying attention to what Morgan and Garcia were talking about when you heard Penlope’s signature “Oh my god,” and looked over to the screens.

For the past twenty four hours all you’d wanted was to see Spencer- but not like this. Never like this.

You gathered around the computers with the rest of the team, trying to keep your face as still as possible. You wanted so badly to be able to focus on what was going on- analyze the situation, the words, the background, in an effort to find out where Spencer was, but your mind couldn’t work. Not while watching this.

Then the feed cut- all the screens going blank- and any hope of finding evidence to rescue your husband was gone. You heard Morgan punch the door as he stormed out of the room. The sound brought you back to reality, and you followed him out of the room.

“Morgan,” you called to him, but he kept walking, all the way out onto the front porch and into the front yard. “Morgan!”

You and Morgan were both known to have hot heads when things got personal and rageful, but your emotions came out in loud and painful words; Morgan’s came out in kicking down doors and breaking down walls. You just stood and watched as he took a piece of wood that was laying in the yard and smashed it down on the ground, causing it to splinter into pieces. His back heaved with heavy breathing, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d be scared of him. But you did know better.

“Derek,” it was more gentle this time, and the other agent turned around to look at you. The fury and frustration now replaced with an expression of agony.

He walked up to you quietly, shaking his head just a bit. “How are you doing this, Rossi?”

You closed your eyes tight, and tears pricked at the corners. The pure pain in Morgan’s voice finally causing all the pent up emotion inside to come out. “I’m not,” you admitted.

Spencer had been in plenty of dangerous situations before- stuck in an ER with a known killer, on a train with a psychotic man with a gun, in a mansion with a bomb- but this was the first time he was somewhere completely alone. You trusted that Hotch and Elle and Morgan would help protect him.

But no one could protect him now.

Every feeling you had shoved inside came out at once, and you collapsed in a fit of sobs. Morgan caught you before you could hit the ground, pulling you so tight to his chest you almost couldn’t breath. You cried so hard it hurt- it hurt your head and your eyes and your chest and your heart. Morgan was whispering something to you, but you couldn’t hear him over the explosion of emotion you were experiencing.

When the dam gates closed and the tears stopped flowing, you gently pushed Morgan away and wiped your eyes. “I need to help get him home.”

“Then let’s bring him home.”

---

It felt strange that the team was inhabiting the house of a killer- eating at his table, using his bathrooms, sleeping on his couch- but sometimes to get in the mind of an unsub, you had to do strange things. One of those strange things was using his appliances, including his coffee maker. The entire team was running off caffeine, and you were no exception. Just as you turned the corner towards the kitchen, you heard voices, and paused.

“It’s funny,” JJ said. You didn’t think anything about this was funny. “I keep thinking, the one thing we need to crack this case is uh… well, Reid.”

You wanted to scream.

“Yeah,” Morgan responded quietly.

“You think Reid and I should have stayed together at the barn, don’t you?”

Everything in you wanted to walk into the room and confront JJ… tell her upfront that they should have stayed together and it was her fault that Spencer was missing. But you couldn’t move.

“JJ, go get some rest.” You could hear Morgan’s exhaustion… but you could also hear his anger.

“I can tell that’s what you’re thinking so-”

“I just wanna get Reid home safe.”

“But if I had his back like I was supposed to, he’d be here now.” The defense in JJ’s voice made your blood boil.

“JJ, what do you want from me?”

“I just… I want someone to tell me the truth!”

“The truth is one of you is here and one of you isn’t,” Morgan said, frustration coming through. “You gotta figure the rest out for yourself.” He walked toward where you were standing, just out of sight. When he saw you, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you with sympathy before walking away.

You walked into the kitchen, avoiding looking at JJ as you made your way to the coffee pot. It was empty. You stared at the pot as it brewed, then poured it into your empty mug, not bothering to wait until it was cool before taking a sip. Maybe if you burned your tongue you could keep yourself from saying rageful words. You went to leave the kitchen when-

“(Y/N)?” JJ said.

You shut your eyes tight for a moment and turned, looking at the blonde, but not saying anything.

“What?” You shook your head slightly, keeping your face as straight as possible.

“I-” JJ swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

You looked down and took a deep breath. “Don’t apologize to me.” You looked JJ dead in the eye, holding yourself in as much control as possible. “Apologize to Spencer.”

Without another word, you turned and left; not feeling any better, but not feeling any worse.

---

You continued working with Prentiss. Hotch and Gideon were working together- an oddity. But so was a member of the team getting kidnapped. There was a sudden sound of shock coming from the room filled with computers. You and Prentiss both shot up from your seats and quickly filed into the room where the rest of the team was staring at the screens.

Spencer’s chair had fallen over, and he laid on the floor, unmoving. You’d seen enough people who were sleeping, dead, or dying to know the difference, even on a screen. And Spencer was dead.

You’d had this nightmare before, and in every single one you instantly crumbled to the ground in a fit of sobs, fighting whoever tried to touch you or calm you down. In your nightmares, the grief was so overwhelming it robbed your body of air until your head was so light that you couldn’t think- as if your body’s survival response to such overwhelming sadness was to make it so you couldn’t think long enough to be sad at all.

But now that it was real, all you could do was stand there- eyes glued to the screen, mouth slightly agape, blood draining from your face. The feeling was impossibly numb. Your mind not processing anything, refusing to believe what you were seeing. There was no survival response to overwhelming sadness; because all the will you had to survive was gone.

You remembered a quote from Dante’s Inferno- the one book Spencer had ever made you read to him since the original was in Italian- “L’inferno e freddo”: Hell is cold.

And you were frozen.

“Guys.” You heard the voice, but your brain was still in a state of limbo. Only the sudden appearance of a man on the screen, giving Spencer CPR, was enough to snap your body from the frost.

And then Spencer was alive.

Your vision blurred as your eyes watered, relief filling your body. But it was only temporary. The next thing you knew, Hankle was speaking.

“Choose one to die.”

“What?” You weren’t sure if Spencer was still in shock from dying and coming back to life, or if he was truly asking.

“Your team members,” Hankle said. “Choose one to die.”

“Kill me,” the words came out of Spencer's mouth like a plea.

Spencer, no. Your chest tightened, your breathing taught. Just say a name, Spencer. Please don’t give yourself up to him.

“You said you weren’t one of them.”

“I lied,” Spencer said. It didn’t matter thought- the math worked somehow.

“The team has seven members. Tell me who dies.”

Just say a name, Spencer… any name.

“No.”

Hankle pulled Reid’s revolver from his pocket, pointing it straight at your husband’s forehead. “Choose, and prove you’ll do God’s will.”

“No.” Hankle pulled the trigger. The chamber was empty. A tear streamed down your cheek.

“Choose.”

“I won’t do it,” Spencer’s voice was barely audible over the video feed.

Another trigger pull, another empty chamber.

“Life is a choice.”

“No.”

Choose to live, Spence.

Trigger. Empty chamber.

“Choose.”

“I…” This time Spencer was slower to answer. He was going to choose. He had to choose. If he didn’t, he was dead. “I choose Aaron Hotchner.”

The entire room seemed to become still with shock for a moment, before everyone turned to look at Hotch- you included. The expression on his face wasn’t hurt, or at least you didn’t think so. Hotch had been so avoidant of you the past 48 hours that you weren’t sure that you could read him in this situation. He continued to watch the screen, but you continued to look at his expression.

“He's a classic narcissist,” Reid explained Hotch’s sin. “He thinks he's better than everyone else on the team.”

The wheels turned in your head, and as Hotch furrowed his brow, you could see that the wheels were turning in his head as well. He left the room quickly, and you followed after him. Hotch grabbed the Bible sitting on the table, flipping through it rapidly. You didn’t ask why.

The rest of the team filtered into the room and Hotch looked up. “I’m not a narcissist,” he said. It wasn’t defensive. You’d seen Hotch defensive before, and it was nothing like this.

“Come on,” Gideon started. “Look, you can't think anything from that. He’s not in his right mind-”

“No, stop, stop,” Hotch cut Gideon off and looked around at the rest of the team. “All right, everybody right now- what's my worst quality?”

Silence.

None of you wanted to answer that question. 

“Okay, I’ll start,” Hotch said. “I have no sense of humor.”

“You’re a bully,” JJ said quietly.

“I’m a bully,” Hotch agreed.

“You can be a drill sergeant sometimes,” Morgan said, avoiding eye contact.

“Right.”

“You don't trust women as much as men,” Prentiss said boldly. You wondered how long she’d been wanting to say that.

Then Hotch turned to you, meeting your gaze for the first time since Spencer had gone missing.

“You avoid difficult emotions,” you told him. “Instead of confronting them.”

“Okay, good.” Hotch kept his eyes on you for a moment before turning back to everyone else. “I’m all these things, but none of you said that I ever put myself above the team, because I don't, ever.” That was true. It always had been. “Reid and I argued about the definition of classic narcissism, and he knew that I would remember that, and he also quoted genesis, chapter 23, verse 4. Read it.”

JJ read the verse outloud. There was more discussion about narrowing down where Spencer might be. You hung onto every word, but you had just called Hotch out on something that you were doing yourself. You’d been burying yourself in work to avoid dealing with the terror and the pain that stirred inside you.

So instead of fighting to let you be in your normal point position when the team raided the cabin, you stayed at the back with JJ. Instead of avoiding her, you worked next to her in silence; both of you sharing a silent and desperate hope that Spencer was okay- that he was alive. When the team spread out, you stuck close to Prentiss, knowing you would need the support if something went awry and not being ashamed that, at the moment, you didn’t trust yourself to stay as steady as you needed to be.

And when Hotch helped Spencer to his feet, you let the tears stream down your cheeks. Holstering your gun, you let yourself go entirely- the relief crashing through your body. You breathed heavily, the cold air causing condensation to form. Morgan put a hand on your arm to keep you upright, and you let him.

You allowed the thoughts that had flooded your mind for the past two days to rise to the surface; that Morgan was probably the only other person in the world who shared what you were feeling right now- disappointment in Hotch for letting Reid and JJ go off in the middle of nowhere on their own, resentment about Gideon nearly getting Spencer killed, and rage at JJ because this never would have happened if one of you were with him instead.

“(Y/N),” Spencer’s voice as he said your name was barely a whisper, but to hear it in person made it real- it made everything real.

You pulled him into a hug, tears free flowing down your face. Spencer wrapped his arms around you tight, pulling you in so your bodies were as close as they could possibly be while standing upright. He buried his head in your shoulder. You leaned your face against the side of his head, pressing your cheek against his curls.

He let go of you slowly, as if you were the one thing keeping him tied to earth, your eyes locking only for a moment before Gideon walked over. You let Spencer lean on you, keeping his hurt foot off the ground.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Gideon said. “Come on.” Gideon went to support Spencer on the other side, helping him forward just a few steps before-

“Please.” Spencer looked at Gideon, but not at you. “Can I have a second alone?”

You looked at Spencer, but he didn’t look back at you, so instead you looked at your mentor. He gave Spencer a sympathetic look before locking eyes with you for just a second and walking away.

You let go of Spencer gently, your hands brushing before your bodies lost contact. He turned away without looking at you and began to limp towards Hankle’s body. You turned as well, looking over your shoulder as you walked. Prentiss was the one to help you this time- resting a gentle hand on your back to ground you.

You let her lead you back toward the SUVs, but you didn’t quite know where you were going; your mind was still full of Spencer. Then again, your mind was almost always full of Spencer- but not in this way. Never in this way.

“He’s going to be okay,” Emily said gently.

You let out a heavy breath. The clearing where the vehicles were parked was lit up by flashing colored lights. An ambulance had arrived, as had a coroner’s van. Officers were talking quietly, Hotch was pacing as he talked on the phone, JJ sat in the open trunk of an SUV staring out into the distance.

It was all over, but somehow you felt like things had only just began. 

“How do you know?” you asked her, breathing out as you did. It sounded helpless, but that was how you felt.

Emily put a hand on your shoulder, looking into your eyes. “Because,” she said- her voice was gentle, but her words were confident. “He has you.”

---

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[revenantlore]

. Kiss Me With Your Fist wip introduction .

featuring @reininginthefirewriting ‘s vespera

a prequel to crave the fiction [character edits to be added at a later time]

Java Elliot, always on the precipice of danger and poor decisions, finds himself on a promising path of self-improvement while living with his brother Chai.

As he explores college majors and seeks a more stable job, Java's plans take a detour when he encounters Colt Hannigan—a captivating yet dangerous man who leads him astray.

Drawn into Colt’s twisted life of tantalizing drugs and criminal activity, Java is an inadvertent witness to an excess of violence and endures it at the end of Colt’s fist more nights than not.

Afraid to escape at the chance Colt might come after him, or worse, Java grapples with choices that endanger his hard-fought progress and continues to place not only his life but also his closest friendships in jeopardy.

characters :

Java Elliot —

Java can weave a lie so plausible even he could fall for it and believe it to be true, to the point that he sometimes questions his memory. But it keeps him safe and it keeps him sane, so why stop now when he’s already dug himself this deep?

likes simple things like leftover pizza and good music . could make a living off of lying if there was ever a need for it . would rather be at a concert than almost anywhere else . uses his friends as pillows . regularly drinks iced tea . too good at board games for anyone to enjoy playing because they know they’ll lose . prefers thrifting over buying new . collects vinyls and CDs and has a wide range of taste in music . not sure what he wants to pursue in life so he stagnates and jumps aimlessly from one project to another

Chai Elliot —

Chai has a busy enough life on their own without having to worry about their younger brother, but someone had to step up and keep Java safe from himself and the dangerous crowd he’s gotten himself caught up with. They still make time for their college courses and occasional hookups when time allows, but sometimes … sometimes Chai wishes they didn’t have to put their plans on hold to make sure Java doesn’t get himself killed.

loves dinosaurs and is pursuing a career as a museum curator . likes to hike, climb trees, and travel but seldom has the opportunity . prefers nonfiction books, learning the history of our planet, and watching documentaries . skirts and loose button-up shirts are essential to achieving peak gender balance . can’t convince them that black coffee and warm buttered toast is a treat and a perfect breakfast . memes? memes . flirty and handsy and not afraid of public displays of affection, no matter how much on display . could nap all day if given the chance

Colt Hannigan —

Prone to making bad choices, it’s no surprise that Java finds himself hand-in-hand with the son of one of the most dangerous men in his neighborhood. Charming and manipulative, Colt isn’t a man anyone should get involved with, and Java will come to learn he’s not alone in making that mistake

quick to anger and prone to violence . possessive and strategic . always gets what he wants . wears a chain necklace . collects antiques said to be worth thousands . psychology major and uses his knowledge to his advantage . appearance and fashion are important, for him and his partners . gourmet cuisine is the only acceptable menu . molds his partners into what he needs and wants them to be

London Elliot —

Too young to truly understand what is going on in her brother’s life, London remains oblivious and carefree … at least as far as familial drama goes. She has her own struggles with anxiety and selective mutism, finding solace in reading and ballet led by her instructor and favorite person, Vespera.

pastels and rainbows . observant and perceptive . great adoration for nature and animals . often found with a paintbrush in hand, but she likes to dabble in all creative art mediums . aspires to help people when she’s older . collects leaves and petals, likes to lay in the grass and observe the sky . love for ballet stems from its ability to express her emotions non-verbally

Vespera Cordova Ramirez —

Best friend and confidant, Vespera is always there to support Java and occasionally turns a blind eye to his choices, something that having a chaotic brother like Matias has inadvertently prepared her for

lives and breathes music . expresses her love for her Colombian heritage through cooking . far from being a stranger to engaging in casual hookups . a contradiction of ballet and skateboarding . wishes to better the world for her disabled students . conceals the hurt of a past unknown . intensely protective of those she allows herself to love . unapologetically herself . knows sign language . snarky comebacks and a sharp wit

#wip : kmwyf #wip : kiss me with your fist #wip introduction #wip intro #my edits #writeblr #java

[toxinellebug]

Paris Special HEADCANONS

Marinette only became emo after Chloe posted the video of Kim humiliating her online because there was no Socqulien to stop her.

Marinetter didn’t wear fishnet gloves or a scarf until those black veins started to appear.

Adrien only cut his hair after his father FORCED him to go to school, (because socializing with kids his own age would be good for his mental health) as an act of rebellion.

When the black lines started to appear, Adrien took inspiration from the Baker girl’s emo makeup to hide it.

Marinette ended up in Ms. Mendeliev’s class, NOT Ms. Bustier, which is why she never met Alya or met Adrien personally, but knew he was a spoiled brat because Chloe paraded him around the school as her Adrikins.

Adrien, who resented being sent to school, followed Chloe’s lead and probably bullied Nino, while Chloe made Alya her new fav target.

Marinette never met Luka since she and Juleka never became friends.

The Crush who thinks she’s a pathetic loser that she references is Kim. (In eng dub she says bf, which makes no sense since the special takes place at the begining of S5 after they got the Rabbit back and right after Cat Noir cataclysmed Monarch at the wax museum- and at this time Adrien has not yet fully accepted his feelings for Marinette and Marinette had broken up with Luka in ep 1 of s4 so she doesn’t have a boyfriend, which would be clear in her diary, but she does have a crush who sees her as a very good friend, whereas bad marinette’s last crush would have been Kim)

Adrien probably enjoys fame and modeling. His mother wanted to be a famous movie star after all. Also, he praises the perfection of Adrien Agreste when he is Claw Noir/Griffe Noir, and frowns when Shadybug/Toxinelle insults him. But Cat Noir has said that he is better looking and better dressed than Adrien and doesn’t understand why girls were fighting over him. Enjoying his fame and possibly relishing in signing autographs at school could also reinforce Marinette’s belief that he is self-centered despite not knowing him… Cuz remember, she was surprised that he seemed to know her, which means they aren’t classmates.

Good Gabriel obviously made Adrien go to school since being alone isn’t healthy for a teen, and Gabriel can’t design for his brand, save the world AND homeschool his son all at the same time. Plus, making friends and learning social skills would help Adrien overcome his grief.

The Centralist nature of the world ruled by the Supreme would result in Sabine having more conservative values, which would make her a more harsh disciplinarian who criticizes her daughter frequently.

Good Gabriel could not risk someone else suffering from the peacock, nor having his identity exposed to the Supreme, therefore FELIX was never born because Fathom Colt could not be trusted. (Sure, you could argue that the Supreme willingly lent Colt the peacock in exchange for something and that’s where Gabriel got the idea from but he had nothing to offer so he stole it, but since his wife is Amalie’s twin and suffered from the same infertility issues, it would be too suspicious if Emelie just miraculously got pregnant when it was impossible for her suster to do so without a miraculous.) The Gorilla was sent at Amalie’s insistence since Adrien is the heir of the precious DeVanilly bloodline and thus must be protected!

Gabriel accepted only because it stopped Amalie from insisting that she be allowed to adopt her nephew after her sister’s death.

This would also mean Amalie sees Adrien as the rightful owner of the DeVanilly twin rings and she would not insist on having them back, which means Gabriel could claim to keep them in a safe until Adrien comes of age because he knows Adrien will lose his free will if anyone gets their hands on those rings and good Gabriel respects his son’s autonomy as a person.

Gabriel never met Nathalie. She was a relic hunter, and since Gabriel stole what he needed from the Supreme, he never needed to hire Nathalie to search for magic jewels.

XY is famous and popular, Jagged Stone is either a nobody or his music is strictly underground indie because it is banned for it’s anarchist nature.

Andre never became Mayor, but he still has the Hotel and is a Movie Director. Chloe’s bad attitude still comes from her father’s wealth and Mother’s influence.

Mylene would not be allowed to attend Francios Dupont.

(Let’s face it, it is a Private school and all the kids who go there are either rich, middle class, or have show biz connections. They have an exclusive curriculum, including textbooks no other school uses, and no handicap access. Nino DJ’s as a hobby- do you know how expensive equipment is? For a 14 year old kid to have that as a hobby he needs to come from money. Building an AI robot isn’t cheap either, Max- son of an astronaut. Alya’s dad has at least a Master’s Degree if not a Doctorate in order to be a zookeeper and her mom is a chief in a 5 star hotel which affords her an apartment in one of the most expensive cities in the world, and ALYA, despite having 3 sisters, has her own bedroom with a balcony. Bakers in Paris also earn more than just a decent living, and sewing is not a cheap hobby either for a 13/14 year old who could lose interest because she’s a teenager. Mirelle and Aurora have the networking and connections to get on TV, you really think their parents wouldn’t send them to a highly rated private school? Chloe is repulsed by public transportation, do you think she’d be caught dead in a public school? Do you think the daughter of the Mayor and the Queen of fashion would go to public school? Do you think Gabriel Agreste who has a bodyguard for his supermodel son would allow him to attend public school? Do you think a world famous Fencer who also runs for political office would teach at a public school? Do you think Tsurugi san, who demands perfection and nothing short of the best, would allow Kagami to join a fencing club at a public school? No, Francois Dupont is a private school, and the only reason Mylene is able to attend is because her dad works there as a janitor. That’s why Chloe is always digging at how poor her clothes are.)

Betterfly said mutual aid is a crime in his world, meaning it is Centralist politics, which means Mylene and Ivan would not be able to protest anything legally and Ms. Bustier would not be able to get a job as a teacher with her idealistic liberal values… meaning she is not a teacher, or she is a mean teacher and probably even has a husband rather than a wife.

Post Paris Special, in addition to being homeless fugitives, Adrien will be a mess because the girl he has been yelling at, calling a cockroach, and trying to steal from is also the girl he’s been head over heels in love with but never had the guts to actually TALK to and it turns out she HATES his civilian identity and he has no idea how to talk to her without his mask but wearing the mask he falls into old habits and has to constantly correct himself before calling her cockroach and he constantly berates himself “WHY did I say that?? Stupid, stupid!” Everytime he ends up saying something snarky, rude, or tries to flirt and it just comes out cringe because he REALLY wants her to like him but he is also low key terrified of her hating him, yet just her grabbing his hand turns his brain into mush and have him daydreaming about wedding bells and a hamster.

Meanwhile, Marinette has never had a friend before, and has zero idea how to work as a team, especially with a moron who is as conceited and spoiled as Adrien Agreste, but they are stuck together now, and she DOES want to give it a shot, especially if it means she can change her crappy life and NOT be destroyed by her own powers. But she has no idea why her so called Partner is so bi-polar; one minute he’s acting smug and showing off, the next aloof (trying to play it cool), then he’s trying to crack jokes and get her praise, then he seems like he’s ready to snap and call her shittybug only to become apologetic, nervous/embarressed/awkward, and try to change the subject. Sometimes he acts like her touch burns him, othertimes he acts like he wants to hold her hsnd and follow her like a lost puppy. But most annoying is when he screws up her plans by trying to protect her by becoming a human shield or tackling her out of harms way (and spending way too long on top of her) when he used to be content to let her hit the ground and laugh about it. She doesn’t know if treating her like a damsel in distress is his idea of “team work” but it is annoying because for her plans to work he needs to focus and do the jobs she TELLS him to!

Marinette is still anti-love after her trauma from Kim so she has no romantic interest in anyone and is completely clueless to Adrien’s feelings and gets annoyed because she sees Paw Noir’s pathetic attempts at flirting as him mocking her even though they are supposed to be “good guys” on the same team now.

Gabriel is aware of both their feelings and it gives him a headache because teen romance is the worst and he knows Claw Noir would sooner drop dead from embarrassment than accept love advice from him, and quite frankly, Gabriel is far more worried about these children being put in danger and all the school they are missing and how worried Marinette’s parents must be with their daughter missing. But he knows the Supreme would show these two no mercy so they can’t return to their civilian lives until the Supreme is defeated.

IDK if Gabriel was able to remove Nooru’s muzzle, or if the Supreme started muzzling Kwami’s after the butterfly and peacock was stolen, but if Ladybug and Paw Noir are going to use their miraculous the right way, they will need to feed their kwamis.

Plagg still does not trust Adrien; it’s not the first time his miraculous has fallen into the wrong hands and been misused and the whole thing has left him jaded with a strong dislike of humans (who are only good for making cheese!) so Plagg will hate and be an asshole towards Adrien for a while before the kid can earn his trust and friendship.

Tikki wants to trust but she is nervous and dispirited from all the harm that has been done with her powers. She wants to believe there is still hope for her young holder, but she’s also not ready to open up her heart just yet. Marinette also is not used to showing or receiving affection, but she knows from reading her other self’s diary that Tikki is supposed to be her friend but she has no idea how to open up to the tiny creature that until now has only been her slave.

Gabriel feels great sympathy towards Marinette who has suffered so much abuse, and great guilt towards Adrien who has never learned how to socialize with kids his own age or deal with negative emotions in a healthy way, but he is certain that these two kids are made for each other.

Nino is still terrified of Paw Noir, and is super weirded out that the biggest bully in School after Chloe is now suddenly, awkwardly, trying to talk to him and asking about his favorite movies for dome reason? But they are members of the underground resistance together now and he’s not going to risk ticking this kid off and getting cataclysmed.

Alya is wary because Shadybug has tried to kill her several times these past few months… and now they are suddenly allies? Sure, that’s not weird or suspicious AT ALL.

#miraculous paris #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fandom #miraculous world #Shadybug #toxinelle #claw noir #Adrienette #love square #Miraculous AU #headcanon #Agreste

[blooming-violets]

Creature Like Me || Chapter One: Solo Hunt

[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]

Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands. 

Chapter One Warnings: depictions of torture and starvation, depictions of a violent death, use of a gun, blood and gore, is it animal cruelty/animal death if the animal is a werewolf?? 

A/N: This is an OC but please keep an open mind, read a paragraph or two, before you completely write off the story because it doesn’t have a “reader” insert character. Her descriptions are fairly minimal and her name is important to the story. Pretend you’re someone else for little bit and get lost in a world that’s not your own. Isn’t that what writing is for anyway? xoxoKatie

[link to chapter index]

The morning sun beamed soft, white light through the canopy of branches to illuminate the fog settled against the dewy grass. She watched the light push away the dark shadows of the forest as she plucked a handful of blueberries out of her pocket and plopped a few into her mouth. Mornings were never her favorite despite their inherent beauty. She preferred the tranquility of the night with nothing but the glow of the moon to guide her. She kept her love for the moon to herself. Those were thoughts she wasn’t allowed to have. Her guild worshiped the sun for it was the werewolf’s natural enemy. The wolves drew their power from the moon. It made them stronger, enhanced their natural abilities, and turned them into fierce warriors. As a hunter of the beast, her guild found safety in the light, but used the cover of the dark to hunt their prey. They saw the dangers of the night where she only saw serenity. 

“Aylin,” a deep, gravely voice fell over her shoulder. “Are you preparing for your hunt tonight or are you daydreaming again?” 

Aylin wiped the growing scowl from her face, replacing it with a passive smile, before she turned to greet her intruder, “Sergei. Good morning to you, too.” She shoved the ziplock bag of berries back into her pocket and stood up, brushing off her damp bottom from the rotten log she was sitting on. “I’ve been preparing my whole life for my first solo hunt. There is not much else I can do but wait.” 

Tonight was the night she would become a full member of the hunting party. At 21, those with the talent would be given a test. They were to track down and successfully eliminate a single werewolf on their own. Up until now, she had been hunting with a group. She participated in helping kill a total of five wolves so far. Now it was time to prove that she could be of use on her own. It was the highest honor a young person could receive in the guild. 

Sergei ran a hand through his long, scraggly beard. His dark hair reached to his shoulders and hung in wild waves framing his square face. The black pelt of a werewolf hung like a shawl around his shoulders. As leader of the Silver Colt Guild, he held the respect of everyone under him. The Silver Colt’s history dated as far back as the first known existence of a werewolf. They’d been around for centuries, culling the werewolf problem the best they could before it ever reached the public eye. Sergei, known by his enemies as his alias Kraven the Hunter, inherited the guild from his father. He ran with an iron fist to keep his people safe. They were the outcasts of modern society, taking on the burden of protecting those they would never meet from the horrors of evil that walked among them. 

“Being prepared does not mean you are ready to complete the actual task,” he chastised her. “Going one to one with a wolf is harder than you could ever imagine. In their wolf form, they are ten times stronger than you could ever be. In their human form, they are the master of manipulation. They would say or do anything to keep you from slaughtering them. The second you let your guard down, they will strike. There will be no help to back you up. Failing means death. A beast won’t hesitate to rip you limb from limb. Mindless, heartless killers. They are not guided by morals. They will not hesitate. I don’t want to lose you tonight.”

Aylin held her tongue for fear of talking back. Sergei always got under her skin. Still, she believed he deserved the title of their leader and, therefore, was worthy of her respect. He was easily the best hunter of them all. He could take out a wolf with nothing but his bare hands. No one else was able to compete with his sheer strength. At times, he seemed almost like an enhanced human himself. She often wondered where he pulled his abilities from, though she would never dare question him. He was a good leader but a boastful one. His hubris clashed with her humbled outlook. Aylin had no need for cockiness. She believed one’s skills should silently speak for themselves. There was no need to talk herself up. She knew what she could do and that should be enough. 

“If you are successful tonight then I could see you entering as the frontrunner to become my protégé,” he raised his thick brows at her, as if that was supposed to be the most enticing offer of her lifetime. “Don’t let me down.”

The leader of the guild would always choose the strongest new hunter to personally train. She would be forced to move into Sergei and his wife’s home to study his every move. Whoever was chosen as the leader’s protégé would one day take over as leader themselves. Some of her peers would slaughter each other for the chance to claim that title. Aylin saw it as a chore. Calypso, Sergei’s wife, was someone she’d rather avoid. The woman could easily stand on her own with her husband but didn’t possess an ounce of empathy. She was cruel, boarding on psychopathic, and the thought of having to live under the same roof as her sent a bolt of dread through Aylin’s nerves. She had no desire to lead anyone, either. All she wanted was to sit in her quiet woods, undisturbed, but there was no point in arguing over a centuries old tradition. If Sergei chose her then that’s what she would have to do. 

“I think I’ll be alright. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been tracking this wolf for some time. She works as a night security guard up at the old Eagle Peak Camp. I’m not entirely sure what she’s guarding there but, whatever is, I’ll be sure to report back to you with what I find. I think it’s where a pack has been meeting. If I can get information on them, our guild could potentially eliminate an entire group in one go. She’ll be an easy enough target for my first solo hunt. There shouldn’t be any civilians around and there's a lot of places to take cover. All my weapons are prepped and ready. I’ve been training for months. I will come back with her silver pierced heart in my hand. I’m confident in this.” She straightened her spine as she spoke to appear taller than she was in an attempt to see eye to eye with Sergei. He towered over anyone he stood in front of and she didn’t like feeling small.  

He gave a light hearted chuckle and slung his arm over her shoulder, pulling her into his side, and dwarfing her against his large body, “I believe you. I’m the one who trained you, remember? I know you have the skill. Doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you anyway.” The coarse fur of the wolf pelt tumbling down his shoulders tickled her cheek as he held her close. “Your mother is looking for you. She made you breakfast. Let me walk you back to town and we can discuss your strategies for tonight once more.” 

Even as she stood crouched under the shadows of a large pine tree, Aylin silently trailed her fingers over each of her weapons. She’d taken count of each one about fifty times in the last hour but it still helped quell her nerves. The tree she took shelter under protected her from the downpour of rain as she raised her binoculars to observe her surroundings. Eagle Peak was once a bustling summer destination for hundreds of children, aged 6 to 16, to attend a four week camp program in the mountains. Their days were filled with non stop fun canoeing on the lake, hiking through the forests, singing around a campfire, and making a lifetime of memories. That was until the wolf incident of ‘74. Three campers were found torn apart, their cabin broken into, and their bloodied bodies dragged out into the forest. Their deaths were chalked up to a pack of rabid wolves which had wandered into camp. While the pack was never actually found, the camp still closed down. Children being mutilated while they slept didn’t send out a great impression to other potential camp goers. The Silver Colt’s knew the truth. It wasn’t rabid wolves. At least, not how the public perceived it to be. One of the counselors was a beast in disguise. He was slain by Sergei’s father in the summer of ‘75. Sergei still wears the necklace of claws his father made after tearing them from the counselor's paws before he drove a silver dagger into the beast’s blackened heart. 

The camp had sat abandoned for years, left for nature to reclaim, until a private owner bought out the land. That was when the suspicion began. Hikers were going missing more often than usual. Strange howls could be heard at night. A heavy sense of foreboding hovered in the night air. The werewolves were making a return and it was up to Aylin’s people to stop them. Tonight, she would start their quest by taking out the guard and retrieving as much information as she could. 

From the outskirts she couldn’t see much. She’d been staking out this location for weeks. Besides the patrolling woman, she never saw anyone else move around the camp while she was there, but it was clear that there was something worth guarding. She would need to infiltrate closer to get a better look. While the night rain ruined her views, the sound would help mask her footsteps. Werewolves had particularly precise hearing. Sergei purposely chose a rainy night for her first hunt and she would take any advantage she could get.

Aylin mentally planned out her route. The main lodge sat in a large clearing overlooking the lake. A crack of lightning pierced through the clouds and reflected off the darkened waters. It was the only source of light she would have tonight as the moon was blanketed behind the storm. Surrounding the lodge on either side was a small office building and a nurse’s station. The lavatories were a little ways behind the main lodge and, down a wooded dirt path, held the bulk of the camper’s cabins. According to her old map, they used to refer to the cabin’s sleeping area as the Whispering Pines. A boathouse sat on the lake, still fully stocked with rotting canoes. That was thirteen buildings in total. She would have to search each one before she returned home. Once her target was removed, it would allow her the time she needed to properly investigate for any details on the pack that roamed these areas.

Sierra Molina was who Aylin was currently searching for. A 28 year old, gorgeous woman with thick, long black hair who moved to upper New York three years ago. She started out as a model in the city, gaining a good amount of success, when she suddenly switched career paths. A successful model in the big city to a solitary, private security guard for an abandoned summer camp in the Adirondack Mountains could only mean one thing. She was a wolf. She wasn’t born one, she was bitten. That was Aylin’s theory, at least. It would have been hard for a wolf to have a career in the limelight. Wolves and cities don’t usually mix unless they’re using them as a hunting ground. That would mean, at some point three years ago, a wolf managed to find its way into the city. It was growing its pack and Sierra was merely a victim of the beast. Victim or not, she had to die. 

There was not much luck for Aylin tonight. She had yet to catch sight of the woman. The heavy storm was probably compelling her to keep shelter in one of the buildings. A light was on in the back of the main lodge so she placed her bets on that. She wouldn’t be able to take her out with an easy scope shot. She’d need to get in closer. 

Aylin took a deep inhale, preparing herself, and stepped out from the protective shadows of her pine tree. Her old leather boots lost traction as she descended down a slippery slope towards the main lodge. The grass turned to slick mud under her and she silently cursed as she felt the cold, wet dirt coat down her side as she skidded to a halt at the bottom. If anything, the mud might help hide her scent too, though it made it harder to grip her weapons. She did her best to wipe her hands off on her black combat pants before continuing. 

She kept her body ducked low while she gave a light jog towards the lodge. There wasn’t much she could do about the squelching mud under her feet. All she could hope for was that the rain hammering on the roof was loud enough to cover whatever sounds she couldn’t hide. The second she reached the lodge, she pressed her back against the dark wooden panels. Her hand grabbed behind her to pull the crossbow from her back. She carefully loaded it with a silver tipped arrow, letting the rumbling thunder overhead mask the sounds. The crossbow was her weapon of choice. It was fast, powerful, and quieter than a gun. Unlike the colt revolver strapped to her thigh, she had more stealth advantages with this. The gun was for the final blow if she needed the added weight and her dagger was her very last chance of survival should things come down to hand to hand combat. She was no Sergei. Her strengths lay in long range and stealth. 

Aylin moved along the length of the outer wall until she was perched under a cracked open window. From inside, she could hear someone moving around. The smell of cooking chicken hit her nose. This must be the kitchen of the lodge and where her target was taking shelter. 

Sierra spoke to someone inside as she banged around the room, slamming cabinets in her wake, “I think he needs more food. The man is wasting away. Kateri hardly ever feeds him. I don’t know how she expects him to keep on giving her what she wants if he’s nothing but skin and bone.” 

She waited, listening for a secondary person to reply. When she heard none, it gave her the confidence to know that Sierra was still the only here. She was on the phone. 

“Yeah, I know it keeps him weak, but it’s also killing him. Call me crazy but I actually feel sorry for the bastard. I’m the one who ends up having to take care of him. He’s not my pet! If she’s so obsessed with him, you’d think she would actually take better care of him. It wouldn’t hurt to bathe him either. He’s starting to really stink. I wish Kateri would actually do something about that. The whole cabin is disgusting. I hate having to go in there.” The name Kateri was new to her but, the way Sierra talked about her, made it seem like she was the one who called the shots. The name of the pack's potential alpha. “Maybe I’ll let him run around in the rain for a bit. Let the storm hose him down.” Sierra laughed, “I’m joking! Calm down. I’m not going to let him out. He wouldn’t know what to do out of chains anyway. Kat’s got him fully conditioned to be her omega bitch.”

Aylin silently shifted her crossbow to get a better feel for it in her hands. Her curiosity peaked at the thought of who they were speaking about. It sounded as if they currently had someone hostage. She didn't dare peak through the open window for fear of being seen. 

“I cooked him some chicken. Kat can scream about it all she wants. He needs the protein. I didn’t even season it or anything. Just straight up dry chicken. What’s sad is that it’ll probably be the best damn meal he’s had in a year. Better than the dog food she’s been forcing him to eat.” The sound of her zipping up a bag reached Aylin’s ears. She was getting ready to move. “I’m going to even brave the rain for this loser. See? I’m not a heartless bitch after all. Who would have guessed? I’ll talk to you later, babes, once I’m back inside. See ya.” 

The sound of Sierra's footsteps disappearing followed the end of the phone call. This was her chance to move. Aylin crept around the side of the building, crossbow held up at the ready in front of her. She watched from the shadows as Sierra popped out the door and into the rain. Her peripheral vision was covered by the large, dark green hood of her rain jacket pulled loosely  over her head. She wore a black bag over her shoulder as she jogged towards the Whispering Pines. She had no idea that she was now actively being hunted.

Aylin’s  heart began to race as she trailed after her prey. When she joined the hunting party on their excursion to take out other wolves, they had already been in wolf form by the time she caught sight of them. Large, raggedy, snarling beasts. Blood had dripped from their jowls and matted into their wild, unkempt fur. They had been untamed, savage, violent creatures. It was easy to see them as a predator in need of putting down. They weren’t human. 

Sierra Molina was human. At least, how she looked now. A beautiful woman trying to make it big as a model. Her dreams of the future were snatched from her at the hands of true evil. She was dragged up to the mountains and forced into a new life. She ran through the rain, her shoulders hunched up in her oversized coat, her body shivering from the cold, to bring food to whatever neglected hostage her alpha had locked up. She was going against her orders to feed the poor soul. An act of kindness. A very human act. 

Her stomach ached at the thought of having to look this woman in the eyes as she killed her. She’d rather her be a wolf. It would be more dangerous but slaughtering an animal was better than murdering a human. The reality of what she was about to do came crashing down around her. The fear set in. 

Aylin slowed her pace, ducking behind a tree. Sergei was right, the rain would help easily conceal her from all sounds and smells. Sierra had no idea she was being followed. It felt almost unfair. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to do this anymore. She was born into this life. Raised to be a killer. It should be easy. She shouldn’t be this sacred. Fear and doubt were weaknesses. Those weaknesses should have been beaten out of her as a child yet they somehow still prevailed, stronger than ever. 

As her prey approached the last cabin along the path, the one tucked further back into the forest than the rest, Aylin raised her crossbow and took aim. There was no time for over thinking or panic. She had to act on instinct. This was her moment. It was now or never. She couldn’t return home without a wolf’s heart in her hand. She couldn’t fail her people. 

This was it. 

The familiar, loud thwip of the bolt leaving its home echoed off the trees. Before Sierra even had time to react to the sound, the silver tip buried itself straight into her lower spine with a sickly, crunching thud of bones being ripped apart. She dropped hard and fast. Crumbled to the ground in a heap, her bag slipping from her shoulders to fall beside her broken body. Her piercing howl of pain filled the air. Aylin made quick work to start loading up the next bolt while she still had the element of surprise on her side. 

“My legs,” Sierra cried out. “I can’t feel my legs! I can’t move them. Please. Help! Someone help!”  Her pleas for rescue were useless. There was nobody around to listen but Aylin. Her body flopped onto her side, teary, terrified eyes desperately searching for her assailant. “Who are you? What do you want?! What have you done? You-” 

Aylin approached, a black cowl mask hiding her lower face, and the end of the crossbow pointed at the other woman. Her target was in sight but she wasn’t ready to pull the final trigger just yet. She wanted her to turn. She needed to see the beast before she took her life. It was the only way she'd be able to follow through. 

Sierra caught sight of the golden, rising sun emblem carefully stitched into Aylin’s dark jacket. Realization flashed across her spasming face, contorting between pain and fury, “You.” Her voice lowered into a dangerous rumble. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Her words spit like fire out of her mouth. “That sun. You’re one of Kraven’s hunters! Kateri said you would come eventually. You have no idea how this will end for you. You have no idea what you’re walking into!” 

A low, threatening growl thundered in the back of her throat. It was followed by a quieter whimper like she knew how this was going to end for her. She was scared. A cornered animal ready to go down fighting. Death was the only future she held. Her pupils began to stretch, causing her tawny colored eyes to fill with a voidless obsidian until there were no remnants of her human soul. The growl grew deeper, more animalistic, as she started to shift. 

“That’s it,” Aylin whispered to herself. “Turn for me. Show me who you really are.” 

Like a firework bursting in the night sky, Sierra’s body exploded into a massive wolf with an angry howl, sending shreds of her green rain jacket and a spray of water droplets flying into the air. She nearly tripled in size. Silky, jet black fur, as beautiful as her own head of hair, settled down into place as her transformation completed. Saliva clung to her thick, pointed ivory teeth, black lips pulled back into a snarl, and her ears pressed flat against her skull. Steam puffed from her panting jaws, highlighting the chill in the air. She was savage. Desperate. Ready to kill. Her blackened sights set directly onto Aylin. 

This was the beast she was ready to hunt. This was exactly what she had trained for. Sierra Molina no longer existed. In her place was a raging, furious wolf ready to be slain. There was no more need for humanity for she was not human. A hunter and her prey. A tale as old as time. 

Sierra’s hind quarters remained crumbled under the weight of her body like a stray dog who had been hit by a car. They were as useless to her in wolf form as they were to her as a human. Aylin had managed to sever her spine with her first hit, rendering her weaker and taking away some of her power. It didn’t make her any less dangerous, though. She lunged at the younger girl, thrusting her massive body down the muddy path towards her as claps of loud thunder cheered on the upcoming fight. The muscular power of her front legs dragged her forward in jerky, pained movements, back legs dangling helplessly behind her. The coarse fur of her hackles stood on end. Teeth bared. She was ready to die fighting. 

Aylin released the trigger. The bolt shot out like a bullet and lodged itself deep into her foe's shoulder. The silver tip sizzled in her thick skin, the metal burning into her flesh. She doubled over with a howled cry, whipping her enlarged head back and forth in an attempt to reach the burning arrow piercing her skin with her long snout. While she fought with the pain, Aylin quickly tried to reload her bow. She had the arrow half way in, foot holding down the stirrup, and desperately trying to force the strong string back into position when Sierra noticed she was distracted. Ignoring the searing pain in her shoulder and crippled back legs, she lunged herself at Aylin. 

The force knocked her to the ground, tossing her bow off to the side, and pushing the air out of her lungs. The heavy weight of the wolf pressed down on her chest. The smell of wet dog filled her nostrils as Sierra leered down over her. Steamy, hot breath blew in her face. Black, leathery lips pulled back to reveal snarling teeth. For a breathless moment, Sierra thought she had the upper hand. 

And then a loud, cracking pop rang out, breaking the wooded silence, sending a flurry of terrified birds out of the trees and straight to the stormy sky.

In Aylin’s hand was the colt revolver, slipped out from her thigh harness, already prepped and loaded with silver bullets, now pointed directly under the wolf’s jaw. 

The bullet shot straight through Sierra’s thick skull, ripping through her brain, and forcing a bloody exit out the other end. A cloud of misty, hot crimson rained down onto Aylin’s face. Bits of fleshy brain matter scattered to the ground around her. A sharp fragment of Sierra’s rose tinted skull bounced off her forehead, slicing her skin, and tumbled into the mud. The wolf went completely still, the life snuffed straight out of her, as her heavy body slumped on top of Aylin, pinning her in place. 

The silence that followed was deafening. Not even the rumbling thunder or shower of rain seemed to dare make noise. All she could hear was the ringing in her ears. The echo of the gunshot reverberating inside her skull. 

Her heart was racing. Her lungs struggled to breath under the weight on top of her. Her mind desperately tried to catch up with the events that just unfolded. 

Her first solo hunt. Her first kill. 

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, protected from the shower of blood thanks to her mask. The rain slowly washed the rest of the red from her vision. 

She had done it. 

She had killed a werewolf. 

She was alive. She was the victor. 

Aylin let out a grunt, grasping a fistful of Sierra’s fur in her shaky hands, as she wiggled her body out from under the enormous carcass. The slippery mud helped assist her as she slid her legs out of the furry prison. Her clothes were soaked through. Mud, rain, and blood all mixed together to seep into her frozen skin. She forced herself onto her feet and took a stumbled step backwards to examine her work. 

Sierra remained in wolf form after her death. They rarely ever changed back once their life was gone. Despite her blown open skull, she looked rather peaceful. Cute, even, if you looked from the right angles. Like a giant, sleeping puppy. They were beautiful creatures, werewolves. It was hard not to respect their strength and power. Sierra still nearly got the upper hand even with her paralyzed hind legs and silver burning her flesh. If it hadn’t been for the colt, she probably would have won. 

Death suited her, Aylin concluded. 

She turned from the corpse to pick up her crossbow off the ground and slung it back over her shoulder. She took a moment to gather herself, both her racing thoughts and her scattered belonging, before she attempted to continue. The adrenaline coursing through her veins made it difficult to think straight. The wolf was dead, the major threat eliminated, but there was still work that needed to be done. Cabins needed to be searched. Clues needed to be found. And a heart needed to be cut out as proof of her win. 

Aylin shuffled over to the bag Sierra had dropped. It lay at the bottom steps of the smallest cabin. A simple, faded, forest green wooden shack. While the other sleeping quarters looked like they could hold at least ten people total, this one could probably only handle four. She bent down to unzip the bag. A clear tupperware of cooked chicken, a bottle of water, and a ring full of keys were all that remained inside. Aylin glanced up to the cabin. That was where Sierra was headed to deliver the dinner. That was where they were keeping their pet. 

She snatched up the ring of keys and made her accent up the rotting wooden stairs. A screen door filled with holes stood in front of her. Behind it was another, solid metal door. It looked out of place, newer than everything else, as if someone had specifically installed it within the past year. A heavy padded lock bolted it shut. The kind of lock meant to keep something in. She tested out each key until she found the perfect fit. The lock popped open and she slid over the dead bolt, allowing the door to slowly creak open, unsure of what she would find on the other side.

The thick stench of musty sweat hit her nose as her eyes adjusted to the dark. It was pitch black inside. The windows had been boarded up and covered with heavy, old blankets. They would keep out the light and help dampen any noise. A set of two wooden bunk beds stood on opposite sides of the walls, built straight into the floor, but Aylin’s attention sought to what was chained between them. 

A man was naked, crouched on his knees, back curved forward, and head hung low. He was facing the blank wall across from her. His arms hung up above his head and stretched out to the side, forced into place by the bulky chains around each wrist. The sickly pale skin under the wide cuffs was rubbed raw. A trickle of dried blood caked down his forearm. His back was covered in a myriad of scars. Welts from a whip. Some new. Some old. All painful. She could see the perfect ridge of his spine protruding from under the scarred skin, each vertebrae clearly on display. The marks of a starving, tortured man. 

He head jerked to the side when he heard the creak of the floorboard as she took another step inside. His hair was down to his shoulders and hung in wild, greasy, matted stands. His skin was speckled with dirt and old, dried blood. Wheezing breaths struggled out his lungs. 

Aylin breathed through her mouth, trying to keep her nose blocked from the horrible smell wafting off of him. The closer she got, the worse it became. Not even her mask could help block the smell. He had been locked in this room for a long time, rotting away with no flow of air, no sunlight, nothing.  

“What have they done to you?” She whispered, horrified by what she was seeing. “Who are you?” 

The sounds of shifting chains filled the quiet shack as he came more alert. She stayed in the shadows behind him, just out of his eye sight while he tried to crane his head around to see who was speaking. This was a new voice, one unfamiliar to him. 

“Who are you?” He croaked. His voice was deep and scratchy like a rusty tool he no longer had any use for. 

“I asked you first.” She listened to the sound of the rain hammering against the wooden roof. It helped soothe the quickened pace of her heart. “Are you one of them? Do you…belong to them?” A pet. That’s what Sierra had called him. 

She had only been taught how to kill wolves, not what to do when she encountered a hostage they were keeping. This was new, uncharted territory. Sergei would probably want her to kill him and move on with her task, get home safe without any added baggage. Her mother would tell her to free the starving man and find him help, her humanity being more important than a flawless hunt. She chewed on her lip, silently weighing her options. 

The man gave a breathy, weak laugh. It sounded dark and ominous. 

“I…belong to them…yes.” He hesitated, defeat dripping in his tone. “Are you here to kill me? Please say yes.” 

Aylin swallowed, unsure. Was she? Her hand was clutched to the hilt of her knife. He could be dangerous. Or useful. There had to be a reason why a pack of wolves had him locked up. He belonged to them but was he one of them? It didn’t sound like he was part of the pack. A rival, maybe? Whoever he was, he wanted to die. He wanted her to kill him. Her heart sank in her chest. He looked so weak. His head had fallen back against his slumped over chest, his neck unable to support it upright for long. They had tortured him, starved him, until he was a broken shell. 

She took a deep breath and pulled her knife from the holster. He shuddered at the sound. She held it at the ready as she crept closer, ducking under one of his chains, to stand directly in front of him. He lifted his tired head to look at her. Her eyes widened at the horrors. Gaunt, pale cheeks caked in dirt. Untamed, wild hair like a mane framing his skeletal face. Dark, sagging circles embedded around hollow, red tinted eyes. His scraggly chestnut beard stuck out in all directions to hide his dry, chapped, pale lips. Every rib stood out against his grimy chest. She forced her eyes from traveling down any further, wanting to allow the naked man whatever shred of dignity he had left. 

“Well?” He asked again, watery eyes boring into her. “Are you going to kill me or not?” 

Aylin locked her gaze with his. It was the look of hope that softened his sharp features that simultaneously broke her heart and made up her mind. 

“No,” she declared. 

She couldn’t kill him. She didn’t care who he was or what he had done. Anyone chained up and begging for death deserved a second chance. 

A frown darkened his sweat dripped brow, “You're a hunter, aren’t you? I know that symbol on your coat. I heard you outside. You killed Sierra. That’s what you do. You kill werewolves.” 

Aylin nodded, “Yes.” 

“Then kill me,” he stated. The finality of his statement settled in the stale air around them. 

He was a werewolf. 

She should kill him. She should hate him. She should claim his life as a second victory. Two for one. It would secure her spot as Sergei’s protégé. She would be revered as a hero. A future candidate to lead the Silver Colts. Her destiny would be written in stone. 

Which was exactly why she wouldn’t. 

When she didn’t respond, he clenched his jaw, anger flashing across his broken eyes, “Kill me! I’m one of them! Do what you’re supposed to do and kill me!” He threw himself at where she stood, unflinching. The chains caught him before he could reach her and yanked him back into place as a sob escaped him. The fight immediately left his body. He was too weak. He curled up as best as he could with his arms hung weakly above his head. He let out a pathetic whimper. “Please…do it…please…” He whined. “Please. Help me. Make it end. Let it be over.”

He was a werewolf. A predator. A freak of nature. The one thing she was supposed to despise most in this world. Her enemy. The one she vowed to eliminate even if it cost her own life. She was raised to do this. Raised to be a killer. 

“No,” she whispered. 

It’s not a fair fight. He was too weak. Bound to chains. Already beaten into submission. She’d have to be a monster to pierce his heart now. He was supposed to be the monster. Not her. The plans of what to do next began swirling around in her mind. Crazy, ridiculous, unheard of plans. 

Aylin slipped her knife back into its holster. She had made up her mind. She was going to take him. Steal him from the pack. Bring him back with her. Hide him away from her people. Use him to get information. He was weak enough that she could control him. In the state he was in, his fragile mind could be easily manipulated. It was insane, yes, but it was her plan and her mind was set on it. 

The ring of keys were still stuck inside the lock of the door. She ducked back under his arm chain and retrieved them, starting to test each key until she found the right one, while he studied her with a quiet, sleepy, curiosity. She carefully unlocked each cuff, setting him loose. 

The wolf man fell to the ground the second his arms were free. He crumpled into the fetal position, chest heaving, unable to do much more in his feeble state. Aylin squatted down in front him. His knees were more raw than his wrists, almost worn down to the bone, as if he had to spend most of his time on them. It was then that she noticed his pelvic region. She only took notice because it stood out. While the rest of him was covered in grime, his pelvis was meticulously clean. Spotless. Perfectly cleared of any dirt, sweat, or blood. She couldn’t see anything more revealing as he tucked into himself but it was an odd observation, the kind that made her stomach lurch. Whoever Kateri was, she only seemed to care about one specific part of him. This hostage had a purpose. One she was going to take away from them. Cut off their supply and use him to lure them out into the open. 

He was the key to eliminating the entire pack. 

“What’s your name?” She asked softly. She could pretend to be nice, gain his trust, have him work for her. She could use him to bend her guild in the right direction. Think of all the information that could be learned by having an actual werewolf on their side. 

He peaked his eyes out at her, his lids hanging heavy like he hadn’t slept in days, “It’s-” He hesitated, having to think, to try and remember that part of himself. A part he lost long ago. “Uh, it's…Peter….yeah, that’s it. Peter.” Even though he was free, he made no attempts to move. Completely broken like an abused, unleashed dog sticking close to his master because he knew of nothing else. Kindness didn’t exist in his world. All he knew was pain and suffering. 

She reached out her hand, gently placing it against his cheek, even as he flinched and cowered away, she held steady, “I’m not going to hurt you, Peter.” She removed her hand from his scraggly beard and tugged down the dark cowl and mask to reveal the rest of her face for him to see, “My name is Aylin. I am a hunter but not to you. You no longer belong to these sadistic people. Now, you belong to me.” 

[Chapter Two]

A/N: A reblog will automatically put you onto the chapter two tag list. If you enjoyed what you read, please leave a comment! It would make this writer very happy and more likely to continue writing. I hope you have a lovely night/evening/morning/afternoon/day. 

Tag List: @liz-allyn @mrshipsmcgee @sincericida @moonyslove78​

#tasm #the amazing spiderman #peter parker #andrew garfield #spiderman #tasm fic #tasm x oc #tasm fanfiction #tasm au #tasm peter parker #tasm peter #tasm peter au #tasm peter parker au #tasm peter fic #tasm peter parker fic #tasm peter x oc #tasm peter parker x oc #spiderman au #tasm werewolf au #peter parker werewolf au #creature like me #blooming violets #blooming-violets #blooming violets fic #creature like me chapter one

[voidnoidoid]

Jimmy, aka Tumble Town's Outlaw (+ rambly character progression analysis and stuffs)

my take on Jimmy's villain arc is that instead of trying to reclaim his role as Sheriff, he should instead become the most feared outlaw the empires have ever seen.

old timey sheriffs often toed the line between justice and crime, and Jimmy has made it clear he's not above some corruption: bribery, stealing, manipulation, shady deals, arson etc. He's not the pillar of justice and upholder of the law he makes himself out to be. Hell he doesn't even follow his own laws sometimes and he let Scar break all of them! So why not turn to crime and vengeance?

recently I read an article about Kid Curry, a notorious outlaw of the Wild West, and I thought hey, what if Jimmy's character went in that direction? (PG-13 of course cmon) He could have a cool nickname like Dynamite Jim or something. Another thing I noticed is that Jimmy doesn't use a gun, saying that he is averse to using that kind of weapon, despite most cowboys carrying some form of firearm on them. He prefers to use a bow and arrow and his lasso. Could it be that he's used a gun before? Anyway I think it would a real turning point in his character arc for him to start using a gun, and ironically name it the Peacemaker (after the colt single action army revolver)

I find the Sheriff turned Outlaw story really compelling given what we know of Jim's character so far. Other people have brought this point up but Jimmy's whole character seems to tie in with themes of isolation and loneliness. Tumble Town doesn't have any villagers or custom citizens anywhere. The saloon is empty and devoid of any beverages. It's just Jimmy and his horses around here. Almost as if Tumble Town is completely deserted.

We don't know anything about Jimmy's life before he became the self-proclaimed Sheriff, but I assume his life before that wasn't a happy one. Why else would he crave respect so desperately, unless he wasn't afforded any before? He hates being seen as powerless and lesser than, as being called a toy is very much a soft spot for him. Him shrinking down in size and having his peers literally and metaphorically look down on him isn't helping either. From the beginning, Jimmy was never one to be taken seriously, as he was a goofy, good-natured man who kind of bumbled into being a Sheriff.

He demanded respect by imposing his laws upon every empire, despite not really having any right to do so other than being "The Sheriff". He is the leader of Tumble Town, not the whole 12 empires after all. Jim didn't really do much to show that he deserved the kind of authoritative respect he wanted from everyone, but the other rulers still liked having him around. People he considered allies such as Gem, Sausage and FWhip treated him nicely for a time, but either tolerated his Sheriff playacting and/or made fun of him by playing into the whole Toy Story bit. They were his "friends" but didn't give him respect as Sheriff and as a person.

For the majority of empires Jimmy has been treated as lesser than, as someone who isn't even human. He wasn't given basic respect asa a person. Joel outright mocked Jimmy by calling him a toy to his face, and every single person who has interacted with Jimmy has engaged in the toy bit. Hell, his own deputies, FWhip AND Scar, didn't treat him like an equal.

FWhip became deputy for his own gain and wore the toy story alien uniform to subtly make fun of Jimmy without him knowing. He did get attached to Jimmy though and took it extremely personally when he got fired for disrespecting Jimmy, getting back at him by stealing the hat and badges. I do think c!FWhip took it too far and is basically an embittered ex.

Scar on the other hand, was extremely nice to Jimmy and literally built him an entire train and a bunch of buildings as well as setting up villager trading posts for him. It's a really kind and generous thing to do for Jimmy, but despite that he still doesn't respect him in the way Jim wants him to. He gave Jim a whole pep talk about how "being Woody is a good thing" which, while being very sweet and encouraging, also unconsciously reinforces the fact that Scar DOES see Jimmy as a toy just like the rest of Empires. And when Scar was imprisoned by Jimmy for like 10 seconds, he threatened to call Jimmy a toy to get himself out of jail.

Alright fast forward to present time. Jimmy meets the Old/Past Sheriff and learns more about being a real sheriff. He learns how to get people to respect him more and is really excited to have a mentor figure, especially someone who used to be a real Sheriff running a town. Excitedly, he calls his friends over to the great bridge, riding atop a horse, to share about the cool thing that happened to him. Notice Gem, Sausage and FWhip are all wearing the Dawn Sunglasses, and Jimmy isn't, which creates this feeling that Jimmy is an "other" and not part of the in group. Instead of listening and congratulating him, all three of them crouch and poke fun at him for being small. Jimmy is all too aware of how everybody is treating him. He promises to be a better man, a better Sheriff they can all be proud of. And so he begs them, "so do you guys finally respect me now?"

Do you see me for who I am?

Will you finally see me as your equal?

Your friend?

And he is shot dead.

They've made their point loud and clear, and Jimmy has had enough. No more playing games. If they refuse to respect him, he will make them fear.

#empires smp s2 #empires s2 #solidaritygaming #geminitay #mythicalsausage #fwhip #esmp season 2 #empires gem #empires jimmy #empires sausage #oh my god I just wanted to talk about how cool it would be if Jim became an outlaw #and it escalated into THIS #dudes I am so personally invested in c!solidarity's villain arc #empires smp s2 analysis

[theragsagainstthemachine]

“MEESTER MORALES,” said Jose, “you cannot make the horse to look like the dog.”

To be honest, he said that to all of us in his Basic Drawing class that we had in our first year at the Kubert School. He taught us how to draw horses by learning how to draw dogs first.

Jose Delbo was an icon for me and I was thrilled to have him as my instructor. Most of the other students weren’t very familiar with Jose’s work, but I remember seeing a smattering of his stuff in the 80’s on Wonder Woman. He was in the same breath as Dick Giordano, Irv Novick and Frank McLaughlin. That slick 60’s style.

When I was a kid, I collected Jose’s Billy the Kid because I was a fan of westerns- having been brought up on the Lone Ranger and Tonto in syndication. Through his work, I learned to draw a Colt revolver and of course, horses.

So having Jose there in class was having a brush with greatness. I loved his class. I loved his Argentinean accent. Classes were all like this for me, but his was one class that I couldn’t disappoint the instructor. Jose was reaching into my childhood.

One day he took me outside the class. He said that I was one of the few artists that was going to make good on a career. He said I had the talent and to continue to work hard. No one else at that school said that to me. Not that I needed it, I was cocky enough, but to have it validated was gold. Then he asked me if I wanted to be his apprentice. “Take some time and think about it.” There was no time necessary. “Yes! I would love to!”

He gave me his address. Paterson NJ.

He had an apartment home that was built up, not across. There were stairs leading up to the kitchen, stairs to the bedroom and next to it his studio.

He had his table near the window and I had a table just a few feet away from him. On the radio, he played Ray Alan. We would listen, he would chuckle, and he would say how crazy he was. I was into Howard Stern, so I got how he had such an affinity for his generation’s voice although the jokes were tame by my generation’s standard.

Then at 10 am sharp, he went into his bedroom to have a siesta. “I don’t understand why Americans don’t take a siesta,” he told me. I was fine with the coffee he provided.

Initially my job was to layout his pages. He had to do two pages a day of either Transformers or Thundercats. I really enjoyed Thundercats more but I didn’t complain doing any of it.

I frustrated him because he had a very different way of storytelling than I had. My layouts had to be redrawn by him and it wasn’t long before I was finishing his layouts. He would tell me that the editors could tell when the pages switched hands, and if I was lucky, occasionally I would be allowed to go nuts on establishing shots bringing all the energy I could. He gave me that freedom. I tried to draw like him in the finishes with varying degrees of success. But to be honest, I was slowing him down.

One day I was late getting to his home. The drive was 45 minutes away from my house, and when my sister’s dog got loose, I couldn’t make up the time enough to get there.

That was it for me. I was fired. He was patient with me artistically, but being late was unforgivable.

I was crushed, but understood. I learned a valuable lesson on what kind of commitment it takes to be on time with publishers. I’m sure the sporadic nature of my help for him was too much to carry. Being late gave him the perfect excuse to be rid of me.

He was right though. I made good on my career.

In Florida I was at a convention when up comes Jose, ambling to me. “Meester Morales,” he said as I had my head down working on a commission. “Jose,” I said not looking up, “I can tell your voice from ANYWHERE!” I looked at the grinning old maestro. He was there with his wife and daughters. I stood up and greeted them in a warm embrace. He said, “You were a good student and you became a great pro.”

Oh my god. No words could have made me feel as good as those did for me.

He asked me for a drawing.

What? Was he kidding? I said of course, but only if he would draw for me Billy the Kid. He went back to his table as I started a drawing for him as well. When I was done, I walked over to him with my drawing. He handed me two sketches as well as his Billy the Kid. “I haven’t drawn Billy in years. I could barely remember him.” But it was perfect! I couldn’t believe I had an original Jose Delbo of the only character he could ever draw for me.

I handed over my drawing to him. He laughed and showed his wife. She laughed too.

It was a drawing of a dog with a saddle on it. Below I gave him a note.

“I’m not sure about this horse Jose, did I do it right?”

On this day, I learned of Jose’s passing. He was almost 90 years old. He was born ten years before my parents who also passed away recently.

I hope he tells them that I was a good student too.

I love you Maestro. You mean more to me than I ever expressed. You were a shining star to me.

My most deepest condolences to his wife Maybelle, daughters and grandchildren.

JOSE DELBO 1933-2024

[aylacavebear]

She Thought She was Normal

A/N: I broke chapter 20 into 2 parts. It too, was very long.

Story Summary: Maria really thought she was normal, for most of her life. It was normal for people to have natural talent, she would tell herself the older she got. Many things came easy for her, and that was probably how their rivalry began when she was five and he was seven and she met the Winchesters. Little did either of them know that it wouldn't stay like that forever, both having a far larger destiny than they could imagine

Word Count: 3470

Please don't take my work. I'll post warnings for each chapter. Will eventually be 18+!

Warnings: Sensory Processing Sensitivity (SPS), Angst, slow burn, Death, Fluff (some)

----------------------------------------- Chapter 20 Pt. 2 - Azazel

Sam and Jess cleaned up after dinner. It was simple since there were no leftovers. They all had another beer before they went down to the dungeon hiding in one of the archive rooms.

Jess stayed near the opening of the dungeon, at Sam’s request while John and Bobby went over to the table with the ingredients, candles, and small altar with sigals painted on the table under it all. Maria was on the far side of the room, outside the devil’s trap. Sam and Dean were on either side, leaving room for Jess to be able to see. Dean looked over at Maria and smiled a little. She had that serious yet excited look, that hunter look, and he loved seeing it on her. 

Bobby spoke the incantation as John held the Colt, ready. Once Bobby dropped the match in the bowl of ingredients, smoke fizzled up, and Azazel appeared in the center of the devil’s trap, looking somewhat surprised, with an undertone of anger.

“Well, look who got some new toys,” he said cockily, looking around the room.

“It’s time to face justice, Azazel,” John told him, aiming the Colt.

“Don’t you want to know why though? Why Sammy here is so important that his mummy had to die?” Azazel smirked, knowing he could get under their skin, “Or even why dearest Maria’s parents had to be out of the picture?”

All of them were a little curious but also knew that demons lied. This demon though, was way worse, “Why?” Maria asked, surprising all of them.

That made Azazel smirk, smugly before he turned to her, “I see you’ve got your glow back. Been looking for you since before you were born, beautiful.” Dean’s jaw clenched, as did his fists but he didn’t move. He knew if he got inside that devil’s trap Azazel could still hurt him. Maria glared at Azazel though, which made Dean happy, seeing that fire in her eyes.

“You may kill me but I have plenty of others that will make sure my plan is completed, including that little bitch there lighting up, just like mommy,” Azazel told Sam as he turned and pointed at Jess.

Maria used her powers, moving the chair and making Azazel sit down, then used the cuffs that were hanging on the wall to cuff him to the hooks in the cement floor. She was pissed but she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to learn what his plan was or how many demons he had working for him.

“What plan?” Bobby asked, now standing opposite Maria, barely blocking Jess’s view from where she stood.

Azazel looked over his shoulder at Maria, “My my my, you’ve gotten good with that one. You’ll be the perfect little incubator for Sammy’s demonic spawn,” he cooed before looking back over at Sam, “Killing me won’t stop it, Sammy. You have a destiny to fulfill,” with those words, his eyes went yellow, “My children will have to prove who is stronger and can lead my army.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam demanded, getting pissed, quickly.

“That’s right, get angry, feel it, use it,” Azazel egged him on, “You’ll find out, when it’s time. Hope that sweet little piece of ass of yours likes being indoors. The moment she steps outside, you’ll watch her burn.”

Maria looked at John and nodded. There was no point in keeping Azazel alive. He wasn’t going to give them anything else, and they knew it. Before Azazel could say another word, John shot him in the head. There was an odd sparking along Azazel’s skin, like his skeleton was almost glowing under his skin, as the demon died, that light fading.

As they cleaned things up, Azazel’s words buzzed in all their minds, just in different ways. John and Bobby took care of Azazel’s body with Dean’s help. Maria could hear Jess reassure Sam that she loved him and wasn’t going anywhere, even if it did mean staying inside the bunker for an unknown amount of time. That made her smile a little and think of Dean. To have that kind of connection with someone made her body ache in a way she didn’t understand and she felt a loneliness she hadn’t felt before. The feeling made her want to just curl up in her bed in a ball but that would have to wait. They had agreed on a couple of celebratory drinks.

Dean grabbed the whiskey while John grabbed shot glasses, as the others sat around the library tables. They decided to focus on the win of Azazel being out of the picture. They were also at least a little safer. So, for now, they were smiling while Dean poured the whiskey and when Sam made him laugh and spill some, they all laughed with and at him. There was a lightheartedness to the atmosphere as they toasted before downing the shots. Maria felt that comfort that came from whiskey and chose to switch to beer. She knew better than to give in to that feeling again. 

“You okay?” John asked her as she got up.

“Yeah. Let's just say I made myself, and others, a promise earlier this year. I’ll just have a beer with all of you,” she explained to him softly.

Dean raised an eyebrow and watched her, having no clue what she meant. It was something she hadn’t shared with him, not in detail at least. John and Bobby didn’t know either but Sam and Jess did, and both of them smiled a bit, proud of her. They knew how hard something like that had to be on her. Maria grabbed a beer and stared at it in her hands for a minute, sighing, debating just putting it back as she leaned her back against the counter. She set the beer down on the counter to her right and wrapped her arms around her sides.

“You okay?” she heard him ask softly from the doorway.

She had honestly wanted to cry, so looked away from him. Dean walked closer to her, slowly, feeling as though if he moved too quickly he’d spook her somehow. Everything in him was telling him to just hold her and he was fighting it tooth and nail.

“Not really…” she mumbled.

He couldn’t take it anymore and put his arms around her gently, pulling her close to him. She froze and he felt it but he wasn’t about to let her go. Whether she would admit it or not, she needed this, “It’s okay, a hug won’t kill you, I promise Sweetheart,” he told her softly, gently rubbing her back.

She was still tense and this time she felt the wall that she’d built between them even with him as close as he was. Her mind raced and she closed her eyes, squeezing them shut. She didn’t even realize that she was taking very shallow breaths. Maria wanted to let go, let that wall fall down but was terrified of what that meant. She still hadn’t moved her hands to reciprocate the hug.

Dean moved his other hand to the back of her head, softly stroking her hair, now just holding his hand against the small of her back. The hug was loose enough that if she really wanted to run, she could. She wasn’t frozen, just tense and he could feel it. He decided it was time to attempt a little humor.

“I got a question, with you being what you are, will you pass out if you don’t take a deep breath?” he asked her, in a teasingly playful way, as he could tell she’d barely been breathing as it was.

His question caught her completely off guard but she couldn’t help the genuine laughter she had, which also relaxed her a bit in his arms. She smiled a little and slowly moved her arms so that they were around his waist, then leaned her head on his shoulder. Dean smiled, feeling her finally start to relax, even if it was only a little. 

“See. I told you a hug wouldn’t kill you,” he joked.

She laughed softly, even smiled a little, “You want me to admit that you were right?” she asked, in a teasing sort of tone.

It was Dean’s turn to chuckle, “It’d be nice but no, that’s not why I said it.”

Maria looked up just in time to see Jess stop dead in her tracks in the doorway of the kitchen and she quickly pulled away from Dean, feeling her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. Dean looked at her, confused until he turned and saw Jess, then groaned. He felt like he had gotten so close and now would have to start all over again with her. Maria didn’t look at either of them as she left the kitchen and went to her room, her hand gripping her flannel closed over her heart. It was too many emotions and she knew she wouldn’t be able to sit with the others not with them just below her skin now. She didn’t even turn on her light, just crawled into bed and curled into a ball before the tears fell.

“Thanks, Jess,” Dean almost growled at her before he went back into the library, needing more than just another shot of whiskey.

“I’m sorry Dean. If I had known I wouldn’t have even come looking for her,” Jess apologized, following him back out of the kitchen.

The three in the library looked at the two of them, “What’s going on?” Sam asked, somewhat annoyed with Dean’s tone toward Jess.

“Blondie here probably just ruined everything. That’s what’s going on,” Dean stated, annoyed as he poured himself a double and downed it.

“Boy, be nice,” Bobby told him sternly.

“There’s no reason to take it out on Jess,” John added.

“What was so important that you had to go looking for her anyway?” Dean asked, still annoyed.

“I was looking through the filing cabinets and I found some old pictures. Bobby said that her dad was in one of them and wanted to show her,” Jess explained.

He couldn’t be mad and he knew it, even if he was. Dean poured himself another drink but sipped this one, “What the hell has gotten into you?” John asked him, somewhat frustrated himself.

Dean leaned back against the table, facing away from them, ignoring his father’s question. Sam rolled his eyes before he looked at John, “He’s got a crush on Maria but she’s not the most receptive,” Sam explained, dryly.

“You hurt that girl and I’ll kick your ass boy,” Bobby told him, meaning it.

Again Dean didn’t even acknowledge the remark, scoffing under his breath. He had no idea how to fix this one or get close to her again. He thought he heard quiet sobs coming from her room but it could have also just been his imagination. 

“I’m going to bed,” he said in a low, annoyed tone before he downed the rest of his drink. 

“I’m still really sorry Dean, about earlier,” Jess told him, apologetically.

“I know,” he sighed before he headed down the hall.

Her room was far enough away from the opening of the hallway that the door couldn’t be seen from where any of them sat in the library. As he passed it, he heard what sounded like quiet, muffled sobs again and it made him stop dead in his tracks, listening, “Damnit,” he mumbled under his breath, clenching his fists at his sides.

Dean took a deep breath before he looked at her door, his internal battle raging again. He knew he’d have to choose before any of the others decided they wanted to go to bed. Gingerly he reached out, quietly opening her door and slipping inside, closing it just as quietly behind him. Her room was dark but he could hear her so for now he just stood there, letting his eyes adjust. When they did though, he felt a pain in his heart seeing her like she was, curled up in a ball, hugging her pillow, sobbing as quietly as she could. Dean slipped off his shoes and slowly walked over to her bed, taking a deep breath before he sat down on the edge of it, gently setting his hand on her side. He felt her freeze under his touch and sighed.

“I just want to be here for you, will you let me?” he asked her quietly.

She was terrified and it felt like all her nerves were on edge and exposed but she also felt a sense of comfort in his words and his touch, so she nodded, hoping he could see. Dean carefully laid down on the bed behind her and got comfortable on his side before he put his arm around her this time, resting his hand on her stomach. He could feel how tense she was which made him sigh.

“I know I said it earlier or the other day. I don’t quite remember when. I really am sorry, for pushing you so far away that you had to put up that hard of a shell around me,” he told her, in a soft, quiet tone, just wishing she’d relax.

Maria wanted the tears to stop but they wouldn’t, especially when he kept talking, so she buried her face in her pillow again. It was like everything hurt and she didn’t know how to tell him so he’d understand. She didn’t even fully understand it herself. He scooted closer to her though, letting their bodies almost mold together and he felt her let go of another set of quiet sobs. He moved his hand from her stomach to her hair, gently moving it away from her face and her neck, tucking it behind her ear. Dean then gently rubbed her shoulder, trying to help her relax.

“I’m sorry…” she finally managed, a break in her tears.

“Sorry for what?” he asked her softly.

“For this…” she mumbled.

He smiled a little and rubbed her arm softly, “Well, the way I see it. I get to hold you close, so there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

That completely puzzled her and made her tears instantly stop. She turned herself so that she could look at him, now lying more on her back with his hand on her stomach, “Huh?” she asked him.

All he kept telling himself was, don’t kiss her, when she rolled like she did. He still had that soft smile that sort of looked like a happy smirk to her. He reached up and caressed her cheek and even though she flinched at first, she didn’t move away from him.

“What are you so afraid of?” he asked her.

She would have looked away had his hand not still been on her cheek so she just averted her eyes from his. Maria knew what she wanted to say but she also knew how it was going to sound, “I don’t want to hurt you and I don’t know how to say it… nicely.”

“I’ll bite. Just say it. I won’t get upset,” he replied, trying not to smirk.

She bit her bottom lip nervously again for a moment, still unable to meet his gaze, “I… well… you. No, wait, that’s not it,” she began, and fumbled over her words. Maria took a deep breath and tried again, thankful he didn’t laugh, “What you… make me… feel…” she finally got out.

He just smiled softly down at her, gently caressing her cheek, “Like what?” he asked, in a soft, curious tone.

She grumbled a little, “I don’t know what they even are or how to describe them,” she mumbled, shyly.

“Okay. Well, can you describe what you feel while I’m doing this?” he asked, caressing her cheek with his thumb while he held her with his hand.

“Umm… like my stomach is flip-flopping,” she mumbled.

He chuckled a little, “That’s called butterflies. It’s normal when you like someone.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” she grumbled.

Dean found her adorable at the moment but couldn’t say it, not yet, “What about being this close to me?”

She had to think about that one, “Kinda shaky?” she replied, not sure how else to describe it.

“Pretty sure that’s just nerves, Sweetheart,” he chuckled.

Maria grumbled again, “Why is liking someone so uncomfortable?” That time he couldn’t help himself, the laughter, although quiet, came out and she smacked him on his shoulder, “That wasn’t funny. It was a serious question.”

He took a deep breath, trying to keep a mostly straight face, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I’m not sure how to answer your question though.”

She huffed a little before glancing up at him and then away again, attempting a deep breath, “That one,” he began, “What’s that one feel like,” he asked, noticing her glance and her reaction.

“Like someone or something is compressing my lungs and it’s hard to breathe,” she mumbled.

“That’s anticipation mixed with anxiety, but it's in a good way. Sometimes your heart might even beat a little faster,” he tried to explain, then got a thought, “How do you think you’d feel if I kissed you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Maria felt all those things again and made herself look up at him, “Just the thought makes me feel all that stuff and it’s really uncomfortable,” she told him, managing to be honest, even if she was feeling shy, nervous, anxious, and more vulnerable than she’d ever felt before.

Dean sighed, “There are a couple ways we could go about helping you get past those. First, we could just go for it, like ripping off a bandaid really fast,” he told her gently.

“Or?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Or, we could take this as slow as you’re comfortable with, even if that means you initiate any contact we have,” he replied, just as gently.

She groaned quietly, “Too bad there’s no in-between,” she sighed.

“There is, but I don’t want you to feel pushed,” he told her.

“What do you mean?” she asked, curiously.

He liked that she was at least curious, “I could do little things, like, umm…” he paused to think, “kiss your forehead, hold your hand, hug you. Things like that.”

She thought about it for a minute, leaving the two in a suspended silence, “We could try that, I guess,” she replied, shyly, “And, for the record, I hate feeling this way,” she added, finally looking up at him.

He furrowed his brow, confused, “Feeling what way?” 

“Weak…” she replied quietly.

He couldn’t believe he’d just heard her say that about herself, and he couldn’t stop what he did and said next. Dean shifted his body so that he was leaning on his elbow, looking down at her now, holding her hand with the one he’d had on her cheek, “You are the least weak person I’ve ever met. Literally, everything you just shared with me shows a huge amount of courage. You didn’t have to share that stuff with me. You could have told me to leave but you didn’t,” he told her, seriously, yet gently and sincerely.

She wasn’t sure what changed, but looking up at him didn’t feel uncomfortable like it did before. Perhaps it was the sincerity in his words or the gentleness of how he was looking at her. She couldn’t put her finger on it but she smiled, just a little up at him, “Thanks.”

Dean smiled and kissed her on her forehead before he snuggled back up next to her, “I’ll head to my room when you want me to go but I’ll hold you as long as you’ll let me.”

Maria smiled a little and rolled onto her side, getting comfortable against him so that her back was to his chest. He gently moved his hand down her shoulder, along her arm, and rested his hand on her hip. She shivered at his touch, even if it was over her flannel, only it had nothing to do with being cold.

“You cold?” he asked her.

She giggled a bit, “No, I’m not cold.”

He smirked and pulled her a little closer, nuzzling his nose in the crook of her neck but more on her hair, not wanting her to feel uncomfortable. She sighed and closed her eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to relax herself the best she could. There was something about him being behind her, as close as he was that was comforting even if it was also uncomfortable. 

Before she knew it, she had fallen asleep in his arms. Dean was still awake, feeling her breathing, and smiled when she did fall asleep. Since she hadn’t asked him to leave, he finally closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall asleep as well.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 21 - Time to make a choice

Tag List: @deans-spinster-witch @kazsrm67

Link to the master list for this story.

#supernatural #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester x femaleoc #nephilim #sam winchester fanfiction #spn fic #SPN FANDOM #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #spnfandom #spn #spn au #supernatural series #supernatural fanfiction #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #supernatural fandom #supernatural oc #supernatural fanfic series #supernatural au #dean fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fanfiction #nephilim fanfiction

[ask-carmenpondiego]

I asked and there was interest so here is the story! Chapter by chapter! It will be tagged by chapter number, so if you ever want to go back without scrolling, just use the tags! Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Loves and Crimes of Carmen Pondiego

This is a look into the life of Carmen Pondiego and the beginnings of her new VILE agents as they roam the multiverses, looking to steal various famous artifacts from various fandoms with the use of Library Door tech and the internet. This entire story has various scenes that include sex (both consensual and non-con), drug use, violence, and foul language. This is not your everyday wholesome romance story. It does get very dicey and may give plenty of not so good feelings.

This is also my first attempt at fanfiction as a whole. I usually RP semi-para. My author grammar and all may not be the absolute best, I just write what my mind sees. Thank you for reading and being patient with me.

This is a parody adaptation of an anthropomorphic character mashup originally between Carmen Sandiego and My Little Pony. The universe takes place in a parallel world but characters can travel and sample things from multiple series and different fandoms that are mentioned in the story. Any correlations such as family relations between any Carmen or Pony series could vary in detail to the original source and would not be canon anywhere else other than this story. All individual characters portrayed in this story are copyright to their players. This story has been put together with the help of multiple friends through rp.

Chapter 1: Museums are highly flammable

As the rain drizzled down, thunder had been distantly rumbling, a suited figure steps into the chrome retro style diner and shakes his umbrella by the door. A pure snow white haired, tan unicorn, dressed in a red and black business blazer and skirt, looks over from a booth with her purple glasses, raising a hand that had been fitted with cybernetics, the panels so closely fit and natural looking, one would never have thought her hands were not her own. She sipped her coffee as the suited figure sat down, taking out a cellphone, with a recording session ready to record. “Evening. Are you ready?”

She nods, “What would you like to know exactly?”

“Everything.”

“Everything? Thats quite a lot to ask for. Where shall I begin?”

He had already pressed record on the phone and slid it across the table towards her. “Like all stories do. At the beginning.”

It was a cool evening, just before dusk and a family of anthro ponies were mingling around an art museum. A mother unicorn of the classic hourglass shape, tan fur, dark reddish brown hair, spring green eyes, dressed in red and black blouse and pencil skirt, was pushing a stroller containing an infant toddler unicorn colt, seafoam teal in fur, brown hair and currently chewing on his father’s red and white beanie hat, cooing happily. The father figure was a tall earth stallion and had a somewhat lanky build dressed in jeans and a striped red and white sweater, pale blue fur with brown hair and rather nerdy glasses, he looks up at a little filly riding his shoulders, her little yellow sundress gleaming in the few stray rays of exhibit lights, her little wings flap excitedly as her pink eyes are wide, peeking under a rather haphazard attempt to tame the grayscale locks into bangs and ponytail. “Dada!! Look!! Daggie!” The father, Wally, chuckled, keeping hold of the child’s squirmy legs. “Yes, Adora. I see the dragon. Thats is statue. Can you say Statue?”

“Statoo! Dat.. chachoo!” Her face scrunched as she tried to say the new word.

The mother, Carmen, laughed “You know, I used to know some dragons on my explorations. And so did your Dad.”

The filly wriggled more, holding onto Wally’s hair, “Wreely?! For wreal life?! I wanna be exploder too!!!” She screeched happily. “An Ahm gonna marry big daggie when I growd up!”

The parents looked at eachother with a mix of concern and laughter. “We’ll… come back to that idea for another day, how’s that sound?” Carmen reached up and gently pulled her daughter down, giving Wally’s shoulders a break. “Yeah, kiddo. You got your whole life ahead of you. Its ok to stay a kid while you are still a kid. Your only job right now is to have fun and be a good big sister to Blendin.”

He bent over to ruffle the colts hair before scrunching his nose. “Speaking of which.. I think someone needs a change.” Carmen sighed and rolled her eyes, “Rock paper scissors for it. Loser gets the diaper duty.”

After three quick rounds, Wally grinned and swaggered to the gift shop as Carmen headed to the restrooms with both kids in tow. After a quick stinky change and a little princess piddle, the three emerge to a bit of a crowd. There was a faint scent of fire burning the edges of Carmen’s nose. She held Adora’s hand and grabbed Blendin from the stroller, as it became more apparent the crowd was becoming panicked and an alarm sounding. “Momma? What happening?” “Its going to be alright, little one. Just stay close to me, do not leave my side. I just need to find your father..” Carmen frantically looked over the crowd as best as she could but saw no sign of Wally.

Smoke started to billow as a tapestry and curtain started to burn. She finally caught sight of him just underneath and unaware, him looking as lost as confused as she. “Wally!!”

“Carmen? I’ll meet you outside! Get the kids out!” He shouted into the crowd, not seeing her across the room. Just then the curtain rod falls, trapping Wally and a few others with a wall of fire.

Carmen cried out for him but couldnt hear him afterwards. She adjusted her hold on Blendin and gripped Adora’s hand tight, “Come on, babies. We need to get to safety. Daddy will meet us there.” The crowd was like a rushing river, they could only go in the same direction until they all pooled outside in the museum’s open courtyard, fire crews already rushing in with hoses and gear.

The three found a small area by a tree and huddled together as they watched the building engulf in flames. Carmen’s heart was pounding as she watched for anyone coming out from inside.

A few hours passed and both children were asleep in her lap, her eyes still glued to the scene. A figure came up to her, and for a moment she felt huge relief until she realized it was not Wally, but instead a police officer and the fire chief. They had been going around to lingering folks checking for injuries. “Please.. my husband.. he wore a red and white sweater.. where is he? Did he get out?” The fire chief handed her a large medallion, “Was he the owner of this Wander Society coin? If so, then I’m afraid he’s gone.” Carmen trembled and her chest felt like it imploded inward, she shakily took Wally’s coin, water dripping onto it. She touched her face, realizing tears were pouring down. “I.. I need to see him. Please let me see him.” She carefully stood, the filly slightly stirring from sleep and the colt was still cradled against his sister, unbothered. Carmen started to walk towards the museum ruins but was held back by the officer, “Wait. I know you. You held that heist by the Hoofer dam! You’re Pondeigo!” She wrenched her arm from his grasp, “I dont care! All I care about is being with my husband! Let me see him!” She sobbed, grabbing hold of the uniform and sinking to her knees, screaming out Wally’s name. The officer grimaces solemnly, “Look, I cant just forget your alleged crimes. You still have active warrants. I have to take you in.” He looked towards the kids, Adora rubbing her eyes and watching as she held her baby brother. “Those your kids?” Carmen nodded, reaching out for them and scooping them into her arms, burying her face into them. “Is there anyone you can leave them with until we can get this sorted out? I mean, I aint dumb, you will probably escape before you’re even sentenced.” The officer kindly offered, not blind to the sensitive situation at hand.

Carmen kneeled silently for a moment before letting go of her children and reaching for her bag for a couple slips of paper. Her hands shaking as she handed the papers over, “Wally and I decided that if anything should ever happen to us, my daughter Adora would be in the care of this location.. and my son Blendin will be at this location. Just let the keepers know who their parents are. Its all arranged… please.. I just wish that you would let me go this once. My children are all I have left..”

The officer spoke into his walkie and reading off the slips of papers, and after a moment or so a suit clad individual took the papers and scooped up the kids. Carmen flung herself at him, trying to reach her children, “No.. please!! Not yet! Dont take them yet! Dont take them too…” she begged, the officer gently taking her wrists and handcuffing them behind her back, she pulled against the officer trying to follow the suit. “Adora! Blendin!! Mommy loves you! I’ll come back for you! Mommy promises!!” She screams out in despair as she was loaded into the police cruizer, watching as they drove away from the worst night she had ever lived.

The next few days were a blur, she was checked in and registered, given a quick hearing and sent to a holding facility, all while she was numb and nearly catatonic from grief. Her expressions were blank and listless, she didnt speak even to defend herself in front of the judge. She was loaded onto a bus and sent to a building further from the city. Only then did she furrow her brow.

#mlp oc pony #carmen pondiego #ask blog #story update #chapter 1

[scapegrace74-blog]

The Man from Black Water, Chapter 8

A/N  Here’s one more (long) chapter before I return to the salt mines tomorrow.  From here on in, I can’t promise the updates will come as frequently, but I promise that they’ll come.

In this chapter, we see both the good and the bad of Jamie and Claire’s temperaments. 

Previous chapters are available on my AO3 page.

Thanks for reading!

The next morning, Claire came across Jamie in the stables. She heard his voice before she could see him, low and melodic as he spoke to the colt in an unfamiliar tongue.  Gaelic, she surmised.

“Tha thu breagha, a charaid,” his deep voice crooned, and while she didn’t understand the words, the affection he felt for the animal was clear.

“What is it you’re saying to him?” she asked as she leaned against the stall door.

The big Scot paused his rhythmic currying of Hamlet’s dark coat to peer over his withers at his unexpected visitor.

“Mostly nonsense, but I was jes tellin’ him what a handsome lad he is,” Jamie confessed with a grin that transformed his stalwart face.  Hamlet wasn’t the only handsome lad in the stables that day.

Lips as soft as rose petals tickled Claire’s palm, searching for a treat.  She dug a sugar cube out of her pocket and offered it to the colt, who gobbled it up.

“He is a sweet thing,” she remarked as Jamie finished his task and came to join her by the door.

“Aye, there isna a mean bone in his body,” he agreed.

“Curly will find one.”

“Curly!  Dinna tell me tha’ bas-, baw-, good-fer-nothin’ is responsible fer breaking this animal?” Jamie struggled to find a word to describe the brute that was fit to be uttered before a lady.

“You’ve got to be firm with a young horse,” Claire opined, secretly relishing the young man’s ire.  It felt good not to be the only one angry at the status quo.

“Aye, but no’ cruel.”

“Are you saying you could break this colt?” she challenged.

Jamie narrowed his eyes at the single-minded lass before him, at war with himself.  He hated the idea of the colt, or any horse for that matter, being mistreated by the likes of Curly.  His pride, still smarting from being left behind during the muster, longed to have a task at which he knew he could excel.  And there was no denying that spending time in the company of a beautiful young woman with spirit and intellect held its own appeal.

“What about yer father?” Jamie inquired, sensing there was more to Claire’s motivation than the desire to see the colt well-treated.

“He’ll be gone for at least two weeks.  If Hamlet is broken before he gets back, what can he say?  Of course, if you think it’s too much for you…”

Looking back, Jamie realized he’d never stood a chance.  When given the opportunity to show off to a pretty lass and thumb his nose at his intolerant employer, there was never any question that he would walk away.

***

It was Brian Fraser who had taught his son how to break a horse to saddle.  The trick, Jamie’s father had explained, was to work with the animal’s natural disposition to please, while slowly introducing them to the foreign sensations of pressure from the girth, the feel of the saddle, the guidance of a bit across the tender bars of the mouth, and finally, the weight of a rider upon their back.

Jamie was fortunate that Hamlet knew and trusted him. Despite that, he refused the urge to skip steps, unwilling to scare the young horse in his rush to master him.

“What does the blanket do?” Claire asked from the rail of the paddock where they met each day after their respective obligations were dispensed with: Jamie to the other Netherton livestock and Claire to whatever domestic activities at which a genteel lady was expected to gain proficiency.

“It gets him used tae feelin’ somethin’ upon his back, and tae catching sight of it in the corner o’ his eye,” Jamie explained as he scratched the colt behind one ear.

“That makes sense, since horses have near three-hundred-and-sixty-degree peripheral vision.”

Seeing the Highlander’s look of bewilderment, Claire hastened to explain.

“That means they can see almost directly behind…”

“I ken what it means, Sassenach,” Jamie interrupted.  “I’m jes surprised tae hear ye say it.  Why do ye ken sae much about horses, if ye dinna mind me askin’?”

Claire considered lying, used as she was to male ridicule when she mentioned her interest in veterinary medicine.  Instead, she decided to trust Jamie with her covert passion.

Instead of responding straight away, he continued to caress the colt, a far-off look in his seafaring eyes. A nod, as though striking a bargain with some invisible arbiter, and he replied with,

“Aye, that’s grand.”

“Grand?” Claire stuttered open-mouthed.  “You don’t mean to lecture me about how it’s unsuitable for a woman and that I’ll never secure a husband if I pursue a profession?”

Jamie shrugged away her rhetorical concerns.

“I reckon ye ken better than anyone wha’ yer suited for or no’. And as fer a husband,” he added with a boyish grin, “ye’ll jes have tae find a man wi’ a herd o’ sickly beasts.”

***

Hamlet flourished under Jamie’s thoughtful care, each day seeing the young colt grow more and more comfortable with the accoutrements of being a saddle horse.  Within a week, he was accepting the bit in his mouth and surcingle around his ribs with only a few placid flicks of his expressive ears.

“He really is a handsome lad,” Claire commented as they sat on the paddock fence watching their charge canter about after his lesson, enjoying his renewed freedom.

“Aye.  Does yer father plan tae race him?”  Most days, Jamie managed to forget that the horse he was working was worth more than a lifetime of his labour, but just then it was making his wame a bit queasy.

Claire scoffed.  “My father neither knows nor cares the tiniest jot for horse racing.  He only bought him so that some other wealthy landowner could not.  For Henry Beauchamp, it’s the appearance of things that matters, nothing else.”

Despite his own feelings about his employer, Jamie felt compelled to defend the man, if only to erase the forlorn look from his daughter’s face.

“I’m certain he cares fer ye greatly, Claire,” Jamie declared, reaching out to initiate contact with the petal-soft skin on the back of her hand for the first time.

“I used to believe so.  Now I know I’m just another one of his objects on display.”

***

It rained in miserable torrents for the next three days.  Claire was confined to the manor, and Jamie, Donas and Rollo were occupied moving the estate’s livestock to drier pastures. Accustomed as he was to the docile longhorn cattle native to the mountain glens, the Highlander had his hands full with Netherton’s herd of Angus cows, wily and fractious beasts that delighted in escaping any enclosure.  He ended each day tired, waterlogged and as irritable as the animals he cared for.   The fact that he missed spending time with Claire and Hamlet only added to his sour mood.

On the evening of the third night, he stood in the stables beneath the orange parabola cast by an oil lamp, carefully wiping Donas dry with a cloth rag.  The gelding leaned into his touch, whickering softly.  Claire stopped, undetected, just inside the door and watched the stable hand’s strong features caressed by flame and shadow.  

In Victorian society, men styled their hair and grew elaborate facial hair.  By contrast, the Highlander’s natural russet waves and closely shaven beard were an anachronism, but no less appealing for it.  His body was tall and lean, with the tautly coiled intensity of a cat, and his hands as he groomed his horse were a juxtaposition of rough and gentle. Despite the chill of her damp clothes, she could feel prickles of heat rising beneath her skin, foreign and delicious.

She must have made a noise loud enough to be heard over the percussive rain on the metal roof, or else he could sense the heaviness of her stare, for he looked up and their eyes met for the first time in days.  She watched his lips part and expel an indistinct word that nonetheless echoed in her rushing pulse.

“Sassenach,” Jamie shook his head as though waking from a daydream.  “What are ye doin’ out in this uplowsin?  Ye’re fair drookit.”

Claire turned the unfamiliar words around in her mind, searching for their meaning.  Considering the weather and the miserable state of her hair, uplowsin and drookit were easy enough to work out.

“What’s a sass-en-ack?  You’ve called me that before.”

Jamie blushed so fiercely that he was surprised steam didn’t begin rising from his damp clothing.

“Tis a Highland word fer a Lowlander, or an English person such as yerself,” he prevaricated, leaving out the part about the word being a close cousin to an expletive.  Based on the shrewd gleam in Claire’s golden eyes, she’d already guessed.

“Well, I suppose I cannot fault your observations,” she conceded graciously, letting him off his self-baited hook.  “But I’ll have you know I was born on Scottish soil, somewhere along the road between here and Dundee.”

An expression of timeworn grief darkened her pretty features, and Jamie didn’t have to ask how a gentlewoman came to be born on the route to the nearest doctor.

“Would ye like tae help me feed the horses their supper?” he asked instead.

The stables grew warm from the body heat of their occupants. Jamie tossed sheaves of hay down from the loft while Claire gamely scooped rations of grain into feed troughs and topped up pails with cold water from the well.  All the while, stories were traded back and forth about two childhoods lived not forty miles apart and yet so vastly different they may well have been from different centuries.

With Jamie’s chores completed and the hour growing late, the pair ran out of excuses to remain sequestered away in the refuge of the stables.  Rain continued to lash the roof and Jamie cast his gaze about for a means of protecting Claire from the elements as she returned to the manor.

“Take my coat, Sassenach,” he offered when no other alternative presented itself.

“What are you going to wear?” she protested.  “As far as I can tell, the rain is just as wet between here and the bunkhouse.”

Gracious the lady of the manor might be, but submissive she was not.

“I’m from the Highlands, lass.  A wee bit o’ rain doesna bother me.”  

This was an outright falsehood, but Jamie felt gallantry justified the lie.

“I’m not some fragile bauble made from spun sugar who will dissolve into a puddle.  It’s just water, Jamie.”

“And tis jes an overcoat, Claire.”

They stood staring at each other across ten feet of stone floor. Even in the dim lamplight, Jamie could make out the pretty flush of anger on Claire’s skin, the rapid rise and fall of her bosom and the inky dilation of her pupils.  It stirred something in him he was used to suppressing, something base and a little bit feral.

“I suppose,” she conceded when their stand-off showed no signs of ending, “you could come with me to the manor.  That way, I could return the coat to you straight away.”

Jamie consciously loosened his shoulders.  Provoking the lass was counter-productive, no matter how lovely she was in her pique.

“An’ I suppose we could drape it o’er our heads, so we both dinna get wet,” he allowed.

Like a fast-moving storm, the clouds of Claire’s ire parted, and her laughter rang out like a ray of sunshine.

“Well, that’s one calamity averted.  With our combined intellects, no petty obstacle will stand in our way!”

“Aye,” Jamie chuckled as he huddled as close to her shoulder as he dared and stretched one coat tail over her head with his long arm.  “We make a braw team.  Stubborn as oxen, the both o’ us.”

“The trick is to ensure we’re always pulling in the same direction.”

***

After two weeks of preparation, the day Jamie would attempt to ride Hamlet finally arrived.  He first lunged the colt in endless circles, trying to exhaust his youthful energy. With Claire holding the bridle, he then carefully lowered a saddle onto the glossy black back and tightened the girth in careful increments.  Sensing the nervousness of his handlers, Hamlet pivoted his ears forward and back but was otherwise still.

Aunt Rosemary and Mrs. Crook had both come down to the corral to witness the momentous occasion.  Even Rollo had joined them, his head cocked to one side in apparent interest.  It seemed fitting to offer some form of encouragement, but the addition of onlookers to their usual trio made Claire shy. Instead, she joined the other women outside the fence, fingers gripping the top rail, as Jamie led the colt over to the mounting block.

With a surprising amount of nimbleness for such a large man, the stock hand lowered himself onto Hamlet’s back for the first time. Bending low, he spoke softly near the horse’s ear.  Although she couldn’t hear the words, Claire knew they would be in Gaelic, the language Jamie spoke in his heart.

With a gentle nudge and encouraging cluck, Hamlet began a sedate walk around the enclosure.  As he rode by, Jamie took a moment to send a cockeyed wink in Claire’s direction.  Everything was going exceptionally well, and he couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit smug.

Pride goeth before the fall, as any good Presbyterian would concur. After several easy laps of the corral, Jamie encouraged the colt into a trot.  Less at ease with fifteen stone of man bouncing on top of his sensitive spine, Hamlet’s ears flattened against his poll and his tail began to swish violently. The afternoon breeze conspired to blow an oak leaf from a nearby tree, and that was all it took to send the anxious animal into a panic.

From her spot beyond the fence, Claire watched the whole scene unfold like a savage pantomime.  First, Hamlet veered sharply to his left, causing Jamie to clamp down on the colt’s flanks to maintain his balance.  In reaction, the frightened horse broke into a gallop, but the tight confines of the corral hemmed him in.  By that time, Rollo was barking, and Mrs. Crook was crying out in fright while covering her eyes.  With every instinct urging escape, Hamlet spun once more, ran straight across the ring at a gallop and sailed over the five-foot fence that separated the corral from a neighbouring field.  With the sickening thud of a bag of bones hitting the ground, Jamie fell face down into the dirt and didn’t rise again.

***

A loud, repetitive noise dragged Jamie from the abyss of dreamless sleep.  Keeping his eyes shuttered against the pain of the morning sun, he gathered his cloudy thoughts.  His mouth was as wooly as an old sock.  His head, the apparent source of the clanging noise, felt like the anvil of a busy blacksmith.  Everything from his eyebrows to his toenails ached.  It reminded him of the one time he’d drank too much of Murtagh’s whisky.

“Good morning,” Claire greeted far too loudly as she entered the bunkhouse carrying a tray of food.  “It’s nice of you to rejoin the living.”

Painfully aware that he was in his bunk wearing only his workshirt and that he desperately needed to take a piss, Jamie gingerly lifted himself to a seated position beneath his blanket.  The wood paneled walls of the room swam in his vision.

“What happened?” he croaked as softly as he could manage.

“You don’t remember?  You came off the colt and hit your head.  How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ignoring Claire’s attempt at being a nursemaid, the Highlander took stock of his own injuries.  His whole right side was bruised to the point that it hurt to breathe.  Possibly a broken rib or two.  Judging by the tenderness of his cheek, he’d lost some skin as well. Worst of all, though, was his dignity. He’d undertaken the breaking of the young horse as a demonstration of his manhood, and here he lay abed like an ailing bairn.

“Where’s Hamlet?” he finally thought to ask.  God help him if Beauchamp’s thousand-pound horse was wandering the vale of Ericht for anyone to steal.

“We caught him,” Claire replied, sounding very self-satisfied.

“Is he alright?”

“Flighty, but not otherwise harmed.  The drovers are expected back tomorrow, but he should be fine by then.  If not, we’ve decided how to handle my father.”

Jamie rolled onto his side with a grimace, needing to look directly at his erstwhile co-conspirator.

“Who’s we?” he asked, already knowing the answer and hating it.

“Mrs. Crook, Aunt Rosemary and I.  No-one else knew you were working the colt, and as far as my father is concerned, he could just as well have been set off by a pack of wild dogs or a thunderstorm.”

“Aye, but he wasn’t, was he?” Jamie growled, suddenly much less pleased to be deceiving his employer if it meant being complicit in a web of lies.

“Well, what would you have us do?  Tell him his Highland labourer took it upon himself to endanger his prized colt?”

“Took it upon myself?!”  Jamie felt his shame, fear and vexation congeal into raw fury.  “Ye damn near goaded me tae break tha’ horse, woman.  An’ now ye expect me tae cower behind yer skirts like I’m the one who’s tae blame!  I’d sooner swing from my own noose, ye meddlin’ wee besom!”

As his voice rose, so did the twin flames in Claire’s fierce gaze. By the time she reacted, he could practically feel their heat singeing his skin.  The tray of food landed with a crash on the floor between them.

“You are a foolish boy, Jamie Fraser.”  

With those damning words and a swish of her skirts, Claire left him alone with his self-recrimination and a pile of broken crockery.

#my writing #outlander #fanfiction

[brasideios]

WIP Wordsearch Game

I was tagged by @sleeplessincarcosa, thank you my dear!

My words are: help, eye, sit, hair and touch.

This was pretty fun - like a tour of my own WIPs :)

Help

From A Story Set in Sparta [I really must choose a better title for this project!]

It was dark as Adimantos passed out of the village, having slipped through the sleeping streets, the cold wind of early spring sharp on his skin – but he was used to that, used to ignoring it, bearing it stoically, like everything else. His thin cloak, something between a winter and summer garment not sufficient to either season, did little to help. The mountains, his destination, were at a distance as he slipped over fences and through long, empty avenues of olive trees, passing the small houses on individual lots, the kleroi, where the helots who worked the fields eked out an existence. All was quiet, no lights shone; they knew better than to draw attention at night with the ever-present threat of the krypteia – and with something of a start, it occurred to him once again that that was him right now. They feared his passing; it was his footsteps in the night that made the women hold their children a little closer.

Eye

This snippet is from a kind of breakaway piece of Arity - I have no idea where it fits, if at all, though I suspect it will end on the cutting room floor.

I found myself at five in the morning, or thereabouts, in the back seat of Brett’s four-wheel drive. Naturally, Jake has pushed himself in next to me; another guy Rowan, sits on the other side of him; and Brett and Luke are sitting in the front. They’re talking, at length, about breaks in New South Wales. I’ve tuned out, and am looking out at the ocean as the sky starts to lighten, and the water turns a very dark, rich green. I’m distracted when Jake’s hand slips casually along my calf, as he reaches (allegedly) to pick up his water bottle from by our feet. I look into his eyes, and he grins, a mocking kind of smile that says, you are so mine. I feel a shiver across the nape of my neck – it may well be a draft, it’s very cold again this morning – but I take it as an omen. I move my leg away from his hand, and give him a look that says, No matter how hot you may be, no matter how much you might strut around, there's no way I'm giving in to you. But I let myself smile too, because I don’t mean ever.

Sit

From the last scene that I added to Arity before I fell in a hole with it:

The coffee shop he chose was on the foreshore of Langarrin, the bottom floor of a high rise with woven cane chairs and dark wood everywhere. Elaborate ceiling fans whirred slowly, doing less than one would wish to cool the room. We sat in a booth on one side beneath one of them, for all the good it did us. It was busy that morning, with many people coming and going. Jimmy would nod or raise a hand now and then, but no one interrupted us. He ate like he hadn’t seen a meal in three days, and was finished long before I’d picked my way through the pancakes I’d ordered. He took the opportunity, sitting back with his cup of coffee in his hand, to say, ‘You wanted to know about my family.’ I nodded. ‘Only if you’re comfortable talking about it, though.’ He waved that off. ‘I told you my parents were older?’ ‘You did; and that you never knew your grandparents.’ He nodded, looking into his cup. After a long moment, he said quietly, ‘It’s hard to know where to start, actually.’ ‘Wherever feels right,’ I said encouragingly. ‘I’m listening.’

Hair

Another from A Story Set in Sparta:

The grasses shivered as the wind passed through them, the mountain above glimmering in the heat, the horses cropping the grass and flicking at insects with their tails and an occasional shake of the head.  He ran a hand along the flank of the bay colt, still young, still clumsy and all legs, who flinched at his touch but watched him boldly, with one eye.  He closed his own eyes, feeling the breeze blow his long hair away from his face, and stirring his beard.  The colt suddenly nickered and dashed away across the field, and Brasidas opened his eyes in time to see the colt reach his mother, calmly grazing at the crest of the hill.

Touch

From Newcastle 1929:

Fred went out to open up. There was always a bit of a rush from the regulars, the women whose homes lined the streets around them – small workers cottages, from the end of the last century; but that morning, a man came into the store in this first rush of women. They looked up at him sideways – he was head taller than any of them, and had wild blonde hair touched with red. He was obviously down at heel. Fred felt his heart sink even before he spoke. He saw him visibly square his shoulders and swallow his pride, before asking in a broad Scots accent, ‘Can y’ spare my family anything, lad? We’ve gone two days with nought to eat.’ He gestured at the doorway, in which two small girls stood, their eyes wide. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fred said, sighing deeply, and meaning it. ‘We may have something at the end of the day. Come back then.’ The man studied his face a moment, then nodded once. ‘Thank y’. I will.’ When he’d gone back outside, John stuck his head in from the kitchen. ‘You shouldn’t encourage them. You know there won’t be enough for even half who come.’ Fred only shrugged at his father, unrepentant.

~~~

Tagging (and apologies if you've already been tagged!) @ainulindaelynn @aeide @findusinaweek @myriath @woodsman2b @erzsebetrosztoczy @theinkandthesea @merelyafigment

Your words if you choose to accept them (lol) are: Spare, situation, certain, real and question.

#tag game #WIPs #AStorySetinSparta #Arity #Newcastle1929 #my writing #snippet sunday