#women are paid less and charged more

[cherienymphe]

Southern Charm (Rafe Cameron x Reader x Chase Andrews)

Warnings: NON-CON, stalking, underage drinking, crossover

➥ you don’t have to be familiar with Where The Crawdads Sing to follow along with any characters in this fic. Just know that he’s a 1960s version of Rafe with a domestic violence + attempted rape charge

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @firefly-graphics​

summary: Privileged assholes always want what they can’t have. Or, alternatively, you turn down the wrong guys one too many times.

~

Chase Andrews was one of the proudest men you ever knew. He was also one of the most determined, so, in truth, you didn’t know why you expected anything less when you turned him down more than three months ago. You hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest. He was a simple guy asking out a simple girl, and the rejection shouldn’t have been any more complicated than that.

You’d forgotten that you were dealing with Chase Andrews.

If you hadn’t been so determined to get home before your mom threw a fit, you might’ve paid more attention to the way his face had fallen. You might’ve noticed the slight tightening of his jaw, the way he pulled his lip between his teeth, or the way he’d completely faltered altogether as if your refusal had been the last thing he’d expected. You might have even noticed the glint that passed through his eyes, signaling less than friendly thoughts as you tossed him a quick apologetic smile.

If you hadn’t been in such a hurry, you just might have noticed the way he stared after you, half in disbelief and half affronted.

You hadn’t though, and so you’d made your way home none the wiser to the dark thoughts brewing behind a familiar face. You’d greeted your mom with a quick hug before hurrying to your room. You plopped your purse down onto your bed without another thought spared towards Chase Andrews. After all, he was a simple guy who’d asked out a simple girl that only resulted in an equally simple rejection.

What had there been to linger on?

You hadn’t even brought it up to Kie, that’s how insignificant it had been to you. You told your best friend everything, and somehow, it really had slipped your mind that pretty rich boy Chase Andrews had asked you out on a date. It was only weeks later when you were forced to think on it some more did you realize that deep down, you’d written the whole thing off as some cruel dare.

It seemed like something right up his alley, pushed into it by equally troublesome friends.

You didn’t grow up along the rougher areas of the island, but that also didn’t mean you’d spent your time growing up around guys like that either. Guys like Chase grew up with everything and anything they could want, unfamiliar with the word ‘no’. You grew up fortunate, that you would always admit, but you hadn’t grown up like people like Chase. You hadn’t been raised to walk through life with the assumption that anything—and anyone—was yours if you wanted it.

So…maybe that was why you hadn’t anticipated any of it.

The sound of your name being called made you slow to a stop, and when you turned, the face matched the voice. Dark, almost black looking, hair and steel blue eyes contrasted against fair skin that looked like it barely saw the sun in spite of how much you always saw him out and about. Before you’d felt nothing at the sight of him, apprehension now gripped you instead.

Chase Andrews was a determined man.

“You heading home?”

It was a silly question.

He knew you were.

“Yeah,” you evenly told him.

He replied before you could give him some halfhearted reason as to why you needed to hurry away from him.

“Well, let me walk you…”

It was tempting, even if just for the sake of placating him. After all, maybe if you gave him a crumb, he’d be satisfied for the time being, but you wondered what kind of effect that deep southern drawl had on other women in town. You saw the way they flocked to him and hung off of his every word. There was something about that face that was disarming, you had to admit, but you didn’t make a habit of hanging around guys like Chase for a reason.

You were just about to refuse him, the umpteenth rejection within months, when it was his turn for his name to be called.

The familiar voice had contrasting reactions from you both, a slight frown between your brows while the dark-haired man sported a teasing grin when he turned around. You took the opportunity to take a step away from him, glad that he was too distracted by the sight of his cousin to notice. Dealing with one spoiled rich boy was one too many, never mind the presence of two.

Rafe Cameron was just as tall, just as pretty, just as rich but far more entitled than his dark-haired counterpart. He was an impulsive short fuse compared to Chase’s icy disposition. Where Rafe got into fights on the beach brought on by a coke fueled rage, Chase got drunk and harassed any unsuspecting less fortunate inhabitant who crossed his path. It had been years ago, but you could still remember the sound of his voice as he threatened to have some kid’s dad fired for simply bumping into him.

Rafe was proud to be an asshole while Chase liked to pretend that he wasn’t.

On their own, they were bad enough, but once together, you shuddered to think of what they could—and had—accomplish.

You only glanced over your shoulder once more as you quietly escaped what could’ve been another awkward encounter. Chase was already grinning at the dirty blond, an excited lilt in his voice as he talked about some party happening this weekend. In your efforts to make sure you were getting away unseen, your own gaze connected with a familiar blue one.

Rafe’s expression was even as he drank you in, nary an emotion flitting across it as he somehow both listened to the other man and kept his attention on you. A soft North Carolina breeze blew by, ruffling the few strands that grazed his forehead, and when his blue eyes lowered, straying from your own gaze and to parts of you you’d rather they didn’t, you finally turned back around.

Rafe Cameron, years ahead of his cousin, had asked you out once in high school. You’d been bolder then, less mature and lacking more than half the patience you carried now. You hadn’t just rejected him, but you’d told him in no uncertain terms that you didn’t like guys like him. You’d long suspected that he never really got over that, and you didn’t need to look over your shoulder again to confirm that he was still looking at you.

You could feel the heat of his gaze pressing down onto your back.

“Just give me five more minutes and then I’ll be ready,” Kie promised you, briefly touching your arm before hurrying into the back of her family’s restaurant.

The place was pretty packed today which made her parents’ decision to let her take off all the more surprising. Sarah Cameron was in the corner somewhere with her boyfriend Topper, the blonde throwing you a friendly smile when you came in. She was a lot closer to Kie than she was to you, and in truth, that was more so your doing than hers.

Rafe just wasn’t someone you wanted to interact with if you could help it, and considering that he and Chase were joined at the hip more like brothers than cousins, the desire to steer clear was doubly so.

You had just pulled out your phone to check your messages when a shadow passed over you. You didn’t pay it much mind, but the feel of their body heat mingling with yours clued you in on the fact that whoever they were, they were too close for comfort. You were both surprised and resigned when you heard a familiar voice.

“Picking up for Cameron.”

You tensed at the sound of that smooth voice, shrinking in on yourself as you continued to look ahead. Rafe knew that you knew he was there, and you could feel his eyes on you as you stared in front of you, waiting for Kie to return. You heard the blond next to you let out a small sigh, and you only glanced at him when he dared to move closer.

“You know,” he slowly and softly began, leaning in just a tad. “…you’re kind of hurting my cousin’s feelings.”

That was the last thing you’d expected to come out of his mouth, and you looked at him with a deep frown. There was a small smirk dancing on Rafe’s lips, the corner of his mouth quirked up just a tad, but there was an earnestness in his eyes that hinted at some truth in his words.

“Is that so,” you murmured, looking away. “I doubt that.”

You heard Rafe chuckle, but it was bitter, dry and lacking humor.

“He really hasn’t been anything but nice to you…and you treat him like garbage.”

Rafe’s voice had lowered some, an edge to it that forced you to look at him again. His expression wasn’t so mirthful, a smile or anything close to it nowhere in sight. Despite the volume in the restaurant, you felt like you and Rafe were the only ones in the place, and you swallowed.

“…and how do I do that? By politely turning him down?”

You kept going before he could intervene.

“How else should I do it? Or…would you be happier if I just didn’t turn him down, at all?”

You watched Rafe’s jaw tick as he ran his eyes over you, an iciness creeping into them that made you shudder. He stared at you just like that for what felt like a long time before finally speaking again.

“What’s your problem, Y/N?” he slowly wondered. “You think you’re too good for him or something?”

Such a thought was a great sin to guys like Rafe.

They had money and looks and influence, and so, that put them at a place where no one was off limits. The mere thought that you might think you were too good for his cousin Chase had his eyes flashing…because it wasn’t just about the dark-haired man. If you thought you were too good for Chase, then you thought you were too good for Rafe, and with just one look into a familiar blue gaze, you could tell that Rafe was transported back to senior year when you told him quite plainly what you thought of him.

“I don’t like guys like Chase,” you evenly told him.

You paid no mind to the way his expression hardened as he looked away. Rafe sniffed, pulling his lip between his teeth before meeting your gaze again, his own challenging.

“…and what is Chase like? What are guys like that…like…?”

Rafe was almost daring you to say it, to insult him and his family, and foolishly, you were glad to.

“Spoiled, entitled…guys who lose their temper when they don’t get their way,” you told him, holding his gaze despite how uncomfortable you felt. “You know.”

You pushed yourself to your feet just as Kie returned. She was in the middle of apologizing for the holdup when she cut herself off, coming up short at the sight of Rafe beside you. You were already walking away and urging her to follow before she could even acknowledge him.

“Was he bothering you?” she sternly asked the second you both made it outside.

“No,” you lied with a sigh. “Just Rafe being…Rafe.”

“Good,” she said with relief. “He’s been hanging around here a lot more, and as long as he isn’t causing trouble, who am I to tell him where he can and can’t go, but if he was bothering you, I’ll get my dad to ban him, I swear.”

A laugh was caught in your throat when her words registered. You frowned a bit as you followed her to her jeep, confusion filling you as you hopped inside.

“He has?”

“Yeah, him and Chase,” she groaned, starting the vehicle. “Neither of them gave that much of a fuck about my parents’ place before…”

You clicked your seatbelt with a frown, looking out of the window.

You told yourself that it was just a coincidence. The thought was laughable because when it came to guys like Chase and Rafe…there were no coincidences. You really hadn’t taken Chase seriously when he’d asked you out all those months ago, and the sentiment had held anytime he tried to approach you after. It was exhausting to keep turning him down, politely at that, and to ignore your increasing discomfort.

Chase had a way of crowding you, making you feel so small and at his mercy. The kindness in those blue eyes of his was never genuine, and you never had been fooled by that smooth baritone of his. He always had a look on his face like he was in on some joke you’d just never get, and to make it worse, he made you feel like you were the butt of it.

Truthfully, you didn’t know what Chase wanted with a girl like you, anyway.

You weren’t the partying type, so you’d definitely be no fun for him, and you’d never been eager to stroke his ego and tell him that he was even prettier than he believed. You came from money, sure, but not the kind that would make his mom satisfied. The woman had been convinced that some poor harlot was going to trap her son and swindle him for everything he had since he was a kid.

You really didn’t get what he wanted with you.

Both him and Rafe, to be honest.

Both were about as deep as a kiddie pool, but Rafe had always had a type, and you certainly weren’t it. You saw the kind of girls he hit on at parties, the kind of girls he walked around with, the kind of girls he slipped some free coke to. Rafe was nothing if not consistent in that regard, which made that moment in high school all the more confusing.

What made it even more confusing was that Rafe was obviously still hung up on it years later.

Unlike Chase, however, one hit to his ego was one too many.

“Chase…what are you doing here?”

It was hours later when you found yourself standing on your steps. No one had been more surprised than you when your mom announced that Chase was here to see you. Your dad’s pinched face was burned into your memory as your mom forced him to mind his business.

The dark-haired man before you let out a chuckle, but it sounded…off. It didn’t sound like a laugh born from amusement, but one bred from confusion instead.

“I’m wondering the same thing,” he told you, although his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You must have rejected me about…seven times by now.”

He laughed to himself again, his white button down pulling as he leaned against the porch post.

“I guess I just want to know why.”

His expression was polite, but his eyes told a different story, and you didn’t need to study the blue of them to know that he’d talked to Rafe. You forced yourself to take a deep breath, crossing your arms over your chest as you briefly glanced away. You could feel his unwavering gaze, both studying you just for the hell of it and because he wanted to know what you were thinking.

“I’m sure Rafe told you why,” was your remark.

When you looked at the dark-haired man, his own jaw had tensed some, face taut, and he nodded with a glance towards his feet.

“Look…I’m not the kind of guy you think I am,” he finally said, perfect teeth winking at you as he grinned, like the thought was laughable to him. “I just…”

He exhaled.

“We’ve both grown up here, and went to school together, and I don’t see the point in pretending like I don’t notice you,” he drawled. “I like you…and I’d like to take you out.”

Truthfully, you couldn’t tell how genuine Chase was, but your familiarity with him had your response on the tip of your tongue before he could even finish.

“Guys like you don’t like girls like me, Chase,” you’d started, turning to go back inside. “At least not for anything more than one fun night.”

When your eyes met his from the other side of the screen, they didn’t look so warm, now. The blue of them seemed darker, although you preferred to write that off to a trick of the light. He looked like he wanted to say more, but you continued just as he opened those pink lips of his.

“Go home, Chase.”

You didn’t wait to hear any kind of response.

You really hadn’t anticipated any of it.

Chasing you down on the sidewalk or approaching you in the street was one thing, but Chase showing up on your doorstep one evening had spooked you, and it was why you’d had no qualms about being straight with him and telling him to just go home. His determination to have you, despite your visible discomfort at the thought, had made it hard to sleep that night, but you’d hoped that your point had gotten across.

…and while Chase hadn’t made a move on you again, you still found no relief.

He and Rafe hung out at The Wreck more often than they ever had, and while they kept their distance, the feel of an oppressive gaze was hard to ignore. You told yourself that you just imagined the sound of a familiar truck driving by your house in the dead of night. It was a small town, and just like before, you’d run into a familiar face often. That was nothing new…

Chase Andrews wasn’t trying to wear you down for a date anymore, but you still felt no peace.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Kie wondered one day, voice heavy with concern. “…and here I thought that they’d developed a taste for my mom’s cooking.”

“I thought he was joking at first,” you confessed. “…and then he just kept asking…”

You felt almost embarrassed to admit how wrong you’d been. After all, you were way too old for childish dares, and when Chase Andrews wanted something, he got it. He was a lot like Rafe in that way, something you’d always known, and yet…you hadn’t anticipated any of it.

From either of them.

“Just stay over at my place,” Sarah Cameron had offered one night.

It was a party that you’d been the one to drag Kie to, but your inebriation was something that took both of you by surprise. You’d felt too bad to stay and didn’t want to cut Kie’s night short too. The blonde girl had been concerned when she convinced you to let her drive you back to her place.

“I know how your mom can be sometimes.”

Almost everyone did, and you’d thanked her.

You’d been grateful.

Sarah residing in the same house as Rafe hadn’t been a concern of yours. Nor the fact that he might not be alone. You’d only been concerned with drinking lots of water and laying down to keep your head from spinning. When you woke up in the middle of the night, you were a lot more sober, and the trek to the bathroom wasn’t one filled with stumbling.

Your shower made you a lot more alert.

…and you were wide awake when you almost bumped into Rafe Cameron. He didn’t look as shocked to see you in his house like you’d expect, only mildly surprised. You did flinch at the sight of him, and you didn’t miss the way his blue eyes ran over the length of you, lingering on your legs and the shirt that kissed your knees.

He didn’t say anything like you expected, and you only forced out a small apology before hurrying back to the guest room.

It had never occurred to you to lock it.

Rafe was annoying and insufferable and an asshole. The oldest Cameron was a lot of things, but there were even some things you’d put past him. So, waking up in the early morning before day by the sound of the guest room door opening was something you hadn’t predicted. The oldest Cameron chewing you out, with blown pupils you might add, was something you hadn’t predicted.

“Do you know how much shit I could’ve put you through?”

You glared at him, but inside, you were shaking. The blond had taken it upon himself to air out his grievances with you, and you were wholly aware of just how unstable he was when he had any drug in him.

“You walk around this island like you’re too good for me,” he murmured, reaching up to touch his chest. “Like I’m just the scum you find on the bottom of your shoe…and instead of being grateful I didn’t make your life a living hell…”

He threw his arms out.

“You turn your nose up at me…like you’re so much better than me.”

You swallowed, torn between wanting to placate him and get him out or treating him like the asshole he was.

“Rafe, you’re high and…”

“…and what?” he leaned in, tilting his head at you. “What?”

Your breathing was uneven, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, taking a step back from him. The blond followed, and you worriedly looked towards the door.

“You think Sarah’s gonna save you? You think I care if she sees what I’m going to do to you?”

His words had you frowning, and your gaze was stricken when you looked at him again.

“That’s not funny, Rafe,” you breathed.

He chuckled to himself, running his hand through already unruly hair.

“…and what makes you think I’m joking…?”

The silence between you was loud, thick, and you furiously blinked.

“You walk around this damn island like I can’t have you…when truth is, I was just being nice,” he sneered. “…because it’s actually so easy for me to do this.”

His hand completely enveloped your chin, fingers harshly pressing into your jaw as he pushed you back. The action made you stumble, and your heart skipped a beat when you landed on the bed behind you. Rafe chuckled to himself at the sight, like he genuinely found it funny, and any possibility that he was being cruel in his humor was gone when he grabbed the ankles that kicked out at him.

“Rafe, stop,” you gasped, pushing at his chest and trying to back away.

He did pause in his movements, but he kept hold of you, head tilted to the side as he studied you.

“…and why would I do that…? I don’t want to,” he slowly told you.

Movement behind him caught your eye, and relief filled you at the sight of a familiar face. It was strange that in all these months, you never thought your eyes would land on Chase Andrews in relief. Rafe, clearly having noticed your line of sight, glanced over his shoulder.

“What?” he distractedly wondered, looking at you again. “You think he’s going to save you?”

His tone was cold, and his words had your relief quickly dying out. Rafe chuckled at the sight of your falling face, heart sinking as the worst finally occurred to you.

“You think he’s not going to watch and get off on the fact that the girl he’s wanted for months is getting what she deserves?”

Rafe’s grip was firm as he pulled at your shirt, the fabric tearing in the otherwise quiet room. You fought against his hands through teary eyes, but it was like they meant nothing at all to Rafe.

“You don’t think he’s just waiting for his turn?”

Your hand connected with Rafe’s face then, but it didn’t deter him.

In that moment, it seemed like all of Rafe’s pent-up anger towards you was finally coming out. His teeth grazed your skin as he held you down, his other hand digging into your hip. Rafe seemed to take delight in your fight, your fear, and when you turned your head, your eyes connected with a blue pair that was much darker than the ones before you.

Chase didn’t look gleeful at the sight of Rafe forcing himself on you. He just looked…satisfied, and you realized then that the blond was right. Chase was scorned, he felt slighted, and you knew that he really did believe that you deserved this.

When Rafe pushed himself into you, your head pressed into the bed as you gasped in shock. His dirty blond strands were kissing your forehead as he leaned over you, pushing his cock into you almost lovingly. One hand was so tight on your wrist that it was a wonder it didn’t break, and despite how much you fought it, how much you didn’t want to give either of them the satisfaction, you weren’t able to hold in a sob.

“What’s that my mama used to always say…” Chase wondered, finally speaking. “Stop crying before I give you something to cry about?”

He was moving towards you both, and through a tearful gaze, your pleading eyes connected with his own emotionless ones. He ran them over you, taking in your naked frame and the abuse that Rafe subjected it to. In truth, Chase didn’t even look like he was enjoying himself, his hands in his pockets as he looked down his nose at the scene.

“Chase,” you tearfully begged him, trying to push Rafe off with your free hand.

“No,” he drawled, moving closer. “You don’t like guys like me, remember? So, don’t go begging for my help, now.”

When he leaned over from behind you, one hand taking yours before he did the same with the other, more tears fell. His grip was tight on your arms as he held you in place for Rafe, the blond using the opportunity to run his hands over you. His mouth left open mouth kisses to your neck and chess, and you blinked for half a second before Chase’s lips met yours.

The kiss was oddly gentle, so out of place, and a sob caught in your chest.

“That was all I ever wanted,” he murmured. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

Rafe’s cock stretched you out in a way that had you whimpering. From pain or something else, you didn’t know the answer, and you were too embarrassed to linger on it. When he lightly bit your chest, you arched into his mouth, and his hips curved into yours.

“I thought you were too good for me, Y/N,” Rafe mocked into your skin. “The way you’re gripping me says differently.”

You squeezed your eyes shut at that, and Chase chuckled.

His own teeth found your neck, and you tried to move your hands again only to hiss when he tightened his grip. The room was mostly quiet outside of your heavy breathing and the occasional moan that would escape against your will. Chase had your arms and Rafe had your legs, holding your thighs apart for him to drive himself into you without abandon.

When Chase did finally let you go, you felt no relief.

You could hear him getting undressed, and when Rafe finally came inside of you, emptying his cock and forcing you to milk him, he looked up at the other man with a chuckle. You were free for all of six seconds before Chase grabbed you and roughly threw you onto your stomach. His hand at the root of your hair forced your head down against the mattress, and if you’d doubted his motives before, they were all too clear when he finally spoke again.

“I was polite…wasn’t I?”

His lips were at your ear, but a whisper as he seemed to want something from you other than sex tonight.

“I asked you out nicely, made sure you got home safe…didn’t I?”

You reached back, pressing your nails into his skin as your tears soaked the sheets.

“Didn’t I?” he wondered again when you didn’t answer.

“Yes,” you sobbed.

You heard him take a deep breath, and his free hand curved into your hip. When he pulled you back onto his cock, you let out a whine, eyes squeezing shut at the feel of him fitting snuggly inside of you.

“…and this is how you treat me?” he wondered out loud, hips snapping against yours.

His thrusts weren’t as gentle as Rafe’s, and you gasped with each one. Rafe’s anger at your rejection was a lot calmer. It was something that had been brewing and festering for years. He’d had time to come to terms with it and just live with it, you supposed. Chase, on the other hand…

The dark-haired man had been after you for months, putting his pride and ego aside to make his intentions clear over and over again. His anger was new…fresh, and he hadn’t quite had the time to process it like Rafe had. All Chase wanted to do was take out this new anger on you.

…and that he did.

Your nails clawed at the sheets as he pushed into you, the sound of his cock thrusting into you so embarrassingly loud in the room. His grip was tight in your hair, so bad that you swore you felt a few strands pop. He was talking to you—or Rafe—but you couldn’t make it out. You were too focused on the pain in your scalp and the fire deep in the pit of your stomach.

“You think you’re better than me? Hmm?” he spat, the hand on your hip pushing your lower half down onto the bed. “You think you can just treat me like any of these second-rate assholes?”

It was clear that he wanted an answer.

“Huh?”

“No,” you sobbed, trying to push back against him to no avail.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? You don’t sound sorry worth a damn,” he harshly whispered, the bed shaking from the force of his thrusts.

“She’s not,” you heard Rafe add, and you trembled.

“I am,” you sobbed, finally cracking. “I’m sorry.”

You sniffed, trying in vain to get Chase to loosen his hold.

“I’m sorry,” you tearfully told them again, toes curling at the feel of his cock plunging into you and sliding against your walls.

“Nah,” you heard Chase drawl, leaning down to press his face into your hair. “You’re not sorry…but I can promise you this.”

He forced you to turn your head, and his soft lips gently brushed the corner of yours.

“You will be.”

~

tags: @aniquas​​ @softcoreparadise​​

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x kook!reader #dark!rafe cameron x reader #dark!rafe cameron #chase andrews #chase andrews x reader #obx fanfiction #obx imagine #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine #where the crawdads sing #crossover

[megamindsecretlair]

What You Deserve, Part 1

Pairing: Big Stunna x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Toxic filth. Infidelity. PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (female receiving) teasing/mocking, cum play, dirty talk, praise kink, Daddy kink, all consensual.

Summary: While out running errands for your family, sweet and handsome Stunna helps put the groceries in your car. A naughty, run-away thought leads you to invite him back to your house to thank him properly.

Word Count: 6,984k

Part 2

A/N: The brainrot is REAL. This is a hot ask from @planetblaque Everybody say thank you for this toxic hot fic! Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Taglist: @blackerthings @browngirldominion @we-outsiiiide @thecookiebratz @iv0rysoap @notapradagurl7 @sevikasblackgf @miyuhpapayuh @xo-goldengirl @kindofaintrovert @flydotty @judymfmoody @slippinninque @soufcakmistress @henneseyhoe @westside-rot @melaninpov @twocentuar @blackpinup22 @babybratzmaraj @theyscreamsannii @kiabialia

You walked down the grocery store aisle and the squeaky wheel on the cart was driving you nuts. You managed to get a lot on the list but you were still looking around for rice. You sighed. You hated when the store rearranged shit for no reason. How hard was it to keep things in the same place? 

You turned down the rice aisle and noticed a tall man wearing a black and white flannel shirt, dark jeans, and boots. Damn, he looked really good standing there picking out taco packets. You looked down at your wedding ring and curled your lip in disgust. 

Your husband would never be caught dead in the grocery store. And if he did, he’d only call you every two seconds because he didn’t pay attention to shit. He was a big picture man, staring ahead years into the future and what he needed to do to provide for the family.

Provide. That’s all he knew how to do. Your husband wasn’t a bad man…he was oblivious in a way that should have been a warning bell before you got married. As such, you were five years into the marriage with perfect five year old twins. When they weren’t being little demons.

You looked back towards the man and he was looking between two items, looking at the ingredients. You got a nice look at the length of his neck, his beard, and a cute little mumble he did while he debated. 

You shouldn’t be checking out another man but well, you weren’t dead. You saw something pretty, you were going to look at it. And in this case, the man was too pretty for words. Or maybe it was your libido talking. After the kids, your husband paid less attention to that aspect of the marriage, forcing you into a life of celibacy. 

Every blue moon, he’d look at you with something that could be called interest and then he’d get you just wet enough to get inside you. He’d get off, ask if you did, and then pass out in front of the TV. You started lying that you did just to get him out of the room. Who the hell wanted to be with someone that made sex feel like a chore? 

You picked up a small packet of rice and then thought about it. The bigger packet was more expensive but it’d last longer. And with the way your son, Noah, ate he’d eat you out of house and home by the time he’s a teenager. You picked up the bigger packet and scooted off down the aisle. 

You passed by the man. He looked up and gave you a double take, smiling as you passed showing off grills. You may have swayed your hips a little too hard as you turned the corner. Though, who were you fooling? 

While the kids were at school and your husband was at work, you barely put any effort into how you looked. You were a married stay at home mom and that meant lounge pants and a T-shirt were your best friend. Sometimes you even matched. You had joined the invisible legion of women whose world stopped as you took care of your family. You were happy to do so, but it was times like these that made you feel like you lost that spark. That sense of identity outside of your family. 

As you went down other aisles, somehow you managed to end up in the same ones with Mr. Sexy. It got to the point where’d notice first and smile at you. You smiled shyly back but avoided getting too close. He didn’t need any encouragement from you. If you were single though…

You sighed and made your way to the checkout lane. It was still early and there weren't a lot of people in the store. You checked out and pushed the cart to your truck, popping the trunk and starting to lift the bags inside.

“Excuse me! Miss!” A deep voice made you turn to the sound and there was Mr. Sexy waving over to you. 

“Yes?” You asked.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to help with your bags,” he said when he got closer to your truck. 

“Oh, that’s sweet but not necessary,” you said. 

“Please. My mama would turn in her grave if she knew I didn’t help a beautiful woman like you,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help a small smile. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” 

The small act of help touched you in ways that you weren’t expecting. As he lifted bags out of the cart, your eyes grew a little teary. When was the last time your own husband helped with groceries? 

“You look like you feeding an army here,” the man said.

You giggled. Well, he was bound to find out. “Ah, yeah. My husband and kids can eat a lot,” you said.

You watched his face to see what the news would do to him. Whether he was sad or disappointed that you were off the market. He only nodded. “Must be some slammin’ food if they eatin’ it like that,” he said. 

“I can throw down in the kitchen,” you bragged, preening a bit that you could do so. 

“Oh yeah? What you be makin’? And just know I’m already judging,” he said. He heaved bag after bag into your trunk and it made you a little sad thinking of bringing all that shit in the house by yourself. 

“Meatloaf, roast beef stew, enchiladas. In fact, I’m making that tonight,” you said. 

“Oh word? I be cookin’ sometimes too,” he said and then grinned like he was remembering a funny joke. “Enchiladas sound good as hell right now, too.” 

A naughty thought entered your mind. It was too brief and quick and you instantly kicked it to the back, hiding it in a tiny box and stepping on it. “You making anything special for your girl?” You asked.

He finished with the bags and then closed the trunk for you. “Naw, ain’t got a girl,” he said. He grinned at you. That smile could melt ice. You felt your pussy throb and your eyes widened. You about thought the damn thing was broken. 

“It’s just you?” You asked.

“Just me, unfortunately. But that’s alright. For now, I get to make whatever the hell I want and enjoy it,” he said. 

“Must be nice. My family loves my shit, but it’s not like they have an alternative,” you said and giggled. 

“Shame. I bet it’s delicious,” he said. Was he…flirting with you? Even knowing you had a family? 

“Thanks. I should probably get this home and start cooking. Thank you for helping me,” you said. 

He reached out his hand and you looked at it. Somehow, even shaking his hand felt naughty. Like he was going to see all the nasty things running through your mind. Thoughts of riding his thigh until you got off. Soaking his dick while he slammed inside of you. The thoughts were so vivid to you, you were worried that he’d read it all over your face. 

Another advantage to getting the house to yourself in the daytime was that you had plenty of toys to get the job done in peace. One thought about his face and you were sure you’d beat your personal record. 

You shook his hand so you weren’t rude and he held on. “I’m Stunna,” he said. He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss there. The back of your hand tingled and it moved all throughout your body until you were throbbing once more. Twice in a short amount of time? Calm down, girl. It wasn’t like you could do something with this man. 

You told him your name. “Would you mind if I gave you my number? If you’re out shopping, I can help you again,” he said.

You giggled. “You would come all the way to the store just to help me load groceries into my car?” 

“I’d unload them too if you let me,” he said. He was serious, not an ounce of humor on his face.

“You know I’m married, right? Like I didn’t bury that anywhere,” you said.

He laughed. “I heard that part, but I also don’t see the mu’fucka. Anyone letting you out of his sight must be ten kinds of stupid,” he said. He looked you over, making a show of turning his head one way and then another.

You laughed but didn’t let go of his hand. Found that you didn’t want to. Found that you were touch starved as hell and it was damn nice touching someone that looked as good as he did. “What, my husband supposed to have me on a leash?” You asked.

“Sheit, I would,” he said. “Yo sexy ass wouldn’t be able to breathe without me.”

“You better stop!” You said. Oh god, your cheeks were burning like hell and the whole thing was cute and weird and embarrassing. You did not get giggly because one man paid you a compliment. 

He wasn’t the first one to do so. Even though your husband was buried with work, he still called you beautiful. Raggedy men still tried to holler at you while you pumped gas and ran errands. None were so bold as Stunna though. There was something about that level of confidence that had you squeezing your thighs together. 

“Do you really want me to stop?” Stunna asked. 

No. Not even a little bit. But you couldn’t say that. “You probably should. Gonna get us both in trouble,” you said. 

“I don’t mind a little trouble. You never answered me about giving you my number. I was serious,” he said. “I don’t want anything in return, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d just like to see you again. Your husband don’t let you have friends?” He asked. 

You rolled your eyes playfully and finally dropped his hand. You were holding onto it entirely too long. “I can have friends,” you said. But you knew that he’d be anything but friendly. And why did that turn you on? 

“See, that’s that nigga’s first mistake. I wouldn’t let you have no friends neither,” he said. 

You laughed loudly and shook your head. “Life with you sounds restrictive as hell! What if I want alone time?” You asked.

“You could have all the alone time you want. At home,” he said. 

You couldn’t help laughing again, leaning against your truck as you pictured life with him. Life where he was clingy and wrapped entirely with you and never chose you over his work. The type of life you always dreamed about when you were younger and thought love meant candy hearts, roses, and bubbly champagne. 

“You have issues, sir,” you said. 

“That’s aight. You just look too damn good to go to the store by yourself or run errands. These belong on a honey-do list,” he said. 

You smiled. Your husband would break out in hives if you gave him a honey-do list that involved the grocery store or runs to the clothing store for your twins. Your kids were active in every sense of the word. You made it a point that they stay off screens as much as possible and get out into the big backyard your husband paid for. 

They found every mud patch, mudslide, and dusty hill to play on. When they came back in, they looked like swamp monsters. Your husband in the store trying to find good, cute outfits? Yeah right. 

“You are crazy. But I want to thank you. How does enchiladas sound?” You asked.

“Word? I get to try some?” He asked.

“If you’re serious about helping me unpack these groceries, then yeah. I think that’s worth a meal being cooked for you for once,” you said. Intrusive thoughts won for the day. You liked talking to him and you were worried that if you gave him your number, you’d chicken out. You’d reason and logic this away until you were even more depressed about the state of your marriage. 

It’d be nice to cook for someone who’d genuinely appreciate it. Rather than eating to live. Stunna seemed like the type that lived to eat and it was nice to find a kindred spirit. 

He grinned wider, showing up a neat row of white teeth and those grills. “I’d love to try your food,” he said. 

“Alright, follow me,” you said.

He walked you to the driver side of your car and held the door open for you while you climbed in. “See you soon,” he said and closed the door when you were safely inside. You put on your seatbelt and watched him return the cart to the proper place.

Your heart thundered in your chest as he made it to his own car. You started yours up and pulled out of the parking spot. A moment later, he was pulling up behind you. You drove home, heart in your throat. What the hell were you doing? 

Stunna was a stranger and you were just letting this man follow you home. You watched his car in your rear view mirror and wondered what he was like. So far, he had been nothing but cordial but a tad forward. You knew he valued his mom and was a gentleman, even though he had silly ideas about how he’d treat his woman. 

You remembered your single days. Grabbing enough food for yourself and eating lonely meal after lonely meal. Stunna didn’t seem like he was hurting for female company. It seemed like he was interested in yours and well, what the hell? You were grown, you could protect yourself. 

Besides, you just really, really wanted to keep talking to him. 

You pulled into your driveway and Stunna parked on the street. You were in the quiet suburbs where Black folks were just trying to get by. They had nice houses and decent jobs, but people were more interested in faking the funk than admitting that they were struggling. 

Your husband was smart with money so you weren’t hurting. But buying two of everything was expensive. It seemed like Noah was always playing right out of the shoes you bought him and Naomi just had to have the latest baby doll. 

Stunna joined you at your car and you unlocked it for him. He grabbed a handful in each hand and you were sorry he was wearing long-sleeves. You wanted to see his muscles work. You wanted to see his shirt off. 

For now, you would settle with just watching him be considerate. You let him into your home and he whistled. “Nice ass house,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said. You had it decorated to your specifications so it wasn’t stuffy and stiff. As if you lifted it from a magazine. Naw. Your house was lived in and full of love. 

You walked to the kitchen and showed him where to drop off the bags. “Naw, I wanna earn my meal. Point to where they go and I’ll do it,” he said. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you said. 

“I know. Let me help. Sit yo pretty ass down and get some water,” he said. 

“Fine,” you said with a grin. He grabbed the rest of the groceries from the car and closed your front door. You asked him to lock it. You may live in a nice neighborhood but that didn’t mean shit. Thieves would use any advantage to steal. Stunna could be a thief but he didn’t have to wait till he got here. Sure, he could steal the shit in your house but it was all insured. He’d have been better off stealing your wallet at the store. 

You told him which ingredients to leave out for the enchiladas while you grabbed two water bottles from the fridge. You downed at least half of it. Stunna made you feel like you were standing on top of a hot vent. 

He accepted his bottle and sat down at the bar stool, looking at you while you dug out pots and pans, cooking utensils, and your cutting board. 

You talked about light subjects like your family, friends, and what he does for a living. He was a bit cagey about that part, so you assumed it was something bad. You weren’t trying to be judgemental but you could not see his sexy ass saying, “Yes, Sir. No, Sir”, at an office job like your husband. 

You put the chicken on to boil and started prepping the veggies for the salad on the cutting board. Yes, he judged the hell out of how you sliced them. 

“I’m trying to make you a nice lunch,” you said.

“I know! I’m just saying, you could slice them faster and more evenly,” he said.

“You’re not supposed to help me with the meal too!” 

He chuckled. “I don’t mind. Can I show you?” He asked.

You gave him a playful look to know that you were mad at him but with no real heat. “Fine, since you know everything,” you said.

He got up from the stool and came around the kitchen island. He washed his hands in the sink and then took the knife from you. “Aight, so if you hold it like this and the tomato like this, boom,” he said. He focused on the task, blowing through the tomato like butter. 

“Wait, how’d you do that?” You asked. He chuckled and grabbed another one, going slower and showing you how to do what he did. He grabbed the last one and let you do it. You made one slice and he made a noise like a game buzzer.

“May I?” He asked. 

You really shouldn’t. But your head was nodding anyway. He stood behind you and you closed your eyes briefly. He was so strong and solid behind you. He leaned down so he could bring his hands on top of yours. He showed you how to hold the knife and tomato and how to make the same cuts he did. 

He helped you with the first few slices and then left you to make the next ones by yourself. He didn’t move from behind you as you moved through cutting it, chopping it up like a professional chef.

“I did it!” You said. You giggled and danced, shaking your ass on his crotch until you realized what you did and stopped.

“I am so sorry!” You said. You flipped around in his arms and he titled his head at you.

“I’m not,” he said with a slow grin. 

“Stunna, now you know…” 

“I know that you seem a little lonely. Forgive my bluntness, but shit, this whole house to yourself every day and all you do is cook and clean?”

“I take care of my family,” you said defensively. 

“I know. But who take care of you? Shit on the outside, it look like yo husband forgot what a baddie he got for a wife,” he said. “I wouldn’t ever forget.” 

He used his fingers to lift your chin up and forced you to look at him. “Stunna, I’m married,” you said. You said it like it was a piece of armor you drew around yourself. Those two words would stop even the most persistent of men. 

“Mhm, yet you here with me,” he said. 

“I got kids,” you said. 

“They little asses still in school, ain’t they? I’m great with kids,” he said. 

You giggled. “You are so bad.” 

He grinned, flashing you the grills. He was dangerous. Likely some type of criminal. A veritable hood rat that chased skirts and smoked all day. The complete opposite of your straight-laced husband who got pissy if his tie didn't match his shirt. 

“I can be worse,” he said. He put his hands on the countertop on either side of you. He placed a kiss against your neck, breathing in your scent. You wore your favorite lotion and were glad you did. 

“Let me be bad and take care of you for once,” he whispered against your skin. “Don’t you deserve it? Don’t you deserve to feel good?” He moved his lips to the other side of your neck. You leaned your head back, letting out a soft moan. 

If he kissed you, you’d cum on the spot. That’s how needy you were. How desperate and starved for affection. 

“Stunna, are you serious?” You asked.

“Hell yeah. See, the why I see it? This ain’t you, mama. You need some relief. I can be that,” he said.

“Even though…”

“Hear me when I say that I don’t give a flying fuck about your husband. I don’t give a shit that you’re a mom. I see a fine ass woman with a banging body that I wanna put on this table and taste her. Eat her for lunch,” he whispered in your ear. The force of his words were like tiny arrows shooting you with desire. 

You leaned back so that you could look him in the eyes. “Do it. I want that,” you said. 

Stunna turned and lowered the heat on the chicken. Then, he grabbed your hand and led you to the dining table. He intuitively moved to the head of the table. You went to loosen the tie at your waist, but he slapped your hand away.

He brought his lips to yours and you let him. You let him kiss you and opened your mouth to run your tongue against his. He moaned and kissed you deeper, rougher. He knew without you having to say what you needed. 

He pulled the tie at your waist, letting your lounge pants slip off of your hips and down to the floor. Shit! 

You pulled away from him and tried to hide your hideous granny panties. He pulled your hands away. “Think this scare me away?” He asked.

You nodded but you couldn’t look him in the eye. How the hell were you supposed to be sexy while wearing these atrocities? To be fair, you weren’t expecting sex today. Your husband was on a project that sucked up all of his time and attention. 

“Naw. Just makes you sexier to me. Move them hands,” he said.

You bit your lip and shook your head. There was no way you could continue after looking so gross.

Stunna leaned down and kissed your ear. “If I gotta move ‘em, you ain’t gon’ like it,” he said. 

Shit, that only turned you on. You lowered your hands and finally looked at him. “That’s right. Be a damn good girl for me and take them sexy panties off,” he said. 

Your fingers shook as you lowered your panties. Cool air brushed along your skin but did little to cool you off. There was a roaring fire of desire burning through your veins and you hadn’t even done anything. Hadn’t done more than kiss and take off your clothes. 

“Shirt too,” he said. He grabbed you by the waist and picked you up, sitting you down on the table. You yelped from the cold surface, making him grin. 

You plucked off the T-shirt. Your bra was just as plain and ratty. All the cute bra and panty sets in your drawer and this was what you wore when you finally got some. The situation would be funny if it weren’t so embarrassing. Stunna truly didn’t seem to mind as you took off your bra.

His eyes lit up as he looked at your titties. He sat down in your husband’s seat and palmed your breasts, running his fingers over your sensitive nipples. You moaned, arching your back so that he could get a better angle. 

He leaned forward and brought his lips to your left nipple, flicking his tongue over it. He latched on, suckling it into his mouth and you cried out from the pressure and bite of pain. Endorphins rushed through your system, making you squirm on the table. You were so wet. 

He massaged your titties as he suckled. He moved on to your right nipple, suckling on it and moaning as if he were getting pleasure from this too. It wasn’t a chore. He wanted to touch you, taste you. 

“Shit,” you moaned.

As he switched sides once more, he brought his hand down to cup your pussy. You jerked off of the table and he cooed. “Hmm, nice and creamy already. Love me a creamy girl. You got some more for me?” 

He slowly worked his fingers past your pussy lips. He gathered up your essence at your entrance and used it to circle and tease your clit. You brought one of your hands up to his shoulder to push at him. 

“What I tell you about them hands, gorgeous?” He asked.

“But…”

He bit your nipple and you cried out from the sting. “Uh-uh, do what Daddy tell you to.” 

Fuck. You came on his fingers already, thighs twitching and brain tingling. You moaned throughout it, that sweet relief everything you needed. Relief that didn’t come from your own two fingers or a sex toy was somehow more intense. More visceral. 

You bit your lip and looked at him. He watched you with a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Needed that shit, didn’t you?” He asked.

You didn’t trust your voice. You nodded shyly. Ugh! You hated this! You did not land your husband being this timid woman who was too afraid to even moan during sex. You enjoyed the hell out of it. You enjoyed the hell out of it with your husband. But once you got pregnant, he knew he needed to step up. Grinding for you became more important than grinding in you. 

A pang of shame hit you. You allowed another man to touch you. You swiftly kicked that bit of shame to the back of your mind. This wasn’t about emotions or starting anything. This was something nasty to get out of your system. The last hurrah you never got because you were pregnant when your husband proposed. You never got a wild bachelorette party with strippers and dick straws. 

“Spread them legs,” he commanded. 

You grinned slowly. You opened your legs and gave him a sultry look. The look of surprise on his face was priceless. You were just a little rusty. You knew how to throw down. 

“You so fuckin’ sexy. Spread open for me,” he said. He licked his fingers, licking away your arousal. He moaned and closed his eyes, savoring your taste. “Sweet, just like you.”

He grabbed your thighs and opened them wider. He rubbed his big nose in between your folds. His tongue lapped at your entrance. His moans got higher as he tasted you in earnest. 

“Oh shit! Oh fuck! Shit!” You moaned. His tongue felt like exactly how you pictured heaven. Eternal spring, warm sun, soft grass to sink your toes into. Your thighs pushed in ready to trap his face but his warm hands pushed them out. Pushed them away. Kept your legs open for him to lick and suck and tease your clit. 

He made out with your pussy. Licking you and then following behind by his lips to lap up whatever you leaked out. Your thighs quivered at the attention and care. At the total devotion to getting you off. You cried and whined until you were plunging head first into another orgasm. One that rocked you down to your core.

“Oue, shit,” you moaned. You looked down and he was still lapping at your juices. You glitched every time his tongue swiped your sensitive clit. He stopped and retreated from your pussy, a long spit chain still connecting you both. His beard was glistening with your arousal and you moaned, loving the picture before you. 

He licked his lips, breaking the chain. “Damn girl. Creamy as fuckin’ hell,” he said. 

You licked your own lips. Needing a double dose of him. You leaned forward and reached for his pants. He stopped you. “Use your words,” he said.

“I need you. I wanna taste you, too,” you said. 

He gripped your chin and brought you closer. And he wanted to kiss you after eating you out?! 

His lips were puckered and wet. His beard tickled your chin as he kissed you. This wasn’t just a kiss. It was like he wanted to share your essence with you. Like he wanted you to taste yourself on his tongue and get a glimpse of what he did when he was between your thighs. 

You did taste yourself and it was so damn hot. You smelled yourself all over him. His tongue explored your mouth. Your kisses were loud and sloppy. Lazy and slow, so at odds with how intense this man had been so far. 

Your hands pulled at his shirt, trying to unbutton his shirt or slip it over his head. You needed him naked too. You needed to see all of him. “There’s that little nasty freak. I knew she was in there,” he said against your lips.

“Pants. Off. Now,” you said. 

He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He made quick work of his pants dropping them down just enough to expose his long, thick dick. Veins stood out against the shaft and drool threatened to spill out of your mouth. 

You wanted to see more. You pulled at his shirt and he laughed again. “Do I need to tie those hands up? ‘Cause you don’t know how to listen,” he said. 

“I wanna see all of you,” you said.

“Naw, today’s about you,” he said. He tilted his head and grabbed his dick, stroking a few times as he looked at your dripping pussy. 

“‘Bout you getting what you so obviously deserve.” He slapped his dick against your pussy. Your eyes rolled back. You lost track of how many orgasms he handed out. You should be tired. You should be too wrung out to do anything more. 

But you were hungry for him. Desperate for that long dick to deliver the strokes you sorely miss. Need. 

“Today’s about getting you back to normal. To remind you that you’re fuckin’ gorgeous. That you shouldn’t go a day without getting filled up and fucked,” he said. 

“Oh god. Fuck,” you moaned. 

He slowly worked his way into your pussy. You moaned, crying out at just how big he was. How deep he was already and he hadn’t bottomed out yet. 

“Ouue, shit. Hear this pussy talkin’?” He asked.

“Unf, yesss,” you moaned. 

“You hear it? You should be hearing that every night,” he said. He wet his dick with your arousal and your toes curled as he finally settled himself in your wet heat. 

“Fuck. Flip over ‘cause you don’t know how to behave,” he said. 

“I can behave,” you said and poked your bottom lip out. 

He grinned, those golds transforming him from hot to smoldering. He kissed you with a loud smack. “You can’t even listen when Daddy tell you do something. Flip that ass over,” he said. 

You whined playfully as he slipped out. You let your wobbly legs down onto the floor and then turned around. He moved your hips until he lined you up where he wanted you. He lifted your left leg to hug the table and pressed down on your back until you were flush against the surface. 

He smacked your ass. The loud sound and pain made you cry out. “Show me how you got them kids,” he said.

“Fuuuck,” you moaned. 

He rammed his dick back inside you and you gasped. He stayed there, buried inside you while you adjusted to his girth and length. “Oue, shit. Fuuuck, you’re so big Daddy,” you moaned. You shook your ass on his dick. 

He placed his hands on your hips but made no further movements. You began to move, rocking back on his dick, showing him exactly how you got your kids. You slammed down on him how you liked. Rough. Hard. It wasn’t difficult to do since his dick was so big. You had so much to work with. 

“Ohhh, you like this dick,” he said.

“Yes, Daddy, I like it,” you said. Hell, you had no room to lie. Even working yourself desperately on his dick like this, you were having the time of your fucking life. 

He chuckled and then started stroking. “Oh shit,” you said, a hint of panic creeping into your voice. You thought you were doing a little something. Arching your back and bouncing your ass on his dick.

But Stunna? Stunna was a different breed. He gave it to you exactly how you needed. He rutted inside of you, slamming you back on his dick with enough force to rob you of air. Rob you of thought. You were able to turn your brain off and enjoy getting filled up.

“You still like that shit?” He asked.

“Ahm,” you moaned. You couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t do anything but accept this deep, rough fucking. He moved his hands to your lower back and switched up his strokes. He moved deeper, his strokes longer. His thighs slapped against your ass loud enough to be mistaken for fireworks or a gunshot. 

You laid your cheek against the table and let your body take over for you. Your body knew exactly what to do. Your pussy gripped him and he moaned low in his throat. 

“I need that last one, mama. Gimme that last one,” he said.

“I…can’t…” You said.

“Sure you can. Gripping me so pretty. You almost there. You almost there, I can feel it. I can feel how much you need it. Let it go, mama. Let it go,” he said. His voice grew quieter as he talked. 

The pressure in your lower belly was unbearable. You whined, knowing you were on the edge. You didn’t know what you needed but you were too far gone to name it. Claim it. To let him know.

Stunna’s hands roamed up your back until one of his hands was gripping the back of your neck. He squeezed and you gasped at the new angle. He got deeper, the tip of him kissing the very heart of you.

You exploded with a loud shriek, squeezing him and cumming with the power of a thousand suns. You shook and twitched on the table, flopping around. You were too lost to consider how crazy you looked.

“Gahh damn,” he moaned. He moved his hips rougher and faster until he slammed into you and shouted, unloaded a huge load into you.

“Sheeeeit,” you moaned. His cum painted your insides. Some of him slipped out around his dick and dropped down to your clit and likely landed on the table. 

“Fuck, mama. That was fuckin’ sexy,” he said. He slowly pulled out and you felt the rush of his cum leak out. Good fucking thing you were still on birth control. The last thing, the absolute last thing you needed was to turn up pregnant with another man’s baby. Good luck explaining that to your husband. 

You were still glitching on the table. So thoroughly fucked out that you couldn’t move yet. Didn’t want to move. 

Stunna rubbed your back and then your booty. He gave you a booty massage while he watched his cum spill out of you. 

The smell of chicken finally invaded your senses. “Food,” you said. 

“Don’t worry, mama. You focus on getting your strength back,” he said. He zipped himself back up and then washed his hands. He turned off the stove and then heated up the pan. You listened and saw his back as he moved around your kitchen, cooking food for your family.

He fried up the shells, dipped it in the sauce and then rolled it on the pan with chicken and cheese. Done, he put some seasoning on top followed by more cheese. He put it in the oven and set a timer.

This. This was what you thought married life would be like. Getting your guts rearranged and cooking food together. Laughing together. Playing together. 

Stunna came back around to check on you. He grinned and leaned on the table to kiss you. You were still in the same position he left you in. Fucked out and blissed out. 

“Why don’t you go shower and I’ll watch the food. Should be done by the time you get out,” he said.

“How are you…” 

“I see somethin’ I want, I want it. Let a real nigga show you how to appreciate the mother to his kids,” he said. He kissed you again and rubbed on your booty. “Now get your sexy ass upstairs before you’re late picking up your kids,” he said.

He helped you to your feet, proud of himself. Bastard. You picked up your clothes but Stunna stopped you from putting them on. 

“I wanna see that ass jiggle up the stairs,” he said. 

“I can’t stand you!” You said and giggled, wiggling your ass for him. You swayed your hips. A new energy suffusing you as you did so. You walked up to your room and showered, feeling nasty and like a woman again. Like you were more than a glorified maid and cook. 

Done with your shower, you came downstairs. Stunna was on his phone, sitting at the table like he didn’t fuck you senseless thirty minutes ago. When you came back in with cuter panties this time, black leggings, and a red T-shirt, Stunna whistled like you were walking around in lingerie. 

“Sexy ass. Getting fucked look good on you,” he said.

“Shut up!” You giggled. The enchiladas were cooling on the counter top. It smelled divine. You grabbed a plate and handed it to him, sitting down next to him. “Not really mines since you ended up finishing it,” you said. 

“You not gon’ have none?” He asked. 

You shook your head. “I’ll have some later. My schedule kinda lines up with the twins. I eat when they do,” you said. 

Stunna pushed the plate towards you, holding out the fork. “Eat,” he said.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“Do I need to feed you?” He asked. 

You rolled your eyes and took the fork from him. Nasty ass. If he fed you, you’d be late to pick up your kids. You ate a bite and moaned at the taste. His style was similar to yours but food made by other people tasted so much better. 

You ate half and pushed the other half to him. He chuckled. “Aight, but next time you’re eating all of it. Gotta take care of yourself too,” he said.

“Oh, next time? That’s bold,” you said.

He ate and shrugged his shoulders. “You ain’t telling me no,” he said.

You rolled your eyes again. You laughed and giggled your way during his meal. He finished and you washed the plate. Dishes were your least favorite chore so you made sure to do it as soon as possible. To avoid it getting gross. And yes, a little bit of you wanted no reminder of him here. 

Stunna came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. He dropped his head to your shoulder. “Give me your number. I won’t cause a scene. I just wanna be in your life,” he said.

“Stunna, we can’t. This was fun,” you said.

“More than fun.” He lifted your chin with his fingers and looked in your eyes. “You feel something here. We work well together. However you’ll have me,” he said. 

You bit your lip. You wrestled with the decision. He already knew where you lived. What was your number on top of that? 

Your alarm went off. Your first reminder that you needed to get going to arrive at pick up early. You jerked away from Stunna, grabbing your phone off of the counter and silencing it. Stunna watched you as you thought through your options. 

“Giving you my number is like…agreeing to keep doing this,” you said.

“I ain’t gon’ pressure you for nothin’ you don’t wanna give. This can be whatever you want. But I saw your face when I was in that pussy. And it’s obvious your husband been neglecting you. Use me,” he said. 

He slowly walked over to you. He took the phone from your hands and started tapping away. “Use me whenever your hands don’t do nearly as good a job as me,” he said. 

You sighed and grinned. “Nasty ass,” you said. 

“I’ma dip. But use that number.” He gave you a last, scorching kiss and then let himself out of your house. 

You stared at the door, long after he was gone until your second alarm went off. You silenced it and made sure the stove was off. You left the house to pick up Noah and Naomi, listened to their excited chatter about school and what they learned.

You descended into “mom mode” as you fell into your normal routine. Get them home, homework done, washed up, and ready for dinner. Your husband made a rare appearance for once kissing you on the cheek and the kids on the head. 

“Did you try something different?” 

“Huh?” You asked, looking up from your dinner. 

“Did you try something different with the enchiladas? It tastes different, but delicious like always, babe,” he said. 

You stared at the table, picturing all the nasty shit you did there. How Stunna not only handled you, he also handled dinner. You sipped your water since your mouth went dry. The flashbacks were vicious. 

“Saw something online that I wanted to try. You like it?” You asked.

“Mhm,” your husband said. 

You hid your smile by eating more of the food and wondered when you could get Stunna back over. 

The Secret Big Stunna Files...in case you needed a little more in your life.

Part 2

#Megaminds Secret Files #The Secret Big Stunna Files #Big Stunna x Black!reader #Big Stunna x Black reader #x Black reader #Big Stunna x Fem!reader #Big Stunna x Fem reader #x Fem reader #x reader #Big Stunna x reader #Big Stunna x you #Big Stunna fanfic #Big Stunna fan fic #Big Stunna fanfiction #Big Stunna fan fiction #yahya abdul mateen ii #All Day and a Night #All Day and a Night fanfic #All Day and a Night fan fic #All Day and a Night fanfiction #All Day and a Night fan fiction

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

It might come as quite a shock to those who think that having a woman on the throne would mean anything for women's liberation in Westeros, but trickle down feminism is not a thing. Liberation cannot start at the top, it is a movement that must start from the bottom up, otherwise the privileged class simply creates more vectors for oppression. Power and privilege are inherently self-protecting, and a those in power, yes, including women, will tear down the less privileged before sacrificing even a tiny scrap of their own privilege or power. This is one of the main themes of ASOIAF and yet this fandom has bought into the myth of the liberating queen so wholeheartedly that people actually believe that allowing a tyrant to take the throne, so long as she's a woman tyrant, is praxis. Rhaenyra is not a liberator of women or anyone else, in fact she damages the cause of liberation much more than she helps it. Control over the dragons was bought and paid for with the blood of countless slaves, and Rhaenyra wields the tools of the oppressor expertly, threatening all who challenge her with fire and blood, a threat she delivers on before she ever crowns herself queen. Her very claim comes from the belief that the one person in charge should wield absolute power and ruthlessly defend that power with the might of dragons.

Remember who kills more of the living dragons in Fire and Blood than any one Targaryen. Set aside the silly logistics of the storming of the Dragonpit, and think about the bravery it would take to face down a dragon armed with only a pitchfork and conviction. That is where liberation begins, from the people standing in front of the dragons, not those sitting atop them.

#fire and blood #hotd discourse #anti targaryen #anti targ stans #team smallfolk

[wttcsms]

daylight [pt. ii] ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 19.2k 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 author's notes if you count part one, it took nearly 32k words for them to share their first kiss. who says the pwp writer can't have range? also, i'm always in a constant state of thanks to @mochalate, who constantly motivates me to work on this fic <3

part two: no kissing 

Colt Grice’s first kiss catches him off guard. 

He’s sixteen, and the positives that come from puberty are finally showing up. Now, instead of waking up with achy bones and joint pain, he’s nearly six feet tall. All traces of boyhood have been shredded, and in its place is a face with sharp features and nice bone structure that has spent years being hidden under baby fat. Like every other hopeless case living in Liberio, Colt enlists in the military because there aren’t many other options for him out there. He joins later than the others because up until he was fourteen, he wasn’t a hopeless case.

Then, Dad got sick. Bills needed to be paid. Colt was more than ready to sign up for the Marleyan military considering the fact that the average starting age is twelve — for “late bloomers,” that is. It had been this whole entire embarrassing ordeal, really. He stood out from his first bunkmates, all gangly bones and a less-than-sunny disposition on the world and its current state affairs compared to the hopefulness his younger fellow cadets all seemed to harbor. 

Colt doesn’t want Marley to go to war. He doesn’t want to die; he only enlisted because his family needed him to, even if they begged and pleaded with him not to. His paychecks get sent directly to his family, by his request. 

The uniform fits him awkwardly, too, at first. He thinks this is why he probably wasn’t on the receiving end of positive female attention. He sticks out like a sore thumb during mandatory lineup because he’s a whole head taller and several years older than everyone else who’s getting in formation. His pants fit weird, stopping at an odd point that’s an inch too high above his ankles, and the strap on his helmet is too tight and digs into the skin of his chin, resulting in him walking around with a constant red impression on the bottom of his face. He gets promoted quickly because of his test scores and ends up surpassing all his peers in his proper age bracket, too. It’s around this time that he starts taking charge, too used to having to play big brother for his original cadet class (with their chubby faces and short statures, they reminded him all too much of Falco and what he had to leave behind; settling into this role came too naturally). At this point, the uniform fits perfectly. 

The yellow armband he’s rewarded with fits just right, too.

At age sixteen, Colt Grice is officially transferred to the Warrior Unit as a Candidate. He has to prove his devotion to the cause; this means choking down more propaganda to the point where everything that comes out of his mouth is coated in Marleyan ideals, and it’s this whole entire thing where he stands up and does an oath, swearing his eternal, unwavering allegiance to Marley. It’s a public affair. The Unit makes him out to be a role model, the poster boy of sorts, for the Warrior Unit. To show the world that while being an Eldian makes you equivalent to cannon fodder, that doesn’t mean you can’t be thankful. 

He’s the closest thing this shithole has to a success story. 

Armed with what can be considered a Marleyan stamp of approval, and the fact that Colt now fills out his uniform quite nicely, in that primitive, hyper-masculine way that makes the female hindbrain go buckwild at the sight of him in it, he gains an insane amount of popularity. 

Colt isn’t a stranger to having so many admirers, now, but sometimes he still feels like that awkward fourteen year old boy playing at being a man. It’s why he’s so shocked when the girls who pursue him turn out to be very forward.

He doesn’t even expect the kiss. He’s back in the internment zone for a holiday break, and Susie had asked him to pretty please meet her behind the old schoolhouse. Colt doesn’t suspect anything will happen, but he does mentally prepare himself to give the usual response that he gives to all the confessions he receives: you’re a very nice girl, but I can’t give you the time and care you deserve; my current and only devotion lies with the military.

Susie is a very nice girl. With her short, curly brown hair and hazel-colored eyes, Colt is certain that there are plenty of boys who wouldn’t mind a love confession from her. She was one of the most popular girls back in school, or at least, Colt thinks she was. And her parents are one of the more well-off Eldians in the area; her dad’s a doctor. Her dad is Dad’s doctor, the recipient of a fourteen year old Colt’s meager military stipends. He wonders if she knows this, if she cares, if it would make a difference.

She doesn’t say anything to warn him that the kiss is coming. She rounds the corner, spots him in her line of vision, and heads straight towards him. He thinks she’ll stop at the last second, but she doesn’t, and by the time she’s too close for comfort, it’s too late.

Her lips press against his, and her eyes are closed. He knows her eyes are closed because his are wide open from shock. It lasts for two seconds, and it’s because that’s how long it took for him to regain control of his body and pull back. 

Then he apologizes and tells her that that wasn’t supposed to happen, and he can’t be with anyone right now. Shock is still clearly in his system because without even thinking too hard about it, Colt immediately turns his back on her and runs straight home. To this day, he feels bad about how he handled the situation, but last he’s heard is that Susie is married now. 

He licks his lips reflexively as he stares up at the ceiling. He wonders what your first kiss was like. He hopes for your sake that it was good, or as good as a first kiss can be. Then, he feels an unfamiliar, uncomfortable pit in his stomach at the idea of you kissing some nameless, faceless stranger. It gets even worse when he imagines that the kiss is good, that it’s something you enjoy. And then he just feels pathetic when he realizes that it’s jealousy he’s experiencing. 

It’s unfair of him to be envious of any of your past partners because Colt knows that he does not have a claim on you. He does not own you, nor does he believe that you are a possession, that you’re something to be owned. He is well aware that you are your own person, with your own experiences, and a whole lifetime lived before and without him. For all he knows, he’s just a footnote in the story of your life.

This thought makes him sad.

Fuck. He wants to turn his body and plant his face into his pillow and scream. He won’t do that because he’s nothing but courteous to his bunkmates, but this has been such a recurring urge lately that Colt is wary that this is going to be a problem if he doesn’t get his shit together, and fast. 

He finds himself thinking about you — he wouldn’t dare to go so far as to describe it as being “more often than he would like” because the fact of the matter is that he enjoys thinking about you, doesn’t mind you being the one singular thought that remains on his mind — and that’s the core of the issue. 

He repeats your name in his head like a mantra, until he’s certain that he can formulate sentences using your name as the only word. He says it in his head with different cadences, stresses the syllables in a different way every time, wonders if you ever think about him in a similar manner. 

It’s been a week since he last saw you. The bruises on his face have healed up quite nicely, and the cut isn’t even going to leave a scar, according to one of the nurses. As a result of falling asleep in your bed and having to limp back to base at the crack of dawn, Colt’s punishment is that he isn’t allowed to leave the grounds for the next two weeks. 

“What the hell were you doing, boy?” Commander Magath has the type of voice that is always booming. He is consistently loud, and Colt has long since discovered that that’s just simply how Magath sounds. Colt recalls flinching at his commanding officer’s question (re: he’s still recovering from a mild concussion, and Magath’s loudness isn’t helping much in the healing process), and, because Colt happens to come back at the odd period of time where the soldiers on watch are doing their shift changes, there’s an audience. 

Colt knows he’s stuck in between a rock and a hard place. He would rather run one hundred laps around base than ever admit he missed curfew because he was at a brothel. He also knows that he doesn’t have it in him to directly lie to an authority figure, especially when it’s a Marleyan officer. Looks like indoctrinating children really does have some lasting side effects. 

“I fell asleep, sir.” 

“Well, no shit!” 

Colt attempts not to wince when some tiny droplets of spit fly out of Magath’s mouth and land on his cheeks. He thinks it would only piss off the commander some more.

“I think it’s because of the concussion, sir. I thought going into town would help clear my head, but I ended up knocking out before I could even remember to head back to base.” Not a lie. Colt would never willingly fall asleep on you because he knows most of his time with you is limited. He has to make the most of it. 

At the mention of the injuries sustained, Colt thinks Magath’s expression somewhat softens. It must be a trick of the light, though, or maybe his head got more banged up than he realized because Magath is back to berating him, saying that he would expect this dumbass behavior from anyone else in the Warrior Unit but him — which could be taken as a sort of compliment, if only he didn’t follow it up with a reminder that everyone in said unit is such a breed of stupid that a common idiot off the street could be considered a genius compared to them. Well, idiot or not, Colt’s well aware that Magath’s definitely insulting him and his peers.

But when his only punishment is to remain confined to the base, he knows better than to try to argue his way to a lighter sentence. 

On nights like these, nights where he can’t seem to fall asleep because every slumber pales in comparison to the one he spent with you, he stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom and prays to every power in the universe that you are having a good night. 

As far as bad nights go, you think this one might top the list. At minimum, it ranks somewhere in the top ten worst nights of your life. 

Ramzi is sick. You would think that being exposed to the elements on a daily basis and eating food well past its prime date for consumption would make Ramzi immune to most common ailments, but if anything, it makes him even more susceptible to sickness. While he’s plenty grown up now, being sick seems to make Ramzi revert back to a little kid, to indulge in the boyhood he never had the luxury of enjoying. 

“You can’t leave me! I don’t feel well!” 

Even with a runny nose, a persistent cough, and his ongoing battle against his body’s fluctuating temperatures (he’ll throw off his blankets because he’s overheating only to be shivering not even five minutes later), he still has just enough strength to test his luck and see if his complaints will be enough to get you to stay home. 

His antics, while proof of his love for you, are starting to get on your nerves. The time you spend running around, trying to get him situated when his one goal in life is to act like he’s unbearably uncomfortable so you keep tending to him, is making you late. The other girls who live in this camp had stopped by earlier, asking if you were ready to leave. At that point, you had been in the process of bundling Ramzi up in several blankets (he frees himself ten minutes later, complaining that he was getting “too hot”) and told them to go along without you.

Now, you realize you’re going to be late to your first scheduled appointment of the night. 

Fuck.

If you leave now and run like the hounds of hell are nipping at your heels, you could probably make it to the brothel at a decent enough time to where Willa wouldn’t have to intervene on your behalf. You know things are bad if Willa gets involved. 

Before you lose your patience and snap at Ramzi, the opening of your tent is being pulled back. 

“No work tonight?” Malik asks. 

“I wish.” And then, “Did you need something?” The I’m kind of busy goes unsaid, but it’s clear in the agitated tone of your voice. 

“Just wanted to stop by and check up on you two. It’s been a while.” 

Malik doesn’t apologize. Probably on account of the toxic masculinity that seems to run rampant around this camp — this whole society, really — but he means well. Most of the time. From what you can see, at least. 

You know him stopping by and saying this is his idea of extending an olive branch to you. Usually, you would tease him at this point, ask him if he forgot how to say the words “I’m sorry.” All you can think about, though, is that he has the worst fucking timing. 

“Yeah, I guess it has been.” You tell him, opening up your trunk and pulling out the pair of socks Colt had gifted to you. In the box containing all of your meager possessions, the ointment lays on top of everything. You’re not facing Malik, anymore; instead, you pull on this pair of socks before slipping into your shoes. 

The stark whiteness of the cotton stands out from the usual colorful swaths of fabric prevalent in the camp. It’s too bright, too squeaky clean, to properly fit in your life of once-grand clothes that have retained only a fraction of the beauty and boldness it once held.  Malik innocently asks you where you got the socks from. 

“A customer.” You answer, and this shuts him up for now. If there is anything in this world that Malik hates more than admitting his fault and apologizing, it is any discussion of what you do for work. It’s an unspoken rule that the two of you don’t talk about your time at the brothel. For once, you’re glad about it. 

“I’m about to go to work right now. Could you do me a favor and watch over Ramzi for the time being? He’s sick, and I’m worried how he’s going to feel later on in the night.” Minding your manners, you look Malik in the eyes and tack on a please at the end of your request.

“You know I don’t mind.” He doesn’t break eye contact with you. You think you detect something different in the intensity of the stare he’s giving you; more serious, with an almost broody concern evident in those dark eyes of his. “I’ll be waiting here when you get back. We’ll talk more then, okay?” 

You’re already running horribly late. You don’t have time to argue, to remind him that the last thing you’re in the mood for is a conversation you’re unprepared for, especially after a long shift. Instead, you give a slight nod in acknowledgment, and practically sprint out of the tent. 

The cold wind whips you in the face as you make your way to the red light district. Usually, the sun is just barely starting to set when you make your journey; it’s jarring to see how different the walk feels when you’re by yourself, and it’s starting to get dark out. 

The closer you get to the district, the more the fact that you are a woman, alone, in a more dangerous, more lawless area of the city, starts to loom over you. You tighten your coat around your body, practically hugging yourself as you try to quicken your pace. The cold air bites through the fabric of your clothes, chills you to your bones, leaves goosebumps all over your flesh. 

The streetlights are dim, the pavement cracked, and you are well aware that the cold soaking through your skin right now isn’t just from the weather, but from the lecherous stares of the men walking down the street. This is the same path you’ve taken for years now, but tonight, it is entirely too different. You never noticed just how tiny you are compared to the heavyset frames of the men standing outside, with their burly shoulders that could easily knock you down if they were to accidentally run into you. 

Even the scenery feels different. You’ve walked down this street enough times to recognize where the deep potholes in the road are, and usually the buildings lining the district are a source of odd comfort to you. There’s a familiar bar, but its usual warm glow of light emitting from within doesn’t serve as a means of brightness anymore. Now, the lighting from inside casts weird shadows on the faces of the passerby, distorts their features, gives your paranoia something to feed off of. 

“Hey, girlie,” a raspy voice startles you. It’s been so long since you’ve had to worry about yourself — always choosing to focus on the surroundings for the sake of the other girls, always never having to because girls develop a sort of stupid invincibility when they link arms and take the town together — that you’re caught off guard by the sudden feel of a man’s hand on your shoulder. 

Fight or flight. 

You choose the weakest of the options: freeze. 

You realize that you’re scared to look at the man. Your eyes dart nervously down the street, taking in the surrounding buildings, but you realize that there is no one here who will be able to rescue you. Survival instincts kick in, and you find yourself able to back away from him, but his hand grips down on your shoulder even harder. Like a claw, like a shackle. 

“You one of those streetwalkers?” His words come out like a croak. You reason that it doesn’t matter what exactly he says; as long as it comes out of his mouth, with his dry, thirsty, cracked lips, spitting out sentences in between yellowing and rotting teeth, the words are going to sound disgusting regardless. 

“Or ya just a whore for free?” 

You take another step back. With what little light that shines from the streetlamps (that have certainly seen better days), you’re hyper aware of more figures approaching. Sometimes, there are other women who stand outside, some women who are the “streetwalkers” the man has accused you of being, but you know that they cannot come to your rescue. If they were to witness this scene right now, a scene that they’ve probably endured every night out here, they might not even recognize your plight. 

“What’s going on here?” An authoritative voice cuts through your panic, and in the low lighting, you almost think it’s Colt that’s approaching this scene. 

Wishful thinking is a silent killer. Like drugs and alcohol, the high you get from it, the relief, only lasts for so long. Coming down is even harder. 

You know you shouldn’t feel disappointed at the sight of your savior, but this soldier is clearly Marleyan. For all you know, he’s just gotten done with a session with one of the girls you patch up every night. 

He grips the man’s wrist, yanking it from your shoulder and assessing him. 

“I asked you a question.” This blond-haired soldier shoots such a sharp, disgusted look at the man that you’re certain the effect would be similar to how it feels when a blade pierces through one’s intestines. 

“Look, I don’t want no trouble.” The man snarls, pointing a grimy finger at you. “She’s the one solicitin’ people for cheap sex. Go arrest her, officer.” The way he spits out the title shows he harbors the same amount of respect for prostitutes and the police. The only thing stopping him from putting his hands on this soldier is probably the high chance that he’s got a weapon on him. 

“Big fan of the law, are you? Should I take you both down to the station with me, then? We can file a report together, and you can tell my superiors what exactly your business being down here is.” 

“Fuck you.” 

You’re debating if you should test your luck and run. There’s a chance that the soldier would rather chase after you than deal with this man’s verbal assault and hair-pin trigger temper. However, the last thing you want is to get indicted for prostitution. Not because it’ll go on your record; you couldn’t care less about that. It just sounds like filing an official report would take a long time, possibly the whole night, and you can already picture all the money you’re losing by standing here instead of being in your room, ready to greet guests. 

As if sensing your agitation, the soldier glances at you and then claps the man on the shoulder, guiding his hand upwards until it’s circled around the back of the man’s neck. He pulls the man closer to him, and because of the soldier’s height, he has to lean down slightly to get eye-level with your harasser. 

Silence. You can feel the fear radiating off of the man, undercut with his drunken defiance. If there’s anything men have in common, no matter what race or class, it’s certainly audacity. 

“Y’know what, I thought you had a bit more fire in you. ‘Fuck you’, seriously?” The soldier turns his head and looks at you, making a face as if trying to ask you can you believe this guy? “I know you can do better than that.” He takes his hand and pats the back of the man’s head. “Tell you what. I’m going to walk this lovely lady home, who was certainly not soliciting you, and then I’m going to come right back here. By the time I come back, you better come up with some better insults, or I’m going to be very disappointed.” Straightening himself up, he extends a hand to you; thankfully, not the hand that has touched that man. 

What else are you supposed to do in this situation other than take it?

The longer you walk with this man, the more you study him. The more you study him, the more you realize that it was foolish to believe even for a second that he was Colt. They have similar builds, but Colt has a leaner figure, lighter hair, soft brown eyes. The way they carry themselves is different, too. This man walks with his arms swinging by his side, and while the first glance of him can fool people into thinking he’s a perfect soldier, upon closer inspection, you realize that his uniform is missing a button, his pants are slightly wrinkled, and there’s a strand of hair in the back that’s sticking up. 

“So, you work at the Gentleman’s Club.” It’s not a question. His tone is light enough, though, to where you’re not on edge. He had let go of your hand the second you two left the immediate vicinity of the man. 

“Yes.” There’s no point in lying. 

“Don’t suppose you’ve run into many of them there.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Gentlemen.” He clarifies. “I don’t think you’ve dealt with many gentlemen there, right?”

“The name’s all for marketing.”

“Hi, All For Marketing. Bit of a mouthful of a name.” 

You don’t laugh at his joke, but he does, and he does so in a manner that indicates that one, he doesn’t care if people laugh at his jokes or not, and two, he’s very accustomed to people not laughing with him. You can’t tell if you like him or not. 

“My name’s Michael.” He adds, after settling down. “Willa told me telling you my name would make you feel better.” 

“Willa told you that?” You narrow your eyes at him. “How do you know Willa?” Willa’s the reason why any of the girls feel remotely safe in the Club. She’s older than you, but only by a few years. With the life she’s led, you’re only surprised that she’s not older — or dead. 

“She kicked me in the nuts once, and I was a goner ever since.” 

You can’t tell if he’s joking or not, and he doesn’t clarify. Instead, he drops you off at the front of the brothel, not even saying goodbye. He just turns right on his heels and starts to whistle an unfamiliar tune. You don’t tell him that this part of town isn’t the area where you want to whistle as you skip down the street, but considering the fact that you hadn’t felt any more slimy stares directed at you as you walked with him, maybe he can handle himself just fine. 

“Is everything okay?” Willa rarely calls anyone to her office. Tucked away in an odd corner of the brothel, it’s almost as if she doesn’t want anyone to know where her office is. The first and only time you’ve been in here had been on your first day of work, when she made you tea and told you that this is going to be a horrible experience, and that her job isn’t to ensure the girls’ comfort but rather their survival.

She’s the first person to truly ingrain this idea into your head: survival over everything. She’s the only other person who will continuously remind these girls that there are worse things to be in life than uncomfortable. 

The three jagged scars running down her face, starting from an inch below her left eye, down her cheek, traveling all the way to her throat, surely must have been more than just an uncomfortable ordeal. But here she is now, standing tall, pouring hot water into cups. The smell of tea brewing fills the small room. 

“Yes, of course.” You tell her, not sure why she had been waiting for you in the lobby, only to usher you into her office. 

“Hmm.” Her back is still turned to you. Her desk isn’t spotless like you would imagine it to be; she runs such a tight ship in this brothel, you envisioned that every other aspect of her life must be dictated by her militant extremes. There are papers covering every surface, pinned to the walls, even, and books stacked on the floor. You can’t imagine finding anything in this mess. Anything of importance would most likely be hidden in plain sight.

“Is this about the two appointments I missed? Willa, I—”

“Already handled it.” She turns to face you, offering you a teacup. The warmth travels from your hand and spreads to the rest of your body. You didn’t even realize just how cold you are.

“Are you going to fire me now?” The newfound warmth in your body immediately dissipates. You’re not above begging. If it comes down to it, you’ll do anything to keep this job. The sounds of Ramzi’s coughs fill your mind as you continue speaking, “Willa, I have never been late before this—”

“I’m not going to fire you.” She takes a seat on the edge of her desk, some papers falling to the ground as a result. “I just wanted to talk.” 

“About?” 

She shrugs, placidly, but you’re certain it’s just an act. She’s sitting too rigidly on her desk, and Willa is not the type of person to waste time (time is money, after all), especially just to shoot the shit. Finally, after the protracted silence, she sighs.

“Don’t you wish you could hop on a ship and leave this shithole? Sounds pretty nice, right?” 

You allow yourself three seconds of some more wishful thinking, but the idea of ever leaving Marley and having a life that’s better than the one you’re currently living right now seems so out of reach, your mind can’t even wrap around such an idea. 

“Wherever I go, I’d still be me.” 

“It’s a total hypothetical, [Name]. What if you ran away and had a whole new identity?” Her green eyes are very sharp. Actually, every feature of Willa is pointed and sharp. Depending on the lighting, she either looks delicate like a doll or downright dangerous. 

“What’s the point? What’s the point of living if you’re not yourself?” 

She smiles at you, almost like the two of you are sharing some intimate secret.

“I should probably go.” You tell her. You didn’t make this trip just to leave the brothel with empty pockets. There’s only so many hours left in the night. “Thanks for the tea.” 

You set the cup back on the small table crammed in the corner of her office. You didn’t even take a single sip.

Your hair is a matted, tangled mess, some strands sticking to your sweaty face. Regular customers range from the dregs of society to silent men who like to think themselves unemotional and cold but fuck with a vigor and passion that has them grunting out the name of the woman they truly wished was under them. For the most part, you don’t mind the men who fuck you with this sort of detached lust. 

Some nights, it’s even mildly entertaining. 

Tonight, it just hurts.

It’s like every man who stumbles into your room tonight has a lover in his head. Lover might be too sweet of a word, though. You can’t picture any of these men being loving, but sometimes, you can hear it in their distressed groans. Something animalistic and wounded, filled with want and desire. 

You wonder what the big fucking deal is. If you’re infatuated — even foolish enough to think yourself in love — with somebody, why are you paying to have sex with someone else? What’s stopping them from pursuing these women freely? The fact that they’re losers?

Your pessimistic thoughts give way to something more personal, though. When you’re left to sit in the silence after hearing the nonstop exclamations of every woman’s name but your own — each of them said in such a desperate, longing manner, it was probably a love confession — you realize that only a select few people outside the refugee camp know your name. 

You stare at your door, willing it to open. 

Hoping. Wanting. Waiting. 

Just like every other night this past week, just like every other night that followed after you acted just as foolish as these men and whispered your name to him, he doesn’t show up. 

You sink into your mattress. 

Hope’s going to kill you before anything else gets the chance. 

Colt stares at his reflection in the barracks’ bathroom. There’s a tiny crack running down the mirror that hangs over the sink he used to wet his toothbrush and rinse his mouth — the one with the perpetual leaky faucet — and the constant drip drip drip of water slowly plopping down in the discolored porcelain does nothing to ease his nerves.

Tonight is his first night of renewed freedom. 

There’s little to no trace of the sparring match from two weeks ago. Claire had been right in her assessment: there is no lasting scar from the cut. He feels himself tracing the areas on his cheek where the bruises formed. There’s nothing left of them, now, but he can trick himself into feeling the ghost of your touch when he does this.

The only good thing to come out of not seeing you for two weeks is that he has considerably much more money saved up, allowing him to purchase more of your time. 

The crack in the mirror travels from the upper-right hand edge down to the lower left-hand corner. It’s jagged, but faint; just enough to distort his reflection, make it look like he’s some messed up puzzle where the two pieces aren’t aligned right yet. His haircut came courtesy of his enlistment, so it’s no surprise to him when he finds he can’t style it in any other way besides the military guideline approved gelled parting. It usually doesn’t matter, considering he’s either on base or hiding his hair underneath a helmet, but now he’s standing in this cold bathroom, hyper aware of his looks.

He knows that he’s considered to be handsome. Handsome in a rather generic way, he thinks. He holds none of the rugged appeal some of the girls claim Porco possesses, nor does he hold the same amount of inviting charm Michael seems to waste, since every time he manages to attract a girl, he opens his mouth and they start running in the other direction. His looks are nothing special. This realization wouldn’t bother him on any other day, but when he’s spent two weeks thinking about reuniting with you, in all his plain glory, he feels like heading back to his room and never seeing the light of day again. 

But he’s a soldier, a Warrior Candidate, the next inheritor of the Beast Titan. He brought pride to his family, proved to everyone that he was at least someone worth giving a damn about, and—

—he wants to see you again.

Wanting is proof that he is human. Animals survive on a basis of need. They eat the food that they can hunt because they need to survive. They burrow into holes in the ground or sleep on rocks because they need to survive. They claw at each other, spitting mad, snarling, sharp teeth, bloody paws, all because they need to survive. A textbook from his childhood, a textbook still included in Falco’s curriculum, states that Eldians are more animal than human.

Colt is aware that he’s done lots of things for the sake of survival, out of need, but there is something wonderfully human that continues to live inside of him, an ache in his body that can only be relieved by giving into his wants. 

He thinks back to earlier this week, when Zeke calls for him so they can toss a baseball back and forth to each other. Colt always gets the feeling that Zeke is in a perpetual state of holding back. He’ll talk to Colt and make the occasional joke, drops an insignificant anecdote from his earlier years, all of which are scraps that Colt clings to because it won’t be long until Zeke isn’t here anymore. He’s well aware of how morbid it sounds, but Colt doesn’t view death in the disgusting, grotesque way most people do. He’s sappy. He softens it, like how he softens most things. He likens it to a well-earned rest.

He collects these little bits and pieces of information from Zeke so that at least his memory won’t be buried in the grave with him. He accidentally lets this slip out when they’re done tossing the baseball, and they’re just leaning against the brick ball, enjoying a break away from the other soldiers. 

Zeke had asked him why he cares so much, and after getting his answer, Zeke fumbles around in his front pocket, procuring a lighter and a cigarette. 

After lighting it and taking a long drag, he tells Colt, “You’re a good person, you know.” 

Zeke isn’t the type of guy who says things just to flatter people. In fact, most of the Warriors seem to go out of their way to push their luck and see what types of out of pocket things they can get away with saying. Porco tops all of them, easily. 

“Thank you,” Colt isn’t good at dealing with praise. Most of the superior officers here aren’t keen on giving compliments to Eldian soldiers, and so Colt gets used to savoring the silence in between insults.

“But, you know that memories get inherited, too, right? Can’t remember if they wrote it in the damn textbook or if I mentioned it to you before.” 

“Both.” Colt answers. He remembers, because the camaraderie of it all had sounded so appealing to a young Colt. Later, he realizes that it’s because all blessings come attached with a curse; unimaginable power and a means to do right by the people you love and your state, but you die shortly after. Maybe it’s only fair that memories get passed down, to make up for all the memories you won’t ever get to make. 

“So, what’s the point in trying to remember all the stuff I tell you?” 

The rough exterior of the bricks digs into Colt’s back. “What if not all memories get transferred over? Maybe the ones I remember on your behalf don’t pass over, but since I know them, they get to live on.” 

Zeke appears to be thoughtful for a minute, letting the words sink in, soak him straight to the bone. “Can’t argue with that.” Zeke can actually argue quite well; Colt knows this. What Zeke means to say is that he doesn’t want to argue. Zeke digs into his pocket, pulls out a carton, and offers it up to Colt. 

“I don’t smoke.” 

“Good for you. Don’t start.” The advice seems insincere, since Zeke tosses the butt of his cigarette to the ground and immediately lights up another one. 

Maybe if he had regenerative abilities and didn’t have to worry about black lungs, Colt would also try out smoking. Probably not. His mother is always reminding him to take care of himself and taking up Zeke on his offer of cigarettes would feel like a betrayal to her. 

Zeke is no stranger to smoking. Colt would go so far as to call it an addiction, what with the way his fingers seem to always naturally find their way to a lighter and a cigarette. The smell of smoke clings to his jacket, and you can occasionally see him reflexively twitch his fingers when he’s gone too long without a smoke. 

Colt wonders what would happen if he goes too long without seeing you again. Would his knee bounce anxiously? Would his hands clench and unclench, just from the strain of having to resist the urge to run to your side? He’s not familiar with such a concept; it feels insane to be reduced to nothing but his wants. 

“Do you regret starting?” Colt nods to the cigarette burning in Zeke’s hand. 

“Not really, no.” 

The crunch of gravel being grinded underneath his boots, the way the tiny embers of a persistent flame clinging to the cigarette are immediately extinguished, just from one well-aimed stomp from Zeke, had Colt excusing himself to prepare for his meeting with you.

Thinking back on this, thinking about how Zeke showed no regret over his addiction, his reliance, his sole source of relief, Colt finds the courage to walk out the bathroom and head to the red light district.

“And then he fucking coughed on me!” Alize is an animated storyteller. You can see the disgusted look on her face, almost as if she’s reliving the very scene she’s describing in horrifying detail for you all. As one of the only Eldians working here, Alize gets some of the worst clients. The type to fetishize her for the armband she’s mandated to wear. 

“No!” Margaret gasps, like she is oh-so shocked at such a thing happening, even though this is a very tame thing in comparison to a lot of the situations everyone encounters. All the girls sitting in the circle are laughing, and it feels good, truly, to have a chance to gather like this and rehash traumatic events together like girls gossiping at a sleepover. If you can’t make fun of it, what’s the point of enduring it? 

Nadia is sitting next to you, back slightly hunched, knees pulled up to her chest so her little chin can rest atop them. She’s not laughing, and she’s not sharing her own stories. 

“Why don’t we ever share any good stories?” You ask, and that brings up another round of laughter. Good? In this place? Get real.

But when you’re surrounded by these girls, sitting close together, enjoying each other’s company, it’s almost easy to forget that anything bad has happened here. You want Nadia to see that. 

“I’m being serious, come on. All of us can remember at least one good story.”

“Well, there was that one guy who used to come in and dress me up in lingerie. Brand new panties and bras every week; the good stuff, too. I’m talking lace.” Margaret leans in to the circle when she says this, and everyone’s hooked. Lacy lingerie? That’s a luxury. 

“Mags, that’s not a good story! His wife caught him spending all his paychecks on playing dirty dress-up with you, and she came down here, causing an absolute ruckus!” Delia feels most passionately about this because she happened to be in the lobby when the man’s wife came around, and then got accused of being “that whore.” Delia never lets Margaret forget that she took a slap to the face for her; as if Margaret would ever forget that.

“You know what I’m not hearing? Anything good.” You point out. 

“What are you looking for? A fucking love story?” Alize snickers, before you make eye contact with her, subtly letting your eyes flicker to a hopeless looking Nadia. Alize understands immediately. 

“You know, there is that rumor about that one girl who met her husband here.” Alize starts but is immediately met with interjections.

“Not this again—”

“Get real, Ali—”

“Shut up! I’m telling the story, here, aren’t I?” Alize gives everyone in the circle a warning stare before continuing. “He was a businessman.”

“Okay, businessmen are the worst, I don’t—” You knock your body against Margaret’s, effectively getting her to quiet down so Alize can actually finish her story before you all have to head to your separate rooms to get to work. 

“And he wasn’t looking for love, by the way. Don’t get it twisted, girls. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that men don’t come to girls like us with the game plan of meeting their one true love. Got it?” The reminder seems to be aimed at Nadia, who begins to peek out of her shell at the word “love.” 

“So, this businessman, he ends up at this place because he’s new to the area and some cab driver totally screwed him over. Pulled right outside our lovely little area of the city and robbed him! Now, he’s broke, but looks way too good to be in an area like this. And our girl, Nadia—” The name of the girl who gets the happy ending always changes. No one has any idea how this rumor started; apparently, it always happens to be right before the time the oldest girl at the brothel started. By the time people start requesting for someone to tell this story, it’s usually not for their sake, but for pulling out some other girl from the darkness of this place. Nadia is definitely latching on, allowing herself to be rescued. Even if the story is just a fantasy, it’s still better than wallowing in a pit of despair.

“—she spots him. She’s about to head to our little club here until she spots him. He looked so out of place and like easy pickings. If she didn’t approach him, who knows where he’d be?” 

“Dead in a ditch, probably,” A voice pipes up, followed by quiet giggles.

“Naked, too. You know they would’ve robbed him for anything he had.” Margaret adds in, resulting in another round of laughter. You smile at her response; she’s not wrong.

“Well, isn’t he just so lucky to have met Nadia, then! Anyway, Nadia finds this hopeless case of a man and is like, ‘you’re not from around here, are you?’ and he goes, ‘what gave it away?’, and she says, ‘you’re not unzipping your pants at the sight of me.’ Oh, Nadia. What a class act she was.” Alize sighs. “She takes him to the brothel and lets him go straight to her room, and she tells him, ‘you can spend the night here.’ Of course, he’s a businessman. He knows nothing in life is free. So he asks her, ‘what’ll it cost me?’ And she tells him a price that’s worth three nights of work! He agrees to it, but tells her he doesn’t have any money to pay her right away. Now, Nadia is a little risk taker, because me personally? I’m not doing a damn thing for a broke man under this roof. But she trusts him! Guess he had that type of straight and narrow look about him. Only, instead of sleeping, he strikes up a conversation with her!”

“Now that’s unrealistic.” Delia mutters under her breath. “What kind of a man just wants to talk?”

“And they stayed up all night just talking, and the businessman and Nadia both have never felt so seen by someone else. So, she sends back to the nice side of town, and he comes back during the night with twice as much money as he promised. He starts visiting her every night, bringing her gifts and whatnot, and on the last day he’s about to leave town, he shows up with a ring and, well… It’s a good story. We all know how it ends.” Alize waves her hand in the air like she can’t be bothered to tell the rest. “Clearly there’s hope for us all. Especially you.” Alize reaches over to gently poke Nadia’s leg. “Maybe our little Nadia will meet a nice businessman.” 

She no longer looks like she wants the ground to swallow her up, but it’s not a fairytale from Alize that Nadia is searching for. She looks up at you, searching hard for any dishonesty when she asks you, “Has anything good happened to you here?”

You’ve come to terms with the fact that Colt is never coming back. Even thinking about his name fills you with regret because you gave up a part of yourself that was supposed to remain forever locked away in your ribcage. You haven’t thrown out the ointment or the socks yet; not because you’re sentimental, but because you’re not wasteful. Both items are kept buried in your trunk, though, underneath piles of your more familiar, more worn out pieces of clothing. Pretending that Colt has never walked into your life would protect your heart and state of mind. Admitting to the kindness he showed you would keep Nadia going. You already know what you’re going to say. 

“There used to be a soldier who would visit me and all we would ever do is talk. He didn’t even want to lay in bed.” You can hear surprised whispers from the other girls, but you focus only on Nadia. “He brought me socks and ointment for a bruise I didn’t even tell him I had. He just…had a way of noticing things.”

Nadia is raised within the same cultural environment as your own. Her eyes only further widen at the mention of the gifts he brought you. “And food? Did he bring you food?” 

It sounds silly to the Eldian girls in the room, but you can feel the watchful eyes of your neighbors. You shake your head. “No.” 

“Not yet.” This is the most certain Nadia has ever sounded about anything. “But he will. I know he will.” 

“Get ready, girls!” Willa knocks on the door, signaling to them that the fun is over. It’s time to go to work.

Before everyone can file out, little Nadia grabs your wrist, making sure you stay to hear what she has to say. Everyone is trying to be polite, but they are noticeably crowding around the door but not actually exiting.

“So then the next story girls tell when they want to talk about love will be yours. At least it’ll be a real story this time, too.”

Willa doesn’t enter your room, but she does let you know that someone has booked you for the whole night. 

Pro: guaranteed money.

Con: only a real freak would do that.

You’re not sure what to expect, but you do prepare yourself for the worst. 

If you survived everything before this, you can survive this. 

You repeat the mantra in your head until you get sick of it, and by the time the door swings on its hinges, you are nothing but calm and collected. 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. 

Fresh, clean, and looking even better than your memories cited him to be, Warrior Candidate Colt is standing in your room. 

“Hi, honey,” you greet him, same as you would anybody else. There’s a sadistic sort of satisfaction that settles in your system when you see a wounded expression on his healed-up face. The sad puppy dog eyes he unknowingly gives you is almost enough to shatter your resolve. 

Good stories don’t come from places like these. There is no man looking for love here. Don’t act like a child and hang on to some stupid hope. 

“Hi,” he says, and it sounds like how people who have their heads underwater for a prolonged period of time gasp for air the moment they’re able to have their head above the surface. Like he needs air, like life is being shot right back into his system. Like how the men from those nights before had groaned those women’s names.

“You plan on just standing there the whole night?” Like a good hostess, you pat down the empty space on the bed next to you. He swallows hard, eyeing the bed, staring at it like he’s remembering the last time he was in here with you. 

“If that’s what you want me to do.” 

There he goes again, with the wanting, with the letting you take control. You want to ask him why he left you alone for two weeks, but that still won’t account for why it hurt you so much. You want him to tell you that he’s sorry, but you know he doesn’t owe you an apology. He’s technically nothing to you, or at least, he should be. You want him to sit down on this bed so you can play with his perfect hair and admire his perfect face and play pretend that this is the type of good story where the man loves the woman, and everything ends happily. You want, you want, you want. 

But that’s not the role you decided on. You are not The Girl Who Wants. You’re a prostitute who calls people honey and doesn’t form any emotional attachments to the men who walk into this room. This character — she knows nothing about bruise ointment and thick socks, the fear of seeing his bruised face, the peacefulness of him sleeping soundly in the bed, the gentle way he whispered your name in the dark, half-asleep but determined to say it still. The curve of his lips, the smile on his features after he said it — none of that has happened to her.

“Oh, come on, honey. Don’t be shy.” You cock your head, looking at him and wishing to see nothing but a stranger in his place. “Don’t tell me it’s your first time?”

Oh, Colt realizes. So this is what it’s like to be stabbed. 

He wonders if he was so insignificant to you that he truly didn’t make a lasting impression. The faint memory of his hair being played with, the careful way you applied the ointment, everything, was all just a fleeting moment in time. What he has spent time savoring, clinging onto, reaching for, has meant nothing.

“I should go.” He blurts out, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. 

What would this character do? Let him go? Let him walk out and celebrate how you have a peaceful night to yourself and you’re getting paid? Tease him? 

“Um, before I do, I just wanted to give you this.” He pulls out a plain black box. When he walks over to hand it to you, you instantly feel the smoothness of the fabric. It’s velvet. Expensive, and it’s not even the gift, just the case it’s in. “If you don’t like it, I can always return it.” He cannot. The jeweler on base had been very adamant that he does not do returns. Kids in the military fancy the idea of marrying young, but if the jeweler accepted every returned ring and necklace that came his way, he wouldn’t have money, just refurbished jewelry. Who the hell wants to buy a returned engagement ring? The jeweler had asked him. Sounds like a fuckin’ curse.

Inside the case is a simple silver watch. It has a thin band, with a tiny face, but it’s shiny and pretty, and it looks way too nice. You hesitantly remove it from the case, only to realize that it has some weight to it, too. Clearly, this wasn’t cheap. 

You look up at him, shocked, surprised. You know you hurt him and if you felt bad for your treatment of him before, you feel infinitely worse now. 

“Time seems very important.” He explains, sometimes staring at his polished shoes as if he’s never seen them before, sometimes letting his eyes flicker up towards your face, almost like he wants to gauge your reaction. “I figured a watch would be useful. To track time. To make sure that no one wastes yours, or tries to claim that they spent less time than they actually did—”

“I love it.” You tell him. 

There’s that pleasant warm feeling he gets inside of him every time you praise him. You like — no, love — something he’s picked out for you! He wants to launch into the story of how he got it, tell you how he spent two hours in that store trying to get it just right, how he’s happy that you like it because he can’t return it. He doesn’t, though. He just gives you a small smile and is about to head back to base until you ask him,

“Why were you gone for so long?” 

You’re in a tiny room, and yet, you want to make your voice even tinier. You say the words like you’re scared they’re going to come alive and punch you in the face. If there is one person in the world who wouldn’t use how small you feel against you, it’s the soldier standing right in front of you.

He drops to his knees immediately. 

“Oh.” He looks like he wants to reach for you, to cradle your face. It’s a military feat, the type of self-restraint he possesses. All those years of depriving himself, of telling himself he’s not allowed to want, are suddenly paying off. “No, no, I swear to you I didn’t stop showing up because I didn’t want to see you anymore. After the last time I was here, I missed curfew, and my commanding officer wouldn’t give me permission to leave until today. Please, look at me.” The last sentence comes out all strangled and pained, like if you don’t, he might just do something stupid, like run out into traffic. 

It is an odd feeling to be the one who looks down on someone for once. He’s so tall, even on his knees and even with you sitting upright on the bed, his eyes are still practically level with your own. Sincere.

That’s what he is. 

You can tell just by looking into his eyes. He may stutter and choke on his words, but his eyes tell you enough. He is pleading with you, he is searching for forgiveness that he should have never needed in the first place, he is everything.

“Colt.” You remember thinking to yourself, how would it feel to hear someone say your name with such rampant desire? You should’ve been wondering, how does it feel to be the one who desires? 

You say his name, and he knows it means forgiveness. You say his name, and he knows it means want. You say his name, and he knows it means something, but he doesn’t dare to dream so big, not yet. 

“You forgive me?” 

It’s hard to say no to someone who looks like that. With the way he’s staring up at you, all hopeful and earnest, you realize that he truly has no idea of his effect on people. 

“Help me put this watch on, soldier. Pretty please?” You get to swing your feet a little, happily extending out your wrist so he can wrap the watch around it for you. 

“Too tight?” He asks you, brows furrowed, focused on the dainty piece. You’ve never realized just how big his hands are. One of these nights, you’re going to convince him to let you take a finger and trace the whole entire expanse of his broad hands. 

Colt handles things gently. You wonder if it’s hard to be so soft and caring all the time, especially when he so clearly has a soldier’s hand. All rough calluses and thick fingers. Maybe being soft and caring is just in his nature. His chemical makeup is all sugar. 

“Nope. It’s perfect as is.” 

He clasps it for you, a tiny, satisfying click locking it in place. He takes a seat next to you on the bed, and it creaks under his weight. 

“Did you really think I just left you?” He sounds hurt, and once again, the overwhelming feeling of not being a very nice person comes back to hit you in the face. 

You try to think of how to properly word it in a way that wouldn’t make him feel any worse.

“In my line of work, it’s usually the man that does the leaving. I’ll still always be here, so I guess that makes it easier to find me if they ever decide to come back.” You shrug, like it’s just that simple. Judging by the wounded look on his face, it’s clear that you weren’t successful in your task to not make him feel any worse. 

Colt normally doesn’t have an issue with speaking without thinking. He’s always been held to a much higher standard than any of his other peers, and he’s always used to treading carefully. But he can’t seem to help himself whenever he’s around you; you look at him, and all his carefully constructed self-restraint evaporates.

“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to leave you.” 

You think back to your group of giggling girls — sisters, or at least, the closest thing you will ever get — and how it’s in all of your instincts to look out for one another.

Be careful of the smooth talkers, Alize always warns you all. They seem like they’re the nicest men you’ll ever meet. They’ll fatten you up with sweet kisses and hope, only to let you down in the end. You’ll say, ‘but Alize! He would never hurt me in the same way all these other men do!’, and I’ll tell you right now, he might not hit you or choke you or even call you filthy names, but no matter what he does, he’s going to find a way to disappoint you. To reveal that he is not sweet. 

And that betrayal is going to hurt the worst.

Just a couple of days with Colt, and his absence left you desperate, lonely. Who’s to say that he just won’t leave you again? You search his eyes, looking for a hint of dishonesty, for uncertainty, for boredom — anything that will tell you that he doesn’t mean what he said. That he’s just talking. That this is all just a game, a soldier wanting to stir up a different kind of war. 

Survival instincts, a choice to be made: fight or flight. 

You’ve seen your fair share of handsome men. Believe it or not, attractive people frequent brothels too. You don’t normally make a habit of studying your clients, but Colt’s face is so close to your own, and the last time you had a chance to look at him in such close proximity, he had clearly just lost a fight. 

The tall bridge of his nose is slightly crooked, noticeable only when you stare at him too closely and for too long. It looks like it was broken and the doctor hadn’t cared to make sure he was even straightening the bone when he fixed it. The tips of his blond hair hang over his forehead, casting tiny shadows, adding dimension to his face. His eyes aren’t the plain brown they appear to be. There are tiny flecks of lighter hues, almost golden, little rays of sunlight filtering his point of view. 

You don’t want to go about life always in a constant state of survival. You want to live.

“And are you? Going to leave?” A challenge. A soldier pulling back the safety on her gun, hands shaking, but the barrel is still pointed straight at him. Finger on the trigger.

“Only if you want me to.” 

Disarmed.

Colt’s finishing up a retelling of his first kiss. You think it’s cute how he gets so easily embarrassed, and it doesn’t help that you keep asking questions he doesn’t anticipate, prolonging the story. 

“Was she cute?” You ask. You’re laying on your belly, body spread comfortably over the mattress. Colt resigns himself to the floor, sitting criss-cross applesauce. The floor must be cold and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest, and it makes you wonder about his training. 

You think about Colt’s life a lot. He’s the most open and honest person you’ve ever encountered, and sometimes, you forget that all you have to do is ask him, and he’ll tell you.

“She was considered to be pretty, yes.” 

“Diplomatic answer!” You point at him, laughing. Happy. “Did you think she was cute?”

“I did.” He says, looking down immediately after, playing absentmindedly with a piece of lint on the floor. 

“You did? Well, gee, what happened to her?” Colt doesn’t seem like the type to judge based on physical appearance. You think about Willa’s scars, and then picture them on your face. Would Colt still look at you the same way if your face’s flaws were staring back at him, head on?

“Nothing. She’s actually married now.” 

“Oh. So you don’t have a thing for married women?” That seems like the type of respectful mannerisms Colt would possess. The more time you spend with him, the more you realize that he truly is a good man. Not for glory, not for praise, but good for the sake of being good. 

“Sure.” He doesn’t tell you that no woman looks attractive to him after he’s seen you. It would sound sappy, or even worse, disingenuous. “Let’s go with that.” 

You narrow your pretty eyes at him, almost like you’re trying to appear stern, to get him to give in and tell you the full answer. Instead, you relax your face, the left side of your cheek pressed against your arm as you stare at him sideways. “I bet you’ve been with a lot of pretty girls.” It’s supposed to be a teasing remark, but to your ears, you are nervously aware of the hints of jealousy creeping in your tone. 

“My bunkmates will have you believing that.” It’s a running joke within the soldiers to make fun of Colt. One year, a list got exposed, where the girls in all the units voted on who they thought was the most handsome soldier. Colt had won by a pretty wide margin. A landslide victory. He had stayed hidden in his room, only leaving when absolutely necessary, for a whole week. 

“Tell me about your first girlfriend.” 

“I never had one.” Admitting it out loud to you makes him feel like a loser. 

“So you’re a—”

“No!” He’s blushing. “I—”

“You totally seduce women into warming your bed every night, and then you kick them out! You probably don’t even wait ‘til the morning! You make them leave right after you’re finished!” The exaggerated accusation makes you laugh, and you can’t stop because the horrified, distressed look on his face is so cute, it’s so obvious that what you said is far from the truth. The satisfaction you feel from Colt’s unchanging relationship status makes you feel gross, like you’re an awful person for taking pleasure in having him all to yourself.

You’re aware, of course, that the two of you haven’t even touched, save for your fingers on his face that one night. In the future, Colt is probably going to marry some beautiful, blushing bride, and he will have forgotten all about you. Foolishly, you cast aside those self-preserving thoughts, the ones that warn you not to get too attached. It’s been so long since you didn’t have to share with anyone else; who can blame you for wanting to take all of Colt’s attention? 

“I would never!” He exclaims, his indignation endearing.

As stoic as your soldier appears to be, you know the truth: Colt is a reactive person. You can read him from the way his brows are furrowed, or from the rush of blood and heat to his cheeks and ears, or even from the imperceptible movements of his fingers, of his hands. Colt is one hundred percent alive — full of life. Brimming with it. Overflowing with it, and sometimes, you get lucky, and you get to snatch up some of the excess, jar it, save it on the cold, dark nights where he can’t come and see you.

“I know.” You’re smiling at him. 

In fact, you would tell him that you’re damn near certain that he gets a big fat A-plus for aftercare. You can tell how  a man will treat you by how he handles everything else. Colt is careful with his hands, with sure and steady movements, and he treats fragile things gently. You think about how it felt to have the tips of his calloused fingers brush against the palm of your hand when he brought you the ointment, how it felt like a shot of adrenaline. 

Feeling pity for him, you toy with the threadbare sheet underneath your body. You want to look him in the eyes when you tell him this, so he knows you’re not just playing coy or teasing him. You want to fill him up with the same sincerity he seems to effortlessly give to you. 

Colt is deceptively cute; with his flushed expression and defensive stance on his character, it is too easy to overlook the fact that he’s a soldier, built for battle, bred for war.

Being honest is scary. You don’t know how he manages it every second of his life.

“I’ve never been kissed before.” 

Colt doesn’t know what to say to that. You don’t even know what you’re expecting him to say. 

“I hope it’s good. When you do get kissed.” He tells you. “You deserve to have it be good.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that this was what you wanted to hear until he went out and said it. 

“We’re going out for drinks tonight,” Pieck says, with her body draped all sorts of way across the couch. Lounging. Like a cat, Colt thinks. 

Porco pokes her back, and she shoots him a lazy, half-assed glare with no real venom behind it. “You’re takin’ up all the space on the couch.” 

“I just got back from an assignment. This feels comfortable.” As if doubling-down on her decision, Pieck shimmies her body, getting more settled in. Colt feels like she’ll sink into the cushions if they leave her unattended. 

Porco grumbles something, and then speaks up when he asks, “What’s the point of going out for drinks anyway?”

“It’ll boost morale.” Pieck says. “We captured an enemy port, and soldiers were sent back home. Might as well go out and celebrate.” 

“The port we captured was tiny and not worth a damn.” Porco points out. 

Pieck ignores this very factual statement. “All the Eldian units will be going out tonight. There’s no harm in attending.” 

“Whose idea was this, anyway? For all we know, this is a Marleyan officer’s ploy to get most of us too drunk off our asses to notice them ushering us into a navy ship so they can shoot us out of cannons.” 

At the beginning of the Mid-East War, Marleyan citizens were hopeful that this would be a conflict resolved swiftly and succinctly. With the two year anniversary and no end in sight, the effects of war are starting to settle in the country. More posters are being hung up about not wasting food or precious resources, more colorful pamphlets filled with propaganda are being delivered to schoolhouses, and every week, organizations are taking up donations to help cover military costs. If Porco doesn’t shut up, a Marleyan officer might hear and take him up on the offer; it’ll save on ammunition costs, at least.

Seeing Porco’s stance on the invitation (a pretty obvious rejection), Pieck turns her attention to Colt. “You know, there are some Eldian nurses who would like to meet you.” 

“He has a girlfriend. I told you this already!” Porco interjects. 

“Is that true?” She asks Colt. “You have a girlfriend?”

Now Porco’s staring at him. Colt feels very much like he’s being put on the spot, and he doesn’t enjoy this feeling one bit. 

“Well, she’s a girl. And I would say we’re friends.” 

Porco groans. “Don’t be so pathetic, Grice.”

If Pieck was feeling up to it, she would have slapped Porco on Colt’s behalf. Instead, she tosses him a lifeline. “You could bring her to the bar. Girlfriend or friend that’s a girl; whatever she is. It’ll probably help you out if your plan is to not get approached by girls tonight.” 

Colt latches on, grateful. “Sure. I’ll ask her.” 

He does ask you, albeit not as smoothly as he initially plans on. He wants to toss out the question, all casual-like, like no big deal, but I was wondering if you wanted to get drinks with my friends and fellow soldiers? 

What ends up happening is that he starts rambling. Somewhere between his nervous declaration that “it’s entirely your choice, and I don’t want you to feel obligated” and his speedrun of his relationship with everyone attending (“Porco only sounds like that, but he’s a nice guy when he tries, so just don’t take anything he says to heart”), you laugh.

He doesn’t know what it means to you, the fact that he doesn’t mind being seen with you. In front of, not just strangers, but people that he actually sees when the sun is up. 

“Well, with a business pitch like that, how could I say no? What night are you taking me?”

“It’s tonight.” Colt says, and you just stare at him, like he’s from a different planet. “Does tonight not work for you?” He knows that he bought all your time for tonight, just in the hopes that you would say yes. 

“I’m not dressed appropriately to go out to a bar and meet all your friends!” You point at your nightdress, the almost-translucent gown that would glow in the moonlight, if only you actually had a window in this room. The clothes that you wear on your way to the brothel are folded neatly in your dresser next to the bed, but somehow those feel like rags compared to what you’re sure his friends and their girlfriends are going to be wearing. 

“I could walk you home first, and you could change.” He suggests helpfully, but the idea of Colt stepping foot in your camp only serves to add to your panic.

“No!” You wince when you realize how loud you got, how harsh it sounds. “No, we can’t go to my place. My brother is probably sleeping, and I don’t want to bother him.” Again, it’s not a lie. But as the weeks go by, as months pass by, you are aware that you are falling deeper and deeper into Colt’s pull. Having him stand inside your home feels too intimate, like you’ll be past the point of no return if this were to happen. 

“That’s okay.” He tells you. “I don’t care what we do. I just want to spend time with you.” 

Right when you think he can’t pull you any deeper, he says something — says it so sincerely, too — that grabs you by your ankle and tugs you back to his side. You let yourself get pulled away.

“I have a change of clothes here.” You say, pulling open the dresser drawer. Colt looks like he’s about to say something, but then you start yanking your current nightgown over your head, and after taking it off yourself completely, you’re still only met with silence.

His back is turned to you. 

“Is something wrong?” You ask him, daring to step a couple steps towards him, even going so far as to brush your fingers against his shoulder, a silent plea for him to turn around.

“No.” The word comes out sounding tight and tense. 

“Colt, did I do something wrong?” 

He shuts his eyes even tighter, willing himself not to turn around. The ghost of your touch lingers on the surface of his shoulder, and the flash of skin he glimpsed at before he realized you were undressing lives rent-free in his mind. Are you still undressed right now? The thought of you being near naked, saying his name so sweetly, is torturous. 

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong at all.” He breathes out. He tries to focus on mundane things. He tries to think about the slop they served for lunch on base. He tries to think about tossing a baseball back and forth with Zeke. He thinks about Porco, who chews with his mouth open and burps without warning. 

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?” 

You do something to him. He doesn’t know what, isn’t sure if there’s a word in the dictionary that would properly describe it, but you do. 

“You’re getting undressed. It wouldn’t be…proper of me to look.” 

You didn’t think hearts could feel this way, with this tightness that surely isn’t good for your health. He says the silliest things sometimes, and it gives your tummy a nervous, fluttering feeling. All the men who have seen you naked don’t even know your name. Colt is standing here, knowing more about you than all of those men combined, and he won’t even look at your body. You wonder if he would turn around if you asked him to.

You wonder if you want him to.

Scared of what your answer might be, you’re quick to throw on the dress you originally left the house with, awkwardly smoothing it down even though you don’t think there are any wrinkles. 

“You can look now.” 

He turns around slowly, almost like he’s afraid that you’re tricking him, but then he takes you in. Takes in the faded yellowness of the dress, and the peek of white cotton that sticks out from your shoes because the socks stop right above your ankle. He likes seeing you dressed in colors, he decides. If this is how good you look in the dark, he can only imagine seeing you in the daylight. You’d have him frozen in the middle of the street with just a single glance, he reckons.

“You’re beautiful.” 

He says this, and it strips you naked. Not in a way that you’re used to, either. You feel seen, like he sees everything about you and still isn’t disgusted. You’ve been called a lot of things, but never beautiful. You think you could continue living in this wretched brothel for the rest of your life with just the memory of this high to keep you going. 

“So, you’re the girlfriend,” 

You know, instinctively, that this is the “Porco” Colt had attempted to warn you about. You adjust the thick jacket hanging on your shoulders. It’s a cold night and a long walk from the district to the bar; you don’t know how Colt didn’t freeze to death in just the thin long sleeve he wears underneath his military uniform. 

“Is that what he told you? That I’m his girlfriend?” 

“Not explicitly. But it was implied.” Porco does not mention that it was certainly not implied, but rather was an idea that he kept forcing upon Colt, and really, no one likes arguing with Porco. It’s best to just go along with whatever he says and hope he gets bored and leaves you alone. 

“It was not implied,” someone new enters the conversation, taking the stool next to Porco. She’s a very pretty girl. A flash of white-hot envy burns in your heart, sizzles down to your stomach, makes you hyper-aware of your body and sense of self. She’s sporting a red armband, same as Porco. 

“Hi.” She smiles at you, soft and incredibly friendly. “I’m Pieck.” 

You smile back, too afraid to open your mouth and accidentally say something wrong. Colt is on the other side of the bar, trying to calm down the rowdy soldiers who are all repeatedly screaming at him to take a shot. They had dragged him away from you the moment the two of you entered the bar together, and he shot you such a panicked look that you realized you would have to be the strong one and remain calm. 

As if feeling your gaze on him, he turns around. Locking eyes with him from so far away, in such a public space, makes this feel even more real. The weight of his jacket keeps you grounded, makes you not slip off the stool because you’ve never seen him look at you so intensely. 

“Shot! Shot! Shot!” Cheers erupt from the crowd of soldiers as they gleefully watch Colt finally take the damn shot. You watch the way he tips his head back, the way his angular jaw seems sharp enough to cut, the way you can see him swallow down the alcohol. The small glass looks impossibly tinier when it’s being held in his hand. 

You don’t realize how hard you’re watching him until loud laughter breaks your concentration.

“I can’t believe it! Grice really does have a girlfriend. Or, at least a girl who likes him.” Porco wipes at the corner of his eyes, as if he’s been laughing so hard, tears sprang up. Pieck rolls her eyes at her friend’s antics, mouthing out an I’m sorry, before tugging on Porco’s arm. 

“Let’s go. You’re being annoying.” She shoots you an apologetic look. “He’s drunk. And probably jealous. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but he doesn’t exactly get as much attention as Colt.” 

“Hey, I’m still here!” He grumbles. 

“It was really nice meeting you. I hope we’ll get a chance to meet again.” As she drags Porco away, you catch snippets of their conversation. Mainly from Porco, whose loud voice seems to boom over every other loud noise in this bar. 

“She’s not Eldian. What the hell is Grice thinking?”

The warm buzz of happiness from tonight dissipates. Porco isn’t wrong; you aren’t Eldian. This hadn’t seemed like such a major issue up until now, and before you can get up to try and get some fresh air, to regroup and think about what your next move should be, Colt appears. 

“Hi.” He says, cheeks pink. He’s been drinking some more. If the soldiers put as much effort into fighting as they do in goading Colt Grice to drink his weight in alcohol, the Mid-East War would have been over a year ago. 

“Hi.” 

“How are we doin’?” His words come out a little slurred, sliding off his tongue but getting jumbled up together in the process. 

“I’m doing fine. I’m not so sure about you, though.” You poke his stomach, but are only met with the feel of hard, taut muscle underneath the fabric of his shirt. 

He frowns. “I’m happy you’re here, y’know. But us — how are we doing?” 

“I think we’re doing just fine, too.” You gesture to the stool next to you. “Take a seat, soldier. You look like you’re going to fall over any second now.”

He ignores your suggestion, still frowning. “You’re lyin’. What happened?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about right now.” 

“Every time something’s wrong with us, you make that face.” He shakes his head. “I like everything about your face, don’t get me wrong, but it’s this look you give me. Like you hate starin’ at me, like it makes you sad. And every time you give me that look, you say something, like callin’ me ‘honey.’” 

You thought men were supposed to be oblivious creatures. You feel like Colt Grice is the first person to notice everything about you, and you thought you would hate it, the feeling of being utterly exposed, and maybe it would be, if it were anyone else. But it’s Colt. For a soldier, he hasn’t turned anything into a weapon against you yet, and you’re starting to think that maybe he never will. 

You decide to be just as unfiltered as he is. 

“I’m not Eldian. Your friend pointed it out.” 

“Who did?” And then Colt turns around, his movements loose and a bit unsteady. “Who said that to you?”

“It wasn’t an insult, Colt.” You play with the sleeve of his jacket. “He was probably just being realistic.” 

“Porco.” Colt says this flatly. “Porco told you that.” 

“No, he told it to Pieck when she was dragging him away. I don’t think I was supposed to hear.” 

“But you did. And now you’re having second thoughts.” 

“I’m not, it’s just—” You tighten his jacket around your shoulders once more, breathing in the familiar scent of the soap he uses. “I wouldn’t fit into your perfect life. I know you’re popular around here, that girls are lining up to date you.” Your sentences come out shaky. Vulnerability sucks. You never want to grapple with it ever again. 

“Hey,” he says softly. His hand reaches up to cradle your face. You can feel the warmth of his hand pressed against you, gently tilting your head until you’re staring up at him. His thumb caresses the top of your cheekbone. He thinks you feel softer than you look, and he doesn’t think it’s possible for you to be made out of flesh and bone, like a regular human. He thinks you’re made of something softer, sweeter, otherworldly. Like a cloud, or cotton-candy. He’s so, so scared that he’s going to blink, and you’re going to disappear. 

The overwhelming urge of want kicks him right in the stomach. He wants to kiss you, wants to feel the shape of your lips and see how they align with his. He wants to bundle you up in his clothes, this senseless want making his brain act all possessive over you. 

“Here I am, thinking I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.” His thumb traces your cheek. 

You think he’s going to kiss you now. You think you’re not going to stop him. 

A loud crash comes from nearby. Two men sitting further down the bar are getting into it now, and as if his body forgets that he’s drunk, Colt moves quickly. He instinctively moves his body in front of yours, shielding you from any potential danger. He assesses the situation, eyes narrowing at how more people seem to want to pile on top of the men. 

“I think it’s time we called it a night.” Colt mumbles, helping you off the stool and pressing you to his side as he guides you to safety. 

“Do you want me to walk you home? Just to make sure you get there safely. I won’t interrupt your brother’s sleep, or anything.” He asks you, taking special care in making sure that you don’t accidentally trip on anything. It’s dark outside, after all. 

“You can just take me back to the brothel. I normally walk back home with the other girls.” You try to stifle your yawn, but of course he notices. 

“Let me know if you get too tired. I can carry you back.” 

If he kissed you, you would have definitely let him. You would have even kissed him back. 

You know it’s supposed to be a cold night, but with his jacket draped over your body, you don’t feel a single breeze.

“Ramzi! Stop throwing stuff around! I just cleaned.” You chastise your brother, refolding his blanket and placing it inside his trunk. 

“I don’t get it. Why are you cleaning so much?” He mumbles, crossing his arms and pouting at you. You’re in too good of a mood to let his attitude bother you. Instead, you pinch his cheek, already mourning his future loss of baby fat. 

“Because someone is coming over to visit.” 

Colt’s jacket is folded neatly, freshly washed and even ironed. The night he took you out to the bar seemed to have solidified your relationship with him, or at least, it eased any leftover doubts you had. Colt Grice is a good man.

And he wants you. You! It’s been a week since the night at the bar, and Colt keeps telling you that he doesn’t need the jacket back, that he doesn’t mind you wearing it, but you’ve been searching for an opportunity to see him again. Rather than just flat-out admitting to him that you want him — trust him enough — to finally see you in the comfort of your own home, you like to mastermind situations, just to test his receptivity. 

When you tell him, feigning a nonchalant attitude, that he can stop by the camp and pick up his jacket, you try to gauge his reaction. He can’t even contain his smile, which makes you drop the whole “cool” act and smile right back at him. 

Your fingers brushed against his as you passed him the piece of paper detailing where he could find you. Before Colt, you figure you could spend the rest of your life never being touched by another man again and be just fine. After feeling the contact of his skin touching your own, always innocently, always fleeting, all this want started building up in your body. You’re overflowing with yearning. The only consolation you have is knowing that he feels the same way. 

Porco is an opinionated person. Colt is well aware of that. Sometimes, it even feels like Porco goes out of his way to be as reactionary as possible, just because he likes to push people’s buttons. 

“Did you hear about the Eldian couple that went missing? Brass doesn’t even give a single shit. The officers assigned to the case are just dicking around.” 

Occasionally, though, Porco will have a point. The world is most likely ending when that happens. 

“I’m not too surprised. Some officers don’t take missing persons reports seriously.” The answer is about as opinionated as Colt dares to get. Ever since childhood, he’s had the sinking feeling that he’s always being watched. For all he knows, the whole entire base is bugged. 

Porco makes a disgusted face. “You mean when it comes to missing Eldians, they don’t take the reports seriously.” 

Colt doesn’t correct him, which in and of itself is a confirmation of Colt’s stance on the matter. Seeing that complaining about the situation isn’t going to change anything, Porco sighs before continuing to walk alongside him. 

“Where’re you going so early in the afternoon? You’re going to miss lunch. Heard it might actually be edible today.” 

“I’m visiting someone.” 

“The girl.” Porco shakes his head. “When are you gonna give her up, man? I’m not saying it to be an asshole—” That would be a first, Colt thinks. “—but get real. Are you seriously going to mess up everything for a Marleyan girl?” He at least has the decency to whisper the last part, lest the two of them get taken out back to get shot in the head. 

“Porco,” Colt says calmly, trying to hold in his laughter. “She’s not Marleyan. She’s a refugee.” 

“Well, fuck!” Porco whacks Colt’s shoulder. “Good for you, Grice. Knew you weren’t that stupid.” 

Colt certainly feels stupid. He looks over the note you gave him, but no matter how many times he rereads it, he still can’t find your tent. 

There are people outside, walking, laughing, kids running and playing make-believe. Honestly, it’s a similar scene as any other neighborhood in Liberio, Eldian or Marleyan. The only difference is that instead of pavement and sidewalks, it’s nothing but green grass and a sparkling lake in the distance. He knows that the living conditions might not be ideal, but taking in the camp and viewing it under the sun, it looks peaceful. Like home.

He can see why you wouldn’t trust just anyone to enter.

He ventures further into the camp, but all the tents seem to blur and blend in with each other. Most are mainly built with some type of white cloth, but the whole place seems to be bursting with color. Different colored curtains dot the landscape. He spots people rolling out intricately designed rugs. He smells spices sizzling in a pan. 

He’s acutely aware of the watchful eyes of everyone around him. Colt is no stranger to public scrutiny, but it feels different this time around. He doesn’t want to do anything that would make them hate him. You told him, once, that everyone here knows your name. He knows that that’s important to you, which means that these people are important to you.

Colt pauses, tries to take in his surroundings, ground himself. Maybe word will spread that there’s an idiotic soldier traipsing around people’s backyards, and hopefully it’ll reach your ears and you’ll halt the manhunt for him. A reasonable person would ask someone for help, but he’s aware of how he’s viewed. For all he knows, reaching out would do more harm than good. Believe it or not, he knows when people are scared of him. 

“Excuse me, are you looking for someone?” A tiny voice pipes up, and Colt looks down. There’s a girl speaking to him, with wide eyes and a long braid running down her back.

“I am, actually!” Colt places the paper back inside his pocket. “Do you think you can help me?” 

“You’re looking for a brothel worker, right?” 

Colt wonders if you’ve ever spoken about him to anyone else. He doesn’t need to wonder why he likes the idea of that. 

“I am.” 

The stares get more intense when he has this girl skipping by his side. She tells him her name, Nadia. He tells her that’s a very nice name, and he means it.

“Did you bring her food?” She asks, sounding eager. 

He didn’t, but now he’s thinking he should have. Are you hungry? Is he supposed to bring you food? He had been so excited at the prospect of seeing you, of getting to be with during the day, that he didn’t think much about anything else. 

Before he can answer, you’re sticking your head out the tent, smiling brightly.

“Colt!” 

Breathless. That’s how he feels. 

He thinks you were made to be seen in the sun. 

“You found me!” Your smiles come easily when you’re at home. He wants so badly for you to always be like this: happy and carefree. 

“Nadia helped.” He nods to where the girl should be standing, but she had already sneaked off the moment she saw you come out. “Should I have brought food?”

“Oh, that’s just… It’s a cultural thing. From our country. Don’t worry about it.” You grab his hand, tugging gently. “Come in, I’ll give you a house tour!” 

He follows you, but he’s thinking over your words. Since you told him to specifically not worry about it, Colt knows that he is going to spend many restless nights doing the exact opposite of your request. 

The tent is spacious. The way it’s arranged, it’s comfortable to stand in, even without fear of your head hitting the ceiling. The carpet cushions the hard packed earth underneath, and there’s a wooden table in the middle. You’re watching him closely, trying to catch the first signs of disappointment or disgust, but all you see is pure curiosity. 

“Well, one thing ruins the whole place.” He says, shaking his head like he’s sad he has to say this. “It’s so ugly, I can’t believe you left it in here.” He picks up his jacket, wrinkling his nose. “Seriously, I’m surprised you didn’t toss this outside.”

You laugh, relief flooding through your veins. “You’re the most unserious soldier I’ve ever met.” 

“I don’t believe that. I’ve seen the state of our military.” He slings his spare jacket over one shoulder. He’s not sure what you had planned for today, but he’s hoping you want to spend it with him.

“They should make you their leader, then. I think you’d straighten them all out.” Reaching for his hand comes naturally to you, and he doesn’t ever say anything when you slip your fingers in between his. Walking back out to camp, Ramzi comes barreling towards the two of you.

“Ramzi, what’s wrong?” You immediately crouch down to hug your brother, who’s gasping and panting for breath. 

“You can’t marry this soldier! You can’t!” Peeking his head out from the embrace you have him in, Ramzi’s eyes narrow at Colt. 

“Ramzi!” You pull back, shocked. You’re clearly embarrassed, and Colt wants to tell you that there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but he’s not sure if that would actually help. “Why would you say that?”

“You promised Malik you would marry him!”

“I— Ramzi, go inside. Now.” Your voice is shaking. Nerves. Anger. Panic. You know that Ramzi looks up to Malik. The minute you told Ramzi that a friend, a Warrior Unit soldier, would be coming, he had been excited. He ran out, in search of the toy soldier figurines he let some other children borrow because he wanted to present them to Colt. 

You’re not sure when discussions of marriage came up.

It’s true that Malik intends on proposing. For a while, you even accepted it, resigned to your fate. Nothing was ever official, but he had been the one to make sure that you and Ramzi were taken care of when you first landed in Marley. He brought you food during times when there wasn’t even enough for his own family to eat, and before you started at the brothel, he always took care in securing you clothes and blankets. He watches over Ramzi, just like he would his own little brothers. You don’t think you’re capable of love, not in the romantic sense, and you’re fine with that. True love is a rare commodity, and you’ve been living in survival mode for so long, you didn’t even see the point in searching for it.

Besides, you could do much worse than Malik. 

On the night when Ramzi was sick and the sounds of his sniffles started mixing in with the memories of those men and their groans of those unreachable women’s names, you weren’t in the mood to talk. Malik had been sitting on the ground, tea cups sitting on the table. He stayed up, watching over Ramzi, as promised, but also to make sure you would make it home and so he could have a chat with you, as promised.

You sit across from him, tucking your feet underneath you. The tea brewed at the camp isn’t as strong as Willa’s, and you regret not drinking what she offered you. The cup Malik slides over to you pales in comparison. It’s cold, you realize dejectedly, when you take a sip. It’s cold, and bitter.

“We’ve known each other for a long time now.” He clears his throat, looks you in the eyes. “You must know my intentions?” 

“What intentions?” 

You’re not blind. You know Malik is handsome, with his tanned skin and dark curls. He fills out his shirts well, from all the manual labor he does around the town, twelve to fourteen hour work days depending on how fast it gets dark outside. As far as options go, Malik might be the best person to shack up with.

“I would like for us to get married.”

Colt had been gone. The bad part about having someone take up space in your heart is that you realize what an empty organ it is when they disappear. At this moment, you’re exhausted, and cold, and you don’t want to talk anymore. You want to curl up next to Ramzi, and sleep this whole entire year off, and maybe, if you’re lucky, you won’t even wake up. 

“The proposal ritual. Are you saying you’re going to go through with that?” 

“There’s only one last thing to do, right?”

He says it in a way that makes you feel like a whore. You don’t waste your time daydreaming because there’s simply no point in it. Sometimes, though, you give in. Close your eyes. Picture a nameless, faceless man as your husband. When your husband fucks you, you think sex will be different. It’ll be making love, even. The euphemism always made you giggle; how corny, you would think to yourself. Call it what it is: fucking. 

But wouldn’t it be nice to want to feel someone’s touch and know that they love you? 

No. People in love are always the corniest people in existence. You think infatuation must cause some horrible imbalances in the body and brain or something, because the moment someone meets their One True Love, they start acting irrational. All the girls in the brothel made a pact: if one of you ever falls in love and starts acting a fool, you all have permission to slap the offending girl out of it.

In your culture, a man proposes through a series of tests. Considering the circumstances, the elders are willing to acknowledge the bare minimum. First, the man must present the girl with clothes and then food. It proves that he’s a provider. Then, the potential couple lays together. When she lets him in her bed, it’s her acceptance to the proposal. 

“Three months,” is what you tell Malik. “Three months, and I will give you my answer.”

The deadline for your answer is fast approaching. There’s barely three weeks for you to decide whether or not you allow Malik into your bed. Three months ago, you considered your answer to be a reluctant yes. What else could you say? No? You thought about it, thought about spending the rest of your life living on your charm and resilience. How much longer could you survive in the brothel? Youth and beauty sells — not old, damaged goods. Now, when you brush the grass stains from your skirt, you look at Colt and feel conflicted.

You need to give Malik an answer — and soon. Before Colt re-entered your life, you knew what you needed to do to ensure survival. Now, you know what you want in your life. Needing versus wanting. Surviving versus living. 

“Want to walk me to an exit?” Colt offers a hand to help pull you up. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you realize it’s because he’s purposely working hard to shut you out. You can’t even be upset with him for it.

The two of you walk together in silence. 

“It’s not official.” You offer up, when you can’t take it anymore. You’re not a very talkative person, but it feels weird to have something hanging over the two of you, left unsaid. Even if he never wants to see you again, you want to lay it all out. 

“Your brother seems passionate about it.” Colt points out. 

“Ramzi doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” 

A beat.

“If it’s not official, there’s definitely something unofficial going on, though, right?” 

“I guess.” 

“Is he nice? The man giving you an unofficial proposal?” 

“He’s Malik.” You say flatly. “He is… The best option.” Your only option.

“But does he treat you well?” Colt presses. 

“What does it matter?” You snap, stopping so you can turn to face him. You will not cry. “Who cares if he’s nice?”

“It matters because it’s you! I care, I want to know that you are living well. That you get the life you deserve.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the intensity of his words wraps around you, squeezes you tight. 

That’s the issue with Colt, you think to yourself. He makes it so damn hard to hate him. 

“Maybe I do deserve this. Maybe this is as good as it gets for me in this life.”

You turn your back on him, heading right back to your tent. You will not cry. Colt is so stupid. He probably thinks marriage is built on silly things, like love. You will not cry.

Putting one foot in front of the other takes a tremendous amount of effort, but you make progress. When you think you’re a far enough distance to not run immediately back to his side, you dare to turn around.

He’s still rooted in the same spot you left him, staring at you with the most wounded, tortured look you’ve ever seen on a person.

When you’re so far that your figure becomes a tiny speck in the distance, and then that tiny speck disappears, only then does Colt move from his position. He continues to walk, hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the ground. He only looks up when he feels a presence.

“Did she say no?” Nadia asks him. 

“Didn’t even stand a chance.” He smiles sadly at her. It makes sense that you would have suitors lining up to propose to you. Official or not, Ramzi seems certain that it’s a sure thing between you and Malik. Colt feels the pressure of his armband on his bicep. Who was he trying to fool, anyway? It was stupid of him to even bother in the first place. He kicks a rock, watches it skip down the slope of the land. 

“I don’t believe that.” She says. “I think she likes you a lot.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Nadia.”

“I’m not just making things up! I know if you proposed, she would marry you. She would pick you over any other man in the world!” She pauses. “It’s because you didn’t bring any food.”

“She’s upset with me because I didn’t give her any food?” Colt raises an eyebrow. You didn’t seem hangry. Nadia’s childlike conclusion is refreshing, though. If only things were that simple. He would bring you dinner, and everything would be settled. 

“You gave her socks, and I saw her wear your jacket.” Nadia points to the one slung over his shoulder. “Now, you bring her a big meal to prove that you can provide for her and keep her well-fed, and then she invites you to bed.”

“She doesn’t have to invite me to her bed.” Colt quickly looks at everything but Nadia’s earnest expression. 

“You would do all that for her for nothing?” She shakes her head, like she thinks he’s an idiot. Maybe he is. “That’s how you propose. You provide, and then you show her your devotion in her bed, and then she decides if she wants to spend her whole life with you.” Nadia eyes him up and down. “I think she would like your devotion very much.” 

Colt has no answer to that.

“Were you burning something?” He asks instead, nodding to the large bonfire that has fizzled out. All the remains are burnt pieces of wood and ashes. 

“Oh, no!” Nadia gasps, rushing to it. She grabs a stick and pokes at the pile, but nothing happens. “This isn’t supposed to happen!”

“What’s the matter?” 

“Usually, there’s a roaring fire here, so people can gather here and try to warm up during the night. It was harder to get wood these past few days, and they keep sending the men out to work earlier and earlier. I guess the fire was built too fast, and now it’s gone.” She tosses the stick to the ground. “By the time the men get back, it’ll be too dark out to go to the woods and collect enough kindling to get a large enough fire starting.” 

Colt glances down at his watch, then looks up at the sun still hanging high in the sky. 

He’s got time.

By the time he hauls all the dead wood he can find, he’s well acquainted with both the campground and the surrounding woods. Nadia eventually gets a cart on wheels from one of the older ladies, and she brings it to him so he doesn’t have to constantly walk back and forth for small hauls. 

Once he collects all the kindling necessary, he gets to work on starting the fire. He’s sweating, and he thinks Magath would be proud — or as proud as Magath can get, anyway. Today was supposed to be a free day, and here he is, tossing off his military jacket in an attempt to cool down. 

Wearing only his undershirt, Colt takes the ax Nadia offers him, and he begins to chop away at the logs. He wants a decent stash for them, so that way on the days they can’t collect wood, they’ll still have this stockpile. When he gets the fire going, a crowd has already started to form around them. They cheer when they watch the flames grow higher and higher, and for once, Colt almost forgets about you and Malik. 

And then he catches you in the crowd, and the pleasure he feels from not being hated or feared by the people in this camp evaporates. 

Women are approaching him. He catches snippets of their gratitude, their invitations to bring him to their tent, the not-so subtle remarks on their unmarried daughters. He smiles at them, but he doesn’t stop moving until he’s standing in front of you. He didn’t even consciously think about it; his feet just guided him there.

“If I marry him, I won’t work at the brothel anymore.” You tell him. 

As if sensing this is a private moment, the crowd disperses. It’s all an act, though. They’re clearly trying to eavesdrop. Neither of you seem to care.

“That makes sense.”

“If I don’t work at the brothel anymore, I won’t ever see you again.” 

“So this is goodbye, then?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“But we’re never going to see each other again.” He points out.

“If I marry him.” You point that right back at him.

“Are you going to marry him?” 

This seems to be the direction you planned the conversation on heading towards. He’s never seen you so shy, so demure. This nervous silence, the reluctance, it doesn’t suit you. He wants you to confront him head-on, in your usual bold manner.

“Do you see a future with me? One where I’m not the girl who you have to pay to meet in the shady part of town?” His answer determines your answer to Malik. 

“I already don’t see you in that way. You’ve never been just the girl I pay to see.” A glint of silver catches his eye. It brings him back to the sparring match, the one with the Marleyan boy who brought the knife to his face. It’s not a blade, but something on your wrist.

The watch. You’re wearing the watch he gave you. 

“But a future.” You press. “Do you see a realistic future for us?”

Colt’s never given much thought to the immediate future. Most of the time, it feels like his life has been planned for him since the beginning. The cards he’s been dealt with aren’t the greatest hand, but he feels like he makes it work. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t wince, doesn’t go insane. He doesn’t even ask the universe for much. Even when he does make a wish, it’s always for the benefit of others.

If he closes his eyes and pictures a future with you, what does he see? Church bells, and you dressed in white? Kids? No more barriers between the two of you, no more fronts. In an ideal future, you are happy, and you want him by your side. 

Things can’t ever be that simple, but damn it, he at least has to try.

“Yes.” He takes a step forward. The setting sun causes a warm glow to be cast on your face; it envelopes your whole body, actually. You are radiant. He thinks he should tell you that and then wonders if that sounds corny. Probably. He figures he’s said plenty of dumb, cheesy stuff already, and you’re not backing away from him. 

“Radiant?” You repeat, giggling softly. 

You wonder what you look like from his point of view. Colt Grice stares at you in a way no one’s done before, and his refusal to look at you when you’re half-naked comes to mind. He looks at you, and he undresses you, but it’s not clothes he’s trying to take off. He’s peeling layers of your masks, making you shed your faux skins all over the place, in some insignificant corner. Colt Grice stares at you, and he sees you, and it makes you feel special. You’ve spent a majority of your life feeling like gum stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe, only worth their time when they’re scraping you off, swearing at what an inconvenience you are. 

You notice the watch on his wrist, and you’re pleased to realize that it looks similar to your own, just wider. More masculine. Like “his and her” goods. The feeling of being special only grows. 

“Colt.” You’re going to do something very stupid now. You’ve been feeling it for weeks now, that feeling of him pulling you past the point of no return. If you do this, you know that you’re never going to be able to give him up. Everything will change afterwards. Somehow, the thought of that doesn’t seem as scary or daunting as before. “Can I kiss you, please?” 

This is a real shining moment, Colt thinks. He’ll remember this forever, and when he inherits the Beast, he hopes that this memory gets passed down for all generations. Even if nothing else gets remembered, this certainly will leave its mark on history. 

Your lips are soft, and he tastes something sweet, and he wants to savor it, savor you. He keeps himself in check, forcing himself to not deepen the kiss, and then you’re pulling back from him. 

So this is what kissing is all about, you think to yourself, touching your lips. 

Confession time: sometimes you feel like you don’t know how to be human. You think you spent so long always on edge, always afraid, that you’re starting to forget the fun stuff about being alive. Your job is to do what people are supposed to consider the most ultimate act of intimacy, and you spend all your time disgusted by it. Dissociating from it. Perfecting the art of detachment. 

You give him nothing more than a simple, chaste kiss on the lips. Not even a second (you would know; you feel for the tick of the watch against your wrist). But it’s enough to charge you, leaves you feeling wired, electrified. 

Alive.

You’re aware of your neighbors witnessing this scene. You almost forgot about them, too focused on the man standing in front of you. You watched him, the flex of his muscles and the way he selflessly spent his time to help out the camp. He didn’t have to do that; he doesn’t owe them anything. You think you broke him for a second, turning your back and leaving him like he was nothing. He had every right to just walk out of here and be done with this camp for good. 

But he didn’t. And if he can do that, you can put a stop to Malik’s proposal ritual. You won’t let him in your bed. You won’t let him in your heart. You won’t let anyone in. 

The lingering effects of the kiss still rests on your lips. You don’t realize how hungry you are until you get a tiny taste to whet your appetite. You like kissing, you decide. You wonder why the hell you haven’t done it before.

Colt’s grin is so wide, it makes it hard for you to not try to mimic that happiness. Smiling comes easy when you’re with Colt. It’s like his shiny disposition is infectious, contagious. 

No. You know why you’ve been saving your kiss, your name, the space inside your life, all of it—

—all of it was reserved for this golden soldier.

Colt is still riding the high of the kiss — of the kisses — you gave him. 

Maybe this is finally the universe turning his luck around. Good karma. Every ounce of good he’s done in this lifetime, and he’s finally cashing out. You kissed him. You kissed him. You kissed him.

He can’t even wipe the dopey grin off his face as he checks back into base. He feels like Michael, like he wants to swing his arms and whistle silly tunes. He thinks he could get punched in the face right now, and not even feel a thing. The next time he sees you, Colt decides, he’s going to bring you a feast, and then he’s going to kiss you like a man going off to war.

His spirits are still high as he enters his bedroom, ready to lay down on his bed and relive those kisses over and over again until exhaustion takes control of his body, but he pauses when he sees the thick cardstock folded on his bed. 

It’s closed, sealed with wax that has the Marleyan military coat of arms imprinted on it. He rips into the paper, eyes scanning over the letter quickly. He sees what he’s searching for, letting the paper drop to the ground. 

Fuck. So much for good karma.

This letter serves as your official deployment orders from the Marleyan Military. You are hereby directed to join the offensive operation aimed at capturing Fort Helena. Upon receipt of this letter, you are to report to the designated assembly point where you will receive further instructions and join your assigned unit. Your role in this operation will be briefed in detail upon your arrival.

It is imperative that you prepare for immediate deployment. Ensure your personal affairs are in order, and report with full combat readiness.

#colt grice x reader #colt grice x you #aot x reader #snk x reader #fluff #angst #smut

[ukrfeminism]

Rape trials will be “delayed for years” because two thirds of barristers who are accredited to prosecute sexual offences are considering quitting. 

Survey results published on Monday revealed that 64 per cent of barristers who prosecute rape and sexual offence cases do not intend to reapply to be ­accredited by the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) amid growing complaints over pay.

The prospect of a profound collapse in the number of available prosecutors prompted the head of the Criminal Bar Association to tell ministers that “doing nothing to increase … fees is not an ­option unless we want to accept that rape and serious sexual offence trials will continue to be delayed for years, ­repeatedly postponed on the day because there is no barrister to prosecute or defend”. Tana Adkin KC added that “the human cost for victims of these crimes as well as innocent defendants is beyond financial measure”.

Of the 64 per cent who told the survey, which was commissioned by the association, that they would not reapply, 62 per cent pointed to poor pay and 50 per cent cited personal “wellbeing”. Some 78 per cent of barristers with less than five years’ experience said that they would not consider working on rape and sexual offence cases.

The survey results will heap pressure on the Ministry of Justice and the attorney-general’s office, which oversees the CPS.

Fears have been rising over the effect of court delays. Evidence emerged last year that hundreds of rape and sexual assault trials were collapsing every year as alleged victims dropped out of prosecutions. Data obtained from the Ministry of Justice revealed that more than 1,600 cases had collapsed over the previous five years in England and Wales after complaints were withdrawn ­despite charges having been made.

Legal experts say that the backlog of cases — which stands at a record high of about 65,000 — is prompting alleged victims to quit prosecutions because many find waiting up to three years for a case to come to trial to be too stressful.

To be eligible to receive rape and sexual offence prosecution instructions, barristers must be on the specialist advocate panel, which means that they have received CPS training on dealing with vulnerable witnesses. Training ­involves instruction in what the CPS says are myths and stereotypes around rape and sexual offences.

In 2022 criminal defence barristers settled strikes that had brought the crown courts to a halt after they accepted a 15 per cent rise in legal aid rates. Fees for prosecution barristers were not increased until a year ago, when they too were given a 15 per cent pay boost. And it is claimed that junior prosecution barristers are paid significantly less than their defence counterparts.

Association officials said that the average fee for defending in a five-day rape trial was £2,185 while the prosecution pay was about £300 less. They added that those prosecuting five-day fraud trials were paid about £380 more on average than barristers prosecuting rape cases. 

Harriet Wistrich, a solicitor and founder of the Centre for Women’s Justice, said that “the prosecution of sexual crime requires great expertise and knowledge, particularly given the traumatic nature of the crime and the need for understanding the complex laws and procedures surrounding such prosecutions that have developed to encourage victims to come forward and counter a victim-blaming culture”.

The Ministry of Justice said that the pay rise 18 months ago for defence barristers amounted on average to an annual boost of £7,000. It added that ministers had “also increased fees for those doing pre-recorded cross-examinations as part of our action to better support victims and see more rape cases reaching court, with an increase of over 50 per cent in adult rape prosecutions in the latest year”.

#Articles #mvawg #law

[yuri-for-businesswomen]

The Nordic model sounds fantastic. In my country, whenever these hotels are raided, the women themselves are arrested, humiliated, brutalized by the police and then their "owner" comes to bail them out and they get even more in debt. Hopefully something like this which helps them takes effect here soon.

there are some downfalls to the nordic model but its still better than liberalisation. for example, landlords who rent out to prostitutes can be charged with enabling prostitution and fined, that should not happen unless the landlord was extorting the women like brothel owners do (monthly rent vs. exorbitant daily fee for a room).

personally i think prostitutes should even have more rights than workers; for example. prostitution is legal in germany but i still „worked“ illegally because i wasnt registered. i could have paid the fine but it would have been very bad to have a criminal charge on my record, and for less privileged women than myself this would ruin them. and having this fear on top of the fear of the sex buyers makes it even worse. so i think whether a prostitute is in the country legally or „illegally“, whether she is registered or not, whether she is paying taxes or not, no prostitute should ever get charged or arrested, at most they should get a minimal fine.

in any case, instead of paying taxes - since taking a percentage of the income is basically pimping - prostitutes should have a small annual fee. and that should be all there is to it, no registration, nothing, if you are a prostitute you make a cash payment to some sort of local bureau and get a personalised receipt you can show whenever there is a control. if you dont have the receipt you have to get one and show it and then youre good.

i could go on and on there are so many ideas thats why i consider liberalisation advocates extremely lazy. both full criminalisation and full legalisation are lazy and „easy“ fixes for a complex problem that needs to be tackled from all sides, the demand side, the „supply“ side, immigration law, support for single mothers, drug addicted, mentally ill and disabled people, criminal law, housing, benefits, care work, it literally is interconnected with so many other social inequalities there is not one simple solution, sadly.

#mine #rambling #anti prostitution

[blaiddydbrokeit]

top 5 fe3h lore fun facts mayb?

Let's go!

1. Garreg Mach Uniform designs come in pairs.

Marianne <- -> Linhardt (cape design)

Dorothea <- -> Sylvain (open collar shaping)

Hilda <- -> Caspar (length differences)

Petra <- -> Felix (summer with standard color)

Ingrid <- -> Dedue (generic full uniform)

Bernadetta <- -> Ashe (hoodie and sport bottoms)

Annette <- -> Ignatz (satchel and modified shoe choices)

2. Rufus is very likely pay-to-win with the women, because of his high status and wealth. He could throw money at women despite looking like a wet mop and they would jump at him, explaining why Sylvain seems to believe the rumors of Rufus' philanderous ways.

3. One of the likely reasons that the Tragedy of Duscur had such a fatal outcome was because they were attacked shortly after crossing the Sacred Gwenhwyvar, leaving them cornered with little means of backing out to regain footing, especially in a relatively unfamiliar territory of the Duscur forests.

4. Garreg Mach seems to operate on a uniform policy that allows students to mix and match pieces, and for wealthier students to have more customization. However, the blazer is the most expensive piece of the uniform, which likely leads a fair bit of the cast to leave it off - especially the commoners, like Ignatz, Leonie, Raphael, Mercedes and the such, who may not be able to afford it (and often also wearing their own shoes, socks and so on), or characters who do not like to dress so formally (Felix, Caspar, Hilda). However, considering likely costs, the honor of the most expensive uniform at Garreg Mach belongs to Dimitri thanks to the unique silver heraldry and armor. Dedue likely also only owns the full uniform because Dimitri paid - chances are, he would have otherwise been dressed more like Raphael. Petra is a unique comparison in this case, likely being "sponsored" her uniforms by the Empire, and opting to go without the blazer to avoid overheating.

4. Flayn's dress appears to be made out of pieces of Garreg Mach uniforms refashioned for a more girlish, less stern and uniform-like silhouette. It involves the use of a lot of gathering, which hides piecing seams well, but retains some of the aesthetics of the uniform.

5. While in the Dimitri-Sylvain-Felix trio Dimitri is the most openly... um. Prone to throwing away his life, between Lambert, Rodrigue and Matthias, Lambert is the least prone. However, Matthias is able to keep it in check much better than Rodrigue, who would likely not think twice about impulsively charging in with Lambert just to stick close as a literal shield despite being more suited as a middling range support troop casting magic as a defense than as front-line raw power. Ironically, Matthias lags behind, as the anchor holding the backlines - even if you get past Lambert, Matthias is twice as serious about holding the last line of defense and he WILL lash out.

#fire emblem three houses #ask #fire emblem warriors three hopes #lambert egitte blaiddyd #rodrigue achille fraldarius #matthias raoul gautier #rufus thierry blaiddyd #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #flayn #garreg mach

[wjforever]

So, a little bit about the translations of the names and titles that we meet in the first episode, not including the legend at the beginning, haha.

These are the words that I think it was important to translate or not to translate. At least once, so that people like me get it better, lol.

So, the title of the series itself. 苍兰诀 Cāng Lán Jué I hate how they translated it. "Love Between Fairy and Devil". No, no and no. This translates as "Parting of the Fairy and Devil". Or "parting" can be replaced by the word "farewell". But the most interesting thing is that the translation doesn't include the full names of the characters. This includes the word "cang" dark blue; deep green; ash-gray from the name of Dongfang Qingcang. And also the word "lán", which translates as orchid. And jué as "to bid farewell, to say goodbye". This adds an additional meaning to the title, right? Dark blue orchid to bid farewell.

玉京 Yujing. If I had known right away that it translates as the Jade Capital, it would have been a little clearer to me why so much attention is paid to this stone in the series. Because its significance would be more obvious. I confess, I didn't know about the importance of jade in the Chinese mythology of this genre.

(also 玉京 Chinese words, meaning that the Taoists called Heaven where of Service; refers to the Fairy are; refers to Royal Park in)

水雲天 Shuiyuntian. Translates as "Water clouds". And again, if I had known about the presence of the word water in the name, it would be easier for me to understand why they have so many water pavilions and fountain palaces. So I think you need to familiarize yourself with the features of the genre to understand this better.

司命殿 Arbiter Hall. Oh God. That's what I clutch my head about now. How could it be translated like this?! It killed the whole meaning for me. A very important moment! Siming translates as the god of fate, the keeper of fate. This is the God in charge of human life. Yes, it can be translated as a proper name. But Siming is not just the name of the master, it's her role, position. Therefore, then the guys are surprised that the master is a woman, because Siming is usually a man.

And although it can be translated by many different ways: Master of Fate, Controller of Fate, Deified Judge of Life, Arbiter of Fate, Director of Alloted Life Spans, and Director of Destinies, it's always important to emphasize the word "fate". And not just leave the word "Arbiter".

I think it's better to translate it as "Keeper of Fate Palace" or even "Arbiter of Fate Hall" or something like this. Otherwise This greatly interfered with the correct perception of the story and confused.

仙 Immortals and 仙界 Fairy realm. This translation made a very big confusion for me, because it seemed that the Shuiyuntian's people are immortal, but at the same time we are told that the true immortal is only Dongfang, and the Moon Tribe seems doesn't belong to either mortals or immortals. And here again it's important to learn the history of the genre.

In this case, immortals can also be translated as celestial or divine. These are people who live on the ninth cloud or among the clouds. The Moon tribe are also immortal, but they have left the heavenly capital.

I believe that for a better understanding of the difference it's worth translating it as the heavenly world and the celestials. This would be less confusing and more understandable.

仙女 Fairy. It's important to understand the difference between the European image of fairies and the Asian one.

A little lecture.

Originated from Chinese mythology, to describe persons of high moral character, intelligence and extraordinary, healthy, elegant to behold, and with extraordinary abilities, immortality of the woman and the high status of God. In the context used to describe looks pretty good, dignified and beautiful, delightful woman. In many minds, also refers to the appearance is not beautiful, but the temperament of someone charisma of women.

Western fairy is a fairy tale or myths and Legends of one of the female spirits or elves, is often described as a supernatural or preternatural spirit thereof. Fairies are generally described as having a human outer body with magical power, which originated from the inability to research folklore. Although in modern culture, even though they are often depicted as young, sometimes winged, A diminutive humanoid creature, but they are with the initial human expression are completely different. The English word“Fairy”is sometimes also can be used as the elves, the dwarfs, the gnomes and goblins, and other various shape close to people or having supernatural creatures in General. In such a case, the "Fairy" will be translated into elves. (Sorry for the translation from Chinese without correction, huh).

More on my blog

#love between fairy and devil #lbfad #lbfd #cang lan jue #dongfang qingcang #xiao lanhua #苍兰诀 #cdrama #clj #dfcq #xlh #translation mess #some facts

[stupittmoran]

“Prices are high because greedy companies are charging too much” “Women get paid less than men” Why are greedy companies hiring men if they can pay women less and be more greedy?

[divinemissem13]

I'm With Her - Chapter 2

Or, the 2nd time Sharon 'saved' Brenda

Chapter 2: Rainbow

Another day, another case wrapped, another shithead off the streets. It had been a good day, all things considered, and Brenda slid open her desk drawer to reward herself. She was just about to rip open the pack of Reese’s Pieces when a sharp knock on the door reminded her of the other, less successful part of her day. “Come in,” she called out, unnecessarily since Captain Raydor was already sticking her head through the doorway. Oooh! That woman!

Brenda plastered a big smile on her face and stood to greet her. Their power dynamic was such that she needed every inch of her diminutive stature to remind her who exactly was in charge. “What can I do for you Cap’n?”

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve finished my report and as long as no one in your division shoots anyone, I should be out of your hair for a while,” Sharon said, handing over the thin folder. Brenda shivered involuntarily as the other woman’s serene voice washed over her. It would be easy to get lost in that voice, if she let herself. But she wouldn’t.

“Well isn’t that just the best news?” Brenda drawled through her stiff smile as she tossed the file onto the desk. “Pope come out ok?”

“I never said I was doing a background check on Pope, Chief,” Sharon said with an amused smile.

Brenda fumbled for her glasses and picked up the file again. Apparently, one of her officers was in trouble and she hadn’t even known it. Hopefully it wasn’t her. But nothing could have prepared her for what she saw when she began to skim the first page. “What is this?” she asked as she sunk back into her chair, temporarily too much in shock to be concerned with power dynamics. Luckily, Sharon took this as a cue to sit as well, prim and proper with her legs crossed at the knee and her hands placed just so in her lap; a stark contrast to the rather haphazard way that Brenda had plopped herself down, hunched over so that her nose was only inches from the file she was reading.

“It’s an application for Chief of Police,” Sharon explained needlessly. “As the LAPD’s Women’s Coordinator, I am on the search committee and we feel it is important for there to be a strong, female candidate for the job.”

Brenda peered at the older woman over the rims of her glasses. “And that’s s’posed to be me?” she asked skeptically.

“Yes, Chief. That’s supposed to be you,” Sharon confirmed with a sigh.

“I see it’s already filled out,” Brenda observed, blindly reaching for her abandoned bag of candy and opening it with her teeth as she continued to read.

Sharon gave a tight smile that even reached her eyes a little bit. “I wanted to make it as easy as possible. All it needs is your signature.”

“Mmhmm,” Brenda replied through a mouthful of candy. She popped a few more into her mouth and caught a glimpse of Sharon watching her and she suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable under her gaze. Which was odd because she had barely paid attention to the captain while she followed her around all week. “You, uh, you want some?” she offered, waving the bag of candy in Sharon’s direction.

Keep reading on AO3

#femslashfeb2024 #rainbow #femslash february #brenda.sharon #the closer #brenda leigh johnson #sharon raydor #fanfic #i wrote this #ao3 link

[sullustangin]

Fluffy February Day 3: Entertain

SWTOR

Rating: T (slightly spicy toward the end)

Pairing: Theron Shan/Eva Corolastor

~~

Effortlessly, his hands rolled right up the piano’s keys.  They stopped at the perfect place and struck, and the song continued on.

Theron Shan, in his cover as a casino piano player, was technically perfect.  Just as he was with dancing, singing, juggling, dealing cards, braiding hair, women’s fashion styling, magic tricks, speaking Huttese and Gamorrean, and whistling. 

Eva Corolastor, in her far less sneaky cover of a pazaak player known to the universe as EC, watched him from her seat at the bar.  She was in between tournament rounds.  The Nikto pitboss watched her, carefully, as did the other security team members with each of their charges; this was an organized drink break, to limit the potential of external comms, signals, or other advantageous contact to the players.  Every casino had its quirks.  Katalla had been different.  The casinos that dotted Nar Shaddaa varied, depending on which Hutt was the proprietor. 

What mattered was a good, entertaining game for both spectators and participants. (And Eva and Theron doing an intel collection and drop to save the galaxy.)  Eva was drinking for free, and she got to see Theron and one of his innumerable secret talents. 

“Secret,” mostly because SIS taught him and paid for it. 

Eva took a sip of her drink and let the ice rattle as she set it down.  “Secret,” because Theron didn’t value the talent enough to take pride in it.  To him, it was a tool, like a slice kit.  He never would get up on the Odessen stage and play the piano she’d hauled in one week, after winning it in a pazaak game on Ord Mantell (that, and three grazers who now lived happily on the Odessen back forty).   It got the job done.  Eva wondered if it was the professionalism or the Jedi training that refused to have an ego about it.

It was something other people couldn’t do, and Theron just… hid it away.  Only brought it out on special, necessary occasions.  He never did it for himself.  …maybe his brain classified it as ‘work,’ not ‘rec.’

A chime sounded in the casino.  Back to the tables.

~~

“You plan on staying here for the night?”  The pitboss peered down at her, with no small amount of concern.  Eva had won the first-place purse, and he had security concerns.

“Yeah, always make a habit of it,” Eva reassured him.  “I know the Hutts don’t take kindly to their winners ending up dead.”

“Puts a chill on business,” he confirmed.

Eva lifted her chin in the direction of the piano player, who was still playing as the remaining players filed out.  “How long has he been playing at this tourney?  Haven’t been here in … years,” she admitted.  That was the truth, as complicated as it was.

The Nikto gave Theron a glance.  “Him?  Five, maybe six years?”

Interesting.  Eva had wondered how he’d made arrangements so quickly for this particular drop; normally that took weeks, if not months of prep. 

The Nikto misinterpreted her expression.  “He’s a pro.  None of the lady players have had luck with him.  Granted, they normally approach him during the game, which is suspicious, from our perspective.” 

“But after I’ve already won – that’s a me problem, not a you problem?”

Wordlessly, the Nikto held up his hands and backed away from the situation –whatever that was going to be.

Eva had a pretty good idea.  She sauntered over to the increasingly lonely stage, in black shimmersilk. 

Theron played on, aware, but indifferent to her, even as she sat on the empty edge of the bench, her back to the piano.  “Come here often?” he asked, pretending to care about the answer.

“You do.  Every year for the last six.” 

That made him sit up straight, and Eva saw the vacant, bored expression of the piano player flee away. 

Eva slid down the bench, balancing on the edge so that her back went right up against his.  She knew he wouldn’t answer if she could see him.  “Why?” 

The piano kept playing for a few more lines, right through the bridge to final refrain.   “Might have been hoping … that some lady gambler would show up.  By some miracle.”

“Even with … information otherwise?”

“Especially in despite of that.” 

“And you didn’t think she’d come to you?”

“I thought the game would give us adequate cover, regardless of the circumstances.”

If he hadn’t left SIS, if she had not gotten iced, if she had escaped, if she had been in hiding, if he was loose, if there was no Alliance –

Maybe he was right that he was more likely to find her at a card table than trying to sneak into SIS.  Or the apartment he never willingly spent time in. 

“Besides, music makes things more… intriguing.” 

“Secret,” because he still wanted to surprise her and lure her right here to this bench.

Eva arched her back in way that made the silk rise up to the nape of his neck, just for a split second.  “You know, using your talents for good doesn’t mean you can only use them on the job.  You could… use them to your own benefit.  For your own enjoyment.”

Because Eva knew Theron still didn’t have a favorite song.  He didn’t dance unless asked to –

And then he abruptly shifted to the side, and she almost fell backward onto the keys, only saved by his right arm around her back.  “I’d rather show off the things that are just me, not the guise.”  No more piano player.

Just Theron and the way his eyes burned bright for her.

She grasped at his shoulder, stabilizing herself just long enough to whisper.  “Ok, then, hot shot.  Your place or mine?”

In other news, the intel drop was successful.

~~

@fluffyfebruary

#fluffy february #swtor #swtor fan fiction #theron shan #oc: eva corolastor #theron shan x smuggler

[rhaeisthequeen]

"It might come as quite a shock to those who think that having a woman on the throne would mean anything for women's liberation in Westeros, but trickle down feminism is not a thing. Liberation cannot start at the top, it is a movement that must start from the bottom up, otherwise the privileged class simply creates more vectors for oppression."

The fact that this exists as an evidence of "feminism" sickens me. Feminism is feminism it doesn't have to start at a "bottom" from "up" shit and if you can't accept that then you're not part of the system.

"Power and privilege are inherently self-protecting, and a those in power, yes, including women, will tear down the less privileged before sacrificing even a tiny scrap of their own privilege or power. "

But it's oh so funny how you only complain about it when it's a woman in charge. Whether it is Danaerys or Rhaenyra they're "privileged" but Alicent, who btw also holds power, yall be very quiet . 🤔 And what about all of the men who ruled before and after? You got nothing to say?

"This is one of the main themes of ASOIAF and yet this fandom has bought into the myth of the liberating queen so wholeheartedly that people actually believe that allowing a tyrant to take the throne, so long as she's a woman tyrant, is praxis. Rhaenyra is not a liberator of women or anyone else, in fact she damages the cause of liberation much more than she helps it."

A tyrant she is for green supporters cause for everyone else she's the rightful queen. To be very fucking honest she could have done a lot worse with how much she had lost thanks to the stepmother from hell.

"Control over the dragons was bought and paid for with the blood of countless slaves, and Rhaenyra wields the tools of the oppressor expertly, threatening all who challenge her with fire and blood, a threat she delivers on before she ever crowns herself queen. "

Her very claim comes from the belief that the one person in charge should wield absolute power and ruthlessly defend that power with the might of dragons.

Targaryens don't need slaves to control dragons, they're Targaryens deal with it. Also Alicent's children started the whole shit! Namely Aemond when he ruthlessly killed his nephew with "the might of dragons". Rhaenyra is defending what is rightfully hers by default.

Let's just say it as it is...you don't think it's fair that Targaryens have Godlike power cause it's unfair for your favorite (irrelevant) house. You don't really care about the smallfolk or how they feel. This is about how you feel. Cause it's only unfair for the whitehaired people to control dragons. Cause you bunch create povs of your favorite house controlling dragons. Cause you bunch write Dany and any other Targaryen female either as a villain, non important or submissive so it fits your mold perfectly...You're just jealous and boy does it show...

#anti targaryen antis #dumbass ppl #rhaenyra targaryen #go be stupid somewhere else

[dwellordream]

“In the roughly organized armies of 16th century Europe, there was literally a woman with every man. They were partners in pillage. “When you recruit a regiment of German soldiers today, you do not only acquire 3,000 soldiers; along with these you will certainly find 4,000 women and children.” So observed Johann Jacob von Wallhausen in his 1615 treatise on war, Kriegskunst zu Fuss.

During the 16th and 17th centuries, great crowds of camp women were not unusual; they were the rule. Not mere camp followers, women were an essential element of military forces in the field, providing many services to the troops. In fact, the presence of these women helps explain the very existence of early modern European armies and the conduct of war.

The tasks performed by camp women did include prostitution, but also traditional women’s work like laundry, meal preparation and petty commerce, and even heavy camp labor—contemporary woodcuts often illustrate a soldier paired with a woman, who is usually bent under a heavier load than that borne by her male companion. The most important contribution of women in this era, however, was the seizing and managing of pillage. Without pillage, armies could not exist.

During the 16th and 17th centuries, European rulers, including Philip II of Spain and Louis XIII of France, commonly fielded armies they could not afford to pay or supply. Troops from the Spanish army of Flanders, for instance, charged in 1594 that they had not been paid for 100 months. Even when men did receive their pay, it was often insufficient to sustain them.

A 1574 document complained that whereas a frugal soldier would need 10 pattards per day just for food, he received only four. Although soldiers were supposed to be fighting to earn money, one observer of the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48) wrote, “If you will consider how their wages are paid, I suppose, you will rather think them Voluntaries, at least very generous, for doing the greatest part of their service for nothing.”

Some commanders even saw an advantage to paying troops irregularly. “To keep the troops together, it is a good thing to owe them something,” observed the great Spanish general Ambrosio Spinola. His harsh logic held that troops would be less likely to desert if they expected to receive back pay in the future. However, while underpaying troops might keep an army together, it practically guaranteed a breakdown in discipline, as troops turned to plunder as a form of compensation.

Troops with empty pockets and empty stomachs took matters into their own hands. Some responded by mutiny; the Spanish army of Flanders, commanded by such great generals as the dukes of Alva and Parma, suffered more than 45 mutinies between 1572 and 1607, including the horrendous 1576 Sack of Antwerp.

Most troops sought sustenance and compensation on campaign by pillaging the civilian communities that lay in their paths. “It is deplorable that our soldiers dedicate themselves to pillage rather than to honourable feats,” wrote Pierre de Brantôme of his experience during the French Religious Wars (1662–74). “But it is all due to their not being paid.”

Princes might issue high-sounding declarations condemning troops for abusing civilian populations, but the bitter reality was that if those same rulers actually eliminated such excesses, they would have had to disband their armies as unaffordable.

The practice of allowing soldiers to pillage permeated the era. It was accepted as a distasteful but practical necessity. “One finds enough soldiers when one gives them the freedom to live off the land, and allowing them to pillage supports them without pay,” concluded the annual register of current affairs, the Mercure François, in 1622.

French monarch Louis XIV (r. 1643–1715) offered the same observation in his memoirs for the year 1666: “Of late, some commanders are found who have made great armies subsist for a long time without giving them any pay other than the license of pillaging everywhere.”

Pillage and its associated savagery—beatings, torture, rape and murder—certainly warranted condemnation, even when inflicted on civilians loyal to the enemy. However, raiders made little distinction between friend and foe, even victimizing the loyal subjects of the government served by the soldiers.

One observer described shameful conduct by the Florentine Black Bands as they marched through friendly territory in 1527: “[They are] worse than Turks. In the Valdarno, they have sacked three Florentine villages, raped women and perpetrated other very cruel things.” Troops fielded by the Bourbon kings of France notoriously ravaged the French countryside during the first half of the 17th century.

Because pillage was officially outlawed—if actually tolerated—the take from plunder was not tallied in royal accounts, even though it constituted a high proportion of military personnel expenses. Consequently, the true size of the pillage economy will always remain more or less unknown. This is further compounded by the fact that pillage supported not only soldiers, but also the vast array of civilians who accompanied them in the field, including camp women, who mastered the brutal business of plundering.

A military force in the field during the early modern period did not resemble an army as we know it today. Soldiers constituted only part of a campaign community, in which they lived symbiotically with male and female noncombatants. Officers and soldiers employed servant boys. Teamsters hauled wagons and cannon using draught animals supplied by private contractors.

Entrepreneurs supplied bread to armies, sending their own staffs, including bakers, into the field. A large collection of other tradesmen—blacksmiths, wheelwrights, carpenters—served the community. Merchants and sutlers sold essentials and amenities to the troops.

Comprising such a varied multitude, a campaign community rivaled in complexity and size all but the largest towns of the day. A force of 25,000 soldiers with its accompanying supporters represented a larger population than that of contemporary Bordeaux, Strasbourg, or Turin. It is no exaggeration to describe military camps as cities on the march.

The campaign communities, moreover, formed a world apart, living according to their own rules, which were often quite hostile to civilian society—and vice versa. A mercenary principle drove enlistment; most common soldiers joined the ranks because they had few other options and hoped to fare better on campaign.

A German woodcut dating from the 1530s makes this point with a poem attached to an illustration of a would-be Landsknecht, the much-feared, heavily armed Germanic mercenary of the 16th century: A tailor complains, “I must sit long hours for little pay with which I can hardly survive,” so he decides to try his luck in “the open field to the sound of pipes and drums.”

The Englishman Sydnam Poyntz confessed a similar reason for enlisting in the 1620s: “My necessitie forced mee, my Money being growne short, to take the manes of a private soldier.” Women opted for camp life with much the same rationale.

This need to survive and a desire to prosper ensured that men and the women who joined them on campaigns would prey upon the unfortunate civilian communities that lay in their paths. Troops quartered in civilian homes abused their hosts; pillagers stole, raped and murdered. The result of such violence was a pervasive animosity toward armies that, in turn, inspired the campaign community to reject the civilian world, its mundane life and its standards of propriety.

Although common soldiers came from the peasantry and urban working classes themselves, they announced their separation from such origins by sporting distinctive and often outlandish apparel. Most extreme was the bizarre multicolored and slashed garb of Landsknechts, though soldiers of other nations adopted their own extreme fashions.

An early 17th century description of Spanish infantry claimed, “It is the finery, the plumes and the bright colors which give spirit and strength to a soldier so that he can with furious resolution overcome any difficulty or accomplish any valorous exploit.” These sons of the laboring classes transformed themselves from subservient sparrows to aggressive peacocks.

Campaign communities lived by codes that were libertine and brutal. Soldiers of the early modern era were known for drinking, gambling, wenching and fighting. The novelist Johann Jacob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen, who had fought in the Thirty Years’ War, summed up the soldiers’ lifestyle with its violence, suffering and poverty:

Their whole existence consisted of eating and drinking, going hungry and thirsty, whoring and sodomizing, gaming and dicing, guzzling and gorging, murdering and being murdered, killing and being killed, torturing and being tortured, terrifying and being terrified…pillaging and being pillaged.

Within this hard and hostile community, women performed a broad range of tasks. The most obvious, but by no means the most characteristic, employment was prostitution. The term “camp follower” is often regarded as synonymous with prostitute, and there is no question that prostitutes plied their trade with the troops.

Many military authorities favored having them in camp for reasons of public order and efficiency. Public order argued that soldiers who relied on camp prostitutes for sex would be less likely to trouble respectable women; according to Mathieu de la Simonne, writing in the 1620s, “It is good for the local inhabitants, it is said, because their wives, daughters and sisters will be more in security.” Efficiency justified bringing along a limited number of prostitutes to satisfy the men’s urges instead of dragging along a far greater number of wives who would encumber armies.

Over time, however, tolerance of camp prostitution declined. Rising rates of venereal disease led commanders to see prostitutes as dangers to health, and the strict moral codes brought about by the Reformation and Counter-Reformation advocated marriage and condemned prostitution outright. Frederick William, the great elector of Brandenburg, banned prostitutes from his army by an article of war in September 1656, as did Louis XIV from French forces in the 1680s.

The great majority of camp women belonged to two other categories: wives and so-called “whores”—the unmarried female partners of soldiers. These women were not prostitutes, as each accompanied a single man, yet contemporary accounts often refer to them as “whores,” and the officer in charge of keeping order among camp women on the march was known in German as a Hurenweibel, or whoremaster.

The nature of the relationship between a soldier and his whore is suggested by the German practice of “May marriages,” agreements to stay together for the campaign season, which traditionally began in May. Dionysius Klein, writing at the end of the 16th century, described such liaisons and their rationales:

German soldiers, no sooner an expedition arrives, saddle themselves with frivolous and loose women with whom they contract “May marriages,” whom they drag here and there just as millers do their sacks. The soldiers enhance the situation by pretending that in war they cannot get along without women; they are needed to take care of clothes, equipment and valuables; and in cases of illness, injury or any other personal harm, the women are needed to nurse and take care of them.

Wives and whores applied themselves to traditional and necessary women’s work. Laundering, for one, was almost exclusively a feminine chore that soldiers regarded as unmanly. In The Life of Courage: The Notorious Thief, Whore and Vagabond, Grimmelshausen has his female antiheroine, Courage, declare, “I refused to let [my husband] stay in the castle without me for fear he would be eaten up by lice, as there were no women to keep the men clean.”

Basic needlework also fell to women, who repaired clothes, stitched shirts and sewed linens. Nursing, too, was considered a particularly feminine talent. When Robert Venables, one of Cromwell’s favored generals during the English Civil Wars, was censured for including his wife and allowing some soldiers to bring their wives on his disastrous expedition to the West Indies in 1654–55, he replied that experience in the Irish wars had demonstrated “the necessity of having that sex with an army to attend upon and help the sick and wounded, which men are unfit for.” Cooking, although not narrowly defined as a woman’s task, also fell to camp women.

Such gender-defined work was so valuable to an army’s health and well-being that a certain number of useful women remained with regiments in the field even after most wives and whores were driven from camps in the late 17th century. From then until the French Revolution, a contingent of 15 to 20 women usually marched in the train of a French regiment, while the British brought along about six wives per 100 soldiers until the late 18th century.

Camp women also scrambled to earn whatever they could through petty commerce. Some became sutlers (vivandières in French), peddling food, liquor, tobacco and sundries to officers and men. And camp women could be extremely creative in garnering money by more extraordinary schemes.

During the occupation of Freiburg by the Swedes in the 1630s, one citizen complained of “the soldiers’ abominable wives,” who trespassed in local gardens, cut produce as soon as it appeared, and had the gall to sell what they did not consume in the Freiburg market.

Men with female partners enjoyed an advantage. Sir James Turner, in his Pallas Armata (1683), argued that during the 1624–25 Spanish siege of Breda, in the Netherlands, “The married Souldiers fared better, look’d more vigorously, and were able to do more duty than the Batchellors; and all the spite was done the poor women was to be called their husbands’ mules by those who would have been glad to have had such mules themselves.”

Turner’s use of the term “mules” points to the heavy labor these formidable women performed. An anonymous handwritten German manuscript of 1612 detailed the load carried by women on the march:

Seldom is one found who does not carry at least 50 or 60 pounds. [The] soldier…loads straw and wood on her, to say nothing of the fact that many of them carry one, two or three children on their back. Normally, however, aside from the clothing they are wearing, they carry for the man one pair of breeches, one pair of stockings, one pair of shoes.

And for themselves the same number of shoes and stockings, one jacket, two Hemmeter [shifts], one pan, one pot, one or two spoons, one sheet, one overcoat, one tent and three poles. They receive no wood for cooking in their billets, and so they pick it up on the way. And to add to their fatigue, they normally lead a small dog on a rope or even carry him in bad weather.

The presence of so many women in the train of the army constituted a sizable labor pool that field commanders were quick to exploit. They even participated, according to Wallhausen, in the hard physical labor of siege work: “The whores and the boys [of the camp] also helped in binding fascines, filling ditches, digging pits and mounting cannon in difficult places.”

The most important contribution made by camp women lay beyond their traditional women’s work, petty commercial ventures and taxing manual labor. First and foremost, they took part in pillaging, without which early modern forces could not have maintained themselves on campaign.

Grimmelshausen’s antiheroine Courage boasted, “No one could match me at foraging.” Peter Hagendorf, author of the only extant diary by a common soldier in the Thirty Years’ War, reported how wives, his own included, pillaged the fallen city of Magdeburg in 1631 even after the fires that would destroy the city had broken out:

A cry then came from throughout the city as houses all fell on each other. Many soldiers and their wives who were searching to steal something died. God indeed protected [my wife]. After an hour and a half, she came out of the city accompanied by an old holy woman, who helped her carry bedding. She also brought me a large tankard with four liters wine. In addition, she found two silver belts and clothes, which I was able to cash in for 12 thaler in Halerstadt.

But women did more than steal; there is good reason to believe they guarded the booty and held the money gained by selling it. In woodcuts showing Landsknechts and their women, the men carry the weapons, ready for battle, while women are often shown with fat purses.

Free from the immediate risks of fighting in the front rank, they held the money for their fighting men. The preceding description of May marriages confirms that women carried their men’s clothing and other personal items, including their “valuables.” A poem accompanying a 16th century woodcut claims that among a whore’s duties was guarding the plunder:

Do well with me, my pretty lass

And stay with me in the Landsknechts

You’ll wash my shirts

Carry my sacks and flasks

And if some booty should be mine

You shall keep it safe and fine

So when we put paid of this crew

We’ll sell the booty when we are through.

Among artisan couples in the civilian community, women were similarly entrusted with holding goods and managing funds. Masters’ wives regularly made sales and tended the till. If the business maintained a market stall, this was the wife’s preserve, for the husband was needed back at the shop. Pillage was a form of this early modern family economy.

Pillage was also the business of the army. Because the campaign community was based on mercenary principles, versus those of state service or patriotism, its members were easily seduced by greed. In his 1516 colloquy “Of a Soldier’s Life,” the great Dutch humanist Desiderius Erasmus confronted a soldier with the charge, “It was not the Love of your Country, but the Love of Booty that made you a Soldier,” to which the soldier replied, “I confess so, and I believe very few go into the Army with any better Design.”

He also admits, “The Hope of Booty made me valiant.” In fact, only a few common soldiers and their women profited, but it was just enough to tempt others in a kind of lottery psychology. When Erasmus inquires of his soldier, “Well, have you brought home a good Deal of Plunder then?” the soldier replies with a shrug, “Empty Pockets.”

The unintended consequence of such unrealistic hopes of riches was the survival of military forces on campaign. Before European states developed the capacity to maintain their armies in the field, it was pillage that sustained them. The fact that women were key agents in securing and managing pillage explains the need for great numbers of them in the campaign community, as well as the radical reduction in their numbers after 1650.

Ultimately, pillaging and the abuses inescapably associated with it imposed limits on the reliability, efficiency and size of armies. To overcome these limits, European states developed the political power and administrative means to command revenues and tap credit sufficient to maintain their armies.

Rulers curbed pillage by holding officers responsible for their soldiers’ conduct and by imposing and enforcing stricter codes of discipline, but such efforts would have been fruitless were it not for major improvements in military administration and logistics, which in turn required advances in the state’s ability to mobilize and disperse resources.

These critical military and political changes affected different countries at different times, but in general the transformation occurred during the latter half of the 17th century. With distinct national twists, they were the work of Louis XIV in France, Frederick William the Great Elector (1640–1688) in Brandenburg-Prussia and Peter the Great (1682–1725) in Russia.

These monarchs’ accomplishments demonstrate that war was the engine that drove state formation in Europe. Thus the history of camp women and their involvement in pillage merges with far greater issues—the rise of the modern army and the emergence of the modern state.”

- John A. Lynn, “Women in War.”

#military #warfare #history #renaissance #john a. lynn

[petitelepus]

Old Friends, New Lovers? Part 3

MODERN!HAGANEZUKA HOTARU X FEM!READER

Summary: The weekend is over and it's time to return to work at the Academy. Though, you and Haganezuka have decided to make a big move on your fresh relationship.

Warnings: Cursing, Kissing, Suggestive

A/N: Modern!AU, Female Reader, Teacher Reader, Teacher Haganezuka, Tengen Uzui, Kyojuro Rengoku, Sanemi Shinazugawa, Hinasturu Uzui, Makio Uzui, Suma Uzui, Mitsuri Kanroji

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4

The weekend passed and you and Haganezuka returned to work on Monday after fucking like rabbits for the last two days. The two of you acted like nothing was different, but your colleagues and friends could tell something was off.

"Did you guys fuck?" Tengen straight up blurted and you frowned and blushed as you looked aside, "It's none of your business…"

"Yes." Haganezuka said and you looked at him in shock and horror, "Haganezuka!"

"I knew it!" Tengen laughed as he looked at Sanemi, "Pay up!"

Sanemi growled as he dug out his wallet and you looked at your colleagues in shock, "Wait, you bet on us?!"

"Haganezuka said he would take you home so we agreed on a little bet." The art teacher chuckled as he pocketed the money Sanemi gave him. You frowned as you turned to glare at your lover but he was paying no attention, his focus on paperwork before him.

"Haga-!" You were saying when the bell rang, signaling that the school day was starting. You growled as you got up and left, your class no doubt waiting for you already.

The morning passed as you taught your class until lunch hour when you visited the school's canteen and bought yourself something to eat. As you paid, you noticed three sets of eyes looking at you. Tengen's wives and your friends. You raised an eyebrow in a questioning manner, "What, is there something on my face?"

"Just a happy smile." Hinasturu chuckled and you blushed as you frowned stubbornly, "Shut up…"

"So?" Suma smiled and you glanced at him, "So?"

"Are you and Haganezuka now a thing?" Makio asked and you sighed. You knew rumors would spread, but you didn't expect them to move this quickly.

"More or less…" You admitted and the three women smiled happily, "Congratulations!"

"Thanks…" You blushed a little in embarrassment.

"Now that you guys are finally together, are you guys going to move in together?" Suma asked and your blush didn't go anywhere. You frowned as you remembered the talk you had with Haganezuka the last day. Slowly, you nodded, "Yes…"

"Great! Unlike those other guys you saw, the two of you make a good couple!" Makio nodded and you felt your blush grow worse as you tried to control it, "Thanks…?"

"How did your landlords feel about it?" Hinatsuru asked and you nodded as you recalled your and his phone calls to your own landlords.

"Haganezuka talked with his landlord and she was okay with me moving in with him. Mine was a little sad to see me leave but he promised not to charge me rent for the rest of the month." You replied and the wives shared glances as they registered your words.

"Wait, so when are you moving?" Makio asked and you felt embarrassment wash over you as you whispered, "This weekend."

"So soon?!"

"Haganezuka was stubborn about it." You nodded with a small stubborn blush on your cheeks, "And I didn't really have anything against it…"

The wives shared knowing smiles with each other and then looked at you.

"Do you guys need some help with moving your stuff?" Hinatsuru asked and you blinked in shock as you looked at the three women, "Y- You would help me?"

"Of course! We are friends, right?" Suma nodded and Makio added, "Tengen and other teachers will also help!"

"T- Thank you…!" You were really speechless. You knew you had friends, but you didn't know they were that good. You and the women quickly shared some information about the time and place and when you would need their help. Once you were done talking, you thanked your friends before rushing to the teacher's office to eat your lunch.

You weren't surprised to see other teachers in there eating their own lunches as they usually would. You sat by your desk and opened your lunch box, but before you could take a bite, Kyojuro rushed to you, "Young lady, I wasn't able to say it this morning but congratulations!"

"Thank you?" You thanked, "But why?"

"Why, you and Haganezuka are a couple now and moving in together!" The cheerful teacher said and you turned to glare at your lover across the room, but the masked man completely ignored your glare.

You growled in annoyance, but you quickly took a couple of calming breaths and smiled at Kyojuro, "Thank you. It's going to take a second to get used to."

"Speaking of that, do you need help with moving?"

"Funny that you asked because Hinatsuru, Makio and Suma just asked the same thing." You replied and the art teacher heard his name being mentioned and glanced at you guys, "What was that?"

"Your wives offered to help me with moving." You replied, "They also said you guys would help."

"If my wives went and said so then that's what we are going to do." Tengen laughed in a good manner and you were stunned how effortlessly he had agreed to help when his wives were mentioned.

"I can help also!" Kyojuro smiled and one by one other teachers started to offer their aid for you two. You were honestly stunned by how kind and helpful your colleagues were but of course they were. They were amazing people through and through.

The week passed and you would use the free time you had outside work to pack your stuff and get things sorted by Saturday when you were supposed to move from your small apartment to live with your lover.

You had already been in contact with the postal office about the change in your address and such so all the preparations were done.

Now you just had to get your stuff to Haganazeuka's place and return the key to your current and soon-to-be former apartment. The clock was quarter past twelve when you heard the doorbell ring and you rushed to open the door and you were greeted by your colleagues and friends.

"Hi there!" Tengen was first to greet you with his wives by his side, "We are here to help you move!"

"Thank you so much, you guys!" You smiled as you stepped aside to let them into your apartment, "Everything is sorted in cardboard boxes and labeled."

"Great, that will make our work easier," Sanemi grunted as he grabbed the first box he saw, and one by one your friends grabbed boxes also. Kyojuro looked around your vacant apartment, "Where are your couch, bed, and other stuff?"

"Oh, I sold them. Haganezuka said he has everything I might need." You replied as you bent down to pick the first box full of books, "By the way, where is that man?"

"Here," You turned and saw your lover step inside, dead last. You looked at him and pouted, "You're late. Where were you?"

"Just signed some last papers with the landlord. I came here as soon as I could." He replied as he grabbed a box from the pile and you huffed as all of you started to carry stuff downstairs. You were really, no, extremely grateful for your friends and colleagues helping you because you didn't own a car, and renting a moving van would have been very pricey.

Thanks to Tengen's and others' cars you were actually able to take all your stuff to Haganezuka's place in one go. As you carried the last box from your apartment, you left the key inside with a small note where you thanked your landlord for the good years, and just like that, you moved out.

You were actually surprised at how much space Haganezuka had prepared for your stuff. You had your own closet for your clothes and an empty bookshelf just for your stuff. Though, you didn't recognize that bookshelf. While your friends carried boxes inside, you turned to your lover's side.

"Hotaru, is this a new bookshelf?"

"Yes?" He grunted and you pointed at the shelf, "When did you get it? It wasn't here yesterday when I came to sign some papers?"

"Does it matter?"

"Wait…" You gasped quietly, "Were you late because you were putting this together for me?"

"Does it matter?" He repeated, but you noticed how he wasn't looking in your direction, and you realized that he was no doubt embarrassed by being caught for being thoughtful. You smiled a little as you put the box in your hands and hugged him from behind.

"Oi, let go," Haganezuka grunted and you hummed as you pressed your cheek against his back, "You're such a stubborn man, you know that?"

"Do you hate it?" He asked and you shook your head against his back, "Nope. Not at all."

The two of you stayed like that for a second and you fully enjoyed that second-!

"Hey you guys, if you're not too busy cuddling then there are still a couple of boxes left!" Sanemi shouted and you let go of Haganezuka who quickly rushed to head out and downstairs to pick up the boxes, "Leave them to me."

"Hold on, I'm coming also!" You quickly rushed after him and sure enough, there were only two boxes left of your stuff. You and your lover each grabbed one and you thanked your friends for all their help and waved as they left.

You and Haganezuka carried the last boxes inside and shut the door behind you, leaving you two alone. You huffed as you placed the box down and looked around, seeing nothing but boxes full of your stuff.

"This is going to take a minute to solve." You thought out loud.

"Then we better get started…" Haganezuka grumbled as he took off his mask, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and started to cut the tapes that kept the boxes shut.

You followed his example and the two of you started to unbox your stuff, starting from your books and such. You couldn't help but admire the shelf that Haganezuka had put together for you, secretly loving the sweet gesture from him as you slowly filled the said shelf with your books.

"Why the fuck do you have so many pillows?!" Haganezuka asked as he opened another box that was filled with pillows. You glanced at him over your shoulder as you replied, "Why not? I like pillows."

"Why the fuck this one is long?" He asked as he pulled out a huge pillow that filled one whole box itself.

"It's my body pillow." You said and he squinted his eyes at you, "What's that?"

"I hug it when I sleep." You replied and the man turned to glare at the pillow before he stuffed it back into the box and threw it over his shoulder.

"Hey!" You cried out, "What was that for?!"

"You don't need it anymore when you have me," He stated stubbornly, and you frowned, but you couldn't help the small blush that rose to your cheeks. You had him now.

The two of you worked hard to unload your stuff and finally, after hours of working together, the two of you were done, but boy, you two were tired as heck. The two of you collapsed on the couch and sighed deeply. Time passed and it was already dinner time, but the two of you were too lazy to make anything.

"I don't feel like cooking…" You groaned, "Let's order something."

Haganezuka grunted, "What do you want?"

"Pizza. Lots of pizza."

"I'll call Kanamori's place." Your lover reached for the phone and you quickly added, "And Cola! Order some Cola also!"

"Yeah yeah," He nodded as he looked at you, "What kind of pizza do you want?"

You told him your favorite pizza toppings and the man nodded as he dialed the familiar phone number and raised the phone to his ear.

"Kanamori? It's me. I wanna order. Yes, home delivery. Yes, same address." Haganezuka nodded as he talked with his best friend and you hummed as you looked at the empty boxes you would have to recycle.

"Hey, what did you say your toppings were again?" He suddenly asked and you repeated yourself and he repeated them to Kanamori on the other side of the phone.

"Okay, yes, you know my usual. Yes. I'll pay. Yes yes, see you soon." Haganezuka put his phone down and you raised an eyebrow in confusion, "Is Kanamori himself delivering the pizza?"

"No, he has this girl Kanjori deliver them." He replied and you blinked, "Mitsuri Kanjori? The sweet pink-haired girl we used to teach?"

"Same one." He nodded and you sighed, "We are getting old."

"Bullshit," Haganezuka grunted as he looked at you sitting there next to him, "You're still the prettiest woman I know."

You blushed and you averted your gaze from him, suddenly too shy to look at him properly since you knew that he wasn't a liar, no matter what.

"There isn't a man as handsome as you." You said back at him and he nodded, but you weren't done, "Or secretly as sweet as you."

That made Haganezuka growl silently and look aside as a soft blush rose to his cheeks. You grinned when you noticed him blush and suddenly you felt like teasing him.

"You're the cutest and sweetest man I know and I love you so much!" You laughed as you hugged his back and he growled, "Get off woman!"

"Make me!" You cackled and Haganezuka growled as he grabbed your hands that were wrapped around him and you yelped as he got up and took you with him.

"Hotaru!" You yelped as he easily carried you to your new shared bedroom and the man had the guts to throw you on the huge bed of his! You bounced on the soft bed and Haganezuka didn't waste time as he crawled on top of you and pinned you against the mattress.

"Who is laughing now?" He asked and you blinked, stunned by how close his face was to your own. You tried to keep eye contact but the intense look in his eyes made you weak.

"Stupid woman…!"

"Hey-!" You were cut off when he pressed his lips against yours and kissed you. Your eyes widened in shock, but you quickly regained your senses and you let them close as you kissed him back.

Slowly the kiss turned more and more feral and lustful, your mouths opening and tongues dancing with each other. The kiss left you breathless and you gasped for air when Haganezuka pulled apart, but he didn't stop there. No, he kissed the crook of your neck, bit and sucked it, making you moan and-!

Suddenly the doorbell rang and you froze. Your dinner arrived but Haganezuka didn't show any signs of stopping.

"H- Hotaru, food is here!" You gasped and he growled as he bit harder into your neck, "Ignore it…!"

The doorbell rang again and you groaned as you tried to push your lover off but he was way stronger than you were.

"Hotaru, I'm hungry, can't we-!?"

"So am I…!"

No, you doubted that you were talking about the same hunger here now. You saw no other way, you raised your hands and let your fingers grace and flick over his sides.

The reaction was instant as Haganezuka burst out laughing and you couldn't help but giggle yourself as he fell limp on the side and you were freed.

"Take that," You giggled as you got up and grabbed your wallet on your way to the front door. You opened the door and saw the young pretty woman holding two huge pizza boxes.

"Mitsuri!" You smiled and the young woman smiled right back at you.

"Miss!" She said and you nodded happily, "Yes yes, how are you? Still studying?"

"Yep!" She nodded back, before offering you pizzas and the bottle of Cola. You reached for your wallet when she suddenly asked, "What's that mark on your neck?"

You blinked, confused but then you realized that Haganezuka must have left a mark on you.

"Ah, I think a bug maybe bit me!" You laughed as you took out the money and handed her the bills and a little extra, "You can keep the rest as a tip!"

"Thank you! Hopefully, we can see again soon!" The young woman smiled cheerfully as she pocketed the money and waved as she left, her next order already waiting for her. You smiled as you closed the door and strong arms wrapped around you.

"That was a nasty trick," Haganezuka said and you carefully jabbed him with your elbow, "Pizza is here."

"I can see that."

"Good, then let's go and eat." You said right back at him and the man groaned as he let go and the two of you went to eat, already making plans for the next day such as taking out the trash and doing grocery shopping.

You were a little nervous but way more excited to see where time would take you two.

#haganezuka #hotaru haganezuka #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #Modern!AU #modern AU #Reader #Reader insert #fem!Reader #Fem Reader #suggestive #kissing #Mitsuri Kanroji #hinatsuru uzui #makio uzui #suma uzui #tengen uzui #kyojuro rengoku #sanemi shinazugawa #writing #my writing #story #my story #ENJOY!

[emmedoesntdomath]

On behalf of @caw-salem

I have to ask you for

The woman

The myth

The LEGEND

MISS MEDDA LARKIN/LARKSON

MEDDA IS SO UNDERRATED AND FOR WHAT

medda’s actually such an interesting character, historically AND personality wise, and we definitely don’t talk about that as much as we should???? and so- of course- we’re going to talk about all of it.

medda larkin/larkson (which, by the way, likely wasn’t her real name, but a stage name, probably because it rolled of the tongue better) wasn’t a real person, but she WAS based off of a real person: aida overton walker.

aida overton walker was a black actress, dancer, choreographer, and vaudeville performer who performed in various musicals, acts, and dances from 1898 to her death in 1914. she is often renowned as the ‘queen of the cakewalk’ and is seen as one of the most influential black performers of the early 1900s. she orchestrated benefits for institutions that supported primarily black women, refused to perform stereotypes on stage, and starred in the first all-black musical to be performed in a broadway setting, and then in england.

by the time she passed away, she had independently produced shows for two different black female groups, performed on some of the finest stages in the world, choreographed dance numbers for high class white socialites, created roles for black women on stage, and set a standard for performing vaudeville.

SHE WAS THIRTY FOUR.

THIS WOMAN WAS A BADASS.

so if medda larkin/larkson was based on this absolute bombshell of a woman (also, side note- I have no idea why they decided to make her white in 92sies. it’s definitely a decision that I’m not a fan of), then clearly, medda herself has to be HALF as amazing as she was, right?

medda first begins as a dancer, and as backing vocals to a bigger name in the bowery. she works her ass of, smiling sweetly, dancing with grace and a little bit of flair. she gets noticed almost a year in, when she has to stand in for the lead vocalist. suddenly, everything takes off for her.

she becomes a main act, garnering so much attention that she’s consistently in the papers. she doesn’t get paid much, but it’s enough that she can set aside a little bit here and there. she gets her own backing vocalists, her own gorgeous costumes.

and then the bowery owner dies.

there’s no more shows, no more crooning to the audience. the pay stops coming, and there’s a sign on the front door warning of close. medda, who has now spent years of her life here, who thinks of it as her home, is devastated. that is, until she asks how much they’re selling for.

so she borrows some money, pulls some favors (she knew the governor, and damn, if she wasn’t going to use that to her advantage). she begs, pleads, literally cries on her knees. gets a lawyer when they stare at her in disgust. takes ‘em to court, and then-

the bowery’s hers.

by the time she meets jack kelly, she’s been in charge for a couple years, and has met her fair share of poor kids who just need to get out of the cold. she more or less takes him in (he looked too afraid for her not to), and somehow that leads to her claiming the rest of the newsies as her children (not just the manhattan kids, either). she had a rough life too, she reasoned. she can cut some corners for these kids.

miss medda larkin, ladies, gentlemen, and my good people. the angel, the saint, the absolute fucking badass.

#newsies #92sies #uksies #livesies #jack kelly #racetrack higgins #spot conlon #crutchie morris #crutchie newsies #davey jacobs #albert dasilva #medda larkson #medda larkin #emme’s bad ideas

[synthville]

upon rewatch:

LOVED seeing raffi work. focused and a with a clear directive like that’s queenie. the only light in a season that’s really not in service of anything but ‘hey remember when’ (aka lowest form of conversation word to tony soprano!)

if i was a tng fan who’d waited all this time to see my faves reunite and was being fed this badly lit slop id riot. low effort stupid stakes and characters who are lacking facsimiles of themselves on a dull version on an ‘adventure’ that was done better decades ago? the pits.

originality has left the building. never even made it inside actually

like i know this ain’t the ‘greatest season of star trek picard’ the press and era stuck fans have been praising??? lmfao everything is so stupid

seven and raffi’s scene was even more diabolical the second time around because what do you actually mean this is the best you can do star trek picard don’t piss me off

three and a half conversations solely between women (the fact that saffis breakup convo counts helppp) that weren’t about men i think so. that’s the future :)

sevens whole voy family moment was bittersweet like it’s nice that they finally remembered that part of her life existed but also it left a bad taste in my mouth. maybe id feel differently if i thought it was actually going somewhere idk. with the brushing off of the lsc and the way things are playing all these references only come off as heavy handed reminders from the writers that the past is everything and looking forward is useless because why try to build and go on when everything you used to know is actually all there ever is (unless you’re giving up vital aspects of yourself to blend into and serve the institution in which case change is not only accepted but encouraged*) ik they did less than the bare minimum to cement la sirena as a group but they were still important to each other and the constant reiteration of the way things were is so bleak. *situation is a lot more nuanced than that blah blah im in my feelings lol

should definitely be used to it by now ik but it still blows me that they erased damn near everything. like just fuck the la sirenas huh. those two years was just lallygagging with randos ig

the endless disdain for the past seasons as if this season is anything to be proud of is ?

so much about how this show is written and presented (will someone turn on lights goddamn!!) is absolutely unbelievable. things just happen like there aren’t actual paid professionals in charge of making it good. nuts.

#release me #wanna fast forward to 15/20 years from now when the world is collectively over this reboot remake reunion era #and everyone has stepped out from under this nostalgia daze because it’s getting WEIRD. #stpk