#colt tasks
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Journal Entry #1
My Dearest Georgie,
I hope you’ll forgive my not writing sooner. It’s something I never considered doing if I’m being honest. To write to someone who is no longer with me, someone who’s not even alive anymore, is intimidating. And if I’m being honest, seems like such nonsense to do. Why bother writing to someone who will never see this? But someone convinced me to try, to write my own deep thoughts down in this journal as a way of getting them out. He claimed I bottle too much up and that it’ll be “detrimental to my mental health”. Laughable, really. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt some kind of pull to write something. Something to you. So that’s what I’m going to try and start doing, darling.
My time here in Covaire City has been interesting. Actually it’s, and pardon my language, fucking chaotic if I’m being honest. But something tells me you’d like it here. With me. Given the chaos we used to live among. I still laugh thinking about how you swore to your daddy you wouldn’t venture off for fear of running into the vampires, but I remember the mischievous glint in your gaze that you’d slide my way when he wasn’t looking. Despite the terror they could rain down on us, something inside you had always been curious. You acted like a reckless little vixen. My brave little beauty. Something tells me you’d have thrived here with me.
Especially if you saw me in action here. I never like to use my strength and power to inflict pain or punishment on others. Something you’d know better than anyone else, darling. But this week was necessary. Some moron civilian tried to attack two human escorts as they were returning back to Le Bordel, where I work. I normally would have been long gone from my shift, but something had be sticking around a bit longer, chatting with a fellow guard there. When I heard the screams for help, something in me was triggered or something, pulling me back to one of the first attacks on our town. It was like I saw red and was unaware of what I was even doing after seeing one female on the ground unconscious and the other pinned beneath the male wolf. For some reason I still don’t get, my mind flashed to your picture, a part of me thinking you were the one who needed my help. And that made me want to kill that son of a bitch. But I kept that control, despite beating the shit out of the guy before I snapped his neck with ease, and got those girls some help before I dragged his sorry ass off to the Chateau where he’ll hopefully stay. I’m telling you this because, despite being the complete opposite when I was human, shadowing the doctor in town, part of me knows you, and your daddy, would have been proud.
And that’s all I’ve ever wanted and will always want. You’re my reason for holding onto my humanity, the one who keeps me grounded. And I hope writing to you like this will continue to do so.
Until next time, my love.
-Colt
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I'm laughing so hard. In 5.02, Cas was like "Well trying to kill the devil is stupid" and Dean was like "Gee thanks". And then he said Cas's plan to find God was stupid.
THEN what happened? In 5.03, even though Dean thought Cas's plan to find God was stupid, he risked his life helping Cas trap Raphael to interrogate him about it anyway. At the end of the episode when Cas was losing hope because Raphael said God is dead and that Lucifer was probably the one who brought Cas back, Dean told Cas basically "SCREW Raphael what do YOU believe? If you think your dad is out there, go find him."
THEN in the opening of 5.04, Cas calls Dean on the phone and GUESS WHAT HE'S CALLING ABOUT. He's been looking into The Colt! He was looking into Dean's plan to kill Lucifer that Cas said was stupid. Now Cas is HELPING DEAN ANYWAY when Dean is skeptical about his own plan:
DEAN
Okay, all right. I'm—I'm telling you, Cas, the mooks have melted down the gun by now.
CASTIEL
Well, I hear differently. And if it's true and if you are still set on the insane task of killing the devil, this is how we do it.
What I'm saying is: friends supporting each other!!! Friends helping each other with their insane stupid plans they both think are stupid!!!
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When and Where, Baby ࿐
— Various Attack on Titan Characters
⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, gn!reader, kissing, semi public car sex, shower sex, quickies, established relationships, general allusions to and discussion of sex and intimacy, needy!reader and equally as needy!characters.
⊹ Run time. 0.7k
⊹ Note. Cheeky edited reupload from my old blog since I am deep in the Aot brainrot and am in dire need to talk about them lol. Enjoy <3
Where they fuck you outside of the bedroom —
꒰ On the Couch ꒱
Movie nights with you always turn into something more. Neither of you could help the way your hands drifted, his gliding further and further up your thigh until it’s practically between your legs, and your fingers idly stroking his navel, playing with the bit of hair poking out of his waistband. It’s a silent challenge, who’s willing to make the first real move. It certainly wasn’t going to be you, no matter how badly you wanted to sink your teeth into his neck or to toss your legs over his lap, you just couldn’t. But like magnets the two of you were pulled together, a certain desperation forcing you to toss away whatever little pride you had. You never could resist, not really. Eager kisses nearly knock the wind out of you as you clamber onto his lap, just a little bit too rough as you try to strip him of all the pesky layers between the two of you.
⊱ Porco Galliard, Eren Jaeger, Colt Grice, Miche Zacharius, Zeke Jaeger, and Connie Springer.
꒰ In the Kitchen ꒱
Dinner was something that they wish to disappear from your mind for just the slightest moment, it’s been a long day without you and if you’re not pinned beneath them in the next ten minutes they might just go crazy. It’s a good thing you’ve only just put that pot to boil because that gives them a bit more room for something other than heavy petting. Cupboard knobs dig into the small of your back and hips uncomfortably but the feel of their lips on your neck is enough to distract you from the pinpricks of pain. And for just a moment the task at hand slips away from your mind because god, they make your head spin and you miss them just as much as they missed you. You need them just as badly as they need you and it isn’t until the pot boils over that you’re pulled out of your rapture and even then you hold them ever closer because you’re so close to falling apart from their fingers, you’re almost there and you couldn’t care less about dinner because you’re much more interested in getting a taste of them.
⊱ Pieck Finger, Bertholdt Hoover, Niccolo, Hange Zoë, and Sasha Braus.
꒰ In the Shower ꒱
Early mornings were always made better when they slipped into the shower with you. It was never their intent to take things further but that tiny moan you let slip began to stoke a fire deep within them. They just wanted another one more honeyed sound so they innocently let the hand that was supposed to be washing your body slip between your legs. This was how it always played out no matter how many times you swore that it would because the two of you were still half asleep. One way or another, one of you is going to end up pinned against the tile wall, head thrown back as you relished in your partner's touch. If the water hadn’t run cold the two of you could have stayed in there for hours, but a morning quickie had to be just that; quick. No matter how badly you wished to stay in there with them forever, but you had things to do and frigid water wasn’t all that enjoyable even if you just ached to be with them for a moment longer.
⊱ Levi Ackerman, Annie Leonhart, Historia Reiss, Armin Arlert, Petra Rall, and Mikasa Ackerman.
꒰ In the Car ꒱
Sometimes you just couldn’t wait until you got home. They always drove with their hand locked on your thigh, their gaze trained on the road ahead; they just looked so good, it wasn't your fault it turned you on so much. So maybe it was you who couldn’t wait, you who begged them to pull over because you needed them so badly that if they didn’t you’d have no choice but to shimmy out of your pants and give them a little show if they weren’t willing to help you out. But you never did have to resort to that, they love their needy baby and if their baby needs it bad, well then who were they to deny you. It wasn’t like you two had anywhere to be, a detour wouldn’t be so bad, not if they got to hear those pretty sounds of yours. Just try not to make it too obvious, the spot was secluded but you still didn’t want to get caught because you just couldn’t wait to get your hands on one another.
⊱ Erwin Smith, Jean Kirstein, Ymir, Hitch Dreyse, Kenny Ackerman, and Yelena.
© all content belongs to dearbraus. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.
#aot smut#snk smut#jean kirschtein smut#eren yaeger smut#armin arlet smut#levi ackerman smut#mikasa ackerman smut#sasha braus smut#porco galliard smut#ymir smut#hange zoe smut#reiner braun smut#connie springer smut#pieck finger smut#erwin smith smut#aot x reader#snk x reader
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Diplomatic Concerns. (russingon, on ao3).
When they did at last come together, it did not feel like an inevitability to Maedhros. Far easier it was to believe - to contrive - ways in which they might betray themselves, and allow their understanding to betray their people.
This, they both agreed, could not be permitted. Maedhros would have loved Fingon less, if he had been willing to brave the storm of opposition and defiance their open courtship would cause.
His people had cause, just cause to stand against it; and Maedhros had his own brothers and vassals to rule over, in less official fashion, without the benefit of official authority to put them in place if it prove needed.
They pledged their troth under the stars, a wordless promise with no bitter oath to mar it; and thereafter took the greatest care and discretion that none guessed at it.
-
It was some effort, Maedhros admitted, if only in their very secretive correspondence, written on hidden wink in the back of their official missives.
His mouth ached, his arms felt emptier - poetry, he found, spoke to him beyond the pleasure of precise meter and rhyme.
It was absurd; it was dangerous. Always he kept Fingon swept from his mind, lest some of his heart bleed through enough to be perceived; and always it was work, to keep Fingon out of the forefront of his thinking.
And it was mortifying, too. To be infatuated, to have a joy to hide, to know himself cherished and desired - he could not have bourne it to be known, not easily.
It was only some consolation to know Fingon found his pining ardor very pleasing, being that he was at too great a distance to do much with that. As a matter of fact, it made it all the more torturous.
This lasted all through the first fortnight of the autumn summit.
Maglor looked at him indulgently. “How many horses can Fingon possibly need? Nay, not at all. You must give him the best foal, and rear it by your hand, and drape it in Fingon’s raiment and colours, and teach it the signals he favours. Quality, not merely quantity! Do you hear me wasting breath on too many love songs? There must be a measure, by which things are made precious.”
“You were song-wed by proxy fashion to an ascetic zither-master you knew from correspondence only, and met thrice every ten yéni,” Maedhros told him.
Maglor shrugged. “Once every ten yéni was enough. It made the anticipation all the sweeter.”
Maedhros raised all three colts to perfect training. If some of his braids were chewed away, and much of the fur of his best coats, then at least Fingon was suitably impressed.
-
None guesses at our affections, Maedhros amended on his next letter, besides Maglor, and his silence is our boon. Fingon was swift to tease him for that - and in truth he had barely bothered to hide it from Maglor.
There was little use; therefore he worried little. All the rest of his brothers held their own domains, were occupied with their duties - if it became pressing, he could always invent a new task to distract their tracks.
He had forgotten Caranthir. Caranthir never needed to be given new directions; if anything, he excelled at taking attentive initiative, especially on matters of international commerce.
“I,” Maedhros said. “Have never offered any thing, to lord or vassal, besides gifts of friendship, and diplomacy, and cunning morsels of what might attained with a better trade arrangement.”
“Explain to me how Fingon’s newest gem-crown counts as a diplomatic expense,” Caranthir demanded.
-
Besides Caranthir and Maglor, none noticed.
The next time they met - a well-prepared hunting retreat, and the anticipation did have a certain strain of pleasure in it - it was only some time after the first enthusiastic greetings that they found time and patience to speak at lenght about their dealings, those small or great matters they had not trusted even to set to hidden writing.
"Did you -”
"I told none. Besides those who know."
“Are you entirely certain. Amras and Amrod keep sending me cured meats? Excellent sausages for my table, and lovely truffles. For some reason; they did not last year.”
"They are not poisoned," Maedhros assured automatically. Then hesitated. "They do like to experiment with spices and certain powders, however."
"I noticed," Fingon said, mouth curved. It was a lovely smile, better for being not amused; Maedhros suffered the rather stupid instinct to kiss his cheek. "Around the time the sugared mushrooms caused an apparition of a great mammoth grazing upon my father's head as we sat in public Council. It appeared purple to my eyes, the mammoth; also my father."
Maedhros had suffered great torments of the flesh and spirit; the image made him wince with genuine feeling. Fingolfin kept a very eclectic conjunction of lords near him, Sindar and Noldor and Avari, all of them clever, cunning, far-seeing people with an unhappy habit of keeping a wide awareness to every stray thought that they might fish out slyly round them on a wide range of space. It made Maedhros feel unusually warmly towards his straightforward, stone-silent dwarves and the fierce, scarred, closed minds that came to serve Himring.
"You need to string them up from a high tower," Maedhros concluded. "You shall have their apologies in a season."
"Need is a strong word," said Fingon. But his mouth was twitching, more genuinely.
Through the place where their spirits pressed together he passed on the faint, kaleidoscopic memories of that afternoon - Maedhros had stifle his own crinkling eyes. It was impossible not to admit Fingolfin did look rather fetching in tints of purple; and the mammoth was very realistic.
"If you want them to redeem themselves, have them send more next year. I would rather have enjoyed them in privacy. Lalwen thought it was very amusing. Eventually; she stole the rest of the bounty, and left me none at all, which was very like her and rather a disappointment. If your brothers are found wandering the wilds naked and intoxicated, you shall find no way to prove it was her work."
"They will enjoy it too much." Maedhros thought of when the twins's nonsense had been joyful, once. And involved less paperwork. The worst of it was that they likely thought it a good gift.The twins had ever liked Fingon well enough, as much as they liked anyone outside their enclosing understanding.
Fingon turned around, with that sweeping grace that made him deadly. In a moment he had rolled them over. His hands dug into the loam around Maedhros's head; his legs tangled in him, pressing down, delicious.
There you are, he thought, directly at Maedhros. No distance at all, and his laughing mind dizzying like a windfall, a sweeping rush. You stay away too often, Russandol, even here.
"Let them," he said, voice low and warm, close enough Maedhros could feel it thrum in his own throat. He was so very warm. Maedhros's whole body felt alive under him, as if he were fresh from a battle; as if it could feel alive and joyful with no violence. "I mean to enjoy myself with a clear mind. I mean to recall you perfectly while we are apart."
-
Maedhros, rather wisely, he thought, kept any commissioned tokens away from familiar forges.
It was a marvel, the inspiration which which Curufin could contrive as an insult. In this he truly was Fëanor's heir.
I will not have any of our Father's house be known for offering substandard works, he wrote, a stiff note of parchment atop a casket.
Inside the casket was a treasure - elf-made emeralds, and rubies, fine gleaming garnets that caught the golden light from the candles and would assuredly shine beauteously strung around golden ribbons, and on the chained earrings Fingon favoured.
Keep those Dwarven pieces away from Fingolfin and his ilk, lest he rethink our work agreements. Have you lost your sense, along with your shame? Findekáno's not the least suited to Belegost's blue-steel and sapphires, they wash him out terribly, I do not know how Fingolfin can be so tasteless in his heraldry as not to consider it.
-
Maedhros recalled a time when his brother at least pretended to attend to elvish mores, those small contrivances of decent conduct. Such as pretending at ignorance. Pretending at ignorance had been a good habit, one Huan's master remembered these days merely when it was convenient for him.
Celegorm only looked at him in a flat vulpine fashion, nostrils flaring. Worse than a smirk, worse than mischief. Maedhros had seen it turned on others often enough; he could not say he enjoyed the very unpleasant awareness with which it remind everyone of all the passionate embraces they may or may not have indulged in the wild, where a little bird might carry gossip, or a finicky squirrel pass on mockery.
It also made him rethink the wisdom of wearing Fingon's undershirt under his tunic.
"Not a word," he ordered.
Celegorm only whistled in wolf-like fashion and darted away from his swing.
The next time Fingon dared him for a swim after a lengthy ride up the hills of Barad Eithel, Maedhros quite ruined the romance of it all by insisting on raising a tarp-and-leather tent beforehand.
-
Huan had the good grace to wait until they passed each other on an empty corridor before stopping to block his path.
Oromë's hunting hound looked at him with those terribly knowing dark eyes and let out a soft snorting sound. It was not a very approving woof; a little mournful, perhaps. Maedhros did not speak Hound.
"Do not you start also," Maedhros said. His tone held little effort, as it ever did in these cases.
He had to fight the instinct to cross his arms. He refused to be easily biddable or intimidated. As a matter of principle; he had few of those, and it tended to be better to keep to those he did maintain.
Woof-woof, said Huan.
"We are all Doomed regardless," argued Maedhros.
A sniff, rather pointed. A little charming, perhaps - none of his brothers had offered, so far.
"It is very generous of you to offer," Maedhros said. "No biting will be necessary. I would rather Fingon whole as he may."
Huan licked his bad arm. Shifting ears, which, in all honesty, were insulting.
"I am not letting myself be carried off as a mate to establish a new collective dynamic as pertaining previous intra-community competitions," Maedhros said, rather stiffly. "No, not though I was stolen from the Enemy for that purpose."
Maedhros did not speak Hound, as such; but Huan and him understood each other a little. If anyone was going to look at him with the knowledge that Maedhros would have let himself be carried off as a prize, and possibly did not dislike the notion, he would rather it was him.
"I will bring you some of that good hind meat from Dor-Lómin," he conceded, eager to bribe him away.
Huan's dog-grin finally widened. Maedhros, relieved to be free from evaluation, scratched his chin until his wagging tail was thumping the carpet. Some relatives, he thought, were harder to please than others.
-
"We have failed at every avenue," Maedhros concluded, as displeased as he could stand to be just then. "Let this be not a sign of our joined efforts to come!"
Fingon was rather less moved at their failure than Maedhros would have expected. Possibly that was the effort of the long ride to the fortress, and their - reunion. Maedhros did not want him alarmed and on his feet, as such; but he did eye his complacence a little.
"Brothers are not Balrogs. It could be worse," Fingon said, very confidently.
Maedhros lifted his head from Fingon's chest. His own eyes were growing half-lidded; his muscles too felt weary, suffused still with satisfaction. Himring's walls, warm within like a living body, rumbled faintly with the noise of their gaseous pipes. He was warm, and sated, and all in all quite in accord with the form of the world, at least for the foreseeable candle-mark.
It was only that he had not trusted messengers to pass on the news; and he had felt an urgency to share the state of affairs with Fingon for months. They had determined to be fully discreet.
"How?"
"Turgon and Aredhel might return," Fingon said promptly. His voice showed he had considered the matter at great length, and was very amused by the way Maedhros went still against him. "And be less generous with their blindness than the rest of my - our kin."
"They might not have noticed. Your father has not."
Fingon lifted himself on his elbow, and looked at him, a little pityingly.
"Beloved," he said. "Whom do you think invented the art of invisible writing?"
#february ficlet challenge#prompt 2 - pretend not to be dating#maedhros#fingon#russingon#my fics#silm fic
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Snowstorm ※ 12 Days of Goosemas
Day Ten ※ Colt Seavers / Reader
{12 Days of Goosemas Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}
※ Summary: You and Colt discover that some gambles don't pay off.
※ Rating: No mature content.
※ Content/Tags: Cuddling for Warmth, Ill-advised Winter Safety Practices, Fluff/Humor
※ Word count: 1998
※ Status: Oneshot/Complete
Despite your layers, you’re shivering enough that your teeth feel like they’re going to rattle right out of your skull. It’s hard to imagine that the weather is going to take a turn for the worse when it’s already cold enough in the warehouse that everyone’s breath is visible in front of their faces. This far north by the Great Lakes is always a gamble this time of year. This movie production is certainly not winning the lottery.
“Alright crew, let's wrap this up,” calls the team lead.
Everyone picks up speed, finishing their tasks so they can separate into pairs and small groups to carpool back to their temporary housing. Automatically, you gravitate towards Colt. The two of you have been working off and on together for years on various movie sets. Being around him comes as easily and naturally as breathing. It was a massive relief when you were assigned to share an airbnb for the couple months you’re going to be spending here.
“This sucks, huh?” You comment, helping him to roll up an impact mat.
He laughs, breath clouding the air. “Yeah, it super sucks.”
The rest of the crew files out while the two of you work, alternating between sweating and freezing. Securing all the impact mats for storage is a miserable task, but it gets done. The building is empty aside from Colt and you.
The stunt guy straightens up, groaning as his back loudly pops. “Ready to bounce on outta here?”
“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”
At the door, the two of you take the time to adjust your layers. Colt wraps your scarf around your head teasingly after offering to help you put it on. You give him a scathing look between the layers of material before you break and the two of you start laughing. Colt is wiping at his eyes, still chuckling a little, when you shove the door open.
The cold air immediately tears right through your clothes. The hollow thud and click of the door closing and locking behind you both sounds ominous. Colt offers his arm to you and you take it, resigning yourself to the weather conditions. The snow is coming down heavily, making it difficult to see across the sprawling parking.
Your Lord of the Rings worthy journey to Colt’s truck starts out easily enough, until you wipe out on a snow-covered patch of ice. If it wasn’t for the death grip you have on each other's arms, you would bust your ass right then and there. Instead, you and Colt end up doing a weird dance to try to stay upright.
“Maybe we should consider a career in couples ice skating. Maybe retire from the stunts biz.” Colt suggests, breathing heavily from the unexpected exertion.
“Toddler level, maybe,” you grumble back, foot skidding again. You hate the fact that the stunt crew has to park clear out of the way on the very fringes of the parking lot.
You risk a glance at your coworker. His gaze is focused intently on the ground. Snowflakes are collecting in his beard and in his shaggy hair, making his blue eyes appear even bluer. After what feels like an age of taking minuscule steps across a frozen wasteland, you finally spot his garishly colored truck through the snow. You’ve never been happier to see the yellow and brown eyesore.
Colt helps you up into the passenger seat. Once you're settled, he pushes his tuck keys into your hand. You pass him the windshield scraper in return. It was a new purchase after having to use the airbnb’s dustpan the first morning the two of you had walked out to the vehicle to find it under a thick layer of snow.
“Start her for me?”
Mumbling an affirmative, you lean over and slot the key into the ignition switch and twist. The truck sparks to life with a smooth rumble. Meanwhile, Colt skirts around the edge of the vehicle. He’s scraping at the windshield, chiseling the packed snow in sheets. He suddenly slips, hitting his sternum on the truck’s grille guard. Upon seeing your horrified expression through the cleared glass, he flashes you a thumbs up and a grimace. You give him the same in return.
Working faster now, he finishes the windshield and makes sure that the side windows and mirrors are clear. He knocks the scraper clean before opening the door and heaving himself into the truck. The stunt man tosses it at your feet onto the already cluttered floorboard. The cold air that followed him into the cab does neither of you any favors.
“You think we’re good, Colt?” You ask, watching him pull off his gloves and tuck them into his sun visor for safekeeping.
“Hope so. If it doesn't get worse we should be fine,” he says with a shrug only to yelp when his bare hands come in contact with the steering wheel. “Shit, that’s cold!”
With the heat on full blast, Colt backs out of the parking lot and then you’re off to the airbnb. He handles the truck expertly. While not used to driving in what is essentially a blizzard, the man has done enough crazy stunts to keep from skidding all over the road. That and his monstrosity of a vehicle with its sizable off-roading tires makes the trip go a little easier.
“Colt…” You say, worried. The weather is getting worse, much worse. The truck is struggling to maintain traction.
“Yeah, I know, sweetheart.” Both of you are so glued to the increasingly limited visibility and heavier snowfall that neither of you acknowledge the unintentional endearment Colt lets slip.
Spotting a ihop coming up, he makes the choice to pull into the empty lot. There’s no way he’s going to be able to push through. The weather is just too bad for his vehicle. The restaurant is clearly closed. This isn’t the southern part of the United States where there’s a Waffle House around to keep its doors open no matter the situation.
“There’s no way a tow truck is going to be able to get out here, is there?” You comment rhetorically.
Beside you, Colt groans when he can’t get reception on his cell phone. “Looks like we’re going to be here until the plows come through. Might be in the morning.”
You sigh and settle into your seat. Both of your phone batteries are too low to risk running them down by idly scrolling through old saved pictures. It’s going to be a long night.
To pass the time, you decide to lean over and rummage through the pile of trash and receipts on the floorboard. Like his apartment, he does not keep his truck clean or organized. You spend the next couple hours going through his receipts and judging him for his purchases. It’s mostly “Another Bonsai tree?” and “Just how much do you love this fast food place?” while your best friend does his damndest to defend himself as though he’s in front of an imaginary jury.
Eventually, the light fades too much to see the small text. Colt has long since turned off the truck. As the sun dips below the horizon, it gets colder in the cab.
You shiver and Colt notices. “C’mere.”
You slide across the bench seat and underneath his offered arm. He’s warm but the meager contact is too scant to do much. You seem to take turns shivering against one another.
“It’s a shame we don’t have a tauntaun,” he says suddenly.
You turn your face into the side of his chest to smother a groan at the reference. “I’d give anything for a hot drink right now.”
Colt makes a sound in agreement and slides down in his seat, struggling to get comfortable. His knee hits the steering wheel and you feel his pained exhale. “Yeah, I would too.”
A particularly vicious wind tears over the truck. It feels like it bypasses the layers of barely insulated metal entirely. The two of you clutch at each other in response. The lack of light isn’t helping it feel any warmer or cozier. Snow has entirely covered the windshield and the windows are fogged up from your breath and body heat.
“I’ll turn on the truck for a sec to run the heater, but then I guess we oughta try to get some sleep.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
You don’t separate when Colt turns the key. The warm air is luxurious against your cold face. You nearly shove your fingers into the vent. He turns the truck off once you’re both sufficiently warmed. Now comes the difficult part, navigating where to put your bodies for sleep. The temperature has ruined any semblance of personal space.
“Wanna be on top?”
“If you insist on bottoming, stunt guy.”
“Oh, I always insist.”
Nearly hitting your head on the cab’s roof, you manage to shove yourself off of the bench seat enough for Colt to wedge himself into the short space. You can barely make out his shape. His hands find you and he guides you on top of himself. He hisses sharply and puts a hand over your kneecap when you graze it dangerously close to his crotch.
“I don't have plans for kids any time soon, but I’d like to keep my options open,” he jokes.
Finally, you are settled on top of him. It’s incredibly uncomfortable for both of you. He’s got his knees drawn up, shins against the door. Your left knee is wedged between his hip and the seat as you lay with your cheek on his shoulder. His arms are up and around you. Yours are tucked alongside his torso with your hands under his shoulders. You feel like a pair of pretzels.
You lay in silence, listening to the winter storm outside. Both of you start to shiver again.
“I know it’s silly but-”
“This sucks so-” you accidentally start at the same time. “Go ahead,” you encourage.
You hear him swallow. He seems stiff, nervous all of a sudden. “I know it’s silly, but uh… skin to skin contact works. With us both wearing jackets we can’t share body heat as well. So maybe if we… Wow, I promise I’m not trying to come onto you.”
“Okay.” You say gently.
Sitting up in his lap, his hands fall from your back to the sides of your hips. You unzip your jacket. You’re instantly colder. Underneath you, you feel Colt’s breath hitch and pick up the pace. You put your hands on his amble chest and find his coat zipper and tug it down. His fingers twitch, but they don’t make any move to stop you. You push his shirt up over his pectorals, all the way to his neck. You don’t touch his bare skin with your fingers. His hands find the hem of your shirt and together you draw it up to your collarbone. Both of you are bared in the truck cabin.
The man leaves you holding your shirt in place while his hands move to your back. He guides you into laying down on top of him. Your friend sucks in a breath and exhales slowly as inch by inch you make contact. Your bare skin colliding is sinfully warm.
You sigh into his neck, resisting the urge to press a kiss against it even as the stubble of his jaw grazes your face. He pulls his jacket up and over you as much as he can. His hold on you is tight, comforting. The direct contact of his body provides much more heat than between the layers. You’re not as cold as you were before.
“Heck of a holiday season, huh?” You mumble, already beginning to drift off.
Colt hums in agreement. Before you slip entirely under into the oblivion of sleep, you swear you feel a kiss pressed to your forehead and a low “Sweet dreams.” that rumbles against your chest.
#12 days of goosemas#the fall guy (2024)#the fall guy#the fall guy fanfiction#colt seavers#colt seavers x reader#colt seavers fanfiction#ryan gosling#ryan gosling x reader#ryan gosling fanfiction#.my work#.my posts
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Cowboy Up - Pt.7
Here we are! Finally into the series itself. Cowboy Up will be a combination of me inserting the reader into scenes from the show and putting together some scenes myself that I imagine happen around what is seen on screen.
Disclaimer that I am not a horse trainer or qualified in any way but I've spent a good part of my life around them so my experience is the basis for anything in the fic about horses.
Pairing: Ryan (Yellowstone) x Dutton!reader
WC: 1121
Previous part - Next part
---
John Dutton stopped his truck in front of the round pen where Kayce was working a horse and got out to watch his son work. He was confused to see that his youngest daughter’s truck was parked in front of the house. He knew that she had the day off from the ranch but John wasn’t aware that she had been visiting her brother all those years.
From inside the house, y/n was on the sofa keeping an eye out the window where her twin and father were having a tense conversation that she assumed was about the cattle that had ended up on the reservation. Monica was next to her watching her son play on the floor in front of them.
“I know he’s my father and all but I worry about what might happen if Tate ever goes to the ranch,” y/n admitted, “it’s the most beautiful place in the world if you ask me but god does it come with conditions.
Her sister-in-law nodded, “John Dutton isn’t exactly synonymous with good news.”
They lapsed into a quiet conversation about how life had been for them both over the last few months since she’d been able to get out to the reservation, Monica smiling widely when y/n confirmed Ryan had finally made his move the other month.
Once John had driven off, the women exited the house behind Tate who ran excitedly towards the rifle John had left propped against the round pen. Y/n leant against the fence next to Monica watching the horse come to a stop.
“I don’t trust him trying to be in Tate’s life,” she admitted to her brother, “you’ve spent all these years out of his grip. I’d hate for dad to use him as a way back in after not being around.”
Kayce sighed, “we can only see.”
-/-/-
The next morning, y/n was in the barn mucking out the stalls whilst the other hands worked around her and in the corral. Cleaning the stalls was normally considered the job of low man, but she found some sort of enjoyment in the mundanity of the task.
As she finished the last stall, y/n wheeled the barrow out the front of the barn and was surprised to see her sister’s black Mercedes rolling down the drive. She dropped the handles and watched as the car went past, Beth looking at the window to make eye contact with her younger sister before continuing on to the main house. After emptying the wheelbarrow, she re-entered the barn with her mood notably dampened by the return of Beth. Y/n headed down the aisle to the last stall where a blue dun colt was pacing the space. She took him out to the round pen to assess the problem’s Rip had complained about the horse having.
The colt danced at the end of the rope whilst she closed the gate and when she undid the halter, he shot off around the pen as if afraid to be anywhere near a person. Y/n sat on the fence, patiently watching the horse work his anxiety out with a cigarette smoking between her lips. Ryan led his horse across from the corral and leant on the fence next to her.
“He’s got a hell of an opinion in him,” he commented.
Y/n shook her head, “not an opinion Ry. Nerves. Poor boy is a ball of anxiety, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do or trust.”
“How you gonna sort that out then? Can’t wear it out of him,” Ryan asked.
She watched the colt slow to a trot, “gotta show him that he can trust us and to trust in his own decisions. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“It’s a nice shirt you’re wearing sweetheart,” Ryan smirked, referring to the blue check shirt of his she had on.
Y/n laughed, “well my boyfriend left it lying around and I was cold so figured he wouldn’t mind.”
“He doesn’t mind at all, not one bit. In fact I think he quite likes seeing his girlfriend wear his clothes,” he mused, running his finger up her arm, “you not going to the house to see your sister?”
She sighed, “me and Beth aren’t exactly what you would call close. She does what dad says without question, never said shit when he did what he did to Kayce and it ain’t like she was begging me to stay. To top it off she treats Rip like shit and the bastard just lets her walk all over him because he’s been in love with her since he was 16.”
“Being in love with someone for a long time sounds familiar,” he teased
Y/n leant back against his arm, “difference is we were both pining. She fucks around with his feelings every chance she gets and he’ll never go against her.”
-/-/-
Sat on Comanche, y/n watched as her brothers reunited for the first time in years and laughed as they teased each other as if they’d never been apart. She smiled at how comfortable Tate looked on his grandfather’s horse and, as much as the sisters fought, she was reassured that Beth had her twin’s back like her.
“Kayce let’s go,” she called across to him, “grab a horse.”
Part of her soul felt like it was healing watching how her father was with Tate and being back on the plains with all of her brothers. Beth hadn’t been on a horse since their mother’s death but y/n had spent days of her childhood riding with the cattle alongside her brothers, racing each other despite the annoyance of John. As Lee and Kayce raced around the herd of buffalo, y/n rode up to where Jamie was talking to their father.
“Kayce might be the only man who can outride him,” her brother observed.
She smiled, “only man but sure as hell not the only person.”
With a click to Comanche, y/n took off galloping after her brothers. The three of them took turns pulling ahead of the others but ultimately it would have been too close to decide a winner. Although we all know that in a straight line race y/n had the advantage, what with being a barrel racer and all.
“You joining us to fish?” Lee asked when they finally came to a halt.
Y/n shook her head, “I’m not the one who has years to regain with him Lee. I’ll let you have your boys day out. I’m gonna head back with the rest and do some more work with that colt."
#ryan yellowstone#yellowstone#ryan yellowstone x reader#yellowstone imagine#dutton ranch#yellowstone tv#dutton!reader#ian bohen
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Is Colt cloud themed at all? his outfit looks all cloudy, I love it!
Colt’s sunset themed!! I added on the clouds because I love drawings clouds, and it seemed like a nice touch!
Colt’s nicknamed the Sunset Cowboy by other residents of town, and now that’s what most call him when they don’t know him personally. When it’s time for him to start winding down, Colt takes his horse Butters on a ride around a large field where other neighbors can watch them as one final task for the day, earning him his infamous nickname via him riding his horse at dusk.
#welcome home#welcome home fanart#welcome home oc#welcome home fandom#welcome home fan character#colt cattlemen#copper asks
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[CN] MLQC Lucien’s Exclusive Past- Monochrome Scenery translation
⚠️ SPOILER ALERT ⚠️
This post contains a HEAVY SPOILER for the story that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~
Through Thousands of Mirrors Event | Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7 | HS/Uni SSR Story: Monochrome Scenery (You're here!)
[Notes from Lux: Here’s the CN video link if anyone wants to follow along his Voice Acting. VERY recommended to re-read Until Dawn R&S regarding his 'contract' with BS. AND perhaps Distant Similarity UR MQ as it's the date that is relevant to this story.
-
[Part 1]
I walk hurriedly towards Dr. Lawson's laboratory, while opening the paper bag in my hand, and stuffing the hamburger into my mouth.
Skipping lunch might save some time, but if it leads to a lack of carbohydrates and sugar, causing a decrease in productivity during the entire afternoon, it could be counterproductive.
When will nutritionists finally invent nutritional packages? Preferably in the form of a liquid that can be consumed just once a day.
The time saved this way would be enough for me to read a few more research papers.
??: Hi, Lucien. Are you going to the lab?
A friendly voice from behind rings out, and I turn to look behind me.
Lucien: Hello, Elliot.
Elliot: Seems like we're both going to be late.
Elliot quickly crosses a puddle, only slowing down after catching up with my steps.
Elliot: But I recall you've always been punctual. Did the recent lab class not go smoothly?
Lucien: I chatted with Professor White for a while and lost track of time.
Elliot: Ah, I understand. She's always very talkative... The only one who can talk as much as her is my clinical medicine professor.
Elliot sighed deeply and pointed at the teaching building he had walked from. We quicken our pace once more.
When we arrive at the lab, Senior Caroline has already begun today's work.
Just as I put my bag next to my desk, someone heavily pats my back.
??: Hi!!
The overly enthusiastic voice pierces through my eardrums, and without turning around, I know it's Colt.
Now that he's here, his daily challenges are probably about to begin again.
Sure enough, after greeting me, Colt slightly composes himself and looks at me.
Colt: Good afternoon, "Xiū, Mǒ" How's that, did I pronounce it correctly this time?
Lucien: It's "Xǔ Mò".
He scratches his head in frustration and quickly starts a new round of attempts.
Lucien: Actually, you can just call me "Lucien".
Colt: How can that be acceptable? I have great respect for Chinese culture; I'll definitely learn how to pronounce your name!
Colt raises his eyebrows high, and the confident expression on his face is so exaggerated that it could be used as a reference for the facial expression scale.
I give up trying to explain to him that "respect" and "pronunciation" are not causally related, and I put on my protective gear after setting down my bag.
I hope he succeeds soon and gives up making me his involuntary Chinese teacher, where I'm only tasked with examining two words every morning.
Caroline: Shut up, Colt. Leave Lucien alone and come over here to work, okay?
Caroline who was immersed in her experiment furrows her brow and glares at Colt, using her gaze to reprimand the "senior" lab member who has been there the longest.
In the end, she smiles and greets me.
Caroline: How's it going today, Xǔ Mò?
Lucien: Sorry for being late. Where should I start taking over from now?
Colt: This isn't fair! You've never greeted me with such a smile. Wait, why is your pronunciation correct? One more time, Xiū... Xī…
Like everyone else, I calmly ignore Colt's continuous self-challenges and begin today's work.
As a newcomer who has been in the lab for just about a month, there isn't much for me to do.
In fact, everyone here is more like doing their own research in the lab on topics they are passionate about, while occasionally helping Dr. Lawson with minor tasks.
Looking back, it seems that this casual and free atmosphere could be glimpsed from the very beginning, during that interview with just two questions.
-
=Flashback Start=
Dr. Lawson: You have an excellent research experience, and the awards you've received are enough to apply to even more top-notch labs.
Dr. Lawson: Why did you choose to reach out to me?
The doctor set my application paper and the stack of recommendation letters aside, looking into my eyes.
Lucien: I'm currently very interested in topics related to parietal lobe function research and its applications.
Lucien: So, for me, your lab is the best choice.
Dr. Lawson: Hmm, there is indeed a high match in terms of research direction.
Dr. Lawson: So, what do you hope the lab can provide for you?
I instinctively thought I had misheard.
Questions like "What do you think you can bring to the lab?" are ones I've mastered, but this reverse question isn't as common.
After a brief moment of thought, I honestly answered.
Lucien: If possible, I hope to research more of what I'm interested in within the limited time.
The doctor raised an eyebrow without giving a clear response, concluding this brief interview that lasted less than a few minutes. And a few days later, he sent me an acceptance email.
=Flashback End=
Colt: Hey, Xī Mó! Listen to me, I have a great idea!
Probably seeing that I'm not especially busy, Colt eagerly strides over to my desk, holding a small box in his hand.
I set down the keyboard, take out a notebook from the side, and turn towards him.
Colt's thought process is unique; he always manages to come up with some innovative ideas.
Lucien: Do you have any new ideas regarding the research topic?
Colt: No, no, there's not much to do today. How about a game of the traditional lab card game - NOU!
Colt: Do you want to join?
Lucien: …
And of course, there are times when it's just pure time-wasting.
I offer a polite and apologetic smile in return.
Lucien: No, thank you.
-
[Part 2]
A fixed routine can often lead to a skewed perception of time and dates.
I flip over the calendar again and mark the schedule for the midterm exam week, which is about half a month away.
Exams may not be a cause for concern, but papers and classroom presentations still require time-consuming preparation.
I furrow my brow as I look at the data for my research project on my desk. Just as I'm about to set down my pen, I pause.
The current issue is that the research progress is slower than anticipated, requiring extra time to meticulously review the results.
The once well-structured plan has become exceptionally tight.
How about cutting two hours off my sleep? It shouldn't significantly affect my regular routine.
And smoothly, a blank section appears on the spreadsheet.
Satisfied, I add a line next to my schedule: "Email Dr. Lawson to request an extension of laboratory usage time" as a reminder.
Then, I pick up the already printed poster and leave the dorm on time.
It's my turn to present a report in class today.
Lucien: Hello, everyone. Now it's my turn to share something with all of you.
Whispers of discussion arise one after another, even a few students who had just been yawning straightened up in their seats.
Half the semester has passed, and the curious glances that used to accompany me have subsided. My age, my height, and where I come from might not be as important anymore.
I know very well that now all the curious and probing gazes are focused solely on the poster I have unfolded.
In the corner of my eye, someone raises their hand.
Lucien: Is there a question?
I set down my materials and quietly look at the student who raises their hand.
Student A: I don't have any questions about your presentation. I'm just curious if injuries in the relevant brain region have an impact on drug addiction?
This is an expected question, as I myself noticed similar uncertainties when researching for literature.
Lucien: There is indeed an overlap, but based on existing research, I don't believe there is a direct correlation between the two.
Lucien: Moreover, for the topic I'm currently presenting, there's no need to overly emphasize the impact of different functions within the same area.
But it's evident that the other person doesn't share the same view.
After a brief moment of silence, he raises the issue of potential effects caused by drugs, and I counter each of his points.
However, the consecutive inquiries and debates have actually given me a fresh perspective on the topic at hand.
I attempt to work it out in my head, then take a pen and start writing on the whiteboard.
Lucien: Adding the drug effects caused by addiction as one of the conditions…
Lucien: I currently lack the relevant literature evidence, further substantiation will require future research, but I do have some hypotheses.
The rapidly moving marker on the whiteboard makes a slight squeaking sound as I write, and more questions and discussions emerge in the classroom.
Student B: Given the drug effects, the current papers seem somewhat lacking in rigor.
Student C: But we also shouldn't overly focus on such special cases, just from an experimental perspective…
These ideas and questions aren't quite direct and precise enough.
But the known theorems are once again filled with possibilities, and what I initially considered just a school assignment topic seems to have become interesting again.
The brilliance of the unknown and curiosity subtly shine through the structured words, silently beckoning everyone who tries to explore the mysteries.
Of course, I'm also paying the corresponding "price" for this "interest".
Class ends nearly twenty minutes later than scheduled, and I can only jog all the way, hoping not to be too late for the next classroom.
As I gaze at the ever-extending street ahead, I begin to understand why so many people are buying bicycles.
—------------------------------------------------------------
Lucien: Good afternoon, I hope I'm not too late.
Caroline: Of course not. Take a rest for a while. There isn't much to do today.
Caroline looks up, smiles at me, and points to the well-stocked snack cabinet on the side.
I put down my backpack, intending to pick up my water bottle to get some water, but I notice that there's a stack of data on the table that I haven't worked on, with several annotations written in different handwriting.
Slender and smooth cursive characters detail the model's construction and calculation process, while round and hastily written words explain extensive contemplation and inferences, along with many grammar errors.
Slightly smaller handwriting marks cited references and related experiments.
Lucien: Are these... further derivations based on my personal research project?
A head pokes out from the edge of the table.
Colt smiles and waves at me, with Caroline and Elliot following behind.
Several people stand by the table, making the already small space seem even smaller.
Colt: Well, I heard about the direction of your project a few weeks ago during the meeting and found it very interesting. I got into the habit of discussing it with Caroline when we were chatting…
Caroline gives an apologetic smile.
Caroline: I'm really sorry. Colt looked at your desk and research notes without your permission.
Caroline: He usually doesn't have a strong sense of boundaries when he's around us, and we've become used to it. We didn't expect him to go through your research materials this time.
Caroline: I initially wanted to refuse to discuss it with him, but the research direction is so novel, and the reasons for the roadblock are also quite intriguing. It was easy to get carried away…
The research content is indeed not much of a privacy concern, and exchanging data and projects is quite normal.
Lucien: Next time, we could discuss it during the regular meeting or just talk to me directly. It would be more efficient.
Lucien: However…
I quietly watch the smiling faces of others, my puzzlement still not answered.
Lucien: As I recall, my direction doesn't really overlap with yours, does it?
Caroline: Yes, so we've just made some inferences. The specifics still require you to take another look.
Lucien: Okay.
I lower my head again and begin to roughly browse through those handwritings.
Colt didn't propose a new direction but changed the experimental approach, while Caroline and Elliot used this to present arguments or counterarguments.
Different notes mutually fill in and correct each other, gradually outlining a clear framework.
Lucien: This hypothesis seems to have a high feasibility.
Lucien: I will try to adjust the experiment according to this approach later.
Lucien: At a suitable time in the future, based on the specific data, we can determine whether it can move forward or not.
Colt: Sure, it can!
Colt nods vigorously, his voice much louder than usual.
Colt: I've noticed that you've been busy with midterm exams and papers lately, so I ran some of the data with them to save you from spending extra time to test and verify the data.
Colt: So far, several graphs are looking quite good. I hope they can be of help to you!
Lucien: …All of the data?
I'm stunned.
I've already prepared to apply for extra lab time, but the data I needed to test and verify has just landed directly in my hands like this.
Colt: Of course! The three of us taking turns won't take much time, better than you staying here without eating or drinking.
On the side, Elliot also smiles and hands over another stack of documents.
Elliot: I asked a friend who's a clinical medicine student, and I was able to get some research materials on what happens when you have a lesion in the area in question.
Elliot: Perhaps it can offer some assistance from a different perspective. Consider it as broadening your perspective.
Lucien: Thank you. I did plan to reference some research findings from other fields, but unfortunately, I haven't had enough time recently.
A valuable idea to consider, coupled with readily available data, and the issue that had been stagnant for two weeks was suddenly solved without any warning.
I silently look at the mixed handwriting.
I know that human beings will always help each other and work together to achieve what individuals can't do alone.
Relying on each other for certain aspects and independently taking on the needs of others within the same community.
But along with the objective facts, there is also an inexplicable and faint warm feeling surging to my heart.
The seemingly ordinary paper in my hand now vaguely has a different weight to it.
Lucien: (gently) Thank you, all of you.
Colt: Hey, kid.
Colt smiles and puts his arm around my shoulder.
Colt: We're all from the same lab, so helping each other is only natural.
-
[Part 3]
After the last meeting before the autumn break, Dr. Lawson stopped me.
Dr. Lawson: Lucien, do you have any plans for the autumn break?
Dr. Lawson is organizing the reports we submitted, his tone is calm.
Lucien: I'm staying on campus. If there's a need for someone to oversee the lab, I can help.
Dr. Lawson: You aren't going home?
I smile and reply in the same tone that Colt and the others usually use when joking around.
Lucien: Returning to Loveland City during such a short one-week break?
Dr. Lawson smiles and shakes his head.
Dr. Lawson: How about going nearby? You still have time to plan a short trip with friends.
Dr. Lawson: There are plenty of interesting places within the state worth seeing. Take a train or bus, and "whoosh," it's easy to get around.
Lucien: That sounds appealing, but I'd prefer to take this opportunity to catch up on my project and coursework progress.
Lucien: Recently, my research has just started to make some progress. I'd like to work on it nonstop until I achieve some results.
Lucien: Or is it just that during the autumn break, the school doesn't allow students to stay on campus?
Dr. Lawson: Of course not, silly kid.
Dr. Lawson: I'm just curious, why are you always in such a hurry?
I quietly look at the old man in front of me.
There are too many things I want to explore, and there's too little time.
Nevertheless, I don't feel that I appear "impatient" in my usual behavior.
The doctor shakes his head and taps the table with his fingers.
Dr. Lawson: At your age, you should go out more, travel, play games, take walks, do something silly... Just do anything to waste time and enjoy life.
Dr. Lawson: You do have an impressive intellect, but there are geniuses all around here. So, frankly, you're also an ordinary kid.
Lucien: ….
I've never thought of myself as a once-in-a-lifetime genius, but being straightforwardly labeled as "ordinary" is indeed a first for me.
And, of course, being labeled "in a hurry" is also a first.
Lucien: I don't quite understand what you mean, Doctor.
After a brief silence, I eventually chose to ask the question directly.
Dr. Lawson: I don't doubt your abilities. Lucien, you can accomplish many things by yourself.
Dr. Lawson: But you should also trust your team, after all, this laboratory doesn't consist of just you alone.
He casually points to a group of people in the distance who are playing NOU, and over there, it's particularly noisy, as if the game of cards is reaching a conclusion.
Caroline proudly crosses her arms and looks sideways at Colt, who is slumped over the table, looking dejected.
Elliot begins to tidy up the card table and starts shuffling the cards again.
Dr. Lawson: They're all kids in their late teens to early twenties here in the lab. Came a few years before you, and perhaps they'll leave a few years earlier as well.
Dr. Lawson: But in the road of scientific research, everyone is just a beginner taking their first steps.
Dr. Lawson: I'm not asking you to really study and imitate anyone, but doing something different from your usual routine might make you gain something special. What do you think?
The doctor slows down his voice, his calm tone not resembling a question, it's as if he's talking about the treasure that he is most proud of.
The stack of data with various annotations from a few days ago inexplicably resurfaces in my memory.
I subconsciously infer that when the doctor said, "You're just an ordinary kid", perhaps it meant, "There are many people like you here."
Looking at Dr. Lawson again, he remains as not casual and serious as he was during class. His words are solemn and genuine with a touch of guidance.
Dr. Lawson: If you haven't achieved any significant progress or results within a week, there's no need to lock yourself in the lab every day. But if you need to, remember to turn off the lights and lock the door.
I carefully put away the key he had placed on the table.
Lucien: I'll keep an eye out for it.
Dr. Lawson: Happy holidays.
Lucien: I also wish you a happy holiday.
I say goodbye to him, and as I walk to the door, the doctor adds another sentence.
Dr. Lawson: Take care. And of course, I mean not just during these vacation days.
He smiles at me, speaking a bit slower than usual.
Lucien: You too, Doctor. Take care.
"Take care." The simple sentence passes through my mind, lingering longer than the other phrases.
I think maybe it's because of the pronunciation.
—-------------------------------------------------------
The teaching building has become much quieter during the holidays.
The leaves outside the window are rustling. It's as if the entire city is reminding people of the traces of autumn.
The laboratory feels strangely colder than usual after I'm the only one left.
I closed the window, put on my sweatshirt, and continued with the experiment at hand.
However, the autumn chill didn't last long and was soon warmed up again by the lingering heat of summer.
—-------------------------------------------------------
Five days later, along with the rising temperature, what returned was the noisy chatter within the laboratory.
The first to arrive at the laboratory is the always-diligent Caroline.
She brings a larger-than-usual handbag, takes out beautifully wrapped gifts, and places them on everyone's table one by one.
Caroline: A few days ago, I went to Yellowstone National Park with my family and brought back some souvenirs.
Lucien: Thank you. How was your holiday?
Caroline: It was pretty good, though I wish it could have been longer. I feel like I could stay there for at least half a month.
Caroline: I thought you might prefer something more practical, so I brought this for you. Go ahead and open it.
She smiles and points to the gift box I had placed by the desk. Inside the neatly wrapped layers of gift paper is a coffee mug, with the design of erupting geysers on its surface.
Caroline: This is a landmark sight in the park. I was truly moved when I saw it erupt right on time. I really wish everyone in the lab could go see it!
Lucien: I'll go there if I get the chance in the future.
??: Hi friends! I'm back! Did you miss me during your wonderful holiday?
The next second, a figure rushes in through the door of the laboratory.
Colt is also carrying a package, which is twice the size of Caroline's.
Colt: Oh my god... you're actually working. That's way too diligent.
He looks at me with wide eyes. After some rummaging in the package, there's another gift on my desk.
Colt: I highly recommend trying my grandma's cookies. Even the most popular shops around here can't compete with her skills.
Colt: Oh, by the way, the bookmarks inside were made by my mom. She's recently gotten into handicraft, and our house is getting filled with the things she makes.
Lucien: Please thank your family on my behalf.
Colt: Then they'd be so delighted that they might just invite you over as a guest.
Colt: By the way, do you really spend every day in the lab? Haven't you had any rest at all?
Colt sits down next to me, looking like he won't give up until he gets an answer.
Lucien: I visited a few museums.
Lucien: I also visited some scenic spots along the way and strolled through the market.
Caroline: I remember a few days ago there was a Shakespearean touring theater group performing nearby. Have you heard about it? The performance…
The computer screen in front of me enters screensaver mode, and I realize that I should politely decline this conversation to reactivate the computer and continue processing the data I was in the middle of reviewing.
But when my fingertips touch the keyboard, I pause again.
Such conversations don't have much meaning, but they don't make me feel annoyed either.
Besides, today's progress has been completed ahead of schedule, and there is indeed some free time on my agenda.
I let the screen continue playing the screensaver images.
Colt: How about we also go see a play today?
Lucien: The theater troupe left the day before yesterday, and tickets also needed to be booked in advance.
During the conversation, the laboratory door is pushed open once again.
Elliot: Hey, I thought I was the earliest one here.
Elliot also has a delicately wrapped gift in his hands.
Same greetings, same small talk, and same distribution of gifts.
I look at the three gifts on the desk- I should have some time over the weekend to visit the market and find three suitable return gifts.
Before the plan has been finalized, another particularly large gift appears on my desk.
Dr. Lawson: You all should find these books useful.
Dr. Lawson smiles and nods at us, placing the hefty books one by one on our respective desks, before finally sitting back in the chair and letting out a sigh of relief.
Dr. Lawson: I really should have chosen some lighter gifts; four big books are too heavy for an old man like me.
Lucien: ....Looks like it's four gifts.
I say to myself softly.
Dr. Lawson: Hmm? Did you say something, Lucien?
Lucien: Nothing. I was just saying… "thank you".
Lucien: By the way, Doctor. Here's the key to the laboratory.
The small key that has been with me for five days is returned to its rightful owner.
The gentle breeze blows a book on my table, flipping back a page as fallen leaves dance lightly and land on the windowsill.
I glance at the cloudless sky, hoping that this weekend will also be a sunny day, suitable for going out.
-
[Part 4]
Everyone left the laboratory with the gifts, but Colt unexpectedly broke from his usual behavior and didn’t attend any party.
Instead, he followed Elliot and me all the way to our dormitory building.
Elliot: Colt, your dormitory isn't over here.
Colt: I know, I know. But on this especially memorable day, how about a game of NOU to celebrate? Here's to our reunion!
Elliot: I knew it... I don't want to play NOU with just the two of us. You better invite one more person.
Colt: Will Xù mò be joining us?
Colt looks up at me, and this is the 16th invitation he has extended to me since I joined this laboratory.
Lucien: Okay.
Colt: It's fine, maybe next time... Wait, what?!
Elliot: You're going to join us?!
They aren't the only ones confused, I'm also a bit puzzled myself.
The choices I've made today are all a bit out of the ordinary, and it makes me wonder why I want to act the way I do.
If I join, will I be able to find the answers?
Besides... Looking at the two of them that have the same expression as if they've just seen a new topic; if I want to refuse now, the amount of effort required doesn't seem proportional to the outcome.
Lucien: Yes.
Lucien: I don't have any other plans for today-
Before I could finish speaking, the two of them had already surrounded me, one on the left and one on the right.
Colt: Is this the blessing of the Autumn Break God! Elliot, let's go quickly.
Elliot: Lucien won't run away again this time.
Saying so, he continues to pull me without stopping towards a small table in the public lounge area.
Just as we sit down at the small table, Colt eagerly begins to shuffle the cards.
Elliot: Do you need an explanation of the rules?
Lucien: No need.
Having watched them play so many times, I'm not entirely unfamiliar with the rules of the game, and the symbols on the corners of the cards also help me determine their colors.
I'll consider it as an exercise in reasoning and memory then.
—--------------------------------------------------------
Elliot: NOU, +2!
Colt: Wait a minute, that's not right. You're cheating! Why do you have a red +2?
After the initial "demonstration round", I quickly realized that this game might not be as straightforward as I had imagined.
Lucien: ...Drawing a +2 card directly from the deck is not entirely impossible either.
Colt: Huh? +2 should be in your hand, right?
Colt: Judging by the overall color distribution of the cards played, it seems like you're building a hand predominantly based on red cards.
Lucien: However, based on the cards that have already been played, there are still 28% red cards left in the deck.
Lucien: I would need to draw that +2 card along with another red number card starting from at least the first four rounds to maintain an advantage without playing the +2.
Elliot: My dear friend, just admit that low probability is still probability and draw the cards.
I nod in silence and urge Colt to draw a card, preventing the game from turning into his endless mathematical calculations.
If that happens, he will build a solid model in his mind and he'll be almost impossible to beat.
I take another look at the situation on the card table.
Setting Colt aside for now, among Elliot's three cards, there should only be blue and green ones.
Or in an extremely low-probability scenario, there might be one Wild card or possibly the last +4 card aside from mine.
I closely watch each card played, rapidly calculating the possible card arrangements in others' hands in my mind.
And I'm equally aware that the other two people sitting at the card table are also making their own deductions in their own ways.
I need to conduct another experiment, even if the cost is higher than expected value.
It's my turn once again.
Lucien: Change color, let's go with... blue.
Colt, who is determined to beat Elliot, wears a worried expression, while Elliot confidently draws a card.
"Reverse."
I silently say to myself.
Elliot: Reverse.
The variables waiting to be filled in gradually decrease, and assuming confirmation is obtained, the inference is established.
The opportunity to determine the course of the card game on the table comes back to me once again.
Colt: Come on Xǔ mò, it's time to play a number card and join forces to eliminate Elliot early!
Lucien: Is that so? I thought I'd have a better option.
Quick responses and extensive thinking make the brain more active than usual.
A seemingly meaningless card game becomes more complex due to repeated setups and disruptions.
Pure competition for calculation speed and formulating strategies stimulate the release of neurotransmitters.
I raise the corners of my mouth and quietly play my card.
Lucien: I choose +4, green.
Due to too many unexpected situations, Colt, who had stopped calculating, begins to howl in frustration.
Elliot, sitting across the table, also appears surprised, his gaze once again scanning the cards on the table.
It's my turn again.
I smile, say NOU, and play the green number card, leaving only one of the same color in my hand and skipping the next player’s turn.
Unless the almost improbable reversal occurred when they have the last card, a color-changing card, and bring it onto the playing field from the deck
But I trust my calculations more than probability.
Colt: Xǔ mò, I thought you were my friend!
Colt has flipped his cards onto the table, giving up on the struggle.
Lucien: Of course I am. That's why I'm sitting here, playing cards with you.
I lean my chin on my hand and look at the card table, unable to suppress the victorious curve at the corner of my mouth.
Lucien: Also, thank you for calling me by my name correctly.
Unfortunately, it's still Elliot who reaches 500 points first.
Colt is not one to accept defeat easily, and he pulls us into starting a new round of the game.
The card game goes on from the afternoon into the evening, and we unknowingly gather a crowd of onlookers around us.
Centered around this small table, the dormitory that was quiet just a few hours ago is now overflowing with discussion and laughter.
We graciously give up our seats to other students who also want to give it a try and withdraw from the crowd.
Colt: Xī... Xú mò is quite skilled. If we go by rounds, he tied with Elliot.
I haven't responded yet when Elliot chuckles and shakes his head, then tosses a box of ice cream from the fridge to both Colt and me.
It's the most common chocolate ice cream with nuts and chocolate chunks added.
I've seen it in many convenience stores, but I've never been interested in buying it.
Elliot: In front of our little genius' brain, even the best luck can only yield to skill.
Colt: Sigh... the vacation is too short. It feels like it just started, and now it's already over in a blink of an eye.
Colt finished his ice cream in a few bites and tossed the empty box into the trash. He leans on the bar table, watching the new round of NOU craze.
Colt: How about we have another round of NOU to refresh ourselves after the experiment is over tomorrow?
Elliot: Lucien, are you joining as well?
Lucien: I have to start preparing for my thesis from tomorrow.
Lucien: The experiment has made progress as well, so I want to sort out the related processes.
Colt: Oh... that's a shame. But how about next time? You'll come, right?
In the dorm room without air conditioning on this autumn day, the ice cream seems to melt even faster than it would in the heat of summer.
I scoop up a spoonful of the slightly softened ice cream and put it in my mouth.
The taste of chocolate spreads with the coolness, it's sweeter than I had imagined.
Lucien: I will if I have the time.
—------------------------------------------------
After seeing them off, I close the door and start preparing for tomorrow's coursework, allowing life to return to its normal course.
A notification pops up on my laptop, indicating an email from Dr. Lawson.
"Hi, everyone. Thank you for your hard work. Our lab's project has passed the review, so you can start preparing for the academic conference that will take place in a few months."
"The conference will be held on a beautiful beach on the West Coast. Since we have ample time, you can all bring your swimsuits and enjoy some time by the water."
"Colt, as for you, don't bring too many fancy things. And definitely leave the unicorn swimming ring behind!"
I can almost imagine Dr. Lawson saying this with a furrowed brow, while Colt complains reluctantly.
"P.S. Lucien's personal research topic aligns with the conference theme. Although the application is a bit late, there will be people at the conference who have done related research."
"You can prepare a summary of your current progress and any issues you've encountered to discuss together."
"P.P.S. Welcome back, everyone."
These few short sentences make me feel a bit warm.
*Ding*
The inbox hasn't closed yet, and there's another notification sound.
The email is encrypted; its sender is Black Swan.
I glance at the calendar and realize that today is the day for the routine report.
The newly arrived email obscures most of Dr. Lawson's message, and the sharp-edged letters in the signature appear to be some kind of silent warning.
"Why are you always in such a hurry?"
Dr. Lawson asked me this before the autumn break.
Yes, children his age have plenty of time to pause, slow down, and enjoy the scenery around them.
To try, to fail, to start over from scratch, to explore endless possibilities.
But Doctor, vacations are always so short.
They always end when you least expect it.
I close the laptop and start selecting the book I want to read tonight.
----------------------------------------------------------
[Phone Call- Class Reunion]
Lucien: Hello? At this time, you should have finished washing up and lying down, right?
MC: Um! I just finished my skincare routine and am already lying down.
Lucien: You sound happier than usual. Did you have a lot of fun at the class reunion today?
MC: You can tell?~ So many people came to the gathering today! All of my old roommates were there too!
Lucien: Are they the ones in the photo you sent, who took a group picture with you?
MC: Yes! Although we've kept in touch after graduation, getting back together like this is still quite rare.
Lucien: No wonder your eyes looked a bit red in the photo.
MC: Haha... I got a little too excited.
MC: But now that I think about it, I don't recall Professor Lucien mentioning much about his own classmates or roommates?
Lucien: I do have colleagues I work with in a lab, but our relationship might not be as close as you and your friends.
MC: Do you guys meet up regularly?
Lucien: We are now in different places continuing our own projects, and most of us have our own laboratories.
Lucien: It's indeed not easy to find a time when everyone is available.
Lucien: However, we do occasionally meet at neuroscience-related academic conferences. That could perhaps be considered a sort of 'class reunion'.
MC: ...Is this what gatherings are like for scientists?
MC: What about your roommates? Do you meet up with them?
Lucien: I lived in a single room and didn't really socialize with others in the same dormitory building.
MC: Wow! That must have been so comfortable! Doesn't that mean you could do whatever you wanted?
Lucien: At that time, I thought it was very convenient to have a space where I would not be disturbed by other people.
Lucien: But now, I've come to realize that having a 'neighbor' around who can 'disturb' me at any time might actually be more comforting.
MC: Oh? Do tell, I'm all ears!.
Lucien: For instance, when I'm out, someone can help me take care of the flowers on my windowsill, or if I forget to buy new tea leaves, I can ask this special neighbor next door for a bit.
Lucien: There are also occasional biscuits and sandwiches, and if I stay up too late, I will receive reminders.
Lucien: And more importantly…
Lucien: With this neighbor lady here, the place where I live is not just a spot to rest, but can be called a home.
-
[Phone Call - Novice Period]
Lucien: I thought you were also too busy to answer my call today.
MC: I just had a meeting with the new colleagues at the company, so I didn't hear your call.
Lucien: Do you still have some work left to finish?
MC: Not exactly... it's just that this recent batch of new colleagues who joined recently has been really busy.
MC: So I decided to hold a meeting to help them improve efficiency during work hours, aiming for them to leave on time after work.
MC: After all, there's always more work to be done, right? I don't want them to wear themselves out. The way they approach overtime work makes me quite nervous.
Lucien: [chuckles] They're lucky to have a boss who cares for the well-being of employees like you.
Lucien: However, when everyone starts their first job, there's always a certain level of nervousness. So, they can only ease that nervousness by working hard.
MC: Oh? Professor Lucien, you sound quite experienced, but I suppose you didn't have such worries, did you?
Lucien: Of course not, the first time I entered a laboratory outside of school, I also needed some time to adapt.
MC: Wow, what were you like back then?
Lucien: Hmm... I had to clean lab equipment, organize data files, help with literature research—there were many mundane tasks.
MC: Pfft, so Professor Lucien also started as a working person from scratch.
Lucien: That's right. Everyone in the same lab was highly capable, so back then, I often shadowed others, observing and learning as much as I could.
MC: Were there people even more capable than you?
Lucien: [chuckle] Among them, I think I'm just an ordinary person who works hard.
MC: Professor Lucien, your concept of 'ordinary' seems quite demanding.... But I didn't expect you to have a 'novice period' as well.
Lucien: Is that such a surprise?
MC: Maybe it's because your student days were quite unique. While most people were enjoying their youth, you were immersed in scientific research.
Lucien: I suppose it all depends on one's definition of 'youth'.
Lucien: If we're talking about a phase in life where you can do what you like without worrying about consequences, where you can fully explore possibilities…
Lucien: In that case, I'd say my graduate and postgraduate years could also be considered as 'youth'.
Lucien: If you define it as having a love with someone close to you, that you can't bear to part with and always in your heart…
Lucien: In that case, I'd say my youth hasn't had a chance to slip away from me yet.
--------------------------------------------------------
[Lux's short rambling corner]
And finally, it's done 🎉 If I'm being completely honest, the reason it took so long was because I felt that the end of this story seemed 'incomplete'—and I think it turns out to be true? Because the newest birthday story feels like it completes this story.
Still, just as he mentioned in "Distant Similarity UR' MQ," he's accustomed to working alone because there was no one he could confide in, often sacrificing his own sleep to fit more into his schedule. Due to his past self-reliance, he finds himself somewhat at a loss when others offer their assistance 🥲. He's someone who is deeply touched by even the smallest acts of kindness, and you can detect a hint of confusion in his usually monotone 'thank you.'
It's heartwarming to see that he receives small acts of kindness from those around him. His college life seems less hectic thanks to the support he gets from both his friendly seniors and caring mentor 🥺. I also enjoy their harmonious yet playful team dynamic, with Colt being my personal favorite because he reminds me of Fan Zihang, hahah.
Another noteworthy point is what Dr. Lawson mentioned about him being fundamentally an ordinary kid. I think it's accurate, because beneath his 'rush to move forward' demeanor, there's also a yearning for warmth and the opportunity to slow down.
In the dorm room without air conditioning on this autumn day, the ice cream seems to melt even faster than it would in the heat of summer.
I scoop up a spoonful of the slightly softened ice cream and put it in my mouth.
The taste of chocolate spreads with the coolness, it's sweeter than I had imagined.
God, I absolutely adore PG's writing and the beautiful metaphors they weave into the story. Through the story you can see how Lucien's barrier starts to melt by the warm atmosphere. And that's because he's an inherently lonely kid who also longs for warmth and mundane life. It's just too bad that the longing he had shattered in the face of his reality. If i had to describe what I feel when I read that sentence about the email, It'd be like waking up from a sweet dream, and now the sweet dream is tinted with layers of sadness🥲. The dream was over and he had no other choice but to bury his longing so deep.
Why the constant hurry? Because he had no choice but to grow faster than other kids; he didn't have the privilege to fail and try again. Why did he keep his distance from others? Perhaps because he doesn't want to experience another loss after his parents. Why didn't he go 'home'? Because at that time he didn't have anything that can be called a 'home'. Once he wakes up from this sweet but fleeting dream, the world he's diving into is even more treacherous than hell. So in the end, he kept his distance from others just as he said in Distant Similarity UR.
Distant Similarity UR," "Until Dawn R&S," and "Monochrome Scenery" together create a comprehensive picture of his 16-year-old self. "Distant Similarity UR" sheds light on how his college experiences influenced him and his reflections on that period. "Until Dawn R&S" delves into his narrative with BS and his ambitiousness. Meanwhile, "Monochrome Scenery" reveals his more 'human' side and the sense of his relaxed college life being a sort of 'vacation' amidst the long darkness in his life… Anyway, I want to write more but my schedule is tight with all the birthday translation 🤣 Perhaps if I have time I'd write a more comprehensive analysis. Thank you for reading!
#JNDSJHDJ SORRY IT WAS LATE#a very needed read for birthday event!!#mlqc lucien#mr love queen's choice#mlqc cn#mlqc spoiler#mlqc#mlqc translation#mr. love queen's choice#mr love lucien#mlqc xu mo
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daylight [pt. iii (1/3)] ; colt grice.
pairing colt grice x f!reader
word count 22k
synopsis colt grice's life has never been easy, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse.
content contains sw!reader, canon discrimination against eldians, derogatory terms towards women, deployment
author's notes this is a shortened version of the chapter; i got too excited to share my work with everyone, and also, i know your attention spans are all lacking. if you survived reading 20k+ words in one sitting, pls soldier on and leave a comment expressing ur thoughts x much love <3
part three: no falling in love
“Name?” The bored voice of the administrative assistant tasked with filing away the paperwork for all deployed soldiers stares at Colt with a mixture of disinterest and delight. It leaves him feeling unbalanced, halfway wanting to put on a good show for her and halfway wanting to disappear into thin air. She’s bored, probably thinking about what she’s going to eat for lunch after this, but Colt knows all too well that bored Marleyans make for the most dangerous ones. Best not to get on her bad side and remind her that prior to doing this lineup, she was the one who had checked him in and confirmed his name.
“Colt Grice.” He answers, and she frowns, like she was expecting any other answer than the one that actually answers her question.
“Unit?”
“Warrior.”
“Blood type?”
“O negative.”
“Race?”
The energy in the room comes to a standstill. He knows that this is just a formality, that she’s just doing her job, but he also knows that she’s staring directly at his armband. He also knows that most people tasked with dealing with people like him don’t enjoy doing their jobs and would actually prefer to do anything but.
“Eldian.” He says, and she repeats it back, slowly, exaggerated.
She makes a note on her clipboard, checking all the boxes that correspond to the answers Colt has given her. The bright red pen of hers matches the bright red she coats her lips in, and she tears at the perforation in the paper, handing Colt the lower-half of the sheet.
“Turn this in to the people running the clinic.” She tells him, looking more disinterested than ever now that her interrogation with him is over and that Colt has proven himself to be a very boring and painfully polite young man.
When Colt gets to the clinic, which is nearly half a kilometer away from the administrative office, he turns in the slip. The lady at the front desk glances at it, then hands him a clipboard with a form for him to fill out. He’s not sure how to feel when he realizes that the form is asking the same exact questions that the administrative assistant asked him, and he feels like he should point out the fact that all the answers the clinic needs have already been turned in to them through the slip of paper he just handed them.
He doesn’t say that, though, because he knows doing so will only slow down the process some more. So, he fills out the form, hands it to the front desk lady, who then looks down at the form and compares it to the slip of paper he gave her, as if checking to see if there are any discrepancies.
“I’ll let you know when the doctor is ready to give you your physical.”
Colt spends the whole day like this: just going through the motions and complying with anything the Marleyans ask of him because that just so happens to be the natural order of things around here, around anywhere. For a country that prides themselves for their innovation and intellect that helps them maintain their superiority over everyone else, Colt (and perhaps every other Eldian soldier forced to waste their time with this deployment process) thinks he can spot some internal inefficiencies in their military.
(Not like he’s going to say anything about it. Not like he can.)
After being poked and prodded by the doctor (who, just for good measure, wastes five minutes to ask Colt for his name, unit, blood type, and race), Colt is then sent off to the on-base barber who shaves his hair off to the standard buzzcut given to all Eldian soldiers who are fresh to the fight. Colt isn’t vain by any means, but the haircut takes less than a minute to complete, and he feels foolish for hoping that this process would be just as lengthy and meticulous as everything else he’s had to endure. His last stop of the day is to the uniform repository, where Colt is given a brand new uniform and dog tags to wear for when he’s sent off to the war.
The sun is already setting by the time Colt makes his way back to his barracks, and when it seems like the world is giving him a good and proper beatdown, it usually sends him somebody to mock his misery and make the sting of being the universe’s punching bag burn deeper.
“Heard the news,” a familiar voice stops Colt in his tracks. Porco stares at the crisp uniform Colt’s holding, and scowls. “For deployment?”
“Yeah,” Colt says, even though he knows that Porco knows.
He snorts. “Great. Maybe the enemy won’t bother shooting at you once they realize what a shame it’ll be to let top-tier drycleaning go to waste.”
Once again, the world is ending when Porco makes a valid point. The whole process of preparing for his deployment feels silly and senseless; after all of this, all Colt has in his brain is “Name: Colt Grice, Unit: Warrior, Race: Eldian.” The craziest part is that no actual combat-active military official has given him any details on what’s happening at Fort Helena, and why he’s been chosen to be deployed there.
The uniform feels heavy in his hands, and the weight only becomes more burdensome when Porco asks him, “Hey. Does Falco know yet?”
It’s Falco’s first year in the program. Because he’s so young and still too early in the process to be considered as a Candidate, he stays in the youth barracks, which are appropriately stationed far away from the actual soldiers. From the ones who will actually have to answer the call to arms.
“No. I just got the letter last night.”
Something indiscernible softens in Porco’s features. “I’d hate to be the one who has to tell him.”
Colt forces himself not to make a face. Falco won’t take the news well, no matter how Colt gives it to him. Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time someone hasn’t wanted to be in Colt’s shoes. Sometimes, not even Colt wants to be himself.
“Yeah.” He finds himself agreeing with Porco. “What an unlucky guy.”
All soldiers cleared for deployment are confined to staying on base at all times, probably because when you tell young men that you are essentially sentencing them to death (or, at the very least, forcing them in a situation where it’s more likely than not that they are going to lose a limb — and most people happen to like having all their limbs, thank you very much), they get scared and start thinking up stupid things like deserting their country or trying to kickstart a munity.
Then again, the only people who are allowed to be frightened enough to pull stunts like that are the same people who have nothing to lose. Colt has a titan to inherit, a family to feed, and you. All of the Eldian soldiers getting prepared to be shipped off to Fort Helena are in similar boats.
The Marleyan unit assigned to Fort Helena, however, is in a state of all sorts of distress and chaos, and Lieutenant Michael Sells is enjoying every second of it.
Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the top bunk of the barracks, Michael looks down at his fellow Marleyan soldiers who fucked up badly enough to be receiving the same punishment as him. Marleyan soldiers aren’t supposed to be the ones who get sent to the frontlines; sure, there are some idiots with ideas of grandeur, and those are the ones who volunteer to see some “real action,” but for the most part, joining the military just seemed like a better alternative than spending their young adulthood stuck in a university’s lecture hall.
The thing they forgot to consider is that when you mess up in college, you get sent to the dean’s office. When you mess up in the military, you get sent off to the shitty deployments that no one wants. War is war, an enemy soldier who doesn’t know anything about you but is hellbent on shooting at you is a pain in the ass wherever you go, but like with everything else in life, there is always something better. Considering that Michael is on this assignment, and every soldier here has a long list of transgressions (long enough to the point where their officers can no longer turn a blind eye to them), this is an indicator that Fort Helena is going to be literal hell on earth.
Early on in the war, the first wave of soldiers to come back from the battlefield all complained about rats in the trenches and the lack of plumbing. One group was fighting closer to a mountainside, though, and they actually had sufficient enough coverage from the enemy to set up a decent camp. Trenches or tents. Both aren’t screaming luxury, but one is infinitely better than the other, that’s for damn sure.
“We’re fucking screwed!” Jude scowls, kicking at the uniform hanging by his bed.
“Can’t be that bad,” Elliot rationalizes from the top bunk across from Michael. “They’re sending off Eldian units with us, and they outnumber us by quite a large margin. Chances are, we won’t even be on the frontlines.”
“It’s true,” Oliver is sitting at the singular desk crammed in the barracks. He claims he’s writing a farewell letter to his girlfriend — all three of them. “This is just a scare tactic to get us back on the straight and narrow. You think they’d be willing to sacrifice us for that fort?”
Jude’s frown doesn’t disappear, but he’s silent. Elliot and Oliver have a point, and everyone here knows it. That’s because the boys in this barrack aren’t enlisted soldiers, but officers. They’re the ones who’ll get the nicest benefits package, the better meals, the high ranking titles. They’re the ones who society holds up to a pedestal. Elliot, just like Michael, is a legacy — someone who already has a generation of their family who served as an officer. For most Marleyans, this is something you can boast about.
“Don’t worry, Judy. If Captain Baron decides he’s sick of us and forces us to be human shields for the Eldian soldiers, he’d pick me first.” Michael sounds too cheerful at the prospect, and Jude glares at him.
You either love Michael, or you don’t. There is no inbetween, there is no merely tolerating him — only like or dislike. Everyone else in the barracks is on decent terms with the lieutenant, even going so far as to consider him not just a comrade but a friend, but Michael’s the type to sniff out the few who despise him, and then he antagonizes them for sport. Jude belongs to the group who dislikes.
“Don’t call me Judy, and don’t spout off bullshit like that, either. Don’t act like you wouldn’t willingly fight alongside those damn devils. We all know why you’re here.”
“Really?” Michael’s eyes go wide. “Why am I here?”
In the office, there is a big, fat file labeled SELLS, MICHAEL (LT.) with a very long record of transgressions committed by the angelic-looking young man who is anything but. What a shame, the officers who have to update his file muse, that he is nothing like his father who was honorably discharged as an Admiral for the Navy. The only thing Michael seems to have inherited from Admiral Sells are his looks.
The fact of the matter is that Michael is here because he is a problem child who manages to stir up trouble no matter where he is and no matter who he is with. At least on a battlefield, they can make good use of his restless energy, and hopefully the fear of being killed in action will be enough to get him to behave.
He’s been a pain in the ass since the moment he came into this world (a C-section baby, which is a universal indicator that someone is destined to be annoying), and he’s only grown into a walking, talking, migraine-inducing bastard ever since.
“Don’t act all innocent. We know you started the fight with Brutus.” Jude sneers, as if Brutus the Brute didn’t deserve the one singular punch Michael managed to get on him before getting his ass handed to him.
“If you can call that massacre on Michael a fight.” Oliver pipes up.
“Hey! Whose side are you on?” Michael asks him, not offended in the slightest.
“The real question is, whose side are you on?” The look Jude gives Michael reminds him of the same glare one of the other Marleyan officers, James, gave him during visitation day. The visitation day where James’ girlfriend couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of Michael. It’s a look that’s full of contempt and vitriol.
Everyone likes to act all holier-than-thou when it comes to Michael, and it’s because nobody is more openly rebellious than him. They think that he can’t keep a secret, that his heart is constantly on his sleeve, and they’re right; too bad no one can actually read him. Michael gets into fights all the time, and he’s either stupid or brave with the way he shows no fear in attempting to take on guys twice his size. In middle school, he lost a tooth (that has since been replaced with a fancy implant that blends seamlessly with the rest of his pearly whites, despite the fact that he thought the gaping hole would’ve added character) because he picked a fight with a high schooler about to graduate. Everyone misinterprets his bold actions for recklessness, but he does stupid shit like this because he cares. No one knows he picked that fight because the boy said something downright vulgar and disgusting about Claire, one of his older sister’s friends. Just like how no one knows that Michael didn’t swing at Brutus because he took the last brownie during dinner, but because Brutus was the one who nicked Colt’s face.
“The right one.” Michael cheekily answers, not elaborating further. Let everyone make their assumptions about what that means.
Alize Evans is no one’s fool.
When the universe deals you a shit hand in life, the least you can do is not be stupid. Alize might’ve came into this world as an accident, the result of a drunken mistake (perhaps she inherited bad luck from her mother; she can’t be certain, considering that the only mother figure in Alize’s life had been the stern mistress of her orphanage), and it’s because of this that Alize is very careful in not making mistakes in her life.
Maybe ending up at The Gentleman’s Club wasn’t exactly a part of her master plan, but Alize remains adamant that she is not stupid — just down on her luck.
It isn’t stupid to walk the streets of the red light district alone. Alize knows the area better than the back of her hand. She lives here. She knows the strip of street to avoid unless she wants to have the stray dogs’ shit under the soles of her too-tight shoes. She knows that the drunkard who looks like the type to harass women is quite the opposite; in fact, he’s probably one of the kindest men who stay around this area. She bought him a bottle of cheap liquor once, just because decent people are hard to find and the least she can do is show her gratitude in a way that doesn’t automatically demean her. (Deep down, she knows that he wouldn’t have accepted free rein of her body, the only currency she has unlimited access to. It had cost her a week’s worth of wages to gift him that bottle.)
Turns out, he’s not stupid either. He’s just down on his luck, too.
Alize’s bad luck seems to be on a winning streak. Not only did she wake up late, but the bruises scattered on her body have turned a ghastly shade of purple with a sick, faint green ring around one of the abstract shapes. In the winter time, she’s paler. She already sees a lack of sun, and the darkness of this season doesn’t do her any favors. She likes it when it’s spring; she tans easily, for one, and everyone says spring is the season of possibilities, of new beginnings.
Alize isn’t stupid. She doesn’t believe in those sorts of things. But it’s nice, she supposes, to indulge every once in a while and believe in things like that.
Her bad luck clings to her as she walks down the street, quickening her pace. She knows the creepy, distorted shadows in the corners of her eyes are just figments of her imagination; the street lamps are all cracked and now line the street just for show. They don’t actually work. The whole district is shrouded in darkness, with only the censorious moonlight to look down on her. She hates moonlight. Nothing good has ever happened to her when it makes its appearance.
That fact won’t change, either. She knows this when she hears the predatory whistle coming from behind her.
Alize isn’t stupid. She knows she doesn’t stand a chance if she tries to run. She knows that there is nowhere to run. She knows that she wants to try, anyway. She knows that things will only be worse if she does.
Alize pauses. She takes a deep breath. And then she turns around.
It’s a Public Security Authorities officer. Mid-forties, at least. He looks like today is his lucky day.
She wonders what that might feel like.
“What’s a young girl like you doing around these parts? Don’t’cha know it’s dangerous?” He smirks, and she can see every wrinkle and crease on his face, all thanks to the moonlight. She curses the wretched thing. She hates everything that looks down on her. Not even the solar system can escape her wrath.
She doesn’t say anything. He’s leering at her, licking his chapped lips as he eyes her, his excitement evident as he openly admires the armband circled around her left arm.
A piece of fabric that defines her entire being. A piece of fabric that is the reason why she receives the worst customers in the brothel. Men like the one standing in front of her liken her to something inhumane, filthy, but they’re the ones who fuck her like savages, like devils. The irony isn’t lost on her.
“Let me walk you home, sweetheart.” The man grabs her left arm, gripping her armband. He tugs her with such a force that she almost wishes to see the piece of gray fabric come loose. She remembers when someone used it to choke her with it, and then she decides that with the way her luck is going, he’d probably have the same idea. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe he’ll be quick. Maybe Willa will feel bad and brew her a cup of tea when she manages to limp her way to the brothel.
Alize isn’t stupid. She knows to let the man drag her away. She’s resigned to her fate.
And then, the strangest thing happens.
Another man is strolling down the street. Traffic here is usually light considering that there isn’t much in this area, save for abandoned buildings and the occasional homeless trying to seek shelter from the harsh, biting wind. Alize thinks her luck is getting worse when she notices this one is wearing a cream colored uniform, too.
When he comes closer, she’s pleasantly surprised. At least he’s cute. Say what you want, but having an ugly bastard slobbering over her is awful. If she’s going to be used, why can’t she at least have a decent view? It might distract her from everything else.
“What’s going on here?” The young man says, blue eyes focused on the officer before traveling to Alize. She looks at him briefly before focusing on the gravel underneath her feet.
“Nothing for you to worry about.” The officer spits on the ground. “Go run along and find your own hole to get your dick wet in.”
“See, when you say stuff like that, it does make me start to worry.” Alize dares to take another look at him. He’s blond. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and he has such an easy-going manner about him. The top two buttons of his military issued coat are undone, and she spots a peek of bright white cotton from his undershirt. He’s tall. Taller than her, and even taller than the man who has her in his grip. “I don’t think she likes the way you’re handling her.”
“You think I give a fuck about what a bitch like her likes?”
The blond man’s eyes narrow. Gone is his easy-going manner. Alize can feel the shift even from her current position, which is her being all cowered and looking like she wants to be as small as possible. Apparently the man senses the change in his demeanor, too, seeing as he loosens his grip enough for Alize to slowly free herself.
“I think you should give a fuck on how I feel about it.” He says, taking a step forward. “You know that PSA officers with a rank as low as yours are only allowed jurisdiction in his designated internment zone.” Another step forward. “This isn’t an internment zone.”
“You’re a fucking greenie. You’re barely a second-rate private in the military.” The man snarls, spotting the lack of any high ranking adornments on the blond’s uniform.
The blond shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t an internment zone, meaning that as an officer in the military, I have more authority here than you.” He smiles. “Bet you give a fuck that a greenie like me can tell you what to do, and you have to sit down like a good dog and listen.”
Alize isn’t stupid. She knows that she has the opportunity to run. But she’s frozen in place, admiring the way this young soldier seems to greet a fight like an old friend, with welcoming arms. If it came down to physical blows, she thinks he’d win, easily.
The man’s hand seems to gravitate towards his side, but the blond is quicker on the draw. Before the PSA officer can grab his gun, he finds himself staring down the wrong end of this private’s pistol.
“I’ll let you take out yours, too, if you want. It’s only fair that you show me yours after I showed you mine.” The moonlight illuminates the smug expression on the soldier’s face. “But know this: the law won’t give a damn what went down here. All they’ll care about is that a PSA officer broke the law and drew his weapon against a Marleyan militant officer in the military’s jurisdiction. You think you’ll have any power from a jail cell?”
“I have connections.” The man snarls, still hesitant to whip out his own gun.
“Really? What a coincidence, so do I.” The soldier releases the safety on his pistol. “Do you mind sharing who those connections are? My uncle, the commanding officer of the PSA, might be interested in knowing, too.”
The man’s face pales. “You’re that Sells kid.”
“Yeah. Trying to make a name for myself, though, so take out your damn gun and let’s try to make headline news, okay?”
They don’t make headline news. Instead, the man apologizes to this “Sells kid”, and then he turns and apologizes to Alize after the Sells kid tells him to.
“Get on your knees and kiss the ground she walks on.” The soldier commands him to do. Alize feels a sick sort of satisfaction witnessing the man slowly get down and press his lips to the dirty ground. For once in her life, Alize is the one who is looking down. What an addicting feeling.
When the soldier gets bored of humiliating the man, he sends him off by tapping his shoulder in farewell; he does so with the barrel of his gun, whose safety is still conveniently off. One wrong move, and a bullet could be pierced through the man’s shoulder blades.
“You want me to walk you to where you wanted to go?” The soldier asks her, clicking his gun and sliding it back into its holster.
Alize isn’t stupid. She nods, and he lets her lead the way.
She starts to foolishly believe that maybe her luck can turn around.
But then he drops her off at the front door of the brothel, hands in his pockets.
“What’s the matter?” He asks her, when she doesn’t immediately walk in. “Is it not safe for you in there?”
He sounds like he actually cares. Gone is the stern soldier with the cocky attitude and smirk. The gentleman standing here doesn’t seem like he just shoved his gun in someone’s face less than ten minutes ago. He’s interesting, this soldier.
She shakes her head, giving him a tiny smile. This brothel might actually be the only safe haven for her here, perhaps even safer than the shitty apartment she rents a couple of blocks away.
“Will you come in and join me?” I won’t even charge, she wants to add.
He seems to pick up on her suggestion, and he gives her a small smile, too, while shaking his head. “I’d feel a lot better knowing that you’re somewhere where you feel safe. I think some time alone would be good, don’t you agree?”
Alize’s never been alone for long stretches of time. She grew up in an overcrowded orphanage, then traveled with a small group of runaways when the original mistress died and got replaced by some creep who eyed like the girls in the house like a butcher looking at a prize pig. Even when sleeping and begging on the streets, she always had at least one other person right with her. Renting this apartment is the first time in forever that Alize’s ever lived on her own, and even then, she spends so much of her time in the brothel, surrounded by her chosen sisters, blanketed in their warmth and comfort, that she forgets all about living on her own.
“I don’t know how else to repay you.” She admits. Out of all her meager belongings, she’s come to terms with the fact that her body and Eldian fetishization are her most valuable.
“You don’t have to repay me.” He says, and she almost wants to roll her eyes.
Alize isn’t stupid. Life is a series of transactions. You receive, you have to give back. Otherwise, karma will intervene. Karma is a sick and twisted bitch who balances the scales in the worst way possible. Her luck might be starting to turn around, but she’s not going to push it.
“I can’t have you walking around with my favor in your pocket. Let me pay you back now.”
He waves a hand carelessly. “You don’t owe me anything.”
For once, Alize dares to go against a soldier and stand her ground. “No. I really do owe you.”
He lets out a thoughtful hum, staring at the closed door of the brothel.
“Fine.” He says, but then he follows it up with something she isn’t expecting. “Pay me back by going inside and taking care of yourself. Take it easy tonight, okay?”
Alize isn’t stupid. She takes the offer.
But, of course, seeing him changes her perspective on things. Meeting him while flat broke, weak, and defenseless proved to her that her luck could change at any time. This hope that builds up in her causes her to seek him out, to expect him to walk through the brothel doors and maybe the story Willa tells her comes true. The story about the girl who saves the businessman and gets her happily ever after.
Alize is stupid. He doesn’t come back. Which means he doesn’t come back for her. Luck can turn around, but it can go back right where it was, too. The disappointment that follows serves as a cruel reminder of what being stupid does to a girl.
When she looks into the worn faces of the girls working alongside her, Alize decides right then and there to protect them from the soul crushing discovery that no one in the world is coming to save them. Don’t even bother dreaming about it.
So when she turns her attention to you, demanding you to spill the details on the soldier, you mistake this interrogation for being an unwanted intrusion. If you had realized sooner that it came from a place of care, you wouldn’t have immediately played dumb.
“What soldier?” You ask innocently, perhaps playing a bit too dumb.
Margaret lets out a loud laugh. “You’re so full of shit! ‘What soldier,’ my ass! Nadia, can you believe her?”
Nadia looks at you for guidance on how to react, what to say. All you can do is shrug helplessly. Hurricane Alize has already touched down, and there’s no stopping this force of nature.
“The soldier who visits you and brings you gifts and just wants to talk.” Alize says, crossing her arms. “Tell us about him.”
“I don’t know much about him.” Besides the fact that he ran away from the girl who gave him his first kiss. Besides the fact that he loves his family, especially his little brother, Falco, as easily as breathing. Besides the fact that he kisses you with poorly concealed restraint; you think you can taste the hunger for more on his lips, but he’s too much of a gentleman to cross that line. You don’t know much about him, besides him enlisting in the military for his family. He was supposed to go in sooner, to prove his family’s loyalty after his uncle got exposed for being an Eldian Restorationist.
He had been a sickly child, he tells you, back against the wall as he resigns himself to the floor, letting you have your bed all to yourself. He’d be bedridden and useless to the Marleyan military if they took him in, and luckily, they saw some sense in that. His parents foolishly dared to dream that the government forgot about wanting to take him, but after his father falls ill and it lands on him to handle his family’s finances, of course he enlists. Of course they remember him. Of course they make him pay for everything with interest. Always waiting for him to slip up, always delighting in punishing him. Mocking him.
You know that he had to learn how to take it all lying down. To grit his teeth and bite back any protests. To resist the urge to ask the Marleyan officer what did I ever do to you?
You know that he’s gentle. Genuine. Sweet. Soft.
No — maybe soft isn’t the right word. You’ve felt the smooth ridges of hard-packed muscle underneath his shirt. You’ve seen the flex of his biceps, felt the rough calluses of his fingers every time the ghost of his touch lingers on your skin. You’ve seen the way he delivers his words, how he can say something with such strong conviction. He never raises his voice to make a point, but the stern look and his steadfast adamance that he wants you to be happy, even if it’s not with him, because he cares about you, was strong enough to knock some sense into you. You think of how it’s his natural instinct to protect. You think of the way his body immediately went to shield yours when that bar fight broke out, his stance that seemed so formidable, unyielding to any external force.
You think of his casual discussion of the abuse subjected to him. How he tells you, in the same soft voice he always uses, as if he’s telling you the weather today, about how one time some Marleyan soldiers pulled a prank on him and handed him his food in a dog bowl, with DEVIL DOGGY crudely etched into the metal. He had to eat out of it, he explains, because he was hungry. This was his only meal of the day, and it was one against too many. He’d never be able to get a lunch tray.
Despite it all, he didn’t let it turn him bitter. Vengeful. Mad at the world and seeking to take it out on others. You wouldn’t blame him for turning cold; anyone else would. But Colt lets it bounce off of him.
You like that. You like everything about Colt, you realize, but you like his resilience. His unwavering good character. He isn’t soft; maybe tender. You could cut him to the bone, but he still wouldn’t lose shape; he might even put up some resistance.
“Really?” Alize narrows her eyes. “So what exactly do you two talk about then?”
Everything. A story for a story, you decide one day. You’re sitting on your calves, knees digging into the stiff mattress, and the excited expression on your face makes Colt give in to your whims before the request even fully leaves your mouth.
A story for a story, he agrees.
You tell him the bits and pieces of your childhood that you remember. You tell him about how it feels strange to cling to a culture you think is dying, that soon no one will remember, but stranger yet to not take pride in it, to not want to hold on to what generations before you have held on to. He tells you about how he doesn’t like the feel of a gun in his hands, but that he’s such a good shot, his officers want him to constantly be on the frontlines, armed with it. He’s never been on the frontlines, he reassures you, when he notices your horrified expression. A couple of simple deployments, as a reserve in case the battle doesn’t turn in their favor, is all the action he’s seen so far. Probably will be that way for the foreseeable future, since the military doesn’t like risking the Warrior Candidates with the most potential.
“Anything that comes up naturally, I guess.” You say, holding all your conversations with Colt close to your heart. “Alize, what does it matter what I do with this soldier?”
“It matters because every time I mention the soldier, you get this look on your face.” Alize is not a mean person, but the way she says look — dripping with disgust, topped off with pity — you suddenly go on the defensive.
“I can’t make facial expressions anymore?” You ask her, and the girls in the room shift their bodies awkwardly. Someone clears their throat. Alize is silent, but she doesn’t lower the intensity of her glare.
“I’m worried about you.” She sounds like admitting this is a painful ordeal. “I don’t want you making a mistake.”
I don’t want you making a mistake. You’ve whispered this exact phrase in the dark, saying it so softly you almost think he won’t be able to hear it, but he does. Of course, he does. He notices everything about you.
He looks at you, that same unwavering conviction coating his words as he reminds you, nothing about you is a mistake to me.
“So what if I make a mistake? It’s my life.” You regret telling her this the moment her stern expression falters, revealing something hurt and pained, before she brings back her perfect poker face. You’re so used to being the older sister that sometimes it’s jarring to come here and interact with Alize, who is the designated older sister in this room. You don’t know how to handle being the one that is cared for, too used to having to be the strict one, the one who does the caring in a less-than gentle manner.
“Mistakes hurt.” She says flatly. “But by all means, continue living your life how you want. It’s yours.”
You don’t make mistakes often.
When Marleyan forces destroyed your homeland, sent you and the rest of the survivors running to a false salvation (the sprawling, abandoned hills on the outskirts of Marley’s cities), you made many mistakes. You were too trusting. Just shy of fourteen years old, you had a six-year-old little brother to take care of and parents who left behind nothing to help you. It’s not their fault; who anticipates their young daughter to take on the role of matriarch? There’s no instruction manual, no how-to guide on what to do when you’re a refugee with no skills, no talent, and nothing to offer to a country that already looks down on you. You used to be so desperate that when it seemed a citizen was taking pity on you, you chose to trust them. To believe in their goodness.
You quickly learn to stop making that mistake.
You can’t talk to strangers, then. You only stay close to the other refugees, only trusting their kindness, sometimes hesitant and fearful that they could turn on you, too.
You make more mistakes. You misjudge how long food can last, what the weather will be like, the intentions of the people around you. Sometimes, you reject kindness because you think it’s viciousness in a clever disguise; gone are the times you accidentally identify cruelty as care.
(You don’t make the same mistake twice.)
Occasionally, when you think about who you are, you think you’re a dog backed into a corner. A dirty alleyway. Surrounded by bigger, hungrier dogs, with no room for escape, no chance for survival. Some days, you think there’s something admirable in not backing down without a fight. Other days, you find that playing dead and hoping they lose interest is more reasonable. Every day, you know that it doesn’t matter what you do — you are still a dog backed into a corner.
You don’t like being backed into a corner.
You don’t like feeling small, and you certainly don’t like feeling vulnerable. Weak. Defenseless.
You know your position in life. The men who filter in and out of your room remind you of this.
Cheap whore. Loose fuck. Good for nothing. Bitch.
Katie, one of the quieter girls in the brothel, admits to everyone that sometimes she takes sleeping pills in the hopes that it’ll get her drowsy and she can filter in and out of consciousness when she’s working.
It’s better when you’re dead to the world during the sex, she says. If I could be asleep and unaware of everything happening to me, I’d be so happy.
Everyone handles this job differently, but you could never let yourself be so unguarded. No matter how tired you get, your body refuses to go limp and allow you a brief moment of sleep when you’re in the presence of a strange man who paid a price to have his way with you. You made a lot of mistakes in your life, but falling asleep in this brothel will not be one of them.
But one night, you find yourself fighting the urge to let your eyelids droop and your body to sink into the mattress. Colt’s telling you about how he finds it odd that Michael is actively avoiding some investigator who’s visiting the base. Colt can’t seem to fathom why. The investigator supposedly only covers cases concerning Eldians, and he doesn’t look like someone who would want to get into a fight with Michael. You’re struggling to follow along, and the last thing you remember hearing is oh no, I’m stopping you from sleeping.
When you do wake up, your mind is on high alert. You instantly sit up, heart racing.
Calm down, nothing bad has happened to you. You try to swallow, but your mouth is dry. You can’t tell if the pounding noise in your ear is from your heart or the rush of blood to your head. You sat up way too fast. You can hear your ragged breaths, and you close your eyes, resisting the urge to chastise yourself for being so weak. You’ve never fallen asleep here before. You followed the same routine you’ve always done, so you shouldn’t have even been tired. There’s no reason why you should have fallen asleep, just as you realize there should be no reason for the thin sheet on your bed to be covering you, a pitiful excuse for a blanket.
You pause. Calm your breathing. Reassess the situation.
You didn’t have the sheet covering your body before you fell asleep. You know this because you never use the sheet as a blanket. You slowly turn your head and find Colt slumped against the wall, his eyes shut, his breathing calm and steady. The position looks uncomfortable, and when you move to sit on the edge of the bed, letting your sock-covered feet hit the wooden floors, you can still feel the chill of hardwood biting through the cotton.
He didn’t do anything besides tuck you in. You glance down at the watch on your wrist, only feeling safe enough to wear it when he’s around. Not even thirty minutes have passed. There’s still an hour left of your time that he is promised.
You didn’t make a mistake, you realize.
You take the thin sheet and drape it over his body, hoping that it provides some sort of comfort. You do this, and then you climb right back into bed, turning to the side so that you can get a view of his peaceful expression before you allow sleep to drag you under its spell once more.
After that, Colt insists that you go to sleep whenever you feel tired. You tell him that that isn’t fair, and he gives you a look.
Fairness is a foreign concept to him.
You never realized just how late into the night your shift takes you. You never realize how sweet a peaceful slumber truly is. The first few times you go to sleep, Colt still remains on the floor. Then, one night, he’s helping you readjust your watch and suddenly your right arm is hanging from the bed as you sleep, and he’s holding your hand, equally unconscious to the world. You wake up to the comfort of his hand still securely wrapped around your own, the rest of his body relaxed on the cold floor. You don’t let go, feigning sleep when you notice him stirring and about to wake up. You want to see what he does when he thinks you’re still asleep; every time before this, you’ve always been open about being the first one to wake.
You wonder if this is when you relearn the lesson of never trusting outsiders. You hear him shift his body, try to reawaken muscles that have gone slack. And then, he’s moving your hand, slowly bringing it upwards. You fight to keep your eyes closed, your body relaxed.
A quick brush of his lips against your knuckles. He squeezes your hand, and when you shift your body, prepared to finally “wake up,” he’s quick to drop your hand, acting as if he’s done something he shouldn’t have. Like a kid caught with his hand in the jar of cookies.
(He’s been that kid before; you couldn’t stop laughing at his retelling of the whole ordeal. He turned pink, telling you that it was because Falco wanted the cookies, and he refused to listen to Colt’s explanation of how they weren’t allowed to have any until after dinner.
“Did you take the blame for everything?” You ask him, with tears in your eyes from how hard you’ve been laughing.
“Yes.” He admits to taking the fall, acting as if he was the one who wanted the cookies, and Falco was just a tiny witness and not the reason for getting him into this situation.
You start laughing again, to the point where your stomach aches. You’re unaware that he thinks the sound of your laughter is the soundtrack to his life, and both of you are unaware of how he’s pulling you in even deeper.
For someone with a fear of falling, you sure don’t know how close to the edge you really are.)
In the months leading up to you kissing him in front of your whole community, these are the moments shared. Every conversation, every secret, every story for a story, every shared slumber, the singular barely-a-kiss upon your hand — all of it fills the cracks and crevices of your heart.
(You refuse to admit to being scared of a lot of things, but the meaning behind him taking root inside your heart — that’s the scariest thing to you.)
You try to steady the beat of your — slowly transitioning into his — heart every time you watch the door handle twist. You know not to expect him too often nowadays; his training more grueling, more intense, as his inheritance of the Beast Titan is fast approaching. If it’s not hope (and the inevitable disappointment that soaks you to the bone when you realize it’s not him) that’s serving you a slow death, then it’s the waiting.
You have experience in waiting. Waiting in long lines at the food bank during the cruel heat of the summer, knowing that leaving the line in search of water would be fruitless and only result in you losing your place in line (and as a result, food for the next two days — three if you limit your own portions). Waiting for your parents to miraculously come back from the dead and to give you a big hug, tell you that you did such a good job taking care of yourself and Ramzi. Waiting for your particularly rough clients to finish having their way with you and to leave you be. You’re always waiting. Always in a constant state of looking forward to what comes next; a side effect that stems from the fact that your current standard of living always leaves much to be desired.
And you know about desire. As much as you’ve tried to avoid it, to avoid the senseless action and feeling of want, you’re only human. You dream of a better life; nothing too luxurious. A small apartment instead of a tent. A real school for Ramzi to attend instead of the volunteer tutors who come by once or twice a week, covering material that kids Ramzi’s age have already learned years ago. A different job, even. You’re fine with labor — your current work already is laborious — but a respectable job. Something that won’t have people who know what you do sneer and spit at you. Cleaning houses, watching over spoiled children — yes, those are preferable jobs. You’re not a person accustomed to selfishness, to letting your desires run rampant. You are not asking for pleasure from the world; you’ll gladly settle for a reduced sentence of pain.
But desire grips you by the throat, winds itself around your body, chokes you, strangles you, in all matters involving Colt Grice. The unfamiliar, devastating punch of want hits you in your heart as all you can do is stand frozen in your room, trying to let what he tells you sink in.
It doesn’t sink in. It hangs stagnant in the air, looms over the both of you before expanding, surrounding you two on all sides. Takes the shape of the four walls, and suddenly, it’s closing in on you, everything is closing in on you.
Why is it that you always have to wait? Haven’t you waited long enough for just a glimpse of something bright to enter into your world? You’ve dealt with all this shit for years, suffered in silence, took everything lying down, and Colt stumbles into your room, stuttering over his sentences, and you dare to think that this is your luck turning around. That the universe is throwing you a bone. That nature says spring is coming early, spring is here to stay. Every time he walks through that damn door to enter your room, you see the sun peeking through the storm clouds.
“You’re leaving?” You don’t like the way you practically choke on the question.
Regret roughs up the soft features of his face.
“Yes.”
Colt Grice is handed a metal container that is roughly the size of a shoebox and is informed that anything placed in there will be sent to his family in the case that he does not return.
He’s sitting on his bed, staring at the empty box resting on his lap. Whatever is supposed to go in here is meant to be a satisfactory consolation; sorry you lost your older son, here’s some junk he found in his barracks to help you remember him. He places the lid back on the container. How is anyone supposed to fit a life inside something not even a foot long?
He lays down on his bed, savoring the stiffness of the mattress and the cold sheets neatly tucked with military precision. This will be one of his last days of enjoying the comforts of a real bed, and Colt is not the type to be ungrateful. He can take pleasure in the little things.
He has to be able to — if he waited for anything major to happen before he started considering it to be a win, he’d never have a cause for celebration.
There’s this funny feeling he gets sometimes. Moments in his life where he feels like everything is moving too quickly for his liking. One second he’s tossing a ball back and forth with Zeke, then he blinks and he’s in the mess hall, listening to Porco complaining about “the fucking slop” they’re being fed that day. He knows it’s silly, knows that the impending deadline of thirteen years won’t loom over his head just yet, but the idea of this life — his life — being cut short has never bothered him before.
And then he meets you, and suddenly, life stops moving at a pace where everything around him is a blur and leaves him feeling dizzy, unable to find his footing. Suddenly, time stands still for him. He finds his footing. He can stand tall. Everything is in hyper focus, and he’s all too aware that the future is bleak.
His future’s always been destined to be bleak; if he wasn’t in the Warrior Unit, there’d still be a chance that he’d be used as a titan for war. Just not the kind that grants some form of glory. Just the kind used as a weapon. Just something in a military general’s arsenal. He’s certain that “unleash the titans” is written on a slip of paper and is put inside a case alongside grenades and guns.
He shuts his eyes, thinking about his sheer impermanence. His lack of a future has never been a major cause for concern. Eldian families know what to expect when their sons and daughters end up in the Warrior Unit. But then you kissed him and all he could think about when he felt the pressure of your lips against his for the first time was maybe there is a future out there for me. One worth chasing after. One worth being alive for. One with you.
He wants a future now. He wants it so badly, so desperately, that all he can do is lay here and curl his fingers around the bedcover, ruining the hard work that went into perfecting the appearance of his bed. All he can do, all he’s allowed to do, is grit his teeth and force down the bitter truth: he has no future.
And he would really, really love to have one now.
It’s not like this dream is new — just repressed. He’s gotten too good at pushing down his selfish desires in favor of thinking about what’s best for the collective good. If he becomes the Beast Titan, his family will be elevated in status; better healthcare, better home, better paycheck to mail to them. There would be less pressure on Falco to do well; there would be no point. The Grices would have given up one son; surely, even Marley would have pity and tell them to do everything they can to hang onto the last one. As a child, he used to skip recess breaks to help his teachers clean up the classroom or grade papers. He’d wipe down the windows, pretending that he doesn’t want to be one of the carefree kids swinging on the monkeybars. Because of his volunteering to help the teacher, she was less stressed, with no frustrations to take out on the students. No one ever thanked him for doing this. No one even acknowledged it.
“What’re you thinkin’ so hard about?” Porco drops the metal lunch tray onto the table. It’s the sound of the tray making contact with the aged wood that snaps Colt out of his thoughts and back into reality.
“I wasn’t thinking about anything.” He’s lying, but Porco doesn’t need to hear about his inner turmoil.
“Don’t bother lying if you’re not even going to try to be good at it.” Porco snorts, digging his spoon into the mushy vegetables steaming on his plate. “You’re being sent home tonight, aren’t you?” He’s in the middle of chewing a mixture of too-soft carrots and green beans. Colt pretends not to notice the way the vegetables are being blended together in his mouth. Pieck complains that Porco needs to learn how to chew with his mouth closed, and out of spite, he chooses to do the complete opposite.
“Yeah.” Colt uses his fork to play with his food, poking at an overcooked steamed carrot. “Falco gets to spend the night at home, too.”
“Damn. How’d he take the news?”
Colt cringes. “Didn’t get a chance to tell him.”
Porco gapes at him, but then his stomach growls and he’s back to shoveling more food in his mouth. He has the decency to swallow first before resuming the conversation. “You’re fucked, Grice.”
It’s not like leaving Falco in the dark was intentional. He stays in the barracks designated for younger kids, and Colt’s been running around the base, trying to make sure that he’s properly preparing for his deployment. He meant to take the walk to Falco last night, after he finished finding things to put in that damn shoebox, but thoughts of you, his mediocre life, his wasted time and lost chances, his family — all of those thoughts weighed him down, kept him chained to the bed. He couldn’t even get a decent night’s sleep. And his box still remains empty, shoved underneath his bed. It’s gotten to the point where he’s even debating asking Porco to fill it on his behalf, but who knows what he considers appropriate?
“The worst part is, Falco’s definitely been notified that he has the opportunity to be sent home, and the reasoning they’ll give him is because an immediate family member is being deployed. He knows I’m being sent away, and now he’s just waiting for me to actually tell him.” Colt sighs as Porco beats him to his drawn conclusion:
“Yeah. You’re super fucked.”
After a few minutes of silence, Porco finds even more stuff to ponder about. “Hey, how’d your girlfriend take the news?”
Seriously, since when did Porco suddenly become so chatty? Was the tasteless lunch food not enough to keep him occupied? Colt takes this moment as an opportunity to shovel a heaping of hot, bland mush into his mouth in order to avoid answering that question. He thinks he burns a few taste buds in the process, but with the food that’s being served to them, it’s not like they were being used in the first place.
Colt wishes Porco didn’t have such a stubborn streak. He sits there, unimpressed, waiting for Colt to finish eating, which takes no time at all. The silence and his bemused expression say enough: hurry up and answer.
“Didn’t really get a chance to tell her, either.”
Porco blinks.
“Damn it, Grice. Who does know about your deployment?”
He thinks for a second, mentally doing a count. “Well, for starters, you—”
“Okay, so no one. No one knows you’re being deployed.”
Well, when he puts it like that.
“I planned on telling them.”
“When? When you’re already on the battlefield?”
Colt flinches. “When they would have less time to worry about me.”
Porco pauses, the snarky comment sliding back down his throat. For once during this conversation, Porco seems at a loss for words.
“They’re always going to worry about you.” Porco says, all sarcasm gone from his tone and replaced with a seriousness that Colt doesn’t get from him often.
Colt thinks about how Porco used to react when Marcel would be sent away, even if it was just for a training camp sponsored by a different town’s military unit. He’d be even surlier than usual, and with no Marcel to stop him from picking a fight, he’d get into more trouble, too. People’s worry seems to manifest in different ways. When he first made it into the Warrior Unit, his mother pulled out his baby album and started tearing up at the rare photos of a baby Colt. The six year old boy with a front tooth missing, smiling for his elementary school photo, is the son she sees being taken from her.
Colt doesn’t know how to verbalize his feelings on the matter without embarrassing himself. If it were possible, Colt would gladly shoulder the weight of everybody’s worry for him. He doesn’t like the idea of his parents and little brother anticipating Marleyan officers coming to them, presenting them with a shoebox filled with trinkets meant to represent his life. He especially doesn’t like the idea of you anxiously waiting for him. He sees the split second of desperation in your eyes when you watch the door crack open, trying to see who’s behind it. He knows the relaxed slump of your body when you see it’s him is reserved just for him. He doesn’t want to try and imagine the reaction you have when it’s anyone else.
(Because it will be, for at least several months, someone else.
And he will be miles away, trying to dodge a spray of bullets coming from men he doesn’t know, powerless to help you and maybe even himself.)
“That’s the problem.” He admits to Porco, before pushing his tray aside, losing his appetite.
When Falco is born, Colt can’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that this crying, red-faced gremlin swathed in a baby-blue blanket is his brother.
“This is your baby brother, Colt,” his mother cooed, rocking a newborn Falco and beckoning Colt to come closer. “His name is Falco.”
Colt doesn’t know what baby brothers are supposed to do. For the first few days since they’ve brought him back from the hospital, Falco sure doesn’t do much besides cry and sleep. There’s a funny feeling he gets, though, whenever he hears his little brother cry. He wants his little brother to stop crying; not because the noise bothers him, but because he doesn’t want tiny Falco to be in any sort of distress.
Colt’s still too young to worry about things like life and death, but he does find himself on his tip-toes, peering into Falco’s crib, seemingly worried that if he doesn’t watch over Falco himself, Falco will just disappear into thin air. He doesn’t ponder on it too much, but as Colt stares at the peaceful state his normally loud brother is in, Colt realizes two things: life is very precious, and he wants his brother to enjoy this life for as long as he can.
He offers to carry Falco at any given moment, telling his mother that she’ll have her hands full while cooking and can’t carry him herself. He watches with morbid fascination (and a little disgust) as his father explains how and why he has to change Falco’s diaper, and even though he’s just joking when he asks Colt if he wants to change Falco the next time, he grins when young Colt nods solemnly.
“You’re a good big brother,” his father tells him, squeezing him on the shoulder.
A good big brother.
This praise becomes one of Colt’s goals in life. He’s a dutiful son, a capable soldier, and a dependable older brother. He’s the one who Falco looks up to in this world. Falco’s the reason why he doesn’t ever fight back against the blatant disrespect some Marleyan soldiers show him. Falco’s the reason why he’s careful about who he hangs around with; Colt was never meant to be with the group who walked him straight to the red light district. Falco’s the reason why Colt finds himself nervously trying to build up the courage to give a request to Zeke.
“They’re sending you to Fort Helena.” Zeke says rather than asks, tossing the baseball in a wide arc. Colt winces, but not because of the impact of the ball landing neatly in his palm.
“Just my luck, I suppose.” He says, throwing the ball.
It’s an ancient-looking thing, discolored from age and dirt. Colt can’t understand why Zeke hangs onto it, but asking him that seems even scarier than the prospect of asking him for a favor.
“Do you?” Zeke raises an eyebrow. “Think you’re lucky, that is.”
Colt catches the ball once more, hanging onto it for a few more seconds than necessary as he mulls over the question. He thinks about his family gathered around the kitchen table, no fear of ever starving, a nice roof over their heads. He thinks about Falco falling just short of making the preliminary list of future titan inheritors; with Colt inheriting the Beast, the Grice name will be restored. There will be no reason for Falco to chase after a meaningless legacy full of empty glory and an early death. He thinks about you.
“I’ve lived a better life than most.” Colt answers carefully.
“Gonna be a bit of a short life, huh?” Zeke holds a hand up to stop Colt from tossing the ball back to him. Zeke fumbles with the inner pockets of his jacket, taking out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “My advice to you is to start doing whatever you want, otherwise the deadline starts to get to you.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
Zeke takes a drag of the cigarette, casually exhaling smoke. “I don’t want to leave behind unfinished business.” And he leaves it at that, choosing to not elaborate any further. Colt doesn’t press him for more details; they don’t have that sort of relationship. Despite the fact that Zeke’s been a full-fledged Warrior for so long, Colt has a feeling that Zeke doesn’t really have any relationships that allow him to confide in others. “On that note, do you have any scores you’re trying to settle before you go?”
Sometimes, Colt gets the funny feeling that conversations with Zeke are more like interrogations. Unlike Porco, who outright asks what’s on his mind, Zeke meticulously pokes and prods at all the weak points Colt wasn’t even aware he had. Colt finds himself shifting his weight around, the baseball suddenly feeling too heavy, his uniform too restrictive.
“I just want to ensure that the people I care about are well taken care of, long after I’m gone.”
Zeke studies him for a moment. The more time they spend together, the more layers of Zeke Colt thinks he unravels; the only issue is, surface level stuff is easy to understand. It’s when you start to dig deeper into a person’s being that they start to become confusing. He makes an effort to try to get to know Zeke, not for his own personal gain, but because no one really knows Zeke. How incredibly lonely it must be, Colt thinks, to not be known. To not even have anyone willing to try to learn you.
Of course, he knows that eventually he’ll understand what goes on in Zeke’s mind, that one day, Zeke’s memories will blend in with his own. But Colt’s not the invasive type. He needs to be invited in.
“You’ll do a lot for your family.” Zeke comments.
“They’re my family.” And Colt leaves it at that, certain that nothing more could be said on the matter. In typical Zeke fashion, he pokes and he prods. He’s perfected the talent of softening the words that come from his sharp tongue, though.
“Your parents and your brother; they mean that much to you?”
They mean the world to me. I’d die for them without any hesitation. I’d give up anything to ensure they live good lives. Those answers come to Colt naturally. He doesn’t have to think about saying them, but he does pause. Thinks to himself what a good answer might be.
When he was younger— the Beast still wholly belonging to Zeke, Colt uncertain of what his bleak future might hold — Zeke had always seemed to be an enigma. All Colt knew about him was that he mostly kept to himself, that he proved his loyalty to Marley by betraying his family (and by extension, revealing Colt’s uncle as a dirty Restorationist), and that he knew much more than he let on. Colt figures out this last bit of information through years of conversation and mentorship. Zeke’s trick, Colt realizes, is that he lets everyone else around him do the talking. At best, Zeke will offer up the most bare minimum reply he can get away with.
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” It’s a cheekier reply than what Colt would normally give, but he relaxes his shoulders when he catches the barest hint of a smile on Zeke’s lips.
(That’s another thing Colt notices about his mentor; he doesn’t ever seem to smile.)
“You worked hard to inherit the Beast. The appeal of being a Warrior so enticing that you would shorten the time you could spend with your family?”
Colt sometimes forgets that Zeke technically has no family; his parents are either deep in the dungeons or dead due to their betrayal to the country. Colt hasn’t decided which fate is worse, and now he wonders if Zeke knows what has become of his parents. Zeke also doesn’t have any siblings; he probably can’t see where Colt is coming from.
“What I do affects my family entirely. If I become a Warrior, they receive the benefits and retain the status of honorary Marleyans.” Colt clears his throat. “Even after I’m dead.”
“Your brother — I heard he wants to inherit one of the Titans, eventually. Maybe follow in his older brother’s footsteps and take the Beast.” He’s not asking a question, but Colt can’t help but answer.
“That won’t happen.” He’s quick with the reply, tightening his grip on the battered baseball. “He’s already ranked close to the bottom of the list of candidates, and there wouldn’t be a point to him inheriting a Titan anyway.”
“There’s always the opportunity to make Marley proud.” Zeke’s being sarcastic; his actions might indicate that he’s nothing but loyal to the motherland, but his expression and attitude suggest otherwise. “That’s not a pointless ordeal.”
Yeah, but this conversation is starting to feel like one. Colt loosens his grip on the baseball, unsure of what direction Zeke wanted to take this conversation in. Maybe it’s just a setup, and he’s trying to gauge Colt’s loyalty to the country before he officially inherits the Beast. Having someone who can transform into a powerful monster at will is already dangerous enough; imagine if that person just lost control or wanted to take their anger out on the people who abused them on a daily basis.
(Honestly, the more he considers it, the more he realizes the amount of self-restraint Porco truly possesses.
That, and the fact that he’s a mama’s boy. If he went rogue, Mrs. Galliard would surely pay the price for his transgressions.)
“I just don’t see the point in him wanting to be on the frontlines of war.” Colt decides to say. It’s the truth. “There’s nothing to be gained from it.”
“You’ve got a point there, Grice.” Another drag of his cigarette, another puff of nicotine-infused smoke being exhaled. “War’s only glorious when you see the pretty posters telling you it’s an honor to enlist. Won’t be long ‘til he’s being sent out there. The disillusionment they feel after their first deployment is always worse than the shell shock.”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Colt locks eyes with Zeke, and he continues speaking before he loses his nerve. “Falco still has some time where he’s considered a child, and you know that war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He looks up to you. Could you possibly… make some time to throw around the ball with him, maybe convince him that some fights just aren’t worth joining?”
Zeke doesn’t answer immediately. He finishes off his cigarette, drops it to the ground, and stomps on it, still possibly mulling over Colt’s request.
“If it’s a request from my favorite successor, then sure.” A brief flash of a smile. “Hopefully he throws half as decent as you.”
As a baby, Colt wasn’t very fussy. His mother used to tell him that she was worried about him while he was growing up because he wouldn’t make a lot of noise. She tells stories about how, as a child, he would curl up in bed, trying to make himself as small as possible, almost as if he was scared of taking up too much space. This anxious reflex was something he grew out of, probably because that growth spurt of his resulted in him taking up a lot more space everywhere he goes. It’s hard to hide in plain sight when you’re the one who has to grab stuff on the top shelf for others.
Falco isn’t like that, though. Colt remembers the long nights of constant crying that came from his baby brother’s crib, the way he could never hold in his wails of pain when he would skin a knee while playing on the decrepit public playground in the internment zone, the excited shouts of joy he let out as he barreled straight into Colt’s outstretched arms on the days a young Colt would return from the military base. Falco might be nearing ten years old now, but he still hasn’t outgrown much of his childhood; tufts of feathersoft hair that still sticks out against his longer strands, baby fat that makes his cheeks appear to be chubby, adult teeth that fits awkwardly in his mouth, and most incriminating of all: his innocence.
Falco doesn’t know anything about war. It’s because their father doesn’t like to discuss it, and Colt will do anything to ensure that Falco never learns. He complains that everyone in their family babies him, and Colt doesn’t know how to tell Falco that it’s because to them, he still is a baby. When Colt looks at him, he still sees the little brother who would hide behind his back, wiping his tears and snot against the fabric of Colt’s shirt.
Colt isn’t the type of person who speaks up for himself, but it’s an entirely different story when it comes to others. Growing up, he would get teased on the schoolyard, yelled at by his instructors in the military, sneered at, spat at, laughed at. He took it all in stride, and when it comes to matters concerning only himself, he still does — take it all in stride, that is. Just last week, he was on courtyard cleaning duty, except the Eldian units had no brooms to sweep with. He had to make do with a crutch (loaned to him by an injured soldier who felt bad for him) shoddily attached to some raggedy broom bristles.
The alternative would have been to ask a superior officer for a proper broom, but Colt already knows how that would have ended: with him getting yelled at in front of everyone, absolute humiliation and shame coursing through his veins, and still, no broom.
When you spend most of your life being someone’s go-to punching bag, you start to get a feel for what’s a losing battle, for what fight is worth having.
Even if things will only prove to get worse for him, Colt jumps to the defense of others. Even if it’s a losing battle, when it comes to matters concerning Falco, it doesn’t matter what odds are stacked against him, what cruel punishment awaits for him; defending Falco will always be a fight worth having.
It’s why he’s the big brother who kills all the bugs, the brother who checks the closet and under the bed to make sure there are no monsters in the room, the brother who couldn’t hold in his shout of disapproval when he saw the youth commanding officer punishing Falco. He’s the brother who enlisted so Falco would never have to.
And now, picking him up from his barracks so they can take the train home, Colt realizes that he will have to be the brother who leaves.
It leaves a bad feeling in his stomach, punches him in the gut, and it’s silent as he and Falco board the train. It’s no more than a twenty minute ride to the internment zone from base, but the silence between them makes the seconds drag out and feel like years. Even worse — no amount of time seems to be sufficient enough for what Colt wants to say to him.
Sorry I didn’t tell you I was getting shipped off to war. Hey buddy, looks like I’m heading off to war! You’ll never guess where I’m going! Don’t be selfish; let your brother get some glory for you to brag about!
He thinks he’d rather get waterboarded than say any of those statements to Falco. If the roles were reversed, if he was the younger brother feeling betrayed over his older brother’s silence, what would he want to hear?
The truth.
“I didn’t want to tell you because I was scared.”
Falco looks up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted in surprise. He’s sitting on the seat across from him, and Colt can’t help but notice the way he’s still short enough to where his feet don’t even hit the ground. It makes him swallow hard, before continuing.
“I was scared you would be worried about me.”
“But I am!” Falco interjects, looking like he’s about to hop out of his seat. “That’s why I’m training so hard, so that I can be the one who fights alongside you in the future!”
The thing about little brothers is that they can’t fathom a scenario where they’re not right by their brother’s side. Falco doesn’t think about how awful going to war will be; just that it’s important to him that they’re with each other when it happens. Colt thinks back to the way Porco used to go around bragging that one day, he’d be fighting side by side with his older brother, Marcel.
Then Colt thinks about the haunted look on Porco’s face when he realizes that his older brother is dead. When Porco’s birthday comes around, the one where he reaches the age Marcel never had a chance to be, he doesn’t celebrate. Colt stares at the earnest expression on Falco’s face, memorizes his childlike naivety, and prays that nothing changes about him when he comes back from Fort Helena.
(Because he will come back. There’s too many people waiting for his return.)
It’s barely late in the afternoon, but there’s a darkness that smothers the internment zone of Liberio.
The sun is shining, and Colt can feel himself already getting overheated in his uniform as he steps off the train, but even the sunlight does nothing to wipe the grim expressions off the faces of his fellow soldiers. Everyone’s excited to be off base and to see their loved ones, sure, but this isn’t a holiday visit
When there’s active war and their enlisted sons are stuck on base, Eldian parents know what it means when they see their child on the doorsteps of their home, no prior explanation given except for a letter in the mail sent just a day before the dreaded arrival of their son.
Opening the door and seeing their baby in uniform isn’t a cause for celebration. It’s the chance that this very well may be the last time they ever see their child again.
No one is out in the street. Parents and families have received their letters in the mail, telling them that in twenty-four hours, they can expect to see their soldier returning home for the night.
Not even a full day, Colt realizes. He’s back a few hours before supper, but what really can he do with his family before he wakes up at the crack of dawn to head on a train to a warzone? Maybe, in the few hours he has with them, he’ll figure out a proper way to say farewell.
The Grice family home is modest, unassuming. Much like its inhabitants.
Barnaby Grice is where Colt inherits his height from, but he’s developed a slouch (a disappointing consequence of his chronic back pain) that makes it hard to believe. His shoulders sag, and he looks tired. Mom says it’s because he can’t sleep at night; too much restless energy. His father is good with his hands; before the illness took over, he had been one of the engineers — one of the few Eldian engineers, too — that worked on the Navy’s ships. He still wants to work, offering to help fix up neighbor’s boats, free of charge. It’s a slow death, to be a busybody whose body is failing them.
Amelia Grice fusses over her husband constantly. With both of her boys now out of the house, it’s easier to manage the household, but that doesn't mean she can’t find problems that need her attention. If keeping an eye on her husband proves to be not enough to keep her entertained, she spends her time flipping through old family albums, seeing her little boys, and then wondering what she can do to help them. She’s taken up knitting; sewing is essential, but knitting is purely for pleasure. There’s a stack of sweaters and blankets she’s managed to make, and they’re all going to be stuffed in her sons’ knapsacks before they take the train back to base.
(She knits every time she thinks about them.
It’s going to be impossible for them to take all her completed projects back with them.)
As plain as it appears to be, it’s home to Colt. He stares at the faded red brick exterior of the house, the shutters black (and the color too saturated, indicating that it’s been freshly painted since the last time he’s been here), the welcome mat swept clean from any outside debris.
He doesn’t even have to knock on the door for it to swing open, revealing the tired, worn, but relieved expressions on both of his parents’ faces.
“Colt, Falco, you’re back home!” His mother ushers them into the house, and Colt is slapped in the face with the strong wall of nostalgia.
When was the last time he’s been back home?
(Will this be the last time?)
No matter the time that’s passed, Colt can tell that his mother’s been cooking her famous roast; the spices are still marinating on the meat, and he can recognize mom’s cooking from miles away. If he faints on the battlefield, the scent of her cookies should be enough to bring him back to full consciousness.
He sees his father’s work boots still resting by the front door, and as he walks further along the narrow hallway of their home, he spots the pencil marks etched on the wall. It’s markers for his (and then Falco’s) new heights as they went through their childhood years. Amelia is back in the kitchen, fussing over the food, and Falco follows her, probably in the hopes of sneaking in bites when she’s not looking.
Barnaby watches as Colt looks at the pencil marks he left behind all those years ago. He can still picture his son barely able to reach his shoulders, and now Colt is easily taller than him.
“Should I get out the tape measurer and pencil?” He asks, smiling as Colt seems to be broken out of whatever trance he was in.
Colt gives him a sheepish grin. “I just couldn’t believe I was ever this tiny. Even Falco was taller than me when we were the same age!”
“I can remember when you weren’t tall enough to reach the cabinets so you would have to climb on top of the counters.” When he catches the faint blush on his son’s cheeks, Barnaby laughs. “Bet you would rather not remember that, huh?”
“Mom screamed at me to get down because she was scared I was going to fall off and break open my head or something. Her yelling was what nearly made me lose my balance!”
“Ah, your mom just worries about you too much.”
“Don’t play Mr. Tough Guy!” Amelia peeks her head out from the kitchen. With her back turned, only Colt and Barnaby can spot Falco mischievously popping one of the baby potatoes from the pot roast into his mouth. They hold in their laughter while his mother continues. “Just so you know, Colt, your father’s been up all night ever since we got that letter! He even started sifting through our trashed newspapers for any articles he might’ve missed on Fort Helena.”
“I was just curious about the crossword.” Her husband mutters, but she rolls her eyes.
“Falco, go set the table! You two, come in here and sit down. I’m about to serve supper.”
Nothing beats a home cooked meal, but when you’ve been fed nothing but indiscernible mush and questionable protein on a military base, the Grice boys can’t help but devour everything on the table like they’ve been starved. Too happy at having the whole family over for dinner, Mrs. Grice ignores the way they forgo table manners and instead encourages them to eat some more. Right when Colt’s plate is almost cleaned off, she’s forking over more meat and potatoes onto his plate.
Colt tries to savor the taste of the meal, hopes and prays that his taste buds retain the memory of his mother’s cooking so he has something to substitute for the tasteless protein bars they serve all soldiers on the battlefield. He’s been trying to actively avoid thinking too much about it, but where he’s headed, there will be no pot roasts or mothers to serve it up on a nice plate for him.
Later on in the night, Colt gets that funny feeling again. The one where he feels like time seems to quicken its pace when it comes to him. He blinks, and he’s suddenly not at the dinner table, laughing at what the neighbors have been up to. He’s no longer washing the dishes, either (he does it despite his mother protesting that he shouldn’t have to worry about cleaning when he needs to be up early tomorrow); Falco still finds it funny when Colt makes funny shapes out of the bubbles and suds from the dish soap, and their boyish laughter fills the house, makes it feel like a home once more. Time gives him some grace, though, when it comes to tucking in Falco.
“A lot nicer than the bunk beds in the barracks, huh?” Colt teases. Falco’s sheets are still the same baby blue, but they smell fresh. His mother must have washed them while waiting for them to come home.
“Smells a lot nicer, too.” Falco comments, and Colt laughs. He’s sitting on the edge of his little brother’s bed, and Falco’s all snuggled up in his blanket. With the sweat and grime washed off from his face, his pastel colored jammies fitting only a bit too snug, and the way he fits so perfectly in his childhood bedroom, Colt knows that this is what Falco’s nights should have still been looking like. Falco will take the later train back to base, but Colt’s happy that he’ll at least get to eat lunch with their parents; maybe even find some time to catch up with the other neighborhood kids.
“If you think the barracks are bad, I don’t think you’ll want to be going where I’m going.” He’s trying to keep his voice light, teasing, but Falco immediately frowns.
“I’ll always follow you anywhere! I don’t care how bad it gets! You told me that as long as we’re together, everything will be okay.”
People aren’t supposed to go back on their word — especially not older brothers. Colt cringes as he thinks about how he’s going to have to make an addendum to that particular promise.
“You know, Falco, war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s dirty, and disgusting, and the officers are all harsher than they usually are.”
“I know that!”
Not really, not yet.
“Then why do you want to go with me so badly?”
“Because you’re my brother. Because I don’t want you to go through that alone.”
“You know that I love you, right?”
“Of course, I do. I’m not an idiot.” He mumbles, pulling the blanket closer to his chest, covering his chin.
“And it’s because I love you that I’m telling you to not follow me to these places. I’m your big brother. I want to do all of this so you’re never obligated to.”
“But—”
“Do you know why I thought inheriting the Beast was such an honor? It wasn’t because I wanted to make Marley proud, or because I was finally giving our country reparations for what Uncle did. It was an honor for me to inherit it because it meant that our family would be safe. No one else would have to fight anymore. It’ll all be over, don’t you get it? You can live better lives now.”
“But I don’t want to live a better life without you! It won’t be a better life without you!” Even in the dark, Colt can spot the familiar shine in his brother’s eyes as an indicator that he’s about to cry.
“Falco—” Colt pats him on the head, feeling babysoft hair underneath his calloused palm. “Everything will be okay in the end. I promise.”
That’s the first promise of the night that Colt makes. The next comes a few minutes later, when he heads downstairs and sees that the living room light is still on. His parents are seated next to each other on the couch, and they seem to be waiting for him.
If Colt was still a teenager, he would be feeling nervous. They’re seated almost as if they’re about to confront him about breaking curfew or a bad grade (neither scenarios have actually happened; the nickname of “Golden Boy Grice” didn’t spring out of nowhere).
“Hi.” He sits on the armchair adjacent to them.
“It’s still early in the evening, but you might as well go wash up and head to bed. You have an early morning ahead of you, sweetie.” His mother suggests this, but there’s a reason why she’s still up and waiting for him. It’s because she doesn’t want him to go to bed, not yet, not when she finally has her baby within reach.
“Too early for me to be able to sleep.” Colt tells her, because he knows how she’s feeling. “Besides, I feel like there’s some stuff I didn’t get to share with you two during dinner.”
Colt explains about how the paycheck he’ll receive while he’s actively on the battlefield will increase; not only has being a Warrior greatly increased his earnings, but being on the frontlines will leave plenty for his family. Half of his paycheck will go to them, of course, but he loses his confidence in his speech when he reveals his plan.
“And a portion of my earnings will be going to someone else.”
“Someone else?” His father raises an eyebrow; it’s not out of malice, but curiosity. He doesn’t care what his son does with his money, but throughout this entire day, Colt hasn’t given any indication of anyone important entering his life.
“A girl.” Colt answers, suddenly quieter than he’s been all night. “I’ve made the proper arrangements so that you two won’t have to worry about manually divvying it up yourselves, especially if I… don’t return.”
(It had been an awkward affair. He knows that you don’t have a bank account, and his only choice was to turn to Willa, the redheaded woman running your brothel.
“You want my bank account information so that a portion of your paycheck can be deposited into my account, and then you want me to cash it out and hand it over to her? Is that correct?”
“I understand if it’s too much of a hassle. If necessary, I can pay you—”
“I’m not going to kick someone when they’re down.” Willa interrupts him, and he can’t help but feel like maybe she’s even insulting him. Does she think he’s poor?
He kind of is, but he makes a far more decent living than many others in his neighborhood!
“Of course I can do it. Did you tell her about you sending her money?”
“No.”
“Good. She would have refused it.”
He knows you would. That’s precisely why he didn’t tell you.
“I don’t meddle in the affairs of soldiers, and I certainly don’t micromanage my girls. I’m asking this because I care about her. What are your intentions, truly? Are you going to steal her away from this place? Are you going to keep on giving her your paychecks, even when you find yourself a wife and start a family? Are you going to leave her with nothing but a few memories of you?” Willa’s green eyes are too sharp; just like Zeke, she pokes and prods, but it’s her intense stare that seems to whittle away at his very soul.
“I want to do whatever she wants.”
Willa’s eyes soften, just the slightest bit, before she promises to hand over the money to you every week, and then she sends Colt on his merry way.)
“A girl?” His mother repeats, and his father only continues to look more concerned.
“Did you do something with this girl to make her your responsibility?” Barnaby asks, scared of what answer he’ll receive.
“No! It’s not like that!” Colt exclaims, nearly jumping out of his seat. “It’s different. It’s… A delicate situation.” He tries to avoid looking into his parents’ eyes when he says this.
“Is she Eldian?” His father presses, leaning forward, practically holding his breath.
“She’s from the refugee camp.” Colt explains, and he watches as his mother processes what he’s just told them, along with the relieved slump of his father’s shoulders.
Refugees aren’t treated much better than Eldians; at least most Eldians have houses as opposed to tents.
“Is she a nice girl?” Amelia enters her Mother Hen mode, knowing that it’ll do no good to worry over her son. She shifts her anxieties onto you instead. “Oh, that poor girl, she’s going to be freezing in the upcoming weeks! You know we have some of the harshest winters here. Maybe I should knit her some sweaters. Do you think she would like that? What’s her name? I’ll head down to the camp one of these days, and—”
“Mom, it’s okay! She’s doing well.”
She doesn’t seem to believe him, but she eases up on her questions.
“She must mean a lot to you, though.” His father brings up. “Enough to mention her to your dear old parents. About time you bring a girl home to us, boy.”
Colt looks down at his hands. “She does. I’ll bring her back home if I make it back.”
The if stabs him in the throat, but he knows better than to make the promise of when.
“Well, we can’t wait to meet her then.” His mother is smiling at him, her hands clasped with his father’s. “I have a great feeling about her.”
There’s a breach in the barbed wire surrounding the back outskirts of the internment zone. Legend has it that a Marleyan officer once fell in love with an Eldian girl, and he sneakily cut this discreet opening so that they could make an escape and run off into the woods to be together.
Truthfully, Colt believes the other version of the origin story of the hole. It goes something along the lines of how a Marleyan officer once fought on the battlefield with an Eldian, and the Eldian saved his life by taking a bullet for him. Feeling bad, the officer returned, took his name off for active duty volunteer, and became a patrolman for the internment zone instead. When he heard that the Eldian’s brother was going to be shipped off next, the officer, not understanding that deserting his duty would lead to the Eldian’s death, decided to cut open this part of the fence and let him know that running away was an option.
Colt’s not sure what to believe, but he does know that this opening in the fence has been used for the past decade or so, and will probably continue to be of use long after he’s gone. No one’s ever used it to desert their duties, and Colt thinks this is precisely why it’s never been fixed. You can loosen the leash on a dog to give them some semblance of freedom, and it’ll make it feel better when it heads back to its owner.
He checks his watch. He’ll make it to you just short of ten at night; he has to be back on the train by five in the morning. He needs more time, but he knows he’ll never get it. Instead, he finds himself awkwardly sneaking through the poorly cut opening of the fence, glad that it’s an unspoken rule that the Marleyan officers don’t patrol the streets on deployment nights.
If anyone was actually idiotic enough to escape, they’d find all the officers waiting for them at all the possible exits.
Even entering the brothel starts to feel too familiar to Colt. The sparsely furnished entrance puts him at ease since the space is so narrow, he’s bound to bump into something or knock over a vase if they had it. The lightbulb burns brightly; one night, he stopped by and offered to change the bulb while he waited for you. Now, he even can recognize some of the girls photographed on the wall.
Even Willa doesn’t seem as intimidating as before — still intimidating, yes, but Colt can almost muster up the courage to look her in the eyes for prolonged periods of conversation.
But there’s someone here that feels the most familiar to him, the one person who puts him at ease, the one person who makes time stand still for him.
You.
Just looking at you makes his anxieties momentarily freeze, and he resists the urge to scoop you in his arms and hold you close to his chest.
“Why so serious, soldier?” You giggle, smoothing down the dress you put on just for him. When Willa went down your list of appointments, she didn’t miss the way your face lit up as she mentioned Colt’s name. You had some free time; you wanted to look pretty for him.
He’s taking you in, eyes unsure of what to focus on, just knowing that he wants to focus on you. You’re wearing a pretty, colorful dress that reaches down to the floor and accentuates your figure. The fabric looks light, soft. He likes it when you wear your colorful clothing. It makes you stand out even more. You brighten up his life, and you don’t even know it.
“You’re beautiful.” He breathes out, still standing there, a man stunned.
“I knew you would appreciate all the time and effort I put into getting ready!” You give him a pleased hum, before looking up and gasping. “Your hair!”
“Huh, what’s wrong with it?” He runs his hand through his fresh buzz cut, worried that a branch or leaves had somehow created a nest on top of his head.
“Why is it so short now?” You look so concerned that he can’t help but laugh. You’re taking his hand, dragging him to bed, forcing him to sit down as you balance yourself atop his lap. He wonders if you’re as hyper aware of how intimate this position is. He wonders if he’s a bad person for having to restrain himself, trying his best to chase away any unchaste thoughts about you. Instead, he chooses to focus on you.
Colt’s used to being scrutinized. Every move he makes is under the careful, unremitting surveillance of Marley. There’s probably a counter for every blink he’s ever done, just to ensure he isn’t communicating to his fellow brethren via morse code. He’s used to the watchful eyes of Marleyan soldiers and officers who eagerly wait for him to mess up; no matter how minor the infraction, there will be a punishment to serve for his mistake. He’s used to the feeling of eyes focused on him. The harsh glares, the fearful looks, the disgusted glances, the pitiful gazes.
You’re looking at him intently, your eyes trailing over every centimeter of him.
Curiosity. Wonder. Appreciation.
Your eyes are full of them, and so much more, and all of it is meant for him, because of him.
Even from this position, with you straddling his lap, it’s still hard to peer over him. He has impossibly nice posture, always with his back straight and stiff. Still, you play with the hastily shaved hair, running the tips of your fingers against the incredibly short strands, so concentrated on your little exploration that you almost seem to have forgotten you even asked him a question.
Until you pause, let out a little gasp that has him looking up in worry, and now you’re asking him a question you couldn’t possibly be distracted from obtaining your answer to.
“What’s this?” You ask him, fingers pausing at the two scars dangerously close to his forehead. You’ve never noticed them before; they’re too close to his hairline, easily hidden when his hair is grown out and covering it from the world. With the buzzcut, the twin scars stick out against his fine, blond strands.
“My scars?” He meets your eyes, reaching up to gently place his hand over yours, the one that was tracing his scars with morbid fascination.
You nod, not wanting to speak out of fear that the words are going to get tangled in your throat. He lets out a soft laugh, even though nothing seems very funny to you right now. He stops when he sees your frown, your sad eyes.
He squeezes your hand. “They’re just scars. Nothing to worry about.”
“How long have they been there?”
“Since I was fourteen, I think.” Colt’s other hand finds its way to your waist, and he holds you, keeps you steady. “See, I can’t even remember all the details from how I got them. Not that serious, okay?”
But it is serious, you want to tell him. Because it’s him. Because a scar indicates an injury. Because it’s Colt getting hurt.
You swallow down those sentences, and instead let out a shaky, “How’d you get them?”
Now he winces, almost like the memory is being played out in his mind. Colt doesn't think too much of how bad his luck is, but he is acutely aware of how lame his life sounds when he has to actually verbalize what he’s been through to you. “It was during one of my earlier sparring matches. They had all of us get dressed in full military uniform to simulate what combat as an active soldier would feel like, and you’ve seen it before, the helmets we wear. Bulletproof, so the material isn’t the softest.” He chuckles a bit, but it’s clear that he failed to lighten the mood. He clears his throat, continuing.
“It’s not a very interesting story. A Marleyan soldier was just being extra aggressive that day, and I happened to be the one paired up with him.” Because that’s typically how Colt’s luck goes. “And he managed to take my helmet off and rammed it against my head. None of the officers noticed until after he got the second hit, which is why there’s only two. So, could be worse, huh?” He’s smiling, trying to make you feel more at ease, but the look you’re giving him makes his heart ache.
Only two? Only?
“Did the officers not notice or did they just refuse to acknowledge it until it looked like you would bleed out to death on the training field?” Your voice is shaking, and Colt moves your hand from his hair to down on the bed.
“Hey. Look at me, please.” Always gentle, always kind, always soft. You like that about him, maybe feel something even more for him because he’s like this, but where does that gentleness, that kindness, that unwavering softness, lead him to? Bloody wounds and lasting scars? Bad memories and story retellings that leave a bitter taste in his mouth?
You comply, still frowning at him.
“I’m okay now. I’ll always be okay.”
He squeezes your hand as if to punctuate his promise.
“I can’t believe I never noticed you had these scars.” You sound upset over this fact.
He laughs lightly. “Even the people watching the match probably don’t remember if it left me scarred or not. You shouldn’t feel bad. Besides, when my hair grows out, it’s hard to see.”
“Why did you get a haircut?” You ask him again; the soldiers you’ve seen all grow their hair out. It’s not a bad look; you think Colt is so handsome he could pull off just about anything, but still — your soldier doesn’t strike you as someone who wants to venture out and try new haircuts.
You don’t miss the hard swallow and the tightness of his jaw. He’s stressed about something. He’s hiding something.
“Colt—” Despite the nervousness of what his answer could possibly be, you still say his name gently.
He closes his eyes, memorizing the way you say his name. You always say his name gently. You even say your brother’s name, Ramzi, gently, too. You treat names with care, like they’re something precious, fragile.
He’s a soldier, yes, but there’s something nice in knowing that the person you adore the most believes that you are something precious, fragile, meant to be handled with care.
“—why did you get your hair cut?”
He opens his eyes. Your pretty features are contorted into a look of confusion and concern. He wants to tell you not to worry about him, that he’ll be fine, that he has everything handled. Instead, he swallows hard and takes you in, commits the image of you to his memory. He’d forget his own name in favor of remembering the way you look when you smile, pure joy lighting up your usual melancholy expression.
“Tonight is my last night seeing you before I get deployed.”
“You’re leaving?” He doesn’t like the way your question sounds, coming out raw and scratchy. Disappointed. Hurt.
And he’s so close to you right now, your weight resting comfortably on top of him, that he can witness all the emotion flickering across your facial features, pooling around in your eyes.
“Yes.”
Gone is your good mood. You’re staring at him, lips slightly parted, his hand still holding yours. You’re looking at him like he’s going to disappear at any minute now, and he’s so scared that he’ll blink, and he’ll really be gone, already on the train off to war.
Don’t look at me like I’m already a ghost. He wants to beg you. Stare at me for as long as you want, but trust that I’ll still be here.
“When will you be back?” You finally manage to find the strength to ask him.
“As soon as I can be.” It’s the most honest answer he can give you; the answer that will crush you the least. The truth? He’s not even sure if he’s going to make it back. War promises a lot of things: honor, glory, heroics. It never promised a safe return.
“You’ll come back, though, right?” You’re staring at him so expectantly that Colt Grice knows he’ll do anything on the battlefield to ensure that he’s on the train back home, back to you.
“If that’s what you want, I’ll find a way.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You scold him, and he can’t help but smile at a fond memory of you telling him the same exact thing just a few weeks prior.
Before the kiss that he relives in his memories constantly, before deployment was even a thought on the forefront of his mind, just barely a fortnight before now, Colt’s sitting on the floor, back against the side of your bed, looking up at you from an angle that surely hurts his neck but he doesn’t protest. He never complains.
Sometimes you wish he would, just so you could know what to do to put him at ease, like how he always seems to be able to comfort you.
In this moment, Colt’s finishing up telling you a story about the blind date mishaps that happen on base. The girls-to-boys ratio on base is absolutely abysmal, he says, and the girls hold all the cards.
“The girls on base must find you handsome, don’t they?” You’re on the bed, but you’re sitting upright, knees up so you can rest your chin atop them.
“Um, well, I don’t know—”
“They do.” You say, suddenly wanting to curl up and make yourself feel smaller. You know it’s silly to feel the way that you do; scared that one day Colt will just look at you and not see anything worth looking at. If Colt stops and thinks about the future, you wonder, where do you fit in it? You know that you don’t exactly resemble the beautiful Eldian girls that he’s grown up with, the same ones who are probably more than happy to pursue him. They’re connected to him by the same culture, the same background — surely whatever connection he feels with you couldn’t possibly be as strong as what he can share with them.
“I don’t care that they do. I only care if you find me handsome.”
The expression on his face is so earnest and honest that you find yourself practically melting into the mattress. You’re not good at being vulnerable, never as open with your feelings as he is, but it’s almost like he can tell when you’re on the brink of insanity. When you’re close to blurting out that you don’t want him anymore, even though that’s far from the truth.
“Well, what happens if the most beautiful girl on base approaches you and says you’re the most attractive man she’s ever seen, and she wants to let you do all sorts of depraved, nasty things to her? What then?”
Colt likes to think that he’s managed to get a good read on you. You don’t often say what’s exactly on your mind, but he thinks he can fill in the blanks most of the time. There is no beautiful girl on base for you to be concerned about, and just the hypothetical that you’re bringing up is so comical that he almost wants to laugh. Even if it seems silly, he holds back his smile. You’re not asking him because you think this scenario is likely going to happen; you’re asking him would you choose me over someone else?
The answer is you’re the only one for me.
“I would scream for the authorities to take her away from my vicinity.”
“Hmm.” You mull over his answer, secretly pleased that he’s playing along with your antics that stem from places of yourself that you don’t want to explore; the insecurity, the fear, the anxiety that comes with being someone who you’re so certain is too good for you.
The more of himself he hands over to you, the more comfortable you feel with him. But the more you have of him, the more frightened you get at the prospect of losing him, because as the days go by, there’s more of him to lose. He’s not the stuttering boy who brought you socks one time. He’s the only man who knows your name and says it with such tender care that you start to believe that if you dare to fall, he’ll be there to catch you.
“What if you go out drinking with your friends, and the bartender is a very pretty girl, and she offers you free drinks and flirts with you all night?” You know Colt can’t turn down a good drink. Him not turning down the opportunity to go to a bar practically led him to your room all those nights ago.
Is your favorite vice more appealing than me?
“I would pay off my tab immediately, and let her know that I took a vow of sobriety. I wouldn’t even finish my current drink. I would just run and get the hell out of there.”
This makes you laugh. When his time is up, and he has to pass along the Beast to the next successor, he hopes they know how blessed they are to be able to hear your soft laughter in his passed-down memories. This is a melody that cannot be replicated by any trained orchestra.
“A vow of sobriety? You would never!”
He pretends to be hurt at your comment. “If you asked me to give up drinking, I’d never let a single drop of liquor in my system ever again.”
You mean more to me than any vice. There is no pleasure on this planet that can compare to the euphoria I feel when I’m with you.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” But you’re still giggling, adjusting your position so that you’re laying on your belly now, looking at him like you believe him.
(You should. He means every word he says to you.)
“You always tell me that.” He brings your hand close to his face before he’s pressing a kiss against your knuckles. Like heat hitting butter, you melt into him, suddenly finding yourself sinking against his chest, hiding your face from him in the space between his shoulder and jawline. The top of your hair tickles his chin; you breathe in deeply, catching the faint whiff of cologne and soap on his neck.
“No I don't.” You mutter, knowing damn well that you do.
You always ask him wild hypotheticals, usually out of the blue, too, as if you’re trying to catch him off guard. As if you’re waiting for him to slip up and admit that one day, he really will just run away with some other girl and drop you like a bad habit.
“What if you find a girl who doesn’t bother you with her stupid questions?” Your hands grip the material of his uniform, fingers curled around the dry cleaned cotton blend.
“There’s only one girl who keeps my attention, whether she’s asking me questions or not.” You feel the familiar touch of his hand pressed against the small of your back. Warm. Comforting.
Refusing to give in to him too soon, you soldier on, picking your next set of questions. These are a bit more serious.
“What if the war never ends, and you’re stuck on your deployment forever?”
“I’ll pretend to be insane and get sent to the mental facility back home, and then you’ll be the one who has to do all the running around to visit me.”
You don’t have to look up to know that he’s smiling when he says this. You should chastise him for not taking this seriously, but then the warmth of his body pressed against yours keeps you grounded. Helps you to remember that no one else in the world would be taking this barrage of stupid questions as seriously as him.
“Well, what if you’re fighting and get horribly injured, and then some cute nurse saves your life? I heard that’s how a lot of soldiers meet their wives.”
You can feel him playing with the ends of your hair as he tries to decide on a proper answer. It feels nice, to have him twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, and it’s almost enough to get you to ditch all these hypotheticals, but you stand your ground. “Well?”
“That won’t happen because I won’t let any nurse work on me, cute or not. If I get hurt, I’ll fix myself up.”
You think about the scars permanently embedded on his skin. The casual violence inflicted on him. The indifference of every doctor he’s dealt with.
“Don’t say that.” You mumble, trying to sink yourself even deeper into him, curling up against his chest and almost shyly burying your whole face into the stiff material of his uniform jacket. “I don’t want you to not get medical attention.”
Colt catches himself smiling. First, you’re worried about him running off with a nurse, next you’re telling him that he needs to get aid if he needs it. He doesn’t mind answering all your questions if it’ll put your mind at ease, but he does wonder why the terms of engagement keep switching.
“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell the nurse that just because she saves my life, it doesn’t mean I’ll run away with her.” Then, after really taking the time to consider a scenario in which he does need medical attention, he adds, “I don’t think I’ll look like someone worth marrying when I’m bleeding out and covered in dirt.”
You let out a little huff of laughter at the idea of Colt ever looking unattractive. As if. Still fresh in your memories is the vision of him from months ago; even with his bruised face and body limping from exhaustion, he still looked handsome.
“What’s so funny?”
“That you would think anyone wouldn’t want to marry you.” Now you tilt your head to look up at him. He has an unreadable expression on his face, almost like he’s deep in thought, but you’re not sure what he could be considering.
“I wouldn’t marry just anyone, though.” He finally says, looking down at you. One hand is still playing with your hair, constantly toying with the ends of it. This time, the action isn’t enough to distract you.
He wouldn’t marry just anyone?
You’re aware of your heart beating and from this position, you’re certain that he can feel it, too. Hating this sudden overwhelming sensation of vulnerability, of being exposed, you feel yourself trying to edge away from him. You must have been easy to figure out, or maybe Colt just knows you too well already, because he’s prepared, gently pushing his hand against your back to keep you settled next to him.
“Hey,” he says this softly; just when you think he reaches peak gentleness, it’s like he unlocks some hidden reserve of it. Like he has an unlimited amount of kindness stored in his battered body. Softer still, he’s telling you, “Ask me another question.”
“What if you find the one you want to marry?” You can’t look at him when you ask this.
“I already did.” This is the quickest he’s ever answered you, and you know that he gives you outrageous responses for every silly hypothetical you throw his way. You want to tell him that out of all these questions, this is the most serious one. He needs to take this seriously. The implication drawn from his answer frightens you as much as it excites you.
“But what if you don’t come back?” Your voice sounds so small that he can practically see the words shrinking in size as you speak.
“I will.” You feel him tracing a shape against your back. He swallows hard. “I’ll come back to you. I always will. I promise.”
Out of all the ridiculous statements exchanged this night, you think this one takes the cake. Even more unrealistic than him giving up drinking.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You don’t like the way your words come out when you’re with him, all coated in emotion. He makes you feel things to the point where all those feelings struggle to be contained ‘til they’re spilling out your lips and drowning the both of you in them.
“Okay. I’ll promise not to make promises I can’t keep.” You wonder what he’s outlining on your back with the tip of his index finger. It could be letters, and you try to focus on following his movements, but you can’t. Something about it seems to calm you down, steadies your heartbeat. Makes it feel like you won’t drown from the overwhelming urge to beg Colt to run away with you, that you’ll survive this tidal wave of emotions and live to see the start of a new day.
And then he says something that pulls you under, drowning you, crushes you with the intensity of something indescribable. All you know is that you’re full of this foreign feeling when he tells you, “I promise to come back. Always.”
He can tell you that he’ll try to come back, or that he wants you to forget all about him if he doesn’t make it. Those are more realistic. Those are promises that are easy to keep.
But Colt can never seem to take the easy way in life. He’d rather take the roughest route there is, all the while, he’s fixing the road so that the others who follow have a smoother path to take.
“I’ll come back to you.” He repeats, cradling the back of your head as you try to bury yourself into all the empty spaces of his body.
He catches a glance at the face of his watch; it’s nearly midnight now. He’ll have to head back soon, even though he thinks he could spend the rest of his life with you on top of him, his arms wrapped around you.
He whispers your name, and you barely stir, but you let out a little hum to let him know you’re listening.
“Do you want to know how to send me letters while I’m away? Just in case you ever need to reach me for anything, or just in case you want to hear from me?” He sounds almost afraid, like he thinks your answer is going to be a rejection.
“Of course I want to! I didn’t know we could send letters to soldiers.” You actually sound excited, but then you pause. “Oh, you should let me know if there’s a limit to how many letters I can send. I don’t want you to get sick of seeing my name in the post. And, you’ll be busy, obviously, so I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”
You’re used to your gentle, soft soldier. Colt, who always ends his sentences with a chuckle or a good natured jibe (usually self deprecating). This is one of the first times you’ve ever heard him sound so serious. The gentle ministrations of his finger tracing letters and shapes against your spine don’t cease, but his voice is hard. Full of conviction. It leaves no room for your insecurities to rent out.
“You’re never a bother to me. Write to me as much as you would like. I always want to hear from you.”
It’s the truth. Always honest, always open, Colt is telling you the truth.
(He loses count of how many times he’s traced stars across your back, and in shaky, anxious letters — fearful that you’ll figure it out — I love you.)
In 852, roughly four thousand Eldian soldiers and twenty-two Marleyan officers are sent to capture and restore Marleyan order in Fort Helena. Only nine hundred Eldians and twenty Marleyans will come home.
The train ride to Fort Helena is a rowdy one.
The train rides to all deployments usually are.
Even if they want to believe (desperately) that they’ll come back, Eldian boys are raised to be practical. Despite their wishes for it to not be important, they all found themselves getting their affairs in order. Telling their families that they love them, what to do when they’re gone, how they want to be buried, where to spread their ashes. It’s hard to have a reunion with your family and reminisce on the good old days when they know that there’s a chance they’re about to become just another memory to share.
But thinking about that would put a damper on things. They’re already on a speeding train to death and demise; there’s no point in acting like it. They’re not sure for who, most for most of them, this may be the last time they get to create cheerful, happy memories. Something to keep them warm when the rain is pouring on their battered bodies, hailstorms of bullets flying overhead, the thunderous booms of cannonfire.
Someone is singing a song from their childhood; joyful chants butchering the melody and swapping the innocent lines for something dirty are filling the train, and nearly every compartment can hear the anthem, regardless of whether anyone in said compartment is singing or not. A bunch of soldiers managed to sneak in some liquor; half-full bottles of whiskey from their family’s liquor cabinets, cheap bottles of beer from bartenders pitying the deployed soldiers, homemade moonshine.
They’re not allowed to bring too many personal items with them on deployment. As the officers like to remind them, this ain’t a vacation, ladies, so pack light and pack sharp. The alcohol should be fine; Colt knows that the officers are indulging in their own (the only difference being that theirs is top shelf). Some have snuck in baked goods from their mothers and sisters; photographs tucked away in jackets and pockets; handkerchiefs from girlfriends. Colt has a knitted blanket from his mother. It takes up more space in his pack than the thin military issued ones, the ones created in a lab and supposedly designed to retain body heat.
While it’s Colt’s first time being the first group of soldiers on a deployment — meaning he’s the first to be on the frontlines — this is Michael’s first time ever being deployed. Colt wonders what type of soldier he is. You can tell a lot by a person based on what personal item they choose to bring with them.
The flash of a light hits Colt right in the face.
“Aren’t you just a handsome fella?” Michael has a large grin on his face as he yanks out the rapidly developing photo from his camera.
An instant camera. Michael brought an instant camera to the deployment.
Most Eldians have only seen large, bulky cameras, and getting your photo taken was a big deal. It’s a pain to find time (or money) to get it developed, and most Eldian families can’t afford a personal camera. The instant camera is a shiny, brand-new technological feat, and expensive. Of course Lieutenant Sells would be the only one able to afford one — able to afford to bring it to an active warzone, too.
He’s been going around, snapping photos of all the soldiers, even the Eldians. He’s not in the compartment designated for Marleyan officers only. He’s been roaming around, jumping from compartment to compartment, ignoring how every Eldian who doesn’t know him is on edge until he’s goading them to take a photo.
Before they had gotten on the train, Michael made Colt pose for a picture with him. The only person nearby and readily available to take it for them was a displeased Porco who begrudgingly agreed but was frowning the whole time. Colt was sure Porco nearly burst a vein from annoyance when Michael requested he take two pictures; a copy for him, and a copy for Colt.
Michael seems as cheerful as ever despite the fact that he’s being sent off to war. Perhaps it’s his good spirits and the fact that he interrupted Porco’s farewell to Colt that had Porco on edge. Truthfully, Colt’s glad for Michael’s interruption; the conversation they were sharing had reached very serious, very deep territory.
“You seeing me off?” Colt tries to tease Porco, but he doesn’t smile back. He’s got his hands shoved his pockets, army green bomber thrown over his clothes.
“Why wouldn’t I? This is the first time you’re being deployed without me.”
“I know. I grow up so fast, don’t I?”
“You don’t need to joke around with me, dickhead. You can tell me you’re scared.” Porco’s not looking him in the eyes; he’s staring at the space above them. Colt wonders if he’s staring at his now-visible scars.
“Well, it doesn’t matter if I’m scared or not. It won’t change the fact that I’m about to be sent off.”
“Just don’t be stupid out there, got it, Grice?”
“Gee, is this your idea of a proper farewell? It’s not my first time going to the battlefield, Galliard.”
“Listen, things are different with this deployment. You’ll be the first person they think to send out in enemy territory. Zeke has a bad feeling about this assignment, and I do, too.” Porco is finally looking him in the eyes. “And I know you. You’re the type of idiot to take a bullet for someone, enemy or not.”
Porco isn’t a cold-blooded killer. He’s the type of soldier who learned to develop the mentality that when it comes down to his life or an enemy’s, he must do everything in his power to ensure that he’s the one who will be returning home — preferably in one piece as opposed to being shipped back in a box, a broken body for his mother to bury.
“You need to finish the job. Ghosts haunt you in your memories, but a soldier with a vendetta against you can haunt you in real time.” Porco claps Colt on the shoulder, and they’re looking into each other’s eyes. There’s no malice evident in the hazel color of Porco’s eyes, but there is worry. Genuine worry.
Colt is nearly frozen in place at the fact that Porco would be affected deeply if he didn’t make it back. Another person he has to promise to come back to.
“Do what it takes to get back home.” Porco tells him. “Don’t worry about anything else.”
Colt is the type of guy who could be actively getting shot at, but he’d still find the time to be more concerned about the lives of other people. His parents, Falco, you.
Trying to lighten the mood, Colt swallows and lets out an awkward, breathy laugh. “Well, if I wasn’t scared then, now I sure as hell am.” Knowing Porco’s status as the Jaw, Colt asks his comrade, his friend, for a favor. “Just don’t let Falco know I was scared, okay? Tell him his big brother had it all under control.”
Porco scowls. “Tell him that yourself. When you come back.” And then, looking like he’s about to say something else, Michael comes around the corner to brush Porco’s hand off of Colt’s shoulder so he can swing his arm around Colt.
Porco’s scowl only deepens as Michael waves his camera in his face. “Hey, Galliard, mind snapping a quick pic of me and Colt?”
The photos Porco takes of them have found their respective homes; Colt’s copy rests in his jacket pocket, and Michael’s will also be carried in his pocket, too. Right now, though, his copy is turned on the blank side, residing on the traincar’s table, and Michael’s got a pen out, scribbling something on the back.
Colt leans over to see what he’s writing down on it. Probably something stupid and embarrassing. Michael doesn’t show it off like Colt expects him to; instead, he tries to discreetly slip it into his jacket, turning it over to its proper side, where the image of Colt and Michael standing side by side, Michael’s arm slung over his shoulder, can be seen.
But Colt catches a glimpse of Michael’s surprisingly neat handwriting.
Colt Grice & Michael Sells — brothers in arms
“The ladies are gonna loooove this.” Michael shows Colt the photo he’s just taken of him. Colt is staring out the train window, looking to be deep in thought. He’s glad that Michael didn’t catch him when he was staring stupidly at the flash, mouth open in shock. The only person who would loooove that would be Michael, because it’d be a new addition to his blackmail folder, probably.
There’s only one lady that Colt cares about whether she loves this image of him or not. He left instructions to you on how to send him mail while he’s deployed, and it’s not like it’s just letters he’s allowed to send.
“Can I have it, please?” Colt finds himself asking, realizing that he really doesn't look half-bad in the photograph.
Michael pretends to sigh. “I was really hoping to be able to hang onto this photo. Cuddle with it when the nights get cold, and I need a comforting presence. That, and I was gonna sell it off to one of the many lovely nurses back on our home base who are dying for a chance with you.” He gives him a cheeky grin before sliding it over to Colt. “Whatcha gonna do with the picture?”
“I’m sending it to someone.” Colt goes back to staring out the train window as Michael slides into the seat opposite of his.
“Oh? Is it a girl?” Michael wiggles his eyebrows mischievously, which makes Colt instantly regret looking at him.
He doesn’t answer, but the tips of his ears turning pink gives Michael all he needs to know.
“So it is a girl!” Michael leans forward excitedly. “Tell me everything about her. Is she a stick in the mud like you are?”
“She’s not a stick in the mud.” Colt makes a face. “Stop being so nosy. It’s not a good look, Michael.”
He pretends to have been shot, clutching his heart and making exaggerated, wounded noises. “Ah, you’re breaking my heart, Colt! Oh, it hurts so bad to be insulted by you. Please, make the pain go away. I’m in agony!”
Michael’s antics make the corners of Colt’s mouth turn upwards. “You know, you’re the reason why I met her.”
“Oh?” He immediately stops his dramatics. “How’d you meet a girl that I know? No offense, but we don’t necessarily live in the same neigh— Wait a minute!” Michael gapes at him. “Willa found you a girl who showed you a good time!”
“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Colt mutters, almost regretting letting Michael know about you.
“You dirty dog! And here I was, sitting and thinking that you’re the most gentlemanly out of all of us.” Michael is smiling. “So, what’s her name? What’s she like? Don’t tell me any of the sordid details of what you two get up to, though. It’ll give me nightmares.”
“Shut up, Michael. I told you it’s not like that.” Colt is blushing, but there’s something nice about being able to talk about you in public. He doesn’t want you to be a secret, to be the girl who he sneaks out to hold in his arms in a windowless room. He carries your name in the interior breast pocket of his uniform jacket, close to his heart. Ignoring Michael’s initial question, Colt smiles as he tells him, “She’s everything.”
Michael lets out a whistle that gets drowned out by the train’s own whistle. The brakes squeal and when the train comes to a full stop, the boys’ bodies are lurched forward.
Colt looks out the window and sees nothing but rolling hills; save for the mutters fluttering throughout the compartments, it’s completely silent.
They have reached their destination.
author's note: remember when the synopsis said that his life is about to get a hell of a lot worse? chapter three, part 2 is when we go full throttle into the war arc <3 but dw!!! reader's life ALSO gets worse too!!!! equality!
#colt grice x reader#colt grice x you#aot x reader#snk x reader#one shot#fluff#angst#smut#series: daylight#attack on titan#colt grice
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Supernatural (Dean Winchester x Female!Reader)
The End
Masterlist pt 1
Masterlist pt 2
*3rd Person POV*
A religious man stands outside the hotel with a handful of pamphlets. He addresses a passerby while the Impala drives up. "Hi. Good evening, brother. Is your soul rapture-ready?" he asked as the passersby ignores him. "Thank you, sir. God bless." the man said and he addresses two more people as the Impala stops in front of the hotel.
"Good evening, folks. Is your soul rapture-ready? Because what I'd like to do is just show you exactly what God's love is for you." He said but the couple ignore him. "Okay, God bless." the man said as Dean and (y/n) get out of the Impala and head for the hotel. The religious man addresses them.
"Excuse me, friends, but have you taken time out to think about God's plan for you?" He asked and the two stop and look at him. "Too friggin' much, pal." Dean replied and the two enter the hotel while the man watches them go.
"We're talking about the Colt, right? I mean, as in the Colt?" Dean asked through the phone, which was on speaker so that (y/n) could hear, as he lays on the bed. "We are." Castiel replied through the phone while (y/n) brushes her teeth. "Well, that doesn't make any sense. I mean, why would the demons keep a gun around that, uh, kills demons?" Dean asked while on Castiel's side, a car goes by.
"What? What? Did—I didn't—I didn't get that." Castiel said and Dean and (y/n) laugh before she spits out the toothpaste and finished cleaning her teeth. "You know, it's kind of funny. Talking to a messenger of God on a cellphone. It's, you know, like watching a Hell's Angel ride a moped." (y/n) quips and Dean laughs. "This isn't funny, guys. The voice says I'm almost out of minutes." Castiel said. "Okay, all right. I'm—I'm telling you, Cas, the mooks have melted down the gun by now." Dean said.
"Well, Ariel and I hear differently. And if it's true and if you are still set on the insane task of killing the devil, this is how we do it." Castiel said. "Okay. Where do we start?" Dean asked him. "Where are you two now?" Castiel asked. "Kansas City." Dean replied as he leans across the bed to grab his room key off the bedside table. "Century Hotel, room 113." Dean said.
"I'll be there immediately." Castiel said and Dean sits up. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. No, no, come on, man. We just drove like sixteen hours straight, okay? (y/n) and I are humans. And there's stuff we got to do." Dean said.
"What stuff?" Castiel asked. "Eat, for example. In this case, sleep. We just need like four hours once in a while, okay?" Dean said. "Yes." Castiel said. "Okay, so, you can pop in tomorrow morning." Dean said. "Yes. I'll just—" Castiel said and Dean hangs up and sets his phone on the table by him.
"—wait here, then." Castiel said as he hears the dial tone then he shuts the phone and stands at the side of the road.
The couple were curled up to each other and were close to sleep when Dean's phone vibrates. "Seriously?" Dean grumbled, annoyed, while (y/n) sighed then leans over Dean to reach for his phone. "I'll tell him off." (Y/n) growled as she grabbed his phone.
"Well, look at you, taking control. Pretty hot, not gonna lie." Dean teased, flirtatiously, and smacks her ass. "You know, for someone that claimed they were tired, you sure are acting pretty frisky now." (y/n) said. "Always with you." He said, giving her a wink as she answers the phone. "Cas, I'm only gonna say this once, Dean and I need sleep!" she growls. "(Y/n), it's me." a familiar voice said, that wasn't Castiel nor was it Ariel's.
(y/n) sits up. "Sam? It's quarter past four." she said, confused, while Dean sits up as well at the mention of his brother's name. "This is important." Sam said.
Later, (y/n) put Sam on speaker and Dean grabs a couple of beers out of the fridge and hands one to (y/n). "So, you're his vessel, huh? Lucifer's wearing you to the prom?" (y/n) asked. "That's what he said." Sam said. "Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?" Dean asked, sarcastically.
"So, that's it? That's your response?" Sam asked. "What are you looking for?" Dean asked. "I don't know. A—a little panic? Maybe?" Sam said. "I guess I'm a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point. Cause we also found out, not long ago, that (y/n) is Ariel’s vessel." Dean said. "What?!" Sam exclaimed. "Yeah, but unlike you two, I'm not forced to say yes to her. She said I'm a last resort if Lucifer and Michael get both of you." (Y/n) said.
"What are we gonna do about it?" Sam asked. "What do you want to do about it?" Dean asked back. "I want back in, for starters." Sam said. "Sam—" Dean said but Sam talks over him. "I mean it. I am sick of being a puppet to these sons of bitches. I'm gonna hunt him down, guys." He said.
"Oh, so, we're back to revenge, then, are we? Yeah, 'cause that worked out so well last time." Dean said, sarcastically. "Not revenge. Redemption." Sam said and Dean takes his phone out of (y/n)'s hand.
"So, what, you're just gonna walk back in and we're gonna be the terriffic trio again?" Dean asked. "Look, Dean, I can do this. I can. I'm gonna prove it to you." Sam said. "Look, Sam—it doesn't matter—whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me, we're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good." Dean said and (y/n)'s eyes widen at this.
"Dean, it does not have to be like this. We can fight it." Sam said, sounding a bit upset. "Yeah, you're right. We can. But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us—love, family, whatever it is—they are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. Yeah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing, if we just go our own ways." Dean said.
"Dean, don't do this." Sam pleads. "Bye, Sam." Dean said and he hangs up. "You don't mean that." (Y/n) said as Dean turns away from her. "Yes, I do." He said and (y/n) stands up. “You know what? I’m tired of biting my tongue here, Dean.” (Y/n) said and Dean shakes his head at her. “(Y/n) I’m tired. Let’s just go to sleep and talk about this later.” He muttered.
“No! We’re having this talk now. I know you miss him.” (Y/n) said and Dean shakes his head again, as if such an idea was idiotically. “You do, Dean. It’s written all over your face!” She said. “Oh is it?” Dean asked, in a deadpan tone. “I miss him too and I’m sure he misses us.” (Y/n) said. “That’s sweet.” Dean said, sarcastically. (Y/n) let out a huff, becoming really irritated with his attitude.
“And you’re being really stubborn about keeping him away.” She said, trying her best to remain calm. “I’m doing this for you and him.” Dean declared. “You know what you just said to him, how we're better when we're apart. It’s a bunch of crap.” (Y/n) growled. “It’s the truth!” Dean said, his voice rising. “Being apart is what started the apocalypse in the first place!” (Y/n) exclaimed. “What started the apocalypse, was him listening to Ruby over us!” Dean shouted.
“No, what started the apocalypse was you going to hell!” (Y/n) yelled, instantly regretting her words. Dean stares at her in shock then turns his back on her, so she can’t see his face.
(Y/n) slowly reaches towards him then looks down, ashamed for what she said. “I’m sorry. That went too far.” She said, apologetically, then raises her head to look at him. “But think about it, Dean. Every time crap hits the fan is when we’re apart.” She said.
“You know what I think?” Dean asked, keeping his back towards her. (Y/n) held her breath, a little in premonition. Dean turns to look at her with a hard glare. “It sounds like I should have never sold my soul for you.” He said in a bitter tone, his anger making him feel justified in his words.
(Y/n)'s eyes widen, so shock she’s almost frozen for a moment, unsure of how to react. “Maybe you shouldn’t have.” She mumbled, tears welling up in her eyes. Dean continues to glare at her, not seeming to realize his mistake.
(Y/n) turns, staggering for a moment, and hastily walks towards the door. “Where are you going?” Dean asked. “I’m getting my own room.” (Y/n) replied, sharply, opening the door and walking out. “(Y/n)!” Dean yelled after her but she slams the door behind her. Dean turns away, running his hands through his hair, irritably. “Damnit!” He exclaimed, kicking over a chair.
(Y/n) enters her room, that was located on the other side of the motel, as far away from Dean’s room as possible. She drops the room key on the table and nearly collapse when she reaches the bed.
Her hands were shaking and whole body was trembling as she was still reeling from what Dean said to her. She takes out her cellphone and keeps her hands steady just enough to dial Sam’s number.
She held the phone to her ear with one hand and held her other hand to her lips, trying to keep herself from breaking down. “Hello.” Sam said when he answers. “S-Sam.” (Y/n) stammered, tears escaping from her eyes so easily. “(Y/n)? What’s wrong?” Sam asked, in a concerned tone. “I-I…” (Y/n) tried to say, but she was unable to form the words and she starts to cry. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s alright, I’m right here.“ Sam said, softly.
“You're not.” (Y/n) said through her tears and Sam sighs. “I know. But I’m still here to talk to. And if I have to, I’ll drive all night to you so you can have a shoulder to cry on.” He said and (Y/n) smiles a little.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” Sam said and (Y/n) sniffs, roughly wiping her cheek. “I’ll try. It all started after Dean got off the phone with you…”
Meanwhile, Dean wakes up and finds himself lying on the springs of the hotel bed; the mattress gone. He gets up and looks around to see that the entire room is trashed. He looks out the window to see that so is the city. Dean leaves the hotel and takes a look around; the area is devastated, everything broken or graffitied on or both.
He hears something, like glass smashing. He goes to investigate. The first sign of life Dean sees is a girl in an alley with a teddy bear. He approaches her slowly. "Little girl? Little girl?" he called out but the girl doesn't respond. "Are you hurt?" he asked the girl but again the girl says nothing.
"You know the not-talking thing is kind of creepy, right?" Dean said but blood starts to drip from the girl's mouth. The girl shrieks and attacks Dean with a shard of glass. He flattens her and looks around, catching sight of a large piece of graffiti: it reads "CROATOAN". "Oh, crap." he mutters.
Several people, all most likely infected with the Croatoan virus the same as the girl, come around the corner and he runs. They chase him onto a street blocked by a chain-link fence until several soldiers on tanks arrive, shooting the infected people.
As more infected people fall from the gunshots, Dean stays under cover and retreats to an alley and breaks through the fence. A sign on the fence reads:
CROATOAN
VIRUS
HOT ZONE
NO ENTRY
BY ORDER OF ACTING REGIONAL COMMAND
AUGUST 1, 2014
KANSAS CITY
"August first, 2014." Dean reads then he goes over to a nearby cat and hotwires it.
Night had fallen as Dean drives around. There is no cell service and only static on the radio. "That's never a good sign." Dean mutters to himself. "Croatoan pandemic reaches Australia." A voice said, startling Dean. He turns and sees Zachariah sitting in the shotgun seat, reading a newspaper.
"I thought I smelled your stink on this Back to the Future crap." Dean grumbles. "President Palin defends bombing of Houston." Zachariah reads then he chuckles. "Certainly a buyer's market in real estate. Let's see what's happening in sports. That's right—no more sports. Congress revoked the right to group assembly. What's left of Congress, that is. Hardly a quorum, if you ask me." He said.
"How did you find me?" Dean asked him. "Afraid we had to tap some unorthodox resources of late—human informants. We've been making inspirational visits to the fringier Christian groups. They've been given your image, told to keep an eye out." Zachariah said and Dean has a look of realization on his face. "The Bible freak outside the motel—he, what, dropped a dime on me?" Dean asked and Zachariah smiles. "Onward, Christian soldiers." he chuckles and Dean scoffs and shakes his head.
"And where's (y/n)?" Dean asked him. "We left her alone. Seemed that she was very upset." Zachariah said and Dean frowns and does everything to bite his tongue, but the feeling of guilt was settling in his chest. "It looked like there was...what is it you humans say...trouble in paradise?" Zachariah said, a bit of a smirk on his face, and Dean grips the steering wheel, tighter.
The angel takes notice of this and he decided to keep pushing. "What did you do to her by the way? Hm?" Zachariah asked and Dean grits his teeth. "She finally had enough of you? Were you unable to fornicate with her?" Zachariah asked and Dean turns his head. "Shut up!" Dean growled and the Angel laughs.
"When the time comes, I'll make sure I'm the one who kills you." Dean threatened. "Oh, really? You kill me? Now that would be something." Zachariah laughs and Dean glares at him. "Okay, you've had your jollies. Now send me back, you son of a bitch." Dean growls. "Oh, you'll get back—all in good time. We want you to marinate a bit." Zachariah said.
"Marinate?" Dean asked. "Three days, Dean. Three days to see where this course of action takes you." said Zachariah. "What's that supposed to mean?" asked Dean. "It means that your choices have consequences. This is what happens to the world if you continue to say no to Michael. Have a little look-see." Zachariah said then he vanishes.
The next morning, Dean opens the door to Bobby's house. "Bobby? Bobby, I'm coming in!" he calls out as he looks around. The place is pretty thoroughly trashed, and from the spiderwebs and dust, no one has been around in a while. "Oh, no." he whispers as he sees Bobby's wheelchair on its side. Dean sets it upright and sees the bullet holes through and dried blood on the back of the seat.
"Where is everybody, Bobby?" Dean said then he opens a hidden compartment and pulls out Bobby's journal. He finds a photo of Bobby with Castiel, threeunidentified men, and a sign. "Camp Chitaqua." He mutters.
Dean approaches the sign from the photo to see men with guns are just inside the fence, patrolling. Dean does his best to stay out of sight. He catches sight of the Impala, smashed up and rusted to hell.
"Oh, baby, no." He said, despairingly, as he approaches the Impala for a better look at the damage, peering inside the driver's side door. "Oh, no, baby, what did they do to you?" he asked when he hears something and has barely turned to look when he is knocked out by another Dean, identified by the military-issue green jacket he is wearing instead of Dean's blue shirt.
Dean wakes up and discovers he is handcuffed to a ladder. He looks across the room to see himself cleaning a gun. "What the hell?" Dean asked as his Future-Self glares at him. "I should be asking that question, don't you think? In fact, why don't you give me one good reason why I shouldn't gank you right here and now?" he asked. "Because you'd only be hurting yourself." Dean said. "Very funny." Future Dean sneered.
"Look, man—I'm no shapeshifter or demon or anything, okay?" Dean said. "Yeah, I know. I did the drill while you were out. Silver, salt, holy water—nothing. But you know what was funny? Was that you had every hidden lockpick, box cutter, and switchblade that I carry. Now, you want to explain that? Oh, and the, uh, resemblance, while you're at it?" Dean asked. "Zachariah." Dean replied and Future Dean stands up.
"Come again?" he asked. "I'm you from the tail end of 2009. Zach plucked me from my bed and threw me five years into the future." Dean replied. "Where is he? I want to talk to him." Future Dean demanded. "I don't know." Dean said. "Oh, you don't know." Future Dean growls. "No, I don't know. Look, I just want to get back to my own friggin' year, okay?" Dean yells. "Okay. If you're me, then tell me something only I would know." Future Dean demanded.
Dean thinks, then smirks. "Rhonda Hurley. We were, uh, nineteen. She made us try on her panties. They were pink. And satiny. And you know what? We kind of liked it." Dean said and his future self kinda smirked. "Touché." he said then he sighs.
"So, what, Zach zapped you up here to see how bad it gets?" he asked. "I guess. Croatoan virus, right? That's their endgame?" Dean asked. "It's efficient, it's incurable, and it's scary as hell. Turns people into monsters. Started hitting the major cities about two years ago. World really went in the crapper after that." Future Dean replied
"What about Sam and (y/n)?" Dean asked and his future self goes still. "Heavyweight showdown in Detroit. From what I understand, Sam didn't make it." Future Dean said. "You weren't with him?" Dean asked. "No. No, me and Sam, we haven't talked in—hell, five years." Future Dean replied.
"We never tried to find him?" Dean asked. "We had other people to worry about." Future Dean said. "And (y/n)?" Dean asked, a bit nervously, and his Future Self's eyes shifts a bit before responding. "She's...gone." he replied. "Gone? What do you mean gone?" Dean asked and Future Dean glares at him then starts to walk away.
"Where you going?" Dean asked him. "I got to run an errand." Future Dean said. "Whoa. You're just gonna leave me here?" Dean asked him. "Yes. I got a camp full of twitchy trauma survivors out there with an apocalypse hanging over their head. The last thing they need to see is a version of The Parent Trap. So, yeah, you stay locked down." Future Dean said as he stops and turns to him again. "Okay. All right. Fine. But you don't have to cuff me, man." Dean yells and his future self goes to walk away again.
"Oh, come on. You don't trust yourself?" Dean asked as his future self gets to the door, stops and turns. "No. Absolutely not." He replied then he leaves. "Dick." Dean grumbles then he pries a nail out of the floorboards and uses it to remove the handcuffs.
Minutes later, he glances around the camp when someone comes up behind him. "Hey, Dean. You got a second?" a voice asked and Dean turns around to see that it was Chuck. "No—yes. Uh, I—I guess. Hi, Chuck." Dean said, shaking his head. "Hi. So, uh, listen, we're pretty good on canned goods for now, but we're down to next to nothing on perishables and—and hygiene supplies. People are not gonna be happy about this. So, what do you think we should do?" Chuck asked him.
"I—I don't know. Maybe, uh, share? You know, like at a kibbutz." Dean replied, shrugging. "Wait a minute, aren't you supposed to be out on a mission right now?" Chuck asked, confused. "Absolutely. And I will be." Dean said and he hears some footsteps behind him.
He turns to see a woman walking up to him. "Hello, Dean." She greets. "Hey, uh..." Dean stops. "Risa." Chuck whispered to him. "Risa." Dean said. "So, I was wondering...did you ever give my proposal a thought?" She asked, a seductive smile on her lips. Dean slightly shakes his head in confusion. "What?" He asked and she let's out a small giggle.
"You know...about...you know...you and me..." she asked and Dean catches on. "Look, sweetheart, I appreciate it but...I'm a one woman man." Dean said and Risa let's out a harsh scoff. "Seriously? You're still holding onto that vegetable?!" She asked, angry and annoyed, and Dean gives her a confused look. "Come again?" He asked. "I mean, I can do so much more than her!" She yells. "I don't understand..." Dean started to say but Risa huffs out a breath. "Screw you." she growls and she walks past him.
"Oh, jeez. I'm getting bitched at for stuff I haven't even done yet." Dean exclaims. "What?" Chuck asked. "Uh, never mind. Hey, Chuck, is...Cas still here?" Dean asked him. "Yeah. I don't think Cas is going anywhere." Chuck said.
Chuck leads Dean to another cabin and he enters. Castiel is sitting in a circle with several women. "So, in this way. We're each a fragment of total perception—just, uh, one compartment in that dragonfly eye of group mind. Now, the key to this total, shared perception—it's, um, it's surprisingly physical." He said then he spots Dean. "Oh. Excuse me, ladies. I think I need to confer with our fearless leader for a minute. Why not go get washed up for the orgy?" Castiel said and this takes Dean aback as the women leave.
"You're all so beautiful." Castiel compliments the women and he stands and stretches his back, grunting. "What are you, a hippie?" Dean asked him. "I thought you'd gotten over trying to label me." Castiel grumbles.
"Cas, we got to talk." Dean said and Castiel looks at him. "Whoa. Strange." he said, surprised. "What?" Dean asked. "You...are not you. Not now you, anyway." said Castiel. "No! Yeah. Yes, exactly." Dean said.
"What year are you from?" Castiel asked him. "2009." Dean replied. "Who did this to you? Is it Zachariah?" Castiel asked. "Yes." Dean said. "Interesting." Castiel said, fascinated. "Oh, yeah, it's friggin' fascinating. Now. Why don't you strap on your angel wings and fly me back to my page on the calendar?" Dean asked. "I wish I could just, uh, strap on my wings, but I'm sorry, no dice." Castiel said.
"What, are you stoned?" Dean asked. "Uh, generally, yeah." Castiel replied. "What happened to you?" Dean asked and Castiel shrugs. "Life." he said and Dean sighs and runs his hands over his face.
"Okay, what about Ariel? Is she here? If she is can you take me to her..." Dean asked but he noticed the look of sadness on his face. "What?" Dean asked. "Ariel...that's a name I haven't heard in awhile...." Castiel said, downtrodden. "Why? What happened to her?" Dean asked, curiously.
Castiel look back at him, the sadness reflecting in his eyes. "She's dead." He said, softly, and Dean's eyes widen in shock. "Dead? How?" Dean asked. Castiel stares at him with this sad puppy dog eyes and was about to speak when they hear the sounds vehicles coming.
They walk out to see a car and a jeep had arrived and Future Dean and some soldiers climb out. Future Dean grabs two beers and tosses one to a soldiers. They both open the beers and drink but then Future Dean draws his gun and points it at that soldier.
"Hey. Hey! Watch out!" Dean shouts as he runs but Future Dean shoots the soldier. Dean runs up too late and the survivors looked between the two Deans. "Damn it." Future Dean grumbles then he addresses the soldiers. "I'm not gonna lie to you. Me and him—It's a pretty messed-up situation we got going. But believe me, when you need to know something, you will know it. Until then, we all have work to do." he said.
Later, Future Dean shoves Dean into the room and shuts the door behind them. "What the hell was that?" Future Dean asked him, angrily. "What the hell was that? You just shot a guy in cold blood." Dean yelled back, angrily. "We were in an open quarantine zone. Got ambushed by some Croats on the way out." Future Dean said and Dean's expression asks for an explanation.
"Croats. Croatoans. One of them infected Yeager." Future Dean clarifies. "How do you know?" Dean asked him. "'Cause after a few years of this, I know. I started seeing symptoms about a half an hour ago. Wasn't gonna be long before he flipped. I didn't see the point in troubling a good man with bad news." Future Dean said. "Troubling a good man? You just blew him away in front of your own people. Don't you think that freaked them out a little bit?" Dean asked.
"It's 2014. Plugging some Croat, it's called commonplace. Trading words with my friggin' clone—that might have freaked them out a little." Future Dean growls. "All right, look—" Dean started to say but Future Dean talks over him. "No, you look. This isn't your time. It's mine. You don't make the decisions. I do. So, when I say stay in, you stay in." Future Dean yelled, angrily.
"All right, man. I'm sorry. Look, I—I'm not trying to mess you—me—us up here." Dean said, apologetically, and his Future self sighs and calms down. "I know." he said and he pours two glasses of alcohol.
"It's just been a really wacky weekend." Dean said. "Tell me about it." Future Dean said as he hands the other glass to Dean and they drink.
"What was the mission, anyway?" Dean asked him and Future Dean pulls out a gun; it's the Colt. "The Colt?" Dean said, shocked. "The Colt." Future Dean said, firmly. "Where was it?" Dean asked him. "Everywhere. They've been moving it around. Took me five years, but...I finally got it. And tonight—tonight, I'm gonna kill the devil." Future Dean said.
"So, that's it? That's the Colt?" Risa asked after her and Castiel come in in the room with the two Deans'. "If anything can kill Lucifer, this is it." Future Dean said. "Great. Have we got anything that can find Lucifer?" Risa asked, a bit annoyed, and Future Dean turns to her.
"Are you okay?" He asked her. "Oh, she's mad about how you won't give her a chance cause you are hung up on some vegetable...?" Dean said, questionable, and his future self turns his head, sharply, to him. "You want to shut up?" He asked, angrily, and Dean raises his hands in surrender.
"And Risa, you know not to call her that and I'm not gonna give up on her. Is that clear?" Future Dean said, firmly, and Risa frowns then turns her head away. "Anyway...We don't have to find Lucifer. We know where he is. The demon that we caught last week, he was one of the big guy's entourage. He knew." Future Dean said.
"So, a demon tells you where Satan's gonna be, and you just believe it?" Risa asked him, disbelieving. "Oh, trust me, he wasn't lying." Future Dean said. "And you know this how?" Risa asked. "Our fearless leader, I'm afraid, is all too well schooled in the art of getting to the truth." Castiel said and Dean turns to his future self.
"Torture?" Dean asked and neither Castiel nor future Dean respond. "Oh, so, we're—we're torturing again." Dean grumbles and his Future self looks at him. "No, that's—that's good. Classy." Dean said, sarcastically, and Castiel laughs. Future Dean looks at him. "What? I like past you." Castiel said, defensively, and Future Dean rolls his eyes.
"Lucifer is here. Now. I know the block and I know the building." Future Dean said. "Oh, good—it's right in the middle of a hot zone." said Castiel. "Crawling with Croats, yeah. You saying my plan is reckless?" Future Dean asked him. "Are you saying we, uh, walk in straight up the driveway, past all the demons and the Croats, and we shoot the devil?" Castiel asked. "Yes." Future Dean said.
"Okay, if you don't like, uh, 'reckless', I could use 'insouciant', maybe." Castiel said. "Are you coming?" Future Dean asked him and Castiel sighs. "Of course. But why is he? I mean, he's you five years ago. If something happens to him, you're gone, right?" Castiel asked as he gestures to Dean.
"He's coming." Future Dean said, firmly. "Okay. Well, uh. I'll get the grunts moving." Castiel said. "We're loaded and on the road by midnight." Future Dean said. "All righty." Castiel said and he and Risa leave but Castiel turns to Future Dean. "You gonna see her before you leave?" He asked him.
Future Dean stares at him, looks over at Dean, as if he was thinking of something, then turns back to Castiel. "Yes." He replied and Castiel nods before he walks out.
"Why are you taking me?" Dean asked his future self. "Relax. You'll be fine. Zach's looking after you, right?" Future Dean asked. "No, that's not what I mean. I want to know what's going on. And who is her?" Dean asked him. "Yeah, okay. You're coming because I want you to see something. But first, there is someone I want you to see." Future Dean said.
Minutes later, Future Dean takes Dean into a small building, a bit away from the other buildings, and they enter it. Inside, unlike other buildings, there was only one bed in the middle of the room which had one occupant in it.
Dean furrows his brow at this as his future self starts to walk towards the bed. He slowly walks up to the figure and kneels down to the front of the figure. "Hey, (y/n)." Future Dean said in a soft, quiet voice. Dean was taken aback by this and he slowly walks around to the side.
His eyes widen and he jumped slightly at the sight before him. The (y/n) that was sitting on the bed looked guant and weak, nothing like the (y/n) Dean knew. She also looked like she wasn't there, mentally. She looked lost.
She raises her head, slowly, once she heard future Dean's voice. There was a twitch of a smile on her lips as she looks at future Dean.
"Hey, baby." Future Dean said to her, softly. She raises a hand and places it on his cheek. "I've come by to let you know that I'm heading out again. I'm gonna take out and kill those sons of bitches that did this to you." Future Dean said to her. Then he leaves a long, lingering kiss on her forehead.
The short amount of time Dean had spent with his future self, this was the first time he had seen him look and sound vulnerable. "You should rest, sweetheart." Future Dean said to (y/n) and he starts to stand up but she grabs his arm.
"Don't...go..." (y/n) said, weakly. It honestly freaked Dean out on how (y/n) spoke. She not only looked awful but she sounded just as bad if not worse. She looked and sounded like she aged 70-80 years.
"Honey, I have to. I found the Colt." Future Dean said as he places a hand over hers. "Colt?" (Y/n) asked and Future Dean nods. "Yes, and I'm gonna kill him with it." He assures her and she continues to look at him. "I need to go, sweetheart." Future Dean said but she doesn't remove her hand off of his arm.
"Don't...go...Don't...go..." (y/n) repeated until she started to become hysterical and was hitting Future Dean's chest with a weak fist and he tries to calm her down but that just upsets her more and she begins to scream and cry.
Dean was horrified at this as Future Dean digs into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out a needle. "No!" Dean shouts but Future Dean sticks the needle into her neck. She stops, calms down then starts to slump forward. Future Dean catches her in his arms and she passes out then he starts to carry her back to her bed.
"What the hell did you do to her?!" Dean asked his future self as he set (y/n) back down on the bed. "Had to sedate her." Future Dean replied, plainly, then he stands up and looks back at Dean. "What happened to her? You said she was gone!" Dean yelled as he walks over towards his future self.
"Yeah, mentally. Physically, no. You see she was my partner when the Croats started to rise. We became leaders to the people. But a few months back, she was captured by some demons. We couldn't find her for months until just about a month ago when me and few men raided an old house and found some demons inside. We took care of the ones that didn't run off then we searched the house until we found her. I don't know what kind of torture method they used on her but we found her like this." Future Dean explained as he gestures towards the passed out (y/n).
"Why didn't you kill her? You killed a man earlier, no hesitation, but her you've kept locked away?!" Dean asked, confused. "Because I couldn't bring myself to do it, okay!!" Future Dean yells and Dean leans back a bit. "So you wanted me to see her?" Dean asked. "Yes, and I also want you to see our brother." Future Dean said and Dean furrows his brow.
"Sam? I thought he was dead." He said. "Sam didn't die in Detroit. He said 'yes'." Future Dean said. "Yes?" Dean asked and there was a long silence between them until Dean realized what he meant.
"Wait. You mean—"
"That's right. The big 'yes'. To the devil. Lucifer's wearing him to the prom." Future Dean said. "Why would he do that?" Dean asked. "Wish I knew. But now we don't have a choice. It's in him, and it's not getting out. And we've got to kill him, Dean. And you need to see it—the whole damn thing, how bad it gets—so you can do it different." Future Dean explained.
"What do you mean?" Dean asked. "Zach said he was gonna bring you back, right? To oh-nine?" Future Dean asked. "Yeah." Dean said. "Well, when you get back home—you say 'yes'. You hear me? Say 'yes' to Michael." Future Dean said. "That's crazy. If I let him in, then Michael fights the devil. The battle's gonna torch half the planet. That is if Ariel doesn't stop it." said Dean.
"Look around you, man. Half the planet's better than no planet, which is what we have now. If I could do it over again, I'd say 'yes' in a heartbeat." Future Dean said. "So why don't you?" Dean asked. "I've tried! I've shouted 'yes' till I was blue in the face! The angels aren't listening! They just—left—gave up! It's too late for me, but for you—" Future Dean said and Dean shakes his head.
"Oh, no. There's got to be another way." He said. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I was cocky. Never actually thought I'd lose. But I was wrong. Dean. I was wrong. I'm begging you. Say yes." Future Dean said then there was another long pause. "But you won't. 'Cause I didn't. Because that's just not us, is it?" Future Dean asked.
"So, you're really from oh-nine?" Chuck asked Dean as they head to the vehicles that night. "Yeah, afraid so." Dean said. "Some free advice? You ever get back there, you hoard toilet paper. You understand me? Hoard it. Hoard it like it's made of gold. 'Cause it is." Chuck said and Dean turns his head to him. "Thank you, Chuck." he said.
"Oh, you'll thank me, all right. Mark my words." Chuck said. "I'll see you around." Dean tells him as he pats his shoulder. "Yeah. Okay." Chuck said as Dean gets in one of the vehicles and they drive off.
Dean is riding shotgun in Castiel's car and sees Castiel taking some pills. "Let me see those." Dean said, holding his hand out. "You want some?" Castiel asked as he hands the bottle to him and Dean reads the label. "Amphetamines?" he asked. "It's the perfect antidote to that absinthe." Castiel said.
"Mmm. Don't get me wrong, Cas. I, uh. I'm happy that the stick is out of your ass, but—what's going on—w-with the drugs and the orgies and the love-guru crap?" Dean asked him and Castiel laughs. "What's so funny?" Dean asked, confused.
"Dean, I'm not an angel anymore." Castiel informed, shocking Dean. "What?" he asked. "Yeah, I went mortal." Castiel said. "What do you mean? How?" Dean asked. "I think it had something to do with the other angels leaving. But when they bailed, my mojo just kind of— psshhew!—drained away. And now, you know, I'm practically human. I mean, Dean, I'm all but useless. Last year, broke my foot, laid up for two months." Castiel said. "Wow." Dean mutters. "Yeah." Castiel replied.
"So, you're human. Well, welcome to the club." Dean said. "Thanks. Except I used to belong to a much better club. And now I'm powerless. I'm hapless, I'm hopeless. I mean, why the hell not bury myself in women and decadence, right? It's the end, baby. That's what decadence is for. Why not bang a few gongs before the lights go out? But then that's, that's just how I roll." Castiel said, shrugging.
"How did Ariel die?" Dean asked him and Castiel sighs. "She, stupidly, went after Lucifer after Sam said yes to him. She thought she'd be strong enough to stop him but..." Castiel stops, bites his lips then swallows. "I'm sorry." Dean said and Castiel nods a bit.
Later, Dean, Future Dean, Castiel, Risa and a few other soldiers walk towards the sanitarium, carrying guns and scanning the area. "There. Second-floor window. We go in there." Future Dean said as they got closer to the building. "You sure about this?" Risa asked him. "They'll never see us coming. Trust me. Now, weapons check. We're on the move in five." Future Dean said.
"Hey, uh, me. Can I talk to you for a sec?" Dean said and he and his Future-Self go off to the side. "Tell me what's going on." Dean said. "What?" Future Dean asked, playing dumb. "I know you. You're lying to these people and to me." Dean said. "Is that so." Future Dean said.
"Yeah. See, I know your lying expressions. I've seen them in the mirror. Now, there's something you're not telling us." Dean growls. "I don't know what you're talking about." Future Dean said, continuing to playing dumb. "Oh, really? Well, I don't seem to be the only member of your posse with some questions, so, uh, maybe I'll just take my doubts over to them." Dean said and he starts to walk away but Future Dean stops him. "Okay, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait." He said and Dean turns to him.
"What?" Dean asked. "Take a look around you, man. This place should be white-hot with Croats. Where are they?" Future Dean asked him and Dean looks around. "They cleared a path for us. Which means that this is—" Dean said and his future self nods. "A trap. Exactly." he said.
"Well, then we can't go through the front." Dean said. "Oh, we're not. They are. They're the decoys. You and me, we're going in through the back." Future Dean said. "You mean you're gonna feed your friends into a meat grinder? Cas, too? You want to use their deaths as a diversion?" Dean asked and his Future-Self looks away.
"Oh, man, something is broken in you. You're making decisions that I would never make. I wouldn't sacrifice my friends." Dean said. "You're right. You wouldn't. It's one of the main reasons we're in this mess, actually." Future Dean said. "These people count on you. They trust you." Dean said, desperately. "They trust me to kill the devil and to save the world and that's exactly what I'm gonna do." Future Dean growls. "No. Not like this, you're not. I'm not gonna let you." Dean said, firmly.
"Oh, really?" Future Dean asked. "Yeah." Dean said before his Future-Self slugs him in the face, knocking him out.
Dean wakes up on the ground and hears gunfire in the building and runs toward it. Thunder crashes, lightning flashes, and Dean sees his Future-Self on the ground, neck held down by a person wearing a white suit. Future Dean opens his eyes and sees Dean until the person shifts his weight, breaking Future Dean's neck. The person, Dean sees, is Sam but not; it's Lucifer. He turns around and sees Dean.
"Oh. Hello, Dean." Lucifer greets as Dean stares at him. "Aren't you a surprise." Lucifer said then in a flash of lightning and a roar of thunder, he is now behind Dean. "You've come a long way to see this, haven't you?" Lucifer asked him.
"Well, go ahead. Kill me." Dean said as he turns to face him. "Kill you?" Lucifer asked, confused, then looks at the corpse of Future Dean. "Don't you think that would be a little...redundant?" Lucifer asked before he sighs. "I'm sorry. It must be painful, speaking to me in this—shape. But it had to be your brother. It had to be." he said and he reaches for Dean's shoulder but Dean moves back.
"You don't have to be afraid of me, Dean. What do you think I'm going to do?" Lucifer asked. "I don't know. Maybe deep-fry the planet?" Dean said and Lucifer walks off to the side and examines a rose, but turns away. "Why? Why would I want to destroy this stunning thing? Beautiful in a trillion different ways. The last perfect handiwork of God." he said but Dean doesn't answer.
"You ever hear the story of how I fell from grace?" Lucifer asked Dean as he turns to him. "Oh, good God, you're not gonna tell me a bedtime story, are you? My stomach's almost out of bile." Dean said, with sarcasm. "You know why God cast me down? Because I loved him. More than anything. And then God created..." Lucifer said then he smirks. "You. The little...hairless apes. And then he asked all of us to bow down before you—to love you, more than him. And I said, Father, I can't. I said, These human beings are flawed, murderous. And for that, God had Michael cast me into hell. Now, tell me, does the punishment fit the crime? Especially, when I was right? Look at what six billion of you have done to this thing, and how many of you blame me for it."
"You're not fooling me, you know that? With this sympathy-for-the-devil crap. I know what you are." Dean growls. "What am I?" Lucifer asked, curiously. "You're the same thing, only bigger. The same brand of cockroach I've been squashing my whole life. An ugly, evil, belly-to-the-ground, supernatural piece of crap. The only difference between them and you is the size of your ego." Dean spat and Lucifer smiles.
"I like you, Dean. I get what the other angels see in you. Goodbye. We'll meet again soon." He said and he turns to walk away. "You better kill me now!" Dean yells and Lucifer turns back.
"Pardon?" he asked. "You better kill me now. Or I swear, I will find a way to kill you. And I won't stop." Dean said, sternly. "I know you won't. I know you won't say yes to Michael, either. And I know you won't kill Sam. Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up—here. I win. So, I win." Lucifer informs.
"You're wrong." Dean growls and Lucifer looks him over. "See you in five years, Dean." he said and he is gone once the thunder roars and the lightening strikes. Dean turns around and sees Zachariah behind him, reaching for his forehead with two fingers.
Dean leans against the kitchenette sink while Zachariah stands in front of him. "Oh, well, if it isn't the ghost of Christmas screw you." Dean growls. "Enough. Dean, enough. You saw it, right? You saw what happens. You're the only person who can prove the devil wrong. Just say yes." Zachariah said. "How do I know that this whole thing isn't one of your tricks? Huh? Some angel hocus-pocus?" Dean asked, suspiciously.
"The time for tricks is over. Give yourself to Michael. Say yes and we can strike. Before Lucifer gets to Sam. Before billions die." Zachariah said and Dean considers this for a long moment, turning away from Zachariah. "Nah." Dean said and Zachariah's face turns to slight anger.
"Nah? You telling me you haven't learned your lesson?" He asked and Dean turns to him. "Oh, I've learned a lesson, all right. Just not the one you wanted to teach." he said. "Well, I'll just have to teach it again! Because I got you now, boy, and I'm never letting you—" Zachariah said but then Dean is gone. "Son of a..." Zachariah growls, annoyed and angry.
Dean turns around and sees Castiel behind and they were on the side of the road. "That's pretty nice timing, Cas." Dean said. "We had an appointment." Castiel said and Dean puts a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Don't ever change." he said then he freezes. "What about (y/n)? She's still back there..." he said, slightly panicked.
But then they hear a noise and he turns around to see Ariel with (y/n). Seeing this, made Dean feel relief. "Oh, thank God." He said and he runs over to (y/n). "You're okay!" He said and he embraces (y/n), who was surprised by this. "Dean? What the...?" (Y/n) started to ask but Dean looks down into her eyes then leans in and gives her a kiss.
"(Y/n), I am so sorry for what I said. You're right. I was being stubborn." Dean said once he breaks the kiss to look at her. "Wh-What changed your mind?" She asked him and Dean stops as he stares at her, that image of her from 2014 flashed in his mind.
"I don't want to get into that right now." He said and (y/n) looks into his eyes then nods, slightly. "But...I want you to know that I love you, more than anything. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna let myself be so stubborn to the point I'll end up losing you." He said and she gives a small smile. "I love you, too. And I'm also sorry for things I've said." She said and she leans up and kisses him then they embrace each other.
"How did Zachariah find you?" Ariel asked and Dean looks up at her. "Long story. Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on, okay?" he said and Ariel nods as Dean and (y/n) break the hug then he pulls out his phone.
"What are you doing?" Castiel asked as he walks up to them. "Something I should have done in the first place." Dean replied as he dials a number.
The next morning, Dean and (y/n) wait by the Impala, by a bridge, as another car pulls up. Sam gets out and the trio approach each other. "Sam." Dean said as (y/n) smiled at Sam. Dean pulls out Ruby's knife and Sam looks at it, nervously. Dean holds it out to Sam handle first. "If you're serious and you want back in...you should hang on to this. I'm sure you're rusty." Dean said and Sam takes the knife, he can't meet Dean's or (y/n)'s eyes.
"Look, man, I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm...whatever I need to be. But I was, uh—wrong." Dean said. "What made you change your mind?" Sam asked him. "Long story. The point is...maybe we are each other's Achilles heel. Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other, I don't know. I just know we're all we've got. More than that. We keep each other human." Dean said as he gestures between the three of them.
"Thank you. Really. Thank you. I won't let you down." Sam said. "Oh, I know it. I mean, you are the third-best hunter on the planet." Dean said as he looks over at (y/n), who smirks, and Sam nods.
"So, what do we do now?" Sam asked him. "We make our own future." Dean said and (y/n) gives a soft chuckle. "Guess we have no choice." she said and Sam smiles a little. Then (y/n) goes over to Sam and hugs him, he hugs her back.
The trio back together once more.
@rach5ive @kitsun369 @itzabbyxx @cevans-winchester @ellie-andthemachine
#fandom#fanfic#fan fiction#reader insert#x reader#supernatural#dean winchester#dean winchester x you#dean x you#supernatural dean#dean winchester x y/n#dean x reader#dean winchester x reader#dean winchester imagine#dean winchester x female!reader#supernatural fanfic series#supernatural fandom#supernatural fanfiction#fantasy#horror#tv show fandom#tv shows#tv series#tv
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Have some of my Oc’s in the infected au while I work on the other secondary characters-
In order: Moonberry, Cherri Cheesecake, CC, Featherlight, PastelStripe, and Nightingale
Individual images + a little bit of info on each of them under the cut~
A little bit about each of them, just because I’m bored pfhfkdfjdf
Moonberry - A unicorn who specializes in growing berries that only produce under the cover of night, in the Infected AU she helps sustain the crops at Sweet Apple Acres to feed Ponyville’s residents.
Cherri Cheesecake - As a baker, much of her time is spent with Mr. and Mrs. Cake at their bakery. She and the Cakes help to cook and bake nutritious and plentiful food for the ponies of the town.
Featherlight - A cross between a zebra and a pony, Featherlight’s main part in taking care of Ponyville is in being a jack of all trades, helping anyone who needs it. Her unique wings prevent her from flying for long periods of time, so she cannot help the pegasi with their jobs much.
PastelStripe - As a happy, bubbly pegasus, Pastel spends the time she’s not helping the other pegasi with their duties with Pinkie and Ms. Cheerilee, keeping the young fillies and colts at the schoolhouse busy and happy.
Nightingale - One of Canterlot Castle’s residents, she works under Princess Luna, taking on tasks she does not have time to complete and keeping everyone under her command in line and accounted for, such as the guard and whatnot.
CC - A cross between a Unicorn mother and a Basilisk father, CC is a refugee from the Everfree Forest. She uses her limited amount of magic to help other ponies to do their day to day tasks, such as helping carry baskets of produce or fruit or building materials and the like. Though some ponies are weary of her, she does her best to be useful and kind.
#mlp#mlp fim#my little pony#infected au#mlp infected au#my art#friendship is magic#original character#original characters#oc’s
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Ah.. opening scene to establish that Dean is being bossy and dragging Sam everywhere and not respecting his input... right?
Let's dig a little deeper.
Dean suggested maybe they could ice the Devil in 5.01 (then after admitted to Sam that he said that for Bobby's benefit, though he isn't giving up, he's skeptical). Sam (5.01) and Castiel (5.04) said The Colt is the way to do it. So Sam and Dean have spent an entire three weeks chasing dead ends on The Colt since they met back up. I think it's likely they spent most of that time holed up in motel rooms looking at their computers, conferring with Bobby and Cas over the phone, and physically chasing down leads, cramped up in the car for hours at a time. In other words, no privacy, no space, and a type of research grind that's much more Sam's speed than Dean's.
Based on how Sam talks here... doing those tasks for that long with no break was his idea. This is a thing Sam is very prone to do also. He gets a path in his head and he NEEDS to follow it and keep the momentum going. When Sam gets like this, he doesn't care if they have nothing but dead ends over and over, and he historically becomes extremely critical of Dean wanting to take a breath and do something else for a while instead of continuing to chase their own tails (1.03, 1.10, 1.11, 1.20, 2.10, 2.18, 3.14, 4.11). So while this episode opens with Dean putting his foot down, it seems like it's actually because Sam, someone Dean doesn’t feel great around at this point in time (5.01, 5.02, 5.03, 5.04), has spent the last three weeks having his interests catered to, and everything he wants to do leaves Dean trapped with him almost perpetually in tight quarters when Dean isn't actually ready to be spending this much time with him again.
After three weeks, Dean simply finds a run-of-the-mill case and says "Let's go," and Sam apparently doesn't object until they're almost there, and in the car. Dean saying they need training wheels is telling in terms of how he feels about how the last three weeks have gone, and Sam twisting Dean's words to be about HIM needing training wheels and not their relationship tells you exactly how unproductive any discussion on this will ever be (as does the rest of the episode).
What really cinches the fact that Dean wants a break from Sam for me though is the way that Dean chooses to make his escape attempt and finally get some space. After insisting on going under the car to look at the engine number even though it's making him nervous, Dean uses the fact that he put his life at risk to do it to justify taking a break, and tells Sam to hit the books in a way that's clearly bossy:
DEAN
Find out who owned it. Not just the last owner, you gotta take it all the way back to nineteen-fifty-five.
SAM
That's a lot of research.
DEAN
Well, I guess I just made your afternoon.
Where does Dean go? To a bar, to sit alone by himself, nursing a beer. After Sam complains, Dean doesn't do this again.
The next time Dean is implied to have ordered Sam to do something (check and load the weapons into the car—I already wrote about why that specific task interests me, and about Sam ordering Dean to do things through season 4) Sam walks in to find Dean bitching to Bobby about him on the phone. Once again, Dean taking an opportunity for a tiny window of space.
Is Dean nice about it? Nope. But that's what's going on imo.
Dean wants some space from Sam and some goddamn privacy and a normal case to escape from the stress (something Sam has rarely understood or treated as anything but selfishness and a waste of time when it was Dean's idea) where he feels like he can breathe without being repeatedly confronted by his and Sam’s destinies and how they whirl around each other and how it all goes to shit because (in Zachariah’s world) Dean isn't able to successfully reconnect with Sam and the world ends. So Dean HAS to reconnect with Sam, but he wasn’t actually ready to do that when they met back up, and the last three weeks have not helped. Dean is clawing for air.
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Creature Like Me || Chapter One: Solo Hunt
[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]
Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.
Chapter One Warnings: depictions of torture and starvation, depictions of a violent death, use of a gun, blood and gore, is it animal cruelty/animal death if the animal is a werewolf??
A/N: This is an OC but please keep an open mind, read a paragraph or two, before you completely write off the story because it doesn’t have a “reader” insert character. Her descriptions are fairly minimal and her name is important to the story. Pretend you’re someone else for little bit and get lost in a world that’s not your own. Isn’t that what writing is for anyway? xoxoKatie
[link to chapter index]
The morning sun beamed soft, white light through the canopy of branches to illuminate the fog settled against the dewy grass. She watched the light push away the dark shadows of the forest as she plucked a handful of blueberries out of her pocket and plopped a few into her mouth. Mornings were never her favorite despite their inherent beauty. She preferred the tranquility of the night with nothing but the glow of the moon to guide her. She kept her love for the moon to herself. Those were thoughts she wasn’t allowed to have. Her guild worshiped the sun for it was the werewolf’s natural enemy. The wolves drew their power from the moon. It made them stronger, enhanced their natural abilities, and turned them into fierce warriors. As a hunter of the beast, her guild found safety in the light, but used the cover of the dark to hunt their prey. They saw the dangers of the night where she only saw serenity.
“Aylin,” a deep, gravely voice fell over her shoulder. “Are you preparing for your hunt tonight or are you daydreaming again?”
Aylin wiped the growing scowl from her face, replacing it with a passive smile, before she turned to greet her intruder, “Sergei. Good morning to you, too.” She shoved the ziplock bag of berries back into her pocket and stood up, brushing off her damp bottom from the rotten log she was sitting on. “I’ve been preparing my whole life for my first solo hunt. There is not much else I can do but wait.”
Tonight was the night she would become a full member of the hunting party. At 21, those with the talent would be given a test. They were to track down and successfully eliminate a single werewolf on their own. Up until now, she had been hunting with a group. She participated in helping kill a total of five wolves so far. Now it was time to prove that she could be of use on her own. It was the highest honor a young person could receive in the guild.
Sergei ran a hand through his long, scraggly beard. His dark hair reached to his shoulders and hung in wild waves framing his square face. The black pelt of a werewolf hung like a shawl around his shoulders. As leader of the Silver Colt Guild, he held the respect of everyone under him. The Silver Colt’s history dated as far back as the first known existence of a werewolf. They’d been around for centuries, culling the werewolf problem the best they could before it ever reached the public eye. Sergei, known by his enemies as his alias Kraven the Hunter, inherited the guild from his father. He ran with an iron fist to keep his people safe. They were the outcasts of modern society, taking on the burden of protecting those they would never meet from the horrors of evil that walked among them.
“Being prepared does not mean you are ready to complete the actual task,” he chastised her. “Going one to one with a wolf is harder than you could ever imagine. In their wolf form, they are ten times stronger than you could ever be. In their human form, they are the master of manipulation. They would say or do anything to keep you from slaughtering them. The second you let your guard down, they will strike. There will be no help to back you up. Failing means death. A beast won’t hesitate to rip you limb from limb. Mindless, heartless killers. They are not guided by morals. They will not hesitate. I don’t want to lose you tonight.”
Aylin held her tongue for fear of talking back. Sergei always got under her skin. Still, she believed he deserved the title of their leader and, therefore, was worthy of her respect. He was easily the best hunter of them all. He could take out a wolf with nothing but his bare hands. No one else was able to compete with his sheer strength. At times, he seemed almost like an enhanced human himself. She often wondered where he pulled his abilities from, though she would never dare question him. He was a good leader but a boastful one. His hubris clashed with her humbled outlook. Aylin had no need for cockiness. She believed one’s skills should silently speak for themselves. There was no need to talk herself up. She knew what she could do and that should be enough.
“If you are successful tonight then I could see you entering as the frontrunner to become my protégé,” he raised his thick brows at her, as if that was supposed to be the most enticing offer of her lifetime. “Don’t let me down.”
The leader of the guild would always choose the strongest new hunter to personally train. She would be forced to move into Sergei and his wife’s home to study his every move. Whoever was chosen as the leader’s protégé would one day take over as leader themselves. Some of her peers would slaughter each other for the chance to claim that title. Aylin saw it as a chore. Calypso, Sergei’s wife, was someone she’d rather avoid. The woman could easily stand on her own with her husband but didn’t possess an ounce of empathy. She was cruel, boarding on psychopathic, and the thought of having to live under the same roof as her sent a bolt of dread through Aylin’s nerves. She had no desire to lead anyone, either. All she wanted was to sit in her quiet woods, undisturbed, but there was no point in arguing over a centuries old tradition. If Sergei chose her then that’s what she would have to do.
“I think I’ll be alright. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been tracking this wolf for some time. She works as a night security guard up at the old Eagle Peak Camp. I’m not entirely sure what she’s guarding there but, whatever is, I’ll be sure to report back to you with what I find. I think it’s where a pack has been meeting. If I can get information on them, our guild could potentially eliminate an entire group in one go. She’ll be an easy enough target for my first solo hunt. There shouldn’t be any civilians around and there's a lot of places to take cover. All my weapons are prepped and ready. I’ve been training for months. I will come back with her silver pierced heart in my hand. I’m confident in this.” She straightened her spine as she spoke to appear taller than she was in an attempt to see eye to eye with Sergei. He towered over anyone he stood in front of and she didn’t like feeling small.
He gave a light hearted chuckle and slung his arm over her shoulder, pulling her into his side, and dwarfing her against his large body, “I believe you. I’m the one who trained you, remember? I know you have the skill. Doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you anyway.” The coarse fur of the wolf pelt tumbling down his shoulders tickled her cheek as he held her close. “Your mother is looking for you. She made you breakfast. Let me walk you back to town and we can discuss your strategies for tonight once more.”
Even as she stood crouched under the shadows of a large pine tree, Aylin silently trailed her fingers over each of her weapons. She’d taken count of each one about fifty times in the last hour but it still helped quell her nerves. The tree she took shelter under protected her from the downpour of rain as she raised her binoculars to observe her surroundings. Eagle Peak was once a bustling summer destination for hundreds of children, aged 6 to 16, to attend a four week camp program in the mountains. Their days were filled with non stop fun canoeing on the lake, hiking through the forests, singing around a campfire, and making a lifetime of memories. That was until the wolf incident of ‘74. Three campers were found torn apart, their cabin broken into, and their bloodied bodies dragged out into the forest. Their deaths were chalked up to a pack of rabid wolves which had wandered into camp. While the pack was never actually found, the camp still closed down. Children being mutilated while they slept didn’t send out a great impression to other potential camp goers. The Silver Colt’s knew the truth. It wasn’t rabid wolves. At least, not how the public perceived it to be. One of the counselors was a beast in disguise. He was slain by Sergei’s father in the summer of ‘75. Sergei still wears the necklace of claws his father made after tearing them from the counselor's paws before he drove a silver dagger into the beast’s blackened heart.
The camp had sat abandoned for years, left for nature to reclaim, until a private owner bought out the land. That was when the suspicion began. Hikers were going missing more often than usual. Strange howls could be heard at night. A heavy sense of foreboding hovered in the night air. The werewolves were making a return and it was up to Aylin’s people to stop them. Tonight, she would start their quest by taking out the guard and retrieving as much information as she could.
From the outskirts she couldn’t see much. She’d been staking out this location for weeks. Besides the patrolling woman, she never saw anyone else move around the camp while she was there, but it was clear that there was something worth guarding. She would need to infiltrate closer to get a better look. While the night rain ruined her views, the sound would help mask her footsteps. Werewolves had particularly precise hearing. Sergei purposely chose a rainy night for her first hunt and she would take any advantage she could get.
Aylin mentally planned out her route. The main lodge sat in a large clearing overlooking the lake. A crack of lightning pierced through the clouds and reflected off the darkened waters. It was the only source of light she would have tonight as the moon was blanketed behind the storm. Surrounding the lodge on either side was a small office building and a nurse’s station. The lavatories were a little ways behind the main lodge and, down a wooded dirt path, held the bulk of the camper’s cabins. According to her old map, they used to refer to the cabin’s sleeping area as the Whispering Pines. A boathouse sat on the lake, still fully stocked with rotting canoes. That was thirteen buildings in total. She would have to search each one before she returned home. Once her target was removed, it would allow her the time she needed to properly investigate for any details on the pack that roamed these areas.
Sierra Molina was who Aylin was currently searching for. A 28 year old, gorgeous woman with thick, long black hair who moved to upper New York three years ago. She started out as a model in the city, gaining a good amount of success, when she suddenly switched career paths. A successful model in the big city to a solitary, private security guard for an abandoned summer camp in the Adirondack Mountains could only mean one thing. She was a wolf. She wasn’t born one, she was bitten. That was Aylin’s theory, at least. It would have been hard for a wolf to have a career in the limelight. Wolves and cities don’t usually mix unless they’re using them as a hunting ground. That would mean, at some point three years ago, a wolf managed to find its way into the city. It was growing its pack and Sierra was merely a victim of the beast. Victim or not, she had to die.
There was not much luck for Aylin tonight. She had yet to catch sight of the woman. The heavy storm was probably compelling her to keep shelter in one of the buildings. A light was on in the back of the main lodge so she placed her bets on that. She wouldn’t be able to take her out with an easy scope shot. She’d need to get in closer.
Aylin took a deep inhale, preparing herself, and stepped out from the protective shadows of her pine tree. Her old leather boots lost traction as she descended down a slippery slope towards the main lodge. The grass turned to slick mud under her and she silently cursed as she felt the cold, wet dirt coat down her side as she skidded to a halt at the bottom. If anything, the mud might help hide her scent too, though it made it harder to grip her weapons. She did her best to wipe her hands off on her black combat pants before continuing.
She kept her body ducked low while she gave a light jog towards the lodge. There wasn’t much she could do about the squelching mud under her feet. All she could hope for was that the rain hammering on the roof was loud enough to cover whatever sounds she couldn’t hide. The second she reached the lodge, she pressed her back against the dark wooden panels. Her hand grabbed behind her to pull the crossbow from her back. She carefully loaded it with a silver tipped arrow, letting the rumbling thunder overhead mask the sounds. The crossbow was her weapon of choice. It was fast, powerful, and quieter than a gun. Unlike the colt revolver strapped to her thigh, she had more stealth advantages with this. The gun was for the final blow if she needed the added weight and her dagger was her very last chance of survival should things come down to hand to hand combat. She was no Sergei. Her strengths lay in long range and stealth.
Aylin moved along the length of the outer wall until she was perched under a cracked open window. From inside, she could hear someone moving around. The smell of cooking chicken hit her nose. This must be the kitchen of the lodge and where her target was taking shelter.
Sierra spoke to someone inside as she banged around the room, slamming cabinets in her wake, “I think he needs more food. The man is wasting away. Kateri hardly ever feeds him. I don’t know how she expects him to keep on giving her what she wants if he’s nothing but skin and bone.”
She waited, listening for a secondary person to reply. When she heard none, it gave her the confidence to know that Sierra was still the only here. She was on the phone.
“Yeah, I know it keeps him weak, but it’s also killing him. Call me crazy but I actually feel sorry for the bastard. I’m the one who ends up having to take care of him. He’s not my pet! If she’s so obsessed with him, you’d think she would actually take better care of him. It wouldn’t hurt to bathe him either. He’s starting to really stink. I wish Kateri would actually do something about that. The whole cabin is disgusting. I hate having to go in there.” The name Kateri was new to her but, the way Sierra talked about her, made it seem like she was the one who called the shots. The name of the pack's potential alpha. “Maybe I’ll let him run around in the rain for a bit. Let the storm hose him down.” Sierra laughed, “I’m joking! Calm down. I’m not going to let him out. He wouldn’t know what to do out of chains anyway. Kat’s got him fully conditioned to be her omega bitch.”
Aylin silently shifted her crossbow to get a better feel for it in her hands. Her curiosity peaked at the thought of who they were speaking about. It sounded as if they currently had someone hostage. She didn't dare peak through the open window for fear of being seen.
“I cooked him some chicken. Kat can scream about it all she wants. He needs the protein. I didn’t even season it or anything. Just straight up dry chicken. What’s sad is that it’ll probably be the best damn meal he’s had in a year. Better than the dog food she’s been forcing him to eat.” The sound of her zipping up a bag reached Aylin’s ears. She was getting ready to move. “I’m going to even brave the rain for this loser. See? I’m not a heartless bitch after all. Who would have guessed? I’ll talk to you later, babes, once I’m back inside. See ya.”
The sound of Sierra's footsteps disappearing followed the end of the phone call. This was her chance to move. Aylin crept around the side of the building, crossbow held up at the ready in front of her. She watched from the shadows as Sierra popped out the door and into the rain. Her peripheral vision was covered by the large, dark green hood of her rain jacket pulled loosely over her head. She wore a black bag over her shoulder as she jogged towards the Whispering Pines. She had no idea that she was now actively being hunted.
Aylin’s heart began to race as she trailed after her prey. When she joined the hunting party on their excursion to take out other wolves, they had already been in wolf form by the time she caught sight of them. Large, raggedy, snarling beasts. Blood had dripped from their jowls and matted into their wild, unkempt fur. They had been untamed, savage, violent creatures. It was easy to see them as a predator in need of putting down. They weren’t human.
Sierra Molina was human. At least, how she looked now. A beautiful woman trying to make it big as a model. Her dreams of the future were snatched from her at the hands of true evil. She was dragged up to the mountains and forced into a new life. She ran through the rain, her shoulders hunched up in her oversized coat, her body shivering from the cold, to bring food to whatever neglected hostage her alpha had locked up. She was going against her orders to feed the poor soul. An act of kindness. A very human act.
Her stomach ached at the thought of having to look this woman in the eyes as she killed her. She’d rather her be a wolf. It would be more dangerous but slaughtering an animal was better than murdering a human. The reality of what she was about to do came crashing down around her. The fear set in.
Aylin slowed her pace, ducking behind a tree. Sergei was right, the rain would help easily conceal her from all sounds and smells. Sierra had no idea she was being followed. It felt almost unfair. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to do this anymore. She was born into this life. Raised to be a killer. It should be easy. She shouldn’t be this sacred. Fear and doubt were weaknesses. Those weaknesses should have been beaten out of her as a child yet they somehow still prevailed, stronger than ever.
As her prey approached the last cabin along the path, the one tucked further back into the forest than the rest, Aylin raised her crossbow and took aim. There was no time for over thinking or panic. She had to act on instinct. This was her moment. It was now or never. She couldn’t return home without a wolf’s heart in her hand. She couldn’t fail her people.
This was it.
The familiar, loud thwip of the bolt leaving its home echoed off the trees. Before Sierra even had time to react to the sound, the silver tip buried itself straight into her lower spine with a sickly, crunching thud of bones being ripped apart. She dropped hard and fast. Crumbled to the ground in a heap, her bag slipping from her shoulders to fall beside her broken body. Her piercing howl of pain filled the air. Aylin made quick work to start loading up the next bolt while she still had the element of surprise on her side.
“My legs,” Sierra cried out. “I can’t feel my legs! I can’t move them. Please. Help! Someone help!” Her pleas for rescue were useless. There was nobody around to listen but Aylin. Her body flopped onto her side, teary, terrified eyes desperately searching for her assailant. “Who are you? What do you want?! What have you done? You-”
Aylin approached, a black cowl mask hiding her lower face, and the end of the crossbow pointed at the other woman. Her target was in sight but she wasn’t ready to pull the final trigger just yet. She wanted her to turn. She needed to see the beast before she took her life. It was the only way she'd be able to follow through.
Sierra caught sight of the golden, rising sun emblem carefully stitched into Aylin’s dark jacket. Realization flashed across her spasming face, contorting between pain and fury, “You.” Her voice lowered into a dangerous rumble. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Her words spit like fire out of her mouth. “That sun. You’re one of Kraven’s hunters! Kateri said you would come eventually. You have no idea how this will end for you. You have no idea what you’re walking into!”
A low, threatening growl thundered in the back of her throat. It was followed by a quieter whimper like she knew how this was going to end for her. She was scared. A cornered animal ready to go down fighting. Death was the only future she held. Her pupils began to stretch, causing her tawny colored eyes to fill with a voidless obsidian until there were no remnants of her human soul. The growl grew deeper, more animalistic, as she started to shift.
“That’s it,” Aylin whispered to herself. “Turn for me. Show me who you really are.”
Like a firework bursting in the night sky, Sierra’s body exploded into a massive wolf with an angry howl, sending shreds of her green rain jacket and a spray of water droplets flying into the air. She nearly tripled in size. Silky, jet black fur, as beautiful as her own head of hair, settled down into place as her transformation completed. Saliva clung to her thick, pointed ivory teeth, black lips pulled back into a snarl, and her ears pressed flat against her skull. Steam puffed from her panting jaws, highlighting the chill in the air. She was savage. Desperate. Ready to kill. Her blackened sights set directly onto Aylin.
This was the beast she was ready to hunt. This was exactly what she had trained for. Sierra Molina no longer existed. In her place was a raging, furious wolf ready to be slain. There was no more need for humanity for she was not human. A hunter and her prey. A tale as old as time.
Sierra’s hind quarters remained crumbled under the weight of her body like a stray dog who had been hit by a car. They were as useless to her in wolf form as they were to her as a human. Aylin had managed to sever her spine with her first hit, rendering her weaker and taking away some of her power. It didn’t make her any less dangerous, though. She lunged at the younger girl, thrusting her massive body down the muddy path towards her as claps of loud thunder cheered on the upcoming fight. The muscular power of her front legs dragged her forward in jerky, pained movements, back legs dangling helplessly behind her. The coarse fur of her hackles stood on end. Teeth bared. She was ready to die fighting.
Aylin released the trigger. The bolt shot out like a bullet and lodged itself deep into her foe's shoulder. The silver tip sizzled in her thick skin, the metal burning into her flesh. She doubled over with a howled cry, whipping her enlarged head back and forth in an attempt to reach the burning arrow piercing her skin with her long snout. While she fought with the pain, Aylin quickly tried to reload her bow. She had the arrow half way in, foot holding down the stirrup, and desperately trying to force the strong string back into position when Sierra noticed she was distracted. Ignoring the searing pain in her shoulder and crippled back legs, she lunged herself at Aylin.
The force knocked her to the ground, tossing her bow off to the side, and pushing the air out of her lungs. The heavy weight of the wolf pressed down on her chest. The smell of wet dog filled her nostrils as Sierra leered down over her. Steamy, hot breath blew in her face. Black, leathery lips pulled back to reveal snarling teeth. For a breathless moment, Sierra thought she had the upper hand.
And then a loud, cracking pop rang out, breaking the wooded silence, sending a flurry of terrified birds out of the trees and straight to the stormy sky.
In Aylin’s hand was the colt revolver, slipped out from her thigh harness, already prepped and loaded with silver bullets, now pointed directly under the wolf’s jaw.
The bullet shot straight through Sierra’s thick skull, ripping through her brain, and forcing a bloody exit out the other end. A cloud of misty, hot crimson rained down onto Aylin’s face. Bits of fleshy brain matter scattered to the ground around her. A sharp fragment of Sierra’s rose tinted skull bounced off her forehead, slicing her skin, and tumbled into the mud. The wolf went completely still, the life snuffed straight out of her, as her heavy body slumped on top of Aylin, pinning her in place.
The silence that followed was deafening. Not even the rumbling thunder or shower of rain seemed to dare make noise. All she could hear was the ringing in her ears. The echo of the gunshot reverberating inside her skull.
Her heart was racing. Her lungs struggled to breath under the weight on top of her. Her mind desperately tried to catch up with the events that just unfolded.
Her first solo hunt. Her first kill.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, protected from the shower of blood thanks to her mask. The rain slowly washed the rest of the red from her vision.
She had done it.
She had killed a werewolf.
She was alive. She was the victor.
Aylin let out a grunt, grasping a fistful of Sierra’s fur in her shaky hands, as she wiggled her body out from under the enormous carcass. The slippery mud helped assist her as she slid her legs out of the furry prison. Her clothes were soaked through. Mud, rain, and blood all mixed together to seep into her frozen skin. She forced herself onto her feet and took a stumbled step backwards to examine her work.
Sierra remained in wolf form after her death. They rarely ever changed back once their life was gone. Despite her blown open skull, she looked rather peaceful. Cute, even, if you looked from the right angles. Like a giant, sleeping puppy. They were beautiful creatures, werewolves. It was hard not to respect their strength and power. Sierra still nearly got the upper hand even with her paralyzed hind legs and silver burning her flesh. If it hadn’t been for the colt, she probably would have won.
Death suited her, Aylin concluded.
She turned from the corpse to pick up her crossbow off the ground and slung it back over her shoulder. She took a moment to gather herself, both her racing thoughts and her scattered belonging, before she attempted to continue. The adrenaline coursing through her veins made it difficult to think straight. The wolf was dead, the major threat eliminated, but there was still work that needed to be done. Cabins needed to be searched. Clues needed to be found. And a heart needed to be cut out as proof of her win.
Aylin shuffled over to the bag Sierra had dropped. It lay at the bottom steps of the smallest cabin. A simple, faded, forest green wooden shack. While the other sleeping quarters looked like they could hold at least ten people total, this one could probably only handle four. She bent down to unzip the bag. A clear tupperware of cooked chicken, a bottle of water, and a ring full of keys were all that remained inside. Aylin glanced up to the cabin. That was where Sierra was headed to deliver the dinner. That was where they were keeping their pet.
She snatched up the ring of keys and made her accent up the rotting wooden stairs. A screen door filled with holes stood in front of her. Behind it was another, solid metal door. It looked out of place, newer than everything else, as if someone had specifically installed it within the past year. A heavy padded lock bolted it shut. The kind of lock meant to keep something in. She tested out each key until she found the perfect fit. The lock popped open and she slid over the dead bolt, allowing the door to slowly creak open, unsure of what she would find on the other side.
The thick stench of musty sweat hit her nose as her eyes adjusted to the dark. It was pitch black inside. The windows had been boarded up and covered with heavy, old blankets. They would keep out the light and help dampen any noise. A set of two wooden bunk beds stood on opposite sides of the walls, built straight into the floor, but Aylin’s attention sought to what was chained between them.
A man was naked, crouched on his knees, back curved forward, and head hung low. He was facing the blank wall across from her. His arms hung up above his head and stretched out to the side, forced into place by the bulky chains around each wrist. The sickly pale skin under the wide cuffs was rubbed raw. A trickle of dried blood caked down his forearm. His back was covered in a myriad of scars. Welts from a whip. Some new. Some old. All painful. She could see the perfect ridge of his spine protruding from under the scarred skin, each vertebrae clearly on display. The marks of a starving, tortured man.
He head jerked to the side when he heard the creak of the floorboard as she took another step inside. His hair was down to his shoulders and hung in wild, greasy, matted stands. His skin was speckled with dirt and old, dried blood. Wheezing breaths struggled out his lungs.
Aylin breathed through her mouth, trying to keep her nose blocked from the horrible smell wafting off of him. The closer she got, the worse it became. Not even her mask could help block the smell. He had been locked in this room for a long time, rotting away with no flow of air, no sunlight, nothing.
“What have they done to you?” She whispered, horrified by what she was seeing. “Who are you?”
The sounds of shifting chains filled the quiet shack as he came more alert. She stayed in the shadows behind him, just out of his eye sight while he tried to crane his head around to see who was speaking. This was a new voice, one unfamiliar to him.
“Who are you?” He croaked. His voice was deep and scratchy like a rusty tool he no longer had any use for.
“I asked you first.” She listened to the sound of the rain hammering against the wooden roof. It helped soothe the quickened pace of her heart. “Are you one of them? Do you…belong to them?” A pet. That’s what Sierra had called him.
She had only been taught how to kill wolves, not what to do when she encountered a hostage they were keeping. This was new, uncharted territory. Sergei would probably want her to kill him and move on with her task, get home safe without any added baggage. Her mother would tell her to free the starving man and find him help, her humanity being more important than a flawless hunt. She chewed on her lip, silently weighing her options.
The man gave a breathy, weak laugh. It sounded dark and ominous.
“I…belong to them…yes.” He hesitated, defeat dripping in his tone. “Are you here to kill me? Please say yes.”
Aylin swallowed, unsure. Was she? Her hand was clutched to the hilt of her knife. He could be dangerous. Or useful. There had to be a reason why a pack of wolves had him locked up. He belonged to them but was he one of them? It didn’t sound like he was part of the pack. A rival, maybe? Whoever he was, he wanted to die. He wanted her to kill him. Her heart sank in her chest. He looked so weak. His head had fallen back against his slumped over chest, his neck unable to support it upright for long. They had tortured him, starved him, until he was a broken shell.
She took a deep breath and pulled her knife from the holster. He shuddered at the sound. She held it at the ready as she crept closer, ducking under one of his chains, to stand directly in front of him. He lifted his tired head to look at her. Her eyes widened at the horrors. Gaunt, pale cheeks caked in dirt. Untamed, wild hair like a mane framing his skeletal face. Dark, sagging circles embedded around hollow, red tinted eyes. His scraggly chestnut beard stuck out in all directions to hide his dry, chapped, pale lips. Every rib stood out against his grimy chest. She forced her eyes from traveling down any further, wanting to allow the naked man whatever shred of dignity he had left.
“Well?” He asked again, watery eyes boring into her. “Are you going to kill me or not?”
Aylin locked her gaze with his. It was the look of hope that softened his sharp features that simultaneously broke her heart and made up her mind.
“No,” she declared.
She couldn’t kill him. She didn’t care who he was or what he had done. Anyone chained up and begging for death deserved a second chance.
A frown darkened his sweat dripped brow, “You're a hunter, aren’t you? I know that symbol on your coat. I heard you outside. You killed Sierra. That’s what you do. You kill werewolves.”
Aylin nodded, “Yes.”
“Then kill me,” he stated. The finality of his statement settled in the stale air around them.
He was a werewolf.
She should kill him. She should hate him. She should claim his life as a second victory. Two for one. It would secure her spot as Sergei’s protégé. She would be revered as a hero. A future candidate to lead the Silver Colts. Her destiny would be written in stone.
Which was exactly why she wouldn’t.
When she didn’t respond, he clenched his jaw, anger flashing across his broken eyes, “Kill me! I’m one of them! Do what you’re supposed to do and kill me!” He threw himself at where she stood, unflinching. The chains caught him before he could reach her and yanked him back into place as a sob escaped him. The fight immediately left his body. He was too weak. He curled up as best as he could with his arms hung weakly above his head. He let out a pathetic whimper. “Please…do it…please…” He whined. “Please. Help me. Make it end. Let it be over.”
He was a werewolf. A predator. A freak of nature. The one thing she was supposed to despise most in this world. Her enemy. The one she vowed to eliminate even if it cost her own life. She was raised to do this. Raised to be a killer.
“No,” she whispered.
It’s not a fair fight. He was too weak. Bound to chains. Already beaten into submission. She’d have to be a monster to pierce his heart now. He was supposed to be the monster. Not her. The plans of what to do next began swirling around in her mind. Crazy, ridiculous, unheard of plans.
Aylin slipped her knife back into its holster. She had made up her mind. She was going to take him. Steal him from the pack. Bring him back with her. Hide him away from her people. Use him to get information. He was weak enough that she could control him. In the state he was in, his fragile mind could be easily manipulated. It was insane, yes, but it was her plan and her mind was set on it.
The ring of keys were still stuck inside the lock of the door. She ducked back under his arm chain and retrieved them, starting to test each key until she found the right one, while he studied her with a quiet, sleepy, curiosity. She carefully unlocked each cuff, setting him loose.
The wolf man fell to the ground the second his arms were free. He crumpled into the fetal position, chest heaving, unable to do much more in his feeble state. Aylin squatted down in front him. His knees were more raw than his wrists, almost worn down to the bone, as if he had to spend most of his time on them. It was then that she noticed his pelvic region. She only took notice because it stood out. While the rest of him was covered in grime, his pelvis was meticulously clean. Spotless. Perfectly cleared of any dirt, sweat, or blood. She couldn’t see anything more revealing as he tucked into himself but it was an odd observation, the kind that made her stomach lurch. Whoever Kateri was, she only seemed to care about one specific part of him. This hostage had a purpose. One she was going to take away from them. Cut off their supply and use him to lure them out into the open.
He was the key to eliminating the entire pack.
“What’s your name?” She asked softly. She could pretend to be nice, gain his trust, have him work for her. She could use him to bend her guild in the right direction. Think of all the information that could be learned by having an actual werewolf on their side.
He peaked his eyes out at her, his lids hanging heavy like he hadn’t slept in days, “It’s-” He hesitated, having to think, to try and remember that part of himself. A part he lost long ago. “Uh, it's…Peter….yeah, that’s it. Peter.” Even though he was free, he made no attempts to move. Completely broken like an abused, unleashed dog sticking close to his master because he knew of nothing else. Kindness didn’t exist in his world. All he knew was pain and suffering.
She reached out her hand, gently placing it against his cheek, even as he flinched and cowered away, she held steady, “I’m not going to hurt you, Peter.” She removed her hand from his scraggly beard and tugged down the dark cowl and mask to reveal the rest of her face for him to see, “My name is Aylin. I am a hunter but not to you. You no longer belong to these sadistic people. Now, you belong to me.”
[Chapter Two]
A/N: A reblog will automatically put you onto the chapter two tag list. If you enjoyed what you read, please leave a comment! It would make this writer very happy and more likely to continue writing. I hope you have a lovely night/evening/morning/afternoon/day.
Tag List: @liz-allyn @mrshipsmcgee @sincericida @moonyslove78
#tasm#the amazing spiderman#peter parker#andrew garfield#spiderman#tasm fic#tasm x oc#tasm fanfiction#tasm au#tasm peter parker#tasm peter#tasm peter au#tasm peter parker au#tasm peter fic#tasm peter parker fic#tasm peter x oc#tasm peter parker x oc#spiderman au#tasm werewolf au#peter parker werewolf au#creature like me#blooming violets#blooming-violets#blooming violets fic#creature like me chapter one
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One of the more annoying parts about the whole sentimonster subplot taking over Miraculous Ladybug is how it resulted in the breakdown of the connection between the Peacock Miraculous and its associated concept - emotion.
With the Season 2 finale, we were given a glimpse of what the Peacock Miraculous could do, and with Season 3 we are introduced to what sentimonsters were. They were beings born out of a strong emotion and were, in many ways, the embodiment of that emotion.
Season 3 also introduced the seemingly now forgotten idea that sentimonsters, as the embodiment of emotions, can go amok just based on those emotions alone. Lollipop Boy rampaged because it was the manifestation of a baby's volatile emotional state. Feast went on a rampage even before Fu lost the staff because it was born out of Master Fu's resentment and hunger. Mayura creating a Ladybug sentimonster implied that creating sentipeople was not necessarily an easy or trivial task and required intense emotional control, possibly for the existence of the creation. While there were theories about secret sentimonsters, there were also still people who believed that Sentibug was a philosophical zombie and that she may have "run amok" even with possession of her own object. It was ambiguous for a reason and the whole point of sentimonsters were that they were emotions themselves made manifest that could potentially go haywire even without a Cataclysm.
However, with Season 4, creating sentimonster clones was as easy as pie for Shadow Moth. The idea that sentimonsters were born out of a specific emotion was replaced with the idea that this Peacock Miraculous could create replicants and it was made much more clear that these creatures were sapient. This led to Season 5 in which the ethical dilemma of creating life via feathers was finally given a few lines. That said, this has taken the Peacock Miraculous even further afield from its initial function. "Sentimonster" is a wholly unfitting name for a Peacock Miraculous creation, and not just because of the "monster" part -- they aren't even created from sentiment any more, but the will of the Miraculous holder.
To me, this makes the exposition given in Representation unsatisfying. Given the Peacock Miraculous contained the kwami of emotion, it would stand to reason that the creator's emotions would manifest in the behavior of the creations as they did with Feast. If the reason why Adrien was the "perfect" son and Felix was a troublemaker was due to Adrien being manifested out of true love while Felix was manifested out of envy and that formed their personalities, then this would still be tied to the idea of emotions creating life. (Felix could still reform, but he'd have to fight his very nature and own feelings to do so.) Instead we get "Colt Fathom was a monster and Felix had no choice." It's not necessarily a bad backstory, but the link between emotion and how it powers existence is lost.
#ml representation#ml season 5 spoilers#ml salt#ml representation spoiler#spoilers#ml spoilers#miraculous ladybug
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Re-verse Felix Graham de Vanily (Argos)from My dystopian universe au(based on the Paris special)
I decided to keep the villain name the same even in the alternate world because I just like it that much, all the other charecters names will be inverted like Toxinelle,Hesperia and Griffe Noir.
Re-verse Argos is the definition of sweet and psycho, he is a smooth talker who manages to get his way out of several interactions whether from the Supreme or the resistance,he knows how to get what he wants and is loyal only to himself and the few people he cares about, but he is currently allied with the Supreme and his forces because of convenience, presevation, and because he's intrigued.
He's not above working with his enemies if it meant sharing a common goal,he does absolutely despise Supreme but he's also curious about him so he decides to play along for the meantime until he is able to find more information regarding the matter.
Argos is someone who generally knows how to keep his cool, he's cold and caluclated,and can get really sadistic when it comes to psychologically tormenting his foes, Felix holds a kind of twisted thought process derived from his own experiences with his father and the Supreme that all people in the world were wretched monsters so while he doesn't immediately resort to genocide it's not exactly off the table he's just broadening his options.
Since he's entirely against the option of destroying the Sentibeings he creates he also ends up overriding the block on his miraculous causing him to also be affected by the repressions exactly like Toxinelle and Griffe Noir, Argos has different sentis posted on different locations of the city to do things such as recon, all time surveillance, to pursue any suspicious individual and to help him do tasks, along with red moon he also has a dog senti that assists him in battle it's able to change forms and shift into different types of creatures, red moon assists him to temporarily get rid of anyone who may act as a threat and red moon also additionally allows Argos to teleport across long distances as long as he's covered in the ruby light, there's also a dragonfly senti for recon.
Atleast for the first act there's a bit of role reversal from the og series Adrien's relationship with Gabriel is tenuous, so he ended up spending a lot more time with his cousin, Adrien hates Colt and how he treated Felix, but he could never really do anything about it, Felix found out a short while ago about his origin as a sentihuman and managed to narrow down Adrien's as well since then he kept this a secret, he didn't tell Adrien anything about it for the meantime but when Adrien told him about his own identity Felix asked him of one request just to retrieve the peacock miraculous from Hesperia's ally Pavana, Adrien did just that during a battle he managed to cataclysm Hesperia on the arm and knock the peacock miraculous from Pavana as well from an attack from Toxinelle that managed to gravely injure her leading for all of Paris to believe she died. Toxinelle chased after Hesperia and the membes of the resistance as they retreated back to their hideout while Griffe Noir managed to recover the peacock miraculous from the wreckage and without permission from the Supreme he handed it straight to Felix Albeit with consequences.
Felix's personality is initially very different from who he grows to become for plot reasons Colt didn't die immediately after Emelie, the use of the peacock miraculous weakened his body, and his condition is becoming worse as the days go by but he was still alive for the meantime atleast Colt used to involved in the Supreme's inner circle much like Gabriel and the Graham de Vanily twin sisters, Felix in the beginning of the au will act similarly to how he did before his father died but this won't last long as I have plans to fully flesh out his charecter and his motives.
I'm not really good at describing in short summary for posts without spoiling the entire au so I'll stop right here 😅.
(I've yet to finish his civilian design so I might post it a little later on. Maybe in another post)
I really liked his og design from the series it's really one of my favourites, and at first I really didn't know how to go with the Re-verse outfit so I decided to just experiment with the main colours of purple, pink, turquoise and blue and decided on the main colour being purple, and gave him a short pongtail and black sclera and made the ends of the tailcoat to resemble peacock feathers(from behind)
I also got really inspired by this costume I saw on pinterest, I wanted to convey a specific vibe with Felix's design so I hope I managed to achieve that.
This will probably be made into a little series, I don't plan on involving all the main characters as miraculous holders.
There's a reason why I won't be able to involve Rena Rouge or carapace (in different names)even as heroes.
Chloe as a miraculous holder maybe... I have special plans for her charecter arc.
Alix yeah her too got plans for her.
Lila(Cerise) she's a really good villain would hate to exclude her.
Kagami yup her too,
Maybe I'd add Luka 🤷🏽♀️ I'm debating
Just these five I guess.
I'll do a poll
#miraculous#miraculous ladybug#miraculous chat noir#miraculous ladybug and chat noir#miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir#miraculous paris special#miraculous paris#miraculous world#ml au#miraculous au#miraculous fanart#argos#felix#hireath for the accursed au#Shadybug#claw noir#hesperia#Toxinelle#griffe noir#sentitwins#felix graham de vanily#felix fathom#adrien agreste#colt fathom#feligami#kagami tsrugi#villains#betterfly#alternate universe#miraculous rewrite
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Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed
Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Masterlist
Read on AO3 here:
Summary: A lot has changed since the revolution. Crimes against androids are now being treated with greater severity, with many being subject to the same penalties as crimes against humans. While anti-android attitudes are on the decline, transforming the mindset of an entire city is no simple task.
A reluctant Gavin Reed and his new partner RK900 have been assigned to investigate a string of disturbing murders. Despite the shift in Detroit's social climate, Gavin still holds reservations about whether or not androids are truly alive. Will his developing feelings for 'Nines' prompt a shift in perspective?
Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Smut
Word Count: 4K
Storage Locker C was a squalid, closed-off room filled to the brim with emptied crates and shipping containers. The CyberLife branding was worn and faded, and all surfaces coated in a thick layer of dust. It looked abandoned, as though it had not been accessed since before the Revolution.
“Colt, I'm getting really sick of you telling me what you're about to tell me”, Gavin said, addressing the man standing with him in the middle of the densely packed room.
Sanders let out a clipped huff, tracing a circle in the dusty floor with the tip of his boot. “There’s nothing here. Save dirt and cobwebs. We're gonna sweep the perimeter outside and see if we pick anything up - but I wouldn't count on it."
A couple of scattered Forensics Officers were standing by the entranceway, packing up lights and Thirium analysis kits, ready for transportation. Sanders ushered them towards the exit with a tilt of his head, and they started to head out, the door closing behind them. Despite this, the draft persisted, a consequence of the poor insulation. Gavin hugged his hands to his armpits in an attempt to keep warm, pacing around in fractious circles.
Nines stood a few feet away, scanning the access panel next to the entranceway. "Keypad secured, accessible via a six-digit code issued to CyberLife employees." He removed his hand from the panel, skin melding back into place. "I suspect the Reaper left the room accessible for a short window. Just long enough for Mr Finch to deposit the phone."
"Or maybe that didn’t happen." It had been a quiet, introspective grumble as the detective continued to move aimlessly. He had not demanded a response, but he received one nonetheless.
"There was no sign of forced entry, and I doubt he would have been entrusted with unsupervised access."
"I don’t mean that. Maybe the reason why it looks like no one has been in here for months is because no one has."
"I am not following you."
Gavin groaned. "I mean, come on, isn’t it convenient that Finch hands off this phone to some random guy and then has no idea where it goes? What if the exchange never happened, and he’s just fucking with us?"
"I would know if we had been misdirected", Nines swiftly reminded him, pointing to his temple with a two-fingered gesture. "While the lack of evidence is disappointing, it is not unusual given what we have come to expect in this case—
When the Reaper leaves something behind, he does so with intent. If this place holds no significance to his puzzle, then there would be no reason to leave his usual markers."
"Doesn’t really help us, though, does it?" Gavin came to a halt, reaching into his pocket to check the time on his phone. There was a notification for an unread chat log previewed on the lock screen. "May as well stay here until Sanders and his boys are done. Fowler won't expect us back for a while, and I'm in no hurry to tell ‘im this was another dead-end."
Unlocking the phone, he was taken to the conversation history that was already opened. He tucked behind a large shipping container, angled away from Nines to ensure he couldn’t see. Scrolling his way to the most recent message proved an difficult task and left him feeling a little uneasy:
Russian Nesting Doll
[Saturday at 9:05 am] Good Morning Gavin. How are you feeling today?
You
[Saturday at 11:35 am] like someone is taking a drill to my skull.
need to stop drinking like that. getting too old.
Russian Nesting Doll
[Saturday at 11:36 am] Nothing good ever comes without cost.
I hope it was worth it for the sake of an enjoyable evening.
You
[Saturday at 12:38 pm] not sure. I dont remember all of it
sorry if i got messy
Russian Nesting Doll
[Saturday at 12:45 pm] No need to apologise.
I meant what I said.
If you ever need someone to talk to - or someone to spend time with - I'm there. Just say the word.
[Saturday at 1:35 pm] Nothing implied, of course. I am happy to just be friends :)
Russian Nesting Doll
[Sunday at 1:05 pm] Have a good day at work tomorrow.
I hope things aren’t too uncomfortable with your partner.
You
[Sunday at 3:34 pm] shouldnt be
talked things out. were okay now.
Russian Nesting Doll
[Sunday at 3:35 pm] I see. Well, if you think it’s enough, then I won’t tell you otherwise.
Just don’t let him take advantage of your goodwill.
You
[Sunday at 3:55 pm] ???
dont really know what u mean by that?
we were both being dicks and now we arent
so its fine
Russian Nesting Doll
[Sunday at 3:56 pm] You were not in a good place the other day.
I wouldn’t be so quick to put your faith in him.
You might end up getting hurt.
Russian Nesting Doll
[Sunday at 9:23 pm] I hope I haven’t upset you. I am just concerned.
These situations always end the same way.
Thumbs drumming idly on the screen, Gavin deliberated on the best way to proceed. Tact had never been his strong suit, nor something he typically concerned himself with. However, his recent experiences with Nines had left him a bit more empathetic than usual.
You
[Draft]
Alex u seem nice but im really not interested
we went on one date you dont know my life
Can i have some time to think about it?
As Gavin tried and failed to formulate a suitable response, another message popped up on the screen:
Russian Nesting Doll
[09:50 am] I can see that you’ve read my messages.
It’s a shame that you've been unwilling to accept help.
"Unless he did leave a marker."
The sudden address shocked Gavin back to reality. Quietly locking his phone and placing it back in his pocket, he emerged from his obscured position and back into view of his partner. "What do you mean?"
"The code to the lockbox", Nines’ LED spun yellow as he accessed the requisite information. "22 42 15 11 44. Knowing our killer, I doubt the numbers are inconsequential. It could be another message."
"You seemed to think so during Finch’s interrogation." There was a teasing edge to his words as Gavin recalled the events that had led them to their current location. "If he had decided to hold out much longer, I thought you might beat the numbers out of him."
Nines seemed flustered by the suggestion, his cheeks dusted with flecks of blue. "I don't believe my approach was excessively forceful. Having said that, I was...distracted that day, so it is possible that I exercised less patience than I could have."
Distracted by your 'personal matter'? Gavin pondered but stopped himself from saying. It almost felt like teasing how painfully ambiguous Nines was acting.
He had been torturing himself the entire morning, clinging to hope over every perceived spark of interest. The glances that had lingered for a little too long on their drive up to the Storage Locker and the way that Nines had brushed his hand upon their exit. Each time he dared to believe that his partner might be feeling it too, the moment dissipated, leaving the detective to wonder if he had been a product of his imagination.
"So, what was the message?"
"I am unsure. It appears to be a new code system, one he has not previously used. I have one solution, but I suspect it is not the one we are looking for." There was a biting spite to the way Nines said this, as though casting doubt on his own abilities. "It seems incomplete—much like many of my deliberations as of late."
"I've hardly been much help on the 'cryptic bullshit' front." The detective acknowledged his limited contributions with a wry smile, folding his arms as he did. "Let me pick that big brain of yours. See what I've got."
Nines seemed receptive to the suggestion, his troubled expression softening into one of quiet gratitude. "The message in the rA9 scripture: ‘Those who worship false prophets will be punished’, followed by a series of incomprehensible numbers and symbols. I have no idea what they could mean."
"So you think it is a code within a code, right? Like the message that led Robert here?"
"Correct."
Gavin recalled the slip of paper his partner had shown him previously, trying to follow the same line of reasoning. "If we are getting closer to finding him, maybe he wanted to throw us a curveball…." He tutted at his inability to fully recall the details, looking to Nines with a hopeful shrug. "It's hard to say without seeing the scripture. Is there a way you could show it to me?"
"My eyes do not come equipped with projectors."
Then embarrassment washed over him, intermingled with a twinge of guilt. "Right, of course they don't. Sorry."
"Fortunately, I can show you this way."
Nines extended his hand as a small beam of light bloomed from the palm. It spread outwards, and a small image came into view. Gavin reeled back from the visage, completely stunned.
"Right, no projectors in the eyes because they come equipped to your fucking hands. That makes so much more sense."
Nines’ lips, which had been pulled into a forced scowl, twitched in subtle amusement. "If you wish to complain to someone, I’d suggest you contact CyberLife."
Having gotten over the surprise of the sudden manifestation, Gavin focused on the image. He scrutinised it intently before narrowing his eyes at a particular element.
"...Are these the numbers you're trying to work out?" he asked, leaning closer to his partner as he pointed to the projection. "He leaves a gap before the start of the sequence. Then all of a sudden, he's squeezing shit in, like he's run out of space. Why would he do that?"
"Human penmanship is often inconsistent, particularly when rushed."
"So he took his sweet time to decapitate the victim and leave the body posed like a statue, but he decided to rush this? You said it yourself that he does things deliberately. I don't think this is an accident."
Nines paused, his LED cycling yellow as though considering the possibility. "What are you thinking?"
"That maybe it's not the same message. It's two—using different code systems."
Gavin continued to analyse the sequence. In addition to the densely packed nature, the numbers were penned with far less clarity than the ones that preceded. The edges were softened, forming a strange cursive-like script as one digit flowed into the next.
"Nines, when a human writes a message, what do they sometimes do at the end?" He paused, smiling to himself before he continued. "Also applies to smartass androids sending annoying texts."
His partner seemed less than enthralled by the teasing jab but responded to the question nonetheless. "They sign it."
"Exactly. So what if that’s what he’s doing? This has been going on for a while now, maybe the fucker is getting cocky."
"There is cockiness, and then there is stupidity", Nines fired back, eyebrows raised. "I doubt he would reveal his true identity with such transparency."
"I dont think so either - but what if it's another title? Like God's Wrath or His Servant. Except this one is special; he went to more of an effort to hide it."
The android looked across his shoulder at the man peering over it. "Gavin, if you’re right, this could be pivotal."
"If?", the detective fired back, pulling away with an indignant scoff. "Come on, I know it's shocking that I worked something out before you did, but give me some credit. I don't always need to copy your homework."
"I know you don't. You have always been capable."
A notification pinged on Gavin’s phone, breaking the flow of their conversation. He inwardly bristled—well aware of the likely sender—but fought to conceal his irritation as he continued. "Capable? That’s high fucking praise. Better stop now before I get a big head."
"I am being genuine. You are a remarkable person - of whom I am continuously in awe."
Another notification and the annoyance escalated, comparable to being trapped with a fly in a moving car. "Okay, now you're going too far with the flattery." Making a subtle glance at the message, Gavin’s thumb was poised on the volume button, ready to turn it down. "Keep trying, you'll get it eventually."
"I understand that my actions may not have assisted in giving my words credence...I hope he can express such sentiments in a more articulate way."
The statement caught him off guard enough to delay the action. He?
"What are you talking about?"
When the detective looked up, he noted the android's focus was trained on his hand. The diplomatic veneer of his prior words contrasted sharply with the unsettling intensity of his eyes. It seemed he wanted nothing more than to crush the phone into a thousand tiny pieces.
"The man who invited you to dinner. I can only assume that he is the one who is messaging you."
"How did—" The initial surprise Gavin felt gave way to irritation. He levelled an accusatory gaze at his partner. "Assume, my ass. You're scanning my phone."
"I respect your privacy enough to refrain from using my scanners," Nines retorted, sounding a little offended. "There has been a change in your behaviour recently, which seems to coincide with this new contact. Heightened physical responses that would imply a strong romantic or sexual interest."
Then Gavin’s annoyance turned to bewilderment. Perhaps Nines’ system was glitching, or he’d misinterpreted the spike in his blood pressure—because that definitely wasn’t what he was feeling.
"Words can not attest to how lucky he is. I hope the relationship proves long and fulfilling." The forced smile he gave him betrayed something deeply incriminating. An emotion that was hard to mistake. Jealousy.
Realisation hit him like a hook to the jaw.
He had been feeling what Nines was describing, but Alex was not the object of interest. There had been another inciting incident, one which happened to coincide with the receipt of the initial USwipe message. Something that his partner seemed to have cataclysmically misinterpreted.
"Nines, I think you've got the wrong idea about where those feelings are coming from."
"You do not owe me an explanation."
"I'm single." Gavin said, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. "Like 'jacking myself to sleep' every night single. So yeah, I went on a date, but I'm never gonna see him again."
The forgotten phone in his hand pinged to life once again, and he felt another creep in his blood pressure. "Problem is, the guy can't take a fucking hint."
"Was his company not as pleasant as you anticipated?" Nines inquired, a strange hopefulness in his voice. However, this optimism quickly shifted to trepidation as his expression hardened. "Did he do something to upset you?"
"What? No, nothing like that. He was fine, I just—"
Another ping.
Okay, no, that’s done it. Any concerns of consideration or politeness were promptly thrown out the window as Gavin glared daggers at the message, planning a suitably scathing response:
You
[10:19 am] U need to back off right fucking now.
I dont know u and u dont know me. so stop with the intrusive bullshit
I dont want to see u again. thats it. were done.
He had barely removed his thumbs from the screen when he received the man’s response:
Russian Nesting Doll
[10:20 am] I know you well enough - but that’s fine, Gavin. You’ve made it quite clear what it is that you want.
I hope you’ll be happy with your choice. :)
Glancing over the message, Gavin wondered if he ought to feel guilty, but this concern swiftly gave way to an overwhelming surge of relief. With a triumphant huff, he blocked the number and returned his now undivided attention to his partner.
"It wasn't what I wanted." The admission came as a leap of faith but one that was decidedly worth it, as Nines finally seemed to realise what he was suggesting.
His jaw tensed, as there was a pronounced bob of movement visible in his throat. "What do you want?"
Gavin released a heated snarl, seizing Nines by the jacket and pulling down sharply. They stood nose-to-nose, his unsteady breath cascading over the android's face. "Take a wild fucking guess."
Their kissing was desperate, almost frenzied, as the detective firmly balled his hands into the back of his partner's hair, seeking additional leverage. Nines responded by slipping his arms around the shorter man’s back, pulling him close as he clawed at the threads of his jacket. Their bodies were flush, and it wasn’t long until they started to move in rhythm.
Heat pooled in Gavin’s stomach, travelling downwards, and his hips jerked forward brazenly. Through the motion, he came to an unexpected but wholly welcome discovery. Nines had opted for physical upgrades—evident in the distinct swell that could be felt through the threads of his pants. It brushed against him in smooth, measured motions, and Gavin could feel himself harden almost instantly. Lost in the movements, he didn’t notice that he was stumbling backwards until the corner of a shipping crate had wedged unwelcomely into his back.
As he hissed in pain, Nines broke the kiss. He tilted back to assess his partner, his grey eyes wide and startled. "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"
"Nah, you’re fine. It’s these damn crates." Gavin winced, massaging the sore spot with his hand. A cloud of dust had displaced itself upon contact, with the particles now floating above their heads. "Barely able to breathe in here."
"Perhaps we should delay this until later." The android scrutinised the grime-filled air as the man gasped to breathe it in. "These are hardly ideal circumstances."
"We could be wading around in a sewer right now, I couldn’t give less of a shit."
"That sounds repulsive", Nines chided. Nonetheless, his body betrayed a continued interest as he leant towards him, settling his face against the crook of his neck. "You seem to have deflected my question, Detective, about what it is that you want."
The title was spoken with a sinful richness that should have been illegal. It danced across Gavin’s ear, signed by a teasing nip on the shell. "Would think the raging hard-on would be a tip-off", he hissed, struggling to suppress the moan that was building in his throat. "I want you, all of it—smug asshole."
"That is rather non-specific."
"How vivid do you want me to be?", he snapped. "I indulged in a hefty amount of ‘self-care’ after you ditched me the other day. Almost ascended thinking of all the filthy things we could have done."
Nines chuckled in satisfaction, trailing kisses along the edge of his stubbled jaw. "I would be quite happy to atone for my mistake, but it would appear that you are still withholding some critical information."
"Seriously, jackass, use your imagination."
Strong arms tightened around Gavin's back before hoisting upwards, lifting until he was perched on the edge of a crate. Just as he was about to protest the forceful handling, he felt his legs be pulled apart with equal assertion as his partner nestled between them.
"Unless I hear it from you, I will have no choice but to put a stop to this." A hand came to cradle Gavin's jaw, applying firm pressure as his head was forcefully tilted upwards. "After I left. What did you think about?"
Lust overwhelmed any lingering reason as Gavin felt his mouth move of its own accord. "Your lips", he confessed, his gaze flitting subconsciously to the feature as he spoke. A perfect pink bow that demanded attention, sitting inches away from his face. "They felt so good. I wanted to know how much better they'd feel wrapped around my dick."
"Better." Nines' touches grew hotter, reaching fever, as though he were burning from the inside. The bridge of his nose and swell of his cheeks were tinged a royal blue. Gavin may have been concerned if he wasn't so willing to pliantly melt into the forceful caress. "Keep talking."
"I wish I'd known about this." He punctuated the word with a buck of his hips, catching his partner off guard. He watched in delight as his LED flickered. "I'd have spent more time thinking about how it would feel shoved down my throat."
Nines’ grip on his face loosened, and he worried that he might have crossed some unspoken boundary. Then he felt a thumb run languidly across his lip, gently pulling down. "I have pondered a few times on ways I could shut this filthy mouth of yours. I imagine fucking it would prove effective."
The pants that Gavin had allowed to escape gave way to a guttural moan. "It's so fucking hot. Hearing you talk like that."
"I'd rather do more than just talk about it."
The sound of a metal door swinging open rudely interrupted them, followed by a pace of footsteps. "Okay, boys, we're gonna wrap things up now."
A shared look of horror passed between them as Gavin squirmed from his seat on the crate, clambering to find his footing, and Nines straightened up, adjusting his rumpled jacket. Sanders, engrossed in his tablet, seemed oblivious to the situation.
"He'll send our report to Fowler now. If you need anything else from us, we'll—" As he looked up, the older man paused, regarding the other human officer with a perplexed look. "You okay, Reed? You're a little red."
"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just… warm in here." Gavin’s breath puffed out in a visible cloud as he said this. He awkwardly crossed his legs to avoid revealing anything incriminating but inadvertently offered a clear view of the crate—as well as the distinctly human-shaped print.
The residual dust was no doubt settled on his legs and backside, a detail not which had not gone unnoticed by Sanders. His dark eyes trailed him up and down, lips pinched inwards in amusement. "Like I said, we're heading out. You two gonna stay and look around, or are we following you out of here?"
Just then, a low dialling noise could be heard from the direction of the android. The light of his LED pulsed softly, in and out like a breath, signalling an incoming call. "It would appear we ought to leave as well", Nines said with a hint of disappointment. "The Captain is sending through a dispatch request."
"Where does he need us? Back at the station?"
The gentle pulsing stopped abruptly, turning to static red. "No. At a crime scene."
"... Shit." Gavin kicked an empty packing container that was lying at his feet, propelling it across the room. "They've found another body, haven’t they?"
"Bodies, I -"
The android fell, dropping unceremoniously to his knees. A hand clasped to his mouth as his body shook in violent tremors. His LED flashed like a siren, so quick that it was almost blinding to look at. The two men watched on, stunned, before rushing in to assist. Gavin was first to drop to the floor, placing hands on his partner's shoulders as he delicately pulled him close.
"Nines, are you okay? What's wrong?" Each word was met with a gentle tap, to which his partner failed to respond. He stared ahead, grey eyes large and unfocused, as though fading in and out of consciousness. A rumble of static passed from his lips as he moved his head in slow, jerky motions that were decidedly artificial.
It chilled Gavin to his core and told him something was seriously wrong. Delicate taps turned to shakes as he tried to snap Nines from his daze. "Fucking talk to me, what's happening?"
Nines muttered repeatedly to himself as though he were sitting alone in the room. The exact same phrase, over and over:
"It isn't possible."
#dbh#reed900#dbh fanfiction#dbh nines#dbh fanfic#dbh gavin#detroit become human#dbh rk900#gavin reed x rk900#gavin900#dbh gavin reed#gavin reed#gavin x nines#gavin x rk900
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