#Turns out the one I thought was Turning out pt iii is actually confirmed to be DJ is the crying for help so

[dragonairice]

Just spent like a whole half hour trying to connect verses of 'The Maybe Man' to all the songs in the album. Y'know. As you do.

[wttcsms]

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

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

part three: no falling in love

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

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

“Unit?”

“Warrior.”

“Blood type?”

“O negative.”

“Race?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alize Evans is no one’s fool. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wonders what that might feel like.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, the strangest thing happens. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alize isn’t stupid. She takes the offer. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A story for a story, he agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t make mistakes often. 

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

You quickly learn to stop making that mistake. 

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

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

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

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

You don’t like being backed into a corner. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. Calm your breathing. Reassess the situation. 

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

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

You didn’t make a mistake, you realize. 

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

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

Fairness is a foreign concept to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regret roughs up the soft features of his face. 

“Yes.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn. How’d he take the news?” 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You’re super fucked.”

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

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

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

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

Porco blinks. 

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

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

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

Well, when he puts it like that. 

“I planned on telling them.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good big brother. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that what you’re doing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The truth. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She knits every time she thinks about them.

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

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

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

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

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

(Will this be the last time?) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know that!” 

Not really, not yet. 

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

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

“You know that I love you, right?”

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

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

“But—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Good. She would have refused it.”

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

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

“I want to do whatever she wants.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom, it’s okay! She’s doing well.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Curiosity. Wonder. Appreciation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long have they been there?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Only two? Only?

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

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

You comply, still frowning at him. 

“I’m okay now. I’ll always be okay.” 

He squeezes your hand as if to punctuate his promise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—why did you get your hair cut?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, well, I don’t know—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is your favorite vice more appealing than me? 

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

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

“A vow of sobriety? You would never!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s so funny?” 

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

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

He wouldn’t marry just anyone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The train ride to Fort Helena is a rowdy one.

The train rides to all deployments usually are. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colt Grice & Michael Sells — brothers in arms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They have reached their destination.

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

[songmingisthighs]

Hooked

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

ch. liii - sugar daddy

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??? × reader, ateez × reader

A freshman hookup rekindled into something new. With an incentive, of course. But what would happen if your 'relationship' led you somewhere you never thought would happen to you ?

Dinner couldn't have gone better. Sure, Seonghwa's dad mostly ignored you, only throwing questions here and there to avoid Seonghwa's mom nagging at him. But he was mostly preoccupied with his phone. At one point, while his dad was so focused on his phone, Seonghwa leaned close to you and whisper 'one of the mistresses' to you, making you giggle.

"You know, (Y/N), I don't think I've ever seen Seonghwa smiled this wide when he's around us, you must be a pretty special lady," his mom said to you with a gentle smile.

You blushed in slight embarrassment at the compliment, "I sure hope so, ma'am, because I gotta say that he's very special to me too," you said as you look up to Seonghwa.

Hearing you said that made Seonghwa bit his bottom lip to prevent him from giggling out loud. So he opted to place a hand on your thigh and squeezed it gently, letting you know how he appreciated your words. Seeing this, his mom squealed and gushed about how adorable you both are and how glad she is that he found you.

Even after the topic was changed, Seonghwa didn't seem to lift his hand off of your thigh. He had actually moved to caress it gently with his fingers. You assumed it helped him be at ease so you didn't think much about it and let him be.

As dinner progressed to dessert, you found yourself having fun bonding with his mom and sometimes his dad when he wasn't glaring at his phone or when his mom directly addressed him. You realized that his parents are actually unlike most rich parents which then would explain why Seonghwa is who he is. Maybe minus the cheating father.

One other thing you realized is that Seonghwa's hand that was on your thigh had moved significantly higher, it was resting inside your skirt, just a bit past the hem, and that he was sitting closer than before. You felt your heartbeat quicken as his fingers drew shapes on your inner thigh, exhilarated yet worried and slightly embarrassed as his parents are directly across from you two.

"Honey, there's the Kims, we should go and say hi," his mom said, tapping his dad's arm and they immediately went over to the other table after excusing themselves for one second.

As quickly as they left, Seonghwa snapped his head to you in a panicked state, "quick, take off your panties!" he said in a hurried tone. You widened your eyes at him and stared at him as if he was crazy. But he kept urging you with a panicked voice, ultimately rendering you panicked as well. Nevertheless, you did as told and slyly slip your panties off and lift them with your legs to capture them but Seonghwa beat you to the punch as he took the panties and stashed them in his pockets. Just in time as his parents return to the table. Seonghwa sent you an inconspicuous wink and that was when you realized that he has a plan.

The first time he made a move was when you were taking a sip of your water. He let his finger roamed up and slip easily to your folds, almost making you choke.

"Oh gosh, dear, are you alright?" his mom asked you. You wanted to answer but you were still coughing slightly. Seonghwa took this as an opportunity. He used his perfect-boyfriend act when he pulled your hair out of your face and dab his napkin around your mouth, perfectly covering his other hand that managed to slip deep into your hole, almost making you choke again.

First strike.

His next move was when he was seemingly very much absorbed in a conversation about business with his parents, leaving you out of the conversation but still paying attention to you. Though his hand was still under your skirt, it remained stagnant and still.

But out of nowhere, as he talked about acquisition and mergers, his fingers pinched your clit rather harshly. You jolted up in surprise as your legs clamped shut, trapping Seonghwa's hand inside.

Again, his mom asked whether or not you were okay, and you tried your best to convinced her that you are despite Seonghwa's fingers' constant teasing. When Seonghwa turned around to look at you, you saw the smug smirk on his face and by God you never wanted to smack someone more.

Second strike.

The last strike was when you all were having dessert and Seonghwa pretended to have dropped his fork. You were on edge since he had taken his hand out for a while and the slick in your pussy had started to bother you.

He ducked down under the table just as you shifted the position of your legs. He saw his, literal, opening and slotted his face between your legs and licked a stripe up your pussy. Thank God for the table cloth or else you both would've been kicked out of the restaurant for sure.

You let out a sharp squeak which was thankfully held back a little because you had your mouth close.

Just as quickly as you reacted to him, Seonghwa also quickly returned to his position, playing the act of a perfect, doting boyfriend. "Baby, you okay? You don't look well," he made a fuss by pressing the back of his hand to your forehead and cheeks which were red because you've been blushing out of embarrassment and arousal.

"You know what, Seonghwa, sweetie, you should really take (Y/N) here home, take care of her, alright?" his mom said.

You smiled sheepishly at her and also to Seonghwa's dad, "I'm so sorry I had to cut things short," you told them. Seonghwa's mom laughed wholeheartedly at you as she waved her hands around, "it's no problem at all, darling. Besides, we're going to meet each other again soon, I'm going to make sure Seonghwa bring you to family dinner, okay?" she smiled warmly at you. Even his dad managed to look up at you and smiled genuinely.

After bidding your goodbyes to both of them, Seonghwa took your hand in his and immediately ran out to get his car from the valet. As you both waited, you grip on the lapel of his blazer and tugged him close to you, "how fucking dare you," you muttered lowly.

Seonghwa smirked and brushed his lips against the skin of your cheek, "can't help it baby, you looked so damn good and knowing I prettied you up made me... hungry," he growled. His lips moved to your ear to inconspicuously nibble on your earlobe, "who's your daddy?"

Your legs almost wobbled at that. If Seonghwa hadn't had his arm around you, you sure would've dropped to the ground and let him take you then and there.

But thankfully the car came right at that moment and to say you bolted yourself into the car.

Once Seonghwa got onto the driver's seat, he gripped onto your arm and stared at you intently, "you are not to touch yourself, you got me?" he stated. You stammered, you wanted to protest but he only stared at you, unmoving.

You jutted your lips and crossed your arms in protest, staring forward in disappointment. Much to your surprise, Seonghwa smacked your thigh hard enough to make it red, "I said, you got me?" he stressed each word, indicating that he needed verbal confirmation from you. "y-yes, I understand, I won't touch myself," you whimpered.

Satisfied, Seonghwa rubbed the reddened spot on your thigh and began driving.

Whilst Seonghwa was focused on driving, an idea popped into your head. A quite dangerous one at that. But you really wanted to get back at him for playing with you in front of his parents. You didn't know what made you decide on going forth, but you were sure your horniness had a large play.

Quickly getting yourself to work, you had somehow managed to unzip Seonghwa's pants and whip his hardening dick out. You licked your lips at the sight, your hand began stroking him as the other settled on his thigh in order to stabilize yourself.

Quickly getting yourself to work, you had somehow managed to unzip Seonghwa's pants and whip his hardening dick out. You licked your lips at the sight, your hand began stroking him as the other settled on his thigh in order to stabilize yourself.

"What are you-" Seonghwa's words were cut off with his own moan as you delved down to take his dick deep in your mouth. Hearing him moaned out only egged you to go on further.

You deepthroated Seonghwa as best as you could, sucking him whilst letting your hand play with his balls.

"B-baby, you ca-an't do this," he said through gritted teeth. You peered up only to see his eyes glued to the road, but his hands were gripping onto the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles turned white. You took him out of your mouth to pump him in with your hand instead, you rested your head on his thighs and looked up to him with a pout on your face, "you said I couldn't play with myself, well I'm not! I'm playing with you, you and your pretty cock," you proceeded to lick along the vein of his dick.

Seonghwa groaned as his resolve started to wither away. Even whilst preoccupied with Seonghwa's dick, you could feel that he was speeding to go back.

With every suck or pump, Seonghwa's dick hardened and along with that, his need to cum. It was a gamble, sure, but you couldn't help yourself. It was a sudden automatic urge to tease Seonghwa. Maybe you could blame it on hanging out with Wooyoung too much.

You continued bobbing your head on Seonghwa's cock as quickly as you can. You started something and you wanted to make sure that you're going to finish. And by finish you meant him cumming down your throat.

Due to being so focused on Seonghwa's dick, you hadn't realized that you both had arrived at the frat. The car came to a full stop in front of the frat and was put in park.

Just as you were about to release Seonghwa from your mouth, Seonghwa held your neck and groaned, "you best keep your head there until I cum so deep down your throat that you'd choke," he ordered.

You happily obliged and returned to work him. Seonghwa's demand to make him cum only encourage you. You'd bob your head on him, fondle his balls, graze your teeth against his tip, and squeeze his dick. It proved to be very effective as Seonghwa threw his head back and began to thrust his own hips up to your mouth, wanting more.

His lips began calling out your name in moans. You could imagine his eyes screwed shut as he desperately chased his release.

It wasn't until two, three more deepthroating that he came in your mouth. You could feel his dick twitched in your mouth as his warm cum trickle down your throat. The feeling made you moan and the vibration of your voice shot up from his dick to his spine, making him shudder.

You managed to swallow all of him clean, not leaving a single drop out. After you detached yourself from his dick, you could feel that he was about to pull you in for a kiss. But you expertly evaded him and dart out of his car into the frat instead.

"Hey- wait!" Seonghwa called out, cursing and immediately shoving his dick back into the pants and lock the car to follow after you.

When you walked into the frat, you ran past San and Jongho who were on the couch, watching something on the tv. You ran straight to the staircase and aim for Seonghwa and Hongjoong's bedroom.

Maybe it was because you weren't exactly running away from him, or maybe he was really just that fast, but he caught up to you mid-step and heave you up onto his shoulder wordlessly. He sent a spank onto your ass, making you yelp loudly. The sound of your voice didn't break his focus as he immediately entered your room.

As soon as he put you down on the floor, he gripped onto your chin and kissed you roughly.

"Strip naked for me," he said against your lips before letting you go. The serious tone in his voice made you hurriedly tug all of your clothes off and simply shove them to the side somewhere.

When you finally looked up, you saw Seonghwa on your bed, naked with his cock in his hand. He motioned for you to come to him with one hand while his other one was sliding up and down his slick shaft. The sight was so arousing, you could've sworn your juice leaked out of you.

"Ride me," he ordered as soon as you arrived next to the bed. You immediately obliged, throwing a leg over him and immediately slip his dick inside your pussy. Both of you moaned loudly when you felt how he filled you up and he felt how warm you are.

"Fucking move baby, I need you so bad," Seonghwa moaned out. His hips rolled up against yours and immediately you took the hint. You anchored yourself on his chest and began thrusting yourself up and down his dick. You threw your head back at the feeling and let out a long moan.

Not wanting you to work by yourself, Seonghwa gripped your hips and began meeting your thrusts. The sudden powerful hit from his hips made your arms weak and you almost toppled over onto his body.

"H-Hwa, you feel so good," you moaned out, moving your hips faster on him. Seonghwa reached a hand up to your breast and began squeezing and playing with your nipple, adding to the pleasure even more. "You feel even better, baby," he said, tongue licking his bottom lip.

The sight of his tongue was enough to drove you almost mad. You leaned forward and crash your lips to his, locking you both in a desperate kiss all the while your hips move as quickly as it could, not minding the fact that you might be sore tomorrow. Tonight, you only thought about Seonghwa fucking you.

Both of you moved in tandem with each other. Seonghwa held you as close as he could, a hand wrapped around your waist and another grabbing onto your ass, squeezing the flesh hard. Meanwhile, you were busy exploring Seonghwa's mouth with your tongue, his own tongue would even fight you for dominance.

Maybe it was because Seonghwa had been teasing you all through dinner, but you felt yourself so close to the edge. Your pussy clenched on his dick, signalling him of your impending climax.

As if to tell you to cum, Seonghwa planted his feet on your bed and began thrusting at a pace much quicker than yours. Because you were on top of him, you could feel him thrusting deep in you, rubbing onto your sweet spot continuously until you froze and came on top of him. His lips prevented you from moaning too loud which was a shame but you couldn't really protest.

It took Seonghwa a couple more thrust into your clenching pussy before he completely emptied himself in you. Both of your cum mixing and trailing down your thighs onto his and even dropping onto the bed.

The once ferocious kiss changed to a romantic one as Seonghwa nibbled onto your bottom lip sweetly. You could feel him smile against your own lips.

"You did great, baby," he said, letting your body drop down fully on top of him. When he was about to slip out of you, you whined in protest and hugged him tightly like a koala. Seonghwa chuckled at your adorableness, he carded a hand through your hair sweetly and peck your forehead, "we gotta clean up, baby, you've got cum in you and everywhere else," he said.

You whined and buried your face onto the crook of his neck in protest, "do that tomorrow, I like having you inside me," you pouted. Though his instinct told him to remove you and clean up, he couldn't say no to you. He knew he has no power if it comes to anything concerning you.

So he defeatedly sighed and somehow covered both of your bodies with your blanket. He made sure that you were in a comfortable position before closing his own eyes to get some rest.

The last thing you heard was him telling you goodnight and then a soft peck landed on your forehead before you drifted off to dreamland.

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[lonely-lost-soul]

Under The Floorboards pt. IIII

(Technoblade X Reader): Pt. I, Pt. II, Pt. III, Pt. IIII, Pt. V

Whipping the sweat off your brow you placed the honey jars you collected on the ground, Phil really built this farm efficiently. However, that didn’t stop you needing to collect honey pots here and there, now that the vault was complete you could actually use the honey for normal things. Technoblade would never admit it but he loved when you put honey in his tea, contrary to popular belief he wasn’t a fan of plain black tea or coffee. You rolled up your sleeves and adjusted the sunhat that sat lazily on your head against your better judgment you had left your armor inside. The only thing on your person was a netherite ax Techno had enchanted for you, it was an effective weapon but without your armor, you were a bit of a sitting duck. As the bees buzzed and bumped lazily into each other, you couldn’t help but smile fondly at the sight. They were just so silly. You picked up the crate of jars and turned around, your eyes narrowed as you saw some movement by the trees, it was still too early for Tommy and Technoblade to be back...so just who was snooping around the property. You felt very naked in your sun hat and overalls, especially if it was Dream himself that you were about to encounter. Your worry only increased as you noticed four men all in netherite armor walking towards the house, their swords were drawn. You had a feeling that these were the men who took Technoblade the day prior. They were like a little gang all dressed the same way, bloody aprons and all they really had the executioner vibes down. 

    “Hello, gentlemen.” You smiled giving them a wave while you adjusted the box of honey, “beautiful day isn’t it?” 

The first to answer was a man who had a scar from the tip of his eyebrow down to the bottom of his lip. He sent you a smile and you noticed a tooth missing from the upper row, a navy blue beanie held his dark hair in place. 

    “Very beautiful, it’s always a good day when the sun is shining.” He mused the sun in question reflected beautifully across all their netherite armor. The one thing you decided to leave inside, you weren’t intimidated nope not at all. “What’s your name sweetheart?”

    “(Y/N).” You responded with a hum, “Is there something that I can help you all with today?” Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed two of the men moved to surround you, they thought they were slick. The only one who didn’t move was the tallest of the children there, he looked to be half Enderman. He also looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was right now poor thing. Drawing your gaze back to the other three men, you noticed one was Tommy’s age and had small horns atop his head, along with goat-like ears. A burn scar also took up half of his face. It made you frown distastefully, what was with these kids getting traumatized? First Tommy and now the half enderman and the goat kid, you couldn’t adopt all of them, well you could but it’d be a lot of work. The other looked to be part fox after all the big orange ears and the fluffy tail was dead give away, wait didn’t Ghostbur say his son was a fox. “Are you Fundy?” You asked, suddenly tilting your head to the side.

    “How do you know my name?” Fundy’s face flushed a little and he shuffled on his feet, his hand twitching to grab the sword that was at his side. 

    “I talked to your father earlier today. I’m assuming that’s how you found me?” You took the hat off your head and rested it on Carl’s stable. The fox gave a reluctant nod of confirmation you licked your lips and put your hands behind your back. “So? Do you have a problem with Technoblade or just me specifically?”

    “Wow, she’s not even a little bit ashamed.” Quackity mused and you frowned, “We’re here because your boyfriend blew up our country. He also disgraced our President right Tubbo? Don’t know if you’re aware of that or not but he escaped his punishment. So we intend to make him repent.” He walked towards you and you took a step away from him. 

    “That’s far enough thank you.” You held up your hand in hopes it would stop his trek towards you, Quackity did pause for a moment. He let out a chuckle and smiled. He thought your tough attitude was cute, but he was clearly mocking you. 

Jackass. 

    “Quackity maybe we should leave her be...she didn’t do anything.” The young goat kid murmured his ears flicking as he looked up at you. 

    “Quiet Tubbo. Let the adults speak,” Quackity snapped at him before clearing his throat and looking back at you. “Listen (Y/N) was it? We’re going to have to ask that you come with us. If you don’t we’ll have to take you by force.”

    “Wait, couldn't Technoblade have trained her?” The half enderman spoke holding up his finger in the air but no one seemed to pay him any attention. 

    “I guess force it is. Although the fight is a little unfair.” You took out your ax and twirled it in your hand, “Something tells me you don’t exactly like fair fights.” Fundy took a hesitant step backward not really wanting to lose a life for this of all things, but he pulled out his sword just in case. Clicking your tongue in distaste you sent a bloodthirsty smile their way, one that rivaled Technoblade, “Come at me.” 

Without hesitation, Quackity charged at you with his sword he didn’t aim to kill, just disarm or injure. You blocked the swing with the wooden part of your ax and spun around just in time to dodge an attack from Tubbo. You managed to elbow him in the back and he stumbled forward into Quackity, the man made a grunting sound before shoving Tubbo off of him and into the snow. Fundy moved next and managed to land a hit on the side of your arm, you hissed loudly glaring daggers at the fox. His ears pressed against his head and he let out a small whimper, “sorry!”

    “Don’t apologize to her!” Quackity groaned, “You guys are the worst gang ever.” He slapped his forehead as you readjusted your posture, “I have to do everything myself.” Quackity snarled charging at you again you sidestepped out of the way. As he stumbled trying to regain himself he knocked over the honey pots and they shattered against the ground. You swung your ax and managed to land a hit on him in the back of the legs, he let out a strangled yelp and fell on his face into the snow like Tubbo had done earlier. Yanking out the ax out of the leader of the gang blood splattered all over the ground and stained the snow. Little red beads dripped off the ax as you held it by your side, the man only let out another scream as it was torn out of him. 

    “Back. Off.” You repeated again baring your teeth with a hiss, “Turn around and go back to L’manburg and I won’t kill you. Got it.”  The ax was pointed at all of them, you saw the half enderman nod vigorously, 

    “Yes ma’am.” He nodded rapidly grabbing Tubbo and Fundy by the arm and pulled them back, the three of them watched as Quackity snarled and backed up to join them. You watched them cower and you dropped your ax on the ground so you could press the palm of your hand into the wound on your arm. You quickly turned and ran back into your home to collect bandages and fix yourself up, blood speckled the floor as you made your way into the bathroom. You tore off your overalls and shirt, washing out the wound before wrapping your arm in bandages. You didn’t know how long you stood there in front of the mirror but you looked worse for wear. 

Technoblade was going to lose his shit.

---

All Technoblade could think about on their way back to his retirement home, was you. He could only put up with Tommy for so many hours until he needed to talk to literally anyone else. He was ready to get your relaxing date night underway; he could already feel your fingers running through his hair braiding his as you went. He hummed fondly listening as the voices called him simp repeatedly, he didn’t mind this time considering he was when it came to you. 

    “That’s still cringe chat.” He murmured to himself as Tommy continued to scream about something in the background, “Yeah, yeah I love her.” He heard the chat flip their shit and he fondly chuckled, intermixed with their happy cries there was a distinct sound of ‘E’ as well as ‘nerd.’ He almost didn’t hear Tommy’s worried shouting. He frowned and rolled his eyes back into his skull, 

    “What Tommy?” 

    “Technoblade! Technoblade!” The teen bumped back into him, Technoblade grunted and looked down at him. He followed Tommy’s eyes and spotted the blood littered snow outside his house. Technoblade paused and his vision went red around the edges, his eyes stayed trained on the bloodstains as the voices began to roar within his skull. His head shot up and he saw the honey box spilled over on the ground, glass littered the snow, your hat hanging loosely on Carl’s old stable. 

     “T-Technoblade.” Tommy stuttered again looking up at the pig-man, seeing how glazed over his eyes looked. He swore steam was coming out of Technoblade’s nose and his hand drew out his pickaxe gripping it so tight his knuckles turned white. He felt his tusks grow in size and his face began to shift into his pig form. Tommy’s voice was drowned out by the flood that was the voices in his head: 

‘SHE’S GONE. THEY HAVE HER. KILL THEM ALL. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD. WE DEMAND BLOOD. E. SAVE HER. YOU’RE A FAILURE. YOU DIDN’T PROTECT HER. SLAUGHTER ALL OF THEM. SHE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG. SHE NEVER HURT ANYBODY. YOU BROKE YOUR PROMISE. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD.’ 

Technoblade took a step forward to which Tommy rapidly backed up in response. He’s never seen Techno this gone before, oh shit he has it bad for (Y/N). However, Tommy didn’t make a move to stop Technoblade; he didn’t want him to release that rage on him. Technoblade walked into the house, stepping on his glasses that fell off his face. He threw his door open with a loud slam, he needed potions and he needed a new sword. 

Whoever did this all their cannon lives were gone he’d make it long and torturous.

A soft voice broke him out of his stupor his entire body went rigid. 

    “Bubs…” He slowly turned around and came face to face with you, you looked so small, so delicate standing in the doorway. You were wearing your pajamas, soft blue with little sheep all over them. His ears twitched and his shoulders softened considerably seeing you standing safe in the doorway, however, he tensed again the minute he saw the bandages tied around your arm. Blood leaking through them, he growled eyes locking in on the spot as you made soft shushing sounds at him. 

‘SHE’S HURT. SHE’S ALIVE THOUGH. BUT SHE’S HURT, THEY NEED TO PAY. ATONE FOR WHAT THEY DID TO HER. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD. SPILL THEIR BLOOD THEN MAKE OUT WITH HER. SHE’LL LOVE YOU MORE IF YOU DO. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD.’

Technoblade jumped feeling her hand caress his cheek, “Bubs it’s alright I’m okay.” Your voice was smooth and soothing, his eyes dilated as you spoke to him. His face shifting back to normal as he breathed heavily through his nose, “See?” You brought his head down to rest against your chest, it looked uncomfortable the way that he was bending. However, he could feel your heart beating in your chest, he made a soft whimper and grabbed onto your shoulders his pink hair tickled your chin. You brought your hands up to run his fingers through his hair as he finally calmed down enough to ignore the voices for the time being. Right now they were just commenting on how nice and warm her hands were anyway.

    “What happened to you? There was blood everywhere I was so scared.” His voice broke a little bit as he pulled away from you. Your heart twisted painfully in your chest Technoblade had never looked so broken. 

    “The butcher squad came and attacked me. They wanted to use me to get to you but I fought them off just like you taught me.” You couldn’t help but smile proudly at him and he let out a disbelieving laugh. His hands moved from your shoulders to your back as he cradled you gently in his arms, you both stood there rocking back and forth together until Technoblade was satisfied. 

    “That’s my girl.” He finally murmured backing away from you, you flushed at the compliment. Whenever he called you that it made you flush all over, you let out a loud flustered whine and whacked him on the chest. Technoblade laughed at your flustered expression, it was a rare moment the tables were flipped like this and Technoblade was going to take full advantage of the situation. “Princess what’s with that look? Am I, thee Technoblade, making you flustered? I know I’m a lot to handle, I beat Dream once, I never die, I’m not homeless. Guess what?” 

    “What?” You couldn’t help but let out a giggle as he circles you eyeing you up and down. 

    “I’m single.” 

    “Oh really?” You cocked an eyebrow, “I thought you had a girlfriend.” You twirled your hair around your fingers and you felt his strong hands rest on your waist. 

    “Hm I don’t think so. You might need to refresh my memory,” Technoblade mused kissing your neck tenderly. 

    “Well she’s stunningly gorgeous, and tough as nails,” Your eyes fluttered closed as you leaned back against him. “She absolutely adores you and how protective you are of her, and how much of a gentle giant you are.” He made a noise of protest and rested his chin on the top of your head. You could tell he was pouting at you, 

    “See, not only is that super cringe but also factually incorrect. I am not a gentle giant, I just committed vast sums of minor terrorism and I also kill orphans so what would my girlfreind say to that huh?” He huffed clicking his tongue distastefully. 

    “She would say that you’re right but also she sees the way you take care of Carl, and how you put up with Tommy. You’re totally brothers. That makes you at least a little bit soft” 

    “Not brothers and I don’t like him.” 

    “Right sure,” You giggled a little and kissed his chin lightly. 

Technoblade let out an indignant sound before muttering, “Oh we should probably tell Tommy you aren’t kidnapped. Also discuss what to do about L’manburg now that they know you exist.” You blocked out that last part and made a beeline outside to find Tommy. The teenager in question was fumbling with his hands over by his cobblestone tower, you ran over to him and engulfed him in a hug. 

    “(Y/N)!” He shouted letting out a disbelieving laugh hugging you back with a childish smile. “You’re okay! Holy fuck I totally thought you were dead and shit! Technoblade was going fucking apeshit! His face went all pig like n’ shit totally thought he was gonna kill everyone for you! Not that I was worried.” He added quickly shoving you away crossing his arms. 

    “Of course you weren’t THE Tommy is never worried.” 

    “Yeah exactly Miss Blade you get me.” You smiled fondly at him and you ruffled his hair and he shouted at you to stop. You did so sensing Technoblade approach the both of you, Techno interlocked your hand with his own and squeezed it tightly. “You chill now Big T?” 

    “I’m always chill Tommy. Only nerds aren’t chill.” He mused with a scoff, “Hence why I always call you a nerd.” 

    “WHAT THE FUCK TECHNOBLADE! I AM ALWAYS CHILL! I’M THE CHILLEST MAN ALIVE I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW!” 

    “Stop shouting,” Technoblade groaned burying his face in your hair as you laughed fondly at their antics. Although L’manburg knew about your existence now, and although you knew Dream probably wasn’t too far behind in learning that knowledge either, you felt everything was going to be okay. 

All you needed was each other, Technoblde, Tommy, Phil and you. Together you four were gonna do great things, you just knew it.

~~~

I do plan on making another part because people seem to be enjoying this story a lot more than I originally thought when I first posted it. Which is amazing thank you for all the love and support! New stuff is also in the works, thanks again for reading and enjoying! Stay safe guys! 🥰✨

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

Mobster!Steve Rogers - Pt. III

Part I & Part II

WARNING: violence and abuse 

---------------------------

“Well, you’re being awfully quiet today…”

Steve snapped out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

His mother smiled, already knowing her son wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Stevie?”

“Nothing. Sorry, ma. I’m just tired.” He sighed.

But Sarah Rogers didn’t believe him one bit. “You sure it doesn’t have to do with that gal you took out the other week?”

Steve’s face scrunched in confusion, truly not realizing who she was talking about. Then it clicked. “Oh, Stacey? No. I wasn’t thinking – No, mom. She’s not the one for me.”

Sarah chuckled. “You say that about all them, you know.”

Steve’s bright blue eyes went distant. “Not all of them.”

His mother seemed to be able to read his mind. “Yeah? Well, you sure as hell messed that one up, didn’t you?”

Steve rubbed his face, clearly exhausted. “Please, ma. Not today.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad honey. I just worry about you.”

“You ain’t got nothing to worry about, ma. I’m fine. Always am.”

Sarah sighed. “Had I known how this throne would’ve lay on your head, I would’ve never allowed your dad insist on letting you take over the family business.”

Steve just stared at her, unsure of what she was trying to say.

“You’ve always been soft, Steve. Gentle. Kind. Empathetic. You got those bits from me.” She smiled sadly. “But your father only wanted to see the parts of you that were like him. I know you believed you didn’t have a choice. But you did. I just wish I had made that clearer. But you were grieving your father. I don’t think you would’ve listened to me anyway.”

“I don’t think I would’ve either, ma.”

“Your father managed to keep me and you safe, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. He did,” Steve confirmed.

“So, why are you so convinced that anyone you love will be given a death sentence, sweetheart?”

——————————————————

Steve opened the front door of his brownstone mansion. He shook the rain off his umbrella and gave a half glance to the two parked cars on the street that were always filled with men running security on his home.

A rumble of thunder erupted just as he closed the door behind him. It coincided with Bucky’s steps hurrying down the stairs.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call your for 2 hours?” Bucky snapped at him.

Steve glared at his best friend, but was more annoyed than angry. “I was at my ma’s. You know I turn off my phone when I’m there.”

Bucky sighed then, taking in his friend’s appearance before continuing. “We have a situation…”

The genuine concern and seriousness in his tone finally caught Steve’s attention. “What? What’s going on?”

Bucky’s confidence from earlier had disappeared. Now he was unsure of how to approach the topic.

“Buck, what is it?” Steve snapped.

“Y/N,” Bucky quickly replied. “Y/N’s here.”

Steve swore his heart dropped to his stomach. “Y/N? Y/F/N Y/L/N?”

Bucky just nodded. “She showed up at your front door, soaked to the bone and shaking. She asked to see you. Said she would’ve called but she deleted your number after – well, after the last time you two saw each other.” Bucky shifted his weight. “When I tried to ask her what was going on, she wouldn’t talk.”

Steve was still processing that she was in his home. “Where is she?”

Bucky pointed to the staircase behind him with his thumb. “She’s waiting for you in your study.”

But as Steve quickly stepped by him, Bucky gently grabbed him by the arm to stop him.

“Steve, I don’t think she’s OK. She’s…different.”

It was the only warning Steve would get before he made his way to the study.

He knocked on the door twice before opening it, mostly to make sure he didn’t scare her. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even turn around when he entered.

Steve immediately noticed the suit jacket draped over her shoulders. Then he remembered that Bucky didn’t have one when he’d greeted him downstairs.

Ever so slowly, Steve stepped around the chair.

“Y/N?” He addressed her quietly.

But what he saw was not the Y/N he had said goodbye to just over a year ago.

Y/N had lost weight – too much weight. She was just skin and bones now. There were shadows under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Even though her hair was still drying from the rain, Steve knew it would not have the same shine that he still dreamed of touching.

Bucky was right about the shaking. She did a good job of hiding it, but Steve saw the slight tremble in her hands as they fidgeted in her lap.

She wouldn’t look him in the eye. Her head hung low and she stared down at her hands in her lap.

“Hi,” She muttered. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, but only for a second.

“What’s going on, Y/N?” He didn’t bother asking if she was OK. It was very clear that she was not.

“Ummm…I’m sorry for barging in on your…life…like this.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he stopped her gently. He slowly kneeled in front of her in hopes that he could get her to actually look at him. “You got nothin’ to be sorry for. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on, OK?”

She finally got pulled into his gaze, losing her train of thought for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah. OK.”

“Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

But she shook her head immediately. “No. Bucky already asked. Thank you.”

She went silent again.

Steve didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to pressure her. But it was obvious something had gone very wrong. “How about you take a shower first? I’ll get you some dry clothes? And then maybe we can talk. How about that?”

Y/N swallowed, but said nothing.

“Y/N, you’re shivering. You’re gonna catch a cold if don’t get you out of these wet clothes.”

“O-Okay,” she finally stuttered a response.

30 minutes later, Y/N was wrapped in a robe, sitting on one of the couch’s in Steve’s living room, a giant mug of warm coffee in her grasp.

“I’m sorry about all of this. I didn’t…I didn’t know where else to go,” Y/N began. “A month or so after I…after I last saw you, my apartment building got bought by this man. I didn’t think anything of it. Never thought anyone would ever put a face to his name. But then he happened to be there one day, just hanging outside my building.”

Y/N take a deep breath, not sure how she wanted to continue. “I don’t know. He-He took a liking to me...or something.” She shook her head at how embarrassing it sounded. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried to be polite and distant. But he – I quickly realized he’s a dangerous man. He’s a crook that’s clearly made a lot of money from being a bully.”

Steve clenched his jaw, but made sure he continued listening.

“His infatuation turned possessive and obsessive. His men watch the building. There’s always at least one following me. He sends me flowers to my work.” She took in a shaky breath. “My rejections didn’t upset him because he thought it was all a game. But he made one thing very clear: if he couldn’t have me, no one could.”

Steve was now trying to control his breathing.

Y/N’s eyes glazed over with tears and her bottom lip shook.

“Before I knew better, I went on a date. I thought – God, I was so stupid. I thought if he saw me with another guy, he’d just back off.”

“But he didn’t,” Steve answered for her.

She shook her head. “When he found the guy walking me home, he picked a fight. Beat him to a pulp. My date ended up being hospitalized for a month. And it was all my fault.”

“Y/N, listen to me. None of that is your fault.”

But she would never listen to such comforts.

And there was more. 

“After that, things just got worse. I knew I was always being watched, being followed. I stopped seeing my friends. I stopped seeing my family. I was scared if he found out who they were, he’d use them against me – hurt them.”

“I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I started drinking more – more than I should. I keep calling into work sick because I’m scared to leave my apartment. I’m losing my mind.”

Her tears finally started falling as she looked at him. “I didn’t want to bring you into any of this. I just didn’t know what else to do. I know he’s friends with cops, so I couldn’t go to them. I’m sorry. I just – I’m so helpless.”

Steve couldn’t handle it anymore. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as she sobbed into his chest.

“You did the right thing, coming to me. I wish you’d done it sooner,” he whispered to her.

“I deleted your number after everything. I didn’t want the… temptation? I don’t even know. I remembered where you lived. But I couldn’t – I had to make sure they didn’t follow me here.” She was talking too fast now. The tears and emotion were putting her in a frenzy.

Steve hushed her, telling her to just breathe.

It took awhile for her crying to finally subside. But that didn’t mean he loosened his hold on her at all.

“What’s his name?”

The question came out like ice. It was even, slow, but terrifyingly cold.

Y/N’s body tensed. This was the moment she’d been dreading.

She pulled away so she could look at him. “His name is Brock.”

Steve’s face darkened. “Brock?” He growled. “As in Brock Rumlow?”

Y/N looked scared from his sudden shift. “You know him?”

“Oh, I know him,” he already started to carefully shift her body out of his lap and back to the couch.

“Steve, wait!” She quickly grabbed his wrist before he could get up. “I didn’t come here to find a killer.”

He paused.

“Please,” Y/N whispered. “Don’t do what I think you’re going to. That’s not why I came to you.”

Steve literally felt sick from the confession. “Then why did you come here, Y/N?”

“I just…wanted to feel safe. I’m tired of being scared.”

It was her turn to stand up now.

“Where are you going?” Steve asked as he too shot to his feet.

“I can’t stay here.” Her eyes raced around the room wildly. “Brock. He’ll notice I’ve been gone.”

“Y/N,” Steve tried to grab her attention quietly.

She ignored him.

“Y/N!” He grabbed her shoulders.

She finally acknowledged him.

“I’m not letting you leave. Not tonight. The storm’s only getting worse.” He sighed. “I’m just…I’m not letting you leave like this, OK?”

“But–”

“When was the last time you got a full night’s rest, huh?”

Y/N blinked at the question.

“Just…stay the night. You can sleep in one of the guest rooms. I’ll take you back to your place tomorrow morning.”

“No.”

Steve brows raised. “No?”

“I’ll stay the night. But you can’t take me back to my place.”

He slowly reached for both of her hands. “Y/N, I’m not going to let him keep doing this to you.”

“You can’t kill him, Steve. I don’t want that. I’d never want that.”

“Fine. If that’s what you want.” Then his eyes dimmed. “But I am going to make myself very clear.”

“Fine,” she agreed. “Just not tomorrow, OK?”

“Not tomorrow,” he repeated.

Steve showed her to one of the guest bedrooms. Of course it was the one closest to the master suite.

“I have four men stationed outside the house. There’s two security guards in the basement. Bucky’s staying the night. And I’ll be just a room over, OK?”

She nodded shyly.

“No one’s going to bother you here. You’re safe. Just get some sleep. And sleep in as long as you want tomorrow, got it?”

She nodded again.

“Alright. Goodnight, Y/N.” He started backing away from the door.

“Wait,” she called out. 

He waited.

Y/N pulled him into a hug. “Thank you, Steve,” she whispered into his shoulder.

He hugged her back. “You don’t have to thank me, Y/N.”

——————————————————

When Steve awoke the next day, the guest bedroom door was open and the bed was neatly made. It was like Y/N had never been there. Steve quickened his pace as he went down the stairs, expecting to find her in the kitchen.

But only Bucky waited for him, drinking coffee and reading the paper.

“Where’s Y/N?” Steve asked.

“She left,” Bucky answered without looking up.

“Left? What the hell do you mean ‘she left’?”

Bucky finally tore his eyes away from the paper. “Look, I tried to stop her, but I wasn’t about to tackle the poor thing.”

“Did you at least put her into one of our cars?”

Bucky shook his head. “She said it would just make things worse, whatever the hell that means.”

“Christ,” Steve hissed as a hand rubbed his face.

“I did manage to give her your number, and mine. Told her to call us if she needed anything.”

Steve nodded his thanks.

“Steve, what the hell happened to her?”

“Rumlow. Rumlow is what happened to her.”

“Rumlow?” Bucky spat with disgust and disbelief. “What’d he do?”

“He got a liking to her about a year ago. And he’s been emotionally and mentally abusing her since. He watches her every move, won’t take no for an answer. He sent a guy to the hospital for just taking her on a date.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered.

“She knows he’s got connections, so she can’t go to the police.” Steve shook his head. “I realized I’ve never seen her really scared until last night.”

“So…when are we killing him?” Bucky asked.

“We can’t.”

“What the hell you mean we can’t?” Bucky fired back. “Brock’s been a pain in the ass since we started taking over this city. Hell, we’d be doing a lot of people a fuckin’ favor by tossing his corpse in the Hudson River.”

“She asked me not to, Buck.”

“Yeah, because she’s scared out of her god damn mind, Steve!”

“She doesn’t want that kind of guilt, Bucky!” Steve surprised him by yelling. “Remember what that felt like: guilt?”

“So you’re just going to throw her to the wolves?” Bucky challenged.

“Of course not. I’ll rough him up. Make it clear what will happen if he doesn’t leave her the hell alone.”

“Well, I’m not missing it. When do we leave?”

Steve shook his head. “Not until tonight. We got a lot of meetings to handle today. And I want to make sure to catch him off guard.”

Bucky nodded.

———————————-

It was hard for Steve to focus on anything. He texted Y/N multiple times, making sure she was OK. She gave one or two word answers. Distant and straightforward. She texted as if Brock was even reading her messages.

Bucky would eye him every once in awhile, fully aware that Steve was anything but present for these meetings. He couldn’t blame him though.

After a long day, the sun was just about to hit the horizon.

Steve was on one of the balconies of his house, a glass of bourbon in his hand.

He could hear Bucky walking up behind him quietly.

“Promise me something?” Steve asked.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let me get carried away.” It was code for ‘don’t let me kill him.’

Bucky hesitated. “I promise.”

“She’ll know. And then she’ll never look at me the same way.”

Before Bucky could say anything more, Steve’s cellphone started ringing.

As soon as he saw Y/N’s name on the screen, he picked up.

“Y/N?”

But Steve was immediately met with sobbing. He locked eyes with Bucky, showing his panic.

“Y/N! Y/N, I need you to breathe, OK? Just breathe. Calm down. Just calm down and tell me what happened.”

She did as she was told, forcing Steve to hear the struggles to control herself and fight her way out of the panic attack.

“He k-k-knew, Steve. He knew something was up. Then he-he grabbed my phone,” she inhaled shakily. “He saw your messages…” Her words died down.

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Y/N, did he hurt you?”

Y/N only responded with the sniffles she couldn’t control.

“Y/N, did he touch you?”

But she wouldn’t answer.

“Steve, please just come get me.”

————————————-

Bucky was driving the SUV through the streets of Manhattan like a madman. Two other cars tailed them, filled with Steve’s most loyal men.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Steve hissed as he stared out the windshield.

“Don’t get sloppy, Steve. I know this is personal. But you don’t want any of this shit falling back on her.”

“I know,” Steve replied.

He was almost disturbingly calm.

Which actually made Bucky more worried.

The SUV had barely even stopped before Steve threw open the door.

He instantly spotted one of Rumlow’s men, loitering outside the entrance to the building. Steve could recognize a goon with his eyes closed.

“Hey!” He barked. “You work for Rumlow?”

The man didn’t answer, just immediately fumbled for what Steve could only assume was a gun. 

But he was too slow.

Steve swung and knocked him unconscious and off his feet in one hit. He reached down for the man’s gun and dismantled the pieces, tossing the stray bullets into the bushes.

The lock of the entrance couldn’t hold a harsh shove from Steve, easily granting him access to the building.

He heard Bucky barking orders to his men before he hurried to catch up to him.

Steve mentally told himself to calm down when he got to Y/N’s door. The last thing he needed was to scare her just as much as Brock did.

He knocked three times. “Y/N, it’s me. I’m coming in, OK?”

The door was unlocked. Steve slowly on entered.

The kitchen was empty. So was the living room.

“Y/N?” Steve called out carefully.

Bucky was checking all the blind spots, a gun ready in his grasp.

Steve was starting to get worried when he didn’t find her in the bedroom.

But then he heard the whimpers coming from the bathroom.

“Y/N,” he gasped before he hurrying to her.

He froze when he got a good look at her.

She was tucked against the foot of the bathtub, arms hugging her legs tightly to her chest.

Her nose had dried blood underneath it. Her lip was split. There was a red mark on her right cheek that he knew would turn a concerning purple in a day or two. Mascara was smudged underneath her eyes. 

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered under his breath before bending down to her level.

She seemed to cower at the intrusion, backing up against the tub as if there was anywhere else for her to go.

“Hey, hey, hey. I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise,” Steve whispered.

She nodded, snapping out of it and realizing that she knew she could trust him.

“Can you stand?” He asked.

“I’m not – I don’t know,” she admitted with embarrassment.

When she did try, her legs were shaking like she was a newborn deer learning how to walk.

But before she could fall, Steve was at her side, picking her up in his arms.

“I gotcha,” he whispered. “I gotcha. You’re safe. OK? You’re safe.”

She nodded as she tucked her face into his shoulder.

As he carried her down to her car, he found more bruises and cuts. The more he saw, the angrier he got.

Finally, Steve turned to Bucky.

As their eyes met, they had a silent conversation.

Steve carefully handed Y/N over. “Take her to the hospital. Don’t leave her side.”

Bucky held Y/N like she would break from the slightest pressure. “Let me come with you,” he tried to argue.

“No. Look after her. Keep her safe.”

Bucky looked worried, but he knew better than to argue with Steve, especially when he was in such a state.

Y/N’s head shot up when she suddenly realized what was happening. “Steve, please. Don’t. Don’t leave me.”

Steve leaned over to her, brushing some hair from her face.

“I promise I’ll be back. There’s something I gotta do. Bucky will look after you.”

And before Y/N could fight him on it, Steve was getting into a car with his men.

-----

It was only a few hours later that Steve returned to a dark house.

He heard the click of a gun and turned on the light to find Bucky pointing one at him.

Bucky instantly lowered it. “Can’t be too careful.”

“Is she…?”

“She’s OK. Doc says nothing’s broken. Told her to ice everything. They gave her some pain medication. She’s just gotta take it easy.” Bucky sighed. “She’s upstairs.”

Steve let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Buck.”

“You might want to…clean up before you see her,” Bucky advised carefully.

Steve was suddenly brought back to reality and looked down at himself.

His white button down was now more red than it was white. His skin was also stained with the color. His knuckles were split and bruised.

“Did you make sure he paid for it?” Bucky asked emptily.

Steve gave a slight nod. “It was slow.”

He turned to go upstairs.

Steve expected to find Y/N in the same guest bedroom. But Y/N was asleep in his personal bed.

Steve listened to Bucky’s advice, and took as quick and as quiet of a shower as possible. He made sure to wash away all the blood, leaving no trace. But he knew he couldn’t wash away the sins.

When he slipped into bed, Y/N arouse from her sleep.

She turned to face him, still sleepy.

“Didn’t expect to find you in my bed,” Steve whispered with a little playfulness.

“It smells like you,” Y/N confessed with a blush. “Bucky said you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t.” Then he couldn’t stop taking in all the cuts and bruises. Her nose looked better now that all the blood had been cleaned away. “Are you OK?”

She nodded. “I’m better now.”

Then she grabbed his hands, inspecting his cut and bruised knuckles. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“Steve, what did you–”

“Y/N, don’t.” He warned. “We can never talk about it. After tonight, we forget all of it.” His eyes were serious. “Nothing happened. You hear me? Nothing.”

“Why did you risk all of this for me?” Y/N breathed.

“You know why, Y/N.”

She couldn’t speak.

“Because I loved you, Y/N. And I still love you,” he told her. “And I know that if I had just stayed that morning, then you… then none of this would’ve happened.”

“That’s not how life works and you know it, Steve. This isn’t your fault.”

“All I ever thought I could do was put you in danger. It never occurred to me that I could’ve been the thing that kept you safe.”

Y/N scooted closer, wanting to be held by him.

Steve complied, kissing the top of her head. “Can you still love me? After seeing what I really am, is that possible?”

“You think I could ever think you a monster after you made sure that the world was short of a man like Brock?”

Steve stayed silent.

“You think you’re so evil, Steve. But the truth is that I’ve never met a man who has a heart like you. Even before all of this shit, even before I knew who you really were… I knew I’d never meet another man like you.”

She could feel his heartbeat through his chest.

“So, yes, I can still love you.”

Steve let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Can we stop running away from each other now?” Y/N breathed.

She pulled back to stare into his blue eyes.

“Yeah, we can stop running, Y/N.” He told her before gently kissing her lips.

----------------------------------------

Don't say I never did anything for you. 😏

[musecharm-writes]

Bad Influence, Pt 4 (Steve Harrington X Reader)

Summary: It’s time for the first check-in with Hopper and the date with Steve.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

On Friday morning, you come into work early again, and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to throw up. Today is the first “check-in” with Chief Hopper, and even though you’ve been working your tail off, you’re so worried that it won’t be enough.

Joyce must be able to tell how you’re feeling (some kind of mother’s intuition or something, you guess), because she goes suspiciously easy on you for most of the day, keeping you on the register for the most part, and when you start to get too antsy to deal with customers, she takes over for you, ushering you away to take inventory.

You get so invested in cataloguing that you almost miss the break Joyce usually gives you to eat. Luckily for you, that’s exactly when Chief Hopper shows up.

(Oh, did you think ‘luckily?’ You meant unluckily, because you still pretty much feel like your stomach is about to make an emergency ejection.)

You hear his voice as you’re stepping out of the back, and you almost want to turn around and go right back in. Before you have a chance, though, he spots you and starts your way.

“Hey, kid,” he says, taking his hat off. “How ya been?”

You smile, uncertain. “Hasn’t Ms Byers told you already?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. But maybe I wanna hear it from you, too.”

You pick at the hem of your Melvald’s vest. “It’s been… fine. I’m handling it, I guess.”

“You guess?”

You drop the hem of the vest and scrub a hand down your face. “No. No, I really am handling it.  I just… Have a lot of other stuff to deal with, I guess. This is actually the one thing that’s going pretty well, believe it or not.”

Chief Hopper nods. “Well, that’s something, at least. Good to hear you’re trucking along.”

You swallow. “So… So I’m good, then?”

He nods again, putting his hat back on. “Yep. You’re good,” he pats you firmly on the shoulder a couple of times, and you feel the tension melt out of your body. As he turns to leave, he says, “See ya around, kid. Take the weekend off.”

You go back out to the front, and Joyce looks at you expectantly.

“Well? How was it?”

You sigh. “Good. It was good.”

--

There are six hours until the date, and Steve is definitely not freaking out.

Really, he isn’t.

...Okay, maybe just a little.

“Do you think these jeans are too tight?”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Steve--”

“Are sneakers too informal, should I wear something else?”

“Steve--” Dustin tries.

“Shit, this is a horrible idea, I should just call and cancel before it’s too late--”

“STEVE!” Robin shouts, effectively cutting off his panicked rambling. She grabs his face, squishing his cheeks gently. “It’s okay. Your jeans are fine, maybe swap those shoes for a less dirty pair, stop panicking.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Look, you have six hours until the date,” Dustin reasons. “Even if you decide that you wanna wear something else, there’s still plenty of time -- too much time, even. You don’t have to have everything figured out yet.”

Steve sighs. “Look, Henderson, I don’t expect you to get this since Suzie lives in Utah and you only see her at camp, but when you’re going on a date you need to be prepared way in advance. It takes time to look good, dude. Besides, the first date is the most important date, I have to make a good impression.”

Dustin considers this and then shrugs. “I guess that makes sense.”

Robin shakes her head as she looks at them in disbelief. “You two have no idea how dating works, do you?” She looks at Steve. “How did you get Nancy to go out with you, again?”

“Oh yeah?” Steve put a hand on his hip. “How are things going with Tina, Ms Hypocrite?”

Robin’s cheeks reddened. “Fuck off.”

--

When you get home after your shift, you kick your shoes off and flop down on the couch.

You’d been so worried about the check-in with Hopper, and now, you almost feel like the build-up was all for nothing. Now, all you have to do for the rest of the weekend is relax.

It’s hours later when you start to get the feeling you’re forgetting something. You’re sure it’s nothing, though; if it was super important, you would have written a note for yourself somewhere to keep yourself from forgetting.

You have a hot shower to decompress, take a pit stop in the kitchen for some Froot Loops, and then immediately go back to the couch for some channel surfing.

At around 6:30, you realise what it was you were forgetting: your date with Steve is tonight.

And you only have half an hour until he comes to pick you up.

“FUCK!” You sit up so fast that you bang your knee against the coffee table, but you can’t feel it through the adrenaline. You dash to your room and start ripping through your closet. Eventually, you find clothes that are clean and seem date-worthy. You grab your favourite boots, and go to your dresser to dig up your lucky socks.

You finish getting ready as fast as you can. You’re about to go to the living room to wait for Steve before hesitating, eyeing the cigarettes on your desk.

You sigh. Went to the trouble of getting them. Might as well.

Grabbing the carton, you tamp the cigs, shake one loose, and tuck it into your sock, along with your Zippo.

--

When Steve gets to your house, he’s six minutes early -- which, he tells himself, is just way too early, and you’d probably be super annoyed if he rang the bell so soon.

Which, of course, gave him several minutes to sit in his car and overthink things.

What if this wasn’t a date? What if you just thought he was trying to apologise for being a jerk in Melvald’s? Shit, he should’ve been more obvious that he was trying to ask you out… But he was so nervous you would say no if he just asked outright. What if he told you it was meant to be a date, and you wanted to leave because you weren’t interested? He doesn’t want you to stop wanting to hang out with him just because he wants to date you.

By the time he’s come to the conclusion that he’ll just keep the date thing to himself and see what happens, it’s 6:58, and he figures he’s as ready as he’s gonna get.

He goes up to your front door and rings the bell.

You answer, and it feels like Steve’s heart is about to explode.

“Hey,” you say, a nervous-looking half smile on your face.

“Hey,” Steve replies breathlessly. After a beat of silence in which he realises he’s staring at you, he adds, “Uh, you ready to go?”

“Yeah. Where we goin’, by the way? You never said.”

Right. Steve knew he’d forgotten something. “W-- Uh, we could… We could go to the Hawk? See if there’s anything good playing? Or get dinner at Benny’s?” He feels for his wallet, pulls it out and peers inside. “...Shit. Um, we may have to stop by my house real quick first though, I don’t have my cash on me.”

You shrug. “Fine by me.”

Steve nods, a little jerkily. “Cool. Right, let’s roll.”

He walks you around to your side of the car and opens the door for you, and you smile at him, which gives him fucking heart palpitations, but it also makes him a little more confident in the whole date thing.

He decides to test his luck and does a bonnet slide, hoping you’re the kind of person who might think that looks cool.

When he gets in the car, you say, “Nice one, Harrington,” in a slightly teasing tone, and it makes his face feel warm. Score!

He turns the key in the ignition and says, “How d’you feel about rock ‘n’ roll?”

You grin.

--

Sitting in the passenger seat of Steve Harrington’s BMW, watching him sing along to Owner of a Lonely Heart, you feel more confused than ever.

You’d convinced yourself, sitting on your living room couch, not to think of this as a date, just in case -- because Steve never called it one, so maybe it wasn’t one. But with him opening the car door for you, and then the stupid (awesome) bonnet slide… maybe it is? You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want it to be, anyway.

On the other hand, he hadn’t really planned what he wanted the two of you to do. Maybe he hasn’t been nervous all this time because he wants to go out with you; maybe he’s just worried you’re mad at him for the thing at Melvald’s.

Before you can work yourself up about it any more, you’re pulling into the driveway of the Harrington’s veritable estate.

For a second, you’re so dumbfounded by the pristine state of the house and yard (not to mention the size) that you forget where you are. Then, you turn to Steve and say, “Uh, should I wait in the car, or…?”

Steve turns the car off. “Hm? Oh, nah, you can… You can come in. My parents aren’t home, but just so you know, Dustin and Robin are in there, and uh… Just, please don’t let anything they say reflect poorly on me.”

“Uh,” you say. “Okay.”

When the two of you get inside, you find the curly-haired kid and Robin Buckley standing in the foyer. The curly-haired kid -- Dustin -- has his hair coated in Pomade and neatly combed, and he’s wearing a suit and a comically obvious fake moustache. Robin has her hair pinned back, and she’s wearing a string of pearls, matching earrings, and white elbow-length gloves with her regular clothes.

It’s a ridiculous sight.

“What the-- What the hell are you two doing?”

Dustin and Robin turn to him, and they both grin.

“Ah, it’s our dearest son, Steve,” Dustin says, affecting an imitation of an adult man’s voice. “Welcome home, son.”

“Why, darling!” Robin says, her voice altered to sound like that of a cultured socialite. “It seems our little boy is on a date!”

Steve’s friends are pretending to be his parents. That’s actually kind of cute. (And, best of all, it confirms that this is a date, which really helps alleviate your anxiety.)

You glance over at Steve and notice that he’s blushing like crazy.

“Will you two cut it out?” He hisses.

They don’t pay him any mind.

“Make sure you have our Stevie back home by eight o’clock,” Dustin says, reaching up to twirl the ends of his fake mustache.

“Yes, of course, Mr Harrington,” you say seriously. “And might I say, Mrs Harrington, you look just stunning this evening.”

Robin guffaws loudly, holding a gloved hand up to her cheek. “Oh, aren’t you the charmer! This one’s a keeper, Steve, dear.”

Steve sighs. He ignores his friends, and to you he says, “I’m gonna go up to my room and grab what I need and then I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll be here.”

The moment Steve is too far to hear, Robin says, “Hey, seriously, thanks for giving our doofus a chance. I know he comes off as kind of a dunce sometimes, but he means well.”

You shrug. “I get it. I’m not perfect, myself.”

Dustin interjects with, “Steve sure seems to think so.”

You aren’t sure what to think of that, so you just laugh awkwardly.

In the next moment, Steve comes racing down the stairs. He looks up and sees the three of you standing around not saying anything and squints critically.

“What’s going on? What did they say to you?”

You shake your head, forcing a plain expression. “Nothing.”

He looks between Dustin, Robin, and you again before saying, “Okay. Let’s go.”

As you’re leaving, Robin calls after you (foregoing the impression this time), “Make sure you use protection, Stevie!”

--

When you’re back in the car, on the way to the diner for dinner, Steve says, “Hey, I’m really sorry about them. They’re weirdos, they can’t help it.”

You laugh. “It’s fine. I think your friends are funny.” You look down at your lap, and then turn your head to examine his face while he drives.

He’s handsome, in a soft way. You’d never really noticed it in school, for whatever reason, but now, up close, it’s practically all you can notice.

He glances over and catches you watching him, and he smiles at you nervously.

“What’s up? Somethin’ on my face?”

“No,” you say softly. “Just… Looking at you. And thinking.”

He glances at you again, but keeps his eyes on the road, even though you can tell he really wants to look at you. “About what?”

You, you want to say, but it feels too honest to share. Instead, you say, “Why we never talked in high school. I feel like we could’ve been friends, if we hadn’t been running in different circles.”

He nods. After a moment, he says, “I feel bad. I barely remember you from high school. Probably because I was so focused on being ‘King Steve,’” he finishes bitterly.

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “And look at you now. Hanging out with a band geek and a freshman.”

He laughs, and it’s one of the most beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking over at you again, “look at me now.”

--

The diner is one of your favourite places to eat, so Steve is winning serious points bringing you here. (Not that he was short on points to begin with.)

The two of you grab a table by one of the windows, and a waitress comes over to take your order pretty quickly. You both order burgers and fries -- most people do at Benny’s.

“Hey, so, this is probably the worst thing to ask, but Nancy and Jonathan made me promise I would ask you about it if I got the chance,” Steve begins.

You sigh. “You wanna know about when I got arrested, huh?”

Steve purses his lips and nods. “You can say you don’t wanna talk about it if you want.”

“No, I guess it’s fine,” you pick at a crack in the table. “I… was stealing from Melvald’s. It was a shitty impulse decision and I shouldn’t have done it. But I just… Okay, so, you’re allowed to judge me for this if you want, but I smoke. Cigarettes. I ran out a couple weeks ago and I felt like absolute shit. I’ve been saving allowance money from my mom to buy another pack, but I forgot to bring it with me when I left the house. I already had the carton in my hand, so I just…” You shrug and put your head in your hands. “I didn’t even think. I just did it.”

Steve looks at you with his eyebrows raised. “Wow,” he says. “That’s… really heavy. I’m sorry.”

“I hope it doesn’t make you think of me any differently.”

He shakes his head. “No! No, no. I mean, I get it. I’ve done things I’m… not necessarily proud of, too. You don’t have to let your mistakes define you, or whatever.”

It’s exactly what you needed him to say.

Before long, your food comes. The two of you spend two hours talking over food -- telling stories, laughing at each other’s jokes. It’s amazing. It’s so much fun.

You want it to last forever.

Unfortunately, at around 9:30, you remember that you forgot to make dinner for your mom. You let Steve know you need to be home soon, and he seems disappointed, but he calls the waitress over to get the bill.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, pushing back from the table. “Bathroom.”

While you’re on your way into the bathroom, you bump into Hopper, who’s on his way out.

“Oh! Hi, Hopper!” You say, surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “What’re you doin’ out so late on a weeknight?”

You grin. “I have a date.”

He arches a brow at you. “With who?” He looks past you into the diner, maybe trying to figure out which table you came from.

“Steve Harrington.”

His eyebrows climb up toward his hairline. “Really? Huh. Kid doesn’t really seem like your type.”

You shrug, feeling your face get warm and hoping it isn’t obvious in the lowlight of the hallway. “He’s cooler than he seems, I guess.”

Hopper hums. “Right. Well, have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he pats you on the shoulder. 

As he leaves, you call, “I won’t!”

--

When Steve pulls into your driveway, he puts the car in park and keys the car off. Then, the two of you sit in silence for a moment.

Apparently, neither of you want the night to end.

“I’ll walk you to your door?” Steve says tentatively.

You nod.

He comes around and opens your door for you, offering a hand to help you up.

You lace your fingers with his, grinning cheekily.

The two of you walk up together, hand in hand, stopping in front of your door.

“So… Guess this is it, huh?” Steve says.

You bite your lip. “Hey, Steve?”

“Ye--?”

You lean in and kiss him on the cheek. He feels a warm flush bloom outward from the spot where your lips touched.

“I had fun tonight. I wanna do it again sometime. Call me?” You say. At first glance, you seem confident, but Steve can read the hopefulness in your eyes as easily as he feels his own.

“Yeah,” he says decisively. “Yeah, I’ll call you. Tomorrow?”

You grin. “Tomorrow sounds great.”

[dabistits]

in the blood: connecting the backstories

With the arc concluded and what I imagine is pt 1, the pre-AFO bits, of Tomura’s backstory revealed, I thought I’d finally sum up one of the major points of this plot. Scattered throughout the arc were three major backstories—Himiko, Twice, Tomura—that could use some piecing together. It doesn’t seem like they were chosen at random or were primarily subordinated to good timing, and instead were written because they parallel and reinforce certain themes in Tenko’s past.

Here’s my typical disclaimer that these connections may not have been intentional at all, but, y’know. We’ll pretend Horikoshi is a competent writer and etc. etc. Of course, there’s also the question of what conclusion all these narrative threads points us towards, and I’m chronically afraid of making a wrong prediction so I won’t do that on this post lols (it’s also not 100% clear, which I’ll address). Nevertheless, I think it adds significance to consider Tomura’s past with the addition of framing it through the other two backstories, considering what they say about Quirks, society, and the characters’ internal processes about where they fit in the overall scheme of things.

(note: some screenshots below the cut contain mild gore!)

I. Quirk repression

We encounter this for the first time in the MLA arc through Himiko. Although we’re not privy to Himiko’s thoughts during the flashback, Curious makes an assertion that Redestro later repeats: that Quirks can, to some degree, influence a person’s disposition. Transform elicited in Himiko a desire to drink blood (in order to develop a bond of closeness), which was largely viewed as deviant, and she was pressured to suppress not only her impulse, but her Quirk as well. This idea of Quirk=disposition is also repeated with Tomura, who Redestro asserts is only capable of destruction.

Without being told Himiko’s perspective in the flashbacks, we don’t know how her experience with suppressing her desires went, nor whether she experienced any adverse physical effects from doing so. Tomura, however, is clearly stated (by AFO, so it’s worth taking with a grain of salt) to experience unbearable itchiness whenever he represses his urge to destroy, a sensation which only seems to abate when he uses Decay. So for the moment, the message seems quite clear: suppressing one’s Quirk is akin to suppressing one’s self, and even more drastically, there may be physical consequences to doing so.

On the flip side of Quirk repression, then, there’s Quirk liberation. That’s what the Metahuman Liberation Army is going for, of course, but the three characters discussed here also found relief through their Quirks: Himiko in finally shattering her mask, Twice creating his crime gang, and Tenko eliminating that which he hated. Embracing their Quirks is portrayed as a way in which they achieved not only emotional pleasure and fulfillment, but agency as well—an increase in control over their own lives and fates—finally allowing themselves to do what they were “meant” to. This is, supposedly, a move which empowers oneself.

II. Quirk trauma

But that’s not entirely true.

Just as Quirks can be liberating, they're shown to be harmful when used without restraint, turning against their wielder and instilling suffering. Twice’s clones eventually went out of control and began to fight each other for claim to the original, and Tenko’s Quirk awakening killed his entire family. Both experienced trauma involving the people closest to them, Twice being confronted with “his own” betrayal, while Tenko witnessed the deaths of his family at his own hands—in the aftermath, they’re both left completely and utterly alone, abandoned by those they believed they could rely on, with uncertain recollection about how events actually transpired.

Then it’s no coincidence either that Twice’s and Tomura’s chapters focus on arriving at the truth of their traumas. Twice, after having spent an indeterminate length of time trapped in the uncertainty of his own realness, is forced into confronting his fear of disappearing after Skeptic orders his arms broken; in surviving this, he’s able to confirm that he’s the original Twice, once and for all. Tomura is likewise pushed into recalling his repressed memories (let’s assume right now that they’re the real memories) as his last connections to his family—their hands—are destroyed one by one.

It’s through the discovery of this truth after being confronted with their greatest fears or insecurities that they’re able to embrace the full strength of their Quirks, returning to a default, ‘pre-trauma’ state. Twice is able to create doubles of himself once more, and Tomura becomes able to unleash a stronger version of Decay. While Himiko’s case is much less drastic, the new characteristic of Transform also seems to be linked to her reaffirmation of her ‘truth’ as well. Those ‘truths’ may sound positive or negative, motivated most obviously by self-preservation in Himiko’s case, self-actualization(?) in Tomura’s case, or protective instinct in Twice’s.

Personally, I place a lot of (if not most) importance on Twice’s motivation in this arc, because his past and desires most strongly encapsulate the themes we see repeated across all of these backstories:

III. Alienation and belonging

Perhaps the strongest thread that pervades these three stories (and Spinner’s too, which we have less to go on at the moment) is the feeling of alienation. The four of them found themselves constantly rejected by those around them: Spinner due to prejudice, Twice never getting support nor sympathy after being orphaned, and Himiko and Tenko in particular being denied by their own families, both of them compelled to stifle their own desires, whether it be to pursue her instincts or to voice his dreams. They were positioned as outsiders, set apart from everyone else.

That’s why I believe it’s significant that one of the primary purposes of this arc seems to be to bring the LOV more closely together, from Spinner’s questioning and renewed loyalty, to a central conflict of this arc plot being a rescue (among other schemes from the MLA, of course), to giving the LOV a way out of the aimlessness from the beginning of the arc. Of course, past alienation and present cohesiveness also contrast each other as narrative foils, and this is most clearly exemplified in Twice’s chapters because he’s babey, which more extensively linger on his feelings towards his current situation and friends, who he sees as a remedy to the loneliness of his past.

The other characters haven’t offered the same reflection towards the LOV, but it’s not a stretch to say that the group provides them with something that wider society could not. People who accept Himiko’s “normal,” who enable her to pursue her love (for good or ill); who take Spinner seriously despite being a mutant with a “useless” Quirk; and to some degree, even Tomura seems to have achieved what he once wanted. Tenko was a child who made friends with lonely kids, who wanted to be a hero, presumably to save others, but was rejected by his family at every turn and had no one save him at a time when he needed it most. And even though his life as Shimura Tenko is long gone, Tomura currently finds himself as the leader of a group of outcasts who are looking out for him, fighting through a small army to save one of their own. The irony is poetic.

IV. Tragedy or Agency?

Which begs the question: what do we do with this information and how do we interpret these characters? Are they just cruel and unrepentant villains, or should we sympathize with them as people rejected by a prejudiced society? Really, this arc offers room for both readings.

At one end, we have Himiko and Tomura, who view their decisions to become ‘villains’ as liberatory. Whether or not certain painful events in their lives affected their choices seems to matter very little to them, or perhaps those events were even a blessing for leading to the choices they made. They decided to embrace their natures even if those traits were violent, distrusted, and societally shunned, and they do not consider this eventuality as particularly unfortunate. Himiko rejects Curious’ interpretation of her life as pitiable, and Tomura likewise asserts to himself that he’s untroubled by the deaths of his family. They both represent their pasts as not a tragedy.

On the other hand, we have Twice, whose backstory chapter bears the maxim that also appears on the cover page of vol 24, and thus has the privilege of setting the tone for a major portion of this arc: “All it takes is one bad day.” Twice’s backstory (ironically enough) reads uniquely more self-aware than the others’, both about his own decisions, and about the conditions surrounding him (i.e. how other people’s decisions affected him). He was aware of the way others viewed him and how that caused his alienation—best exemplified by how disposable he was at his workplace—and of his reasons for pursuing a “solution” that only dug a deeper hole.

Thus, we have the “one bad day” part of the narrative. Twice, who was orphaned early on and isolated from his peers, got into a motorcycle accident with one of his firm’s clients. His boss hits him and fires him, leaving Twice aimless until he comes up with the idea to Double himself. Twice’s backstory interprets "one bad day” as a truism about instability, particularly in a society which appears to have few safety nets and a lot of prejudice—essentially, the chapter posits that one incident of bad luck can put someone on a worse path, especially when people act in their own interest instead of in sympathy or aid. Okay. See where this is going?

We’re presented with two narratives here: that ‘bad paths’ are either predetermined by an individual’s disposition and are liberating to embrace, or they are often the result of an individual’s circumstances and influenced by other people. Nature versus nurture. The arc does not definitively come down on either side, so I’ll stick to observations and limit on drawing conclusions.

Tenko’s backstory also fixates on a day. The turning point in his life was the day his parents’ rejection of his aspirations culminated in physical violence from his father, setting off the chain of events that led to Decay’s awakening and killing his family; in the aftermath, he was also further alienated in a busy city where no one stopped to help him until he was conveniently ‘found’ by AFO. The “one bad day” lies in the fact that Tenko was entirely salvageable; neither his hatred nor his fractured relationship with his family were conclusive in a five year old’s state of mind, and they both could have been remedied if they had the chance.

So that leaves us with two different takeaways. Can Tenko be thought of as having taken a turn for a better, more self-actualized existence—a not-tragedy—or was it indeed a set of circumstances that should rightfully be considered unfortunate because it was fixable? The resolution of this arc seems to come down pretty firmly on the side of the first interpretation: by embracing his destructive ‘nature,’ Tomura has awakened the full scope of Decay’s power, subdued the Meta Liberation Army, and gained their resources—he’s more influential than ever before, and he’s put himself at an advantageous position to take down hero society. So, clearly his internal monologue must be self-aware, because the narrative is rewarding him for embracing his purpose.

V. The League of Villains and Self-Destruction

But I do have a caveat to add, and it has to do with self-destruction. I’ve talked about Tomura and self-destruction, but that’s not really just a tendency limited to him. It proliferates in most (if not all?) of the LOV members, in more or less obvious ways. Spinner’s crisis of self-worth and subsequent seclusion was arguably self-destructive, as is Mr. Compress’ tendencies to run away from conflict. These are more metaphorical and without much elaboration yet. On the other hand, for a more literal take, there is Dabi, who burns himself alive whenever he uses his Quirk.

Himiko’s is somewhat a mix of both figurative and literal. Transform lets her take on someone else’s appearance, and she has an obsession with ‘becoming’ her objects of affection; it follows that if taken to the extreme and if she’s successful in 'becoming,’ she erases her own identity in the process. It’s no different than the ‘mask’ she assumed until middle school; she trades one mask for another, more appealing one, and her own ‘self’ is what gets destroyed. 

Then there’s Twice. Double first started off as something that gave him comfort when he found himself utterly alone, but from there only lead to even more mistakes. Using his doubles to commit crimes as an ‘easy out,’ every decision Twice made thereafter piled on to conclude in his doubles’ murderfest. What began as comfort became the conduit for his own, literal, self-destruction as his doubles turned on each other.

Similarly, by the end of 239, Tomura has fully unleashed Decay. Like the first time he used it, he found it liberating, a release for all the emotions he experienced and repressed. Much like the rest who embraced their Quirks, it was a source of pleasure and comfort, but not without consequences: as shown by the damage one to his right arm, his body can’t sustain that kind of use. Decay too much, and there will be blowback in the form of starting to injure himself. It is, again, a form of literal self-destruction.

VI. To conclude:

The arc ends on a firm note about Tomura’s growth, and the direction thereof, concluding that Quirks affect innate drives which our antagonists have accepted and been rewarded for; however it follows on the heels of contradicting points about how that very acceptance and overindulgence ends in self-destruction. Our antagonists have been strongly linked together via backstory, highlighting the similar sources of conflict they’ve experienced. Familial strife, instinctive drives, the price of overindulgence, and the indifference of society are all elements that deeply influenced these characters, and their stories are continuations of how they conceptualize these elements with respect to their own senses of self. Again, assuming that we’re dealing with a competent writer, we can assume that these themes will be revisited as the story continues; namely, addressing to what degree a Quirk determines a person’s future (ideally, there should be a convergence of the messages brought up in this arc with those brought up with Shinsou and Monoma), coming to a resolution about the disputes of personal versus societal responsibility, and deciding how the narrative itself feels and wishes to convey about our antagonists and their struggles.

[crowdedimagines]

One Night pt. iii - David D.

part ii

~

There is no way I can avoid Beth, she knows that I’m here now. I have to text her back or she’ll never let this go. How did I expect to come back to the city without explaining this all to her? 

Not in the mood to go out. Meet me at my place?

She responds with a thumbs up and I decide that she’s on board. I only beat her there by a few minutes. I open the door and we walks in with a bag of snacks in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“I knew that you wouldn’t have any food in the apartment since you should be on tour right now, so I brought supplies.” Beth sets everything down on the counter.

“Yeah, I-”

“Speaking of, why aren’t you on tour?” She asks as she pops the cork of the wine bottle off.

“It’s a long story.” I sit down on the stool along the counter.

“Well, I’ve got all night.” She slides a wine glass over to me and take one for herself.

“Well, here’s a start.” I slide the wine glass back over toward her, “I’m pregnant.”

It takes longer than I thought to tell her the entire story, especially with her interjecting with questions the entire time. She wants a play by play for everything David.

“Wow, I can’t believe I’m going to be an aunt!” Beth squeals as she runs around the counter to hug me.

“I know, I’m going to be a mom!” I smile.

“An amazing mom too.” She reassures. It’s definitely nice to hear it from someone who knows me through and through that they think I will be a good mom too.

We spend the rest of our night talking about the future. She talks about the guys she’s been seeing most recently. I talk about my future baby and baby daddy that comes with it.

“Okay, I’m going to bed because I’ve had a long day.” I stretch and hug Beth a goodbye as I walk off to my bedroom.

“Bye Mama! I’ll see you later.”

I hear the door shut behind her and I can’t help but laugh at the new nickname.

It’s nice to sleep in my own bed for a night. I love touring, but there’s something that gets old about a hotel room night after night. When I wake up, I actually feel refreshed. Until the dread fills my stomach and I decide I should make a phone call.

I call my doctor to fill her in, we both agree I could come in and know for sure and get a full workup. I’m kind of nervous, I’ve been thinking about this baby and it’s future for a while now. What if it was a false positive?

On my way out the door I decide to put any nervous thoughts out of my head and call David.  

“Y/n!” David cheers when he answers the phone.

“Good morning to you too.” I laugh. It’s late morning now, I’m honestly surprised David is awake before noon, even if it’s already eleven.

“What’s going on, miss me already?” He asks with a teasing tone in his voice.  

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to the doctor today. We’re going to run a few tests, make sure that I’m actually pregnant, make sure the baby is okay.”

“Yeah, I definitely want to be there for that!”

“Well then, I’ll pick you up.” I smile.

“You’re picking me up? Shouldn’t I be the one picking up the pregnant one?” David laughs.

“No, I like driving.” I laugh, it’s true. Driving is one of my favorite feelings. It’s very freeing to be able to drive and make your own decisions.

Shortly after that I make the drive that isn’t too long back to his house. He runs out of the house before I even get the chance to open up my door.

“Babe!” He yells as soon as he gets in the car.

“What?” I ask with a laugh. I rub at my ear jokingly.

“You drive a Tesla? You’re getting hotter and hotter every time I see you.”

He leans across his seat to press a kiss to my cheek while I back up.

We easily fill the drive to the doctor with conversation. It’s not hard between tour, his travels, and vlog ideas.

“David, stop.” I place a hand on his knee to stop it from bouncing up and down. Ever since we sat down in the waiting room, his leg hasn’t stopped moving. They took some blood to test it and then sent us back to the waiting room to wait for my doctor and the results.

“I’m sorry.” He finally turns to look at me, “I’m just worried about what could happen. What if there’s something wrong with the baby? Or what if there isn’t even a baby? What if-”

I cut him off before he can go even to an even worse case scenario.

“David, whatever happens, we will be okay.” I take his hand in mine and squeeze it. “We’ll figure out what to do. We don’t even know if anything is wrong, let’s not panic yet.”

They call out my last name and we both get up and follow the nurse back to a new room where my doctor is.

“Hi, Y/n.” She smiles.

“Hey, Dr. Stevens.” I smile back.

She’s been my regular doctor since I moved to L.A. I’m not here very often, but she’s always been a good and nice doctor.

“So?”

David grips my hand tight.

“You’re pregnant!” She sings.

I turn to David and he’s grinning too.

“Since you’re six weeks pregnant, we can get a sonogram.”

She gestures for me to get up on the table. It takes some time, and some adjusting, but all of the sudden the room goes quiet. The machine makes a sound that takes both David and my breath away.

“That’s your baby.” Dr. Stevens smiles.

I don’t even bother wiping the tears off the slide down my cheek. I glance over and David has tears in his eyes too.

“I’m going to print this out for you both. I know, it doesn’t look like a baby, but I swear it is.”

“And everything is normal? The baby is healthy?” David asks, he wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“Everything looks normal.”

She excuses herself after giving me a washcloth to wipe of the ultrasound gel.

“Told you. He’s doing just fine.” I place a reassuring hand on top of his.

After that we head back to the car.

“This is crazy.” I whisper, holding the sonogram in my hands.

“I know, that’s our little peanut.” He laughs and points to the rough outline of our baby.

“Smile.” David holds out his phone to take a picture. I roll my eyes, but smile regardless. I’m happy about this, this will be a memory I’ll want later. Getting confirmation that our little peanut is real. Peanut. I like that.

“Now, what?” I ask as I pull out of the parking garage. It’s later than I thought it would be. We were in there waiting for a while, but there’s still lots of time in the day.

“Want to get a late lunch?” I nod, “I have an idea.”

David gives me directions to wherever he plans on us finding lunch. We drive around for a long time, things aren’t familiar anymore. We’re a long way from either of our homes.

“Yeah, take a left right here.” He points to a small pizza place. The outside and the neighborhood do not bode well. It looks sketchy to say the least.

“Where are we?” I laugh as I take off my seatbelt.

“Don’t judge it off of looks. It’s the best pizza ever.”

“Wow, this coming from a Chicago boy?” I tease.

“Yes, I give it my approval.”

We go inside and each get a slice of pizza. When they give it to us, it’s bigger than my face. We take it outside with us. I hop up on the hood of my car and pat the spot next to me for David to do the same.

“Okay, this first bite.” David introduces, he’s putting on a show and I can’t help but laugh. “This is the moment your life changes.”

“You don’t think we’ve had a big enough life changing moment this week?” I ask with a proud grin.

“Ha ha ha.” He says without actual humor.

I hate it when he’s right. But, he is totally right about this pizza.

“Oh my god.” I groan.

“I told you!” He claps in a cheer.

“How did you even find this place?” I ask.

He takes a couple of seconds to swallow his bite before talking again.

“When I first moved out here I was really broke, all I had was my car and a crappy apartment. I was driving around for something to do one night when I got desperate for food. I came here and found the best pizza in L.A.”

“Who was with you? Alex?”

He shakes his head before answering.

“No, I was by myself when I first came. After that, it kinda stuck.”

“Awe, you took me your little L.A. spot that you never take anyone to?” I lean onto his shoulder with a teasing smile.

“Shut up.” He laughs and lightly shoves me back.

After we’ve both finished what we could of the pizza, and finished talking we get back in the car.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” I ask.

“No? Do you have something else you want to do?” He questions looking between me and the road.

“Yeah, you showed me something about when you were first starting out in L.A. I want to show you my little spot.” I smile.

“Let’s go.”

We drive to my spot, still avoiding the cities.

“Your spot is in the mountains?” He asks with a chuckle.

“Sort of.”

We stop at the little lookout that never has any other cars here. It surprises me every time, the view is amazing.

“Woah.” David looks like he’s in awe, I don’t blame him. The first time I came here it was probably the same.

“C’mon.” I get out of the car and hop back on the hood of my car for the second time that day. David doesn’t need encouragement this time, he just goes for it. Although this time he sits a lot closer than when we were eating.

“I found this when I first moved out here. I hadn’t been discovered yet. No one knew my name and my parents were pissed at me for taking such a risk.” I laugh, “But I took a wrong turn on the way to my only L.A friend’s house. Ended up here eventually.”

I smile and look over to David and he’s already watching me with a soft smile.

“I’ve been coming back here a lot ever since. Then my career picked up and it stopped being a view of the city I had dreams I needed to accomplish and it became the view of the city that gave me everything.”

“That’s amazing, Y/n.”

David leans in closer, his thumb gracefully sweeps over my cheekbone. David’s eyes flicker between my eyes to where his thumb is traveling to finally my lips. We both lean in closer, until finally our lips brush. It isn’t quite a kiss, instead just a quick taste of what we both want.

“Y/n-”

I don’t let him finish, my lips press against his fully this time. It doesn’t even take half a second for him to kiss back with just as much fervor. His hand remains on my face, but the other slides down to my waist. I lean back as David presses me down onto the windshield. His lips venture down to my neck and chest. All of the sudden I notice a vibration coming from David’s pocket.

“Dave.” I say trying to grab his attention, apparently he hasn’t noticed his phone. “David, your phone.”

He pulls away and takes out his phone, it’s a facetime from Natalie.

“Natalie?” He answers.

“Hey, where are you? We were all supposed to go out later, everyone is here to pregame.”

David lets out a huff of air and mumbles a ‘shit’ to himself.

“I completely forgot.”

“Yeah, you seem distracted.” Natalie laughs, “Hi, Y/n.”

“Hey, Nat.” I lean into frame to wave at her.

“How did you know she was even here?” David asks accusingly.

“You only get this dopey around her.” Natalie laughs. David tells her that he should be back to the house soon before hanging up.

“So, want to go out tonight?”

hope y’all liked it:) if this gets good feedback i’ll post the next part early which includes drunk david ahaha

[royalbloodedbastards]

chatzy // un-bad sex pt. III

DATE: Wednesday, May 6, 2020 CHARACTERS: Kieran and Parker ABOUT: Kieran and Parker are hungover. They discuss the “A” word.

For all the alcohol he had to drink, Kieran was not as hungover as he expected to be. Or maybe it was just that he was feeling so spiritually hungover that the physical symptoms paled in comparison.

Kieran wasn't the type to black out. Even at his most intoxicated, he always remembered everything the next morning, for better or for worse. The memory of telling Parker about his date and kiss with Alec was replaying vividly in Kieran's mind. And by the light of sobriety, Kieran only realized more and more how awkwardly it went. One ibuprofen and stale croissant later, Kieran was still mulling over the tense conversation when he heard signs of life coming from the bathroom. Then, retching.

Parker had somehow fallen asleep on the bathroom floor and Kieran, unable to move him, slid a pillow from the living room under his head before calling it a night. With a tall glass of water in hand, Kieran trudged toward the bathroom. He knocked on the door twice before opening it. "I suppose that second batch of piña coladas wasn't the brightest idea."

Parker was grateful that both he and Kieran were fairly adamant about keeping every part of the apartment clean while he was slumped against the toilet seat. In reality, it was probably a good thing that he fell asleep in the bathroom, that way he could drag his half-conscious form from one end of the floor to the other, rather than actually deal with trying to stand and walk in his condition. His head throbbed harder with each wave of nausea, and he wasn't sure if this hangover was a punishment for how he'd made fun of Malia, for drinking as much as he did on a Tuesday, or for the way he'd reacted to Kieran's news.

Parker could remember pieces of their conversation, but more the overall tone than anything else. They had kissed, and he was guilty. He wanted to think of anything else, and yet there Kieran was above him, holding a glass of water. Parker stared up at him, cheek pressed to the toilet seat out of sheer inability to hold it up any more. "Did we finish a whole bottle of rum between four of us?"

"We were a party of completionists," Kieran confirmed with a grim nod. He set the glass of water down on the floor beside Parker. "I don't mean to be a voyeur to your expulsion. Just thought I'd check on you considering you... Sought the comfort of the bathroom tile."

Parker lifted his head to to grab the glass of water, but his head was spinning too much, so he rested it on the toilet seat again, half-closing his eyes. "Ugh, yeah. Did you bring me a pillow?" He didn't remember falling asleep, but he did remember turning on the shower and not getting in, which was probably a good thing, since he may have ended up passing out in the shower rather than out of it.

Kieran chuckled. "Yes, I was concerned about your neck. I considered relocating you, but I don't think I'd have the capability to do that sober."

"That's so nice," Parker mumbled. "I'd hug you for it if I wasn't disgusting and dying."

"Your sentiment is received," Kieran assured. "I'll give you some space." He stepped back out into the living room and pulled the bathroom door ajar behind him in case Parker might feel awkward being seen vomiting.

After about ten minutes, Parker was about to lift his head again without heaving. The fact that he had nothing in his stomach had not stopped him before, but it seemed to stop now as he sat up, sipped his water slowly, and then stood to brush his teeth and wash his face. He stepped out of the bathroom and squinted out at his too-bright apartment. He refilled his water glass and took a seat on the couch next to his brother. "Hi. Did I single-handedly finish off half that bottle myself, or does Dionysus have something against me?"

"I unfortunately wasn't keeping track of your consumption, but you were impressively intoxicated last night," Kieran mentioned with a grin. "I can't speak to Mr. D's feelings."

Kieran pulled his feet up onto the couch and rested his chin on his knees. "Do you remember much of last night?"

Parker drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, leaning his face against the couch now as he turned his body to face Kieran. There was certainly parts that were fuzzy, but he did remember most of what he assumed Kieran wanted him to. He thought for a moment about feigning ignorance so that Kieran could retell him everything, that way he could react for the first time all over again and seem like less of a freak. Instead, he nodded slowly. “Most of it.”

Kieran nodded. The downside of having this conversation drunk was that it amplified any sort of awkwardness, but the upside was that Kieran was brave enough to have the conversation at all. Now in the light of day, Kieran wished he could avoid mentioning the subject but knew that it would only ferment if they left it alone for too long. "And how are you feeling this morning?"

Like shit. Parker's head throbbed with each beat of his heart, but that was only one part of why having this conversation was uncomfortable. "I think... it's... good," Parker started slowly, trying to choose his words carefully. "That you are feeling things that you..." He frowned a bit, then restarted. "Like, you said that you hadn't..." He stopped again and sighed. "How are you feeling?"

Kieran smirked as Parker tried to stumble his way through a sentence. "I'm feeling fine. Like I said last night, I'm mostly curious about your opinion. I..." Kieran paused. "I understand how this might be strange and that in a way I've crossed some line. I suppose this me is asking how deep that line is cut," Kieran explained. "I don't want to do anything that's going to create a rift between us."

“I’d probably cause a bigger rift by trying to stop you.” Parker shook his head. “I was just some type of... drunk emotional last night.” He sighed, mostly looking at the couch. “I have no feelings for Alec. Like, none,” Parker said, sure of himself. “But...” He pressed his lips together. “If I’m honest, I don’t know if I’ll really want to hang out with, like, the two of you. Not right away.”

Kieran nodded. "I completely understand. Any boundaries you'd like to establish, I'm more than happy to respect. And that—I think that would probably be a wise decision regardless."

Parker frowned and shook his head again, only slightly this time, to keep his headache from spiking. “I think... I’m fine with how it is, just...” He frowned, not fully sure where he was going with that sentence. “Nothing. Just, do what makes you happy. I’ll... I’ll be happy if you are, and if something you do makes me unhappy, I’ll tell you.”

A small frown pulled at the corner of Kieran's lips. He wished that Parker could have the foresight to tell Kieran what would make him unhappy before it happened, but Kieran knew better than to expect that kind of self-awareness from Parker. Kieran barely had it himself. "That sounds fair," he nodded. "Though I hope to never reach that point."

Parker hummed in agreement so that he didn’t have to nod. He slowly pushed himself up, then rested his hand on Kieran’s shoulder. “I don’t think you will.” He sighed and stood fully, then rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to... lie in bed in the dark for a few hours, I think.”

Kieran snorted. "Alright. Let me know if you need anything. As per usual, I will be here, unmoving and unblinking."

[jambenoirdragonbleu]

Black + Blue Pt. III

Pt. I | Pt. II | Pt. III | Pt. IV | Pt. V | Pt. VI | Pt. VII

Warnings: Signs of PTSD

Word Count: 1,387

OC’s: Mizu Florence

Lavender iris’ fixated on his sharp moonstone gaze.

The chef’s expression never changing despite his growing frustrations.

Virtually in awe of her unexpected visitor, the loose fabric of her kimono began to slide down from her body…her freckle dusted breasts nearly forcing their way beyond their silk seams.

“Well...”, Sanji finally softly spoke as he lifted a new cigarette to his mouth, igniting it with the subtle flame of his lighter.

Haven’t being this close to him in two years, her skin flushed at the sight. His defined muscles flex at his movements as he took his first drag.

“…you’ve had a really bad day, huh?”

Unbelievably it was the first time she had really seen…what really lied underneath that suit and tie.

His bare arms…his chest mostly left to view under such tight black fabric.

“Well, if you would’ve asked…”.

His hands returning to his pockets.

“…I would’ve showed up sooner”.

The soothing rustic charm of his voice ringing through her ears.

The light chill of the night probing her to frantically cover her torso.

“W-Wha…what’re you doin’ up so la…how’dyou get up here?”

“I walked”.

“You walked…”, her eyebrows lightly narrowed toward him.

“Well, sort of…”, the man shifted his gaze toward the edge of the balcony, taking another drag from his cigarette.

“Oh, well, when ya put it that way…”, the woman sarcastically retorted. 

Retracting her lance, the woman retreated to the plush luxury of her quarters. 

“Come on, then”, she softly called out to him, “before ya catch somethin’ out there”.

The chainsmoker pirate in tow. The stained glass door gently shut behind him.

The tumbling gears engaging the lock.

The shimmery vibrant designs upon thin silk of her kimono gleamed against the chandelier. Strangely matching against her long flowing turquoise locks.

Her sweet lavender scent now delightfully overwhelming his senses.

Her movements so lively…her delicate features emphasized at her most base form.

“So”, she finally spoke up forcing him to pull himself from his spellbound state. Setting her lance back in its original placement. 

“I reckon ya got a good reason for scarin’ me into nearly knockin’ your head clean off back to the East Blue”.

A subtly playful smirk upon her lips, her arms folded underneath her breasts.

A soft chuckle lifting from the man’s throat.

“Sorry”, the man replied. Smoke still floating to the ceiling. “I guess I should’ve expected as much”.

“Besides, don’t you have company at the moment?”, the woman reminded him with a hinting grin. “It’s not like you to hold out on’a pretty lady”.

“Dunno”, he shrugged to himself, his expression returning to its previous state. “As far as I know, my rooms empty and locked”.

The woman’s brows raised, perplexed by his response.

“You…didn’t like any of them?”

“Actually, the opposite”, the man prepared his response with another drag of his cigarette. His passionate essence morphing the smoke into his vision of their silhouette.

“They were beautiful”, he confirmed.

Mizu’s features flooding in delicate sorrow. Although still clearly caught in her uncertainty.

“Each with a kind, soothing, and nurturing heart”.

“Well, of course”, Mizu’s voice softening in light solemn. “I know how you like your women”.

“Well…”, the man took a final drag from his cigarette before discarding it. “You’re only half right”.

“That so?” 

Readjusting her kimono as it continued to slip further down her breasts, Mizu’s intrigue heightened. 

“How’dya figure?”

“You know me well enough by now…to know that there is so much for me to love about any woman”.

Sanji’s hands firm in his pockets.

“Hell, you know so much…it was impossible for them to disappoint”.

A light smirk upon his face as he began to approach her.

“The flaws are of a woman are just mere cracks that can easily be mended by the proper love and care…and I have taken an oath to do so without a scrap of hesitation”.

Mizu lightly trembled at the sudden abundance of heat that enveloped the room.

“I am a man…that was born to love the most beautiful women in all the world”.

He firmly stated as he stood before Mizu. Her pearl flesh shifting to a pale pink. Her breath hinged.

“But…”, his tone softened. His slate gaze forwarded to meet hers, filled with anxious desire.

“I only ever craved the love of one”.

Mizu’s lips parted just barely as she tried to find her voice beyond her rising heat. Tearing her eyes away in a desperate ploy to hide.

Clutching onto the seams of her kimono, overwhelmed by the pounding in her chest. Forgetting how to breathe.

“…And…what makes you think this one…is capable of that?” Her question following a soft gulp.

“Because she told me”, the man quickly and firmly answered. Anticipating the woman’s potential to lie.

“…Sanji-“.

“She told me when she screamed it to the masses of an entire empire…that long thought she was dead”.

“That was…I-“.

“When she threatened to kill her own family if they even lifted a finger toward me”.

His voice rose slightly.

“I was trying to protect you-“.

“When she risked her own skin to save my ass!”, he nearly shouts as he lifts her arm in between them.

The sleeve of her kimono sliding down to reveal the bandaged aftermath of her stopping her father’s axe from colliding with the chef’s skull.

Yanking her arm away in sorrowful rage.

“Well, what in the hell was I supposed to do?! I didn’t have a choice or they were going to-!!”

“Kill me!!”, Sanji finished her sentence for her. “You could’ve chosen that, but you didn’t”.

Mizu’s glare was compromised with potential tears.

“…I…I didn’t want someone else to die because of me!!”

“But I would FOR you!! You know that!! So why do you choose to lie to me even now?!”

“BECAUSE YOU SHOULDN’T!!!”

Sanji was taken aback.

However, not by her tone.

Her soft lavender gaze…now split in half by her pupils resembling that of a snake.

Seeing her reflection in his stare, she quickly turned away from him. The pain of her power surging…the shame causing her body to tremble.

“Mizu…”, Sanji reached out toward her in heavy concern. 

“Just give it a rest, willya?! You shouldn’t have even…been dragged into this in the first place”, Mizu replied. The weight on her shoulders heavy with grief.

“You had nothing to do with this…and now…”, her voice quivered as her pain grew.

A sharp gasp escaped her lungs as the man’s arms wrapped firmly around her body, her breasts settled in between them.

“Mizu…”, Sanji’s voice softened against her ear. “…just tell me...do you really love me…?

Mizu’s breath hinged as she pushed back her sobs. His touch soothing her to relax.

“…yes”.

“Then why are you trying to push me away…?”

“Because you shouldn’t…you shouldn’t love me…I…I could destroy everything…everyone…and…I still can’t even control all of it…and I can’t escape it”.

She lightly sobbed as she reached behind her, hands trembling as they grazed the soreness of her battered birthmark. Sanji’s heart sinking remembering her abuse. Imagining her pain killed him. “…this bloody hunk of scales proves it… I’m…I’m just a monster!”

Sanji’s grip tightened against her body. His heartbeat firm against her back…the warmth soothing her pain.

“You listen to me”, the pirate chef spoke against gritted teeth, “…you are NOT a monster”.

Her fists clenched against her chest beneath his arms.

“I didn’t fall in love with a monster. The ocean is a vast mysterious world…that many people only fear because they underestimate what lies in your heart. You are the very thing that guides fools like me to their hopeless dreams…but mine is the heart of all oceans…”.

“…but…I can’t feel it…”, Mizu’s sobbed lightly. “…I can’t feel the All Blue so…how am I supposed to help you with your dre-“.

“OUR dream”, Sanji abruptly halted her words, his voice soft, rich with love. “And it’s alright…one day you will...and we’ll find it together”.

With subtle kiss to her shoulder, Sanji began to gently pull the kimono down, exposing just a few scars upon her back…a light glimmer of her scales.

“W-Wait, Sanji…”.

A light shush quieting the fearful woman.

“Don’t worry…”, a subtle whisper against her freckle dusted shoulders giving the woman a pleasant chill. 

The scales gleaming off the chandelier.

“…I’ll take care of it”.

Tagging: @digitalkanvas​ @completelyinappropriate​ @aquathemermaidstripper​ @glacian-apocalypse​ @melodiousjp​

[lemon-writings]

Hamish Update Pt. III

Genre: Literary fiction // Word count: 77,037

Here we are! Chapters VII-IX! I’ve written these chapters really recently, so I can go a little more in-depth with the process. The second half of this book (and specifically this particular trio of chapters, for some reason) is definitely the part I’m most proud of. Writing everything coming to fruition is just so satisfying. Is this what people who write books with actual plot feel like? Because it makes me consider writing books with real plot.

But in all honesty, I really enjoy writing this part of Hamish. I’m super happy with how everything’s turning out. One problem I do have with the latter half is that it is super depressing to write all the time, especially with the amount of rain we’ve been getting in Ohio right now (we love depression), so it is taking me a little longer to write than normal, since I keep sidetracking with random projects to try taking my mind off the deeper things. But when I am working on it, the words just flow. It’s beautiful.

Chapter VII

Epitaph: “I’m a strange new kind of inbetween thing aren’t I? Not at home with the dead nor with the living.”-Anne Carson, Antigone

Here is what’s been building this entire time: the funeral. That, and everything funerals entail, with the Celebration of Life and whatnot. The first time I wrote this, I read the funeral scene to my mom in full detail, and she started crying, because it reminded her of her father’s funeral. I, personally, loathe funerals, for what boils down to the fact that I am greatly horrified by being in the same room as someone who I once knew to be alive. That, and the crippling fear of death most people experience at least once in their lives.

There’s also a lot of Horacio’s... fantasies. There’s something deeply personal about the way I write him, sometimes, that makes rereading certain parts difficult. Horacio, in his darkest moments, feels he deserves bad things happening to him, nearly craves them, and he hates himself for it. The amount of self-loathing in this work is high.

Excerpts: 

Horacio, as always, is concerned about Hamish’s state of being alive, because that man always looks halfway dead, and at times, he’s more ghost than living person

The question of if you were dead or alive laid on my tongue, begging to be asked. Maybe I should’ve asked you. Maybe I should’ve checked your pulse. Maybe I should’ve laid my head on your chest and listened to your heartbeat. Maybe I should’ve left with you then and there and avoided the trap Leon kept guiding us to.

Hot take from a Farm Child: broken machinery is one of the most haunting things you can ever see. I could probably wax poetic about how terrible their beauty is, but I really don’t think anyone wants to hear about farm machines for three hours. (On a completely serious note, my uncle’s coat got tangled in a grain auger yesterday, and he could have died. Be safe around farm machinery. Please. It can be really dangerous, even if you’ve been around it for 60+ years.)

Leon’s descriptions are always some variant of men thinking being tall is intimidating. 

Leon bared his teeth once more, the animalistic beauty of it all making me wonder where Leon ended and his rage began. Primal is often used as a way to pull down others, to say you are not advanced the way I am, but Leon’s rage seemed like an advancement of humanity, a way of saying I have advanced my own humanity through my anger. He was gorgeous in the same way broken tractors on the side of the road are, monolithic kings taken over by the passage of time, their steel teeth rusty and eternal.

Did I reference “Father” by Warsan Shire? Yes. Yes, I did. Hamish is a huge Warsan Shire fan, because, like, it has his vibes. 

You recited a poem about fathers, about death, about life, speaking it as if it were scripture. When you finished, you began again. Or perhaps you never ended, speaking this poem forwards, then backwards, then repeating cyclically.

Yeet.

Chapter VIII

Epitaph: “I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair.”-Catherynne M. Valente, “The Red Girl”, The Bread We Eat in Dreams

There’s a lot of plot stuff that happens in this chapter, so unfortunately, I do have to be a little shorter when it comes to this summary, but let it be said that I am not meant to be a thriller/action author. Do I enjoy watching Indiana Jones and Star Wars? Yes, I do. Should I be writing anything close to that? Absolutely not. It takes a lot of effort to do, and even with that, I would say that any sort of action scene I write is... not exactly “half-baked”, but most certainly not up to par with the rest of my writing. I’ll need to edit this chapter heavily the next time I go through Hamish.

That being said, there are moments in this chapter that I am proud of. Horacio and Ofelia’s interactions in this chapter are some of my favorites, just because they’re some of the only characters in this book who don’t violently hate/distrust each other.

Excerpts: 

When I mentioned kudzu to my mother, she mentioned it was an invasive species she’d seen a lot of during her time in the south, which just confirmed that it was a great metaphor to use. That’s always a sign, right?

I looked down at the flowers, then at her, wiser than anyone I’d ever met, the freedom ripping open her seams like something terrible and sharp, the parts of her that were so carefully cultivated spilling out of her like kudzu.

Horacio feels like he’s the only real person in a world of ghosts. The disconnect between Horacio and the people around him is heavily based upon the first time I disassociated. We watched the Blue Man Group in Chicago on a music/Spanish department trip, and the second I walked out of the building, I thought I was a freaking ghost. I had my first panic attack at 14 because I didn’t know if I was actually experiencing life. It was a wild experience.

Next to Ofelia, I looked out of place. Ofelia was hazy and magical in her presence, looking more like a dreamy memory than a real person, as if I touched her, my hand would touch only air. I was the solid type of real, unfortunately. Tall and unnaturally skinny, with a gritty, starving look to myself, the two of us next to each other were like a pastel-covered, out-of-focus impressionist painting next to a photograph of childhood labor in Industrial Revolution-era factories.

There’s also a confrontation with Leon that has some, um, spoilery moments. Leon is an asshole. I kind of love him.

Chapter IX

Epitaph: “[Grief is pain internalized, abscess of the soul. Anger is pain as energy, sudden explosion.]”-Lauren Groff, Fates and Furies

Again, there’s a lot going on in this chapter. A lot. Marcus the bodyguard makes another appearance (underappreciated character of the book) and acts as a guardian angel. Bless Marcus. Seriously.

This chapter is more introspective than the last, so I enjoyed writing it a bit more. Or... a lot more, actually. I was not created to write action scenes, and I accept my fate. Horacio’s musings on fate are long-winded and beautiful and what I’m meant to write. It’s just a chapter of him reflecting, pining, and wishing he was in a different situation. Which. Fair.

Moments like this make me realize I am a cruel god who treats her characters terribly.

Excerpts: 

Starting this chapter strong with the true weighted blanket: death.

Death cloaked me like your blanket.

As I said before, Marcus? Underutilized character. I use him as much as I can, but the plot makes it difficult to use him as much as I wish. He’s the man we deserve.

Marcus was smart, was good at playing the game we all played without making it apparent that he was playing it. He knew what he was doing. “I want the best for Hamish,” Marcus said. He looked into my eyes. “You do, too.”

Horacio takes a moment to think awful, rage-colored thoughts about the people around him, which are, of course, one of my favorite things to wax poetic about. He’s a salty man, and he has all rights to be, because this entire work is just “things to be salty about, the novel”. Poor Horace. He just wants to live in a gay daydream, but he’s stuck in a nightmare. 

(Not to sound too Midwestern, but OPE, the shade.)

These people played their sick, twisted games like gods, forcing everyone to play along for their survival while they watched and knew exactly what they were doing to the rest of us mortals around them. In that moment, I was filled with the type of righteous anger that made me understand why people were drawn to religion. I wanted a higher power to strike them down, to make an example of them all, to say don’t do this, or you’ll end up like them.

I sounded like my parents, like all the religious nuts I’d ever met, the ones who said that those who didn’t fall their doctrine were inferior, were going to die, and suffer for being different. Is that how it begins? Is anger the true root of all cruelty?

That last line, is anger the true root of all cruelty? was probably my favorite line when I first wrote Hamish. It’s sort of become a thesis statement for Horacio’s past and the way he sees the world. 

Lastly, of course, we have

The Jams

We have a fine selection of songs here, a lot from my Lucy playlist (Lucy has one of my favorite playlists I’d ever made).

Oh No!!! - grandson

Temple Priest (feat. Paul Wall & Kota the Friend) - MISSIO

Destroy Me - grandson

BTSTU - Jai Paul

Seven Devils - Florence + The Machine

Pretty Little Head - Eliza Rickman

That’s the tea, y’all. If you’re interested in this and hearing writing updates for Hamish, then ask to be added to the tags list!

[arcanalogue]

ON TYRANNY - An Unsolicited Tarot Tour, pt. II

In my initial post groping for symbolic parallels between the Major Arcana and Timothy Snyder’s ON TYRANNY, we covered The Fool and The Magician. 

In the few days then (just to show how fast time seems to move during a budding oligarchy), video has surfaced of the President speaking to rich donors at one of his own hotels, in which he says: “The European Union is a group of countries that got together to screw the United States, it’s as simple as that.” He goes on to explain why this is surprising: “We’re all sort of from there, right?”

He also tweeted a thinly-veiled threat suggesting that Adam Schiff, the US rep who gave a rousing speech in the impeachment trial the other day, “has not paid the price, yet, for what he has done to our Country!”

There’s also video of his pick for Special Advisor to the White House Faith and Opportunity Initiative, Paula White, working this bit into a sermon: “We command all satanic pregnancies to miscarry right now.” 

And just for fun, a case of the Wuhan coronavirus was detected near Los Angeles, and today officials are reporting that, as feared, the disease is contagious before the appearance of symptoms. There are still plenty of good folks left at the CDC, right? The lights are on, at least?

But if we let paroxysms of fear induced by bad headlines stop us from going about our day, pretty much none of us would have made it through 2017 — and yet here we are, two full years beyond that point, still rallying, still cracking jokes, still helping each other get things back on track. And sure, my beard and chest hair are suddenly growing in all white, but that’s fine! The sharper contrast will be dazzling against all of my goth attire. How’s that for a silver lining? 

Anyway, on to the cards.

The High Priestess represents everything we take for granted about our own awareness. She’s the source of our inspiration, the dream we awaken from that colors our perception of the day; she’s the vapors sighing from a crack in the earth, and she’s also the Pythia who hears and interprets those whispers. 

Most of us realize we’re more than just our cognition, or our memories, but it’s still quite easy to lose track of the various pillars our interior world is formed around... until one of them is suddenly swept away.

And it’s the same with our exterior life, because “interior” and “exterior” are only matters of scale, baby. Your mind is your own (for now), but how did it become what it became? What unseen protections was it afforded? 

Most people probably think of libraries, or organizations, or certain publications when they hear the word “institutions.” But so many different things fall under this category, it’s actually mind-boggling! It really makes you ponder about the particular framework of your community. Some are more fragile or less corporeal than others; to LGBTQ people, a bar can serve as an institution. Hell, in Brooklyn a taco restaurant can be described as a “mainstay” if it manages to last 15 years.

Some institutions are really only useful to those who created them, and others or who are well-adapted to them, and are bound to crumble naturally with time. A lot of what history has thought to provide will be useless to people in the coming century and beyond; their needs are evolving drastically, right in front of our eyes. This is why we also need to create safe and fertile territory for new institutions to be formed, and try not to take it too personally when the world just moves on. Memento mori, and all that.

But this entropy is not what Snyder’s talking about: he says DEFEND institutions, implying they are under attack. And some of this is very easy to watch for, because we think we know what an attack looks like. But as Snyder’s chapter points out:

“Sometimes institutions are deprived of vitality and function, turned into a simulacrum of what they once were, so that they gird the new order, instead of resisting it. This is what the Nazis called Gleichschaltung.”

You know, like appointing industrial tycoons to manage the EPA and the Department of Education, or leaving countless government positions unfilled so that none of the departments can function quite as they used to.

No one can look after all of them, and none of us knows which we’ll depend on most in a key moment. That means we all have to fan out and each claim a different piece of the puzzle. But which one? And how?

Reflect on the mental architecture that contributed to the formation of your own mind, and then let the Priestess guide you. 

The tarot-ticklers of antiquity may have determined that The Emperor’s power trumps that of The Empress (as the cards are ordered so that each one “triumphs” over the one that preceded it), but he can’t exist without her, and everyone in the kingdom knows it. 

In this chapter Snyder invokes the popular saying “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,” adding:

“When we think of this saying today, we imagine our own righteous vigilance directed outward, against misguided and hostile others... But the sense of the saying was entirely different: that human nature is such that American democracy must be defended from Americans who would exploit its freedoms to bring about its end.”

In readings I often explain to people that The Emperor represents the outward-looking ruler, the conqueror, the prospector, the warlord. The Empress is the inward looking ruler, tending to the needs of the people, governing, presiding over everything that gives life meaning. 

I mentioned above that the very concept of interior/exterior is only a matter of scale. Those terms are used very flexibly, aren’t they? There’s the interior of my body, and the interior of my home, and the interior of my apartment complex, and so on. At some point it stops being “my” anything. Suddenly we’re looking beyond my town, or my state, or my country. Sometimes others draw those lines for us, and other times we have to be The Emperor, pushing back against that line, drawing one of our own, defending what’s rightfully ours. 

Regarding our own interior as a nation: in case you hadn’t heard (HAHA!) we’re about to stagger through a series of important elections. The one thing we know for sure is that the results of these elections will be disputed, no matter what they happen to be. If we can no longer trust the outcome of an election — due to internal fiddling, not just foreign — then what’s the point of having them at all? You can already sense everyone’s fatigue, ripe to be exploited.

The GOP is already slavering for it, canceling primaries left and right so that Trump will run unopposed for reelection. A “one-party” election suits them just fine. Debates only raise questions, and give a platform to challengers. In order for Trump 2020 to seem like an inevitable choice, he has to be the only choice.

Ruining the public’s faith in American democracy is part of the strategy, because of course it is. Later in Chapter III, Snyder offers yet another popular saying: “Where annual elections end, tyranny begins.” 

The work required to protect the upcoming election, and make sure people still care about the outcome, can only be done by Americans organizing and working together on every level: personal, local, national. The fatalism and cynicism everyone’s feeling is understandable, but it ought to drive one toward active participation in preserving what little democracy we have left. 

Otherwise, what’s the point? If it’s more important to have your worst fears confirmed, to be able to say “I told you so,” to bargain with the inevitability of fascism, then you’re rooting against The Empress and the rest of us. You’re part of the rot in your own kingdom.

If you’re someone who does Empress-related work, this is your new practice: she is calling you to serve as guardian and minister of the interior. Whatever inspiration you manage to muster, your role is to imbue others with it, and resist whatever negativity you may encounter as you do so.

Are your friends and family registered to vote? Are they sure? Do your representatives in Congress have a plan in place for when Trump refuses to concede? What communities near you could use a leg up in terms of outreach? Ask questions. Get creative. Be a constructive part of the pressure. 

What you manage to accomplish on your own may seem meager, but pouring energy into these concerns will remind others why this fight still matters, and it will encourage those who never forgot. We need everyone in this fight.

Our last “real” election can’t already be behind us. The Empress is counting on us to make sure of it. 

This is Part II in a series of posts about Timothy Snyder’s ON TYRANNY, which can be purchased via your local bookstore, and also here. 

[songmingisthighs]

Hooked

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

ch. xxxv - NYOOOOOOM

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??? × reader, ateez × reader

A freshman hookup rekindled into something new. With an incentive, of course. But what would happen if your 'relationship' led you somewhere you never thought would happen to you ?

Wooyoung and Yeosang were rushing you into the frat as quick as they could. Wooyoung carrying your bag and Yeosang practically hauling you away.

When you entered the frat, you could see that every single one of them is sitting around the living area. Some were seated on the couch as some were on the floor.

At the sight of you entering, their eyes lit up and smile bloom on their faces automatically.

"Is this an intervention?" you asked, walking slowly to where they are, slightly wary of the situation as they would rarely gather together to talk. More often than not, all communication happens in the group chat.

"Because I swear I'll return all your shirts and hoodies," you said, scrunching your nose in nervousness.

Mingi stood up and glomped onto you, nestling his face into the crook of your neck. He had to hunch because he's way taller than you. "You can take our clothes any time you want, this is not an intervention," he mumbled into your skin before detaching and planting a soft peck on your forehead, "missed you," he grinned.

You instinctively held onto Mingi's ring and pinkie as he led you to sit on the available spot at the left end of the U-shaped couch.

"So? Who wants to start?" Yunho asked, breaking the initial building silence.

The boys looked at each other for a bit before their eyes slowly zeroed in on Hongjoong. At the sudden attention, Hongjoong's eyes widened for a split second before scoffing, "one of you better start because I'm not doing it," he said, crossing his arms.

"But you're the leader," Yeosand stated matter-o-factly with a straight face. The others nodding along, agreeing to what Yeosang said.

Hongjoong grumbled at the fact that they're ganging up on him, using his own title against him. This is one of the rare few times he regretted having his title and even using it to his own advantage sometimes. The K in karma stands for Kang Yeosang, it seems.

You pursed your lips, still nervous and slightly uneasy. Historically, when a person is called by a group or collective, it was never for good reasons.

"So, (Y/N)," Hongjoong started, looking directly at you as his fingers fiddled slightly with the rings in his fingers, "do you like being with us?" he asked.

You visibly swallowed the lump in your throat. You couldn't help but feel like they're kicking you out, or the board is making them kick you out, that's the only reasonable explanation to the opening question Hongjoong threw at you, right?

Unconsciously, you leaned closer to Mingi for security and held his fingers tighter. Mingi thought nothing much of it. "Well, I like you guys like a lot, and living with you all has been great! More than great, actually, I never really had a roommate and initially the thought of having 8 roommates scared me especially because well you're guys and guys tend to be dirty and all, but it turns out you guys are freaking awesome, and I couldn't ask for better roommates honestly," you rambled, grinning awkwardly at them.

Most of them had a look of confusion on their faces. They didn't know why you were talking about your living situation when they're obviously asking about something much more substantial than that.

"(Y/N), sweetie," Seonghwa called out, "we're... glad that you're happy living with us here and we honestly wouldn't want it any other way," "wait, so this is not about anyone having a problem with me living here for quite some time now?" you asked, cutting Seonghwa off.

Wooyoung gasped loudly at your question, "no, it's not, sweetie, believe me! Who'd make you feel this way?" he then snapped his head to San who's sitting next to him, "was it you!?" he asked dramatically, holding onto the collars of San's hoodie, "fuck you, if anyone would've made her uncomfortable, it would've been you with your incessant claim on her as her boyfriend which is as true as Yeosang being able to pop unicorn horn from his ass!" San retorted back, grabbing onto Wooyoung's collars as well.

Seonghwa and Yunho immediately jumped up and separated the two, sitting them in next to Jongho and Yeosang who had been snickering at the childish argument.

Once they both calmed down, they all shifted their attention back to you. "We weren't talking about our living situation at all, we're kind of... needing to ask you something important..." Yunho said, trailing off to look at the others as if in confirmation.

No longer feeling nervous, you just shrug at them all, "okay, shoot."

Though you asked them to talk, they all stay glancing at each other. Even Wooyoung, the most confident man you possibly have ever known, couldn't look you directly in the eyes without blushing.

After a while, the tension didn't seem to dissipate and it started to bug you. "Oh, come on! You guys have seen me naked, what could you all possibly have to say that made you all sweating like an old man in a sauna?" you grumbled, crossing your arms on your chest.

Jongho cringed at your words, "don't put you and a sweaty old man in the same sentence, that image's gonna haunt me for weeks," he complained. San stared at him weirdly, "why would you even think about a sweaty old man?" "It's called prompting," "It's called nasty,"

Yeosang exhaled sharply, bringing everyone's attention to him, "since none of you seems to want to seriously ask her, I'll do it," he glared at the other boys before looking straight at you, "how do you feel, non platonically, about all of us?" he asked directly.

While you tilt your head in confusion, everyone else in the room seemed to broke into a meltdown altogether. Some were covering their faces in their hands, others were slumping so lowly on the couch their asses were basically on the floor.

"I... honestly haven't really thought about it," you shrugged, furrowing your eyebrows, "but I can't say I'm not attracted to all of you, sure we're friends and this might be just a fascination thing, but I really can't deny that I definitely feel something for you guys," you continued.

When they heard you say that, they visibly relaxed.

"That's good, because, well..." Yeosang trailed off, waiting for someone else to say it as a rosy tint bloomed on his face, showcasing his bashfulness to everyone.

Thankfully, Hongjoong stepped up and continued Yeosang's sentence, "because we, all eight of us, also can't deny that we feel something for you," he smiled shyly.

Seeing the boys all soft and shy made you giggle. Butterflies formed in your stomach and you had to admit that you like the thought of all of them liking you more than on a platonic level.

"So... every single one of you has feelings for me?" you asked, trying to make sure before you made your conclusion. All eight heads nod and you can't help but to focus on Jongho and Mingi, "you both too?" you asked them both, eyes darting between the two.

While Jongho grinned cockily and nod, Mingi covered his face with one hand in embarrassment, "yeah, kind of," he mumbled. You giggled and reach to try to pry his hand from his face, wanting to see how he look, "when did you start feeling like that, huh? I thought you only think of me as a stress reliever," you whined but eventually succeeding in prying his hand off.

Mingi raised an eyebrow at you, "the fact that we've been sleeping together combined with how amazing you are, it was never about if I'd fall for you, it was about the when," he said. You couldn't help but blush at his words, "so you liked me because we were fuck buddies?" "it sounds bad when you put it like that, but I was intrigued when I first met you which is why I approached you,"

You then shifted your gaze to the others, "When did you all realize you like me?" you asked, "as cliche as it sounds, it was the night we all did it together," Yunho answered.

"Not me," Wooyoung said, raising a hand, "I realized it like a solid couple of weeks after we started our whole fake relationship thing," he grinned proudly, "I began liking the way I call you my girlfriend more than I would like to admit, but I couldn't think of another person more perfect for me than you,"

It was your turn to melt. You covered your face in embarrassment, letting out a muffled squeal at how cheesy Wooyoung's words are. The others chuckled at how adorable you're being.

"You know, the eight of us talked about it before you came back here," Hongjoong said. You calm yourself down before being able to look at him directly in the eyes again, "and... we just wanted to know whether or not you'd like to date us,"

You tilted your head to the side, "like... All nine of us? One girl and eight boys?" you asked, making sure you're not hearing things wrong. But all of them nodded firmly. "It's not orthodox, I'd have to admit, and usually we would each try to win you over for only one of us, but when we were together last time, it just felt natural and I can't speak for these guys, but I didn't feel jealous whatsoever, because I know that you deserve more than just what I could and am willing to give you, and they can fill in where I lack because you deserve nothing but the best," Seonghwa said. He had somehow moved to kneel in between your legs, hands rubbing your knees gently as his eyes shone what you could only describe as pure affection and adoration.

The others piped in agreement with the eldest. It seemed like they know what they're doing and what they want. So the ball was in your court.

On one hand, you adore them to the heavens and back, you couldn't possibly think of having things any other way. And the thought of having to choose between them doesn't sit right with you. Sure, you're just one person, but you're sure if they're right, things will be okay.

But on the other hand, Seonghwa was right, this is highly unorthodox. Sure, you've heard of poly relationships here and there, heck one of your classmates' sister is in a poly relationship with three girls. But you can't deny you live in a society that's filled with judgment and harsh criticism, more than yourself, you're worried about how going down this path would affect them. And besides, how did one went from not wanting to even have random hookups due to wanting to have a relationship with 8 guys?

"See the look on her face? The wheels are turning in there," you heard Jongho muttered to the rest of them who had moved to kneel in front of you somewhere during your thoughts.

You glared at him shortly before pouting, "I do want to know if there could be something more to this," you started. The boys were about to celebrate when you cut them off, "BUT, I'm not sure on how this is gonna be, let's face it, you guys seemed to realize that you like me after we had sex," "I didn't," Wooyoung cut you off which was immediately shut by Yeosang, putting a hand over his mouth, "feelings tend to mash then and I wouldn't be surprised if it was the sexual pull talking," you sighed.

Their shoulder seemingly slumped hearing you say that. They didn't even discuss that, they were pretty sure that they genuinely like you and want to be more with you. Maybe they didn't want what you said to even be a possibility.

Suddenly, San perked up, "wait, if what you're worried about is whether or not our feelings are the real deal or not, then why don't you just test it? You can just decide later if we're gonna officially date or not. Take things slowly, you know?" he grinned brightly.

Slowly, each of the boys' eyes widened and shone with hope, thinking that San's plan is actually probable.

"Finally, San said something fucking smart for once," Yunho muttered, earning a harsh nudge to his hip by a glaring San.

The idea wasn't bad. It was actually good. This way, all of you can be sure and there would be no regrets, no one got hurt.

You squint your eyes at him, "but what would that make us?" "that's the beauty of it, there would be no official title until we make our decision," he said proudly. You pursed your lips, feelings swaying and leaning on the positive, "and how long do I have to make a decision?" this time, Yeosang answered, "as long as you need, we won't rush you," he smiled gently at you, making your stupid heart flip.

The idea WAS appealing, it was a win-win for sure.

When a smile broke on your face, the boys had to hold themselves together to let you confirm their suspicion.

"I'm in, let's try and see where we all can go,"

Before you could even take a breath after answering, the boys had pulled you forward in a giant group hug on the floor. You found yourself squished by eight men who are hollering, cheering, trying to kiss you, and trying to hold onto you as tightly as possible. While the position was uncomfortable, you couldn't care less.

Because being in the centre of them all felt right. It felt like you belong.

taglist :

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[amora-recs]

god save our queen┊bae joohyun┊pt. 2

des: deep inside the Black Forest lies a secret. I fell for this secret. I died for this secret. (warning: lots of teenage angst)

word count: 4.0k

parts: i. iii.

    An uneasy feeling took over all of my body in a matter of seconds, the trembling of my lips all too obvious to the girl in front of me. My fists clenched the mud underneath me, supporting myself on my knees. Ever since I knew how to walk, I've been told about how scary people can be, so I knew not to talk with any stranger that comes my way. So I didn't talk to her. I just looked at her for a very long and awkward amount of time. God, she was glowing with glee! Though her last words lingered in the very corner of my mind, creeping me out little by little. I was contradicting myself over and over again until my back felt cold... And wet. I turned around only to find myself face to face with a green rock. I couldn't help but mock myself as I became aware of just how scared I actually was. I winced as I saw the sadness clouding her features. Did I offend her? Now I was more terrified than ever. "I didn't mean to scare you, y'know..." she mumbled as her warm brown eyes fixated on me. Her pupils were huge, full of stardust probably. "It was only a joke –"

"A bad one." I was quick to reply, the corners of those same starry eyes all crinkled in a grin. Even I, a still hyperactive enough kid, felt uncomfortable with the pace her mood tended to change. 

"So you can talk,"

"Of course I can," I whispered all of a sudden. "But I don't think I'm supposed to talk with you." I continued as if papa could hear me from miles away. For a moment, she looked puzzled, grasping and processing everything I just said. "How old are you?"

"How old are you?"

"Definitely older than you," 

   I couldn't help but scoff at her reply. "It sure doesn't seem like it." was soon followed.

   As her sugary chuckle echoed around the rocks, gravel fell on my thigh, just a few inches away from my face. Her laughing stopped and her face went blank. Maybe the new paleness gave her such a stare. A muscle on her jaw twitched as she got up, holding a hand out, supposedly for me to hold onto. Although a little hesitant, I grabbed it, walking away from the rocks while dusting myself off. I had enough dirt and grass on already. Even though her mood swings were indeed odd, the sudden new look worried my little heart all too much. I wanted to ask her what's wrong, I really did, but the tight, sweaty and overall stressful hold of her hand made me chew on my lower lip instead, watching silently as her breathing became hectic. In a few minutes, after several deep breaths, whatever bothered her soon was a distant memory as her cheeks flushed, letting go of my hand. It felt a little too cold all of a sudden. "Sorry about that..." she cleared her throat. "I think it's time for you to go home." it was my turn to blush.

"Where is home exactly...?" it seemed like I waited for an eternity to hear her laugh again. "I'll show you the way – If you can trust me that is."

"Tell me your name first."

"Irene." a pretty name for a pretty girl.

 I had no choice but to follow Irene around the forest. After all, I didn't plan my grand adventure all too well. Nonetheless, I didn't regret it. I don't know if it was because of her, or because the sun was setting, but everything seemed so much... More. I don't know if it was because of the bits of star carried in her veins, or because of the lunar mist surrounding us, but everything seemed so much more magical. For many nights I looked outside the round window of my room wondering what was out there. Now that I finally saw it, I loved it. I laughed, danced, got lost a few times, but I still loved it. I hope Irene loved it too. The first summer I spend with her was really precious. For one night, I forgot the tragedy also known as my life. I forgot about my dad, my mother, everything, "Do you think the moon is jealous of how pretty you are?" for a moment, I died. Was she talking to me – no she already did. Was she complimenting me? As if she could read my mind, Irene laughed, pointing earthwards, at the bunny in front of her. Even though she didn't compliment me, I cherished those moments, deep in my heart, wondering if I could stay by her side in the soon to come winter.

"I think this is it," Irene spoke, touching my shoulder gently, pausing my daydreaming just like that. I took one, two steps in front of her, confirming myself that this is it. I was home. I hated it. I hated coming back from my dreamland. I hated coming back to see Patricia's face, keeping my dad preoccupied, and all to herself. I sighed, studying the not so little cabin with distaste. Looks like today is finally over.

"Hey, Irene –" there was no Irene. When did she leave? How come I didn't hear her? I was too tired to think. Drowsiness invaded my mind and body, making me drag myself inside, ready for a well-deserved bath.

 Lethargic. That's a new word. I wasn't sure why or what caused it, but I became lethargic. Maybe the daily forest walks caused it. Maybe my never-ending fantasizing caused it, waiting again for a next time. The next time I'd meet Irene. The next time I'd look around and smile. The next time I'd awe and flush. The next time I'd encounter magic and sparkles! Those God damned sparkles. I missed them. I missed them so much. I waited all over again for that next time... But just like before, it never came. I became tired of waiting. I hated waiting.

 In the end, I waited so much I had to leave. But I didn't want to leave! I wanted to stay. Although I hated it, I wanted to wait. I didn't want to leave and forget all those things. I made sure not to. As autumn came by, I never forgot. As winter came by, I never forgot. Even in spring, I still remembered that day. I remembered it so well I came back every summer, searching for that moment, searching for Irene. I searched for her four summers. And with the end of every summer, came a new feeling. Sadness. Disappointment. Anxiety. Depression. It all hit me like a ton of bricks.

   I was sixteen when saw her again, back in the Black Forest, right beside the small waterfall at the end of the glade. It was around mid July. It was pretty hot outside. Yet she was as beautiful as I remembered her to be. A real-life fairy tale princess. I took everything in: the visuals, the sounds, the smells. Nothing changed. It was as if the forest itself waited for Irene. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. After all, I did the same thing. Just like last time, I unintentionally stepped on a twig, drawing her attention with ease. I held my breath. Will she recognise me? I’ve grown a little bit since I was twelve after all. While fidgeting timidly with my fingers, I felt the need to look down. She was watching me so attentively I almost fainted. Almost, “Oh, it’s you!” she finally said, placing beside her what looked like a flower crown. This time, she wasn’t wearing a cloak, her white dress in full display as she tried her best to not trip over herself. Her hair was also different. Now it was neatly braided on the side, showing more of her rosy cheeks and radiant smile. My face already hurt from all the grinning, but it was worth it as long as she smiled along.

“Hi there,” I managed to mumble out, waving weakly. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” I sounded so lousy in front of her, only one thought went through my mind. ‘Heck, heck, heck, heck, heck’. I blinked and she was in front of me, far enough to not feel uncomfortable, but close enough to sense the daisy perfume lingering in between us. 

“It sure has been – ugh…”

“Heck.”

   My hand went over my mouth, feeling my ears burning hotter as soon as I heard Irene’s laugh. 'Is it going to become a tradition to embarrass myself in front of her?' Not that I minded. "That's quite the unique name you have," she winked, making my heart beat just a tad faster. Everything from the atmosphere to the lack of sounds felt nice. It felt pretty. I missed pretty. 

"I know, right? Most people prefer to call me ___, unfortunately."

"Heck suits you so much better though..." Irene insisted with her arms crossed, a pout taking over her features. Even her pout was lovely. Never in my life, I have ever seen someone so beautiful. I felt so overwhelmed, yet so happy. It was an odd sensation I couldn’t get tired of. For just a few moments, things were silent. That I didn’t like. I felt pressured by her presence. Like I needed to say something all the time. “Flower crowns, huh?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Is that why you hang out around here?”

  Her face dropped. It was obvious I touched a nerve, “…Yeah, sure.” she replied as she walked away from me, back to the flower crown, proceeding to sit down. All I did was follow. “What about you? What are you doing here?”

“Recreation! I really like,” I looked down. “Daisies!”

“Judging from our previous encounter, I can clearly tell that.” oh God, that last time. Her smirk didn’t help my situation as I felt my ears burning. After a nervous laugh and clearing my throat, everything was silent again. She wasn’t much of a talker, huh? I wouldn’t call her boring – I knew the personality was there – maybe I was the one boring. Wouldn’t surprise me, I would be annoyed too if a kid suddenly decided to get all friendly with me. Unfortunately for her, I wasn’t going to give up. “Where are you from?” her shoulders seemed oddly relaxed. Was she not bothered by that question. 

“South Korea,” she responded oddly fast.

“That’s cool! So, are you here on a holiday or –”

“More like a school trip. With less school and more friends.” soon our conversation became an interrogation. I would ask the questions, she would answer. I couldn’t tell whether or not she was lying, her empty expression failed to give anything away. I soon found out she was nineteen years old, herbalism major and that she had two cats: Buttercup and Poppy. It was around late afternoon when I lost count of the questions. I knew so many things about her, some random some more important, yet all she did was play with those flowers. I wasn’t too sure she was enjoying herself. And it broke my heart. No one could keep their cool for that long. Irene was no exception as her eyes narrowed and knuckles whitened at her firm grasp of the delicate flowers. 

“Ok, one last question,” I sighed, twirling a daisy in between my fingers. I felt bad for those little guys. “You said you’re on a trip with some friends, right?”

“Yes.” she exhaled, her nostrils flaring.

“Why would they leave you here, then?” I studied her as her brows knitted. “They don’t sound all that nice if I’m being honest. Isn’t it lonely staying around here –” I stopped myself. Way to go me! Insulting your crush's friends right in front of her! Too preoccupied with my mental breakdown, I failed to notice Irene talking.

“… Dead.” that’s the only word I was able to hear through her whispering, though I didn’t fail to notice the crack in her sudden petite voice. She seemed to pick that up, so with glossy eyes and scarlet cheeks, she repeated herself. “I am dead. They left me here because I am dead.”   

   I laughed. That was it. All I did was laugh. I knew – I was one hundred percent sure – there was no way she was serious. As soon as I looked at her, I couldn’t help but bite my tongue. She was crying. Her pretty brown eyes were flooded with tears, and she was uncontrollably sniffling. My chest hurt all of a sudden. “H-hey… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” I was devastated. I wanted to slap myself. I felt like I had to. Why was she crying? Did I say something wrong? Did I insult her? I panicked. Without thinking, I put my arms around her shoulders, hugging her tightly. I could feel warm tears staining my clothes, but I didn’t care. In return, I stained her shoulder as well. We stayed like that for an eternity. Just hugging each other, crying. I didn’t even feel her hugging me anymore, it became part of me. “Please forgive me,” I mouthed in a hoarse voice. “Whatever I said that upset you, please forgive me…” with red eyes, I looked up. The sun was setting, orange puffy clouds taking over the sky. Irene wasn’t saying anything. It worried me beyond relief. Only after a few more sobs, she ended our hug. 

“It’s not your fault.” she laughed at herself, wiping a few tears away from her face gently. “I don’t know what got into me all of a sudden. I should be the one apologizing.” I must have done something oddly horrible in my previous life to deserve seeing this. 

“Don’t say that. I shouldn’t have laughed at you.” a sudden thought crossed my mind. Was she serious about the whole dead thing? Was she a –

“I would have laughed too if someone came up and told me they’re a ghost.”

“If you really are a ghost,” I stood up, still sceptical. Irene didn’t sound like such a nice person all of a sudden. “How come I can touch you? And do I need some sort of board game to talk with you now?”

“Look, horror movies and whatever ghost documentaries are out there on the internet aren’t exactly right,” she groaned, standing up as well. I just saw how dirty her dress became. “Just because I’m dead that doesn’t mean I don’t have a body… I think.”

“You think?”

“I died four years ago! Not even ghosts understand how these things work! All I know is waking up here, in this dress…” I didn’t know whether or not I should take her seriously. I thought this was all a joke. I thought my feelings for her were a joke. 

“How did you die?” shortly after my question, Irene disappeared. As in she wasn’t there anymore. 

   What was there, though, was a sudden cold chill. It went all the way down my spine. I felt sickening. I felt scared. My heart was thumping and my gut was telling me to run. So that’s what I did. I ran and I couldn’t stop. Everything around me was a green blur as I ran so much my feet hurt. It didn’t matter which direction I went, I just ran. If it weren’t for the rock I tripped over, I would have much longer. I could feel my muscles pulsating, exhausted and soon to be sore. Once again, I was laying on the ground. I didn’t want to get up, I was too tired. I was so tired I could have fallen asleep right there. A sudden neigh was what made me rose up panting. I looked up only to see a… Horse? It was more like a draft. He, apparently, wasn’t very big, one or two inches shorter than me, with a chestnut coat and flaxen mane. Nonetheless, his stare made me feel uncomfortable. What was he doing here? I didn’t have enough time to continue my never-ending monologue as he soon reared, standing up on his hind legs. I felt my left shoulder pop as I tried to avoid getting squashed. The sound his hooves made as they hit the ground made my stomach turn. That could have been me. The sensation I felt earlier in the glade returned. They say most animals are more scared of you than you are of them. But this one – He sure wasn’t scared of me or anything surrounding the meadow as he went for it one more time. I was petrified, eyes closed, curled up in a ball, waiting for him to crush me. All of a sudden, the neighing stopped. I stood up in a sitting position, opening one of my eyes. He was still there, that’s for sure, but to his left, petting his tame softly was Irene, studying and observing me with a hollow stare. I could finally breathe.

“Thank you,” I said absentmindedly, feeling my eyes tearing up for the second time that day. A frown took over my features as I looked at Irene, searching for any sort of reaction. She smiled as I cried.

   I couldn’t stand it. This house was so dull. I was unable to stop my mind from lingering, thinking, even speculating, about my meeting with Irene and her little secret. I was unable to stop my heart from throbbing. I almost died. I was saved by a ghost of all people. What a sappy story I would never tell anyone. Who would have thought those damned YouTubers were right? Were there any other ghosts around? If so, where were they? Why was I able to see Irene only? There were so many questions that needed answers. It all felt too unbelievable, too unreal. Could this possibly happen to someone so miserable like me? What kind of messed up story is this? As I held tighter onto the flower crown Irene made me, I looked outside. I was back at square one. I was back at looking through the window, musing. I was still musing on my way downstairs, ignoring the side eye Patricia gave me. It became part of my daily routine. Before I knew, I was already seated, laughing along whatever bad joke my dad made. For once, it felt good to be so mundane. Unfortunately, my moment of bliss wasn’t long-lived, as I sensed a retort was about to come from the other side of the table. “So where have you been all day?” Patricia asked, twirling around her glass. I didn’t like her tone. Most of the time, she wasn’t too concerned about my being. I would be surprised if she even knew my name. So why was she so interested in me all of a sudden?

“Where else could I have possibly been? I was outside.” I squinted at her. “I went for a walk, exploring.”

“Really now?” her smile wasn’t a good sign. She brushed few of her blonde bangs away from her eyes. “Looks like your exploring went pretty well,” she looked at the bruise on my exposed shoulder while taking a sip of wine, making me immediately pull the collar of my loose t-shirt up. How could I possibly forget about that?! I wasn’t going to let Patricia of all people have the last word. 

“If you’re insinuating what I think you are – Shocking. I am truly stunned by the display of idiocy. If you know what that word even means.” and that was the beginning of what one would call an utter disaster.

   So, there I was, passive-aggressively washing the dishes, muttering every curse word I could think off. Poor dishes, they didn’t deserve that kind of abuse. “She loves you, y’know?” my father’s sudden entrance scared me, making me drop a glass in the sink. I didn’t say anything, I just waited for him to continue defending her. Just like he always did. “In her own peculiar way, she loves you.” I turned around, an exasperated sigh leaving my lips.

“It’s been four years, dad,” I grumbled, sitting down beside him at the dinner table, holding his arm gently. “Four years and all she has done was yell and make assumptions about me.” I could feel my voice cracking. I had enough of her insanity and obnoxious personality. The way she teased – even tried to make fun of me in front of him was the last drop. It may have come out of nowhere, but after what I went through that day. “I am tired…” I was able to tell my dad was mad. The way a vein popped out in his neck, the way he clenched his fists. It was too obvious. It was obvious he loved her more than me.

“Sweetie –”

“Don’t ‘sweetie’ me, dad. That’s all you’ve been doing these past years!” I stood up, feeling my cheeks get wet. I wasn’t going to cry in front of him. “I know you love her, I really do, but just because you love her that doesn’t mean I do too.”

   I didn’t stand around too much after that. I grabbed a hoodie and went outside. Just because I was depressed that didn’t necessarily mean I also wanted hypothermia. It was pretty chilly outside after all. Soon after, I was sitting on the bench of our little wooden gazebo, just outside the forest, crying my eyes out for what seemed like hours for the third time that day. I knew, as soon as I touched my under eyes, I looked like a mess. Ignoring the fact that I almost died, I just had to go out of my way and ruin the whole day. I felt disgustingly miserable. The whole point of this trip was to stop feeling this way, yet there I was, bawling my eyes out.

“God, you are such a cry baby.” a flush crept up my face as I became aware of Irene’s presence. “You’re way too loud. Just for how long exactly do you plan on crying?” she whined, blowing away the few strands that landed on her face. 

   I winced. “Sorry my suffering is bothering you so much…” I whispered as I continued to sniffle. Irene was the last person I wanted to get mad. Who knew what kind of other freaky powers she had?

“You are either way too naive either trolling me,” I could already see her adorable smile, even without lifting my head. “And guessing from the way your face lit up, I can assume it’s the latter.” she continued, pinching one of my cheeks. My smile soon faded as I grabbed her hand and placed it in her lap as soon as she sat beside me. I took my time while observing her. Her white dress was still dirty with grass, mud and flower petals. Instead of ruining the dress, it added to it. It was as if the dress was made for that exact reason, while her hair wasn’t any better as it was a complete mess. A beautiful mess. Irene’s blush took both of us by surprise.  Her coffee-coloured eyes seemed to shine brighter than ever as the fairy lights surrounding us turned on, illuminating the dewy honeysuckles and jasmine attached to them. Everything about that moment was too ethereal in my mind. From the sparkly little stars shining up in the sky to that damned gazebo, it all felt perfect. It was so serene, so beautiful. It was the moment I waited so long for. In which I could forget about all of my worries. In which I felt happy.

“Do you ever just…” I sighed as a hand went through my hair. “Do you ever just cry because life sucks and everything is falling apart, but you know things are going to be fine eventually, but right now it’s horrible and you don’t want to –”

“Slow down.” her voice was soft. When I said soft, I meant soft. It rang in my ears so flawlessly I stopped talking immediately just so I could enjoy it more. It was so silent I could hear my heartbeat. It was slow and calm. Just like our moment. “What happened?” she asked and I answered. I told her everything. From my parents’ divorce to my recent fight with Patricia. All she did was listen.

[dear-wormwoods]

Eddie Kaspbrak and Faith

A stupidly long essay about religious guilt and acceptance for @eddiekasprzak.

Okay, so I’ll start by saying that I feel as though Eddie’s religious guilt is a fundamental part of his character and his growth arc, but it’s only explicitly referenced a few times - once in passing, once in depth, and once in a more spiritual way. Each of these moments is paired with something having to do with Richie, and I think that was intentional on Stephen King’s part, to include that sort of juxtaposition multiple times. So I’ll do my best to explain a part of Eddie’s character that I don’t think is talked about all too often.

I.

The first appearance of Eddie’s religious thoughts being juxtaposed with thoughts of, or interactions with, Richie happens in Ch. 7, pt. 1. This is the ‘cursing the faithful’ moment that original post was about. Eddie is on his way back to Derry and thinks of Richie (not for the first time), “He laughs seldom these days, and he certainly did not expect to find many chucks (Richie’s word, meaning chuckles, as in “You had any good chucks today, Eds?”) on this black pilgrimage. But, he supposes, if God is dirty-mean enough to curse the faithful with what they want most in life, He’s maybe quirky enough to deal you a good chuck or two along the way.” First of all, Eddie chooses his words very carefully, more than any other Loser, I think. Richie chooses his words carefully in order to conceal the truth in full, during his chapters, but Eddie’s word choice is used to carefully construct certain imagery. Eddie’s inner monologues are FULL of poetic imagery, often spiritual, and very descriptive - and the things he describes and the words he chooses to use are very significant. In this case, the words pilgrimage and curse stand out. Pilgrimages are journeys of spiritual significance, and that’s how he views this journey back to Derry - although it’s ‘black’ because the thing drawing him in is evil, it is nonetheless spiritual. Eddie is almost more willing than Bev to abandon his life to fulfill the 27-year promise, because he has spent his entire adulthood denying himself happiness, and living in an abuse cycle he thinks he deserves (more on that later), so to him, going back to Derry is spiritual because it’s his only hope of finding an answer to his misery - finding what he’s spent his adult life deprived of. In addition, his use of the word ‘curse’ implies that the thing EDDIE wants most in life is NOT something that he sees God approving of. He’s been cursed, by God, in spite of his faithfulness, with wanting something that goes against the religious beliefs he was raised to follow. So at the very least, he hopes God will allow him to take pleasure in laughter - something he hardly experiences in his adulthood, but something he associates heavily with Richie.

That this very quick glimpse into Eddie’s religious struggles is placed right next to a moment of him waxing poetic about Richie allowing him to assume an alternate identity away from his mother is… telling. “Man, he had hated it when Richie called him Eds . . . but he had sort of liked it, too... It was something . . . like a secret name. A secret identity. A way to be people that had nothing to do with their parents’ fears, hopes, constant demands.” Here we have both Eddie admitting to liking Richie’s pet name for him, as well as his appreciation for that “secret identity”. The way this is phrased seems to give Richie credit for allowing Eddie to be himself, but that it had to be secret, because Eddie’s true self had to be hidden from his mother and by extension God (because it was his mother who pushed religion on him so much - her chapter in Eddie’s Bad Break is riddled with her using God as justification for the way she treats Eddie). These two moments happening in the same couple of paragraphs establishes, early on in the book, something very major: that Eddie, at least subconsciously, sees his faith and Richie as almost opposing forces - he can’t be himself and still be faithful to God, but he CAN be himself around Richie.

II.

The most in depth explanation of Eddie’s religious conflict happens in Ch. 19 pt. 10, sandwiched in between the two chapters where he deals with Henry Bowers as an adult (which is significant placement because of the way Henry constantly calls Eddie a f*g during their fight). This chapter alone is like… one of my favorites, because it just says so much about Eddie as a character. In this scene, Eddie, Richie, and Stan are hanging out and start talking about religion, but the chapter starts off with probably one of the most blatant double entendres in the entire book. Eddie says “How about a lick on your Rocket?” to Richie, and this is already questionable on SK’s part because of how utterly phallic those rocket ice creams are, but then Richie responds with, “Your mom wouldn’t approve, Eddie.” Of course, the ‘reason’ he gives for saying that is germs, but the WAY SK wrote this exchange implies that there’s something deeper than germs at play here, especially since Sonia is a confirmed homophobe. Eddie says he’ll chance it, and Richie - instead of just giving Eddie the ice cream, holds it up to his mouth and watches him lick it. The placement of this memory is significant because their subsequent conversation about religion triggers a page and a half of Eddie extrapolating on why he thinks he’s going to Hell, basically.

So after Richie makes a comment about going to ‘the Hot Place’, Eddie thinks about a story a church lady named Mrs. Portleigh told his Sunday school class, about a little boy who put communion bread in the toilet and the water turned red with the Blood of Christ because he committed blasphemy and damned himself to Hell. This story really hits home with Eddie, and he starts dreading Communion and having panic attacks every time he has to do it at church. He becomes SO SURE that each time he picks up a piece of Communion bread, something horrible will happen or some disembodied voice will start chanting that he’s “Not worthy! Not worthy! Damned to Hell! Damned to Hell!”. This intense fear, despite never having done anything wrong in his LIFE, would send Eddie into a panic and he would need to use his inhaler after every act of Communion. He literally loses sleep over this intense fear that he will be labeled as ‘not worthy’ by God and sentenced to Hell, but he never once says what he thinks he did wrong. He simply thinks he is inherently wrong. He works himself up to the point where he eventually decides that he needs to just repeat what that boy did, to see what happens, because he’s already resigned himself to his fate of going to Hell so he has nothing to lose. Of course, he chickens out, but this whole story is SO SO important to Eddie’s character, because it showcases how deeply unclean Eddie feels. 

It’s not just about germs or getting sick, or about his mother calling him a bad son whenever he wants to do anything she doesn’t like. Eddie’s deepest fear is that the thing inside him that makes him inherently bad and inherently unclean and sick will come to the surface, that he’ll be found out and labeled as bad, as blasphemous, and everyone will know how rotten he is. This is shown also in his interactions with the hobo and IT’s leper - he specifically fears catching a disease that will physically manifest what he thinks is happening to him anyway - that he’s rotting from the inside-out. Eddie thinks there is something so deeply wrong with him that he doesn’t actually NEED to do anything in order to be damned to hell or deemed not worthy of Communion. He never explicitly says what this thing is - it’s clear that due to his sheltered upbringing, he doesn’t consciously know what it is yet. All he knows is that he’s bad. And what’s more, being too afraid to follow through on the toilet ‘experiment’ sets up a really prominent trend in his adulthood - being too afraid to want anything, to discover anything about himself, or pursue ANY kind of desire, for fear of what will happen, and because he feels he doesn’t deserve it. 

III.

THEN!! THEN!!!! As if it isn’t enough that Stephen King chose to juxtapose this long explanation of Eddie’s deep religiously based guilt with a lighthearted but subtext-laden exchange with Richie, he ALSO includes a very interesting parallel that Eddie makes. After thinking a lot about his fear of the toilet water turning red if he tries to replicate the other boy’s experiment, “He began to think about the thing they had seen on Neibolt Street, and for the first time he saw a crazy parallel—the Werewolf had, after all, come out of the toilet.” This is where Richie comes into play again, but only if you really analyze the shit out of the werewolf symbolism. The werewolf is IT’s most frequent manifestation for Richie, that and the eyeball, and people besides myself have done some great analysis on what the werewolf means for Richie. Basically, Eddie, although he doesn’t know it, is drawing a parallel between his fear of damnation and Richie’s fear of being a monster, and not JUST drawing a parallel, but connecting the two things together almost like one would result from the other.

Richie’s werewolf is a representation of his fear of being ostracized by his peers for something he can’t help, something that makes him a monster. Subconsciously, he relates to the teen werewolf, and IT recognizes this, which is why Richie’s NAME is stitched into the werewolf’s jacket. Richie is the only Loser that IT does this to - using his name to label some of the monsters it creates for him. Because unlike Eddie, who thinks he is diseased and being consumed by some evil that he has contracted somehow, Richie thinks he IS the evil. So the werewolf represents Richie, and Eddie draws the connection that the werewolf came out of the toilet at Neibolt street. The toilet represents his fear of being damned for something that is inherently wrong with him, and the werewolf coming forth from the toilet represents Richie being a cause of - or maybe perhaps a result of - the thing that Eddie fears is wrong with him. I know this seems like reaching, but there’s a reason Stephen King literally fed the reader this parallel. Eddie doesn’t explain WHY it’s a parallel, just that it IS one - the reason why is left up to the reader to decide.

As a side note - this chapter ends with another telling exchange between Richie, Eddie, and this time including Bill. Richie doesn’t want Eddie to go into the sewers with the rest of them because of his arm (imagine omg - they would have ALL died without Eddie let’s be real here), and Bill firmly says that he’ll have Eddie stick with him and keep an eye on him. Two interesting things follow this - first, Eddie blatantly thinks that Bill’s face is “lovely and well-loved” and thinks, “I’d die for him, I guess, if he told me to. What kind of power is that?” Because, in his sheltered naivety, he doesn’t realize that the power IS love. And while Eddie is inwardly expressing his devotion to Bill’s lovely face, Richie responds to Bill’s vow to protect Eddie by… making fun of him. This is rare for Richie, who typically also idolizes Bill - something about disagreeing over what’s best for Eddie set him off.

Right after this, we switch back to the present day and Henry storms into Eddie’s hotel room to kill him, repeatedly calling him a f*g. Again, I don’t think it’s accidental that Stephen King would write in a subtextual double entendre between Richie and Eddie, a long description of Eddie’s seemingly inexplicable religious guilt, a parallel between this and Richie’s werewolf, another arguably subtext-filled moment, and Henry Bowers explicitly accusing Eddie OF being gay as an adult while trying to actually murder him. Especially since, in the beginning of the novel, the bully who is meant to parallel Henry Bowers spearheads the assault on Adrian Mellon, who is meant to parallel Eddie in at least five different ways. I really think that the conclusion the reader is meant to come to from that part of the overall chapter is that Eddie’s guilt comes from his sexuality, and that Richie (and Bill, though only really on the surface) is connected to that.

IV.

The final, and perhaps most important, moment in which Eddie’s faith and his interactions with Richie are heavily connected, is in his death scene. I know everyone always talks about the “But there was something else he had to say first” and “Eddie closed his eyes, thinking how to finish”, but there’s so much more to this scene, and all of the inner monologuing leading up to those lines is SO IMPORTANT.

So, first off, I need to reiterate that Eddie’s word choice matters, especially as an adult. As a child, he’s so naive and sheltered that his inner monologues are pretty simplistic (though very telling in their own way) and more like a stream of consciousness. But as an adult, everything Eddie thinks has a purpose, right up until - perhaps especially during - his dying moment. Eddie’s death is extremely spiritual, though it does not directly reference his religious upbringing. The imagery he uses to describe how he feels as he’s dying references light and cleansing, despite being in a dark and dirty place. Fuck, even the manner of his death has religious symbolism to it. Because Eddie is a martyr, in the end - he dies for people he loves, for the friends he only just reconnected with, and for the greater good. It’s a selfless sacrifice, and even the image of Beverly cradling his body in her arms brings to mind Michelangelo’s Pieta, of Mary holding the body of Jesus after his crucifixion. The whole thing is just… well, there’s a reason Eddie’s chapters tend to have more spiritual overtones, in spite of his deep guilt and shame over it.

But as far as the text goes, this is the moment when Eddie finally accepts himself. It’s not the moment when he realizes he’s in love with Richie (personally I think he subconsciously knew it all along), but it IS the moment in which he realizes it’s OKAY to love Richie. This is also the moment when he lets go of his mother once and for all (just before sacrificing himself), as she was deeply connected to and largely responsible for his guilt and shame. When he first realizes he’s dying, as Richie stumbles toward him, he thinks, “He could feel everything running out of him along with his life’s blood . . . all the rage, all the pain, all the fear, all the confusion and hurt.” I think it’s easy to write off rage, pain, and fear as just the result of being in the presence of IT, of fighting IT, and of having his arm bitten off. Like… of course he’s afraid, of course he’s angry, of course he’s in pain. But the confusion and hurt, that’s where it becomes about something bigger. He uses pain and hurt, normally interchangeable, in the same sentence, which gives the word ‘hurt’ a more emotional feel. Along with the other negative feelings leaving his body, so goes his confusion about himself, and so goes the deep hurt he’s been harboring for his entire life over the damage his mother did to him. 

“God, he felt so lucid, so clear, like a window-pane which has been washed clean and now lets in all the gloriously frightening light… the light, oh God, that perfect rational light.” Eddie’s last moments are experienced with perfect clarity - for the first time in his life, he’s seeing and feeling his own light. He’s not being washed clean of sin, per se - I don’t think that’s it at all. He’s being washed clean of everything that made him feel dirty - of his mother, of Myra, of his own denial. He has spent his adulthood depriving himself of happiness because he felt too unclean to have it, because his happiness would have conflicted with his religious background, and because he simply didn’t think it was deserved. He resigned himself to a lifetime of misery because he was too afraid to find out what would happen to him if he broke away from that, and only as he’s dying does he realize that breaking away from that misery is exactly what would have let him feel light and clean all this time. Like his inability to perform the Communion bread in the toilet ‘experiment’ out of fear of damnation, Eddie was unable to pursue ANY of his desires for his entire life due to that same fear. Because in his mind, being himself was ungodly, and there was no one in his life to combat this mentality... the only person who gave him permission to be himself - gave him his secret identity - disappeared from his life way too early, and for far too long.

Eddie spent his whole life thinking there was something festering inside him that made him sick, and dirty, and bad, but he realizes, too late, and as he’s looking at Richie, that he was never dirty at all. “Then he looked at Richie and licked his lips. Fading, fading back. Becoming clearer and clearer, emptying out, all of the impurities flowing out of him.” In these last moments, Eddie lets every negative influence in his life leave him, so the only things left are Richie’s face and his newfound clarity. The ‘sickness’ he’d been trying to cure with a medicine cabinet full of sedatives and a wife who was just like his mother, is no sickness at all, and it isn’t Eddie that’s impure, it’s everything else in his life. Those are the impurities that are flowing out of him - his mother’s influence, his denial, his misery. He’s left clear headed, clean, and most importantly, himself, and he realizes, for the first time since the summer of 1958, that being himself isn’t a bad thing. “... and if he had had time enough he could have preached on this, he could have sermonized: Not bad, he would begin. This is not bad at all.” In the most direct reference to actual religious practice, as opposed to spiritual metaphors, Eddie thinks that if he had the chance, he would want to preach about this newfound clarity he has - he wants to tell people that he’s really okay, that being himself is not bad, that being like him isn’t bad. And that’s when he decides he needs to say something to Richie. Whether or not it was going to be a love confession is subjective and irrelevant (though I personally think it was) - the fact of the matter is that it was Richie’s presence that gave him clarity - both as a kid and an adult - and looking into Richie’s face in his last moments is what allowed him to let go of everything that was holding him back and finally find peace with himself.

It isn’t an accident that Stephen King painted Eddie’s death with references to spirituality and faith, and it isn’t an accident that Richie is the one he’s connecting to in those moments, because it was a small but significant theme in the novel. At first, Eddie saw engaging with Richie’s ‘chucks’ and his secret identities as going against what was morally okay, and he thought deeply about his fear of hell because of something Richie said, but in the end it’s also Richie who is present for the moment when Eddie reconciles his faith with his sense of self. 

I know I’m almost certainly overanalyzing it and I’m PROBABLY giving King way too much credit by saying that all of this was intentional, but I just can’t fathom that this part of Eddie’s character and its proximity to Richie is just there for no reason.

(As an aside, this is why I really like Sufjan Stevens and Iron & Wine for Eddie bands, because they use a lot of religious imagery the way he does when he thinks. Especially The Trapeze Swinger, which I could also write a separate essay about in terms of how it relates to Eddie. I just think about his deal with religion A LOT.)

[velvetchen]

Anonymous | pt. iii

[ back to masterlist ]

Scenario: Tumblr AU Pairing: Chanyeol/Reader Word Count: 1339 Rating: T

Summary: Can you fall in love with someone you’ve never met? You just shot to tumblr fame when the latest chapter of your webtoon went viral. Messages start flooding in – hundreds of people saying things good and bad alike. One anon catches your eye, and you find you just have to reply to them…

<< previous part x next part >>

New message [Draft] [12:23 PM]

To: XXX-XXX-XXXX (Unknown number)

You: Hey C, S here ^^

Send a message…

Anonymous asked: Dear S, sorry if giving you my number was a bit too sudden. I mean I did say I’d like to keep my privacy, but I also really want to get to know you! You don’t have to reply if you’re not comfortable. Sorry again. Sincerely, C

New message [Draft] [1:36 PM]

To: XXX-XXX-XXXX (Unknown number)

You: Hey C, this is S!!

[Message sent] [1:53 PM]

[1:53 PM] You: I don’t mind texting. I would love to talk to you some more. 

[1:56 PM] You: i can’t believe i just texted C 

[1:56 PM] You: >.< [2:01 PM] Jia: whoa you mean that anon from your tumblr  [2:02 PM] Jia: you got his number?   [2:03 PM] You: yeah he gave it to me…  [2:04 PM] You: i’m so nervous jia what if it’s a wrong number or he thinks i’m too desperate or he’s a pedophile stalking young girls on the web  [2:06 PM] Jia: calm down  [2:06 PM] Jia: has he replied?  [2:07 PM] You: not yet ;;;;; 

Anonymous asked: how many followers do you have

It’s somewhere around 8,000 now and I don’t think it’s slowing down anytime soon ;;;;

Anonymous asked: how the fuck did you get famous? You’re trash and your webtoon is trash. I don’t understand why anyone likes it.

Well, I suppose everyone is entitled to their own opinion…

exordiums asked: S there are so many fan theories going around! Can you confirm or deny them because I’m at my wits’ end here

Nope! You’ll just have to wait till the next update ^^

Anonymous asked: what happened to C?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anonymous asked: i’ve read a lot of webtoons and none of them are as bad as yours, honestly

Thanks :)

[3 New Messages]

[4:43 PM] XXX-XXX-XXXX (Unknown number): Hey S! You won’t believe how relieved I am to hear from you [4:44 PM] XXX-XXX-XXXX (Unknown number): I thought I scared you off for a minute there [4:44 PM] XXX-XXX-XXXX (Unknown number): How are you doing?

Send a message…

[4:48 PM] You: JIA HELP what do i say [4:48 PM] You: sent a photo [4:50 PM] Jia: you’re so dramatic [4:50 PM] Jia: just be normal [4:51 PM] Jia: it’s not like he’s your crush or something [4:52 PM] You: I know -.-

[4:55 PM] You: Don’t worry, you didn’t! I’m doing well, I had a long day today. How about you? [4:59 PM] C: Good :) [5:00 PM] C: I had a long day, too. Work ran late, but it’s the weekend so I’m looking forward to resting. [5:01 PM] C: What about you, do you have any plans for the weekend?

[5:14 PM] You: Nope, no plans! I’m going to work on SS,  it’s actually pretty hard to do one chapter a week :( [5:15 PM] You: You’ll probably find me slacking off lol. Don’t tell [5:17 PM] You: Where do you work?

[5:32 PM] C: I can imagine. It takes me ages just to think of a concept for a song, I don’t know how you manage [5:33 PM] C: Haha I told you, I write music. I was lucky enough to make it my livelihood

[6:19 PM] You: Songs are a bit harder, IMO? You’ll have to fit a whole story in such a small amount of time, that’s a lotttt harder than writing a 100-episode webtoon [6:20 PM] You: Oh, that is lucky. Sounds like a dream job [6:20 PM] You: Maybe I’ve heard of you. Imagine that

baeked-potato asked: I’m so sorry you’re getting hate already. SS is a great webtoon, one of the best, you should feel really proud of it~~ <3 Fighting!

Thanks so much ;A;

Anonymous asked: so are you going to answer any of our fan theories or no

No :)

WEBTOON Highlight: Strawberry Shortcake sets record for fastest webtoon to reach 1M views!

In romance webtoon Strawberry Shortcake, girl-next-door Yoon-ah’s life is turned around when Jin-ho, a handsome vampire, takes an interest in her. But maybe everything is darker than it seems at first glance…

Strawberry Shortcake, written by author S, recently crossed 1.5M views on LINE Webtoon alone.

just-another-shortcake:

Yoon-ah’s obviously going to end up with Jin-ho. I mean, he has so much depth as a character, and they complement each other so well. They have that classic chemistry everyone knows and loves. Yoon-ah is sweet and innocent, Jin-ho is that dark, brooding, protective guy. Do you guys remember from one of the earlier episodes when they were late coming home so he took her out for dinner and he was just so caring and gentle. The ship is real.

soldmyseoul:

lol i can’t believe you’re just going to forget about the lake scene

just-another-shortcake:

Oh no way. Seong-jin is waaaay too extroverted for her. That lake scene was either a) a once in a lifetime thing or b) he was trying to get something out of her (or into her lololol)

I mean, who trusts a vamp who makes crass jokes and flirts like crazy one moment, then turns into a sweet lover the next? Nope

[7:49 PM] C: Do you think so? [7:49 PM] C: I mean, I guess it sounds harder when you put it that way, but I’ve never really found it that difficult [7:50 PM] C: When you write music, it’s about you and what you feel inside...but when you write a book or a webtoon, you’re writing about another character that you have to create feelings for [7:51 PM] C: Or characters [7:52 PM] C: That’s just crazy. I don’t know what I’m feeling myself half the time [7:53 PM] C: Imagine ;) [7:55 PM] C: I’d say it’s pretty likely

[8:36 PM] You: When I think about it, writing a song is really scary lol [8:36 PM] You: Just the thought of putting my true feelings out like that and having people know it was me is just terrifying honestly. I’d rather hide behind my characters, I’m a lot more comfortable there [8:37 PM] You: And yeah I know you don’t have to write music about yourself specifically but what’s the point of making art if you’re not going to express yourself [8:38 PM] You: I hope you get it lol [8:39 PM] You: Seriously??? I’m not asking or anything, but now I’m really tempted to listen to one of your songs ^^

[8:44 PM] C: We have a totally different outlook, I’d say :D [8:45 PM] C: What’s so scary about revealing how you feel, though? [8:45 PM] C: It gets easier with time [8:46 PM] C: I understand. If I wasn’t allowed to write my own music I would’ve gone crazy [8:47 PM] C: Freedom is something a lot of us take for granted [8:49 PM] C: Hmm. I’ll have to hold out on you [8:51 PM] C: But maybe I’ll let you listen one day

[9:02 PM] You: Yeah, definitely different lol. It’s good to have another perspective once in a while though [9:03 PM] You: I don’t know, I think I’m scared of people using it against me? Or something like that [9:03 PM] You: I actually don’t know. I’ve never thought about it [9:04 PM] You: That’s a good question, I’ll think about it and get back to you [9:05 PM] You: How long have you been writing music? [9:07 PM] You: I’ll be waiting! :) [9:08 PM] You: Then it’ll be my turn to be your biggest fan