#snk colt x reader

[animeyanderelover]

Can I also request the marly guys (zeke, reiner,colt and porco) with an escaping s/o please? If it's to many people you don't have to write for colt or zeke. Thank you

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, toxic relationship, obsessive behavior, delusional mindset, manipulation, threats, blackmailing

Tags: @shumidehiro

Escaping s/o

Zeke Yeager

🚬​He's probably been aware of your silly plans for a while now but has never spoken up about it as he instead chooses to wait and see how it turns out. Whilst you are making your own plans though, Zeke is gearing up to counter them as he does his own work. Two can play the game after all and if you are conjuring up schemes behind his back, he will return the favor. After all the Titan Shifter is fairly confident that he will win this as he has the intelligence and the influence. The moment you finally put your plan in motion, Zeke is already prepared for everything and the whole thing ends soon in your undeniable defeat. He visits you later as you were put under custody until he arrives and it is then that he explains to you that he has been aware of your plot for a while now. He could have stopped you obviously as soon as he had his suspicions but he thought that it would perhaps be better to let you see and feel that you would do better to stop such shenanigans in the future as you stand no chance against him. The next time you come up with such a hoax, he won't amuse you any longer. This is the first and last time he played such a game with you.

Reiner Braun

🟤​Even if Reiner were to discover hints of your plans, he would most likely refuse to believe them. This guy is quite dependent on his darling after all the trauma and pain he had to endure and he is quite desperate for them to love him too which is why he is extremely overbearing. The first stage is just denial when he finds out that you have actually ran away from him as he instead tries to come up with excuses for what you have done all because he doesn't want to accept the truth. You couldn't! You would never do that! The moment the truth comes crashing down though, Reiner has a meltdown and starts bawling his eyes out. He is a mess and it needs the likes of Pieck and Porco to shake him out of his misery. He isn't far away from transforming into his Titan and chase after you but luckily he is stopped by his comrades as well as the last bit of consciousness that there are people important to him living here. Some more amicable soldiers of Marley agree to help him and he himself joins them, though he looks only seconds away from another meltdown. He's going to scream, cry and beg for them to never do this again as he locks them away in his house from that day on, his trust broken.

Porco Galliard

🌫️​Porco should technically not be surprised if you should attempt to escape from him. After all it is no secret to him that he has forced you into an engagement as well as marriage without even considering your wishes in it. Yet when it actually happens, there is still the disappointed anger as he can't help but think that even if he did all of that, it ultimately enabled you a better life. His anger only heightens the longer you are gone as he even snaps at Marley soldiers despite knowing how his kind is viewed by them. He doesn't fully trust them either so he goes on a separate pursuit to go after you and the moment you are found, you will not be spared of his ire. He's pissed as he yells at you, insult after insult leaving his lips as he calls you an ungrateful thing and points out how he has done nothing but better the situation for you and your family alike. Briefly he considers threatening you to take all the privileges away for you and your family but that would only be really possible through divorce and he would never consider that. He either locks you away like Reiner does or actually goes the extra step and asks the Marley soldiers to imprison you for a while so that you realize how good you have it with him.

Colt Grice

◻️Oh, the poor lad would be absolutely heartbroken. After all he has done nothing but protect and dote on them. Sure, he has done some things he is not too overly proud of such as also pushing you into an engagement but he shares similar motives to Porco as he wants to ensure your protection as soon as he becomes the next Titan Shifter. He is in denial and honestly, he remains stuck in disbelief even as he goes after you until you are caught and he sees you again. The spiteful and frustrated look you give him is finally enough to smash reality right against his chest. Why...? Why would you do this to him? His mind is racing, although all thoughts scatter before he can even properly form them as he tries to dig up something that he can say to you as he stares at you but no words ever leave his lips in that moment. His trust has been smashed and is left in pieces and he doesn't know what to do around you for a while as he has to stomach the realisation that the relationship is perhaps more threatened than he ever would have wanted to think. He would probably find himself turning to your family who, given the opportunities he gives you and them, would most likely shame you for your attempt.

[crazychaoticizzy]

an event by honeymoon @cinnamon-girl-writes & izzy @crazychaoticizzy

pre-game!

invitations were sent out on 7/7 to select authors that we enjoy the writing of & mutuals who we wanted to be part of our event! if you received an ask with an invitation, respond to the ask or message us to confirm your spot and reserve the character you'd like to write from the following list. !!one author per character!! and it will be first come first serve! include at least two backup characters in your reservation in case of repeats. please view the specific rules for this segment down below :)

overtime!

starting july 9, anyone can join and write for our event! please send us an ask to let us know what you're writing, who for, and the details so we can add it to the masterlist. please view the 'overtime rules' section below for details :)

locker room!

starting july 17, izzy @crazychaoticizzy and honeymoon @cinnamon-girl-writes will be accepting requests for this event! please send us an ask with the character, sport, and any details you'd like.

**note: izzy prefers to write for armin and erwin. honeymoon prefers to write for reiner, bertholdt, and jean

cause you know i love the PLAYERS! - masterlist

*red text indicates that the character slot has been taken. the author will be tagged beside their selected character.

baseball player!eren @arlerts-angel

figure skater!armin @chaotic-on-main

lacrosse player!jean

soccer player!connie @kingkonoha

rugby player!reiner @verxca

swimmer!bertholdt @tender-hearteddd

f1 driver!porco @saturnzheart

tennis player!floch

hockey player!colt

football player!onyankopon

coach!erwin @erwinsmithsmissingleftarm

coach!levi @lacyohlacyyy

coach!zeke

pre-game! RULES/GUIDELINES

+ one author per character (listed above). first come first serve, so please let us know your backup characters in case the person you'd like is reserved. deadline for sign ups is july 14

+ in this event, we're specifically looking for pieces of writing, not just headcanons/bullet points. please keep your pieces over 700 words (no maximum)

+ aot characters only, no oc's

+ this is an x reader event. gn! or fem! reader welcome, but please no male reader

+ nsfw writing allowed; please tag it properly

+ absolutely no dark content, including but not limited to: yandere, p3dophilia, r4pe/inc3st

+ of course, you should post your writing on your own personal masterlist as well and promote this event!!

overtime! RULES/GUIDELINES

+ aot characters only

+ this is primarily an x reader event, but ship content is permitted (no problematic ships, i.e. age gaps like eren/levi or you will be blocked)

+ no restrictions for what character/sport you write for

+ headcanons, moodboards, fanart, and any other mediums allowed and encouraged!

+ nsfw writing allowed; please tag it properly

+ absolutely no dark content, including but not limited to: yandere, p3dophilia, r4pe/inc3st

locker room! RULES/GUIDELINES (requests)

+ only x fem! reader or gn! reader, no oc's or ships please

+ please be specific with what you want including the character and the sport; if not, we'll take creative liberty

+ absolutely no dark content, including but not limited to: yandere, p3dophilia, r4pe/inc3st

+ hard deadline for this event on august 17 (8/17/24) but you can send your requests to our personal accounts if we're accepting atm

+ understand that we are also human and this is just a hobby w/ real lives outside of fandom! pls be kind :)

we are so excited for this event!! if you have questions or concerns, please message izzy @crazychaoticizzy🤍

[wttcsms]

daylight ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 14.3k 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, depictions of violence, blood, taking care of him when he's injured, slowburn author's note this is part one of four!! / repost bc the first time around, it didn't show up in tags </3

part one: no sharing names

“Are you scared?” 

The teenage girl sitting in front of the cracked vanity mirror is shaking. She’s been jittery all day, and as the sun started its descent, she’s only been growing increasingly more and more anxious. You wish you could tell her that it’s nothing to be scared of, but that would be a lie. 

Your whole line of work is built on lies; the last thing you need to do is let Work You bleed through into Real You.

“It’s okay if you are.” That’s what you settle for, slowly running a brush through the thick, dark layers of her hair. 

“Were you scared?” She’s a tiny thing; it’s no surprise that her voice would sound so small, too. It makes your heart break just a little more. 

“I was.” Seeing that your admission doesn’t make her feel any better, you add on, “Sometimes, I still get scared.” 

“Oh.” And then, “How do you still do it?”

“I don’t have a choice.” You pretend that most of your focus is on the knot in her hair and not the glimpse of the horrified expression on her face. She’s actually a very pretty girl. 

Being pretty is a double-edged sword. The benefit of this is that she’ll never run out of customers; the downside of this is that she’ll never run out of customers. You drag the brush through the knot of hair more aggressively than you intend to. 

She doesn’t say anything, so you elaborate. “It’s just me and Ramzi, you know.” The girl nods in acknowledgement. At the refugee camp, everybody seems to know each other; a side effect of living in cramped spaces and having more communal areas rather than private ones. A tight-knit community, but hardly by choice. When the whole world seems to harbor an unshakable hatred towards you, you learn to cling to the people who don’t. 

“And Ramzi… He can’t make money, and we can’t keep living off the kindness of others. So, if this is how Ramzi gets food in his belly, and clothes that fit, how could I possibly stop doing this?” It’s not as if Marley is a land of opportunity; oppression fits it much better. You set the brush down and start to braid her hair. “This isn’t… This isn’t a job you can retire from very quickly.” 

It’s not a job you can necessarily leave, either. Not just because the money is more than what you could make doing laundry and picking up after people’s dogs, but your work history will always follow behind you, a permanent stain on your record. It’s best that she comes to terms with this sooner rather than later. 

“I don’t know if I can do this.” She sounds broken, defeated. The sentence comes out as a sob, and you’re distinctly aware of how her cries only continue to chip away at your resolve. You wanted to remain cool and impersonal. You wanted to act as if taking the care to do her hair for her wasn’t an attempt to give the poor girl some sense of normalcy — of comfort — before she gets sent to the slaughter. You want — the most dangerous thing a girl like you could possibly ever do.

You’re hugging the girl before you can tell yourself that this is a bad idea. The goal was to wean her off comfort, not coddle her, smother her with affection and comfort and warm words. How will she possibly survive if she’s continuously clinging onto the warmth nobody she services will provide? You certainly weren’t given anything to prepare for your first night; no warnings, no reassurances, no comfort. It was a hard lesson to learn, that no one visiting this establishment would ever care about you. That no one here would ever see you as anything more than something they’ve paid for. 

Three more seconds. That’s how much longer you’ll give her to bury her face in your neck, wetting your exposed skin and probably getting snot in your hair. Three more seconds, and then you will (gently) pull her away from you. Three more seconds, and you will begin to properly prepare her for her condemnation. 

One—

Ramzi is probably getting ready for bed right about now. 

Two—

You reminded him that he needs to take care of himself and to remember to layer the thin blankets so he can try to get as much warmth out of those hand-me-downs. 

Three—

It’s going to be a cold night.

You remove yourself from the embrace, taking in the girl. Her big, brown eyes are still shiny from her tears, lashes slick from them. She’s sniffling, lips quivering, and she looks a mess. 

(You try to ignore that by the end of tonight, she will look even worse.) 

You want to hug her again, but already, you feel like you’ve done both too much and not enough. Yes, it’s nice to know that someone cares, but that won’t do much to help her survive this. You place your hands on her shoulders.

“Look at me.” 

She forces herself to look you in the eyes. The shift in your demeanor makes her cease her sniffling, and she’s finally still.

“You asked me how I’m still doing this. I’ll let you in on a little secret, alright? Can you keep a secret for me, honey?” 

She nods, too afraid to speak. 

“It’s just all a big game. And every game has rules, right?”

 She nods again.

“I’ll tell you the rules to mine. The first one is that they can’t know my name.” 

“Won’t they ask?” 

“They don’t pay me to tell ‘em the truth.” 

That gets a semblance of a smile on her face.

Before you can tell her any more, there’s a loud bang on the door.

“Girls, we’re about to open up shop!” Willa, the Eldian woman running this whole establishment, gives you two this warning. You can hear her loud voice traveling through all the thin walls in this place. She’s making her rounds, visiting the other girls’ rooms to let them know, too.

“Guess our time is up.”

“Wait, but you didn’t tell me any of your other rules! How will I know what to do?” She’s panicking, scrambling for any reason to stay here with you instead of facing whatever nightmare awaits her out there. She’s clinging onto your arms, acting like you’re her lifeline, and how sad it must be, you think, for you to be the person someone looks up to.

“It’s your game, honey. You can make up your own rules, change them as you go, make special exceptions. Whatever you want to do.” You brush back a few strands of her hair that clings to her still-wet cheeks. “Just focus on figuring out all the rules, especially when you’re searching for something to think about.”

The best rules usually come during the times where you want to focus on anything other than what’s presently happening to you. On your second night, there was a man who produced so much saliva, that when his mouth was drunkenly exploring every inch of your skin, you stared up at the peeling paint on the ceiling and decided right then and there that no man was allowed to kiss you on your lips. 

“Why can’t they know your real name?” She asks. “Everyone back home knows your name.”

“Everyone back home knows me.” The men that come here are mostly men who want to break you. To take something from you, everything from you, to leave you with nothing. It makes them feel powerful, knowing that they paid a cheap price for free-rein to destruction. 

That’s how you win the game: by not letting them break you. 

These men, they never stood a chance against the personas you fabricate for them. Different names, different personalities — it’s all make-believe. Those girls, the girls you pretend to be, are the ones that get destroyed every night. 

“Promise me that you will never give them a chance to know you, Nadia.”

She nods, but unlike every other time, this one is fueled with conviction. 

Colt Grice is acutely aware that he has absolutely no business being here. 

The bright yellow armband sticks out like a sore thumb, acting as a flashing arrow that separates him from the other soldiers flanked by his side. Some days, it feels too tight, too restrictive, too heavy of a burden. Tonight, it feels like a blemish. 

Even drunk, Colt knows these thoughts are dangerous. Any Eldian would kill to be a Warrior candidate, and he’s all too aware of the privileges he and his family have been granted because this yellow strip of fabric says he should be granted some respect.

Not too much, though. Show a devil a little reverence, and he’ll probably take you straight down to hell with him — he’s certain that’s how most people here see him. 

Soldiers coming to the red light district of Marley is nothing new. When training gets tough or there’s time to kill, drinking ensues. Where alcohol goes, bad decisions have a tendency to follow. 

Colt likes to think of himself as responsible. Sensible. Even if the Marleyans would deny it, he would even go so far as to think that he is a fairly good person. 

Stumbling down these dark streets, passing by brothels and love hotels, he thinks a good person probably wouldn’t be here right now. 

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” Michael purposely bumps his shoulder against Colt’s. “Are you freezing too, or do devils just not get cold?” 

From anyone else, it would be an insult. From Michael, it’s a joke. Like most of Michael’s jokes, they don’t necessarily land the way he intends them to, but Colt doesn’t bother telling him to work on his comedic timing or delivery; as nice of a guy as Michael is, he could still easily get Colt punished for treason with just one conversation with any of their superiors. 

“Do you ever get tired of slumming it with us devils?” The slur glides off his tongue too easily. Michael makes a face before slinging his arm over Colt’s shoulders as a show of good-natured camaraderie. With the flickering streetlights and the few other souls walking past, there’s really no one to bear witness to it. 

“Nah.” Michael clears his throat and sounds like he almost wants to say something else but decides against it at the last minute. A second later, and he’s belting out an old battlefield victory song taught during their childhood training. With everyone else in the group inebriated, it doesn’t take much to get them to drunkenly sing along. Colt smiles at their antics, but doesn’t join in. He wants to try to shift his armband around, but Michael’s arm is still thrown around him, and Colt decides he could really use another drink right about now. 

Instead of stopping at a bar like he hopes for, the rowdy group makes their way into the infamous “Gentleman’s Club.” The paint is peeling, there’s shattered glass right beneath the boarded up window, and the words on the sign are so faded, the G entle part of it is nearly imperceptible. 

Colt does not think he is getting another drink tonight.

He’s not sure what to expect from a brothel. He’s heard some stories in the barracks, but he usually makes an effort to tune out those type of crude tales. How would his mother feel about him indulging in any of the activities being described by his fellow soldiers? What type of example would he be setting for Falco? 

Eldian soldiers looking for a quick and easy release usually frequent the cheaper brothels. From an outside perspective, it’s hard for Colt to believe that any of these places could possibly be in worse shape than this building. The fact that this one is the nicest is enough to make Colt regret following the crowd tonight. 

The entrance of the Club is sparsely furnished, with a singular light bulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering and casting weird shadows everywhere. There are some pictures in frames hanging on the wall, but the inconsistent lighting makes it hard for Colt to properly make out any specific features of the girls photographed. 

A redheaded woman appears, taking in the group of half a dozen soldiers taking up all the limited space in her entrance. 

“First time?” She asks them. She sounds perfectly calm, but Colt doesn’t miss the way her sharp, green eyes seem to linger on Michael. 

If he runs out of this place right now, would any of these guys remember or are they too drunk to trust their memories? Before he can further debate the merits of hightailing it out of here, Michael pushes Colt forward.

“It’s my friend’s first time here. Mind showin’ him what a good time a couple of coins can get him?” He winks at Colt, obnoxiously mouthing out words that look an awful lot like you owe me one . 

Colt can feel his ears turning pink from embarrassment. 

“Of course.” The woman’s tight-lipped smile indicates that she would much rather be doing anything else. “If you would follow me, sir.” 

He could still make a run for it. Sure, he might have to endure endless teasing and maybe word of this little escapade would reach the ears of the others in the Warrior Unit, to Falco, but the alcohol churning in his system is doing a magic act — look, kids, with just a couple of drinks, watch as I make all my critical thinking skills disappear! —  and Colt is very much aware that he is making a supremely bad decision, but—

—he follows the woman up the stairs, anyway.

“You’ve never been to a brothel before?” The woman asks as she leads him down a dark hallway. There are doors lining the wall, each of them closed. Sometimes, Colt can occasionally hear faint grunts and the sound of skin slapping against skin; the further he follows this woman, the louder the noises get. Or maybe it’s just all in his head. Maybe he’s making up the noises. Maybe they’re sharper, louder, only because he’s accidentally seeking them out.

He hears a scream. 

The woman doesn’t even slow her pace.

“No.” He answers. 

“Well, you chose the right one, at least.” She doesn’t sound like a proud business owner, and considering the circumstances, Colt can’t necessarily fault her for her lack of enthusiasm. “What kind of girls do you like?”

“Huh?” The question catches him off guard. 

“What kind of girls do you like? So that way we can pick the right one for you.” 

Colt doesn’t like the sound of this. He feels dirty, all of a sudden. Like he’s drenched in something filthy, and he needs to go home and shower. The fucking trenches are preferable over this.

She turns around, squinting at him. He can’t tell if it’s because it’s so dark that she can’t see him, or if it’s because she’s scrutinizing him. 

“Nothing coming to mind?” Colt is aware of the clientele that frequents places like these; her clear impatience and almost snappish tone catches him off guard once more. 

“Um, no. I’m not very particular.” An understatement, really. His kind aren’t allowed to be picky. 

She stares at him for a second longer before telling him, “I know a girl for you.” 

She leads him to the last door, knocking three times against it. Nobody answers, but this doesn’t seem to bother her. “Alright, Mr. Not Very Particular. Enter whenever you want, leave whenever you want. Normally, you pay something upfront, and then you stop by the front desk, and depending on how long you stayed, I’ll calculate the rest that you owe, but your friend is covering the cost for you. If I were you, I’d run up his tab.” He thinks she smiles when she says this.

He wants to ask her if Michael gave any particular reason for why he’s paying for a service Colt certainly never asked for, and more importantly, he wants to know why the hell Michael has an open tab at a brothel (freetime off base is usually few and far between, after all). He can’t ask her anything, though, because she’s walking away, probably to go stare into the other soldiers’ souls and ask them what type of women they’re into.

This just leaves Colt, a dark hallway, and the door in front of him. 

Not knowing what waits for him on the other side has never bothered him before. Colt is used to worst-case scenarios — a trait inherited by all Eldians. Optimism is a luxury people like him can’t afford. 

He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He’s a Warrior Candidate — the one set to inherit the Beast Titan after Zeke’s time is up — and he’s being bested by what? A door?

Before he can think too much about it, he straightens his posture, grips the doorknob, and opens the damn door. 

It’s Michael’s money, anyway. 

When Colt was a young boy — so young that Falco couldn’t speak or do much besides staying swaddled in a blanket and pushed around in a stroller — his mother often made him go out for walks.

Keeping all that energy bottled up is no good is what she would tell him, before forcing him to lace up his shoes and walk up and down the cracked sidewalk of their neighborhood for thirty minutes. (It’s not until he’s older that he realizes she really just wanted him out of the house for her own peace and quiet.) 

The internment zone of Liberio could be worse. Even as a child, Colt learns that this is simply the unofficial Eldian motto, the doctrine of their way of life, if you will: it could be worse. 

In school, Colt learns that there are much worse places to be designated, and he should be grateful for the mercy of the Marleyans. The Grice family is at least better off than most; they have their own house, and the Public Security Authorities don’t patrol this area nearly as much as they do other areas in the internment zone. 

Another important lesson he learns young: just because you don’t see that you’re being watched doesn’t mean you aren’t being watched.

Usually, his mom sends him off on errands, especially when he starts to complain that it’s boring just pacing up and down the length of the neighborhood. Today is no different. 

“Go to the market, and get me some tomatoes. I forgot to buy some when we went last week.” Mrs. Grice narrows her eyes at her oldest son. “And no going off course, Colt. Absolutely no detours — to the market and right back home, do you understand?” 

His mom, just like every other Eldian mother, constantly battles with the understanding that their children need to learn how to survive outside the safety of their house and the overwhelming urge to try to shield them from said outside world. There’s always horror stories about what happens to little Eldian boys and girls who stray too far from the safety of their internment zone. 

With one hand shoved in his pocket, fist curled tightly around the money his mother pressed into his palm before sending him off, Colt heads towards the main square where there will be different vendors and stalls selling a variety of goods. Sweets, hardware, clothes, fresh fruit and vegetables; it’s easy to get distracted. The main square is probably the liveliest place in the internment zone, the only other place besides home that Colt assumes nothing bad can happen in. 

The first sign that something is off is when the usual pathway to the main square is eerily quiet. It’s a perfectly beautiful day, with the sun shining and no holiday that would cause the market to be closed down. The further he ventures, the more oddities he takes notice of. 

The blinds are drawn. Laundry that has long dried is still hanging outside, blowing in the wind. There are no children outside playing, and there’s a tiny voice in his head telling him that he should turn around right now. 

The second sign that something is off is when the flutter of curtains pulling back catches his eye. He turns his head and catches sight of an older woman peering at him through the little gap of fabric. She shakes her head slowly — a warning? He tightens his grip on the money in his pocket.

Normally, there are PSA officers patrolling the main square. With so many Eldians gathered in one spot, the officers are taught to think and anticipate the worst. A ruckus, a riot, the seeds of rebellion being planted — anything could happen. Who knows what these monsters are capable of? They couldn’t possibly just be innocently shopping for groceries and treats because there’s nothing innocent about them, period. A tamed dog is still a dog. Dogs bite.

The third sign that something is off is the deserted square. Stalls must have been hastily packed up considering the few remaining items left behind. There are no officers in the square, and Colt knows that something bad has happened. He doesn’t want to believe it at first, but the proof is hanging right in the middle of the square for any passerby to see.

There is a man hanging from the clock tower located in the middle of the square. His head is hanging limp, and Colt almost thinks that he’s dead, that there is a dead body put on display in the town square, but he sees the slight, unmistakable movements of his chest.

It’s even worse — the man is still alive.

He’s horrified. Colt is frozen in fear; somewhere during his assessment of the man, he must’ve gripped the coins in his pocket too hard because when he returns home, there will be an imprint of the currency etched onto the palm of his hand. He inhales, exhales, and is frightened to realize that his breaths are in tandem with the hanging man’s. Will he stop breathing when this man does, too? 

The man’s clothes are dirty, stained with dried blood and tears through the cotton. He’s been beaten before this has happened, no doubt. There’s no other explanation since he’s hanging too high up for anyone to touch him. He’s being held up only by the rope tied against his wrists, wrists with skin that is rubbed raw and red from the roughness of it all. 

There’s writing on the usually pristine brick of the clock tower. Dripping red, too bright to be blood but clearly a derivation of it:

TO LOVE A DEVIL IS TO BE ONE

He examines the man’s entire body, committing it to memory, especially his clothing. Dirty, torn, and tattered. Chunks of fabric ripped and ruined. Trousers, a work shirt, holey socks. The man’s left arm is still covered by the longsleeve of his shirt, but his eyes travel upwards. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and looks again, searching for the gray armband, searching for even a pin in the shape of the nine-pointed star. 

There isn’t any.

Even in death, an Eldian still must wear their armband. With no trace of racial identification, that can only mean one thing:

This man is a Marleyan.

Colt does what he should have done at the first sign of trouble: he runs. He sprints down the empty blocks and refuses to slow down, even as he goes through the neighborhoods closer to his own. There are people outside here, people who don’t know what has happened, and Colt ignores their concerned shouts and sighs of chastisement for running so recklessly down the street. He’s struggling to breathe and his legs burn by the time he barrels through the door of his home, the only safe place for him left, and he heads straight to the bathroom, ignoring his mother’s call of Colt, is that you?  

He throws up in the toilet, and when there is nothing left from breakfast for him to cough up, he starts to dry heave, images of that man, that Marleyan man, constantly flashing through his mind, permanently embedded in his memories. 

He hears the banging on the door, his mother’s worried questions of what’s wrong?, sweetie, are you okay? filtering through the wood of the bathroom door. 

There are fundamental lessons to be learned here. There is no place in Marley that is truly safe. There is nothing anyone living here can do, even if they want to do something. 

There is nothing good that comes from loving an Eldian, from loving someone like him.

“Hi,” there’s a girl in here, wearing a straight white dress — more like a sleeping gown, something long and flowy and a bit transparent — her hair tucked behind her ears and brushed behind her shoulders. She’s looking at him, studying him in a way that makes him subconsciously stand up straighter, like he needs to impress her, and there are a couple thoughts running through his mind right now.

You are a very, very pretty girl. Beautiful, even. He has never seen someone like you before, and he doesn’t think he ever will and,

He is simultaneously too drunk and yet not drunk enough for this encounter.

Another shot and he would have enough drunken confidence to approach you. Right now, he’s had just enough to make his mind go all foggy. What do you say when a beautiful girl tells you hi ? The correct reply is floating somewhere in his head, he knows it, but the answer eludes him at the moment, and all he can really focus on right now is that he is very, very upset with Michael. 

You tilt your head, standing near the bed but not approaching him yet.

“You alright, honey?”

Colt doesn’t normally have trouble speaking to girls. In fact, he’s quite popular back home. His girl cousins always groan during family gatherings, complaining to Colt that it’s so annoying how all their friends want to use them as a means to get closer to him. The attention is flattering, and he’s even flirted with the idea of a romantic relationship once or twice, but he always seems to have something else that he needs to focus on more. 

Focus, Colt. He tries to force himself to come up with something witty and flirtatious. What comes out is a strangled hi. 

He clears his throat, spits out a more coherent hello, and turns redder in the process. 

Smooth. He thinks. Real smooth. 

If you think there’s something seriously wrong with him, you don’t act like it. Instead, you smile at him, something so soft and sweet, and Colt knows for a fact that he’s a dead man. An absolute goner. 

“First time?” You ask, taking in his impossibly straight posture that doesn’t match with his curled hands and flushed cheeks. The uniform gives him away: he’s a soldier. You’re used to soldiers, some of them young and nervous, just wanting to get their first time over with. Those tend to be nice boys. Sometimes, you can even enjoy yourself — not because of their technique (or lack, thereof) — but because kindness is a resource so rarely shared with you, you can’t help but indulge in it when you get it. 

Most of the soldiers that frequent this place are Marleyan. They come here drunk from liquor and look forward to getting intoxicated with power. They’re rougher, meaner, less forgiving. 

You’ve never seen a soldier with a yellow armband before, though. A Warrior Candidate, that’s what he is. You wonder if he’ll be nice. He certainly seems nice. 

“I don’t normally do this stuff.” He blurts out. “Not sex, I’ve had sex.” And then, just for good measure, in case you don’t believe him (you do, of course, believe him; a soldier that looks like him certainly doesn’t have to try hard to find someone to warm his bed), he tells you, “I’m not a virgin, I swear.”

You sure act like one. You find yourself thinking, amused, but not necessarily annoyed. There’s something so earnest about him that you can’t find it in yourself to say something mean. Besides, men who come here aren’t looking for mean women. They’re looking for someone to exert their power over, and they’re looking for a fantasy. You’ve been doing this long enough to know how to fill the role of the woman of their desires. Some men are searching for someone sweet and docile, some are looking for a woman who’s reluctant, someone that they can chase and get to submit. No matter what, though, all of them are looking for prey.

Somehow, the soldier standing in front of you, with his blond hair and perfectly ironed uniform, yellow armband seemingly brightening up this whole room, he doesn’t look like he’s searching for prey. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he’s searching for an exit. 

“I’m not a virgin, either, so I guess that makes two of us.” You take a seat on the bed, patting down the empty space next to you, offering him a seat. He doesn’t take it. You think he’ll come around eventually. 

“I don’t… I don’t go to brothels.” He explains to you, and you nod in understanding. The stressed out soldiers of Marley saying they don’t go to brothels is like listening to an alcoholic tell you that they don’t go to the liquor store. You could try to call him out, but there’s always that little saying: the customer is always right. 

“Well, honey, I think someone must’ve given you the wrong directions because you’re in one right now.” 

“Colt.” He tells you. “My name is Colt.” 

“That’s a nice name.” 

He looks like he’s about to ask for yours, but before he can, you continue talking. “What do you want to do tonight, honey?” 

Honey. He told you his name so you wouldn’t have to call him something so sweet. He’s certain that you already saw his armband, saw him for what he is. The lack of disgust on your end is disarming him. 

“Whatever you want.” 

Idiot. He chastises himself. He’s said so many stupid things, at this point, he can’t even blame it on the alcohol in his system. He’s discovering that he just might actually be stupid. 

You give a little laugh. “You really haven’t been to a brothel before.” You adjust your position on the bed, getting comfortable, angling your body more towards him. “Normally, it’s the other way around. We do whatever you want to do.” 

You don’t sound the least bit upset about it, about the fact that you have to spend every night going through with whatever someone pays for you to do. What must it be like, he wonders. 

“I just want to talk.” 

You smile at him, and he takes a mental image of it, locks it away in his memories. 

“Sure thing, honey. We can talk, but the price remains the same.” 

“My friend has a tab here. He’s, uh, covering it.” 

Great. He inwardly groans. Now she thinks I can’t even afford to be here. 

“Must be a nice friend.”

“He’s not really a friend.” Colt explains. “Coworker is more accurate.”

“So he’s a soldier, too. That makes sense. Not sure where else you could find brothel buddies to go out with.” You don’t normally tease your customers too much. Most of the time, they aren’t here for conversation, and none of them are safe enough to say anything less than forced out praises of yes, you feel so good! to. 

“We’re in different units.”

“So how’d you two meet then?” 

“He’s—” Annoying. Irritating. A pain in the ass. A good guy, when he chooses to be. The nicest Marleyan Colt’s ever met. “—a free spirit. He just roams around, no matter how many times his commanding officer threatens punishment.” 

“He sounds fun.”

“He has his moments.” 

“And what about you? What are some of your shining moments?” 

You can tell a lot about a person by how they present themselves in their stories. If you’re going to ask an arrogant asshole soldier about his shining moments, he’s probably going to spout some nonsense about his (fictional) heroics on the battlefield (he hasn’t even fired a bullet at an enemy soldier before; hasn’t even seen war). Someone insecure struggles to even come up with a story to tell you. The best kind of people, though, tell you—

“On the day my little brother, Falco, got accepted into the Warrior Unit, I cried.” He gives you a sheepish smile and rubs the back of his neck nervously, like he’s embarrassed to admit this. “I was just really proud of him, and I knew how badly he wanted to be there. We had this whole celebration; my mom baked a cake, and my dad splurged on alcohol, and all our neighbors came over, too. It was this whole thing. And, uh, one of our neighbors asked Falco how he feels about being in the Warrior Unit. He announced to the whole party that he felt great about it because all he ever wanted to do was follow in my footsteps. I felt like I was someone for once.” 

—something just like that. 

He seems more relaxed after sharing this with you, and you can see it in the way his brown eyes seem to shine when he mentions his brother, the way he can’t quite seem to contain his pleased smile while reliving the memory, that this soldier isn’t lying to you. 

“What about you?” He suddenly asks. “What’s your shining moment?”

“You think someone like me is capable of having a shining moment?” You play at being coy, but it’s just a means of distracting him. No matter how sweet or nice this golden soldier seems, the last thing you want to do is share your own life with him. There aren’t many things you hold close to your heart, so revealing them makes all the emptiness in you suddenly seem that much more infinite. You don’t want to lie to him, though.

There is enough weakness (kindness) in you to spare to not disrespect his honesty by giving him a false memory. 

“Not only that. I think you star in people’s shining moments, too.” 

Honest. He’s being honest. 

Nobody has ever knocked you off balance like this before. You didn’t even think anyone would ever be capable of doing such a thing. And, the worst part of it all, is the fact that this soldier just throws this out so casually! What kind of person goes to a brothel and starts throwing out genuine compliments to the prostitutes? Someone not right in the head, clearly. 

But the smile on your face is unfairly sincere, and this, you realize with a sense of dread, is going to be one of your shining moments.

“Whoa, what’s the rush, Beast Jr.?” Porco Galliard is sitting on a crate outside the barracks, looking like he has absolutely nowhere to be. Commander Magath always reminds them that there is always something for them to be doing, and if he catches any of them slacking off, he is always willing to give them something to do. Porco received the same warning, same as the rest of the Warrior Unit, but he also thrives on pushing buttons. Colt knows he’s not stupid enough to challenge Commander Magath directly, but he also knows that Porco is arrogant enough to play the dangerous game of trying to see how far he can piss off Magath without getting written up. 

Ever since Colt was given the news of his inheritance of the Beast Titan, he spends more and more time with the current Warriors than the other soldiers, leaving him in a constant struggle to find his footing. The other soldiers already know he’s set up to reach the highest honor an Eldian can ever aspire to achieve, and what’s the point of getting too close to someone who’s only working with a limited lifespan? When he’s with the Warriors, Colt feels even less sure of himself. Zeke occasionally invites him to their meetings, lets him play at having some sort of significance, but Colt isn’t in as deep as the others are. Not yet. 

“What? I’m not rushing,” Colt says, sounding guilty, and exactly like someone who is in a rush. Porco is more observant than people give him credit for, and stubborn (although, people give him credit for being that all the time). 

“No way, you’re definitely in a rush. Where are you running off to?” 

“Don’t you have anything to do? I thought Warriors were supposed to keep busy schedules.” Colt attempts an evasion tactic, dodging Porco’s question and instead, putting the focus on him. Porco doesn’t give in. 

Then again, Colt can’t remember a time where anyone was able to evade the Jaw Titan.

“Now I know for sure that you’re up to something. What could Golden Boy Grice possibly be hiding?” Porco Galliard is dangerous on a good day; a bored Porco Galliard, with nothing but free time on his hands, is downright detrimental. “You startin’ a rebellion?” 

Colt’s eyes widen before he twists his neck, trying to make sure no one is in their vicinity. Even as a passing joke, all it takes is one person to mention this lighthearted jibe, and Colt’s life is over. Not only will he most likely be imprisoned and then publicly executed, but his family will suffer right with him. 

Porco throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Relax. No one’s here. They’re off actually doing their chores.” He seems to consider the situation. “Did you get a girlfriend or something?” 

Does Porco really have nothing better to do? Judging by the wide grin on his face, the answer is a definitive yes.

“Oh, shit! You do have a girlfriend.” He laughs, and Colt isn’t sure if he should be offended. “Look at you go, Grice.”

Porco is still laughing like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all day, but at least he allows Colt to go pass without any more trouble. The only reason he doesn’t bother correcting him, Colt reasons, is because he doesn’t want to explain himself. 

That’s all.

The red light district looks weird in the glow of the afternoon sun. The same dilapidated buildings, with their peeling paint and cracked windows, grimy signs and rusted, metal roofs, don’t look nearly as intimidating as they do in the nighttime. Instead, they just look a bit… sad.  

There are some people outside. Two old men smoking cigarettes outside what Colt assumes is a bar. A drunk man walking in the opposite direction, mumbling something incoherent under his breath, a half empty bottle of clear liquid hanging from his hand. A woman using a broom that’s clearly seen better days to sweep the outside of her own shop. 

The whole area feels like a graveyard for the living.

He feels aware of how he stands out. He stares straight ahead, following the cracked pavement, making his way to the Gentleman’s Club. With his stiff, ironed military uniform, neatly parted hair that’s hidden under his helmet, and hands too clean to have touched anything in this part of town, Colt can’t tell whether he looks like an adversary or a target. His only saving grace, the only thing keeping the half-dead inhabitants of this place away, is the yellow armband twisted tightly around his left bicep. He quickens his pace anyway. 

Already out in the lobby, standing behind a desk, is the same redheaded woman from last night. If she’s surprised to see him here again, she doesn’t show it.

“Back so soon?” She says, forgoing a polite greeting altogether. 

Considering where she is, Colt can’t necessarily fault her for it. Minding his manners (Mrs. Grice did not raise her children in a barn, going against what the Marleyans assume) and military training, Colt removes his helmet. He’s thankful that he has something for his hands to grasp, keeping them occupied. 

“Is—” For as much as he revealed to you, Colt realizes that you didn’t really offer much on yourself . Not even your name. “—the girl I saw last night here?”

“She doesn’t work in the daytime, no.” The woman pulls out a large book, flips through its pages, not bothering to look up at him again until a few more seconds pass. Acting as if she’s shocked to find that he’s still standing there, even though Colt knows she knows that he hasn’t left, she says, “I really don’t think you would be interested in any of our daytime workers, either. Even if you aren’t very particular.” 

“Oh. I see.” Colt, as a matter of fact, does not see. He’s just saying something to fill the awkward silence. 

“As a Warrior Candidate, I assume you have other places to be, Mr. Not Very Particular?” 

Clearly, business is doing well (even though the empty lobby suggests otherwise) since Colt hasn’t met a shop owner who seems quite content with shooing customers out the door. 

“Colt.” He tells her.

“Colt.” She repeats, slowly. “Well, Mr. Colt, my establishment prides itself on its discretion. I’d use an alias next time, if I were you.” 

He doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t plan on there being a “next time.” That would be rude.

“The girl from last night, I wanted to give her this. Would you be willing to hand her these when she comes in?” Digging into his pocket, Colt pulls out a pair of white cotton socks. They’re military issued, and stolen from the inventory warehouse. Colt was put on inventory duty, tasked with handling the shipment of new uniforms and training clothes. For all the heavy lifting he’s had to do, one pair of girl’s socks is a small price to pay. 

The pair you had on last night had been threadbare, at best. Even in the unlikely possibility that Colt gets caught and receives a punishment, knowing you had these for the upcoming winter would have made it well worth the trouble.

“You could always make an appointment and give it to her yourself.” For once, the woman seems like she’s trying to give him a genuine suggestion. 

The thought of doing that sounds nice, and then the feeling of his yellow armband being too tight brings him back down to reality. You didn’t wear an armband. There’s no indication of where you’re from, but you certainly aren’t Eldian. As nice as talking to you was, he’s aware of the fact that you didn’t seem too bothered that he didn’t take a seat next to you. Your reluctance to share anything about yourself speaks volumes. At the end of the day, you’re being paid. You probably only stomached his presence because you needed the money.

Ignoring the twisted, upset feeling in his stomach at these thoughts, Colt tells her,

“I don’t think she would want to see me again.” 

Her eyes linger on his armband, the same piece of fabric tied around herself, too, just a different color. She seems to know what he’s thinking. 

“My girls let me know when they don’t want to see someone again. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if she had an issue with you.” 

“Still, I probably—”

“There’s an opening for tonight at nine. Should I mark you down for that slot, or is there a better time that works for you?” The woman leaves no room for Colt to not make an appointment, and instead, he just lets the woman write down his name in her book. He walks outside with his pockets considerably lighter; the stolen socks are still shoved deep in there, but a majority of his cash now rests in her possession. 

(He had paid her the total amount upfront, as a way to force himself into showing up for the appointment. She had been very adamant that no deposits get returned, and she doesn’t do refunds. Ever.)

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” Ramzi says, frowning at you as you hold up a handheld mirror, trying to examine your collarbone. There’s a nasty bruise marring your skin, slowly turning into an ugly bluish-purple splotch on your body. There’s no point in trying to apply makeup to conceal it; not only is makeup already too tough to come by, but it would be all for naught. It’ll get rubbed off before the end of your shift, and it’s not like your customers even care.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave, either,” you admit to your little brother, turning to face him. 

“Why do you still have to go when you’re hurt?” 

“It looks worse than it actually is.” You’re not lying. You really only notice the pain when you press down on it.

He’s pouting. A couple of years ago, when you first started, Ramzi used to cry every time you tried to leave. He couldn’t understand why you were gone at night, the only hours where a little brother could really use a sister, someone to protect him from all the scary, imaginary monsters that lurk in the dark. 

He finds out about what you do to ensure he’s taken care of. The first time you get recognized while shopping for food in a public market, Ramzi was clinging to your side, careful not to lose you in the crowd.

“Who’s letting the whores walk out in public?” Someone had shouted. A man. 

You were with that same man two nights ago. 

Someone else in the crowd says, quite loudly, “How shameless! Doesn’t she know there are families trying to enjoy themselves?” 

“Look, the whore has a child herself!” 

Your cheeks had become heated from embarrassment. You couldn’t even look the fruit seller in the eye as you handed him the money to pay. You’re using the money received from the services you gave that man, the one who called you out. 

Only when you two had made it back to the safety of the refugee camp did Ramzi slowly detach himself from your side. He was still just a young child, completely pure, full of innocence, staring at you with his dark eyes wide with wonder.

“Sissy, what’s a whore?”

You want to wash his mouth out with soap. You want to tell him to never say that word ever again. It’s bad enough having to harden your heart and take no offense when men call you it repeatedly, night after night, but you never realized how much it would hurt to have to hear it come out of your little brother’s mouth. 

Instead, you swallow hard, hold back your tears, and pat his head affectionately. “You’ll find out when you’re older, Ramzi. Don’t you waste a single second worrying about that.” 

Ramzi naturally finds out what that word — and all the other degrading insults hurled your way — means. Now that he’s older, he knows better than to repeat any of those words, especially when the two of you are in the safety of your home.

“If I didn’t exist, would you have to do all this?” 

Childhood is nothing more than a pipedream for kids like Ramzi. In a world where only the fittest survive, growing up is imperative. Not only is he old enough to understand, he’s old enough to do his own critical thinking, come to his own conclusions. 

If Ramzi didn’t exist, you would not be doing this. You would be like some of the older women in this camp, the ones who scrape by by doing odd jobs for pitying Eldians and living off the scraps the other refugees provide. You never tell Ramzi this because there’s no point in telling him that. He’s your only real family left. The only person in the world you think you’re capable of loving, completely, honestly, with your entire being. If the universe served you an ultimatum, telling you to be with Ramzi but die a prostitute, or live without him and live a different life altogether, you know you would choose Ramzi, every single time.

“If you didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be here at all.” You tell him. “I wouldn’t have bothered leaving our first home when Marley attacked us. I would have just decided to let the rubble and fire crush me, kill me. And even if I did manage to make it out, I would have died in this refugee camp from loneliness. Don’t ask me something like that again.” You find yourself holding back tears. “You are the reason why I’m alive, Ramzi. Don’t ever assume I regret anything I do in this lifetime, especially if it’s for you.” 

“I’ll pay you back.” He declares, standing up from the pile of blankets he was burrowing himself under. He runs straight to your side, hugging you, burying his face in your shirt. “I’ll find a way to keep us going, and then you won’t have to leave or go back to that place ever again.” 

You hold him tightly, stroking his hair. What a dream that would be. 

Withdrawing from him, taking the walk with the other girls to the brothel, preparing yourself for the night awaiting you — all of it is done with a sad smile on your face as your little brother’s promise plays over and over in your mind the whole time. 

That’s all it is: a dream. 

You think you discover a different plane of existence when you find yourself detaching from the present and use your mind to float yourself to a different time, a different place.

The man’s pace is quick and rushed. He’s just focused on getting off. On the bright side, he’s just here for the sex and not the show. No need to try to get into character, to figure out what personality he wants from you. 

A sex doll would be a good gift for him, you find yourself thinking. A hefty investment, for sure, but think about all the money he’s spending at the brothel. If he calculates his annual payment, the sex doll looks like a steal in comparison.

You ignore his grunts, reducing it to nothing more than white noise. You stare up at the ceiling, wishing you could see the night sky. Stargazing — that’s what you would like to do. If you close your eyes, you can picture the starry night from back home; not Marley, not the refugee camp, but your real home. The one where you grew up. The one destroyed by this man’s people.

You work at night, yes, but you spend all your time stuck in this room, reduced to an object of pleasure. By the time you get off from work and take the long, tiring walk back to the camp, it’s already dawn and the only star in the sky is the rising sun. You miss the little luxuries in life. You miss being able to look up at the night sky freely, counting all those twinkling, shimmery flecks above. You envision a shooting star, and make a childish wish, and somehow, with nothing but stars and silly wishes on your mind, your brain conjures an image of the blond soldier from last night. 

You don’t realize how stiff your body is until you actually find yourself able to relax, to sink into the hard mattress beneath you. With his erratic thrusts, you’re certain that your client is nearly finished. At least he doesn’t have the stamina nor the recovery rate to go for a quick round two. You don’t want to think about the client though, so you take yourself to where you can actually stomach being. To places where you want to go. To see people who you want to see.

The soldier. Why does he keep appearing? It’d be bothersome if you were busy trying to do anything else, but seeing as he’s the only reprieve your mind can come up with, you go with it. 

Besides, there are far worse things and people to think about. At least this one is kind.

Kind, and genuine. And surprisingly soft-spoken. Not in a shy manner of speaking; no, the smooth, deep tone of his voice sounds nice. You can see why he’s in the Warrior Unit. If he really put his mind to it, he could get anyone to do anything with a voice like that alone. A voice of a commander, surely.

Unlike the other soldiers you’ve dealt with, he speaks to you softly. Gently. Like you’re someone to handle softly, gently. 

This is precisely why you try not to coddle the new girls. See what happens when you’re given a little kindness, a little warmth? You start clinging on to it, desperately, hungrily. You crave it, seek it out, search for it everywhere you can, and when you can’t find it anywhere else, you start jumping through hoops, trying to convince yourself that there’s something sweet hiding underneath the cruelty everyone else gives you. 

If one person is capable of being kind, that means everybody in the world is capable of it. And if everyone else chooses to treat you like the scum of the earth, then it’s clear the one person who was nice to you was just an outlier. Or, just a liar. And then you spiral, start to think something is wrong with you, like maybe you’re at fault. Maybe you just didn’t deserve to be treated nicely. Maybe the problem isn’t with other people; the problem is you. 

Before you can drown in your self-loathing any more, the golden memory of the soldier breaks through your thoughts. 

Nothing so bright has ever entered this place until he stepped in your room and stood by the door, a blushing, stammering mess that contradicted his position in this society. 

He just wanted to talk.

Men never want to “just talk.” It always ends up becoming something much more. You think about Malik, who occasionally stops by your tent at the camp to bring you and Ramzi any of the leftovers his family has. Malik, who struggles to be soft because of all his rough edges, a side effect from growing up a child in the middle of a war. Malik, who had tried to kiss you the last time he wanted to talk. He had apologized, even though you found yourself telling him there was nothing to be forgiven for. The kiss could have landed, and you still wouldn’t be able to be upset with him. 

Would that soldier try to kiss you? You think of how he stood by the door the whole night, never leaving his station. He must be a good soldier, you rationalize. He’s probably respected by his peers. Someone his family is proud of. In this line of work, you don’t have to work particularly hard to seduce the men; they all come here out of their own lustful volition. It would honestly be tiring having to lay your charm on the whole time you’re here. 

Did the soldier find you charming? Out of all the personalities you try to emulate for these men, the closest one to your true self had been with him. There wasn’t a need to force out replies you didn’t want to say, no gut feeling arising in your belly, warning you to keep your wits about you because saying the wrong thing in a conversation with a man could be a matter of life and death. No. 

He just wanted to talk.

What if you tried to be more charming next time? Maybe you could let your dress ride up more, reveal to him more slivers of skin. He had been respectful the whole entire night; you don’t think he noticed you noticing him. His eyes never left your face, except to occasionally look down at his hands when he thought he said something stupid. 

(For the record, you didn’t think he said a single stupid thing once.)

You come back down to reality as the man is pulling out of you. He tosses the used contraceptive in the trash bin and is zipping up his pants. He doesn’t look you in the eye as he slaps down a few crumpled bills on the nightstand. Willa may take a portion of the total payment, but all tips go directly to you. 

You don’t thank him as he’s on the way out. Does garbage ever show gratitude when you toss it to the side? 

Willa makes a point of trying to schedule appointments in a way that ensures each girl gets at least ten minutes to herself between clients. A brief reprieve, a chance to recollect, to build yourself back up again right before someone else walks in to destroy you. 

In the silence and darkness of the room, you toss aside any what-if scenarios between you and the soldier. He’s likely never going to return. There’s no point in fantasizing about a “next time,” because it’s never going to happen. 

You feel empty, devoid of emotion, cold, when the door opens again. You look up at your newest customer, ready to work out what show to put on for him when you feel life flooding back into your body, shocking your system.

Closing the door gently (as opposed to the carless slams most customers do) is the soldier. The same soldier from last night. His golden hair and his sunny smile and the bright armband flaunting his status. 

“Hi,” he says, standing by the closed door, the same exact spot he was in last time. 

It really is him.

“Hi,” you say back, too stunned to come up with anything clever or fascinating or charming. 

He came back! 

“Conversation must be pretty poor in the military if you’re coming back to little old me for a chat.” You recover quickly, smoothing down your dress, wondering if your hair is a mess. 

He cracks a smile at that. “Well, you’re certainly more fun to talk to than half my bunkmates, I’ll give you that. But no, I actually came here to bring you something.” 

“You brought me a gift?” Sometimes, clients bring their favorite girls gifts. You’ve received things like lacy undergarments, tiny bottles of perfume, things that would make their visit more pleasurable. You don’t see any shopping bags or wrapped boxes in his hand, and you wonder if he’s pulling some cruel joke on you. Like, surprise! You really thought I would get someone like you a present? 

“Wait! Don’t get too excited. It’s not really much, but…” He digs into his pocket before pulling out a pair of bright white socks. He hesitates for a second, as if he’s thinking about what to do, and then he’s making his way to you, standing in front of you. He still has to stretch his arm out to hand you the socks, making sure to leave what he must consider to be a respectful amount of space between you two. 

“Wow.” You breathe out, examining the gift. The cotton is soft, thick. It’s so bright and fresh and clean, you almost cringe at the thought of stepping on these floors with them on. They would be covered in a layer of dirt and grime within seconds. It feels expensive. It feels a lot nicer than any other article of clothes you’ve received since seeking refuge in Marley. It feels too good to be true. 

No one gives you something for free. When you remember this lesson, you look up, only to realize that he’s returned back to his spot by the door. 

“Like I said, it’s not—”

“Thank you.” You suddenly feel shy, holding on tightly to the bundle of cotton. “Thank you, truly. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” In the dim light of the room, you can see his face and ears turning a faint shade of pink. There’s a pleased smile on his face, and it makes your face feel warm. 

“So, you spend money just to stand by the door all night and make conversation with me, and then you bring me very nice gifts, too. Honey, I don’t think you understand how brothels work.” 

“Colt.” He says, in that soft, patient manner of his. There’s a hidden request there; not a demand, but a plea. If he asked you for anything else, you would eagerly give it to him. If he took you right then and there, you would be a very willing participant indeed. 

But he’s not asking for sex, he’s asking for something more intimate. 

He wants you to call him by his name. 

You can’t do that. It’s too personal, it’ll blur even more boundaries. 

“Don’t tell me you really think I’d forget.” You say this instead, trying to subtly avoid the situation at hand. “I couldn’t forget even if all the other customers paid me to.” 

“What do you call them? Your other customers.” There’s no malice in his question, no envy; just pure curiosity. Hearing someone want to know more about you is a foreign interaction. You don’t think you’ve ever been asked a genuine, normal question in years. 

Honey. It’s simple. It’s basic. It’s impersonal. Sweetheart, depending on what character you’re trying to perform as. Baby, on occasion. 

“Silly things.” You tell him. It’s the truth. 

“But the same things?” He asks, and you nod.

“I don’t want to call you the same things, though.” The socks feel warm in your hands, and there’s a tiny voice in your head screaming at you for being so damn truthful, for not keeping your mouth shut. Why is it that the things you want to say and the things you should tell him are the exact same thing? It’s oddly nice, being able to speak your mind and have someone actually want to hear what you have to say; even better to have it be the right thing to say. “What do you think, soldier? No more calling you ‘honey.’” 

He opens his mouth, closes it, tries to say something, then thinks better of it. Finally, he lands on, “Whatever you want to do.” 

Whatever you want to do. Last night, he told you whatever you want. 

For the hour he’s here, you can try on a new role. A girl who wants. A girl who is allowed to want. This girl — you — decides that he doesn’t even need to fulfill any wishes. Wanting is enough; for you, it’s enough. 

You get comfortable on the bed, casually pulling back your hair and letting it lay behind your shoulders, against your back. With no hair to block it and the low neckline of your dress, your collarbone is on display. You momentarily forget about the ugly bruise, and you don’t notice the way his eyes flicker downwards, seeing it. Instead, you’re happy to start interrogating him.

“What’s it like, being a soldier? I heard the yellow means you’re a special one, right? A Warrior.” 

“Being a soldier is an opportunity I’m happy to have.” He answers carefully, trying not to sound ungrateful. There’s no way his family would have been able to afford the tuition for medical school so he could be a doctor. He didn’t want to be a shop owner, either. Career options for young Eldian men are limited. Enlist, or starve. “The yellow band means I’m in the Warrior Unit, but I’m not a Warrior yet.” 

“You’re still in training?” 

“Something like that, yes. But I have to wait until the other Warrior’s term is over before I can take his spot.” 

“You’ll be able to shift into a special Titan then?” 

Colt searches for the malice, the fear, the disgust. He only hears your curiosity. 

“I’m set to inherit the Beast Titan.” 

He finds himself standing up straighter, almost puffing out his chest in pride at the way your eyes go wide with awe. 

“That must be the best one.” 

“What makes you say that? The name?” Having the moniker of Beast just makes him feel even more inhumane, but titans aren’t necessarily humans, right? No point in trying to disguise the truth as anything but. 

“No. You just seem like you’re the best soldier, so I assumed they would reserve the best Titan for you.” 

Devil, monster, savage — whatever he is, he finds himself not caring. The warm feeling taking root in his chest, spreading throughout his body as a result of your words, makes him feel incredibly human. 

“Yo, Grice! Isn’t this insane?” Michael slaps Colt on the back, ignoring the way Porco raises an eyebrow at the interaction. 

“Shouldn’t you be with your unit?” Colt asks him. 

“Nah. They don’t really care—” 

“Lieutenant Sells, why the hell are you over there conversing with the Warrior Unit when I know damn well you popped out your mother a full-blooded Marleyan boy!” 

The commanding officer for Michael’s all-Marleyan unit is red in the face with an angry vein protruding from his forehead. Michael seems entirely unfazed by the whole thing.

“I think your CO is calling for you,” Porco says. 

“Huh. Was that him calling, or just the sound of flies buzzing?” Before Michael can look too pleased at his comment, his CO is screaming for him once more.

“Lieutenant Sells, every second it takes you to come back here and get in formation, is one lap you’re doing around the whole damn camp! I am not in the mood for your little games right now, Lieutenant!” 

With his smile wiped off his face, Michael shoots them a look that says something along the lines of save me, before jogging back to his actual unit. The whole entire time, he’s being berated by his commanding officer. 

“You keep interesting company.” Porco comments. “Hope your girlfriend is at least more sane.” 

That’ll be tough, Colt thinks, considering his “girlfriend” doesn’t exist.

When war isn’t active, the Marleyan military grows restless. When Marleyans are bored, things are bound to go from bad to worse for any Eldians in their vicinity. Today’s scheme that they cooked up involves an all-unit showdown. Physical sparring, no weapons, between soldiers from all the different units. 

No weapons, no maiming, no killing. Those are the rules. 

The unspoken rule, of course, is that any serious punch dealt by an Eldian that lands on a Marleyan is sure to result in some awful punishment, ranging from toilet-cleaning duty to having a finger chopped off. Pity. Colt foolishly woke up this morning thinking he was going to have a good day. 

He ends up getting paired with a burly Marleyan boy. He’s around the same height as Colt, but where Colt is lean, this boy is bulky. His muscles practically cause his uniform to burst at the seams. 

The officers are making a whole day out of this, too. Too much free-time. Why let their soldiers rest or train in peace when they can gather them all up and publicly humiliate the Eldians? Yeah, because that schtick never seems to get old.

Commander Magath looks at Colt before sending him off to get his ass beat. It’s the same look Colt imagines a butcher gives a cow before killing it. For an animal, you weren’t too bad. Sorry things had to be like this. Not really, though.

“Whatever you do, don’t take that shit lying down.” Porco had muttered into his ear. 

Colt isn’t like Porco, though. Things will only be worse for him if he does put up a good fight, and, unlike Porco, Colt is capable of possessing rational thought and the ability to put his ego to the side. He only hopes that Falco and Gabi will close their eyes. 

“Shake hands,” the Marleyan commanding officer commands them. It’s a show of camaraderie. That this is just all in good fun. A way for all the units to bond! Colt’s not sure who’s falling for that lip service. 

Like the good sport, the good soldier, he is, Colt extends his hand. The only show of defiance he will allow himself, he decides, is to not wince in pain as the Marleyan soldier crushes his hand. Colt smiles, which seems to only piss the guy off even more. 

Thanks a lot, Porco. I tried not to take this shit lying down, and now you’re going to have to lay me in a grave. Tell Falco I love him. Colt thinks miserably.

“Remember, boys: no weapons, no maiming, and no killing. Try your hardest to follow these rules. First one down for ten seconds, loses. On the sound of the pistol.” 

Once the pistol fires, Colt narrowly dodges the boy’s attack. With his build, it’s easier for Colt to move quickly, more fluidly. If he can just continuously keep dodging the boy’s hulking arms and certain death grip, Colt figures he’ll be safe. If it comes down to a battle of stamina, he knows he’ll win. 

“Come on, Colt! You can do this!” Colt makes the mistake of trying to search for Falco, trying to pinpoint his voice through the crowd. This is the last thing he wanted! Why is Falco watching this? Why did Porco not grant him a small mercy and force his brother to close his eyes. 

One second, he’s looking for Falco. The next, he’s getting punched right on his left cheek. 

Fuck.

He staggers, loses his footing. He reflexively touches his face, already feeling the sting of the punch. He tries to avoid the boy’s next attack but moves too slow.

Fuck.

There goes his right cheek. At least he didn’t lose any teeth.

Colt says a quick prayer to any benevolent god listening. 

Please don’t let him land a punch on my mouth. Please let me keep all my teeth. 

He can feel his training kicking in. He digs his feet into the ground, subconsciously getting back into a proper fighting stance. He feels how naturally his hands ball into a fist. Even with his head ringing, his vision a bit dizzy from getting knocked around, Colt can still calculate the perfect time to go on the offense and throw his own punch.

Don’t take that shit lying down.  

And right before the perfect opportunity to strike comes, Colt thinks of you.

You just seem like you’re the best soldier, so I assumed they would reserve the best Titan for you.

There’s more at risk here than just a banged up face and ruined dignity. He has a good thing going. He’ll be the Beast Titan and pay his reparations for being born by fighting for people who don’t even care about him. No time for a traditional midlife crisis, at least, seeing as how he’s most likely not going to live to see his thirties. 

The fist he makes uncurls. The moment of opportunity passes. The last thing Colt thinks about is the bruise on your skin. He hopes that you make it to your thirties. He hopes you live a nice, long life. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.

When he gets knocked down, he doesn’t bother trying to get up. The ringing in his ears intensifies, and cutting through the noise are Falco’s and Gabi’s screams. Has it been ten seconds yet? Colt looks up at the sky. It’s a cloudless day. Nothing but sunshine and blue skies. 

Yeah. Usually the most beautiful days are the worst for him. 

Blocking his view of the sky is the Marleyan boy, his face contorted with contempt. Colt tries to think of the boy’s name, searches through his mind and looks for a time where they interacted. He comes up blank, and he doesn’t think it’s because of the mild concussion forming, either. They don’t even know each other.

Just knock me out, already. Colt wants to groan out. Hell, take a tooth if it’ll end this thing.

He catches a glimpse of something shiny, reflective. The sun? No. This is silver.

A blade. 

Didn’t they say no weapons? Why isn’t the match over yet? It’s definitely been ten seconds.

He fills the coldness, the sharpness, of a knife’s tip pressed against the flesh of his face. 

He should fight back. He should get up, take the knife for himself, and show this boy what a real fight looks like. 

No. He wouldn’t take the knife. The rules clearly stated “no weapons.” That wouldn’t be fair, it wouldn’t be right. 

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” A voice shouts, and maybe he’s hallucinating because in what world is Commander Magath the one who looks out for him? Then again, it’s probably going to be tough replacing the future Beast Titan. Zeke likes him, too, which has to mean something. 

There’s a lot of murmurs from the crowd, and Colt strains to listen to what they’re saying. He thinks he hears fabric tearing as a blurry Marleyan soldier is being pulled off of him. 

Then, the world goes black.

“Ugh, you.”

When Colt regains consciousness, he realizes he’s been transferred to the infirmary. The cot he’s laying on is cold, and he looks down. He’s shirtless. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so shy when he turns his head and sees that the nurse is female.

Most of the nurses assigned to the Warrior Unit are women. This fact has never bothered him before, has never even properly registered in his mind before, but the stark white of their uniforms reminds him too much of the soft white of your dress.

The only nurse present isn’t speaking to him. She has her back turned, hands on her hips, talking to whoever pulled back the curtain. 

“You’re so mean. Geez, I thought nurses were supposed to have empathy.” 

Michael. 

Colt can never seem to catch a break.

“If you want empathy, go get treatment from your own unit’s nurses. People who want proper treatment go to me.”

“Okay, we all know why you took this job in the first place. Don’t start with me, Claire—”

“I know you aren’t taking that tone with me right now. Who do you want me to get: your CO or your mom? Hurry up, and pick before I call them both.” 

“C’mon, Claire!” Michael whines. “Let me in! He’s my friend.” 

Claire turns around, squinting at Colt, who decides to feign sleep at the last minute.

“I know you’re awake.” She says. He opens his eyes. 

At least she’s nicer to him than she is to Michael. “Do you know this boy?” She points to Michael, who looks too cheerful considering his conversation with Claire. 

“‘Course he knows me! That’s my brother! It should be obvious. We look just alike, don’t we?” He knows it’s just a joke, but all things considered, the resemblance is somewhat striking. The same shade of blond, same build; the only difference is the eyes. Michael’s are a dark blue. “I clearly got the good genes, though. Ma says he looks more like the milkman than pa, but don’t tell him I said that.” Michael winks at Colt. 

Nobody laughs.

“Michael, you really shouldn’t be here. This is a Warrior Unit designated area of the base. I’m being serious.” 

“But he’s my friend.” Michael tells her this, but she shoots him a look that says yeah, right. Colt wants to tell Michael to be careful, to not just go around spouting nonsense like that, but the nurse seems used to the meaningless drivel that comes out of Michael’s mouth. 

“Is that thing really your friend?” Colt’s shocked when he realizes she’s speaking to him, pointing at Michael, indicating that it’s Michael that’s “that thing.”

“Yes.” Colt says, realizing with a sinking feeling that it’s the truth. The feeling only gets worse when he sees Michael doing a fist pump.

“Oh my gosh. Your concussion must be even worse than I thought.” Claire gasps. “It’s okay. Whatever’s wrong with you that is making you keep him for company, I’ll fix it. Don’t you worry.” 

“Are you even certified?” Michael snaps. 

The scathing look she gives Michael would be enough to knock out Colt. Michael’s tougher than he looks.

“I need to go to the supply closet and get some more things since someone decided to get cut and made me use all our bandages trying to patch him up.” Claire announces. “You two — behave.”

Colt presses his fingers to his face and feels only one big bandage stuck on his forehead. 

“Finally the Wicked Witch is gone.” Michael mutters, before turning his head sharply, almost as if afraid she’s secretly eavesdropping. He relaxes when she doesn’t jump up behind the curtain to put him in a chokehold. “Anyway, how ya feeling?”

“Like I just got publicly beaten. Oh, wait.” 

Michael laughs. “Yeah? Don’t worry, he’ll get what’s coming to him.” 

Colt doesn’t necessarily like the sound of that, but who is he to get onto Michael? 

Michael tosses two strips of yellow fabric onto Colt’s chest. So, he wasn’t imagining the sound of fabric tearing, then. His armband is ruined. He’ll have to get a new one once he’s released. 

“His knife accidentally nicked your sleeve when we were trying to yank him away from you. Figured you would miss it, so I snatched it up.” 

“Thanks.” 

“No need for all that. You’re gonna make it seem like I’m a good guy, or something. We’re friends, anyway. If you ever need anything, just ask.”

“Bruise ointment.” Recovering from a mild concussion must have caused more brain damage than he thought possible because Colt knows it’s poor manners to start making requests. Especially to someone who doesn’t have to worry about getting his armband ripped off. 

“If you’re worried about your busted up face, don’t. I heard girls go for guys with rugged good looks. The black and blue really brings out the color of your eyes.” 

Before Colt can apologize for his abruptness, though, Michael strolls to the cabinets and starts opening up drawers at random. “But since we’re best friends—” He waits for Colt’s correction that never comes. “—I guess I’ll do you a solid.” 

Colt gets permission to leave the infirmary before dinner is served in the mess hall. He only stops by the Magath’s office to receive a new armband before heading to the front gates to sign out. 

He’s got one hour’s worth of your time in money in his left pocket, and a bottle of bruise ointment in his right. He hopes you’re free.

Three soft taps against the door have you looking up. You don’t dare to hope that the soldier is visiting you, for the third time this week — in a row, no less! — but the more time he spends with you, the stronger the urge to dream gets. 

You smile when you see that it’s him, and it immediately fades when you take a closer look. This time, you’re the one standing up, quick to approach him.

“Oh my— What happened?” Your arm comes up, ready to reach for his face, to examine his bruised face even closer, but you quickly snap it back to your side. He hasn’t tried to touch you in the two times you’ve met. Maybe he has an aversion to being touched. You reluctantly take a step back.

(Colt flinches. You chalk it up to pain; he thinks he must look pretty disgusting right now, horrific even, to have you scared to be near him.)

“Don’t worry. It looks worse than it actually is.”

You frown. It causes the most adorable crease between your brows. Yet another image to store away in his memories. 

“Actually, I just wanted to come by to bring you something.”

“No. You don’t have to buy me gifts. Please—”

“I don’t mind. I enjoy giving them to you.” Not to mention that they’re technically stolen , not bought, but the Marleyan government can afford it. If his face is going to get banged up, one tube of ointment should be fair compensation. He places it in your waiting hands, the tips of his fingers brushing against the palms of your hands.

Electrifying. 

“This is…” You read the label. 

“Helps with bruises. Fades them, strengthens the skin, helps with a quicker recovery. I figured it would be something you would like.” The more he rambles, the more he thinks that maybe this was a mistake. It’s his face, isn’t it? He should have waited for the swelling to go down, for the bruises to heal up on their own, before showing up here. He probably looks more beast than human right now. 

“Come lay down on the bed.” You say, and then, minding your manners, “Please.”

His brain short circuits. The concussion surely doesn’t help. You look up at him, doe-eyed and too pretty to be real, too pretty for his imagination to come up with, and you ask him again. “Please?”

Whatever you want — that’s what he told you.

Like a good soldier, he obeys the order given. He’s too tall — perhaps the bed too small — so he has to awkwardly maneuver his body on the stiff mattress. His feet are dangling on the edge, and there’s barely any room for you to sit on the mattress. Your body is pressed against his own, the two of you swapping warmth with each other. 

You untwist the cap of the tube, applying a small amount of ointment on the tip of your finger before pressing the same finger to the bruised part of his face. 

“Is this okay?” You whisper to him. 

Your touch is gentle, soft, comforting. Far nicer than he deserves. The nicest he’s even been treated, he thinks. This is better than okay, better than great. 

He feels his eyelids drooping before he gives in and shuts his eyes altogether. “Yes.” He breathes out. 

You apply the ointment everywhere, slowly, carefully, trying not to apply too much pressure out of fear of sending a shock of pain to him. His breathing gradually evens out. 

“All done.” You say it so quietly, it’s almost undetectable. He doesn’t do anything in response, and you realize that he must have fallen asleep. 

You take the time to admire his face. He’s got a bandage on his forehead, a tiny, red line peeking out that indicates this cut was much longer than what one bandage could cover up. There are two different bruises forming on each of his cheeks, making your own look like a poor imitation of what a bruise should look like. You don’t know what possesses you to take your hand and run your fingers through his hair. It’s coarser than it looks, remnants of hair gel still stuck on some strands. Your soldier looks worse for wear, and obviously he’s exhausted. 

So why did he go out of his way to bring you this ointment? You touch your own bruise, tracing the shape of it. He must’ve seen it. He didn’t ask questions, and that’s fine, because you probably wouldn’t have given him an answer, anyway. He must have known you wouldn’t say anything. 

You know he walked here, too. It’s not a short trip from the military base to this side of town, nor is it an easy journey, either. 

You continue to play with his hair, feeling your eyes get wet the longer you stare at him. What is the matter with him? Why does he do this? Why do you have to beg him to come to bed? Why does he take the trip to see you, spends money, brings you little things that no one else would think to get you, just to get nothing in return? It would be easier to know what to do with him if he were like any other man. Why won’t he ask you for something, anything? 

“Oh, Colt.” You whisper. Your thumb brushes against the bandage on his forehead. When he wakes up, you wonder if you’ll muster up the courage to ask him what happened. 

His eyes flutter open, looking dazed at first until his vision becomes clear. There’s a small smile on his face. 

“Is this a dream?” He asks, voice sounding scratchy, like the words are scraping against his throat. 

“No, not a dream, soldier. Go back to sleep.” 

“Huh. But I thought I heard my name.” He mutters. He blinks. His body is telling him to go back into his peaceful slumber, but maybe the time he spends with Porco is making his traits rub off onto him. Colt finds enough stubbornness to fight his own body to stay awake. “Prove to me this isn’t a dream.” 

How can someone look so confident, so strong, when they’re lying on a cheap bed, bruised and tired? How can someone look so handsome, despite it all? 

You think you’re going to do something dangerous. You just have to summon the courage to do so. One look at the hopeful expression on your soldier’s bruised face, and you know that if he can brave whatever happened to him, you can finally just give in.

“It’s not a dream, Colt.” 

He has to be dreaming, he decides. His name has never sounded sweeter. 

You lean down, your face just centimeters from his own. Your lips, so close to his ear. He’s dreaming, he’s dreaming, he’s dreaming — he doesn’t ever want to wake up. To whichever higher power is listening, please don’t let him wake up.

“If this was a dream, I wouldn’t be able to tell you this.” 

You whisper your name into his ear, and he is aware that this is not a dream. This is real life. This is you, so close to him, telling him your name. He greedily snatches it up, repeats your name over and over in his mind. Then, with his eyes closing, quickly giving in to his exhaustion, he says your name.

He’s out cold.

a/n: if you made it this far, thank you!!! a like and even just a simple comment would really make my day, but i know colt grice only has 2 fans (me being one of them), so i'm not expecting much. if you read precipice, you will look back on this fic and go "oh my gosh, it's a cameo from one of my favorite characters!!!" bc nothing screams self-indulgent fan fiction more than creating ur own lil universe within canon, with ur equally delusional friend <3

[anime-fan-05]

can you do a headcanon of the warriors (aot) reacting to you hugging them?

by warriors i mean:

reiner

bertholdt

porko

zeke

colt

falco (if you write for him)

Attack on Titan ~Hugging them for the first time~

Anime/manga: Attack on Titan

Warnings: nothing

I thought by "reacting to you hugging them" you meant: "reacting to you hugging them for the first time". Sorry if I was wrong.

Reiner B.

He didn't expect it, so he'll stop himself for a second

After, he'll return the hug

He'll ask you why you hugged him

He'll stay to hug you for as long as possible because he'll want to imprint the feeling of you hugging him well in his memory

When you part from the hug, he'll give you a kiss on your forehead

Bertholdt H.

He'll blush so much you'll think he's about to faint

"W-what a-are you doing?"

He'll remain still, literally: he'll become a statue

But, when you try to move yourself away from him, he'll hold you close to him

"P-please, stay close to me a little longer."

Porko G.

Typically, he's the one who hugs you first, and you'll surprise him

However, he'll return the hug, placing one of his arms on your waist and the other under your legs, and he'll pick you up

When you try to budge yourself, he'll tell you to stay and hold you tighter

"I didn't say you could move yourself."

The hug will end with a kiss

Zeke Y.

Since he isn't used to receiving physical affection, you'll surprise him and he'll stay still for a second

Afterwards, he'll giggle and hug you back

"Oya oya? Do you miss me that much?"

One of his arms will go around your waist, the other will be behind your head to bring you even closer to him

He'll try to stay in that position as much as possible

Colt G.

Like Bertholdt, he'll brush and stay motionless

"Colt, are you ok?" "Y-yes!"

When he resumes, he'll want to hug you tightly

However, he won't know where to put his hands: he'll be afraid of embarrassing you or making you feel uncomfortable

Eventually, he'll place them on your upper back

Falco G.

He didn't expect it, and, like his brother, he won't know where to put his hands

In the end, he'll put his hands on your waist and hold you tight

"Honey, are you ok? Do you need something?" "No, darling. I just wanted to hug you a little." "Oh."

He'll want to stay in that position for as long as possible

When you separate from the hug, he'll give you a sweet kiss on the cheek

💮 Rules 💮 Masterlist 💮

[shikiii-skadi]

Attack on Titan Love Language Season 4 ver.

INCLUDES: eren jäger, reiner braun. pieck finger, porco galliard, colt grice

WARNINGS: mentioning of insecurity NAVIGATION: Attack on Titan Masterlist | part 1 (eren jäger, mikasa ackermann, armin arlert, levi ackermann, christa lenz)

Eren Jäger:

How they love you: Physical Touch

Over the years, he has become expressionless. After all he has seen and done, he feels most comfortable when you touch each other, since he is no longer able to express his love for you with words.

How they want to be loved: Words of Affirmation

Even if he would not admit it but there are times when he doubts himself or the things, he believes in. At these times he wants to hear nothing but your soothing words filled with so much love for him. He himself can't understand why you still want to be by his side.

Reiner Braun:

How they love you: Acts of Service

Reiner thinks he doesn't deserve you. He thinks it's more tolerable to be by your side if he is of use to you. If you need something, you don't even have to say something. He is already on his way to get it for you. Reiner is doing the little things as well. Always checking if you have enough water with you while training or if you seat in a meeting is close enough to the front so you can hear and see everything.

How they want to be loved: Words of Affirmation

As said before, Reiner is really insecure. He thinks he doesn't deserve you and that you deserve someone better than a broken man like him, with whom you will never have the life you dreamed of, because of his position as a warrior and Ymir's curse. But if you, someone so wonderful and important to him, tells him how much you love and appreciate him, he feels a bit better about himself.

Pieck Finger:

How they love you: Physical Touch

Pieck likes to touch you. She likes the feeling of your soft skin and how warm it feels. There is nothing is better than to cuddle with you after a long and stressful day. Pieck also likes to give small gestures of affection, for example fixing the collar of your jacket, while slightly brushing against your neck with her fingertips.

How they want to be loved: Quality Time

Pieck knows that you two can't spend your entire lives together, as much as she wishes it. That's why she wants to spend as much time as she possibly can together with you. You don't have to do anything special every time you have a free day. It's enough for her to just cook together or sort out old clothes. The only thing that's important is that you do it together.

Porco Galliard:

How they love you: Quality Time

Whenever you are together, you have his undivided attention. He will always set aside time just for you. Even if it sometimes doesn't look like it, but Porco always listens to you very closely and remembers what you told him weeks later. You have his full attention even if you are on the other side of the room or something like that.

How they want to be loved: Physical Touch

Porco always tries to maintain his tough guy image, even if it's just the two of you. That's why he often can't bring himself to admit that he really likes it when you two cuddle. Therefore, he is more than happy when you make the first move.

Colt Grice:

How they love you: Acts of Service

Colt will do anything for you to make your life a little easier. No matter what it is, Colt is immediately at your side ready to help. Even when it comes to easy things, he always asks you if you need his help.

How they want to be loved: Receiving Gifts

Colt can't think of anything nicer than the thought of you spending your free time figuring out what the perfect gift for him would be. All the time and effort you put into this just to make him happy warms his heart. He also doesn't care what it is or if it's valuable. Because the fact that you gave it to him makes it valuable enough.

[shesgoneout]

It's nights like this you enjoy most.

It's almost 10:00 pm. The beach is far isolated. The waves of the ocean move at a rhythmic beat, soothing to one's ears. The temperature is perfect. The cool summer breeze hitting your skin in a soothing manner. The stars are perfectly aligned in the dimly lit sky. You turn next to you to see your dearest. His eyes are lit up as he stares at the view in awe.

You can't help but continue to look at him. He looks so relaxed; so calm. It's comforting. You watch as his gaze shifts from the view to you, and for a split second, or even a minute, you lock eyes. It feels like it happened for just a millisecond, but it also feels like it's going on forever. His lips form a soft smile, and his cheeks have a pink hue to them. He shifts closer to you in the slightest motion, taking reach of your hand.

——————————————————————

Armin, Colt, Itadori, idk can't think of anyone else

The heck is ts 😭

[blondeboyfriend]

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] This is HEAVILY inspired by the business card scene in American Psycho. (I wrote this back in 2021 for a collab.) [ SYNOPSIS ] Zeke's perceived inadequacy leads him to a situation that only exacerbates his insecurities. [ WORD COUNT ] 3.2k [ CONTENT ] Modern AU (duh), not a big fan of the term "crack fic" but that's basically what this is, Zeke's only a few years older than the rest of the Warriors, sharing nudes without consent, smutty stuff is mentioned, alcohol, marijuana, body horror (Zeke describes scaphism in great detail), Zeke's probably ooc because I basically turned him into Patrick Bateman.

Zeke’s standing in the back of the bar, cornered by his friends. His life is in shambles because you dragged him to a birthday party in the nicest part of the city on the very night he decided to make a major life choice. Tonight was the night he said fuck it and shaved off his beard.

“You look like a baby,” Porco laughs.

“Like an angular baby, like a baby with good cheekbones,” Bertholdt, the birthday boy, mutters to himself.

“Can I touch your face?”

Zeke clenches his jaw and goes to speak only to be interrupted by Reiner's tender touch.

“Wow, that is soft. You got really soft skin. What do you use?”

Zeke smacks Reiner's hand away and uses the sleeve of his flannel to wipe away his residual touch. The meathead’s compliment was sufficient; there was no need to make physical contact.

“Sisley’s Black Rose Skin Infusion Cream.” Zeke sighs, accepting Reiner’s interpersonal failure. “How drunk are you?”

Reiner grins.

“I don’t know but your girlfriend’s the one that’s making them,” Reiner says before dissolving into the crowd.

Zeke questions whether or not Reiner was actually there in the first place. He could have merely been an anxiety induced hallucination.

“I have to… go,” Zeke abruptly blurts out to no one in particular as he pushes himself through his group of friends.

Free from their grasp he kicks himself for being so inarticulate in such a genuine way. Usually his nerves were hidden by a veneer of stoicism, but now he wonders if maybe it was just the beard. 

The bar is packed and Zeke stands on his tippy toes trying to see your little head bobbing around somewhere. So many people look like you from this distance. He takes off his glasses and squints but it does little to assist him. He nearly drops them as he maneuvers them back onto his face. Eventually he hears you cackling close by. He sighs heavily once he spots you behind the bar. You look angelic, a beacon of light in a sea of complete fucking bullshit. You look him in the eyes and smile, relief washing over him.

“Don’t you have to have a license or something to be back there?” he asks you, hiding his anxiety behind a facade of smugness.

You shrug and lean over the bar to kiss his forehead.

“They ain’t kicked me out yet so… I guess not.”

Zeke sits down on a bar stool and holds his head in his hands. He remembers that this is a private party and the likelihood of anyone actually giving a shit is slim to none.

“Reiner called you my girlfriend.”

“Ew, why?”

Zeke peers up from his hands, the rest of his face still obscured. Anything to hide his lack of facial hair.

“Because we showed up together and he probably heard us fucking in the bathroom earlier. Can you hold these for me? I almost dropped them.”

Zeke hands you his glasses and you tuck them away in your purse.You pat his head and ruffle his wavy blonde hair. He relishes in the gentle touch of your hand.

“Reiner’s an idiot. Want a shot?”

“Two. You know what I like.”

You grab a bottle of whiskey and overpour two shots. You pass one to him and go grab the other for yourself. Zeke grabs your wrist and stares up at you.

“They’re both for me.”

You shake your head and pour yourself one. Zeke downs the whiskey, savoring the smokey taste it leaves behind on his tongue. Just as he goes to ask you about how your day was Marcel fucking Galliard taps him on the shoulder.

“Buddy, it’s been too long. How ya been?”

Marcel is hammered and he lifts Zeke off the stool into a bear hug. Zeke feels the whiskey crawl up his throat, the most painful tickle he’s been subjected to.

“Ni—nice to see you. It has been awhile,” he chokes out.

Marcel loosens his grip and takes a seat next to Zeke. He looks impeccable, his hair perfectly quaffed. His skin was practically glowing. How could such a drunk guy look so put together and handsome?

“It has been a fucking while!” Marcel exclaims once more.

Zeke scratches his ear and then subtly waves you off. You slowly walk away backwards from the men, bumping into the actual bartender.

“Colt! Coltie Boy!... Damn, dude, you alright? You look tired.”

Marcel has mistaken Zeke for Colt Grice, one of the other tall blonde guys in their friend group. It seems logical because Colt works at the same middle school as Zeke doing the same exact thing he does, teaching language arts to seventh graders. Though Zeke thinks he’s smarter and more relatable to his students. It certainly doesn’t help that he hasn’t seen Marcel in years, who likely has forgotten what he looks like.

“Well I haven’t been getting much sleep. You know me, burning the midnight oil and all.”

Marcel laughs way too hard at Zeke’s joke which wasn’t even a joke in the first place.

He grabs Zeke’s shoulder and continues. “Great, that’s great. Such a hard worker. So uh, shit what’s her name… That girl you’ve been seeing.”

“Pieck.”

Marcel snaps his fingers and grabs Zeke’s shoulder again.

“Yeah, yeah, how’s Pieck? She’s a keeper. A great girl.”

“She’s good, couldn’t be happier with her. We’re thinking about getting a dog.”

“Wow, that’s—that’s great. You deserve it, man. You’re a good guy. Not like that dork Zach Yeager.”

“His name is Zeke, Marcel.”

“Who cares? You,” Marcel pokes Zeke in the chest, just barely missing his nipple, “you’re a good guy. You got your life together. Fuck Zach, man.”

Zeke nods in agreement.

“He’s a fucking dick, you know? Sure, yeah, I haven’t seen that weirdo in years, but I don’t even have to see him to know he’s—” Marcel pauses to burp into his hand. “excuse me. To know he’s a piece of shit.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been a fan either.”

“Fucking wears dumb glasses, like dude get a normal pair.”

“I know, right?”

“Grandpas wear those glasses, Coltie. Grand. Pas.”

Just as Zeke feels like he’s going to vomit into his own lap Bertholdt pops up from behind Marcel, eyes full of concern. 

“Hey Marcel, Porco’s out back and he’s not looking too good.”

Bertholdt’s a dirty liar and everyone except Marcel knows it. Porco’s tolerance is god-like, an unwavering cognitive marvel. Marcel sighs and stands up, stumbling out the door to the patio, Bertholdt trailing behind. He hits his forehead on the door frame on his way out.

“Are you gonna be okay?” you quietly ask, eating a maraschino cherry you stole from someone’s drink.

Zeke smiles and shakes his head. 

“It could’ve been wor—”

“Oh shit! What happened? You kinda look like dad!”

Eren is standing in the doorway with a pair of wayfarers on. He definitely stole them from someone; there was no way he’d drop money on Ray Bans. He comes over and hugs Zeke from behind. Zeke appreciates Eren’s affection but it does nothing to soothe verbal assault he received from Marcel.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know that was fucked up,” Eren coos. “But I am right. I can’t help that.”

It doesn’t matter if Eren is right or not. Zeke’s ego is crushed beyond repair. You shoo his brother away and drag Zeke into one of the booths, sitting across the table from him. He frowns.

“Can you sit next to me?”

The alcohol is taking hold of him. He needs attention and affection, but not too much. Anything beyond you sitting beside him, holding him close, is simply unbearable. You switch sides and scoot close to him. 

Zeke notices you staring at him. Your gaze is kind, kinder than a shithead like him deserves. He can’t remember a time in his life where he felt more insecure and unworthy of you. When your soft hand caresses his bare face he is slightly startled. However it’s a welcome gesture.

“I think you look good,” you purr.

He slinks down into his seat, bathing in your praise.

“I’m a little jealous of your jawline too.”

Zeke blushes.

“I look that good, huh?”

“No, you look like shit. I was lying the whole time. You’re the ugliest guy here.”

“Stop you’re going to make me fall in love with y—”

“Colt! The fuck?! What about Pieck, man?!”

You both turn to see a very drunk, very disheveled Marcel being carried out of the bar by Porco and Colt. Colt turns around, looking fresh as daisy, not a single line or wrinkle on his face; his skin smoother than a baby’s ass. He flashes an apologetic grin and lets go of Marcel, walking towards the two of you with utmost confidence. Porco crashes into a table because Marcel might as well be the most cumbersome person on the planet at this moment.

“This is probably the worst time to ask, but do you think I could use your study guides for my class tomorrow? I didn’t have time to throw anything together because Pieck and I were settling into our new apartment.”

Zeke wants to die right then and there. Zeke, who lives in a studio apartment with a chinchilla named Robert. Zeke, who will never own any form of home in his life. Zeke, who’s skincare routine will never make up for years of smoking and sitting in the sun.

“Wow! That’s so cool, Colt!” you pipe up, wrapping an arm around Zeke. He leans into you, desperately trying to disappear. He wants you to make the situation go away, to wrap it up with a little bow and toss it out a window.

“It’s a lot of work getting all that furniture into the penthouse that’s for sure.”

“I can imagine,” you reply eagerly, making up for Zeke’s awkwardness.

Colt just stands there grinning. 

The lull in the conversation is too much for Zeke bear. He realizes he needs to open his mouth and speak.

“Uh, you can use my study guides.”

“Oh thank you! You’re a lifesaver.” Colt turns around to see the nuclear disaster that is the Galliard brothers. “I hate to cut this short, but I have to take care of that,” he laughs. “Let’s do dinner sometime!”

Once Colt is out of earshot Zeke falls to pieces.

“Let’s do an execution sometime, Colt. Just boil me alive, send me to the boats.”

Zeke notices the quizzical look you give him and tosses his head back and groans.

“It’s a form of execution where you trap someone between two boats—row boats not ocean liners.” He knows you all too well, your perception prone to the absurd. “And you force feed them milk and honey, and you cover them with it too. And then you leave them to fester and rot in the sun like in a lake or a river.” He coughs. “Death doesn’t come quickly obviously. Flies lay eggs in your wounds, feasting upon your infected flesh. Mosquitos rise from the putrid water and buzz around you. Your body decays right before your eyes.”

“Uh,” is all you can manage to spit out.

He can’t hide his disappointment, and avoids your gaze.

“I know something that’ll cheer you up.”

“What?” he asks.

“Wanna see some dick pics?”

Zeke’s attention is thoroughly piqued. He clears his throat, trying to mask his blatant curiosity.

“Sure. Whose do you have?”

You smirk. “I got everyone.”

“Do you go around showing these to everyone?”

Zeke panics remembering the series of dick pics he sent you one night after smoking two blunts by himself. So many different angles and his face was definitely in a few of them.

“Oh god no, I don’t show them to anyone.”

He bathes in a sea of relief.

“Okay good. Let me see.”

You pull out your phone and go to your hidden photos. A barrage of dicks show up on the screen all in various states of turgidity.

‘Wait, I want to see mine first.”

“Fine. Weirdo.”

You scroll down to find a picture of Zeke’s hard cock. A solid six inches. Circumcised. A few veins running along the length of it, more on the green side. It’s framed by curly, untrimmed, flaxen pubic hair which suddenly Zeke is weirdly self conscious about. He can’t help but wonder if Colt has untamed pubes.

“Should I wax?”

You look at him like he has three heads.

“What? No. I like them even if they get caught in my teeth occasionally.”

You pinch his cheek and Zeke lets out a little “phew”. He doesn’t know what he’d do if you told him otherwise. The idea of ripping out his body hair terrifies him. Shaving’s bad enough, the resulting emotional anguish a burden he struggles to bear. He might die if he added physical pain into the mix.

“I appreciate the angles,” you say. “It’s artistic. The lighting hits the cum dripping off the tip perfectly.”

Zeke basks in the light of your praise.

“Nice and erect, not floppy and flaccid. It’s one of my favorites.”

He shivers at the thought of sending you a photo of his limp dick. He’s a grower, not a shower, a fact that left him feeling inadequate if he thought too hard about it.

It was seemingly unfounded. You never expressed any displeasure when you’d pull his cock out of his pants and see it in its flaccid state. No hint of judgment when you got down on your knees and sucked him off. Just pure, unadulterated joy.

“Gimme a name.”

“Let’s see the birthday boy.”

You pull up a poorly lit photo of an incredibly erect cock. No veins, very smooth with an even coloring. Zeke notices he’s uncircumcised and tries to convince himself that his dick being circumcised makes him a better person than Bertholdt.

“It’s very long,” you say, zooming in on the dick and scrolling down. “Not super thick though.”

“I’m not impressed.”

Zeke takes pride in his cock being thicker than Bertholdt’s.

“Can I ask why you have a pic of his dick?”

“He was drunk and meant to send it to Annie.”

“And you kept it?”

“Hey, whoa. I did ask.”

Zeke gives you a quizzical look. He is having trouble discerning the situation at hand and it makes him feel like he’s dying. You pat his back.

“I was like, ‘Bertl, can I keep this?’ And he was like, ‘If you feel so compelled.’ And let me tell you... I was compelled.”

“Next one,” Zeke says, glaring at the dick on your phone screen.

“Okay,” you flip through your photos, “Porco.”

You hold up your phone, showing Zeke a still image of Porco furiously masturbating on the bathroom floor.

“D—did he set up a timer on his phone?”

“Yeah, grandpa, welcome to the 21st century. We’re happy to have you.”

“You’re two years younger than me, grandma.”

You stick your tongue out at him and zoom in on Porco’s cock. His cock curves upward quite a bit, veiny but not nearly as veiny as Zeke’s. The tip is a pearlescent pink. Porco managed to catch himself in the middle of his orgasm, cum spurting upward like a geyser.

“What do you think?” you ask him.

“Cum looks a little thin, watery even.”

Zeke wants to tack on that his cum is more robust, but he realizes how pathetic it is to brag about.

“I like it when it’s thicker. Like if someone is going to come on me I wanna feel it splatter on my skin, you know?”

Zeke doesn’t know.

“Yeah I get that,” he lies.

“I appreciate the action of the shot, but it’s too busy. I see a bottle of Acqua di Gio on his bathroom counter. His plunger is in the background. I don’t like that his bathroom rug is orange.”

Zeke could hear you talk shit about Porco’s nudes all day.

“You lookin’ at Porco’s nudes?”

Reiner slides into the other side of the booth. He’s pretty drunk, skin a little pink, but he seems mostly there.

“Has everyone seen them?” Zeke asks in a panic.

“No. I overheard you guys talking,” he chastises. “You guys are really harsh critics.”

“I have standards, Reiner.”

“If people can be film critics, why not dick critics?” Zeke asks, genuinely wanting an answer.

“Hey!” You smack Reiner’s arm. “Can I show Zeke your dick?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t. I’m not an artist, but I’ve been told I have an eye for color,” he brags.

Zeke rolls his eyes. “Hush. Let’s see the dick.”

You pull up Reiner’s dick on your phone. It’s a lower body shot, just his torso and cock in view, it’s standing straight up. His body is framed by his earth toned bedding that makes his skin look divine. He’s statuesque, like a Greek god.

“Check out my cum gutters.”

“Reiner,” you exclaim. “Gross!”

“So Zeke, what do you think?” Reiner asks eagerly.

“Impressive,” Zeke chokes out. “Very nice.”

Zeke’s ready to move on. Reiner’s color coordinating bodybuilder nudes make him want to wear clothes for the rest of his life. He pictures himself dressed in his pajamas, standing in the middle of his shower, arms crossed, looking absolutely miserable.

“Hm, I think that’s all I have. Wait. Oh my god, I forgot I have your brother’s.”

Zeke is conflicted. On one hand he feels protective of Eren and wants to destroy your phone, preserving Eren’s honor. But on the other he wants to rip Eren’s head off for sending you a picture of his dick.

“I have one!” Reiner pipes up.

“Whose?” Zeke and you ask in unison.

“Colt’s.”

You start to shake your head. “No, no more dick pics. We’re done for the night.”

“No,” Zeke says, clenching his jaw. “Let’s see Colt Grice’s cock.”

You toss your head back and stare at the ceiling, preparing yourself for Zeke’s reaction. Reiner winces, realizing his mistake. But still he pulls out his phone.

“Why do you have a picture of his dick?” you ask.

“He needed a creative consultant,” he replies plainly.

Reiner goes through his phone and breathes heavily. He looks up from his phone, his lips a flat line, and he holds up Colt’s dick pic.

It’s a full body shot of Colt. His cock is thick and long, the same look and size as Zeke’s. He grabs Reiner’s phone and stares at Colt’s throbbing erection. It’s taken in his bathroom and unlike Porco's, his counter is organized, only a small bottle of expensive hand soap lurking in the corner. His dick is the perfect shade of pink, the head of his cock picturesque. It’s smooth, but not in a creepy way. It’s like it was sculpted by Rodin, rock hard and tremendous.

“Oh my god. His pubes are so trim,” Zeke mutters. 

His hand shakes and he drops the phone. Reiner grabs it, slips it into his pocket, and looks away from Zeke. The three of you sit in silence, the only sounds coming from the party.

“Is something wrong, Zeke?” you ask. “You’re sweating.”

Zeke doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say. This isn’t something that can be buffed away with pity. The wounds inflicted are too deep. The pain radiating through his being will never cease. There will be no relief from his festering inadequacy. Happiness and hope for the future are rendered foreign concepts.

The man is irreparably damaged.

[reinersprozacbottle]

Unpopular opinion (???) but Colt and Jean would make the best boyfriends out of the Aot boys

Let’s not even talk about how f*cking fun flirting with Colt’s inexperienced ass would be oop

But like seriously the fluster, the confusion and shyness in his eyes but you can still see the longing in them??? Walk with me for a sec lol lemme stop

[g-l-o-b-e-w-h-o-r-e]

COUPLE OUTFIT

aot characters x fem/gn reader.

Characters: Eren,Levi,Armin,Porco,Reiner,bertholdt,Marco,jean,connie

✧Eren✧

✧Armin✧

✧Jean✧

✧Connie✧

✧Levi✧

✧Colt✧

✧reiner✧

✧bertholdt✧

✧marco✧

[cyn-cynn]

COLTTT 😭

Hi :) I'd like to request Colt x female reader and their first kiss + confessing when he's back after the four-years long Marley mideast war? Thank you ♥

<3: Let's ignore the fact that I've been off of Tumblr for such a long time, but I'm finally back to writing. So, I decided to make my come-back with this lovely request!

Warnings: Brief mention of death, fluff, reader uses she/her pronouns.

"Last Kiss"

A Colt Grice x Reader Short Story

Four years. 1,460 Tragedy filled days that you had spent waiting. Waiting for a man whom you had hopelessly fallen in-love with throughout your years of being close friends. To you it was hard to believe that today would be the day that he would finally be back in your arms. It almost seemed too good, too lucky for you, that the man you loved oh so much would be back safe and sound.

Colt Grice. He was the man who had stolen your heart and left with it just like that. The man that you had harbored an attraction for far too long. You still remembered the day that you had met. You had lost your father whilst shopping in the plaza in town; you had been crying, searching everywhere for him when a boy who was just a few years older than you were grabbed your hand, whisking you away to help your troubled self.

That little interaction led to a beautiful friendship blooming; one that would last forever in eternity. You realized you had loved Colt when you were twelve, almost thirteen. Colt had just turned fourteen. You had been asked on a date by a boy in town, whom you had said yes to. Long story short, you were stood up and were left bawling in your friend's arms. Colt's embrace was so warm, almost like a comforting fire. You still remember the feeling of your heart rate picking up as Colt's hand rubbed gentle circles in your lower back.

"It's okay, Y/N. He's just a jerk who doesn't know that he's missed out." He muttered quietly in the crown of your head.

Colt. Just the thought of seeing him again today made you feel so ecstatic. You felt giddy as you stood on the sidewalk by the train tracks. Your E/C eyes were wide open with excitement, hands shaking slightly from the rising bubble of anxiety that was overcoming your body as you watched the train that held the Marlean soldiers inside pulling up.

You made sure to wear your prettiest dress today. It was a soft brown color with faint floral patterns on the bottom. It reached just past your knees. Your foot tapped against the pavement impatiently, the sole of your boot made the tapping sound louder than it would have been without them on. The few people that were around you separated away from you. In a way they felt your anxiety just pouring off of your body, which they probably would rather stay away from during this moment.

Hopelessly you stood and watched. Watching as so many people you had grown up around got off of the train and were instantly enveloped in hugs by their awaiting family members. So many tears were spilled and with each soldier that stepped off of the train your heart rate quickened.

Where was he? He should have gotten off by now.

You were beginning to worry. Tears filled your eyes before a sigh of relief left your lips. Falco had run off of the train, being enveloped in the arms of his mother, not a second had passed before Colt stepped off of the train, arms carrying both his and Falco's luggage, which was quickly dropped as his mother also threw her arms around her older son. Your heart melted at the sight, watching as Colt wrapped his arms so gently around his mother, as if she would break if he applied too much pressure.

The urge to run and interrupt Colt's time with his family was strong, but they needed it more than you ever did. You stood there, watching the scene as it drawn on until finally, Colt had pulled away.

His gaze flew right towards you. "I'll be back," he seemed to mouth to his mother as he began to move through the crowd of onlookers. He kept moving, taking long strides before he finally stood in front of you, head craning down in order to look you right in the eyes.

"Y/N-" he began before he was ultimately interrupted by you flinging your much smaller form into him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you let out a relieved sob. "I was so worried about you." You breathlessly spoke as you gazed up into the males' beautiful brown eyes. His gaze itself made you want to just pepper kisses all over Colt's face.

God, he was so beautiful. How could someone so beautiful exist in a world filled with so much death?

Colt didn't say a word. He just stared down into your gaze, nothing was said between the two of you. It was as if you guys had a conversation with just your eyes. A mutual agreement was shared as you both began to lean in, lips pressing against one another's.

It felt electrical in a sense. Your heart rate had picked up, and you were almost certain Colt's had as well as your lips molded perfectly to fit the others.

Colt was the first to pull away, though he didn't stay away long as he almost instantly leaned back in, pressing another chaste kiss to your lips.

"I love you, so much." He muttered against your lips.

You wanted to cry right then and there. Not tears of anger, sadness, or betrayal. But tears of pure happiness. And you did. You cried in Colt's arms, sobbing about how much you missed and loved him beyond measure.

He cried in yours too, for he knew now that you would forever be his, and he would forever be yours.

[jjkeremika]

Attack on Titan men walk in on you touching yourself…

pairing: Eren x reader, jean x reader, levi x reader, armin x reader, erwin x reader, colt x reader (aot, snk)

all fem!reader

***nsfw*****

Eren:

“What are you doing?” Eren asked knowingly. You were startled, you didn’t even hear him enter the cabin. You were supposed to be alone for a few hours.

When you looked up at him he was staring at you, squinting. You quickly removed your fingers from inside yourself and sat upright.

He took a couple steps forward, his shadow casting a cold over you. “Wait, why did you stop?”

The sudden switch from brain function made your thoughts stutter. “B-Because you’re right here,”

“I just didn’t expect you to…” He stared directly at your crotch, his pupils dilating, “Be here. But you’re free to continue.” He didn’t turn away.

You smirked and drew your toe up your calf to your knee, then traced your other hand along your collarbone, then let it fall to caress your own boob. “Just like you’re free to watch?” You pinched your own nipple.

He gulped, accentuating the muscles in his neck and chest, and reached his hand to his pant fastener. “And free to touch myself.”

Jean:

He’d pressed his ear up to the side of the door when he’d heard strained noises from the room adjacent. Jean’s eyes just about doubled in size when he registered that it was you inside, and the noises you were making were not out of pain, but out of pleasure.

He bit his lip and immediately dropped his palm to his crotch, pushing down to will for his now heavy erection to go away. Jean panicked when he’d heard noises coming in the hallway, new recruits reporting for their shift, he couldn’t risk them seeing him like this.

Or you. He couldn’t have them possibly hearing or seeing you in this compromising position. He had to warn you. It was the right thing to do.

You were mildly startled by Jean’s entrance, but the euphoric daze from having just come was at its peak which made it difficult to process. You smiled blissfully as Jean approached you, still laying flat against the table, arms sprawled out.

“Hey, Jean,” you greeted, “I’m very happy to see you right now.” You winked, your pulse kicking back up again, your stomach leaping at the possibility.

He smirked and climbed onto the chairs and table to lean over you. “You are so fucking loud,” he said quietly. Jean placed his long hand over your mouth and pressed his nose to your neck. “Now… Be a good girl and stay quiet.”

Levi:

If you couldn’t see the tented fabric at the crotch and the tensed muscles in his neck, you would’ve thought he was unphased.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he said roughly, staring directly at where your fingers entered the glistening muscles. You watched him lick his lips. ���Tilt your fingers more,” he instructed.

You anchored your foot and lifted yourself off the mattress slightly, adjusting the angle of your fingers inside your already wet pussy.

He stalked over to you, stopping at the foot of the bed, for once looking down on you, his eyes fixed on where you kept moving your fingers. “And you’re making a mess,” he commented, watching the sheet soak up your fluid.

He groaned from frustration (mostly sexual) and grabbed a towel, fluffing it out before ordering you to sit up slightly and draped the towel down.

It wasn’t as soft as the mattress but if it made him happy… “What should I do next, Captain?”

Armin:

“Ah, Ar-Armin!” you moaned his name loudly as he entered the small room, his name slipping into the moan from touching just the right spot.

He stood in the doorway, leaving it open but mostly blocked by his shadow. You hadn’t realized he was as tall as he was. “Oh, hey, are you okay?” You shivered from the slight chill of the hall.

At first he didn’t notice, oblivious to your hands in your pants. Then his eyes trailed down you, like he was assessing you, and you watched the red blush form across his face and noticed his increased breathing.

The ache to touch yourself was heightened from being caught, the blood and adrenaline racing to be at the tip of your finger. At the tip of his finger.

He entered the room and quietly closed the door, his expression unreadable in the dark, but his voice was as comforting and soft as always, a stark contrast from his less-than-pure question, “How can I help?”

Erwin:

The urge to be feel yourself in his office chair was too overwhelming. The air thickly held onto his scent, permeating your nose and convincing your mouth to salivate.

One hand held onto his chair tightly while the other dipped between your legs. You closed your eyes.

You startled at the sudden sound of a deep voice, thick with restrained need. “Now… what do we have here?”

You shot your eyes open and there stood Erwin, standing tall, towering over you, looking down on you with a wanting smirk.

He noticed your hand stopped moving. “Oh, you didn’t have to stop.” He bent down so that he was leaning on one knee, almost at eye contact from your seat in the chair. He was so long.

He confidently placed his hand on your thigh, making eye contact, and slowly inched it towards your hip. “Sit and relax,” he said thickly, warmly, his eyes flickering between his hand and your eyes as it nears your crotch, “Let me take care of you.”

Colt:

The barnyard for the horses was supposed to be isolated today, but you forgot that Colt sometimes visits them during this time. So when he rounded the corner, your soft moans having drowned out his soft whistling, you both made eye contact and blushed.

You were sitting awkwardly on a barrel, one finger intimately gracing your clit. He was carrying a bucket of salt chips.

Despite having the open air to evaporate, the tension stayed near you two, and an unseen pull made it feel harder for him to walk away, like going against a taut rubber band.

He reached his hand out. “Do… Do you want a salt chip?” Colt asked cautiously, taking a couple steps forward.

You laughed, startled by the odd question, and some of the tension shake off. You sat more comfortably on the barrel. “Why would I want a salt chip?” you asked, still chuckling, but put your hand out anyway.

Colt eyed your hand, then flickered back to your eyes, and you noticed the shy blush he wore delicately, a slight sheen of sweat embracing his forehead.

He stepped forward and held the salt chip in his hand. “Open your mouth,” he said, then gestured with the chip like he were going to throw it.

You sighed lightly, amused by his antics and curious to see how his aim has improved. You opened your mouth and closed your eyes.

You reopened them when there was heat radiating directly in front of you, and there a Colt stood, having tossed the salt chip to the ground instead. You felt two fingertips on your tongue.

You closed your mouth, lightly sucking on his fingers. He used his other hand to separate your thighs and stepped between your legs, letting his free hand then lightly caress your upper thigh.

[ackermansupremacy]

Can I request hcs for Reiner, Zeke, Porco, and Colt with a Warrior shifter s/o who wants to get married? 💒 What would their initial reactions be and how would they actually go about the wedding since they're both are so busy with their duties, not to mention they both live in Liberio? S/o reasons that their lives already have a due date given their status why not just take this chance at happiness? Bonus for the guys seeing them in their wedding gown/ outfit. Thank you! ❤️

OMG THIS IS SO CUTE WAIT-

Reiner

Honestly? Hes super happy to know that you want to marry him

Its something hes always fantasized about late at night while hes trying to sleep

But it also nags at him a little, with titan shifter blood he knows hes not gonna be here that much longer and doesn't really want to put you through losing him

Especially since you have a few years after him that you'll still be around

But he also loves you too much to stay away

After you tell him you basically have everything planned out to a T

Including the date that you were able to get you both spared from your duties

It hits him that its real, its really happening

Hes really lucky enough to marry the person of his literal dreams

The night before the wedding he hardly gets any sleep hes so nervous and anxious but the day cant get to him fast enough

He wakes up extra early to mentally prepare himself then heads to the church where Porco's already waiting for him to help him get ready

It doesn't take too long, but by the time they're done its already ready

Reiner's sweating up a storm and half crying by the time he sees you

You can basically see the hearts in his eyes when they're laid on you

Actually seeing you in the outfit hes always fantasized about

It does bring him to tears

While he holds your hands and recites the vows he wrote himself

He can't help but cry a little bit

Because even if only its for a little while, he gets to live a calm life with you

He knows hes going to die soon and this is his final chance at happiness

And he finally got it <3

Zeke

Zeke fr never meant to fall in love with everything going on

He reminds his s/o multiple times that his days are numbered due to the titan serum in his veins

So the first few times you'd ask he would say no

Of course if the circumstances were different he would already have a ring on your finger and probably have already given you a child

But that's clearly not the case with all his military duties

Marriage would only make it more painful for you when his body runs its course

And he cares about you far too much to do that

Convincing him isn't that hard though

Just a little bit of reasoning since neither of you really have all that much to lose

All you really have to do is remind him of those sweet sweet tax benefits

And that's the straw that breaks the camels back

He honestly just wants to elope, he doesn't have that many days off and he sure as hell doesn't want to spend his only day off with the other military personnel he'd be obligated to invite

But of course you say hell no because literally Zeke Yeager is getting married he kind of has to have a wedding?!?!

So he reluctantly agrees and lets you take the reins on the planning

But to respect his wishes you keep it pretty small without really having a reception

Its a short little ceremony that only consists of close family and friends and only a few military personnel that basically all leave directly after the initial ceremony

But honestly when he saw you in that beautiful wedding gown for the first time

He regretted saying no to marrying you the first time and wished he had married you sooner

He almost cried but his pride didn't let him, not in front of all those people

But honestly after everyone left and it was just the two of you at home, he did shed a couple of tears

He knew that he didn't have that much time with you, but he knew the time he had left would be worthwhile as long as he spent it with you

Porco

First off Porco proposed to you

He would literally never let it be the other way around

He knows he isn't getting any younger and hes been eager to marry you since you first got serious

He wants to get married ASAP so the two of you decide to elope a few weeks after your engagement

Because once again, you have nothing to lose but time

Upon hearing about it a ton of your friends Pieck wanted to be witnesses

So it basically turned into a wedding against your will with the sheer amount of people that wanted to be there

So you decided to indulge them, after all it was a fantasy of yours to wear the stereotypical white

Porco wasn't nervous at all the days leading up to the wedding

He was excited and chilled out mostly

But not even gonna lie the day of the wedding

When he first saw you

He cried

Like an actual baby

Through almost the entire ceremony

He was so overwhelmed with so many different emotions he didn't know how to handle it

Even after the ceremony while you were chatting up your friends

A tear would still occasionally slip out when he glanced your way or when the reality hit that like damn

He was a husband now

He was finally getting to kind of settle down in a way

Marriage really didn't seem attainable to him when he first inherited a titan

So being in the reality of being a married man made his heart fuller than he could ever even comprehend

Colt

Unlike the others, Colt wasn't in as big of a hurry to get married

After all, he didn't have the stress of inheriting a titan, or a certain number of years left he had to worry about

In his life the sky was the limit other than his duties from the army

So marriage wasn't something he was especially rushing

It was something that he honestly didn't even really think about that often since he was still so young

So when you brought the idea up he got super flustered and kind of dismissed it

But then it kind of hit him that he was thinking a little bit selfishly

His days may not be numbered, but that doesn't mean yours aren't

So then he brings it back up a few weeks later

Which of course is super exciting!!

You know how he feels so you don't really want to rush things so the two of you have a longer engagement as opposed to the other warriors

Its probably around six months

Planning doesn't take too long since like everyone else you decided to have a smaller wedding only really consisting of family and a few really good friends

And the two of you have more days off than the other titan shifters

So honestly it is a little bit more well planned out than everyone else’s since this one isn’t quite as time sensitive as the others

So when the day finally came around Colt was pretty nervous

Of course his lil bro Falco was with him basically every step of the way and helped him calm his nerves a little 

When he saw you at your wedding he almost broke down on the spot 

But instead his face broke into a smile so wide it made his cheeks hurt 

That smile didn’t leave his face for the entirety of your wedding and didn’t go away until he was falling asleep that night

I literally cannot believe i dropped this blog for so long??? this shit is my serotonin lifeline.

[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!

[iwaizumis-bitch]

𝙖𝙤𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙣 + 𝙖𝙨𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙮 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙧𝙨

note; first aot post!!! #nervous

haikyuu version | navigation

content warnings; modern au, anal, thigh fucking, titty fucking, anal fingering [f receiving], toys (buttplug), spanking, backshots, possessiveness, marking, nipple play, in the titty one reader has tits big enough to push together

men who cum so fast when they fuck your ass because it's always so tight. the way you're clenching around him feels heavenly, and the sound of your breathy moans and begs don't help his case. men who come addicted to fucking your ass, making sure to finger it regularly or make you wear a buttplug so his fat cock could always slip in without hurting you!! & men who will bend you over the nearest table if you walk by him in those little denim shorts, (and he won't be nice!), slamming into your ass from behind as he slaps it, leaving red handprint marks before pulling out and cumming all over your lower back.

zeke, connie, floch, kenny, porco

men who shove their cocks between your closed thighs, thrusting relentlessly as they chase their high. the sensation of his cock squeezed between your plush thighs and your wet pussy rubbing against him was almost enough for him to slip a ring on your finger. men who keep a close eye on you all night when you choose to wear a playsuit on your night out clubbing, letting the fabric ride all the way up to your hips letting the crotch line press against your pussy, showing off your legs to everyone there. 10/10 experience, he dragged you outside to an alley and spent a few minutes marking your thighs with his mouth, leaving purple bruises for all eyes to see as you pats your ass back onto the dancefloor.

eren, bertoldt, erwin, mike

men who googled 'boobies' one day when they were nine and have never gone back. they're all honestly such pervs, always groping & ogling your tits when he's not fucking them. men who straddle you, cock in his hand as pre cum spurts out at the sight of your coy expression as you pressed your precious mounds together, lashes fluttering. men who babble absolute nonsense as they thrust into your chest, feeding into the warmth of your cute tits and sinful moans as you toy with your nipples. men who bite their lip to stifle their moans because they never thought fucking your tits would feel this good. men who last an embarrassingly short time before they're shooting cum, making sure to aim so your tits would be covered in his seed as you cheekily jiggled them, making him rock hard again.

armin, levi, colt, onyakankopon

all 3 because he can't pick a fav

jean, reiner

likes, reblogs, and feedback are all appreciated (◠‿◠)

property of iwaizumis-bitch 2022

[shingia]

types of hugs

↳ general hcs — aot

↳ haven’t written in that format in a long time, purely self indulgent because it’s been 4 days since i’ve touched another human being lol 🤕

| long back hugs with cheek or neck kisses, arms crossed over your belly. sometimes swaying from left to right even if there’s no music playing. they rest their chin on your shoulder, quietly observing whatever it is that you were doing before they arrived.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ↳ porco, armin, jean, erwin

| tight hugs, like they’re afraid you’ll disappear if they let you go. one hand resting on the back of your head as they whisper in your ear how much they care about you. their other hand is on the small of your back, making you feel safer than ever.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ↳ levi, connie, mikasa, reiner, armin, colt, eren

| spins you around in their embrace like they haven’t seen you in years. pause for a few seconds just to admire the pure happiness in your eyes, then proceed to pepper kisses all over your face, smiling when they feel your nose scrunch under their lips.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ↳ colt, connie, sasha, hange

| lazy hugs while laying down, one hand slowly going up and down your back, the other one holding yours. together, you talk about anything and everything. your breath eventually synchronizes with theirs, and you let yourselves be lulled by the steady heaving of your chests.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ↳ levi, jean, mikasa, eren, pieck

| side hugs, your head is resting on their shoulder and they’re holding you by the waist. they’ve put their jacket over your shoulders to keep you warm, like a second hug infused with their familiar smell.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ↳ reiner, porco, mikasa, colt, levi, hange, sasha

reblogs always help <3

[mommypieck]

For kinktober how about 27. Stockings (+ cute lingerie in general) for Colt and his gf ♥

༺ ♱ ༻ kinktober day twenty-seven: stockings

✿ colt grice

✿ colt can't help himself when he sees your halloween costume

your legs swing up and down as you sit on your bed in your collage room, waiting for your boyfriend. it's your first halloween together as a couple and you made sure to dress as best as you could.

colt wanted to wear those cheesy couple costumes that said "queen" and "king" but you talked him into a priest and nun.

"hi baby." voice suddenly awakes you from your thought and your eyes meet with your boyfriend stumbling into your room. his priest gown is too long but it's obvious he tried. his movements stop when his eyes lay at your costumes. his eyes slowly checking you out until his eyes land on your legs clad in black stockings. you can see little starts jump in his eyes at the sight.

you jump off the bed to hug your boyfriend who is still very starstruck by you.

"colty, what do you think?" you ask, jumping in front of him to show off your outfit.

"it's pretty." he says as he looks at the ground and you can feel red envelop his cheeks. colt things he's gonna melt when you jump up and down in front of him, trying to gain his attention to compliment you more.

"can i see them closely?" he asks, gesturing to your stocking. you mod, grabbing his hand and leading him to the bed. you sit down, colt getting onto his knees in front of you.

his hands caress your thighs before he leans down to kiss your thigh.

the roughness of the stocking rubs against his face as he kisses his way to your core. his fingers still for a moment and you can see that he's thinking about it.

"you look so good in them," he mumbles against your skin, "but i need them off your body right now."

his hands grip the stockings and you see a large hole the next second. he rips the crotch, grabbing your ass to pull you closer to him. colts eyes meet the lacy panties you are wearing and he can't help but to let out a quiet whine.

"here we go, baby." he smiles up at you, pulling your underwear to the sight and diving into your core.

his tongue explores you in the best way possible. he focuses on your clit before licking a stripe down to your hole and back up. you can feel him mumbling things such as how tasty your pussy is or how wet you are.

"need inside." he whispers and pulls back from your core. you whine at the loss but you are silenced by colts reassuring words of love.

he quickly pulls his pants down, shuffling on the bed so he can sink into your core. you have done this only few times before so the stretch is still here but he feels so good. his movements are frantic and you can see how needy he is for you. he is way rougher than the times before and he is way local too. you moan out at the noises he makes, sounding so angelic to your ears.

"gonna cum, baby. gonna cum." he whines when he feels your walls squeeze him tight. you cum at his works, unable to control yourself. you shake and trash against the bed, your orgasm seeming to be not stopping.

colt thrusts for the last time, filling you up to the brim. he pulls out as you can see the panicked expression on his face before you coo at him, "don't worry, colt. i wanted you to cum inside."

you watch as his cock jumps again at your words you you're always late and your friends are waiting.

colt presses you against his body, adjusting your skirt, "i am sorry for the stockings, y/n, but i would get jealous if you went out in them."