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jujubean90 · 2 years

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Word Count: 10260 (sorry)

Genre/ Tropes/ Aesthetic: AoT Hybrid AU! Bullman! Reiner. One shot. Reader insert. Female reader. M x F relationship. Fluff, cute shit mixed in. Friends to Lovers. Forbidden romance.

General Warnings: The following story is NSFW. MINORS DNI. Characters are appropriately aged up for NSFW situations. Do not repost, copy, or duplicate. Sorry for typos. I try. Remember, I’m hella dyslexic.

Trigger Warnings/ Kinks: BREEDING, cumflation, oral, monster fucking, pregnancy, belly bulge, fingering, imprinting, possessiveness, alpha male behavior (not ABO), body worship if you squint, size kink, knotting

Featured Characters:

AOT: Reiner Braun, Colt Grice, Theo Magath

Synopsis: You buy your dream property across from Farmer Magath and his prized bullman. You didn't expect the hybrid to be so kind. Your friendship grows and so does your desire to fuck him.

You bought your dream property next to this cattle farm out in the middle of nowhere in a town called Marley. Being close to the farm didn’t bother you. You had plenty of acreage and cows didn’t disturb you either. This country cottage was too good to pass up. It had everything you needed for a proper homestead of your own.

After moving in, you learned there was more living at this farm than cows. Farmer Magath raised top quality cattle and the reason people paid him so much was because of the stud hybrid he used to breed his herd. He’s a big, strong ornery thing and you’ve been told to keep your distance and avoid contact if you see him. Your property lines share a fence so it’s possible you’d encounter the bullman. You appreciated the heads-up.

He’s gotten violent and lost his temper a few times, according to your new neighbor’s farmhand, Colt Grice. You’re told he’s extremely protective of the cows and when they go to sell some, they must tranquilize him. He’s not too fond of people, but he wouldn’t dare hurt Farmer Magath. He didn’t seem to give a shit about Colt.

When you see the bullman cross the field one day, you’re in awe. He’s beautiful and proud, with blonde hair and striking golden eyes. His body is flawless, with rippling muscles that would make the gods envious. It was a damn shame he was a hybrid because, whew!

That same day, some of your chickens got loose, and you chased them all over. Of course, one ran into the bullman’s fenced side of the ranch. You didn’t see him or the herd, so you hopped over to track down the missing chicken. The goal was to get in and out unnoticed.

You spotted your missing chicken, pecking beneath some trees a few yards away. You tried to sneak up and grab him, but before you could, the bullman emerged from the bushes and snatched it up by his feet.

You gasped because you thought that was the end of poor Eren. He was your favorite chicken, but damn, he’d do anything for some freedom. Seemed now like he scratched and pecked his last meal.

The bullman looked at you for a moment before sauntering over with a swagger in his steps. He towered above you and had to be a little over 7 foot tall. Despite what your neighbor said, he didn’t look mean. He gave you a charming smile and handed the ornery chicken over. He didn’t hurt a feather on the pissed off fowl. Eren pecked ruthlessly at his hand, but it didn’t faze the hybrid.

“Thank you,” you mutter as you wrestle the bristled chicken and made him sit snuggly in your arms. He clicked his beak at the bullman as if to say, ‘fuck you’ in chicken. You’d talk to him later about his fowl language. “I’m sorry to invade your space like this. Eren’s a runner. Erm, gosh, I’m also sorry about your hand.”

The hybrid bleated softly, then reached over to gently pat the top of your head as if to say it wasn’t a problem. Eren ruffled his feathers and tried to peck at him again, but the bullman just taped his beak with one finger before he could get catch some skin.

“Will you walk me back?”

He nodded his head and happily escorted you across the field. He helped you over the fence and you realized, if he wanted, he could leave the farm. You thanked the bullman and took Eren to his pen with the other chickens.

You had a stunted rooster who ended up being the most alpha one of the group. You called him Captain Levi because, well, he justly deserved to be called Captain with how he ran the coop. After putting Eren inside, Captain Levi fluttered down from his perch and flogged him until Eren ran to the safety of one of the houses. You saluted the gray and black bird and went on about your day.

When you came back, you didn’t expect to see the bullman waiting for you at the fence, but he remained and looked at you expectantly. Another soft bleat left his mouth, and he swished his tail as if the sight of you excited him.

You couldn’t deny him. He was so cute! Maybe he was lonely. Hell, you certainly were. So, you went up to him and started chatting about anything and everything just to give him company. He was a superb listener, and he made expressions to convey his thoughts about the things you said. He’d occasionally rumble out a laugh when you made a silly joke. Most of the time, he smiled and listened with absolute interest.

That’s how it started between the two of you. Conversation with the bullman became part of your daily routine. In the evenings, you’d meet him at the fence with a basket of fruit to share as you talked about your day. He brought you stuff like little gifts and tokens of appreciation. He found the most beautiful rocks, and he was proud of them all. You kept them in the small flower garden along the side of your house where he could see them from the fence.

Sometimes he brought you flowers or wreathes he made. You had a wreath on your front door, back door, both barn doors, and your shed. He brought you a new bouquet each week, and it sat in a vase on your kitchen table. He created a flower crown and put it on your head while you had lunch together one day. That was one of your favorite moments.

The fence always separated you, and Reiner didn’t seem to mind. He sat down when you had picnics together on the other side without a problem. He followed you along the fence line on your walks together. You bet he’d happily jump that damn thing and help with your chores if you asked.

You started making things for him too. He loved your fruit pies and cookies the most. Sometimes you crafted items, but most of the time, you cooked snacks for him. You did not know what he did with the things you made. He treasured them all, though. You could tell by his expressions how much he appreciated your crafts when you gave him something.

Colt came back with your tools and found you waiting for him at the chicken coop. You both got to work on fixing it while Reiner watched. He kept a stern, threatening gaze on Colt. The young man felt uneasy, like someone suddenly plastered a target on his back.

You noticed his hooves weren’t properly cared for one day. He was the farmer’s pride and joy, but he didn’t receive the attention he deserved. He developed a limp, so you told him to back up to the fence and lift his hoof so you could scrape and cut it down. He was obedient to you and remained in place until you finished the job. You polished his hooves after. He walked with his head high for the rest of the day.

Now, the farmhand Colt Grice took interest in you. He was a bashful lad, and you often conversed with him at the front of your house when he walked to and from the farm. It started off with gentle hellos and queries about your day. You said nothing about you and the bullman. Something in your gut told you to keep that to yourself.

Gradually, Colt grew comfortable and lingered in the evenings while you worked on the front of the cottage. He offered to help you, but you always denied him. You said he worked enough for Farmer Magath and he needed his rest.

You weren’t out front one day during his walk home. Colt thought that was odd because you were always outside at this hour. He checked around back to make sure you were alright. If he didn’t see you, he’d go on his way and ask about it all in the morning.

He found you moving chickens into a temporary enclosure. A tree limb fell on their coop in the middle of the night. You spent all morning rounding the gang up and gathering supplies for repairs. Now you had to remove the limbs and fix everything.

“Need some help?” Colt asked. You practically jumped out of your skin.

“Oh, goodness! Colt”

He immediately apologized, and you laughed it off after you recovered. He giggled too after making sure you were alright. Honestly, there was a good chemistry between you two and Colt was super handsome. He would make a great boyfriend if you took things further.

You told him you could handle everything, but this time he remained firm in his decision to help. You relented, but you’d only let him help after he got a little hydrated and had something to eat. Cooking food for others was part of your love language. You cared about him enough to make sure he was properly nourished.

You made Colt two bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches with mayo on toasted bread. He inhaled them and half the pitcher of freshly squeezed lemonade you made this morning. You laughed and talked together while your food settled. He scooted closer to you and started flirting. Of course, you twirled your hair and reciprocated.

His cheeks were beet red while a dusting of pink spread across yours. You smiled shyly up at him through your eyelashes. He was seconds from asking you out. He just needed to get the courage to form the sentence.

That’s when you found out the bullman was a jealous being. As he crossed the field, he heard you laugh. He loved that sound more than anything, so he came to investigate and see what had you so tickled. He saw a familiar man sitting with you. It was Colt! He bellowed his disapproval, which got your attention, and stopped Colt from asking his question.

“Oh, what pissed him off?” Colt inquired aloud.

You scooted away from Colt and noted the time. “Colt, could you go around front and grab my tools? I had the box out near the corner of the house. I had to fix the drain this morning.”

Colt was eager to please, despite feeling disappointed that he was interrupted. He tipped his hat and walked off to find them while you pretended to survey the coop. Once he was out of sight, you addressed the angry bullman. He barred his teeth and snorted at Colt’s direction, but you reached over and took his hand. He immediately snapped out of his rage and whimpered at you.

“Hey, hey. It’s alright. It’s just Colt from your farm. He’s a good guy. We’ll have to meet later in the evening. He’s going to help with repairs.”

You tried your best to reassure him that everything was alright, and that Colt wouldn’t hurt you. He calmed down a little and pulled at your arm as if begging you to stay. You told Reiner he needed to compose himself and scolded him lightly.

The latter was completely true because the next day, Reiner gave him hell. Colt ended up injuring his leg and had to take paid leave to recover. That’ll teach Colt and anyone else to think twice before encroaching on what belonged to Reiner.

Not long after Colt’s accident, you met Farmer Magath at the market. He asked how your homestead was going. You told him all was fine and running smoothly, which was great because it was your first time living alone.

Farmer Magath then inquired about the bullman and asked if he troubled you any. You felt in your gut it was best not to tell him about your friendship with the bullman, so you lied and said you’ve seen him a few times, but he left you alone. You inquired about his other animals and if he had names for them. Only the bullman had a name.

The whole thing didn’t last long. He did what he had to do, but you were suddenly imagining so much more. You wanted to see him mate up close so you could- God! You were a pervert! A dirty, disgusting pervert!

“We brought him here registered under the name Reiner,” the farmer told you. “I didn’t see no point in changing it, so we just kept callin’em Reiner.”

Magath warned that mating season would soon start. Things might get loud on the farm. Cows were vocal when it was time to mate and the bullman became a nightmare once his rut hit. You just laughed and said it wouldn’t bother you and you offered him some vegetables from your garden. He declined and said, "It’s best to save, can, or sell, ma’am. Don’t waste none on me."

When you got home, you noticed Reiner was on the other side of the fence with some cattle. He paced behind one and seemed tense. He turned, and you got a full side view of his cock for the first time. The bottom half of his body was the bull part, and he was huge. He wrapped a fist around it and pumped it a few times. Then you watched from your window as he mounted the cow he paced behind previously and held it in place while he - why - why the fuck were you suddenly aroused by seeing this!?

He mated with the standing cow, finished, and pulled out. He huffed and sauntered off elsewhere after his deed was done, but he left you stunned with your mouth wide open.

Your self-belittlement did nothing to quell the sensation rising in your gut. You clenched your thighs together and thought about him fucking into you with that enormous cock. Muscles rippling, grip firm, him bending you over the fence as he gave you his seed. He’d tower above you and throw you around like a disposable cock sleeve. You needed to feel it. You wanted to be the one standing in place while he bred you.

Oh gods! Your mind and body screamed for a release, so you stumbled to your bedroom and fingered yourself until you came. One hand grasped your headboard while the other pushed you through a powerful orgasm. You thought of him and how he could easily lift you up. You thought of how he could fuck you on his dick. He didn’t need to mate with the cows. He could use you instead.

After finishing and coming down from your thirst, you felt so embarrassed. Even in your own home, which should be your safe haven, shame flooded over you. You got a drink of water from your kitchen and looked outside to see Reiner waiting for you at the fence. Your eyes went to his lower body, and you remained fixated on his cock sheath and large velvety balls. They looked bigger than normal. Was this part of his rut?

You saw the outline of his flaccid dick in the safety of its pouch. The imagery of his full erection took its place at the forefront of your thoughts. It was more human-like than you expected and oh-so thick and large. One thing was clear: it had to feel fucking good.

You shook your head and dismissed those terrible thoughts. It was wrong to have relations with hybrids and downright illegal in some places. They were potent beings and humans could easily get knocked up. In Marley there wasn’t a written law or punishment in place for mixed relationships, but people sure as shit made you into a social pariah and forced you into designated zones. You had to suppress this unnatural urge if you wanted to keep your homestead.

To clear your mind, you focused on making an evening meal. You gathered up cucumber sandwiches with cream cheese spread you made and placed them into the picnic basket along with fruit, fresh baked lemon cookies, and a container of lemonade. Reiner called out to you, as he often did when he got impatient. You took your knitting project and blanket to sit on, then went out the door just as he started pacing at the fence.

Reiner’s ears perked up, and he chuffed before becoming still and bleated to greet you. His tail flicked happily, and he bellowed once. He really missed you this morning, apparently.

“I just went to the store is all,” you reassured. “I ran into Farmer Magath, and he told me your name. It’s Reiner, right?”

He nodded, and those golden eyes became so bright. You swore he was about to jump the fence and hug you, but he stayed put.

“My name is Y/N.”

“Y/N,” Reiner repeated roughly. “I learn.”

You almost dropped everything. He spoke. You did not know he could speak!

“Reiner…you…you can talk?”

He lowered his ears and stepped back as if he did something bad. You immediately reassure him everything was okay.

“Reiner, I’m not mad! I’m glad you can speak. What all can you say?”

“Know some words. Trouble if heard. Trust you, so I talk. Want to talk to Y/N. Want Y/N to hear me.”

That’s right. Hybrids weren’t allowed an education. They weren’t allowed to learn how to speak and read. People didn’t talk to them like they were intelligent. They were treated like beasts despite them having many facets of human behavior.

“I won’t say anything,” you promise. “You can talk to me freely. I’m so happy to know we can speak to each other.”

Reiner smiled and looked at one of his favorite trees. “Come sit.” He couldn’t form the other words, so he pointed at himself. “Show you.”

“I don’t know If I should cross the fence,” you say.

“I come,” he replied as he approached the fence. “Want closer. Need closer. Tired of fence.”

He got agitated, but not at you. Words really were hard for him and who knows how long it had been since he last spoke to someone. He sighed, then looked to the sky. “Sun hot.”

“Let’s get you in the shade. I’ll come to your side. You can show me your tree.”

He was so happy he bleated again. He took the items you had in your hands and placed them down before helping you over to his side. You climbed a few panels, but he lifted you the rest of the way because he was so excited.

"Finally,” he said with a smile. “Not since, silly chicken. Now come. Hot. Bad for Y/N. Bad for Reiner.”

He led you to his favorite tree. It was a huge, brilliant willow right next to the bank of a wide river. The branches were so thick that no one could see inside the natural curtain. It was ideal for getting out of the scorching sun and keeping a low profile with Reiner.

When you entered, it felt fifteen degrees cooler from the branches. Songbirds and croaking frogs created a peaceful melody inside this magical hideaway. Moss bloomed like a natural carpet across the ground. Dragon flies danced with the cattails and reeds near the shore. Occasionally, a fish jumped and slapped the water after catching a bug flying too close to the surface.

Reiner made this place for himself. Only his hoof prints indented the ground. You realized this is where he came to make you things. He hung the wreathes you made on the lowest large branch he could reach with twine. He nestled the poppet you made of him in a knot near the center of the trunk. Shells, feathers, antlers, and stick ornaments adorned this place, making natural chimes. It was absolutely beautiful.

He got on his knees next to you as you looked around. You had to be the first he brought here and suddenly you realized how significant it was to be in his safe spot.

“Like?” He asked as he watched your expressions with heightened interest.

“It’s gorgeous,” you told him with a kind smile. “Let’s have lunch. I’m starving, aren’t you?”

He nodded and rose to help you spread the blanket before settling down again. You unpacked everything, and Reiner licked his lips with anticipation. Your eyes lingered on his mouth after his tongue passed over them. You never realized how plump and pretty his lips were. Despite being outside and exposed to the elements, he kept them moisturized. Damn, they looked so soft and kissable.

You wondered what they felt like molded against yours. What did his tongue feel like in your mouth? Could he learn to kiss you properly or would he simply mount and breed you like the cows if aroused? How would it feel pleasuring and prepping your cunt for his big, meaty-

You shook your head and resumed laying out your lunch before your thoughts went any further. Reiner watched you with growing curiosity. He was unsure why you looked lost in some sort of daze suddenly.

He went to ask, but something distracted him.

A wonderful scent snaked its way into his nose, and he inhaled slowly while closing his eyes. It wasn’t the food or the drink; it was- oh- his nostrils flared, and his eyes snapped open. Reiner’s pupils dilated, and he inhaled again to make sure he was right. Yes, yes! The scent was you! It was intoxicating, better than anything his senses experienced before, and it was so strong! Your body was ready to mate and conceive.

“Here’s your plate,” you offered, and it jarred him out of his building lust. Sweat dampened his brow and his fine blonde hair stuck to his forehead. He realized he clenched his jaw too tightly and needed to relax before he scared you.

Reiner took your food with a shaking hand. He muttered something that you assumed was a thanks. To your surprise, he stood up and put some distance between the two of you. He ate with his back turned and you watched his tail flick periodically. This was certainly unlike him.

Tension developed between the two of you, and you were clueless why. Your mind filled with worst-case scenario doubts. Perhaps he didn’t like cucumber sandwiches, or he regretted bringing you here.

You finished eating and realized Reiner remained in place with his gaze off elsewhere. You did not know he was battling with himself mentally and that his cock head rose from its blonde sheath. He readjusted his stance. Your smell drove him crazy, and it was forcing him into his rut early.

“Reiner, are you-“

“Reiner…I’m sorry if I-“

“Leave!” He growled. He dropped the plate. It smashed into three pieces when it hit the ground.

You gasped, and he flattened his ears when he heard it. His breath quickened and his heartbeat spread further across his lap. His pink tip flared and turned a deep red while the rest of his cock emerged. He needed to-

“Leave, Y/N!”

As fast as possible, you jumped up and put everything in the basket. You would not stick around if he was giving you the opportunity to go before he went on a rampage. You pulled your skirt past your ankles so you could move faster. In your rush to put distance between you and Reiner; however, your foot lodged into one of the raised roots. With a yelp, you fell and twisted your ankle.

“No! The basket!” you yelled as it launched from your hands.

It tumbled away. You heard glass jars clash together and break. The fall scraped your legs up good. Pieces of bark lodged into your knee and ankle. You dreaded picking them out. Tears pricked the corner of your eyes and you looked to see if Reiner could help you, but he was gone. It was just you and with your swollen foot stuck in these mangled roots.

You tried to pry the roots apart, but they wouldn’t budge. Your ankle was too big now to ease it through. You clenched your fist and struck the earth as you started sobbing. You could call for help, but then you’d have to explain why you were on this side of the fence and expose Reiner’s hiding place.

Time dragged on forever. The sky was growing dark and suddenly you heard something like hooves pounding into the ground. Reiner burst through the willow branches and hurried to your side. He was flushed and had a variety of visible emotions. Shame, concern, and strained control were the most notable.

“M’sorry! M’sorry!” he cried, but it made no sense to you. He was clearly upset, and he treated you like a fragile flower after he pulled the roots apart by hand and lifted your foot out. He picked you up and brought you to a more comfortable place to sit. Something was still clearly wrong, though. You saw the way his eyes dilated, and you realized he was trembling while taking off your slipper to examine your foot.

“Reiner, what’s wrong?”

He averted his gaze and snorted. Occasionally, he would shake his head as if there were something boring into his brain that he needed to get out. Reiner examined your foot to the best of his ability, then gently lowered it to the ground.

“M’sorry,” he said again. “Need to go. Rest, Y/N. I leave. I stand guard. Cannot be here.”

You boldly reached for his arm to stop him from leaving, and he snapped his eyes to yours.

“Please stay,” you begged. “I don’t know what I did wrong. Reiner, I’m-“

“No, not you. Me. Me! Not you!”

He spoke frantically. His words were all jumbled together. Reiner paused after seeing your face contort into confusion. He reached over with his big hand and cupped your cheek.

“Protect you. Losing self. Rut. Need to go. No hurt you. Control hard. Love…you.”

Your face bloomed with color after he spoke steadily and purposefully to make sure you understood his words. He stroked your cheek, then backed away before turning and leaving you alone beneath the curtain of the great willow. You saw his shadow in the fading light as he stood guard like he said he would.

“His rut,” you muttered. “He fought his instincts just now to make sure I wasn’t severely injured. That’s why he told me to leave earlier. Something worked him up. Wait, did he smell my arousal?”

You fell silent because you knew the answer. You sent him into a frenzy because you couldn’t keep your thoughts from wandering. This was all your fault.

Eventually, you stood on your own and left the willow. Reiner watched from afar as you went home. You had trouble getting over the fence, but you managed. He didn’t take his eyes off you until you were in your home.

The next day, you found your basket, remaining jars, and blanket piled neatly on your doorstep, along with a single flower. You glanced at the fence line, but he wasn’t there. After putting everything up and feeding the chickens, you rested in your living room chair with your foot elevated. You fell asleep and dreamt of Reiner.

He came into your house like it was something he did regularly. You did not know how it accommodated him, but it was clear he lived with you. He wore something like overalls and a plaid shirt. His hooved feet clicked across the floor as he went towards the bathroom. You heard running water as he washed his hands and face, cleansing himself of the day’s grime.

“Plowed the entire field in record time this morning,” he bragged as he came into the kitchen doorway while patting himself dry. He spoke perfect common tongue now, which further surprised you.

You were lost in the feeling of ecstasy as he fingered you in the kitchen. He placed one hand comfortably over your mouth to keep you quiet. Reiner was careful to make sure you could properly breath as he worked you toward your first orgasm. His cock grew between your ass cheeks as you whimpered in the palm of his hand and shook because your body had no control at this point.

You worked on dishes when he came and wrapped his powerful arms around you. He pulled you into his big, warm body. He smelled of the earth and hard work, but you liked it the same way you loved the smell of your grandfather’s old shed and dusty toolboxes. It was comforting, and he was so damn soft.

Reiner’s lips graced the column of your neck. His huge hands grabbed at whatever they could find and suddenly you were melting into his chest while gasping his name. He untied your apron and the crossties on your skirt. He pulled your blouse free, and those warm hands began exploring your lower body.

“Someone’s wet,” he teased as his meaty fingers brushed over your slit. “I could smell you when I opened the door. Mmm, I need to mate with you. Put another baby inside your pretty belly.”

“Another?” you wondered internally. “How many did we have together? How was this possible?”

Your thoughts vanished when he dipped those fingers into your warm, wet depths. He explored and searched your canal for your sweet spot. Reiner knew your body. He was teasing you, making you tense with anticipation while he acted mischievously clueless as to where he was going.

“I know it’s somewhere,” he cooed as he glided his pads over the many ridges of your inner tunnel. You clenched and squeezed his digits, pulling them further toward their destination. He let out a breathy chuckle when you squirmed.

One brush over your g spot was all it took for you to toss your head back and cry out. He pressed hard and rubbed it agonizingly slow while shushing you. “You’ll wake the babies, sweetheart. I can’t breed you if they stir. Be good for me. I need to prepare you. Too big for your tiny pussy.”

“Pretty, pretty little mate. Gonna fuck my seed into you. You love taking my cum. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

You nodded in his hand as waves of pleasure washed over you.

“Y/N?”

Suddenly, his voice changed, and your eyes darted around.

“Y/N? Are you alright?”

Why did you hear Colt suddenly?

“Y/N? Hello?”

You opened your eyes and gasped. Colt had his hand on your shoulder and was near your face. He immediately let go and stepped back when you woke up.

“Hey, you’re awake. Gosh, I was getting worried.”

“Colt, how did you get in here?”

“The door was open, so I came in to check on you. I thought something bad might have happened. Maybe you forgot to shut it all the way. I’m just glad you’re alright. It’s been a morning. Farmer Magath is dead, and the bullman is missing.”

“What?” You asked with wide eyes. “Did he…did he kill Mr. Magath?”

Colt solemnly nodded. “I came by to let you know and advise you to stay inside. I checked your barn and there was no sign of him. We’re getting a team together to track him down before he hurts anyone else.”

“But aren’t you still injured?”

Colt smiled and patted his leg. “I’ll be fine. I’m…honored you are concerned, Y/N. Your basket of treats made me want to heal up as quickly as I can. I miss our daily talks.”

You smiled at Colt, and he blushed. When he averted his gaze, it fell on your wrapped ankle. He gasped and immediately became concerned. “Y/N, what happened? Did you fall?”

“Yeah, got caught up and twisted when I was rushing around, trying to get Eren. You know how he likes to play escape.”

“He’s a troublesome chicken,” Colt sighed. “But I know you have a soft spot for him. Just be careful, okay? I’m going to head out now. Y/N, I will see you soon. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Colt left, and you sat for a moment trying to think. Reiner was missing. People were looking for him. What would happen if they found him? You paled at the possibilities running through your mind.

“I must find him before they do. I need to know why he did it.”

You hobbled outside to your barn to grab your walking stick and your ankle high shoes for extra support. Just as you were about to leave, you heard a familiar, soft bleat in the back of your barn near the hay storage.

“Reiner?”

You placed your stick down and closed the barn doors. You didn’t know why he was hiding in your barn, but you knew he wouldn’t have made that noise if he didn’t want you to find him. You thought about what Colt told you. Your door was wide open. You bet anything Reiner was trying to get inside to you, but he realized he couldn’t fit in your house. He erased his steps as he made for your barn. No wonder Colt couldn’t find him.

You peered into the back of the barn where you stored all the hay. Suddenly, the mountain of straw moved, and Reiner nudged his head through so he could peer out at you. He was wide eyed and scared.

“Y/N…”

“You’re safe. Oh gods, Reiner, what did you do?”

Reiner shook his head and crawled out from his hiding place. He frantically began explaining the situation to the best of his ability. “Not me. Other new bull in second field. Magath knocked down. Bull gored him. Too late to help. Worker saw after and think Reiner did. Scared. Reiner ran and find Y/N. House too small. Came here to hide.”

“It’s just a misunderstanding, Rei. It’s going to be okay.”

Reiner whimpered and hurried to you. He practically bent in half just to wrap his arms around you. He held you close as he sobbed. “Don’t want taken from Y/N. Help. Help keep safe. Never harm farmer. Not Reiner.”

It hurt your heart to see him like this. You knew he was telling the truth, but you also knew he could completely harm others.

“I believe you but, I want you to be honest about something. Colt told me you contributed to his injury. He thinks it was an accident, but I know you weren’t happy when he sat with me. Why did you hurt Colt?”

“Colt rival. Wants to mate with Y/N. No kill, just prove point. Reiner is better male to mate with. Never kill. Reiner not bad bull. Farmer asks Reiner to breed cows. Reiner does. Farmer asks to plow field, Reiner does. Good bull. Strong bull. New bull in other field bad, angry bull.”

“You injured Colt because you thought he wanted to…mate with me?”

Reiner pulled away from you and nodded. “Reiner saw and smell. Made angry. Y/N need choose Reiner. Best, strongest male. Give good offspring. Take care of Y/N. Colt weak.”

You wanted to laugh out loud, but he was being serious. You knew Colt liked you, and honestly, some part of you liked him back. The shitty thing about this situation was how you felt about Reiner. You shouldn’t feel this sense of longing and desire toward him, but you did. Oh god, you did. He was a hybrid and now things just got more complicated with people thinking he killed Farmer Magath. Despite all that, you’d do anything for him. Colt was great, but Reiner had a hold on you. You refused to shake it out of your mind. If Reiner wanted to make you his mate, you’d let him.

“I’ll protect you, sweet bull. No one is taking you anywhere.”

You reached up and cupped his rugged face. He let out a deep sigh and nudged your hand open more. You threw caution to the wind and guided his mouth to yours. He huffed, fanning his breath across your face before you swallowed it in a deep kiss. Those soft, plump lips you daydreamed about were finally yours and they felt better than you imagined.

Reiner bleated in surprise, and you swallowed that too. He didn’t quite understand what was happening until he realized he liked whatever this sensation was. He fluttered his eyes closed because that felt like the right thing to do.

Your kiss made heat rise from his legs to the base of his spine, causing all his hair to bristle. He flicked his tail and stumbled with you still connected to his mouth. His back hit the mountain of hay and his big hands settled comfortably on your hips. Your tongue prodded and swiped at his lips. Reiner seemed to understand because he allowed you entry. He tasted like a combination of mint, fennel seeds, and cloves. Your mind shifted between thoughts of warm, soothing tea and licorice or cinnamon candy. The moment he started mimicking your play with his own tongue, however, your thoughts vanished.

Reiner pulled a low moan from your throat as he shyly swirled his tongue around yours. His timid passes made you want to giggle as he crept in to explore your mouth. You felt his fingers dig into your skin, pressing hard enough to raise bruises on your tender flesh.

His eyes snapped open when he finally caught the smell of your arousal. He rumbled out something as you made out. A warning, but you didn’t care. Let him fuck you. Let him take what he wanted. Let him breed you if he damn well pleased!

You kissed him harder and let your body fall into his while your hands snaked through his golden hair. You were careful to avoid his horns as you threaded your fingers deeply toward his scalp. He squirmed beneath you as you dragged your nails over his skin, and you imagined he was hard by now. You wanted to see it for yourself, so you gently retreated from his mouth, leaving a nice string of saliva connecting the two of you for a moment.

Reiner stared at you with flared nostrils and dark, dilated eyes. You rolled off him and looked down to see his cock rising from his sheath. It was so red and angry with a strange fleshy ring a quarter way down the length. You fucking wanted it badly. You wanted him. You needed him to fuck you stupid in this goddamn hay pile.

He propped himself up on his elbows and watched you with hungry eyes. He wanted to pounce on you and yet he refrained. You wondered why. Perhaps he awaited your permission.

You determined that was certainly the case. He trembled and fought his rut back for your sake. He truly was a good-mannered bull. At least towards you.

Reiner bared his teeth and looked away while mumbling to himself that he needed to calm down. He went to get up, but you stopped him before he could raise his back off the hay pile. “Let go, Reiner. Let go and take me for yourself.”

Those were the last coherent words to come from your mouth. He gazed into your eyes for a moment to make sure you were completely sure. Reiner understood having relations with you was a risky matter. He was careful to conceal his intelligence until he met you.

You, with your sparkling smile and honeyed words. You, who looked angelic in any lighting. He found joy in the things you made and the good food you gave him. You…who looked at him the same way he did you.

He let the rut take over.

Feral was an understatement when describing Reiner’s next actions. He launched himself from his position and shredded your clothes. You gasped in surprise at the sudden chill, but he didn’t stop to check on you now. He fixated those dilated eyes on one thing and one thing only, despite looking at nothing at all.

Mate. Mate! Mate! You swore you could hear his instincts chanting away as he flipped you over and pulled your ass and leaking cunt into the air. You were mentally ready for him to do whatever he pleased with your body.

He stalled, and you imagined he was a bit confused. Your anatomy was different compared to what he was used to copulating with. You looked back over your shoulder to check and found him in a daze. He pumped his length vigorously while inhaling the scent of your sex like a drug. His eyes closed slowly, and you realized he was imprinting your scent into his very being.

It was something unique to hybrids and considered a bonding ritual like no other. You’d be inseparable from now on and his breeding days for profit were undoubtedly done. A paired hybrid does not stray from its chosen mate.

You quivered when you felt his breath fan across your opening. Those big, powerful hands grasped your hips, and you moaned like an overstimulated whore when his tongue lapped at your silky folds. He slurped and swirled his tongue, which was way bigger than yours. He could’ve easily dominated you while you kissed, but kissing was something foreign to him. Licking your cunt was part of his mating and imprinting process. There was nothing timid about the way his tongue moved now.

He buried his nose in your ass while he tongue fucked your clenching cunt. It was such a fucking strange feeling. You wanted to crawl away from him. You refrained because he had such a firm hold on your body and you didn’t want him to stop licking you, either. If he were a normal man, you’d call him a pervert and fight to get away. It wasn’t a kink you cared to indulge in but, this was a unique situation.

Reiner fucked as beasts did. Inhaling and tasting scents, savoring all of it while preparing you to receive him as nature intended. He made sure his seed wouldn’t go to waste by confirming your fertile status. Something about his primal ritual made you so fucking turned on.

A shaky sigh followed an earthly groan as it rumbled from your nethers to your core. You tried to brace yourself as he worked you, unknowingly to him, to your first orgasm. He moved from lapping at your cunt to tasting your ass. He whimpered while swirling his tongue inside your puckered hole like the desperate bull he was. Honestly, you prayed he wouldn’t try to fuck you anally. You had a feeling that wasn’t his goal. This was just part of him knowing you, all of you.

He went back to lapping lewdly at your cunt. His tongue brushed over your clit, and you whined out his name. He growled as if satisfied by the sweet sound of your cry and teased it again to see if you’d react the same way. Another call of his name tumbles from your quivering lips and he barrages your clit with powerful flicks and tongue-tip presses.

Tears stream down your face from the overwhelming stimulation and you cum hard. Your juices surge out, surprising him in such a way that he’s left scrambling to catch and drink it all clumsily. He rumbles out a deep groan as your natural flavor washes over his greedy tongue. His eyes roll back into his head, but you don't see it. You don’t see his angry cock oozing strings of thick, pearly pre. You don’t see it bobbing with his lust drenched heartbeat.

Reiner is left gasping and conflicted. He’s desperate to taste more of your cum, but the need to fuck you dominated his mind. His balls were so fat and swollen from being denied yesterday. You couldn’t fit the pair of them in your hands even if you tried. It hurt, and he needed a release.

His tip pressed against your cervix, and you yelped. Reiner grunted and repositioned to angle his head upward to carve out a proper space for his fat cock once he started thrusting. His medial ring slipped into your stretched hole next. Eventually, your belly gave way to him as he sheathed himself inside you entirely. He stuffed you full of pulsing hybrid cock and it was so fucking painful. You begged for pleasure to take you into a euphoric stupor so you could erase this agonizing feeling from your body.

Reiner’s instincts decided for him. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you thought about the day you saw him breed that cow. It stood still as he mounted it and you did the same as he lined himself up to your tenderized hole. You thought of him ravaging you, and you taking all of him so easily, but it was about to hurt like hell.

It didn’t matter how much he licked your little cunt. It didn’t matter that your tunnel was sopping wet from cumming. It certainly didn’t make a fuck’s worth of difference that globs of slick, milky pre coated his dick. He was bigger than any human being, but oh fuck! You’d stretch for him. Through the tears, you would force yourself down his length. You swore to the heavens your ass would press up against his furry abdomen and that those fat fucking swinging balls would slap your clit while he fucked his offspring into you. You’d be his baby producing cum dumpster alright. Whatever Reiner wanted; he’d have it.

Your pep-talk became ash when his thick head pressed against your lips. He nudged himself further, parting your folds beautifully like pink, cascading curtains. He slipped his scorching tip inside, penetrating your ring of muscles for the first time. His heat soothed you as he retreated and reentered multiple times. He made you feel like a virgin, all tight and untouched by sin. In your mind, he was teasing you, but Reiner was attempting to gradually stretch your hole to accommodate him better.

Your hands clenched into fists, and you bared your grit teeth as he finally passed his cockhead through completely. Your entry clenched just beneath his flared edge, holding him in place. He groaned, tossing his head back from the snug feeling of your fleshy vice.

Your cunt pulled at his head, wanting it to come further inside despite his size. Your body milked and stimulated the many nerves on his tip with each involuntary squeeze. He wanted to bellow and trumpet his mating call, but he swallowed it down. If he announced to the world he was fucking you, he’d give away his hiding spot to the men looking for him. He also refused to put you in further danger. No one would touch his little mate.

You belonged to him, and soon, your womb would be occupied with his baby. You were still ripe to receive. That thought alone made him grow impatient. He needed to fill you so his seed would take as soon as possible. The window of fertility was short for humans, and he could smell his opportunity slipping away.

He pushed his length in deeper, causing you to cry out and writhe beneath him. You felt flesh split. Blood trickled from your overly stretched and stuffed entrance as he forced himself into your depths. Pleasure had to come eventually. That’s what you told yourself as you screwed your eyes shut and sobbed from the pain.

“T-tight,” Reiner rumbled. “So tight!”

Reiner’s thighs trembled as he stayed still for a moment. You heard him gasping as if entering you took his breath away. The audacity of him, honestly. He wasn’t used to fucking into such tight, restrictive spaces, but you were the one taking all his oversized girth in your tiny, pocket-sized pussy. Despite this, you were goddamn determined to acclimate to his size so he could fuck you whenever he wanted.

“Fuck me, Reiner,” you ordered with a staggered breath. “Fuck your mate and let me take your cum.”

His first real thrust made you choke on your words. Those strong, fuzzy thighs sounded muffled as they struck your bare skin. His fingers dug into your hips, and you became Reiner’s fucked out little fleshlight. Your tongue lulled out of your mouth and your eyes disappeared into the back of your head as he put all his weight into railing you. You’ve never felt so full in your entire life!

Before you knew it, he lifted your legs off the ground. One of his hooves planted itself firmly next to your full extended arms. You were in the lewdest wheelbarrow position ever, skewered on a big, meaty bullman cock.

You could’ve dangled there like a lifeless doll if you wanted. He had a good hold on you as he rutted and formed his perfect fuckhole from your body. It gladly gave way for his dick during each thrust. Your mind was elsewhere in some fucked out dimension as he jackhammered you into rapturous oblivion. He would undoubtedly arrange your guts after he finished claiming you tonight.

Reiner’s rhythm was primal, and his deep, animalistic grunts matched his hunched over state. His balls beat against your clit. He speared himself so deep inside you that your belly bulged with every forward thrust. He looked like a dumb beast happily fucking away its natural arousal brought on by a bitch in heat. That’s exactly what you were. A bitch in heat. The sloppy, lewd noise from your cunt made that terribly obvious as he happily chased his orgasamic high within your abused cunt.

An unfamiliar sensation took over in your tunnel. The medial ring on his cock expanded. You shifted slightly, and he strengthened his hold on you. Perhaps he was afraid you would try to get away while he was close to his climax.

He put all his weight on his firmly planted hoof when he no longer could thrust. You were numb to the pain you should’ve felt as he rammed his tip against your cervix and knotted inside you.

He whimpered before letting out a staggered bellow. Reiner pulled so tightly against his body that you felt his abs flex and tense along your back. His balls jumped between your thighs, and you felt a surge of cum spurt inside you, coating your tunnel instantly.

It was searing hot, but it did little to soothe your belly as it expanded from his load. You felt it splash into your womb and you knew his seed would surely take root. The rest of his cum overflowed from your conjoined sexes, down to the back of your thighs.

Your vision became hazy. He pumped you beyond full as your world faded to black. You never thought someone, or something would fuck you until you were unconscious. Honestly, you’d do it all over again until he was satisfied, and you were properly fertilized.

Sometime later, your lashes fluttered softly over your cheeks as you finally stirred. You opened your eyes about halfway and realized your barn was pitch black. Was it night already?

You smelled a combination of hay, sex and… was that pine? Why did you smell pine straw? Heavy, rhythmic breathing distracted you from investigating further. That’s when you realized you were on your side, completely eclipsed by Reiner’s mighty form while he slept. You were nestled against his chest. Turns out he naturally smelt like pine.

When you shifted, he inhaled sharply. A soft questioning bleat left his mouth before he raised his head to check on you. His enormous hands pulled you closer to his warm body as if he was afraid, he’d lose you. He was being so tender that it melted your heart.

“My mate,” Reiner mumbled. “My Y/N. No one else’s.”

You fell asleep in his arms again moments later. One night in the barn wouldn’t hurt.

Months passed and one night became almost permanent. Reiner remained in hiding on your property. A man hunt ignited in the town for a few weeks until it was determined that Reiner got away. Magath’s murder remained on the minds of the town’s people. You were biding your time.

The bank divided Farmer Magath’s property and put it up for sale. You went to Reiner’s willow and collect everything he had. All his creations and yours decorated the interior of the barn.

Reiner was more than happy. He got home-cooked meals every day. He enjoyed thoroughly washing and grooming. His hooves were beautifully polished, and his thick coat of hair was so silky and smooth. You cut his hair, so it wasn’t so shaggy, and you moisturized his upper body, softening his skin. You taught him how to care for his nails and brush his teeth instead of simply chewing on cloves or fennel seeds. Reiner continued to do the latter from time to time. He insisted on mimicking you despite your reassurance he didn’t need to change or conform to your ways. You taught him how to talk and read because he asked. He soaked everything up like a sponge.

Life was good, but it wasn’t without trouble. Colt continued to visit. You didn’t mind, but you also didn’t want him to become suspicious. Of course, three months later, when your belly began to grow, you realized things were about to get more difficult.

Reiner confirmed you were pregnant well before your body made you aware. He could sense it and was happy to tell you while holding you protectively close one morning. His big hand cupped your tummy, and he propped himself on his elbow just to watch you sleep. He gazed down at you like you were the most beautiful creature on earth. To him, you absolutely were, and you were carrying his little one.

“Good morning, Rei,” you muttered without opening your eyes. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmmm, always with you.”

He leaned closer, careful not to catch you with his horns, and nuzzled the side of your neck. He planted gentle kisses all the way to your jawline. His warm breath graced your skin and pricked goosebumps across your body.

“Want to mate,” he mumbled. “Gentle and slow, like you show me. Felt good but…”

“But?”

He lifted his away before answering you. “Too much for your tiny body. Might endanger the baby even if slow."

You opened your eyes after that comment and found him staring lovingly at your stomach. Anxiety flooded over you and vanished just as quickly as you watched him. He was such a big brutish bull with an intimidating presence, but the soft expression on his face made you express a lover’s sigh. He could be delicate just as easily as he could remove an entire tree, roots and all, with his strength.

Reiner would be a good father. You knew it based on how he cared for you. The reason he tried so hard to acclimate to your way of life was so you wouldn’t regret your decision to let him sow his seed. It was crystal clear that he loved you.

When Colt visited you, he knew something was up. You distanced yourself from him and curved his advances. When your stomach showed and he put two and two together, he experienced heartbreak.

As you finished up dinner to take for you and Reiner one evening, Colt knocked on your door. You answered and saw his red, puffy eyes first.

“Colt…”

He smiled wearily, grateful for your concern. “Hey, sorry you must see me like this. Y/N, this…is embarrassing and I blame myself entirely for not asking you about your relationship status before developing feelings. I just wanted to come congratulate you. I did not know you were involved with someone, and I feel like an idiot. I just never saw someone besides you at the cottage. I assumed you were single.”

You wanted to be honest with him and tell Colt about Reiner. He listened to you theorize about the accident about Farmer Magath with an open mind. He verified that the new bull bought before his death was unruly and previously killed its prior handler.

You learned that the worst of Colt’s injury came from transporting the new bull. Reiner ended up spooking his horse, and Colt fell off. His knee was dislocated, and he had a torn tendon. He never blamed Reiner for what happened. He also didn’t know Reiner scared his horse on purpose because he flirted with you the previous day. You kept that knowledge to yourself.

“Y/N, I don’t mean to pry but, can you tell me what he’s like?”

“Who?” you inquired.

“The person you’re with,” he replied. “The father to your child. I just…want to know if he’s good to you.”

His words touched your heart. Colt loved you. He’d do damn near anything for you. If you told him right here and now that you’d be raising the child alone, he’d pledge himself to you. He was such a pure man. You owed him the truth.

“Colt, come inside. I need to have a serious conversation with you."

He took one look at your face and moved with purpose. He sat down at the table, and you brought him fresh hot tea and biscuits. You told Colt everything about you and Reiner. He understood then why Reiner was pissed at the fence that day. He also realized you were telling him all this because...

“It’s his baby. I love him and he returns my love beautifully.”

Colt took it all in and sighed. He gave you another weary smile again. “I knew he was in your barn that day and I kept my mouth shut. I saw you walking with him and giving him food several times. I made sure no one ever saw you two. Y/N, I love you.... I love you enough to protect you and Reiner."

Your eyes shined with tears as he reached over and took your hand. “Please tell me you’ve seen a doctor. You need to make sure you’re healthy.”

“No... I was afraid to. I didn’t know how to come out and say-“

Suddenly, he jolted up and clenched his fist with purpose. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you! You need to see someone to make sure you and the baby are well. If people ask, tell them the child is mine. They won’t know who the father is until the child is born. By then, we’ll get you and Reiner somewhere safe, okay?”

“Colt...why would you -“

“I love you, that’s why,” he said firmly. “I’m not trying to make you choose Reiner or me. We don’t have to be romantically involved with me to show you how much I care about you. Yeah, I’m experiencing a little grief, but I can deal with that later. Right now, you and Reiner need help. I’m not abandoning you.”

He shushed you and rested his chin on the top of your head. “We’ll get through this, alright? I promise.”

You don’t know what compelled you to stand up and launch yourself into his arms, but you did. He held you tightly and kissed the top of your head. “Thank you, Colt. Thank you so much. I’m so glad to have met you.”

“Sorry I’m late Reiner.”

After Colt left, you gathered dinner and went to the barn. Reiner greeted you the minute you opened the door. He looked worried and like he was ready to come find you.

He grunted and placed his hand on the middle of your back to guide you inside. He closed the barn door and flared his nostrils. You had a scent on you he recognized...and he didn’t like it one bit.

You prepared your spot at the table. He sat across from you on the ground. You felt his gaze settle on you and you couldn’t help but to glance up.

“Colt?” he questioned bitterly.

You sighed and smiled. “He visited for a while and he’s why I’m late.”

Reiner’s eyes darkened. “Colt touch Y/N?”

“Not like that,” you replied. “He knows about you, Reiner. He knows I’m carrying your child. He wants to help us.”

Reiner listened and relaxed his jaw. His shoulders lowered eventually, and he huffed. “Help how? You trust him? No tricks?”

You explained everything to Reiner. By the end, he rubbed his chin in thought. You ate and left him to his thoughts so he could properly process everything.

“You like Colt?” he finally asked after he let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Good human mate, yes?”

“What ...what are you asking, Reiner?”

“Don’t want Y/N to feel trapped,” he mumbled.

“I don’t feel trapped,” you reassured. “Colt is a good guy and, in the beginning, I thought about him when I was trying to push you out of my mind. I don’t see him the way I see you. I’m yours and I regret nothing. Besides, it’s not like I can back out now.” You rested your hand on your stomach. “I wouldn’t if I could. That’s that.”

Reiner straightened his back and held his head up pridefully. His tail flicked, showing excitement. “Happy you love being mine. Never make you regret choices. We trust Colt and we go to a safe place. Grow our family and live good lives.”

You smiled and thought about the dream you had before Colt came by. Maybe that’s what encouraged you to open up to him. You were great at making your dreams come true. After all, a dream fueled your desire to buy this property. You made it happen and you could damn well do it again for Reiner.

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wttcsms · 4 months

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daylight [pt. ii] ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 19.2k synopsis colt grice's life has never been easy, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse. content contains sw!reader, canon discrimination against eldians, derogatory terms towards women author's notes if you count part one, it took nearly 32k words for them to share their first kiss. who says the pwp writer can't have range? also, i'm always in a constant state of thanks to @mochalate, who constantly motivates me to work on this fic <3

part two: no kissing

Colt Grice’s first kiss catches him off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This thought makes him sad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I fell asleep, sir.”

“Well, no shit!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

“No work tonight?” Malik asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fight or flight.

You choose the weakest of the options: freeze.

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

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

“Or ya just a whore for free?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” There’s no point in lying.

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

“Excuse me?”

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

“The name’s all for marketing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

“Wherever I go, I’d still be me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some nights, it’s even mildly entertaining.

Tonight, it just hurts.

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

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

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

You stare at your door, willing it to open.

Hoping. Wanting. Waiting.

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

You sink into your mattress.

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

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

Tonight is his first night of renewed freedom.

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

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

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

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

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

—he wants to see you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t smoke.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not this again—”

“Get real, Ali—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pro: guaranteed money.

Con: only a real freak would do that.

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

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

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

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

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

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

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

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

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

“If that’s what you want me to do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love it.” You tell him.

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

“Why were you gone for so long?”

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

He drops to his knees immediately.

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

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

That’s what he is.

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

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

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

“You forgive me?”

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

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

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

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

“Nope. It’s perfect as is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that betrayal is going to hurt the worst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only if you want me to.”

Disarmed.

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

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

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

“She was considered to be pretty, yes.”

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

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

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

“Nothing. She’s actually married now.”

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about your first girlfriend.”

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

“So you’re a—”

“No!” He’s blushing. “I—”

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

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

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

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

“I know.” You’re smiling at him.

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

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

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

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

“I’ve never been kissed before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His back is turned to you.

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

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

“Colt, did I do something wrong?”

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

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

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

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

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

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

You wonder if you want him to.

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

“You can look now.”

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

“You’re beautiful.”

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

“So, you’re the girlfriend,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, I’m still here!” He grumbles.

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

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You decide to be just as unfiltered as he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because someone is coming over to visit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m visiting someone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

“Colt!”

Breathless. That’s how he feels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You promised Malik you would marry him!”

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

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

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

Besides, you could do much worse than Malik.

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

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

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

“What intentions?”

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

“I would like for us to get married.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The two of you walk together in silence.

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

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

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

A beat.

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

“I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she say no?” Nadia asks him.

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

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

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Nadia.”

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

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

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

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

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

Colt has no answer to that.

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

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

“What’s the matter?”

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

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

He’s got time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That makes sense.”

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

“So this is goodbye, then?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

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

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

“Are you going to marry him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Radiant?” You repeat, giggling softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alive.

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

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

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

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

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

—all of it was reserved for this golden soldier.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. So much for good karma.

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

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

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

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