#fraterniite

[amachja-moved]

@fraterniite​​ said:  Marco stood at the edge of the bay of the air ship, staring quietly down at the destruction wrought upon Liberio. an easy death sentence sat before him, begging him to take one, two steps forward. he swung his boot forward before he felt arms grasp around his waist from behind, dragging him back and down, sunk to the floor with a crash and metallic clang. his eye focused on a visage staring wide eyed, teeth gritted together. her words registered, briefly, before fading into a high pitched ringing noise. "Sasha," he whispered, but it went unnoticed. "Sasha!" his voice boomed over the hum of engines and rush of air. "... I just wanted to get some fresh air."

----------------- Her heart leapt out of her chest; and she had had no choice but to follow it - act first, ask questions later. Had she been paying particular attention to Marco, or does she only have chance to blame for her extraordinary reflexes - chances, or perhaps those famed instincts everyone was so prompt to lend her. Her friend had been there, hovering at the corner of her eye, her attention still hyperfocused on every single sound out there; you’re our lookout Sasha, be careful. Well, looked out she had; the friction of his ODM gear, or perhaps that of the sole of his shoe on the floorboards, a bit too close to the edge for comfort; and she had leapt at him, arms stretched out and claw-like in their strength, predator diving on its prey. 

Something rings at her ears; baffled voices muffled in a distance that only exists in her head, witnesses horrified as though she is a feral animal attacking an innocent child. Maybe she is. She must be, all claws out, pupils dilated and jaw clenched; she yanks herself from under Marco’s weight and rolls on the floor before rising up and gripping firmly at the collar of his uniform. “What are’ya thinkin’?!” Adrenaline and fright burn into her voice, turn it into searing hot lava on her lips; blood beneath her skin is boiling too. Finally Marco’s voice reaches her; it grates against the surface of her mind and leaves it bleeding raw. 

Some fresh air? Some fresh air?? Claw-like grip tighten on his shirt; do you think I’m that stupid, Marco? Can he not hear the pounding in her chest, the scream of panic she has been holding back since she had thought, for a fraction of a second, that he would disappear through that open door? She clings hard, so her hands don’t shake. She grits her teeth harder, so she doesn’t say anything she is going to regret. Somebody puts a hand on her shoulder and she abruptly shrugs it off. But she gets the message. Calm down, Sasha, she thinks to herself, forcing the erratic arythmy of her breathing to slow down. He is safe now. He’s on the ship. He is here. He is safe. 

“... there might be shooters outside, knucklehead! Don’t get so close to the edge.” If only her voice could be as assured as his. Fingers uncurl and free him from her deadly grip. Colour has deserted usually tanned cheeks; deep in the depths of her gaze looms an old familiar pain. A fear. Four years old and tenacious as ever. “... don’t do this again.” Order comes as a plea draped in a murmur. From one terrified friend, to one who seemingly decided he has nothing left to gamble. “... please.” 

#fraterniite #ic;; i'm going on an adventure (rp) #v;; beneath the mountain music woke (timeskip) #i just wanna say thank you saturn for providing me with the chance to write a slightly more brutal sasha than i usually do #i dig it a lot <3

[oncejaw]

@fraterniite​ said:  ❛   you needed someone to blame, so you cast it on me: a dead person.  ❜ ( from Marco at fraterniite uvu pick your poison on which verse it is! )  

-------------- “Shut up, Marco.”

Slurred syllables stumble past his lips and into the near-empty glass his absent-minded eyes seek to drill into. His latest report lies on his desk, discarded and forgotten already - when he was still a candidate, never would Marcel Galliard leave a task incomplete. How things have changed. Inches away, the light of a lampdesk flicker; casts shadows around the room that, in the dead of night, thicken, swell, end up taking all the space and even, sometimes, body and voice.

Sometimes the shadows become people, and he can’t seem to be able to shake them off. Especially not when they are dead. Persistent ghosts with mouths that keep yapping at his ears.

He can feel it drilling into the back of his neck. Marco’s gaze, or what he imagines to be Marco, tucked away somewhere in one of the dark corners of his room. Whiskey turns sour in his mouth, a metallic twinge dancing on his tongue - blood, so much blood, oozing and pooling, dark and black and thick like tar; Marcel knows what blood feels like, tastes like, nobody had warned him that the Jaw’s senses would be so directly connected to his. He was not the one who had eaten Marco; but he thinks he can taste it all the same, and it makes him sick beyond what he knows himself capable to stomach. 

“If you hadn’t heard anything...” Worse. If he hadn’t said anything, they would have been none the wiser. Maybe they would have even pretended. Marcel’s fingers curl into a fist that he presses to his forehead. Stop justifying yourself, Galliard. Doesn’t he owe him at least some sincerity, in this hour of perfect solitude and desolation? Even if he is only a ghost. Even if he is only a part of the sick imagination of a young Warrior with nothing left to his name but the flip side of a blood-stained medal engrave directly onto his chest.

“Your death was not the cause of our failure, no matter how much it broke the others.” The others. Not me. I couldn’t. “You were only the beginning of the end. We were screwed the minute we broke through the wall.” The minute we didn’t turn back. His fist is clenched so hard, he feels the sting of fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm. In the darkness, amber irises flick over his shoulder to drill into the shape standing in the shadows - come out, Marco. Aren’t you dead already? What else do you have to lose? “If you want me to say I’m sorry, I am. Hell, I’ll even admit we shouldn’t have done it. But guess what.” A growl at the back of his throat; a beast, restless, blood-thirsty; it never sleeps, never quietens, always stretches and claws and longs to roar. Don’t say it, a quiet voice whispers at the back of his mind. Own up to it, another one barks. There used to be a time when he knew how to weave kindness and toughness together; how to keep his back straight without making himself too sharp-edged. No longer. Not anymore. No matter how much he tries to remember. “If that was the only way I could keep them safe, even just for another day, I’d do it again.” 

#fraterniite #ic;; je donne ma main à l'enfer sous vos crachats ma rédition (rp) #v;; doomsday clock (timeskip) #tw alcohol #i had a weird idea and i rolled with it i hope that somewhat works out bjhbjb #heck it can even he actual marco infiltrating marley and catching drunk marcel off guard WHO KNOWS #i think the moral of this story is i need more antogonistic interactions #people please come for his blood

[oncejaw]

@fraterniite​​​ said:  he'd heard Levi's command to stand back. he'd felt Jean's fingers ripped away from his shoulder as he flew forward in the air. for a few moments, he felt weightless, staring at the bone white pillar careening into the sky, at the chaos of titan combat below him. he'd become so comfortable with death -- he'd stared it in the face once and he'd do it again. with another shot, hid against the night sky, he surged forward, straight toward death's maw. scarred arm pulled back, he launched a thunderspear into those gaping jaws. as much as he wanted to erupt in rageful screams, he kept his lips pressed tight. talking hadn't gotten him anywhere last time.

--------------- Hellfire has rained in Liberio; and all the devils are here, be they clad in black or titan flesh. Incendiary rage surges as faithful companion to panic and terror, one the shadow of the other, fueled by the gallons of blood spilled upon cobblestone below them. Marcel’s anger burn so hot, it burns white and icy; oh, the irony, oh, how the tables have turned. That, he can accept. That the Paradisians would one day seek retribution for the destruction inflicted upon them had been as inevitable as snow in winter in the mountains. Marcel is keenly aware of it; doesn’t mean he will offer his neck to the executioner and not put up a fight. There are innocents, down there. Children crushed under piles of debris. His own brother, joining in the fight somewhere below. 

There is another innocent; the ghost of one, an unfortunate victim to circumstances and the cruelty of his cold, immutable determination. Scars had not changed Marco Bodt as much as a near-brush with death had, Marcel had gathered when he first laid his eyes on him. Innocent no more: the thunderspear goes flying right at him, right into the open maw of his titan; shit, shit, shit. The pain is as explosive as the device upon ignition: it sears into the upper half of his body, burn through the right side of his face under the Jaw’s flesh, coaxes a roar of agony out of his monster as he goes crashing into nearby building. Only a lucky reflex had saved him from worse, the titan’s head turned at the last second; the plated bone of its face is severely damaged, but the muscles still hold, and the Warrior inside, injured as he may be, still lives. 

He is like a devil jumping from its box: fragments of bone falling off yet as swift as though he had walked it off unscathed. A torrent of steam hisses from the wound, Marcel putting all his energy into accelerating the healing process, pouring it all into moving the Jaw as fast as possible. The small, cruel eyes of the Jaw barely register Marco’s face; so does Marcel’s brain, a filter put up between him and his victim. Faces blurred. All recognition deliberately thwarted, kinship denied in the must cruel of ways. Should he stop, should he think, should he feel... he shudders, thinking what would happen then. He shudders, and he shuts it down. A switch flicked, a coldness beaten and shocked into him since infancy; sorry Marco. Nothing personal.

He had said it then. He will say it again now.

Finally the Jaw finds its angle; Marcel pivots abruptly and bounces, surges up in the air, claws out to catch the wires of ODM gear - cut his escape route or send him crashing onto the street, doesn’t matter - he will catch him next. Deliberate. Calculated. Cold. This is the anger Marley has drilled into him. A savagery thirsty for blood, violence begetting violence. Four years ago, he couldn’t stop, no matter how much Marco begged him, no matter how much his pleas had made his heart shatter, how sick and disgusted the churn in his stomach had felt. Today, he cannot stop either; no matter how much he wishes he could. For Marco, for all the others.

#fraterniite #ic;; je donne ma main à l'enfer sous vos crachats ma rédition (rp) #v;; doomsday clock (timeskip) #today we rise and choose VIOLENCE

[oncejaw]

@fraterniite​ (plotted)

-------------- Ten days. That is all the time left before the 104th Cadet Corps recruits officially get to decide on their next assignment. The top ten trainees have been announced; all that remains to be done is for everyone to transition into a soldier’s life by way of a few weeks of work in the Garrison. Ten days. Wishful thinking, of course. It is almost too easy, letting oneself get lulled and deceived by this countdown, when another one, only known to a few, is already at work.

If everything goes according to plan, there might not be a ceremony at all.

No point thinking about that now. A file of reports in hand, Marcel Galliard takes a left turn in the Garrison’s assembly hall and slips into one of the long-winded corridors leading to the meeting rooms. His pace is assured, decided; not a beat missed or a hesitation before he knock at the door and pushes it open, only to find Marco already inside. “Marco. Feels like it’s been ages.” His tone is less cordial than his words; no real fault of his own. Five years spent trying to polish it into a soldier’s voice leave marks; in his case, the marks had only ever hardened it. “I hear Squad 19 needs reinforcements to scout a damaged section of the wall after last night’s storm? Captain Hannes is sending me - my squad is yours. How can we help?”

This is not a mission he tries to make his own; Marcel has borne witness to Marco’s capabilities more than once. He will go far, this one. If he gets the chance to, that is. Deep down, Marcel wishes it for him. 

#fraterniite #ic;; je donne ma main à l'enfer sous vos crachats ma rédition (rp) #v;; petit soldat (paradis mission) #mamma mia here we go