#propaganda poster to join the count | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wttcsms · 5 months

Text

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

65 notes · View notes

that-sw-writer · 2 months

Note

Hiii, could I please request for kylo ren where they childhood sweethearts and now they're fighting on diff sides of the war and just ALOTTTT of angst. Maybe the reader finally realising that kylo is in too deep with the dark side??

Thxx 🩷

Thanks for requesting this! It was fun to write!! I did get a bit carried away with the length of it but we move

Word count: 2630

Warnings: heavy angst, totally made-up sequels timeline, sadder than I intended

MASTERLIST

Ghosts of the Past

How had it come to this? Years spent together, learning, growing, falling in love... all of it, corrupted by dark side of the Force. You and Ben Solo had dreamt of a future together, but where you had once dreamt of a utopia, you now found yourself living in a grim dystopia.

You had tried to forget him, but avoidance was impossible when his face was plastered across the galaxy on First Order propaganda. Each holovid or poster was a painful reminder of everything you had lost. It was heart-wrenching.

Eventually, destiny had reached you, just as it had reached Ben all of those years ago when he took on the name Kylo Ren. The Resistance had used Luke Skywalker's old notes from the early days of his Jedi Temple and managed to track you down. It wasn't an unwelcome invitation to join them, you had always wanted to fight the good fight, after all, that's what Jedi were supposed to do. Your real, and only, concern was that you knew eventually this path would lead you face-to-face with the one person you couldn't stomach confronting. Perhaps Ben knew you were alive, perhaps he didn't. Did he still care about you? You never let yourself dwell on these thoughts for too long. You couldn't bear it.

You felt fulfilled working with the Resistance. It was nice to know that you were making a difference to lives in the galaxy and you hoped that Luke would be proud of your efforts. Most of your time and energy went into working with Rey, helping her to become the Jedi she was destined to be. You were terrified of facing Kylo Ren, not knowing if you could face having to fight him. The least you could do was prepare Rey for that fight.

When the Resistance intercepted intel that Supreme Leader Ren would be planet-side, a snap decision was made to send an agent out to face him and end the First Order once and for all. Your heart dropped when Leia asked you to go instead of Rey. You knew Rey was far from ready. You knew you were the only one capable of facing him. And yet, it didn't make it sting any less.

'General, I don't know if I can do this.' You words were shaky at the mere thought of it.

'I know what I'm asking you to do, believe me. I wish it could be somebody else, and I'm sorry that it has to be you... but this is the only way.' There was rich emotion in the way Leia addressed you. She had known you since you and Ben had been together at the temple. She had been so excited at the prospect of her son falling in love with somebody like you, and she had treated you as one of her own since the day she met you. Now, all those years later, that hadn't changed. To Leia, you were family, and it broke her heart knowing the weight she was putting on your shoulders. But this wasn't just about you, it was about the galaxy. Deep down, you knew the truth. Leia hoped that you could pull her son back from the brink. Of course, the thought had crossed your mind countless times, but you had always hesitated to really consider it. The glaring fact was that Ben Solo could be lost and Kylo Ren all that remains. You weren't sure what would break you more, living in false hope or adjusting to a crushing reality.

'What if I can't bring him back?' Your voice was barely a whisper, and Leia's gaze hardened, but beneath her facade you could see tears brimming.

'Then you need to do what's best for the galaxy. We may never get this opportunity again.'

You repeated Leia's words like a mantra as your soared through hyperspace, nothing but your overbearing thoughts for company. You had to do this. You could save countless lives by defeating him. You may even be able to sway him back towards the light. Perhaps it was selfish to want him back so desperately. He had done awful things during his reign, but somewhere beneath the void of darkness was Ben Solo, the only man you had ever loved.

The intel you had was scarce, and that did little to comfort the persistent churning of your stomach as you approached Coruscant. Sources had informed the Resistance that Kylo Ren was visiting the planet with a battalion of troopers in an effort to restore order to the planet that was once the centre of the galaxy. Having been aligned with the First Order for some years, lawless groups had begun to overrun the core world; groups that only the Supreme Leader was powerful enough to bring to heel. The abundance of pirates and gangs was something you hoped to use to your advantage, not that you had entirely settled on your plan yet. You knew that stealth was the safest option. Sneak in, neutralise the Supreme Leader, sneak out and let them think that a rogue faction killed him. If only it were that simple... You would never forgive yourself if you didn't at least give him a chance.

As the hazy skies of Coruscant swept into your view, your gaze fell what you recognised as the abandoned Jedi temple - you recognised it from Master Skywalker's old Jedi texts. Attachment had once been a sin amongst Jedi, they saw it as a slippery path to the dark side. Ironic. Now, attachment was the only hope you had at returning Kylo Ren to the light.

You landed your ship in a public docking bay on the lower levels. Many were coming and going, it was an easy place to blend. Kylo Ren and his troops had been rumoured to be landing and starting their reclamation on level 5009 - they would start with the wealthier districts and work their way down. The lower levels were more than accustomed to the lawlessness that the whole planet was now enduring. You donned a simple hooded cloak as a disguise and began to slip through the crowds, using the Force to guide you towards the unmistakable signature of Ben Solo. The warm comfort that Ben's Force signature used to bring you was slowly ebbing away, a shiver ran down your spine the longer you locked onto his essence.

As you manoeuvred higher through the levels of Coruscant, your heart began to ache. Not because of what you were about to face, but because of what could have been. You pictured yourself roaming the upper levels with Ben, hand-in-hand as the sun set. Him with a rare smile on his face, you with a look of gratitude on yours. You had always sat together and spoken about all of the worlds you would one day explore. He used to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, tell you he couldn't wait to spend his life with you and then plant the most gentle of kisses on your lips. How could you not have seen it? Maybe if you had known he was being swayed by the dark side you could have helped him.

'You need to do what's best for the galaxy.' You focused your mind, repeating Leia's mantra. This wasn't about healing your wounds, it was about saving lives. You were just worried that you would destroy yourself in the process.

The reflection of shining white armour caught your gaze and snapped you out of your thoughts. You had found them. Small patrols of Stormtroopers littered level 4999 - Kylo was moving quickly through the insurgents. You had never known him to be so brutal. After spending a few moments studying the patrol patterns, you targeted a pair of troopers who were out of sync with the larger squadron. Throwing yourself in front of them, you tapped into the Force before they had a chance to react and used it to manipulate their actions. 'I am your prisoner; an insurgent who threatened to break the peace. You will take me to the Supreme Leader.'

'We will take you to the Supreme Leader.' Both troopers, now under your influence, spoke in unison. Playing the part, you placed your hands behind your back and one took ahold of your wrists as they marched you through the streets. You tried to hide your horror as you watched other troopers rounding up citizens and pirates alike, treating every living being as a criminal. Your fingers itched to grab your lightsaber from beneath your cloak and rescue the innocents, but you knew there was a bigger task at hand. You couldn't risk losing the element of surprise.

Your heart was pounding the closer you felt yourself drawing to Kylo, so much so you wondered if you would pass out before you got there. Your head was swimming. The last time you had seen him you had been in his arms, saying farewell before you went on an extended mission off-world. When you had returned, the temple had been demolished, Luke was nowhere to be found, and neither was the man who had your heart. It was only after that you found out the truth. He had been the one to destroy the temple... he had betrayed everything you stood for.

'Supreme Leader, we have captured an insurgent.' The troopers marched you to an isolated area where there was only a figure, cloaked in veil of darkness. You kept your head low, shielding your Force signature as your stared at his boots. Panic was setting in, there was every chance you would freeze when you saw his face.

'I told you not to take prisoners.' He growled, 'stop wasting my time and kill her.'

You bit back the overwhelming emotion you felt at hearing his voice and raised your head. 'I asked them to bring me here... to you.' Pulling your hood away from your face, your gaze met his and you nearly crumbled on the spot. His deep brown gaze was swimming with a darkness you weren't used to seeing, but what he couldn't mask was the flash of recognition upon seeing your face. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

'Leave us.' He eventually said, his tone losing its edge from his earlier command. The troopers scurried off and the pair of you were left standing in silence, like two monuments of a time once lost. After an eternity of heavy silence, he finally spoke. 'I thought you were dead.'

'It would be easier if I were.' Your voice was weak, but your stance remained solid. Nothing could have prepared you for this moment. Standing before him now, Leia's mantra was lost to you. You were either leaving here with him, or not at all.

'You shouldn't have come here.' His warning was delivered with a tone of remorse.

'I didn't want to. I wasn't sure I could face you.' You took a moment to study his face. A deep scar cut through the middle of it and a hard-set frown seemed to constantly rest on it. But he was still your Ben. You still loved him.

'And now?' He was reading you the same way you were reading him, you could tell.

'Now I just want you back.' A hand tentatively reached up to rest on his cheek, but he grabbed your wrist before it could make contact. Your world shattered.

'I don't have such weaknesses anymore.' He was stone cold in his address. Your mouth went dry. A weakness? That's all you were to him now. He had the face of the man you loved, but Ben Solo was gone. What was left was a shell of the man you had grown up with.

'How can you say that? After everything we've been through?' You spluttered, nearly choking on your own words. The world felt like it was closing in around you - this couldn't be happening.

'We have been through nothing. You're an echo of someone else's past, not mine.' Upon hearing his words, your resolve only hung on by a thread. Despite all of your mantras and focus, you had been too optimistic that this mission would end in Ben coming home with you.

'Ben, please-' you hadn't expected the words to erupt from your mouth, but your lungs were feeling tighter by the second. It wasn't real.

'That is not my name!' He roared, pushing you back with the force in a violent flurry. Having not been prepared for the attack, you flew backwards, slamming against a wall. 'Ben Solo is dead!' You hauled yourself to your feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in your back.

'If that were true, why am I still alive? You said yourself that I shouldn't have come here. If you didn't care for me you would've killed me on the spot.' The pain had helped you regain some of your composure. You could feel the conflict within him. The dark side clouded his judgement, but maybe you could break through.

He faltered at your words, but shook his head after a few moments. 'I was giving you a chance to walk away, not a mistake I'll make twice.'

'I can't walk away, not without you.' Your tone was laced with conviction, 'I love you, Leia loves you. I don't want to be apart of this war anymore, I just want you to come home. Please, Kylo, come back to me.' You made a conscious effort not to use Ben's name again. Perhaps speaking to him as Kylo Ren was the only way you could appeal to him.

'My home is with the First Order. I will rule the galaxy. I feel nothing for you, I feel nothing for my mother. I have given everything I have to the dark side.' He remained still, the dark energy coming off him in waves. It felt like the Force was playing a sick joke on you, poking fun at the Jedi who thought she could turn Kylo Ren back to the light. Your knees buckled, grief overcoming you. Ben Solo was dead. You lost.

'If that's true, then I have no place in this galaxy anymore.' You whispered, your voice breaking.

'No.' He approached you, solemn as ever. 'You don't.' As grief continued to wash over you, you couldn't bite back the tears that began to fall. Not because you were scared of what was to come, but because you couldn't bear the guilt of losing Ben Solo to the dark side. You had failed. Failed Ben, failed Leia, failed yourself. The more you tried, the more you felt the imposing essence of the dark side, wrapping around Kylo like a viper, ready to strike at any threats. There was nothing left for you in this galaxy anymore. The hope of regaining what you had lost had kept you going for all of these years, but you had never considered a path outside of that.

The crackling hum Kylo's lightsaber rumbled by your ear. Your body was stone, even if you had wanted to reach for your lightsaber to defend yourself, you couldn't. All you could do was close your eyes and let the Force whisk you away to a time where everything could have been different.

'I love you.' Ben's words were music to your ears. You looked up at him, beaming from ear to ear.

'I know.' You leaned up to plant a lingering kiss on his lips. 'I love you too, more than anything. I won't be gone long, I'll be back before you know it.'

'Anytime apart from you is too long.' His words were muffled as he buried his face in your hair.

'It's a good job we have the rest of our lives then.' Your lips met in another passionate kiss.

It was the future that should've been. You and Ben against the world, needing nothing but each other.

Instead, your world ended in a vicious flash of red.

#kylo ren #kylo x y/n #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x y/n #kylo ren x you #kylo x reader #asks #requests

25 notes · View notes

auntie-venom · 6 months

Text

Will of Fate

Chapter nine

Fandom: Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Story Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Mature

Characters: Din Djarin x Original Female Character

Summary: There hasn’t been an unidentified spacecraft in the stratosphere of Arkadia in over two decades, let alone three in one day. Those skilled or mad enough to venture into the Chaos unguided were few and far between. That means no one has ever made it to Arkadia who wasn’t intending to be here.

Until today.

Din Djarin finds an unmapped planet filled with beings who have the same powers as the Child, but know nothing of the force or the Jedi.

Chapter Summary: Discussing what was found in researching Jedi and Eziriel gets back to work knowing someone is out to get her.

Word Count - 3,499

Chapter Warnings: None

Will of Fate Masterlist

Read on Ao3

A/N: Been a hot minute. Lots of travel in the last four months, things are finally able to settle down. I’m still chipping away at writing this when I can, but I have fallen into an obsession with the clones recently and have been working on some drabbles for them more than I should with my spare time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, any feedback is welcome.

Chapter Nine

Eziriel finishes the last drops of whiskey in her glass before falling back into the sofa’s cushion and letting out a dissatisfied sigh while tossing her datapad back onto the low table. The Mandalorian glances down at her as he makes his nth pass around the sunken seating area as he studies his own datapad. She notices his whiskey glass that sat on the table had emptied without her notice and she can’t decide if she should be impressed with his stealthy ability to drink without her notice or if she was just that distracted in focusing on the files in front of her.

They’ve spent the evening combing through the files that CHI pulled on the Jedi after they got home too late for a playdate between Eziriel’s niece and the child. It only took a half an hour before Eziriel pulled out the whiskey as a way to alleviate the frustration and despair the files were invoking in the two of them.

It had not helped.

The Empirical public files on the Jedi are short and meticulously groomed to the point of suspicion. According to their narrative, the Jedi were magic wielding religious zealots that infiltrated the Republic in order to subvert democracy and gain control of the Galactic Republic under the guise of peacekeepers. The Jedi Order supposedly fueled the tensions between the Republic and the Separatists to orchestrate a galaxy-wide war so that the Jedi Order could gain control of the senate. Apparently, only the Emperor was able to see through the deceptions of the Jedi and was able to wipe them out after they failed to assassinate him.

That was it for the public records, except for a slew of anti-Jedi propaganda which encouraged citizens to turn in anyone resembling a Jedi; but the classified files of the Empire that were dug up on old servers by CHI housed more sinister secrets. Like how there was an order created to hunt down remaining Jedi and those who were sympathizers and eliminate them, but that is not all they did. They were also tasked with kidnapping any Force-sensitive children to turn into powerful Imperial agents, but the files showed many of the children were terminated at the facility on Arkanis for being disobedient or weak. Eziriel’s stomach turns at seeing where CHI took correlating missing posters of taken children from across the galaxy and matched it with facial recognition to the profile images on the Imperial files, many of which tragically had attached death certificates.

There were thousands of kidnapped and murdered children that went unchecked and unpunished for two decades.

She tries to push down the guilt that Arkadia chose to protect its people rather than join the fight against tyranny, but it’s an impossible feeling to wipe out completely and she lets it simmer in the back of her conscience. She knows the difficult choice to remain protected wasn't decided lightly, but it still aches her heart to know that so many suffered while everyone on Arkadia remained safe and prosperous.

She had shifted her focus to the public files that the New Republic released about the Jedi to help focus her spiraling thoughts, and she discovered they were nearly as useless as the Empire’s. They paint an idealistic picture of brave warriors of an ancient religion who fought for democracy and peace of the Republic, the details of their missions lost to the Jedi Purge.

What Eziriel thought was interesting was discovering that the New Republic assigned a committee filled with historians in order to try and rediscover all the lost history the Empire tried to wipe out, and a selection of them were focusing on the Jedi Order. It seems the subcommittee want to get first-hand accounts of the Jedi, which was admirable in Eziriel’s opinion. Sadly, most of those interviews were of older beings that had interactions with those in the order before the purge, mostly tales of heroic rescues during the Clone Wars, and were not relevant in giving the Mandalorian a lead to finding any current Jedi.

The only recent information was the New Republic are a few reports of Jedi survivors helping in the Rebel Alliance, but only code names were used to protect the Jedi except in one instance. There was a highly classified account of a lone Jedi trained by a survivor of the purge who had a big role within the Rebel Alliance in defeating the Empire. Luke Skywalker was said to have defeated Emperor Palpatine with the help of an unbelievable turncoat, Darth Vader. The full account of what happened would give the most dramatic of holodrama a run for its credit. While there were plenty of unclassified files boasting the skills of Skywalker’s piloting, the files on Skywalker as a Jedi seemed to be classified. Not that that stopped CHI in any way, but the files were intentionally left vague. Someone high in the New Republic was protecting Skywalker and keeping his whereabouts undocumented.

The only lead they have was one of the documents from five standard years ago that confirms Skywalker had the intention to rebuild the Jedi order. That was the latest direct document about Skywalker outside of reports of him showing up unannounced to help with New Republic missions over the years.

“I can’t believe all we have is a name,” she grouses before rubbing her eyes in weary frustration. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” he asks, halting his trek around the seating area and looking towards her.

“That I couldn’t get you more,” she admits.

“A name is more than I had,” he says with a shrug.

“There has never been information I could not find before. That’s what I do. I have questions that most people give up on and I slice my way into getting the answers. But I can’t find answers if they’re not documented,” she explains with emphasizing hand motions.

“It’s not your fault, there seems to be a powerful influence keeping his information along with any current Jedi dealings off the net,” he says and she is once again taken aback by his insightfulness.

“That was my thought as well,” she agrees with a hum. “Here, look at this.” She grabs her abandoned datapad to find what she was looking for as he makes his way to lean over the back of the sofa to watch. “You see these links here? They are dead links from the Old Republic era. Possibly a network owned by the Jedi. There are many reasons the links could be dead. Could be a destroyed terminal or merely offlined, but if the terminal was intact I could slice into it manually.”

“I don’t know if older files are going to help if all the Jedi were wiped out or hiding,” he says.

“Right, but what I’m getting at is if you have an inkling of who is hiding Skywalker and the current Jedi information, then there is a chance they have an offlined terminal they use to store that information on. I can get into those, it would just take some work.” She gives the side of his helmet a small reassuring smile. “When you leave, I could give you a device that would allow me to remotely slice into it from here. If you want.”

He takes a moment where he just stares at the datapad in her hands before slowly turning his head to look at her face. “I’m not sure if I’ll end up with that chance,” he admits. “But it would be nice to have that option open.”

Eziriel acknowledges his acceptance with a nod of her head and switches tabs on her datapad. With his personal quest progressing as far as she is able to help, she now has to focus on her list of tasks she must do at the lab tomorrow. She bids him a restful sleep and goes to her bedroom to get ready while CHI reads off her next day itinerary.

She had broken down the situation to the Mandalorian while the child and her ate dinner earlier. She explained her lab was only for those who had a specific clearance so they were on their own tomorrow. She gave him a key to the landspeeder they used today and a fob with access codes to get in and out of the personal quarters spire of The Pinnacle. She ordered very firmly to carry his temporary visa with him if he chose to go out and to throw her name around if he needed to, which he scoffed at.

“If anyone—and I seriously mean anyone, asks you questions regarding why you are here you must answer them as honestly as possible. I can surmise you aren’t the type to do casual market conversations with nosy old ladies; but because of your visa status, plainclothes Infiltrators will be assigned to do random interrogations disguised as citizens. They are good at their jobs and it won’t be obvious, so keep your emotions in line with your answers and try not to pull your usual stoic silent routine too much,” she had pressed at the end of dinner. He seemed to take her tone seriously and didn’t grumble about having to unwillingly socialize if he went out.

She told him that he could reach her on the comm device she gave him earlier and that her lab was in the developmental spire of The Pinnacle so she wouldn’t be far if something drastic came up. She gave him recommendations on food, entertainment, and shopping, to which he didn’t react to. He told her to stop fussing when she handed him a credit chip and he refused. The credit chip was still laying upon the dining room table from mutual stubbornness.

She knows what she’s doing. She knows that she is using the Mandalorian as a distraction from giving her full attention to the treason she has evidence of. Planted evidence that points to her. She feels the panic tighten in her chest at the intrusive thought while she tries to get comfortable enough to fall asleep.

She closes her eyes to reel in her panic and starts convincing herself that the perpetrator will be caught. She assures herself Amarian will assign Xanda Bale, his most trusted Infiltrator and friend since childhood, to the investigation. She assures herself that she will be able to find the digital fingerprints of who built the device somewhere in her lab. She assures herself the Senate is wise enough to not jump to the simplest, but wrong, conclusion of her being the traitor. She assures herself she will not be sentenced to Ashgate Penitentiary; or even worse, destitutional banishment.

════════════════════════════════════

“Listen to me carefully, Little Prodigy. I don’t care how special you think you are, you have to report your findings in full.” A datapad is slammed on the conference table in front of her. The older, dusky skin face of Bastian Suvan was reddened with anger and leaning close to Eziriel. His tidy robes have remained pristine through his dressing down of Eziriel, but his silver hair was falling from the once slicked back pompadour and getting caught in the silver cuffs that adorned his pointed ears.

She knew she was going to have to navigate the surly CEO of the Arkadia Technical Operations when reporting the issues with the Cloak of Arkadia, but she didn’t consider the ire the redactions Amarian made would cause.

Bastian never warmed to Eziriel. When she was younger she finished the required studies for adolescents four years early. Too young to begin her once desired path of Arkadian Infiltrator, her mother pulled strings to allow Eziriel to intern in the TechOps while she took electrical engineering courses to fill her free time since she had such an affinity for technology. At the time, Bastian was only a department head and she was, unfortunately, placed under his supervision. The moment she arrived on her first day he sneered at her ideas and only referred to her as “Little Prodigy”. The name never bothered her, she was a child prodigy, but the acidic tone he said it with ate at her patience with him. She spent the four years under him trying to impress and appease him, but it only made him more bitter. She couldn’t decide if it was jealousy or just a general dislike of her existence that fueled his disdain, until the moment she produced the holographic projection technology that could interface with the Cloak of Arkadia and saw him truly angry at her success.

Jealousy is always ugly.

“I followed protocol of reporting my suspicions of treason to the highest level of authority possible. It’s not my fault that I have access to the highest authority,” she says with a shrug that made him clench his jaw tighter. She doesn’t care how nepotistic she came across, it was her life on the line and she will do everything in her power to prove her innocence. “I understand the frustration of not knowing what caused the error readings, but until King Amarian finishes the investigation you are going to just have to accept that the technical problem is solved and to carry on business as usual.”

Eziriel watches as his neck goes an interesting shade of purple at her calm and collective tone. She sits quietly with him as he calms his heavy breaths and glares at her. The whirring of the repulsorlift of Bastian’s analysis droid hummed from where it hovered next to the conference table. She waits and sees his rage melt into his normal frustrated expression before speaking again.

“I’m not intentionally being difficult.”

“A first,” he snaps back before slicking back his hair into its intended style. “JN-4P, inform my next meeting I will be with them shortly.” His droid zips out of the conference room with a binary salutation before Bastian stands and leans onto the table towards Eziriel. “Little Prodigy, let me be clear. If this turns out to be some ploy for you to uproot me so you can slide into my position, I will destroy everything you love.”

She can’t stop how her face scrunches in disgust at the idea of getting a job that requires more political schmoozing than she already has to do as he storms out of the conference room. Eziriel never had political ambitions, but she has presented in the Arkadian Senate a few times when she is trying to get controversial technology approved. She is eloquent enough that her efforts are usually rewarded, but that is mostly due to her having Nikau Kaita as a father who pressed the importance of public speaking, regardless of station.

Eziriel collects her belongings and makes her way to her lab. The Defence Technology Division isn’t an overly large department, but the three lead engineers and their small team of assistants helped make DefTech feel very impactful. She hand-picked her leads, trusted their skills and talents, and the thought that one of them could be the culprit in framing her for treason makes her breakfast curdle in her stomach.

“She lives,” a sultry voice announces when she enters the lab. She turns to see the tall, plus-size, feminine figure of Thalissa Everbright leaning on her office door frame. The expensive magenta dress Thalissa wears contrasts nicely against her Keshiri purple skin and black hair. She wore a pair of comfy white lace up shoes that didn’t match the outfit, but Eziriel knew that she had already stored her expensive heels in her office in exchange for comfort while working. “Three weeks of not having you around to approve things has been very frustrating. You have quite the backlog.”

Thalissa was once an academy rival when Eziriel started her tertiary education and TechOps internship. She started the same year as Eziriel at Helix Technical Academy and did not like that someone four years younger than her was getting grades as good as her. Thalissa was always top of her class and then some teenager came in and started challenging that position frustrated her.

Thalissa was very cold to Eziriel the first year, often trying to embarrass her in class, or undermining her projects by bringing attention to Eziriel’s political position as Princess. Eziriel did not understand why someone would be so cruel over not getting the top marks and would mock Thalissa ruthlessly for it since she knew that is what would hurt her most. It took a professor-assigned partner project that started off disastrously between the two of them before they sat down and had an uncomfortable heart to heart.

After that night of frustrated tears, bad take-away food, and the shared woes of familial pressure the two built a unique friendship that held a foundation of competitiveness. They both enjoy the way they push each other to try harder in their work and it keeps them on their toes. Looking back, Eziriel couldn’t believe Thalissa ended up one of her closest friends, but she is thankful this tall gorgeous woman tried to ruin her academic life.

When Eziriel became the head of DefTech it didn't take much begging for Thalissa to leave her assistant position in The Transportation Technology Division and take a lead engineer position under her. While Eziriel was happy to have a good friend join her, she was beyond thrilled to have someone on her team that wasn’t afraid to challenge her decisions. She trusts Thalissa more than anyone else in this building, but could she have the capacity to betray her planet?

She absolutely does.

Thalissa isn’t particularly patriotic and is cutthroat when it comes to funding and getting supplies for her research. Eziriel has had to cover for her outright ruthless tactics when it’s come to dealing with suppliers. She could easily—

No.

Eziriel ends her line of speculative thinking and gives Thalissa a weary smile. She would not spiral into creating probable cause for every person in this office. She will wait until Amarian updates her on the investigation and present herself business as usual.

“You look like shit,” Thalissa says with a rather serious face, but her red eyes sparkled with fondness. Eziriel could see Thalissa’s team of three working behind her and through the window of her office, some looking up to give a wave in greeting.

“A two hour debrief with Suvan will do that to you,” Eziriel responds with a wave to Thalissa’s assistants.

“I don’t envy you. Especially since it now has classified elements to it. Everyone already knows that we had a TIE fighter and a civilian ship crash here and that there is now a new shiny Mandalorian applying for a visa,” Thalissa says, and an intentional wave of curiosity pushing towards Eziriel for information.

“You know, I’ve never sponsored someone before. It’s a bloody nightmare,” Eziriel comments.

“Don’t avoid my question,” Thalissa says with an eye roll.

“You didn’t ask a question,” Eziriel snarks while she heads to her own office with Thalissa hot on her heels after a dramatic sigh.

“Who’s the new guy?”

“Just some man with odd luck,” she clarifies before setting her stuff down onto her desk. “I’ll tell you the story at lunch.”

“I’d love to hear the story as well,” a quieter voice says from the direction of her doorway. Looking up she sees the slim pale frame of Garyth Mohandai, the second of three head engineers. His wispy blonde hair was pulled back into a cascading ponytail and his spectacles were pushed onto his head. He was younger, recently hired straight up from apprenticeship after his predecessor retired, but very capable and impressed Eziriel with his focus and tenacity.

“Hey Garyth. Yeah, I guess I get to tell a story to a whole audience today,” Eziriel says with a smirk and sees the figure of the third head engineer behind Garyth pop around the doorway and give her a warm smile. “You going to join us Margos?”

Margos Varon’s copper skinned face came around Garyth as she leaned into the opposite side of the frame, the halo of springy gray coils of her hair bouncing with her movement. She was older than all of them, an engineer who refused the promotion when the head of the division opened up. She liked building and did not want to have to spend her time managing a whole team. So she helped hire and then welcomed Eziriel to lead with warm smiles and gentle guidance, something that Eziriel would forever be grateful for.

“A new man in Eziriel’s life?” Margos makes a cheeky face with pursed lips. “How could I not want to hear everything?”

Eziriel shakes her head in faux exasperation while keeping the walls of her emotions solid to prevent any bleeding. She didn’t want to let it slip that she suddenly lost faith in the team she held so dear for the last ten years. If they pushed those boundaries hard enough all they would find would be suspicious fear.

<< Chapter Eight

Chapter Ten >>

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #din djarin x original female character #pedro pascal #star wars au #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x original character #din djarin fic #din djarin #the mandolarian #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x reader #the Mandalorian x Original Female Character #the Mandalorian x Original Character #third person pov #third person perspective

3 notes · View notes

tehuti88-art · 10 months

Text

7/14/23: r/SketchDaily theme, "Car Wash/Free Draw Friday." This week's character from my anthro WWII storyline is Georg Klemper, father of Godfrey Klemper. He's a minor, posthumous character though his past actions played a big role in Klemper's character development. There'll be more about him later in my art Tumblr and Toyhou.se.

Nothing much to say of his design other than he's supposed to look a bit haggard/worn from farm work. He got his first name from the oldest ancestor I was able to trace of my surname, a farmer born circa 1590 in Hesse, Germany. Since then though I've traced back a couple more generations and my oldest surname ancestor is Hans, circa 1545, though there's already a (posthumous) Hans in my story.

TUMBLR EDIT: Georg's history is largely unknown to me, with him being a minor posthumous character, but I can easily guess what his early life was like, as his son Godfrey Klemper gives the answer. In the main story, a Nazi character draws up Klemper's family tree from his parents' names, Georg Klemper and Agnes Schwartz. He proclaims that Klemper hails from "a long, proud line of peasant farmers!" (Klemper is much less enthused about this than the genealogist.) In the Nazi Germany of the story, the peasant farmer is actually considered the ideal; just forget a moment about all the rich urban Nazis who never dug in the dirt once in their lives (wink-wink) and consider the concept of "Blood & Soil" (Blut und Boden), which idealizes, and rather romanticizes, the idea that to be a "true" German, whatever that is, is for your very heritage and ancestry to be tied to the earth you were born upon...at the risk of putting up a big old red flag, I think I rather understand and empathize with that basic concept, at least as far as my own heritage (or until recently, lack of heritage) goes. Without knowing where I came from, I felt I had nowhere to which I belonged, and was literally groundless, without my own culture to belong to. Incidentally, it turns out the ground of my surname is literally medieval/early modern farmland in Hessen (Hesse), Germany. But anyway. Another important aspect of Blood & Soil is that oh yeah, cities = BAD!, and what comes from cities?--JEWS!--so that aspect is an obvious load of BS that ruins the whole thing. (Like I said, there were plenty of urban Nazis, and I'm pretty sure there were rural Jews, and something they had in common was being born on German soil.) Back to Klemper.

Why is Klemper's centuries-long ancestry of dirt-poor farmers considered so glamorous? Because, according to the Nazis, it makes him a good true German, an Aryan, and Klemper being a literal soldier peasant--he joined the Wehrmacht while underaged, following the loss of both parents--just sweetens the deal. He physically resembles the type, too--while of average height, and rather slender, still, he's fit, fair, blue eyed, and has Aryan features; the Nazis want to use him for propaganda, put his face on posters to recruit more soldiers. Klemper is weirded out by this idea--"My face!--why do I want to see my giant face always looking back at me from the side of a building like der Führer?--why does anyone want that!"--not to mention rather disgruntled, as at one time he was targeted for court-martial--and possible execution--following his rumored involvement with a Jewish partisan...a MALE Jewish partisan. So, yeah...that's definitely not the Nazi ideal. Klemper privately complains to Lt. Ratdog, his latest partner, how awfully convenient it is for the army to overlook this detail when it suits them, while still making sure he's punished for it (an appeal to the SS prevents his court-martial and even lets him keep his military position, yet with a permanent demotion attached). I think they do end up making a poster out of him, but it's not really his choice; he's just cannon fodder being used to recruit more cannon fodder. Him having the ideal Aryan face and family background is what counts the most.

Ratdog, meanwhile, deliberately conceals his own ancestry through much of the story. It's not just the...hinkiness...of his exact family ties that he desires to hide (see his sister Edelgard's entry for the icky details), but the fact that his ancestry is considered the exact opposite of the current ideal, too. Ratdog is a Herzog, duke, and like Klemper, his family line extends back hundreds of years in eastern Prussian Germany. As he points out after Klemper digs up this info, Klemper's own ancestors might very well have once toiled the land on the same estate as Ratdog's ancestors. The normally rather völkisch Klemper shows a rare moment of broadmindedness in admitting that he doesn't care--he and Ratdog aren't their ancestors, what was done so far in the past, by people they didn't even know, isn't their burden to bear.

Blood being something you can never fully escape, however, seems to be a recurring theme in this story. Ratdog's past comes back to haunt him, and Klemper's does as well, in various ways. The main reason Klemper leaves his old family farm to join the Heer is because he's been left groundless: His father has been dead for a few years, his mother has just passed away after an extended illness, and while Klemper--merely thirteen years old--is busy struggling to dig her grave in the woods next to his father's grave, a rogue Wehrmacht unit ransacks and burns down his family farmhouse. Klemper returns to find it in flames, and lingers nearby until only the stone foundations and cellar are left in the smoldering ruins. He already cried over his mother and father; staring at his vanished home, he has no more grief left, just numbness. He'd taken his father's old rifle with him, so the rogue unit didn't get hold of that; he takes the Stahlhelm and ID papers off a dying soldier he passes (the soldier asks Klemper to kill him, and Klemper, rather used to death already, obliges, then doctors the papers the best he can), and pauses to listen to a wandering recruiter trying to convince a handful of his fellow country dwellers to enlist. Although the recruiter gives the "sixteen-year-old" Klemper in his oversized stolen Stahlhelm with his oversized rifle a skeptical look, he ignores the hinkiness of his ID papers, and Klemper is handed a new (oversized) helmet and (oversized) rifle and sent off to his new unit to get firsthand training.

Klemper faces lots of unpleasant incidents being victimized by older men, as he often finds himself drawn to them, yet is gullible and easily taken advantage of. It's a statistical fact that a victim faces greatly increased chances of becoming a victim again, and this is sadly so in Klemper's case. For him, as it turns out, his initial and primary victimizer is his own father Georg. Although Georg is depicted as utterly despicable so far in Klemper's recounting of this incident to Elias Baswitz (the aforementioned Jewish partisan) in an adult WIP of mine, the story is far more complicated, as such things tend to be. Klemper's own actions, and his words to Ratdog later in the story, illustrate this; although he still harbors a deep well of trauma, anger, and hate for his father, on the other hand, he obviously still loves him as well, and feels extreme remorse and guilt over his death. When Ratdog expresses confusion over him honoring his dead father at his grave, Klemper acts similarly perplexed by his mixed feelings, but shrugs and offers the best explanation he can: "He's my Vater and he's blood. What am I supposed to feel?"

The truth is that Klemper's father wasn't always an a-hole, and his own circumstances, so similar to Klemper's, contributed to his personality and actions. The Klempers, and pretty much everyone else in their area, are of a long line of farmer peasants, with all that that entails--namely, a difficult struggle of a life. I don't think Georg fought in the Great War as he was too busy keeping the farm running, though he marries Agnes and their son Godfrey is born into a country that's still reeling and struggling to survive, itself. Based on Klemper's age when he meets Ratdog, this is roughly the early Twenties, though Georg never joins the Nazi Party--out here near the literal frontier, so close to the border that Georg sometimes hires itinerant Poles to help work his land (this is how young Godfrey learns to speak Polish), such concepts as voting and political parties are a virtually unknown concept; by the time news reaches them of the Führer's rise to power, it's old news, and it really doesn't affect them much.

This isn't to say that Georg would necessarily disagree with Nazi ideals. Though I'm not sure about Agnes's beliefs, Georg and others way out here follow an odd mishmash of pagan, völkisch, and Christian beliefs, many of which would be well in line with what the Nazis teach; he passes this on to Godfrey, who both embraces yet rather struggles with this worldview as a young adult later on, when he comes into contact with differing peoples of differing beliefs. BUT, similar worldview aside, Georg doesn't care about the Nazis either way because he has his farm to think about. He's not culturally enlightened by any means--he's likely racist in his own ways--but he doesn't dwell on it, because you can't be picky about race when you need the assistance of Slavs to keep your farm running. As for Jews, I don't think they ever even cross Georg's mind. The Klempers and their neighbors live in their own small world largely cut off from the drama of the Third Reich; this is the world that ends up so heavily romanticized, and turned into propaganda, by the Nazis, yet their depiction of it is often far from the truth. There's no glamor in the farmer peasant life. Just lots of struggle, hardship, and barely getting by.

Farm life is complicated in its simplicity. Everything boils down to routine and repetition. You keep the farm running, which means keeping workers. And when you haven't much money to pay workers, you make your own. Thus Agnes: The role of the farm wife is to have children. A lot of them. The reason that line of farmer peasants has done so well in surviving for so long, despite the difficult circumstances, is that the women have large broods of kids to help keep things running and to keep the line going. Even girls are more useful than not--after all, they can be married off, sealing ties between families, creating the next generation. Sons are preferred, but daughters will do. I don't yet know the circumstances of Georg's and Agnes's marriage, though I do know they genuinely care for each other, while the union is primarily for utilitarian purposes. Out here, you don't marry for love, though it helps. I think Agnes cares more for Georg than he cares for her, BUT, based on the fact that he remains married to her and remains faithful, it might simply be that he conceals his emotions better. Because Agnes proves not to be as useful a wife as hoped.

It isn't that she isn't a devoted, hard worker--she is. She more than carries her weight, working her fingers to the bone to keep the farm going and to care for her husband. She's a good faithful wife. Yet she's not much of a mother--the primary and most important role she's supposed to fulfill. No matter how hard the two of them try, they remain childless for quite a while. Agnes starts to despair, and Georg grows frustrated; when finally, it happens--Agnes becomes pregnant. She wishes to be careful, to protect this precious, much-needed life as much as she can, but farm work beckons as always, and she keeps at it as long as she's physically able, going into labor while out in the field one day. Georg hurries off to fetch the nearest midwife--no doctors out here--though Agnes has already done most of the work by the time they return, and Godfrey is born not long after.

Godfrey is a puny, colicky, sickly seeming baby, but he survives, and grows stronger (though he never does get chubby or plump out much), and by the time he leaves toddlerhood is already helping out with chores. (Same as these folk having no time for politics, they have no time for childhood, either.) Agnes would love to dote on him, but there's no space for spoiling a child on the farm, so she settles for being his comfort, always smiling at him and giving his face a gentle little touch before continuing with her work, and singing him lullabies and telling him the old folk legends before bed; she also often gives him a little bit of her portions of the day's meals, because he's a growing child and she reasons he needs it more. Georg, meanwhile, isn't an affectionate type--more often than not, he's giving Godfrey a light cuff upside the head to wake him or remind him to get back to work (the boy is easily distracted). He always speaks sternly, always orders him to see to his chores or get moving or quit dawdling. He's not violent or overly abusive, though, and even the head-cuffing is restrained--meant to startle Godfrey into compliance rather than frighten or hurt him--and once in a while, when the child works especially hard or the day is especially productive, he mutters, "Gute Arbeit" (good work) and even briefly ruffles the top of Godfrey's head before they go back home. It isn't much, but to little Godfrey it's the world. He does everything he can to make his parents happy and proud of him.

It ends up not being enough, however. Agnes never has any more children, meaning Georg needs to hire more workers, meaning he needs to spend money or trade resources. The strain of this wears more on the little family as time goes on, and Georg handles it poorest of all. He grows perpetually frustrated and disgruntled at how little their efforts pay off, and takes this out on both Agnes (for not giving him any more children to work the farm) and Godfrey (for being a rather disappointing boy). The brief days of the toiling but somewhat happy family are past, and more often than not, Georg can be found snapping angrily at his wife or cuffing his son a bit harder than he used to. He doesn't do any of this out of spite--he's just never been taught any more effective ways to handle his emotions. The truth is he's struggling to keep it together just as much as the others are, and he too feels ashamed to not be the self-sufficient, successful provider he's supposed to be.

Despite these setbacks, the three of them do still get along and work together the best they can, and Georg's heart is still in the right place...until after one especially stressful day, one of his hired workers offers him a bottle of beer to "help take the edge off." Georg refrains at first--he rather looks down on the pastime of drinking, which he considers a waste of time and resources. Still, the worker jiggles the bottle at him and cajoles, and he really does feel like he needs a break after so much hard work--a lifetime of it--plus he's so tired and thirsty; he takes the bottle and takes a reluctant sip. Then a swig. He can't help it, his throat is so dry he quickly downs the whole thing. His worker laughs a little and offers him another but this time he refuses and heads home, he doesn't want to overdo it. He's already buzzed, however--without really understanding or knowing it--and has to admit deep down that the drink did take the edge off. He doesn't feel so short tempered with Agnes and Godfrey when he gets home, and the evening is actually a somewhat pleasant one, the first in a long time.

Well...moderation is a tricky thing. And Georg soon enough learns that. You don't become an addict overnight; it's a gradual process--Godfrey learns this much later on with methamphetamine, and Georg learns it now with drinking. He never gets into hard liquor, just sticks to beer--that in itself helps trick him into thinking it's not so bad--but it's too easy to progress from buzzed to drunk...and in stark contrast to being buzzed mellowing him out a little, when it comes to being drunk, Georg is a mean one. After a few beers he finds himself simmering with resentment over his lot in life; a few beers more than that, say just the right (wrong) words, and his fists start flying. He never intends to get angry-drunk, he longs to simply stay with that slightly drunk relaxed feeling, yet he can just almost never limit himself to one bottle, he keeps hoping he can linger with that warm hazy feeling. You'd think if one bottle makes you feel good, surely another would make you feel twice as such? But that's not the way it works for Georg, who's had so much rage and despair lurking under the surface before now. The bottle loosens him up and as a result, all THAT comes surging out. And Agnes and Godfrey are on the receiving end.

Wife and son are confused at first by this growing change in his behavior; they aren't familiar with the effects of alcohol, either. But they catch on. The bottle is what turns the normally stern but moderate Georg into a raging brute, and anything can set him off. The first time he smacks Agnes across the face, it's a shock, but it quickly becomes routine. Then, Godfrey as well. And then not just smacks, but beatings. He doesn't bother even trying to hide the effects of the blows--he'll hit them in the face as readily as in the ribs--because most of their interactions are with the itinerant Poles who don't even speak the same language, and a few visits with distant neighbors who are unlikely to do anything. It's nobody else's business to get involved. These outside parties do cast vaguely sympathetic glances at the battered pair--on one occasion, an older Roma woman who stops by to trade outright glares malevolently at Georg the entire time--yet that's the extent of their involvement, and Agnes and Godfrey don't expect them to step in, anyway.

They simply put up with this situation for a few years--just another hardship of country life--Agnes trying to explain to their increasingly discouraged son that this isn't really his beloved father, Georg is still in there somewhere--the Georg who would cuff him a little but only when necessary, and would tell him good work--it's just that der Flaschendämon, the bottle demon, has hold of him, and he can't get free. Indeed, Godfrey catches glimpses of the old Georg when he's not drunk--Georg isn't the apologetic type, but he does feel extreme guilt when he's sober, and keeps wanting to stop drinking, but doesn't know how--and the more time goes by, the fewer are the times when he's sober. He even starts drinking early in the day and works the fields while drunk, nearly getting into accidents a few times--Agnes covers for these incidents and silently patches him up when he hurts himself--and arguing with visitors until the Klempers are increasingly isolated from their handful of distant neighbors, and depend almost entirely on the wandering workers. Things get worse--Georg drinks harder--the sorry situation feeds off itself. Without any of them knowing it, everything starts to come to a head.

A neighbor here and there still bothers to do business with Georg when necessary. The men from one family stop by now and then to help work the land. They have a young son, around Godfrey's age, named Rolf. Godfrey and Rolf don't get to interact much--they're also busy working--but one day they manage to find a few moments to take a break and sit side by side under the trees at the edge of the field, gazing out into the sunlight. Rolf peers shyly at Godfrey, and smiles. Godfrey thinks his green eyes are the most beautiful eyes in the world, and though it confuses him, he kisses him. He worries just briefly that he'll scare Rolf off...but Rolf smiles back at him even wider, and even grasps his hand. Godfrey hasn't had many occasions for smiles or happiness or love in his short life, but his heart thumps, and he tentatively smiles back. He'll remember this moment like it only just happened until the day he dies.

Georg is out in the field with the other few men left since it's starting to get late. And yes, although still toiling hard, he's been drinking most of the day, slowly but steadily growing more and more sullen and ill tempered. The others are avoiding him by now, knowing he'd likely deck them for no reason; they're too busy chatting with each other a bit to notice what Georg notices. What Georg notices, when he stops plowing for a moment to catch his breath and wipe his brow, is Godfrey sitting with Rolf near the edge of the field, and he feels a twinge of anger, ready to yell at him to get back to work--when Godfrey leans toward the other boy and kisses him. The blood drains from Georg's face and his lungs feel like they're sucked inside-out. Everything else in his field of vision, the other workers, the sky, the field itself, goes black as his sight shrinks to a dot, like looking down a tunnel with Godfrey at the other end. All he sees is his son kissing another boy. A lifetime, two lifetimes, centuries of hardened farm life and rural teachings pounded into him that this is wrong, this is awful, this is not what boys are meant for, yet here's his son, his ONLY son on whom the farm and family line depends, doing this, going against nature and country ideals and Gott Himself--all of this suddenly comes roaring up into Georg's chest, and his vision literally goes red as blood fills his eyes and his own heart pounds up into his throat, the thudding and ringing filling his ears. His fingernails gouge into the plow handle before he doesn't merely let it fall, he slams it down at the ground, whirls so hard he twists his ankle yet doesn't feel the sting, and yells at the top of his lungs, "GODFREY!!"

Godfrey and the other boy--Georg doesn't know his name, doesn't care--both turn to look at him, freezing, eyes going wide. Georg starts storming across the field, making a beeline for them. He's never seen such fear and dread on his son's face before, not even before giving him a walloping, and the tiniest, tiniest voice in the last sober bit in the back of his brain says don't do this, but it's promptly screamed down and drowned out by rage. He half-expects the boys to go running as boys tend to do, but Godfrey's always been good and obedient, has never questioned his authority even once, has always done everything Georg told him to do. These are all things that should make him take pause, yet they just enrage him even more--his son, HIS son, should never act this way, and he grits his teeth and clenches his fists hard enough to draw blood as he nears the two. "YOU! Go on home!" he yells at the green-eyed boy--he doesn't care about him whatsoever, he's not his kid to discipline--and the boy hastily clambers down from the tree root he's seated on and goes running off to the other men still in the field; Georg pays no attention to how they stopped working the moment he screamed his son's name, nor how they gather their equipment and bustle off toward the barn, pulling the boy along with them although he reluctantly looks back at Godfrey. Godfrey has eyes for only his father--Georg snarls when he reaches out and grabs him by the wrist, yanking him out into the open so abruptly that Godfrey yelps and stumbles. He ducks his head, obviously expecting a blow, yet Georg turns and hauls Godfrey along after him as he stalks back to the farmhouse.

"Schwuchtel!" Georg hisses, fingers digging into Godfrey's wrist, "Slacking off doing THAT? You like that so much? That's what you learned? How about I teach you some more, then...?"

He drags Godfrey into the house, holding off until they're inside before smacking him across the face, hard. Godfrey lets out a pained noise but doesn't yell. He does cry out at the second, even harder blow, however, and Agnes hurries into the room--she's carrying a bottle of beer, having expected Georg to give his customary demand upon entering the house, and so is startled to find him hitting Godfrey instead. He yanks the bottle out of her hand even as he hits Godfrey a third time, takes a deep swig, feels even more enraged--he punches this time, knocking Godfrey down, then lands a sharp kick. Agnes finally tries to intervene, but he snarls and gives her such an infuriated glare, fist raised, that she cowers back--like Godfrey, she's good and obedient, she never fights back. And even as Georg grabs his son's arm again and yanks him back up onto his feet, his lip bleeding and his eye swelling and tears brimming, Godfrey doesn't protest, doesn't even call for his mother to protect him; Georg turns and heads for the stairs, dragging Godfrey after him as he clumsily ascends and then pulls him down the narrow hallway.

He reaches Godfrey's small bedroom, tears open the door, hurls Godfrey inside so he hits his bed, hard. Godfrey gasps and blinks up at him, eyes wide and wet. Georg grinds his teeth so hard it should hurt, though he doesn't feel it, doesn't feel the swelling in his ankle or in his knuckles from the blows he already landed, doesn't feel anything but blind fury--he takes another drink, again sees red like looking through a tunnel and hears the ringing and roaring in his ears. "Filthy little Schwuchtel!" he snarls. "You want to be a little wife so bad? I'll teach you how much fun it is to be a little wife. Then you'll want to be a man." Godfrey watches as he tips the bottle and pours out the beer on the floor, then Georg slams the door shut and stalks toward him.

I've already mentioned this incident in Elias Baswitz's entry; I can't go into detail about what Georg does here, but it's awful. Agnes cowers downstairs at first, though when she hears her son start screaming, she gingerly climbs the steps, shaking like a leaf--she wants to help him so badly, but is too afraid of enraging her husband even further. She covers her face and cries until the door to Godfrey's room slams open again and Georg comes stomping out, teeth bared, fist clenched--he hurls the bottle away with a crash and heads for the stairs. Agnes cowers back again, though as he draws close she manages to summon just enough courage to ask in a small voice, "What did you do to Godfrey...?" Georg ignores her--and at last she feels a tiny angry twinge of her own. "Georg--?" she says, louder, as he passes--then, clenching her own fists and nearly yelling at his back, "What did you do to Godfrey--?"

Georg halts, bristling--his temper hasn't worn itself out yet, if anything, he's even more enraged than before and doesn't even know why--all he knows is for some inexplicable reason, years of crushed hopes and expectations have collapsed upon him, all his life's hard work and all his family's hard work seems like it's been for nothing, all over one stupid little thing. His brain is so fogged with rage and alcohol that the realization doesn't occur to him--his son's always obeyed--always done everything he can to make him proud--of course Godfrey always planned to carry on the family tradition, same as he did, as it's all he knows. Of course he would have found a girl to marry and have children with, no matter how against his nature, no matter how miserable it would've made him, because that's the way he's always been. And even if his luck continuing the line had been even worse than Georg's and Agnes's, still, he would've tried, because he loves his father.

The tiny part deep in the back of Georg's head suspects this. Were he to go to bed, sleep it off, wake sober again in the morning, he'd feel horror and guilt over how far he let it go this time. Maybe, just maybe, it'd finally be just enough to jar him into making a change. But he's never heard Agnes raise her voice before, and it's like a match striking inside. He stops and turns to look back at her. He expects defiance, yet sees only fear; despite summoning her tiny shred of courage, she's still terrified. Georg suddenly thinks of all their years of trying, for a family more than just Godfrey--puny girly disappointing Godfrey, near-barren disappointing Agnes, and most disappointing of all, Georg himself, unable to fix all this--all the generations that went before are howling in his ears at how ruined his family is--and the tiny voice is snuffed out. He sees as if in slow motion, his hand swinging, Agnes's eyes shifting to the side to watch--an echoing CRACK--and she hits the bannister and goes tumbling down the stairs.

Agnes lands on the ground floor with a sickening thud, but as Georg descends she manages to slowly push herself up onto hands and knees, gasping for breath. She looks up at him, her cheek already starting to swell, and shakily says, "Georg--" before he reaches her and hauls her to her feet by the front of her dress. "Mutter!" a voice dimly cries before he tosses her again, and she hits the wall. She still doesn't pass out, saying, "Georg--!" again in a wavering voice, so he pulls her up a second time. This goes on for a moment or so--Agnes yelling his name, Georg alternating between tossing her around and punching or kicking her--the more she refuses to just give up, the more enraged he gets. The pathetic one-sided fight goes around the room, jostling furniture, shattering glass, until he hurls her at the floor near the arched entryway into the den. Agnes lands hard with a muffled yelp--Georg gnashes his teeth and clenches his fists and stomps toward her--and then a flicker of movement to Agnes's side makes him stop short. The long barrel of a rifle is pointed right at him. He blinks in surprise--it's his gun, normally kept on the wall in the den just beyond, what's it doing here?--then he blinks again when he sees who's holding it. Godfrey is shaking so hard the rifle jiggles unsteadily in his grasp, and he looks just as petrified as Agnes. "Godfrey--?" Georg says, confused, and Agnes echoes him--"Godfrey?"--a strained note in her voice. She's just as surprised as Georg is.

"S-stop hurting her," Godfrey stammers in a small voice, his eye swollen almost shut, his lip split and bruises littering him.

"Godfrey," Agnes says again, pushing herself up a little and lifting a hand--an appeal to put down the rifle. Georg sees his son--his puny weakling son--standing his ground for the first time in his life, wielding the family rifle (Godfrey's never shown any fondness for weapons despite Georg trying to teach him), a gun so huge it looks utterly ridiculous in his arms, making him seem even punier trying to hold it aloft and aim at the same time--the recoil alone would likely knock him straight off his feet. There's some sort of irony here--Georg had always wanted Godfrey to toughen up, to be a man, and now here he is with a firearm--yet it's pointed right at Georg himself--and he looks so pathetic with this massive weapon he obviously can hardly use that rather than feel pride that his lesson got through, Georg just feels disgust, as well as his anger deepening. His fists clench again.

"What do you think you're doing with that?" he growls; "Piddling Schwuchtel! Put it back!"

"Godfrey, give me the rifle, bitte," Agnes implores; her voice grates on Georg's raw nerves and he snarls.

"Shut up! Alte Landsau! He's like this because of you always coddling him!" Then to Godfrey: "Give me that gun, you little piss, or I'll make you regret it even more!"

He takes a threatening step forward and Godfrey's foot goes back--but aside from that he doesn't budge, and doesn't lower the gun. In a tiny shaking voice, eyes watering, he then says something that confuses the hell out of Georg: "Der Flaschendämon. Let--let him go. I want my Vater back."

Georg blinks again, wonders what that means, then immediately stops caring--"Give me that gun, you Schwuchtel, you can't even fire it like a man!"--and he makes a grab but Godfrey jerks back, the barrel swinging. Georg raises his fists and his voice in a fury--"WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU--!!" and hears Agnes, her own voice raised--"Godfrey!"--and Godfrey's wailing voice--"I want my Vater back!"--and then the tiny sober part of his brain remembers, that's right, Godfrey does know how to use the rifle, he taught him, he wanted him to stand up for himself and be a man--right before a brilliant flash blinds him, fire blasts in his chest, and he stumbles backwards, toppling and slamming into the floor. He regains his vision just long enough to see the wide wet eyes of his wife and his son, the rifle barrel smoking, before everything flickers, the darkness rapidly crawls in--like looking down a tunnel again--and instead of red, everything goes black.

The aftermath will be recounted in Agnes Klemper's entry (September 1st).

[Georg Klemper 2023 [‎Friday, ‎July ‎14, ‎2023, ‏‎2:00:40 AM]]

#artists on tumblr #ibisPaint x #SketchDaily #original characters

0 notes

nrmnarby · 8 months

Text

Week 3 - This Is How You Connect Practice with Society

Unlike most other poster design campaign, connecting the practice with society takes a quite different approach. What I've discovered is that it is much political on conveying a message for independence since the past and contemporary social issues.

It feels more of raising awareness and emotional impact a connection which motivates people to take action or reflect on the issue being addressed. Designers can create a thoughtful story planning upon these social issues just as a simple photography that is relevant to the topic.

During my class activity we were acting on a skit, A local issue on how foreigners visiting Singapore differs from other countries such as payment procedure. In this case, scanning to pay is common but the way Singaporeans called it " Paynow" could spark a miscommunication which is a social issue. I do feel that designers can rectify these problems by using relatable visuals in a much concise and caring with a clear message on how payment works in Singapore.

One of the most origin and early concepts of practice with society is during the past, the history of world war. As I am a big fan of world war stories. poster communication during that time is crucial and effective to conveying the connecting on practice with society.

The motivational was there to inspire and show imagery to motivate individuals to join the struggle. They emphasized the ideals of freedom, justice, and self-determination, hence they recruit more and encourage supporters of nation. the struggling for independency

Up until now, It serves as legacy the poster continues to resonate and inspire future generations to value and protect their hard-won independence.

WORD COUNT - 272

REFERENCES

https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Alfred-Leetes-British-Army-First-World-War-recruitment-poster_fig1_259932573

https://propaganda-poster-ww1.weebly.com/emotional-appeal.html

https://familybusinessperformance.com/what-not-to-do-give-in-to-family-history-of-miscommunication/

#Social Issues #Independency #world politics #world war #design #social practice

1 note · View note

plainemmanem · 2 years

Text

* You're Mine (chapter one)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Summary: Your first meeting

Warnings: none (later chapters will contain 18+ content)

Word Count: 1,395

A/N: this is the first part to my very self indulgent slow burn fic for our little flyboy! this chapter is a little dry to set up the background for the series, but they don't call it a slow burn for nothing! i hope you enjoy and stick around for the next update <3

also available here :]

The shuttle shook and heaved as you soared through hyperspace. You were being transported in an ancient, rusty GX1 short hauler so as not to raise suspicion when entering the jungle moon. Just a few days prior you received a hologram asking for your return and next thing you knew, you were packing up everything you owned and boarding a shuttle craft to the Resistance base at the center of it all: Ajan Kloss.

Why Leia even contacted you in the first place baffled you; she claimed she could use another commander at her side. With spirits starting to dim, your presence on base would hopefully inspire some new recruits and possibly remind the old recruits that the Resistance wasn’t just a failing pipe dream. And, of course, when the general asks for a favor, you can’t just refuse.

You gripped your hands together to calm your nerves. Leia obviously knew you had potential and a good reputation, but what would everyone else think? You hoped that if there were any rumors, they would all be positive.

You tried to focus on your breathing, in through your nose and out through your mouth. You envisioned your breath leaving your body and propelling out to knock away any daunting fears standing before you.

Suddenly, the shuttle jolted out of hyperspace, pulling you from your thoughts. The ship began descending slowly, finally landing on the moon’s surface.

You took a deep breath, both excited and terrified of who and what would be waiting for you on the outside. You closed your eyes tight, summoning your courage from deep within.

Leia obviously wants you here for a reason. Leia wants you here, you tell yourself over and over. You can’t let her down now.

“All set?” The pilot peeked over at your stressed face. Your eyes quickly snapped open. He gave you an encouraging nod and a small smile at the corner of his lips.

You shakily nod, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Legs buckling, you slowly rise onto your feet.

One foot after the other…

You approach the doors of the shuttle just as they crack open. The harsh sun stings your eyes, and you lift an arm to block its hot rays. Gradually, your pupils begin to adjust, picking out shapes and figures waiting for you a few feet away from the ship’s ramp. You recognize a few of them: Leia, of course, with Poe Dameron to her right. You instantly recognize his dark, curly hair and his handsome face from the countless Resistance propaganda posters. The banners were infamous among supporters, always featuring the slogan “RESIST THE TYRANNY OF THE FIRST ORDER: Join the Resistance!” and a stoic photo of Dameron, sporting his pristine Resistance uniform. You also spot an older man on Leia’s immediate left, donning bright white hair and a graying beard, as well as another woman on Leia’s far right - she was tall and pencil thin, with soft purple hair. She looked familiar, but you couldn’t quite put a name to the face.

Behind the officials, a small crowd had started to form, obviously anticipating your arrival. Even though you knew it would be impossible, you hoped your arrival would be a small affair, only you and Leia. You never liked being in the spotlight; which was one of the reasons you enjoyed your old base so much - to them, you were a familiar face. You're too nervous to look into the faces of the throng, afraid that if you do, you might scurry back into the shuttle and order the pilot to take off.

Tentatively, you start to disembark down the ramp of the ship, hyper aware of your footing - a clumsy tumble wouldn’t make the best first impression, especially in front of a crowd…

Leia wants you here. Leia wants you here, you chant in your head.

With a wide smile, you step in front of Leia, offering her a quick salute.

“General.” You nod swiftly.

“Please,” Leia says with a chuckle and resting a hand on your arm, “you never called me ‘General’ before, I certainly don't expect it now.”

You laugh, quickly rushing in for a hug, which Leia reciprocates without question.

You were so happy to see her after all these years. Leia was the one who taught you everything you knew, from piloting, to ship mechanics, and even some hand-to-hand combat. She wanted to teach you everything you would ever need to know, so you never had to rely on anyone besides yourself.

Leaving D’Qar and starting another small resistance base was one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do - leaving Leia was one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do. She was the only motherly figure you’ve ever known, and seeing her now made your eyes start to water.

“It’s good to see you,” you say, pulling away gently and taking a step back, wiping your eyes before anyone could see.

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself, haven’t you?” she says with a proud smile. Slight tears were beginning to form in her eyes as well before she quickly changed the subject. “Well. Let me introduce you to the team. You’ll become very familiar with them while you stay on base. They have my utmost respect - I trust them with my life, as I hope, with time, you will, too,” she turned to the older man to her left, “This is Caluan Ematt, one of my high ranking generals and a former lieutenant in the Rebel Alliance.”

You reach out and shake his firm hand.

“It’s a pleasure,” he says quickly.

Leia continues, turning to her immediate right, “This is Poe Dameron, one of our exemplary pilots here on D’Qar. He will be our eyes and ears in the skies.”

You look over to his deep brown eyes, then down to his extended hand. You take it quickly.

“Of course. ‘The best pilot in the resistance,’” you quip, giving him a small smirk.

Poe returns the smile, “That’s what they tell me. I’ve been excited to finally meet the infamous commander Leia won’t stop bragging about.” He squeezes your hand a little tighter.

You blush slightly, pulling your hand from his warm grasp.

Finally, you look to the purple-haired woman to Poe’s right.

“And this is Vice Admiral Amilyn Holdo, one of my dear friends and protégés. I’m sure you two will become fast friends,” Leia finishes with a smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say looking at the woman. She gives you a kind smile and a small nod in return.

“Well,” Leia looks to you, “now that you’ve met everyone, why don’t you take a look around. Unfortunately, we’ve just received word of another First Order attack - a village just outside of Hosnian Prime - so me and my other advisors will be putting together an evac mission to aid any remaining civilians. But, don’t worry. Mr. Dameron, here, has taken the liberty of showing you the base and bringing you to your quarters.”

You look to Poe, who gives you a friendly nod as confirmation.

“It was a pleasure to meet you all,” you say with a slight bow, “Thank you for your warm welcome and your hospitality.” You look back to Leia with a warm smile.

Swiftly, Leia moves in for one last hug, whispering in your ear, “It’s good to see you home.”

You nod against her shoulder and give her one last goodbye before she pulls away and heads off with General Ematt and Admiral Holdo in tow.

You look at her retreating form, wishing you could run after her and tell her everything she's missed while you were apart, ask her every question you’ve been dying to know the answers to.

“Ready?” Poe asks, observing your line of sight. You quickly snap back to Poe’s intense gaze.

You look into his eyes for a brief moment, seeing what you thought was a look of understanding and sympathy behind them, before you looked over his shoulder to the crowd still surrounding you, watching you silently.

Leia wants you here. You tell yourself again, knowing there’s no shuttle for you to run back to anymore.

You give the crowd a small bow of your head.

A gesture of thanks. A sign of gratitude and peace.

You raise your head, catching Poe’s pensive look.

“Ready.”

#fanfic #poe dameron #smut #fluff #angst #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x female reader

288 notes · View notes

janghoefett · 2 years

Text

Smoke and Mirrors - Epilogue

BOBA FETT x F!READER

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ NO MINORS Pairing: F/M Chapter word count: 2.6k

Warnings: Boba kills a dude, Boba and Princess are both recovering from trauma, breast play.

A/N: Things didn’t feel quite so finished with these two, so I wanted to give them one last hurrah in their new life together. As always, thank you all for your support with this series. I hope you enjoy this epilogue as much as I enjoyed writing it.

SERIES MASTERLIST

—————————

Twice he had seen her in a white gown.

The first time his knees had trembled and his heart was bursting from its seams from equal parts desire and heartbreak. Despite everything he had been taught and etched into his very being, Boba wanted her in all ways a man wants a woman, yet he could not have her - she was not his to take. She was promised to another man so undeserving of her, undeserving of the light that seemed to pour from her skin and the touch of her soft lips on his mouth. That gown was undoubtedly beautiful and fit for a princess... but the bride looked like a member of the living dead, with her eyes swollen and her head hung low.

The second dress was simple, but it was right. It complimented her blinding smile, one that never seemed to fade on that happy day, with her cheeks full of laughter and her eyes sparkling with glee. She said her vows sweetly and sincerely, and Boba said his with a soft smile that was reserved only for her eyes. With their joined hands wrapped in terrycloth, Boba vowed his protection and fidelity, both as her lover and as her guardian, and it was for that smiling girl that his heart had a reason to beat.

He hadn’t told the princess where he was going. She knew he was gone and she didn’t ask questions — she never asked questions, and Boba knew that about her even though he doubted she knew that about herself. Since the day they met, she had trusted him like an innocent girl does, blindly, like a fool in love, and Boba had just taken advantage of that trust.

He had left her to track down the murderer responsible for the death of her homeworld, because knowing that vile man was alive was eating away at him; it made him feel undeserving of her. She was under the impression that the man had perished along with the Death Star, but Boba wasn’t planning on telling her otherwise. If he told her, and if she knew what he was going to do, Boba knew she would lose the peace that she had worked so hard to achieve. So he left her in the middle of the night under the pretext of tracking a bounty, and he kissed her tired lips to say goodbye hoping that she would forgive him when he returned.

Boba slinks through the dark streets back to the hangar, desperate to scrub the remnants of the dead man’s blood off his armor so that he could return home to her. The dark, wet streets of Coruscant always brought his father to the forefront of his mind, and he finds his chest sinking with the weight of guilt.

He would have liked to have told his father that he was happy. He wanted to tell him that it was because of a woman, that she was lovely and good and that he had made her his wife. Surely Jango would share in his happiness ⁠— surely he could not fault Boba for not forsaking love and marriage as he did... but why couldn’t Boba shake the feeling that his father would be disappointed?

It is in that very moment that the street is illuminated by neon lights. Boba looks up to find an imposing image cast onto the side of a skyscraper...

It’s her.

It’s the princess’s face plastered on an Imperial wanted poster, and his stomach drops. They were falsely pinning Jamie’s death on her, in a new tactic of propaganda that the Empire had taken to lately. Calling her a husband-killer was much more effective in gaining the support of civilians than simply calling her what she really was to them: just another Rebel bounty. The portrait used had been taken long before Boba had even met her, and to see that honest girl’s face plastered on the side of a building for all of Coruscant to see, as if she were a cold-blooded murderer, makes his skin crawl.

Taking his rifle, Boba aims for the hologram’s projector at the base. He fires once and does not miss — the small machine combusts, going up in a plume of smoke, and the image of her goes dark.

Boba once considered his love for her to be his greatest weakness, but now he knows it is his greatest strength. He was no longer a boy and he did not need his father’s approval.

His life had a new purpose.

-----

You were always anxious when Boba was gone. You knew he took too many risks, and after you had been separated for all those months you were always filled with the irrational dread that somehow he may never find his way back to you again. So you threw yourself into your work to keep your mind busy, and you kept your comlink close.

It was another day, another briefing, and a hologram map projects in the middle of the strategy center. “If we can lure as many TIE-fighters out of the base, that will give us a chance to slip in quietly,” you explain to the room of listeners. “Wedge Antilles will lead a squadron in a northbound direction and Skywalker will follow once all TIE-fighters exit the hangar.”

You trail off when your eyes land on the looming figure leaning against the doorway. A crooked smile plays at Boba’s lips when you notice him, and the enormous weight of his absence lifts off your shoulders. He’s handsome — he really looks like quite the flyboy, with his armor repainted and fresh, and his helmet tucked casually under his arm as if he were just another X-Wing fighter. You clear your throat to finish the rest of the briefing just as Leia rests her hand on your arm.

“Thank you, princess, I can take it from here,” she says with a knowing smile. “I believe you are needed outside.”

You bow your head curtly to the room and shuffle towards Boba with a giddy smile blooming across your lips. You are trying not to walk too quickly but you fail all the same, nearly breaking into a jog, and you throw your arms around him tightly. Boba manages to close the door behind you and he chuckles, angling your head in for a kiss.

You take his face in your hands and search him over. “Are you okay? Did everything go well?”

“Yes, love,” he replies sincerely. “Everything’s alright.”

Stars, your smile was contagious. He pulls you in for another kiss and you oblige gladly — although your marriage was not a secret, neither of you would ever be accustomed to being seen, and you break off with a bashful grin should anyone walk by.

“Did you hear about the bounty?” you ask.

“I did,” Boba grimaces.

You knew the risks of joining the Rebel Alliance, and it was almost a matter of time before you had a price on your head; the lies being told about you and about Jamie, however, had hurt you deeply. Boba cups your chin and locks onto your worried gaze, his dark eyes warm and honest.

“No one’s getting near you, princess,” he says softly. “You have my word.”

Boba slips on his helmet and links your arm through his own as you move through the halls of the base. He is greeted with enthusiasm by those passing by, though some were still weary of him. Boba was still seen as the lone wolf; despite doing many jobs for the Rebel Alliance, some were still untrusting of him and it hurt you more than it hurt him. He pats your hand in reassurance.

“You looked good in there. Strategy seems to suit you, princess,” he notes.

“Thank you,” you chuckle. “I like being able to choose my purpose, you know?”

Boba hums in acknowledgement. “I am proud of you.”

It was a simple statement, but still your breath catches. You smile up at him and grip his hand tightly as guides you towards the hangar where his ship is docked.

“Well, if it isn’t the two love birds!”

Oh no. It’s Captain Solo walking your way with open arms.

“Bloody hell...” Boba grumbles.

Han looks between you and Boba with that dumb, open-mouthed smile that makes his eyes squint. You were nervous; Boba never pretended to like Han, and after what happened at Jabba’s palace, he never quite forgave him for letting you go alone. He should have known better, Boba always insisted. Mesh’la, if I found out you were alive and had ended up getting yourself killed at Jabba’s palace...

“Hey, did I miss the briefing?” Han asks.

“You sure did. Leia should be finishing up right about now.”

“Great — catch you later, princess,” he smiles, patting you on the shoulder before hurrying down the corridor.

You look up at Boba with raised eyebrows. The hall was now empty, and taking advantage of that, Boba pulls you in by the hips to lean into your ear. “Do you think I can speak to you… privately, princess?” he asks lowly, his voice full of mischief.

“I think I can make some time,” you chuckle.

With a hand on your waist, he leads you onto his ship. It was a welcomed change from the women's barracks, and you did typically spend all your nights here with Boba while he was at the base. It feels like home; a very tiny home, but home all the same.

Boba pulls your back into his chest. His hands sneak under your shirt and take your breasts, massaging the tender flesh and pulling at your nipples. You gasp and moan, reaching back to tug at his hair as his lips leave a trail of kisses along your neck. “Just feel good for me, yeah?” he mumbles. “Let me make you feel good.”

You nod breathlessly and help him to lift your shirt over your head. He tosses your bra to the side and keeps his grip on you firm as he shuffles you over to the bed. His groin presses into the plump flesh of your rear and his hands keep you locked against his strong body. The way he always handled you so firmly was something that excited you and awakened the darkest parts of your conscious, and you know that if you were to reach between your legs you’d already feel a bead of slick pearling at your cunt.

Boba lowers you to the bed. He comes over your body and brings his mouth to your tit, taking your nipple between his teeth as he flicks his tongue over the hardening mound. “Boba!” you gasp in pleasure.

“Sensitive today,” he notes with slight amusement. He uses his hands to knead the flesh again as he comes to your lips, sucking gently and holding your gaze, periodically looking down at your breasts in his hands. “Have I ever told you how much I love these gorgeous tits?” he sighs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples. “You’re perfect, mesh’la. My perfect girl.”

You bloom under his praise. You continue to receive his pleasure and his compliments until it ends up leaving an inexplicable pit in your gut — something was off. There’s something that makes you worry and you don’t know why. “What’s going on?” you ask.

Boba cocks an eyebrow and looks up at you, taken aback by your reaction. “Can a man not compliment his wife’s breasts from time to time?” he responds.

You stare up at him with furrowed brows. Boba searches your face, taking one look at those vulnerable eyes and he buckles. “Alright, mesh’la. There is something.”

Boba sits up and you follow. He takes your hand and you reach for his face, stroking his hair back and searching for any sort of answer. “Forgive me for waiting to tell you,” he says softly. “I didn’t want you to worry just yet.”

“It’s alright, just tell me...” you plead.

“There was one man in particular who had pushed for the destruction of Arcada,” Boba starts slowly, reading your face as he speaks. “He was from Arcada, princess, he was a terrorist who wanted to see it gone.”

You nod your head slowly. “They... they all blew up with the Death Star,” you start, confused.

“Not him,” Boba explains solemnly. “He was on Coruscant last night. Drunker than all hell.”

A cold chill runs up your spine — you know what Boba is going to tell you before he even says the words.

Knowing that your home and your people had been betrayed by one of their own makes your stomach tie up in knots, and you look down at your lap trying to settle your nerves. You feel like you’re going to be sick... but as much as you wish you could have killed that man with your own hands, as much as you wanted to scream and curse at him and read off the names of every innocent life he had taken, you know deep down that you never could do what Boba had done.

“Mesh’la?” Boba says softly. He takes your face in his hands, bringing your gaze up to meet his eyes.

“You killed him,” you whisper.

“I did.”

You nod in grim acceptance. Your eyes close and suddenly your breathing quickens and your eyes start welling up with tears. Boba caresses your face and strokes your hair back, giving you time to process his admission. “I know you did not ask it of me and I understand if this upsets you,” he continues. “But you know why I had to see this through.”

You knew he had killed from the very first moment you met him. You had seen him kill with your own eyes when he took out the entire gang that had attacked you on the dunes. But this was different... this was vengeful... and it had all been in your name. Boba could take a life with such ease and it absolutely terrified you, yet all the same you loved him, in spite of it, because of it, and you were grateful that he would do for you what you could not.

“Why do you kill for me?” your voice shakes.

Boba brings his lips to the back of your hand. He holds it there in his grasp, running his thumbs over your knuckles before returning your gaze. “Because I never want you to dirty these sweet hands,” he replies. “Mine are already soiled.”

Your breath shakes and your eyes grow foggy from the weight of his words. Taking his hand that covers yours, you turn it upwards and press your lips softly to his palm. Boba exhales raggedly at the silent significance of your kiss just as tears fall from your eyes and into his open hand, and he closes his eyes as your lips wash away his sins.

Boba closes his grasp around your jaw and pulls your lips to his, and you take his free hand and place it on your breast as a plain offering of your body. You’d take him any way he wanted; you were giving yourself to him fully because no one had ever loved you like this or deserved your love the way he did.

Boba had avenged you, the life you had lost, and he had avenged the deaths of strangers all in your name. One day these dark times would be over and the war would be won, and a bright new chapter would begin in its place.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett #star wars #smoke and mirrors

112 notes · View notes

qierxing · 3 years

Text

Resuscitation

Word Count: 1363

TW/CW: Decapitation, description of gore and frostbite, dissociation, mind break/manipulation.

[Mediation] - [Melodrama]

Doubt is like frostbite, shivering at the edges of the mind.

You saw the Tsaritsa once, in your whole life.

Ironically, it wasn’t during the time you were recruited into the Fatui. No, it was when you were eight, and you were heckled by your classmates to go to an execution of a traitor.

It was one of the higher politicians, a name you were too young to know but recognized his face on the many propaganda posters that littered the walls of grungy alleyways and rural neighborhood walls. He was grim faced, but even he knew there was no point in screaming for help; the Fatui agents and soldiers lining up in every corner of the platform and within the crowd made sure of that. The crowd was murmuring, some were yelling for his death, some jeering at how pathetic he looks; calling for their goddess to punish him and his sins of betraying the mighty nation of Snezhnaya. Your classmates also join the calls, laughing and throwing fallen snow at the man. His facade doesn’t break, his mien not much different from the nutcrackers that line the shelves of jolly lit toy shops around the corner.

But even he pales at the sight of the cryo Archon.

She is regal, even when she stands before him kneeling at the uneven stone chopping block. The executioner stands uneasily to the side, bowing his head and clutching his axe, but he, too, is too fearful to question why she is there for such a lowly whelp.

It happened in a blink.

The cut was clean. So clean, that there was absolutely no blood splatter at all, and by the time the body is slumping against the ground in its own blood, the head rolling to a stop by the edge of the platform, she’s flicking blood carelessly off her steel white blade. There’s barely any skin clinging onto the bottom of the neck; and bone, pure white as snow, nestled in gooey flesh, glistens in the lantern light. The crowd is instantly silenced, stunned at the sheer power displayed in the second it takes to happen, and grim silence falls.

She turns to face the crowd, icy pupils studying the crowd, and you try to find some kind of emotion, any kind, that implies that she was human, that she too had some sympathy for ending the life of someone who used to be her ally. But there is nothing but cold, cold, white.

“To everyone who is watching, let this be a warning to those who think they can cross me.”

When you received your vision, cold and burning in your palms, you thought your goddess was mocking you.

Now that you stand before the two knights, you now know what it is: a test.

A test to reach inside yourself, and to twist that little protesting voice. How far will you go to see through your goals? How much blood are you willing to spill, so you can stand triumphant at the end?

“[First], if you come back with us, we promise to forget this whole thing.” Ah, Jean, the ever peaceful loving diplomat. More diplomatic than a certain man next to her, scowling with a barely restrained anger that you can feel even at a distance. “I know you’re angry, but we can do better, I promise!”

You call for your vision, and the power hums in your chest like a familiar lullaby and into the old catalyst in your hands.

“Hell no.”

The answer is brief but enough to convey the rage of the days of tapping your feet watching the birds flutter from the window, being bored of endless days with no one to talk to except for your captors, of having to restrain yourself from screaming and throwing the nearest porcelain thing next to you to feel like you had some control in your damn life before it was ripped out of your hands.

You were done. You weren’t going back, not if it meant that you would be coddled and suffocated and restrained like some kind of spoiled pet rather than a human being. Not if it means that you were reminded of how powerless you used to be, before your goddess decided to heed your desperate prayers.

Perhaps it was the twisted love that called to her, you thought. Your goddess always had an affinity for dark, harrowing, twisting relationships that left a bitter taste on the tongue. You suppose when you're an immortal who has lived for centuries, only that kind of love could stir the heart anymore.

Jean and Diluc respond in kind with fire and anemo, the elemental energy licking at their blades and surging forward to meet yours. You take a combative stance, bracing yourself.

The catalyst is old, pages wrinkled and aged with the passage of time, but it channels your anger well: large, sharp icicles circle above you and shoot toward your targets with deadly speed, which they both unfortunately dodge. “Tsk-” You bite your lips and quickly stop Jean’s blade with a wall of ice before sending a sheet of ice below Diluc’s feet making him slip and fall.

Already you’re feeling icy pin pricks in your veins but you don’t care. If this is where you’ll die, you’ll accept it. If you were to die by freezing alive, letting snowflakes and ice form a lacy patchwork over your waxy skin, it would still be better than to be forever scorched and blown about, trapped in an eternal inferno of their sick desires. You barely manage to stop Diluc’s claymore with a counter of your own, hot steam rising between your hand and his blade, your arm trembling with the effort of keeping him back. Your hand is searing with icy numbness, and the painful feeling distracts you long enough to realize that Diluc’s goal was not to aim a blow at you.

You furiously howl as your vision is snatched from your collar and your inflamed hands nearly claw Diluc's eyes out trying to get it back. You’re wrenched back and you snarl as you realize Jean managed to subdue you in a vice grip.

“Give it back! GIVE IT BACK!” You thrash wildly in Jean’s grip, eyes bulging and teeth bared as you kick your legs to do anything, anything to get your vision back in your hands.

Diluc’s eyes narrow, and he tightens his grip on your vision. Spidery cracks thread their way on the glassy surface, and your eyes widen. Your chest tightens and your skin prickles again.

“We love you, [First].” Jean murmurs in your ear, and you open your mouth to scream-

The vision shatters, pieces falling like snowflakes that fell that winter night.

—

You smile absentmindedly at the gentle kiss pressed upon your cheek. “That tickles.” Jean giggles airily, arm snug around your form to bring you closer to her side. She leans more into you, blowing a raspberry into your cheek, and you squeal, trying to lean out of her reach.

“H-Hey! N-no fair, that- that tickles! H-Ha haha, n-no, stop! Diluc, help me!” You try reaching for your other lover, who sighs and rolls his eyes, but comes to your rescue, reaching out to also intertwine a warm arm around your other side to draw you out of tickling range.

“What am I going to do with you two?” His eyes shimmer with unbound fondness, and you grin cheekily, while Jean says nothing, but tightens her grip on the two of you in response.

Something’s wrong.

You pause, not going unnoticed by your lovers, and all of sudden their warm touches turn searing cold, burning into your flesh. Your fingers twitch erratically, and your breath quickens.

“[First]?”

Something’s wrong!

You blink and your hands are waxy and discolored blue, snowflakes lacing intricate patterns across your palms and wrists.

[First]?”

You’re brought back with a sharp breath, and when you blink again, your skin is normal, no ice to be found.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Jean runs a gentle hand through your hair and you lean against her as Diluc huffs and also rubs your back with perfectly heated hands. You nod weakly, shaking away the cold nightmare.

Nothing’s wrong.

#yandere genshin impact #i did it boys i fucking wrote this once again unhinged at 3 am #actually pretty proud of how this one turned out #why are my sequels always better than the first chapter LMAO #cheers everyone time to go to bed

112 notes · View notes

writingletterstothefire · 3 years

Note

Oooh, I’d love to see “would you have said yes?” from the angst prompts with Poe, maybe? Or anyone you’d like :’)

A/N: Star omg why do all my faves follow me I’m literally not worthy of this!!! I hope you enjoy I’m so sorry if this is garbage please don’t unfollow me LMFAO

Word Count: 946

Warnings: angst, crying, a slap (it was deserved imo), and an F bomb

Prompt: “Would you have said yes?”

Poe Dameron had run with your crew for a short time back before he’d become the poster boy for the Resistance. You knew he couldn’t stay, you’d known almost immediately after meeting him. The son of two great Resistance fighters, and a passionate fighter. It was his passion and drive that drew you to him, and it was definitely his passion that kept you there.

He came into your life like a blazing fire, and he was gone just as quickly. One night he was in your bed, holding you close after hours of pure bliss. In the morning, he was gone. The pillow that still smelled like him was empty, save for a note that you now kept folded up in a locket under your shirt.

Poe had left without a word. The next time you’d seen him was on propaganda encouraging joining the Resistance. He clearly hadn’t cared for you as much as you had cared for him, despite his note proclaiming his love for you.

All of this to say that when Poe showed up on Kijimi looking for help, he wasn’t given the warmest welcome. After Zorii had held him at blaster-point, she’d brought him down to Babu Frik’s workshop. You happened to be hanging out down there.

Poe’s eyes lit up, but he barely got out a “Hi, sweetheart”, before your hand hit his face.

At that moment, Poe realized that he missed being at the end of Zorii’s blaster.

You hated yourself for it, but tears burned at the back of your eyes. How could he show his face, call you sweetheart, and expect you to welcome him with open arms?

You knew you shouldn’t have slapped him, but it was either slap him or go running into his arms, which you could not let yourself do. The slap echoed across the room, everyone and everything going completely silent.

The tears won out, and you felt yourself running out of the room before you could process anything else. You made it up onto the roof, collapsing to the shingles below you with a sob. You cried for what felt like hours.

You were so overcome with your sadness and anger that you didn’t hear someone climbing up after you. You felt a hand on your shoulder.

“Go away, Zorii... I know I shouldn’t have hit him. I’m sorry I did it. But… he shows up here and expects me to act like he didn’t abandon me? Like we didn’t talk about a future together? After all of our planning, he didn’t even ask me to go with him. We all knew he’d be leaving and I didn’t expect him to beg, but I thought he’d at least ask.”

“Would you have said yes?”

That was not Zorii. You whipped your head around, horrified to see none other than Poe standing there.

“I-I…”

“Would you have? I couldn’t ask you to leave Zorii and the crew, sweetheart. I know how much they mean to you, and I also know they never would’ve joined me. Could you have up and left them?” Poe dropped down next to you slowly, grabbing your hands gently, trying his best not to startle you by moving too quickly.

“Poe… For you, I’d have done anything…” you hated yourself for it, but your voice broke on the last word. You hated yourself even more for the way you squeezed his hands and said, “I’d still do anything for you.”

Poe smiled at you. There was a happiness in the smile, but also a deep sadness. It hit you that this was not the Poe that had left you. This Poe had grey beginning to pepper in throughout his curls. He had fine lines around his eyes and mouth, and he had a weight about him. He looked like he was carrying the entire galaxy on his shoulders. Maybe he was.

“Zorii’s coming with us. It took a lot to get her to agree, but she’s coming,” Poe’s brown eyes burned intensely into yours. “Will you come with me this time? Will you help me win this goddamn war so that we can finally pop out some little brats and settle down on some planet and just fuckin’ be happy?”

Your head fell forward, and your arms wrapped around him as you cried the small amount of tears you had left into his neck. His arms wound around your waist, and he pulled you to settle your legs over his lap, holding you as close as he could.

“I know I hurt you, baby,” you could hear his throat tightening, and you could feel wetness starting to pool where his cheek rested on top of your head. “I know I messed up, and I’m so sorry. Please, please… come with me. Let me make up for these past few years. I’m yours, sweetheart, I’m all yours.”

And you knew in your heart that you could never say no to this man. You would have gone with him if he’d asked you to, all those years ago, and you’d still follow him anywhere.

After what felt like an eternity, you finally raised your head to meet his eyes.

“When do we leave?”

Poe’s smile was one to rival all the suns in the galaxy.

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron x y/n #poe dameron #star wars fanfiction #my writing

55 notes · View notes

translations-by-aiimee · 3 years

Text

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 13

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 13 - Doubt

In the archaeological internship Lin Yan participated in, the Ming Tomb was undoubtedly a very peculiar place. The excavation work lasted three months. Before the excavation started, Lin Yan didn't even get any relevant background information. He asked his professor several times but never got a response. When he was told that would be staying at the tomb for only a week, he thought he was coming to be the team's water boy. Instead, he was unexpectedly sent to the site as soon as the plane touched down and was given one of the most important jobs of cleaning the body found in the main room of the tomb.

It was a medium-sized underground mysterious tomb. Bluestone blocks were built into arches. The apse in the room was about forty meters long. A large black lacquered coffin left slightly ajar rested peacefully on the stone platform. Lin Yan and the rest of the crew held their breath together. When the golden nanmu wood coffin lid was slowly lifted, and the gold, silver, jade and rosy brocade around the corpse were exposed, a soft cheer erupted from the tomb. Everyone couldn't help but celebrate that they found such an magnificent mausoleum that had been left completely untouched by tomb robbers. After a long while, all nonessential personnel evacuated one by one. Lin Yan remembered that the professor was the last one to leave the scene. When he left, he rested his hand heavily on his shoulders, as if he wanted to say something but never ended up getting anything out. In the empty and dark main room of the tomb, only Lin Yan and a few lights, both bright and dim, were left. Sometimes, the miner's lamp was often extinguished inexplicably. He later recalled that the owner of the tomb might have been watching him ever since then.

The corpse in the coffin had rotted into a skeleton, but the hair that remained was soft and shiny. However, when Lin Yan sat alone by the coffin and skimmed through some history books, doubts arose. The identity of the owner of the tomb was like the bronze of this mysterious palace, unrecognizable under the green rust. There was no record, no genealogy, nothing even mentioned in town and county chronologies. The tomb's eternal light placed in front of the coffin had long been dried up, and a two-foot-long black name card behind it was coated with thick old blood. The place where the name should be written was empty, and it turned out to be a non-character memorial tablet.

When the last artifact in the coffin was successfully taken out, Lin Yan was told he could return. It only took them seven days and no one had ever told him about the origin of the tomb that whole time.

The sun was shining on Friday morning, and the roses in the flower bed were rushing to bloom. There was a soft fragrance of something oily like burning opium in the air. Lin Yan parked his car at the school gate and hurried through the small square in front of the building to get to the professor's office. He was in such a rush that he went through the ground fountain in the square. After he took a few steps, bells and drums started playing and spurts of water shot from the jets, the surrounding area immediately turning into a forest of water columns shooting up.

"Shit. . ." He couldn't dodge them and got completely soaked. Lin Yan internally cursed as he rushed forward, wringing out the hem of his shirt. A few school girls had just come out of the main entrance of the building and giggled at the embarrassing scene.

Lin Yan blushed a little.

Shiny drops of water splashed off his hair and a droplet fell into his eye. When he raised his hand to wipe it away, his wrist was caught by someone. The cold fingertips wiped the drop off one of his eyelashes. Lin Yan blinked and stood there silently.

When he walked up the steps, he saw a new large poster on the left side of the automatic door. A gentle-looking middle-aged man with glasses was holding a pen, and his demeanour resembled an unopened folder in a stationery store. There was a large line next to him: Chen XX, a well-known Chinese history professor, is coming to our school to give a lecture. All students are welcome to participate. This will be a great chance to interact with the professor.

The tune played was one typically used by the Propaganda Department, the following rows of small letters are written with the specific time and content of the event. Lin Yan struggled to twist the hem of the wet T-shirt and walked towards the hall, muttering that this was probably the reason that the fountain suddenly turned on. Turning back, he frowned and stood in front of the poster for a minute. He always felt that the man on the poster was a bit familiar, but he couldn't remember who it was. After thinking about it for a while, Lin Yan shook his head and stepped through the hall.

The professor's office was on the fourth floor.

"Professor, are you kidding me? From the preliminary preparations to the end of the tomb excavation, so many people participated in it. How could it be possible that nothing about the tomb owner's origins could be found until now?"

"That tomb was already considered to be average to wealthy for the time period. Even if the owner of the tomb was not of official origin, there is always a record in historical records for wealthy businessmen."

University institutions were never busy on Fridays. Everyone was waiting for the weekend. Lin Yan’s professor was no exception. He was sitting in the office with his legs crossed when the drenched student burst into his office. Behind the table, he held a heavy purple sand teacup in his hand. Because he often went to the West in his early years, his skin was wrinkled by the wind and frost. His midsection was blessed by some middle-aged fat, and the bags under the eyes were hanging loosely behind the glasses.

The professor grew impatient with Lin Yan's aggressive tone, and patted a stack of books on the table: "Isn't that so? You see, I'm more worried about writing a report on the excavation. I've been busy for more than a month and I haven't made any progress."

Lin Yan leaned forward impatiently with his hands on the glass plate of the tabletop: "The mausoleum was left untouched. The body and burial items were intact. Isn't it possible to determine the identity of the tomb owner?"

This student had always been known for his politeness and patience. It was rare for him to be this anxious.

"That's the problem. Comparing the data compiled based on the unearthed cultural relics with the records at the time, I can only say that he's completely unknown." The professor put down the cup and tapped his finger on the cover of the book a few times: "Ming Dynasty history is not my specialty. Tell me, why don't you do some research yourself? The students in our school must be able to research independently. You should make good use of the school library resources."

Lin Yan shook his head disappointedly. Just like the professor said, there was a lot of historical data to go through. He wouldn't make any progress in the next three months. Even three years might not be enough time to go through all the information. By then, he would have run out of ten lives. What's more, he has searched through the relevant history books of the library for the past week and even asked Yin Zhou to search through the database in less legal ways, but the strange thing is that no matter what keywords they use - the age, name, location - he couldn't find any information. It was common sense that, in ancient times, even a talented person would be written about somewhere in the county annals, but this Xiao Yu was like a person from another world. The records passed over him like he had never existed.

The faint scent of book pages and wood was floating in the air, and the light blue shutters broke up the rays of sun leaking in. Lin Yan subconsciously glanced back, as if there should be a companion waiting to respond to his doubts. But Xiao Yu does exist, he thought.

Trying his best to stay calm, Lin Yan lowered his head and lowered his voice: "Teacher, this is really important to me, can you help. . ." While speaking, his gaze was fixed on the table. Under the glass plate were many old photos of the professor when he was young. There was a row of people wearing work clothes and hard hats in the black-and-white pictures. Compared to the middle-aged man with swollen eyes in front of him, there was a strange sense of contradiction in the gray-headed but happy-looking man in the pictures.

Time really did wonders.

The instructor tapped two fingers on the table. He didn't look at Lin Yan when he spoke. His eyes were a little dodged: "Why do you need to know the owner of the tomb? Do you need to write a paper?"

Lin Yan took a deep breath. He had always had a keen insight into people's emotions. When he had been sorting through clues last night, the situation that occurred in the tomb flashed in his mind. He had already had his doubts at the time, but he was so nervous and excited that he didn't think too much of it. For example, ever since he joined the team, everyone had been keeping secrets, and the professor also looked at him with that dodgy look when the excavators all left the tomb. The whole thing seemed to have been arranged long ago, so Lin Yan hadn't cared about interrupting the teacher's off-time and grabbed the phone to set up a meeting time.

"Professor, you should know why; this is a matter of life and death." After hesitating for a moment, Lin Yan frowned and said this sentence with emphasis. He pressed his hands on the table hard and turned away.

When I walked to the door of the office. He paused, one, two. . . Lin Yan counted silently in his heart.

Three.

"Wait." The professor's voice sounded from behind.

"Lin Yan, this project isn't under my control. I just heard that a lot of strange things happened when the tomb was opened. Someone came to me and asked you to go. I didn't agree with it. . . If you really want to know more, you can go ask the coordinator of the excavation yourself." The finger tapped twice on the desk. "His name is Chen, he'll be at our school next Monday for a lecture. There are posters downstairs." After speaking, he took a few volumes from the neatly arranged books and put them back on the table, gesturing that he could leave. "You can get more out of him than me"

"Last question." Lin Yan held the door frame and poked his face in: "Teacher, do you know Xiao Yu?"

"No, I don't." The answer was quick this time: "Who's that?"

Lin Yan sighed and held the railing as he quickly walked downstairs.

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost #dig a grave to dig out a ghost translation #chinese novel #chinese bl #english translation #yaoi novel #yaoi

11 notes · View notes

mortyvongola2-0 · 4 years

Text

Proof of Strength

Chapter 1: Whiff

Pairing: Alpha! Kylo Ren x Omega! Reader

Genre: a/b/o fic, slowburn, multichapter, 18+

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: language, sexual themes, lying, and a/b/o dynamics.

Read it on AO3

Next Chapter

The First Order offered great opportunities. You were poor and downtrodden when they showed up, claiming to have solutions to your poverty, that they would clothe, bathe, and provide food for all in exchange for hard work. Their propaganda promised a beautiful future, where no one would ever be as poor as you were again. Immediately, you wanted to join but there was one rather large problem. The First Order only hired alphas and betas. And therein lied your problem, as you were neither an alpha nor beta. You were an omega.

Omegas were rare, as the gene mutation required to be an omega was even more recessive than the alpha gene. They were less independent, they required protection and mass amounts of supervision during their heats, and the biggest difference in strength was in their upper bodies, as omegas do not require the upper body strength of an alpha or even a beta. In exchange the lower body strength of an omega was much more prevalent then for either other designation. Being an omega was also a lot harder to hide then being an alpha, the hormones of an omega heavily influence those of other designations, which was most likely the reason why the First Order did not hire or train them.

Nowadays, alphas found omegas to be more of a chore than anything. It used to be that alphas and omegas were fated to bond, that they would thrive well when mated with one another, but as more and more betas arose the less alphas wanted to put in the extra effort to take on an omega. You understood, if you weren’t an omega you wouldn’t want to have to be stuck with what the rumors made you sound like either. But, to you, there would always be something special about the bond between an alpha and omega. Others called you an idealist, or a romanticist, but you had seen that special bond firsthand. Your parents had that bond, so strong and beautiful, and you wished for that same sort of love.

You scratched at the scent gland on the left side of your neck as you stared at the First Order poster on the wall. The wind blew your scarf into your face along with some grains of black sand. I could get away with it, you thought. This shouldn’t be a problem. You clicked your tongue and tugged the poster off the wall. My family needs the money, and everything else they’re offering doesn’t sound too bad. Can’t imagine it being any worse than this. You rubbed a dirty finger under your nose and began to walk back out and into the streets, the poster now shoved into your satchel and a hum on your lips, images of infiltrating the First Order playing continually in your mind’s eye. This’ll be fun.

This is most certainly not fun, you thought as you crawled, much slower than everyone else, along the thick mud. The First Order really knew how to whip its people into shape, that’s for sure. You had passed their physical exam, as the differences between omegas and female betas bodies were very minimal hormone wise, and you made sure you had been suppressing with steroids long enough beforehand to not have to worry about being caught, besides hardly anyone tested for steroids anymore. Most designations didn’t suppress and if they did it was with more herbal remedies, as steroids were seen as archaic and more dangerous than helpful. The biggest differences between omega and beta, however, were all anatomically the same as an alpha. A bonding gland and six scent glands; one on each side of the neck right under the jaw and closer to the ears, one in each wrist, and one at each junction where pelvis met pubic area. But luckily for you, they didn’t do any full body scans and your bonding gland was smaller than average, so it could be easily passed as a simple knot or inflamed muscle on your shoulder.

However, passing the physical labor portions, like crawling, climbing, heavy lifting, pushups, and even shooting, those were the tests where the true difficulty for you was. You were barely scraping by, and it took all your effort to be passable in these areas of strength. Unfortunately, that meant you were at the very bottom of your class, but at this point you were far too invested to give up. Passing was still passing; no matter what place you were. Though your testing scores and stamina more than made up for what you lacked. You were a quick study so your grades placed you above average testing wise, which balanced out with your physical scores, rounded you out to a nice average.

You were very aware of how suspicious your weaknesses could make you seem, so you did your best to tone down the strengths of your lower body as well as worked really hard to increase what you could do with your upper body. And after a little more than a year of training, you were officially inducted as a member of the First Order, smack dab in the middle of your class. You were so proud of yourself and were extra relieved when you learned that your position put you far away from the frontlines.

As time passed your work ethic brought you more and more promotions. Seven years after your graduation saw you as a lead programmer and the promotion after that brought you to your station on the Finalizer. You loved your job. The only downside to it was the amount of exposure to the Commander as well as the General of the First Order. Both of which were very strong alphas, probably the strongest you had ever seen. The stronger the alpha the better they could smell and the more reactive they were to omega hormones and pheromones/scents. You had to avoid them like the plague, as despite your monthly steroid suppressions they would still be able to catch a whiff of your scent. If you got too close your cover would be blown and you’d be removed, or worse killed, for your lies. Just thinking about it had you close to hyperventilating.

“You alright?” Your coworker, Lee a beta, asked you and placed his hand on your shoulder softly. That snapped you out of your trance and you turned toward him calmly. You hadn’t realized that you’d been spacing out. Earlier that morning Kylo Ren had almost gotten close enough to smell you and that had thrown you into a frenzied inner monologue of please don’t take a deep breath, please don’t take a deep breath, please don’t take a deep breath!

“Leave her alone, she literally almost bumped into the Commander this morning,” your other coworker, Avery also a beta, said in response to Lee. She pointed her fork at him and leaned forward on her elbows “Her life is probably still flashing through her eyes. She’s lucky he ignored her.”

“Ah man, that is lucky,” Lee mumbled and put his hand back down beside his plate. He picked up his eating utensils and used them to take a bite of the meat he had chosen from the dinner line. “Kylo Ren has been aboard for quite some time, why do you think that is?”

Avery shrugged then pushed her plate forward, no longer interested in her dinner choices. She used her fork to emphasize her hand motions. “I don’t know, but the General has been really on edge because of it.”

“Heh, he almost exploded this morning after Kylo Ren destroyed one of our consoles. I’d never seen so much color on his face before,” Lee snickered. You snorted in response, remembering the steaming General in all his angered glory. The feud between the ginger and the helmeted knight was no secret, they fought often and loudly. Hux with his sarcasm and snarky attitude and Kylo Ren with his blatant disregard for all of the rules and commands the General had in place. It was quite comical really, like a well-rehearsed routine. You slurped up your soup thoughtfully.

“What I wouldn’t give to sit on that pale face,” Avery said in a playful lilt. You promptly spit out your soup and Lee choked on the water he had started to sip at.

“Kriff, Avery, don’t say crap like that when I’m eating,” you grumbled and started to wipe up the mess you had made. She snickered and crossed her arms over her chest triumphantly, unashamed of her hazardous mindset. You could see it now, the General chuckling as he shoved her out the airlock for embarrassing him. You shivered.

“What? I’m serious,” she said with a smirk. “He is one attractive man. You can’t tell me that you haven’t thought about it.”

I’m too busy thinking about the ways he’d murder me if he got close enough to smell me, you thought and shook your head at her. “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

“You’ve seriously never thought about it? What about for any of the other officers? Is there not an alpha you would pretend to be an omega for?”

“Avery, give it a rest. Not everyone is as crazed as you,” Lee muttered. “Besides, don’t you think they would rather have an actual omega then someone pretending to be one?”

“But there are hardly any left, plus I remember someone talking about how much of a hassle being bonded to an actual omega is.” That irked you. You doubted anyone, let alone any alpha, on this ship had actually met an unsuppressed omega let alone bonded with one.

“Well you could still be a bit more respectful.” You nodded in response to Lee. Respect would be nice, you felt like you were owed at least a little of it due to your success in hiding who you were and proving that omegas were more than capable of caring for themselves. “Leave your weird fetishes for your diary log.”

“How do you pretend to be an omega?” Curiosity had gotten the better of you.

Lee sighed loudly and placed his hand against his forehead. “Why would you encourage her.” Avery, in response, beamed at you and leaned forward; both of her hands pressed against the table and fork long forgotten by her plate. “Pretending to be in heat is of course the main thing. Except, be a bit less needy and it’s not like you can actually last for as long as a real heat. You can also say a bunch of stuff about scent, and bonding, and blah blah blah, pretend to be weaker and in need of protection, it’s a lot of fun if your partner is into it.”

“Gross,” you muttered and took another slurp of your soup. Heats in general were gross. They were long, lasting anywhere from 5 to 14 days. It started with a fever, general sluggishness, difficulty breathing and a foggy mindset, eventually your body would start the reproductive response. Slick would start to pool around your entrance and your glands would swell to the point of discomfort, it hurt quite a bit. An urge to lesson discomfort through orgasm would grow and eventually everything would begin to blend together. Pheromones would be released in order to attract any nearby alpha and force them into a rut. The only things that could lessen the immense discomfort were sex and medications, but those were short term remedies, as their effects would dissipate rather quickly. Unless the sex involved a knot then, and only then, the discomfort would dissolve long enough for an omega to take care of themselves. Part of the reason why they required protection during their heats was because they risked dehydration and malnourishment the longer the heat went on.

You had never had sex, let alone with an alpha, so you weren’t entirely sure how clear minded you became after knotting. Even now it had been many years since your last heat, but you could somewhat remember struggling through them earlier on in your life. “I don’t think so but, whatever. I’ve got to get back to training some new recruits.” Avery yawned and stood. She grabbed her tray and started walking toward the exit. “See you guys later.”

“Bye,” you stated and waved in response, now trying your best to remember what struggling through your heat felt like.

“She needs to keep quiet about stuff like that,” Lee told you quietly. “The First Order is very strict about relations between officers. She could get in real trouble for just saying some of that stuff.”

“Then you need to be careful too.” A smirk crawled onto your face and you wiggled your eyebrows at him. “Did you think you and Miss Vanya were being discreet?” A light blush dusted his tan ears. You chuckled at his embarrassment and shook your head. “I didn’t need to hear the two of you in your office, but I did. You’re more of a screamer than I thought.”

“I um, I just realized I still have a project I need to finish, so I’ll uh- we’ll talk later,” he scrambled to clean his area. “See you!”

After he scurried off you kept your smirk and finished your soup. You checked the time to make sure you still had a bit before you needed to head back and lazily began to clean your space. A yawn escaped your lips as you started your trek back to your office.

Lee and Avery were good people, very smart and hard workers. Avery had been your friend since your initial training, she had helped immensely with trying to get your upper body in shape. The two of you had been separated after initiation and reunited when they assigned you to this ship. Avery was now the trainer assigned to your section, working alongside or sometimes directly under you to help the newer programmers meet First Order standards.

Lee had trained you in your original position when you first arrived on the Finalizer and now, he was directly in charge of the stromtrooper training programs and battle training designs. You were proud of him, even though his position meant you couldn’t see him as often. He was at Captain Phasma’s beck and call, coming up with the ideas that your department would bring to life via code. Again, you snickered thinking about his embarrassment at your discovery. You were determined to never let him live it down.

Once you reached your office, you punched in your code and the doors easily slid open. Your main job was to receive orders and delegate the coding and programming to those under you. The paperwork was immense, and you hardly ever got to do any of the actual programming that you enjoyed, but you enjoyed the raise and respect the position brought you. Besides, if someone else didn’t understand or finish their work, it was up to you to do it so there were occasions when you got to do what you enjoyed, however rare they were. You slid into your desk chair quietly and got to work.

Later in the evening, after your shift had finished, you entered your quarters and immediately knew something was wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck were standing, and your omega instincts were kicking into gear. Predator, your mind supplied. The faint scent of alpha pheromones tickled your nose and you shivered. The suppressants dulled your sense of smell, so you could not identify who it was, but you knew what they were. You took a tentative step forward, hands trembling and body on full alert. Who would have access to your quarters? Higher command had access, generals, captains, commanders. An alpha and a higher up, oh no. They must know. They’re here to kick me out, to kill me, they know!

You took a few more steps forward, right outside the open entrance to your bed. They were in there, in your room, the smell was stronger in that direction. There was no sound, so they weren’t moving, but they were in there. A cold sweat broke out all over your body and you could take a guess as to who it was. It had to be the Commander. He was the only one who had been close enough to you to get a good whiff of your suppressed omega smell. Kylo Ren was absolutely going to murder you, no question. Still trembling, you resigned yourself to your fate, and finally stepped into your measly bedroom.

And there he stood, in all his black and murderous glory. Kylo Ren was standing against the left wall, his visor was turned toward you, effectively intimidating you further. You almost squeaked under his intense scrutinizing and judging by the way his chest rose and fell a bit more deliberately, you knew he was taking in your scent. He took a large step forward; you took a frightened step backward. That cycle continued until you were no longer able to back up. He had you back up against your refresher door, his helmeted head literally pressed into the crook of your neck, one hand at you hip and the other holding your head back to further expose your nape. Your instinctual response was submission and following that instinct you craned your head away and further into his hold, effectively exposing your scent and bonding glands to him. I’m going to die, he’s going to strangle me, and I will die.

And all at once, he pulled away.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo x you #kylo ren #a/b/o dynamics #mortyvongola2-0 fic #the peen does not get touched yet #kylo ren fic #kylo ren fanfiction #armitage hux

35 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 4 years

Text

heart under construction (02)

word count; 4842

summary; sam can’t handle how you make him feel, and so he takes the easy way out.

notes; this gets angstyyyyy, I’m sorry in advance.

warnings; none, nada, zilch.

Sam was finding it harder and harder to deny just how much he looked forward to your visits. They were well into month two of construction now, and seeing you bringing them coffee and smiles in the morning had become a vital part of his day. He knew when you would arrive, how long you would stay for and when you’d go back past in the afternoons upon finishing at the school.

If asked, he would deny that you were the reason he started taking is lunch breaks later, and he would deny that he was definitely packing extra food each morning before Jake was picking him up, just on the off-chance that it might be one of the days you would join him for his lunch break. On an occasional day, you did choose to sit with him, and he’d listen to you talk happily about the school, the nursery kids and how much each one meant to you.

He knew about Zach, who was a pain in the arse, but still somehow one of your favourites. He was fond of Lexi, who reminded him of his own niece, and he hated Connor with a burning passion, because the kid often came up in the stories that ruined your day, and so he naturally chose not to like him, whether he was four or forty.

You were becoming more and more ingrained in his life, and he was doing nothing to stop it.

He didn’t want to do anything to stop it.

You knew more about him than almost anyone, when he spoke to you, he couldn’t help the words that would just start pouring from his mouth, the questions following. He didn’t just want you to know about him, he wanted to know about you. He wanted to know everything, from your favourite colour to your deepest fears, he wanted to hear your most embarrassing stories and he wanted to know what your thoughts were on every topic he could think of. He wanted to know if you believed in aliens, and which conspiracy theories you thought were true, and which vines were your favourite. He wanted to know you, through and through.

It was as though the more he learned, the more he needed.

You knew about his niece, Jake had proudly shod you pictures of his husband Roger and his daughter Alice only a few days after meeting you. He’s boasted about his daughter’s accomplishments, and he’d told you the story of his proposal to the man he loved. Sam had watched with pure joy the day you had dished out advice to his brother when he was panicked about Alice, just to see you put him at ease with only a few words.

He could no longer picture a day without you in it, without you passing through in a whirlwind of cute smiles and stupid jokes for him.

The day Sam had realised just how much he needed you was the day you’d made the same stupid ‘Uncle Sam’ joke he made on every date he went on, his eyes wide and jaw dropped as you teased him about being Uncle Sam and asked him if he would do his best impression of the propaganda posters, only to giggle incessantly as he pulled off a very poor attempt at a recreation, unable to hold his face in the same stern look.

Since that day, he hadn't been able to bring himself to make the usual joke on his dates, because he knew he wouldn’t get the same joy from seeing them laugh as he did when you had.

As the weeks went on, he was finding it harder and harder to deny that you might be exactly what he wanted. You might be perfect for him, and he had to consciously stop himself from thinking about you, as you started to take up a permanent residence to linger in the back of his mind. He couldn't stop, he would be shopping and be reminded of you in something he thought you’d like to try, and he’d definitely put it in his basket before moving on. He’d be on a date and a girl would remind him of something you would say and he knew the joy filling his system wasn’t from the girl before him but from the idea of you being with him instead.

As they neared the summer, you had started wearing lighter dresses, and fewer coats, and Sam couldn’t forget the day you’d come by to see them on the weekends, a light summer dress swishing around your midthighs, a stark contrast to the work-appropriate trousers he’d seen you in before that point. You had eaten lunch with him that day too, and he had struggled not to let his eyes trace over the skin revealed to him when your dress rode up as you sat down, or the way your leg felt pressed up against his.

He had spent hours resisting the urge to reach out and discover just how soft your thighs would be under his fingertips, and how they might feel trembling under his grasp, or scratched up and red from his beard.

You were off-limits. You were too nice for him to ruin it, because he didn’t settle down.

He didn’t do relationships. He doesn’t. He won’t change for one chick, not with all that could go wrong, not with every hope he could build-up, only for one person to bring everything around him crashing down. Not again. Now, the only person he relied on was himself.

He wasn’t snapped out of his thoughts until your voice was calling out to him, not from inside his own mind but from the street below, his eyes scanning over the area until he saw you, hands cupped around your mouth as you called out to him, waving happily and the smile he sent you back was instinctual, he was unable to hold it back, stop it from breaking free.

He was waving you up the ladder before he could think about it, and you were quickly completing the climb. Taking a seat beside him, you huffed out happily, nudging him with your shoulder and giving him a laugh, his eyes rolled fondly, your feet carrying you quickly across the now stable floorboards to greet his brother, and he trailed behind you slowly, the work he had been doing now completely forgotten as he followed after you.

You were complimenting them on the house, telling them just how much you admired the amazing work they were doing and his cheeks flushed, an idea suddenly coming to mind for him, his hand taking yours absentmindedly as he lit up with all new kinds of excitement.

“We finished the balcony!”

Before he could stop himself, he was tugging you along, guiding you up the mended staircase to the top floor as he swiftly undid the catch on the ceiling to floor doors, pushing them open as the low sun flooded the room, and you awed at the space, your hand gripping his tightly as you stepped out cautiously onto the small patio space. The fences had yet to be put up, the bolts and supports put in place, but the old-fashioned style railings were still sitting in a stack in the corner, and you turned to face Sam with a lazy on your face.

“Classic style railings to match your oldies theme, yeah?”

His eyes widened, nodding slightly as you crouched, running the fingers of your free hand over the warm metal, tracing the swirling patterns. The rays of the lowering sun cast a golden glow over your skin, making you seem almost otherworldly as you admired the sights around you, your breath practically knocked from you each time you looked out over the beautiful scenery.

The sun was dipping, not quite hitting the edge of the horizon yet, but it was getting close, the distance seeming to dance lowly as the heat died down, the pale yellows and oranges of the lower sky fading away into barely present pastel pinks and purples, soon to fade to royal blues and ebony blacks as the night was ushered in.

“I bet the sunset would look amazing from here.”

Sam wasn’t even sure if you were aware that you had spoken the sentence, the dreamy way you had sighed out your words made him question whether it was just a thought you had accidentally let slip as you stared longingly at the distant sky. He squeezed your hand, tugging you closer to him a little as you turned your head, eyes soft and a small smile gracing your features as he looked at you, the urge to lean in and bump his nose against yours almost overtaking him, and he cleared his throat, giving you a shy smile as he spoke up; “You should stay and watch it. I’ll stay behind, and lock up after.”

“Wait, really?”

Your excitement was already leaking through, your fingers gripping his, your other hand coming up to hold his between both of yours as you practically bounced in your place, your body now facing him fully and he laughed gently at your enthusiasm, his chest filling with warmth and his heart racing as he studied the joyous look on your face. “Yeah, ‘course. It’s going to be a great sunset tonight, it’s been warm all day, and it’s a clear sky. I think-”

“Sam, your phone is ringing an- oh, shit, sorry. You want me to just send it to voicemail?” Jake gave him a knowing look as he reached the top of the stairs, waving the buzzing device to him, a knowing smirk on his face as he looked over the two of you, your hands clasped together between you, almost chest to chest in the rays of the setting sun.

It was far too romantic for Sam. Nope, not at all.

“No, no it’s fine. I’ll answer.” He took his hand from yours, pressing his thumb down on the green answer button and stepping away from the two of you as he heard you begin to tell his brother all about the sunset he was planning to show you, a small smile twisted on his face as he greeted whoever has called him.

“Ye’llo? This is Sam.” He jogged down to the bottom of the steps, glancing back to see you beaming, your arms spread wide as you joked with Jake, the sight of you getting along so well with his brother just warming his heart.

“Hey, Sam? It’s Jess, from the other week?”

His eyes widened and he spun away from the scene, remembering the fiery red-head he had been out with the week prior, a smirk tugging on his lips. “Hey, Jess. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you’re free tonight? I have no work tomorrow, and my roommates out for the weekend, so I am just all alone over here with takeout food and vodka?”

Her tone was teasing, and Sam knew exactly what she was offering. Licking over his lower lip, he rubbed a hand over his jaw and scratched at the scruffy beard that had built up, glancing back at you once more, something he wasn’t used to feeling twisting in his gut as he made his decision.

The sun did set every night, there was always more opportunities to watch the sunset, right?

“I can be there at seven, text me the address, beautiful. I’ll see you soon.” With a cheeky grin, he ended the call, taking the steps two at a time back up to the top floor and tucking his phone into his pocket, feeling it buzz only a second later with what he assumed to be the address from ‘Jess’. “Sorry, new plan. Can I raincheck on that sunset? I have a date.”

Sam had not anticipated how much it would hurt to watch the smile fall from your face, even just momentarily, and no matter how hard you tried to fake a new smile, he’d seen the sadness flicker across your features, his heart feeling as though it had frozen over and turned to stone in that split second, plummetting to his stomach.

He offered you a few more dates, more dates in the upcoming week, the sudden regret of the choice he’d made coming back to bite him in the ass as he pulled his phone out, offering to search to find which day would be best, checking for the best temperatures, but your enthusiasm seemed to have seeped away as you dismissed him, telling him it was ‘no big deal’, despite the fact he could clearly hear from your tone that it had saddened you.

The chance to spend time with you was quickly slipping through his fingers, his heart shattering as he watched you fasten your coat more firmly around yourself, building yourself up to excusing yourself and he grasped at straws, trying to work out how to backpedal from the situation he had gotten himself into, how t-

“I’ll stay. I love watching the sunsets, I’d love to watch it with you.” His eyes hardened, gaze narrowing as he looked over at his brother, trying to ask him what the fuck he was doing, but the happy squeal you released in response only caused his heart to sink further, your face lighting up once again as you turned your back on him, to face his brother.

“Really? You would?”

“Yeah, I can tell you more about my daughter. I have some stories you’ll love.” Jake glanced over his shoulder as you wandered further toward the edge, the sun getting lower and duller in the sky, and Jake fixed him with a harsh and judging look, shaking his head as if to dismiss him, and Sam felt his jaw drop, no chance to respond as his brother turned for him, beginning a story about Alice as you sat on the edge, your legs swinging over the edge of the balcony.

He considered saying goodbye, he considered just texting ‘Jess’ and calling it off, so he could sit on your other side. He could get the blanket from his truck and wrap it around your shoulders to keep you warm, and if you wanted, he would stay with you until night set in, the moon shining brightly so you could watch the stars without the light pollution of the city or the blockade of clouds, thanks to the clear night.

And then, Sam caught himself.

Snapping back from the sappy thoughts, he shook his head, turning on his heel and focusing on making sure he was looking good in the front camera of his phone as he made his way toward the street, pulling up the app to book a taxi as your voice faded away behind him, the front door slamming shut as he stormed from the property.

Instead, he was going to drink and fuck his troubles away with a hot redhead.

The cab pulled up for him, and Sam was quick to dish out a handful of notes to the driver, checking his hair in the reflection of the mirror before he was hopping out, striding into the lobby of the apartment building with confidence. Scrolling his finger down the list of numbers, he found the one he was searching for, pushing his finger against the buzzer for a second. Instead of getting a verbal response, the grated gate across from him humming as it opened for him, slamming shut behind him as he jogged to the elevator.

The second the doors shut and he had pushed the button, he studied the flicking of the lights above his head signalling the floors climbing, and he pushed the thought of your smiling face from his mind, quickly chasing the disappointed look on your face from his thoughts as well.

He was in the elevator, on the way up to the apartment of a very hot girl who wanted to spend the night with him, so why was he thinking about you?

The second the ding of the elevator sounded, the doors sliding open, his mind blanked as he looked at the sight before him. Popped in the doorway, a wicked grin on her face as the red curls framed her face, a pale blue lacy nightgown falling to her mid-thighs, he was dashing the distance of the corridor and the open door across from him, his hands finding her hips and giggles filling the apartment as she swung the door shut behind them.

She took one of his hands in both of hers, a wide smile on her face and he tried to ignore the feeling of wrongness creeping along his spine, tried to ignore how much he preferred the feeling when it had been you. Instead, he leaned down, bumping his nose with hers before pressing their lips together carefully and cautiously, the way he had wished to do with you as he tried to replace the ideas of you in his heart.

Hold on, heart?

Swallowing thickly, he broke away from the girl before it could go too far, choosing instead to comment on the smell of the food in the house, and she guided him through to sit on the couch. The conversation between them flowed, but it was strained. It was small talk, and he hated small talk. It was nothing like the conversation he had with you when funny and easy-going chat would flow between you so fluidly and comfortably you’d think you had known each other for years.

He chose instead to distract himself with his food, letting the girl slide closer to him at their meals finished, the layers of clothing slipping from his body as he let himself get comfortable. His shoes were toed off, kicked away across the room, and his jacket slipped from his shoulders. The overshirt he wore was stripped away, and so was the belt around his waist, the buckle having been digging into him.

Jess had inched her way across the couch, she had started on the other side of the couch, and now, her legs were slung across his lap, his hand stroking the skin of her upper thigh gently as she giggled, pouring a new set of drinks for them as he kissed and nipped at her jawline teasingly.

Taking a deep swig of the poorly mixed and very strong drink he’d been served by the girl before him, he downed the entire thing, a wide grin on his face as the warm haze from this one, and the previous ones, already taking effect in his veins. Gripping her leg tightly, he plucked the glass from her hand, adding it to his own empty one on the coffee table before him, to lie with the discarded boxes and plates.

Pulling the girl over his lap, she squealed in joy as he leaned back into the couch cushions, her eyes boring into his as her hands wove into his hair and his hands slipped around to palm at her ass, her lips slanting over his wetly, their touch not nearly as intoxicating as they had been the weeks prior, but he was willing to try. Instead, he focused on the feel of her body pressed to his, the way she moaned above him as he groped at her and the way her hips were starting to roll down into his.

Finally, the image of your beautiful smile burned into his mind each time he closed his eyes faded away.

Sam was royally fucked.

His head was pounding, his muscles were aching, and he was late.

He was so late that all the missed calls from Jake, all the texts that had asked him where he was and how long he was going to be had all be replaced with one passive-aggressive ‘nevermind’ and then it had gone silent. He had barely mumbled a goodbye to Jess when she had dropped him off as he dashed up the steps of his own home, bursting in through the front door and straight up the stairs to the second floor as his eyes landed on his brother.

The man was painting possible colour samples onto the patches of walls that were leftover, the fill-ins still having to be completed. “I missed going to get carpet samples! I know! I am so sorry, but-”

“Oh, hey!” Sam was panting as he reached the top of the stairs, his hands coming to rest on his knees as he tried to regain his breath, his hungover body not thanking him for the sudden exertion, and his brain was muddled, the lecture he had expected to receive from his older sibling having never been sounded out. “Don’t worry about it, it’s all good.”

“Uh.. right.”

“How was your night?” Jake’s question only confused him further, and Sam stood up straight, scratching the back of his neck as he looked or his brother, who had turned back to painting his sample patches. Jake never asked him about his ‘dates’.

“Yeah, it was fine. She was fine.. I guess..” The man only hummed in response, and Sam couldn’t help but feel like his brother was just a ticking time bomb waiting to explode, no matter how calm he was being right now, and he just couldn't take it anymore. “I am sorry, Jake. I know you wanted an opinion on the samples, and I should have been there, so, it's not okay.”

“Dude, it’s fine, really. I’m glad you had fun.” Wiping his hands down on a rag, he finally turned to face Sam and he took a step toward his brother, Jake’s hand clapping down on his shoulder as he smiled at him, widely. “I, er, I didn’t go alone, actually. (Y/N) came with me.”

Sam had spent the night trying to push you out of his mind, and he had succeeded. In fact, up until this point, he had yet to think about you today, and suddenly, it’s like the weight of your presence had come crashing down over him once again. “What?”

“Yeah, I was texting her this morning.” Jake shrugged, as though it was no big deal, and Sam felt rage flood his system. Not at his brother, but at himself. The same feelings of guilt from last night came clawing back at him once again, and the regret of how he’d spent the night curled up with another woman in an attempt to forget you. His head was still pounding, his stomach was twisting with nausea and he was confused about how he was feeling. “When you weren’t around, she offered to come with me. She actually chose some really great samples, they-”

“Woah, texting? Since when did you have her number?”

He could physically see the way his brother recoiled from his harsh tone, his jaw dropping and Sam almost felt bad, but the puzzling mix of emotions swirling within his mind and heart were masking it out entirely. “Uh.. well, since she told me that her nursery group is having an event to welcome possible new parents and kids to the class in September, and that she thinks I should go.”

They must have been talking about it the night before, and Sam was kicking himself knowing the fact that she had such a good time she had deemed them close enough to have her number, and that he’d been too busy fucking another girl to have been here to get her number. “Right, fantastic..”

“Dude, what is your problem today? It’s no big deal, it was just carpet samples, stop beating yourself up! I took (Y/N), and it went f-”

“We’re just letting strangers make decisions about our house now, then? About my house?” He knew it was unfair, but his mind was buzzing, and he wasn’t himself, and once the anger that was festering within him at his confusion had found a way to start leaking out just couldn't stop it. “Good to know! Great idea, Jake! Maybe, I’ll start bringing all my dates over here to pass their opinion, too! At least I had a fun night with them, so their opinion must be important, too!”

He took a break, pacing up and down as his brother stared at him, slack-jawed and brows furrowed, and Sam was so caught up in his own world and thoughts that everything around him felt like it was beginning to slip away, like it was of nothing important or worth taking in.

“I mean, if we’re going to let one total stranger give their opinion on my house, might as well be all of them! Let’s just invite the entirety of this random neighbourhood to pass their opinion, may as well make it city fucking hall while we’re at it!”

The silence around him was overwhelming, his breath panted out as he dropped his hands to his sides from where they had been held out in exasperation, and his shoulders sagged, face relaxing as he felt all the irrational anger he’d built up bubble over and escape, calmness and tranquillity seeping back into his body.

“I am so sorry. I totally invaded, didn’t I?” Sam felt like he had turned to stone with how fast his body tensed. He had never heard the footsteps, never even knew she had been here, but how could he have when he’d been so caught up in a screaming match with himself. He practically gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned around, his eyes wide as he took you in. Comfy and casual wear, a devastated look on your sweet face as you avoided looking at him entirely, and cold pangs of sadness moved through his chest more and more prominently with each beat of his heart as he watched you back away. “You’re right, it really wasn’t my place.. I mean, I just came all up in here, I’m not sure what I was thinking. I’m going to go, this is your house, I’m not welcome. Got it. I.. I’ll see you around, I guess?”

Placing down the handful of small carpet trimmings you had been holding, each word you spoke felt like a stabbing wound added to his conscience, and he gaped like a fish, panicking on what to do as he watched you make your way down the stairs. He whipped his head back and forth between where you had been stood, and his brother, the sound of the front door slamming shut upon your exit snapping him from his reverie as he scrambled to get tot he stairs and follow you.

When he finally made it out onto the street, tumbling down the driveway and onto the street, he found it empty, no movement or even a hint of your presence to show him which way you might have gone. He knew which way you always walked to and from, but when he reached the street corner, he had no idea which way you may have gone and how he would find you.

Trudging back to his house, he could barely lift his feet as the severity of what had transpired dragged him down, his toes catching on the step as he dragged himself back up to face his brother. A tense silence sat between the two men, thick ad palpable in the air, and he distracted himself by picking up the collection of thick fabric samples you had left behind, a small smile flicking on his features.

Shuffling through them, he ran his thumb over each one, evaluation the colours and textures as he thought deeply about each one. He loved each and every one, he couldn’t fight that they were all truly terrific samples, and he probably wouldn’t have chosen any of them any differently if he had been there himself, and the thought only made him feel worse.

“I like the dark grey and speckled one.. for the stairs and the middle floor.” His words were mumbled out, and Jake let out a sigh, the first real sign of disappointment his brother had shown since he’d returned and it sent chills shooting along Sam’s spine at the thought.

“Yeah, that’s what she said.” With a shake of the head, Jake sealed up the paint pots he had been using, dropping paintbrushes into a pot of water to soak. “Said she thought they would look best. Something about thinking that they would give us maximum opportunities on the furniture we chose, because that carpet was a pretty neutral colour, but also made a statement.”

“Yeah..”

“That doesn’t matter, though.” Jake’s voice had hardened, the disapproving older-brother tone only adding to the sombre mood in the building. “I mean, it was just a complete strangers opinion. Not like she’s a friend. We don’t really know her.”

“I fucked up, I know that.” With a heavy sigh, Sam palmed at stinging eyes, choking down his emotions. “Don’t make it any worse.”

#sam taylor #sam taylor amazing stories #dylan obrien sam taylor #sam taylor x reader #sam taylor/reader #amazing stories #dylan obrien amazing stories #dylan o'brien amazing stories #dylan obrien #dylan obrien fic #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien x reader #HUC #heart under construction

91 notes · View notes