[Everybody knows the rumours. Stashed way at the back of the naval base there's a rundown restroom that doesn't get many visitors. But on certain days, if you know when they are, you might find the last stalled manned by someone who's willing to give the marines some relief.
Colt knows the rumours, even passed it to along to his brother one night when booze had loosened his lips just enough. He'd been whining about it, arm slung around Bronco's shoulders as he went on about always being away from the base on the days the stall is supposed to be manned. 'Anikiiii, it's not fair. They've always got me doing something so I can't get my dick wet. I'm so sick of my hand.' He'd lingered there, plastered against Bronco until he'd been shoved away and pulled into some argument with a few of their comrades.
The memory comes back to him unbidden as he stalks the halls, making sure nobody is watching where he goes as he heads for the restroom. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he shoves all thoughts of Bronco out of his mind. His aniki has nothing to do with this; nothing to do with why he's so desperate to get off. Absolutely nothing. He hasn't harboured an inappropriate crush --it's more than a crush. Something bordering on obsession would be far more apt-- on his aniki since they were young.
The very thought is absurd.
Adjusting himself through his pants as he stomps into the bathroom, Colt comes to a halt as he catches sight of standard military issued boots at the bottom of the fabled stall. He takes a moment to think of the rules he'd heard: Don't try to peek and see who's in there. Be quiet, don't draw attention even if they are in a secluded corner of the base. and a few other things that differed depending on who was telling the story, but they all agreed on the first two. Closing the door behind him as he stepped into the neighbouring stall, Colt clears his throat and stands next to the hole cut into the divider.
He runs a finger along the hole, making his intent clear and waits for a response.]
[ After Marineford sinks into the sea, left as little more than glorified pebbles to line the floor of the world's greatest fish tank, the news continues to extol the Navy's grandest of successes: the deaths of Whitebeard and "Fire Fist" Ace. As the Holy Land would not seek to disprove the version of history that their propaganda machine was frantically pushing ( — that the monstrous get of history's boogeyman was executed with exceptional prejudice ), the eyes of the world are easily blinded to the truth of the harried rescue of the young Commander.
Days, weeks, months later. It's a painful relief, to gaze upon the news and see that history accounts him for dead; it's a syrupy-sick guilt that spreads like strangling vines throughout his ribs, to know that his old crew walked away with nothing to show for all their pain and anguish. Whitebeard's dead, immortalized with a monument atop a sunny, flower-spangled cliff. To the remnants of his family, Ace's body was never recovered from the field — he's heard through the ether that they prayed, at the very least, whatever was left of him had fallen into to the sea. That even having nothing for themselves was better than imagining whatever the World Government could and would do to abuse him in death, as they had in life.
What gets him to the Red Force, anchored at a small orchard-island called Carpos, is nothing short of a dead man's determination, as if he were en route to another gallows. Swaddled in layers of cloth, drawn tight to obscure his most iconic features, he makes landfall at dusk and follows the flow of traffic through the market to where the pirate crew he seeks has taken up space, vibrant and alive and deadly-sharp as ever. It's shocking, that he remembers all their faces. The act of having to wade through them in that cold, tightly-packed cave to reach their captain had been nerve-wracking. Exciting.
It's not as exciting now. The swagger's all but gone, replaced with a morose quiet — a severity, a focus. The normal civilians won't recognize him from Jack, once he slips in among the ebb and flow of their eventful evening; a harvest festival, by the looks of it, inspiring their generosity and joy in a way that'd be infectious to anyone else. Anyone not on a mission to approach Red-Haired Shanks. From behind, yes. ( In his blind spot? No. Never. ) Counting on Shanks knowing the figure approaching his back, no matter the disguise, he walks with purpose to his right side and pushes a note into his palm.
A record of where he'll be is written on it. Ace doesn't stay, though. Seconds after he delivers his message, he steps away from Shanks's back and weaves away — back into the crowd, into the night, and out of sight for the time being. They can't talk securely anywhere they haven't shored up the defenses on themselves, not even in the middle of a celebration. ]
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metrops2025-01-02 07:30 pm
aniiikiii
Colt knows the rumours, even passed it to along to his brother one night when booze had loosened his lips just enough. He'd been whining about it, arm slung around Bronco's shoulders as he went on about always being away from the base on the days the stall is supposed to be manned. 'Anikiiii, it's not fair. They've always got me doing something so I can't get my dick wet. I'm so sick of my hand.' He'd lingered there, plastered against Bronco until he'd been shoved away and pulled into some argument with a few of their comrades.
The memory comes back to him unbidden as he stalks the halls, making sure nobody is watching where he goes as he heads for the restroom. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he shoves all thoughts of Bronco out of his mind. His aniki has nothing to do with this; nothing to do with why he's so desperate to get off. Absolutely nothing. He hasn't harboured an inappropriate crush
--it's more than a crush. Something bordering on obsession would be far more apt--on his aniki since they were young.The very thought is absurd.
Adjusting himself through his pants as he stomps into the bathroom, Colt comes to a halt as he catches sight of standard military issued boots at the bottom of the fabled stall. He takes a moment to think of the rules he'd heard: Don't try to peek and see who's in there. Be quiet, don't draw attention even if they are in a secluded corner of the base. and a few other things that differed depending on who was telling the story, but they all agreed on the first two. Closing the door behind him as he stepped into the neighbouring stall, Colt clears his throat and stands next to the hole cut into the divider.
He runs a finger along the hole, making his intent clear and waits for a response.]
my icons may not be done, but my hands work
Days, weeks, months later. It's a painful relief, to gaze upon the news and see that history accounts him for dead; it's a syrupy-sick guilt that spreads like strangling vines throughout his ribs, to know that his old crew walked away with nothing to show for all their pain and anguish. Whitebeard's dead, immortalized with a monument atop a sunny, flower-spangled cliff. To the remnants of his family, Ace's body was never recovered from the field — he's heard through the ether that they prayed, at the very least, whatever was left of him had fallen into to the sea. That even having nothing for themselves was better than imagining whatever the World Government could and would do to abuse him in death, as they had in life.
What gets him to the Red Force, anchored at a small orchard-island called Carpos, is nothing short of a dead man's determination, as if he were en route to another gallows. Swaddled in layers of cloth, drawn tight to obscure his most iconic features, he makes landfall at dusk and follows the flow of traffic through the market to where the pirate crew he seeks has taken up space, vibrant and alive and deadly-sharp as ever. It's shocking, that he remembers all their faces. The act of having to wade through them in that cold, tightly-packed cave to reach their captain had been nerve-wracking. Exciting.
It's not as exciting now. The swagger's all but gone, replaced with a morose quiet — a severity, a focus. The normal civilians won't recognize him from Jack, once he slips in among the ebb and flow of their eventful evening; a harvest festival, by the looks of it, inspiring their generosity and joy in a way that'd be infectious to anyone else. Anyone not on a mission to approach Red-Haired Shanks. From behind, yes. ( In his blind spot? No. Never. ) Counting on Shanks knowing the figure approaching his back, no matter the disguise, he walks with purpose to his right side and pushes a note into his palm.
A record of where he'll be is written on it. Ace doesn't stay, though. Seconds after he delivers his message, he steps away from Shanks's back and weaves away — back into the crowd, into the night, and out of sight for the time being. They can't talk securely anywhere they haven't shored up the defenses on themselves, not even in the middle of a celebration. ]