jay ·˚ @echojays - Tumblr Blog

Jun 3

Ancient Greek AU merc descriptions

Mechanic (Demeas)- Demeas, son of Democrates, was born and raised in Syracuse. He comes from a long line of intellectuals and inventors. He sawed off his arm and replaced it with a complicated prosthetic to prove a point. Demeas is a hard worker and often loses track of time while working on his projects. He is friendly when around people and likes to cook for his teammates. He, Taran, and Haribert work together a lot and bond over a shared love of science. He wears light, loose-fitting clothing since his role has little combat. He wears a sundial that was passed down through the generations. When I drew him with a beard, I did not intend for him to look like Socrates, but here we are.

Spear bearer (Menecreates)- Menecreates left his mother and sisters in Mytilene to earn some money and kill people. His spears are heavy, and he takes care of (and names) each one. He is soft spoken and intelligent, but also violent. His shield serves as decoration more than protection. He works well with most of the other mercs and tolerates Ireneus. He spends his free time polishing his spears or talking with Haribert. His father was killed in the Mytilenean revolt, and he feels a sense of responsibility to protect his family. His dialect is very different from the more "central" ones the others have, which causes some language barrier.

Observer- The observer is an Athenian spy. He does not share personal information. He is one of the more isolated group members, and he has no problem with that. He wears fine linen and soft leather sandals that allow him to move quietly. He used to wear lots of oils and perfumes, but had to stop because enemies could smell him before he could backstab them. He relies on a small dagger to get the job done. In terms of relationships, he has more enemies than friends. He has a little in common with Haribert and Demeas, and sometimes fraternizes with them. He butts heads with Ireneus a lot.

Chemist (Taran)- As a chemist, Taran uses his knowledge to create various combustible substances and brew beer. He lost his eye in an explosion, but he is still just as dangerous without depth perception. He wears bronze armor, a tunic, and a cape, which is a lot for the Mediterranean, but he looks cool, and that's all that really matters. He is friendly with the enemy hoplite and often sneaks out to hang out with him.

Surgeon (Haribert Hludwig)- Haribert came from Germania to study Greek forms of medicine, and also to flee the penalties for medical malpractice. He wears a cloak and chiton, which he dries his hands on, but in the cases where he goes on the battlefield, he wears more protective armor. Since this is taking place (very roughly) around the 400 bcs and Archimedes (the person) lived around 200 years later, Archimedes (the dove) is not named after him. It's just a coincidence. Medic's prescription is pretty low, so he doesn't wear glasses, even though Demeas offered. He is happy just to experiment in his iatreion, tend to the doves, or chat with Menecreates.

Archer (Milon)- Milon was abandoned by his Cretan parents and found and raised by a Spartan couple. They tried their best to raise him as a hoplite, but his Cretan aim prevailed. He is patient and cautious in battle, which translates to his behavior out of battle. He and Ireneus "hang out" often, which basically constitutes Ireneus running around while Milon whittles. He is polite with the rest of the team. He and his parents exchange letters often. They don't agree with his lifestyle, but they love him nonetheless. He usually wears light linen and leather boots, given that he is a ranged fighter and there is less of a need for heavy armor. He has a water bladder for various liquids.

Foot soldier (Irene)- Irene is a Spartan hoplite. He was actually born underweight, and his parents abandoned him. Despite that, he somehow survived and became a Spartan hoplite. He has brain damage from past head trauma and other psychological issues, which have a huge impact on his personal relationships. He also has ear damage. He surprisingly gets along well with the other mercs, so long as they keep telling him that they are Spartans. He wears heavy armor, which is both protection and a symbol of honor. He rarely takes his helmet off, and he even sleeps in it sometimes.

Courier (Ireneus)- Ireneus has an Athenian father and a Corcyrean mother. He doesn't know his father's identity, only that he is Athenian, which he resents. He prides himself on his "λαγνεία βόμβος" tattoo, which he bears in honor of his idol Timaeus Jonas. He wears two small sticks with unique notches as a form of identification, aka dog tags. He doesn't wear shoes (against the Observer's demands) since footwear gives him blisters.

Fire-bearer- The fire-bearer wears a Greek chorus mask and bandages, either to hide nasty burn scars or their identity. No one on the team knows where they came from or their name. They (mis)use an incense burner by swinging it in a way to oxygenate the flames. They stick close to Irene and Ireneus, but are not at all opposed to playing with the other mercs or bothering the Observer.

I pumped this out pretty quickly, but I'm happy to answer questions/just talk about the au!! I understand that there are some inaccuracies, some of those are intentional. I'm really excited about this...

I should finish the side characters' designs today or tomorrow.

echojays

Apr 7

── .✦ southern nights / phillip graves x reader

an old friend comes back to his hometown to recuperate in between work and doesn’t realize you stuck around. a poorly timed heatwave commemorates his return.

chapter 3 / do you think of me?

( chapter 2 )

( chapter 1 )

wc; 4.2k

warnings; underage drinking, smoking, highschool party (gag). reader drinks and has a drunk cigarette and hits boof one (1) time. sexual harassment (it’s dealt with accordingly)

a/n; stumbles out of google doc covered in blood

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a long time before you pull the heavy cotton shirt off of yourself and wiggle into a much more flattering tanktop. It feels a little stupid to bother looking good for something as trashy as this—it’s not like you’re expecting anybody to actually look at you—but it’s still fun to get dressed up regardless.

You’ve done this dance countless times before. Tonight will be just like the last time, and the time before that. There’s a faithful battle strategy you’ve fully perfected throughout your final year of shitty high school parties. It is as follows:

Arrive with Phil and bounce around with him for a bit. Drink. Find a circle of people from school and slot yourself in. Drink again. Listen to gossip, nod when it’s getting good, shrug when people ask you what you think. Third drink. Find somebody outside that’s smoking (preferably an acquaintance) and share a cigarette over some mild philosophy before going back inside. Shots. Look for Phil again, listen to whoever he’s found to talk to. Stumble back to the car, clamber in, knock out. Rinse and repeat.

You tug the tanktop all the way on and stare at your reflection for another moment before you hear an unmistakable rumble coming down the road. You yell goodbye to your parents— who think you and Phillip are going to a dinner and a football game—and you’re out the front door before the truck is fully down the drive.

There’s several thuds as your hand meets the window, your other hand trying the handle repeatedly before he slowly leans over to unlock the passengerside door. He falters, though, like he realizes the power he has, and stares up at you. Pretends to be clueless.

You blink. “Open the door.”

He mouths a silent ‘What?’

“I’m going to break your window.”

Click.

There’s a long bout of silence that is filled to the brim with attitude from both sides of the car as you slip in and buckle your seatbelt. The one thing you can appreciate about this truck, despite it all, is the bench seat. It makes the drives more intimate. Either of you can shuffle closer to the other when you’re talking, and there’s no gap between to stop it. You can reel dangerously close while you’re drunk and laughing. You can stay sitting there, next to him, silent and smiling and horribly giddy.

There is a new scent in the car that immediately has you wrinkling your nose. Floral and attacking you in full force. “Who’d you have in here?” You turn to him, expecting a guilty look, but he doesn’t give it to you. Doesn’t even look your way. “Why’s it smell like perfume?”

You’re not sure why you’d expect him to look guilty in the first place. Maybe it’s because you became so used to orbiting him, that you expected him to orbit you in turn. That had been the silent agreement the two of you made, or at least that’s what you believed.

But he didn’t owe anything to you, not really. He could have somebody else in the car if he wanted.

“Uhm-” He whips around fully and rests his arm on the back of your headrest while he grabs the stick shift. “My mom. Dropped her off at the grocery.” If your tone was too accusatory, he didn’t notice. You don’t admit to yourself that his words come as a major relief. And then— “You look nice.”

You’re about to shoot back a smartass reply, but when you look over again, he’s not smirking or laughing under his breath. He’s still pulling the car back, one steady palm against the wheel and the other somewhere behind your headrest. He catches the silence, though, and his eyes flit over towards you.

You force out—

“Thanks.”

He turns back and shifts out of reverse. The truck starts rumbling down the road, and the two of you sit a perfectly appropriate distance away from each other on your opposite sides of the bench. “Sure.” He hums like the compliment was nothing, but you want to ask him if he meant it any sort of way, if he meant it at all.

You turn on the radio instead and tuck yourself against the door.

— — —

When Phillip is coming down your driveway years later, you are not given the gracious audio cue of a truck begging to be put down. It makes sense, there’s no way he would keep that thing, especially with how well he seems to be doing now. And you can tell yourself you miss it, but when he knocks on your door and walks you to the new one, you feel a wave of relief wash over you.

Even though the sun is done setting, it’s still much hotter than you’d like. You’re thankful, as he opens the door for you, for this new truck. You’re thankful that he has the AC on full blast and you won’t melt in his passenger seat like you were summers ago. You’re thankful your thighs won’t stick to the peeling leather in the heat, that the seat belt won’t burn you when you reach for it. You appreciate the interior for a few seconds before he crosses around the front and climbs in himself.

“You remember where it is?”

He nods, self assured, as he puts a hand behind your headrest and whips around to watch the driveway as he backs up. The truck has a rear camera, and he doesn’t really need to be pulling this maneuver at all, but old habits die hard. Things are done better when he does them himself, alone, with no help.

“What’d you do to the old one?”

He looks at you then, raising an eyebrow before realizing what you’re talking about. “Sold her for maybe a hundred bucks.” You gasp, and the reaction makes him grin. “What? I’m surprised I got anything for it at all.”

“I just… really liked that truck.” He gives you a look as he pulls out into the road. Okay, maybe you’re being a little hyperbolic. “Or, I liked the memories, at least.”

That’s true. More true than saying you liked the truck, at least. If it wasn’t Phil’s in the first place you don’t think you ever would have cared about it.

“Well, it crapped out on me, and then I had nowhere to put it.”

You put your hands together in mock prayer. “Rest in peace.”

He laughs softly. “In pieces.”

Velvet is at the end of what the locals call The Strip, three blocks of a street downtown where anything worthwhile is. It’s a Saturday night, so people are out. The one mediocre club is beginning to accrue a crowd, and the bars are all filling up. You watch swaths of drunk girls and gangs of equally drunk men giggle at each other and stumble down the road.

By some miracle, you find street parking, and you both clamber out of the car and towards the bar. He holds the door open for you, and you flash him a stupid grin before slipping into the dimly lit building.

— — —

A bulk of smoke rushes past you, trying to escape into the early summer night the two of you are leaving behind outside. Poor decisions are being made all around you, and you will ride this buzz until about midnight when you find Phil and bitch and whine until he helps you back to the car. If you’re lucky, you’ll end up at a Waffle House in the early hours of the morning. But there’s so much time before then, and so many dumb things to do.

You both move straight towards the kitchen, where Phillip grabs his one and only beer of the evening. You grab a dubiously crafted jello shot off the counter and slam it back. Off to the races. Talk talk talk. What college are you going to? Is that far? What major? Another shot and a beer has you feeling antsy, and you leave Phil in the living room to chase after two girls from your gym class for gossip you know damn well they have. He keeps an eye on you when you flit from room to room, bouncing eagerly from conversation to conversation, but after a while he gets pulled into his own business and you two lose each other for a few hours.

At some point much later, you’re outside passing Don’s cigarette back to him. You’re not sure if he goes to your high school, to be completely honest. At least, you’ve never crossed paths with him. But every once in a while, at these parties, you’ll stumble into each other on the back porch, both itching for a smoke and some quiet. People are dancing and screaming and talking inside, but all of it is muffled by the back door.

He’s got a sort of punk rock vibe going on that you can appreciate. In a house full of fake people, of assholes and prudes and bootlickers, he is genuine. He’s nice and he agrees with what little you have to say when you’re drunk.

Tonight Don began by filling you in on what he thinks about The Church, but it diverged into him talking about the same girl he’s been into since the last time you saw each other, three months ago. You know the girl—Katie—and she seems sweet. Despite the deep talks you’ve had with him, you don’t know that much about Don, so you just assume they’d be good together, and that’s what you tell him. You rest your head on the railing of the back porch as a chorus of crickets adamantly agrees with whatever he’s on about now.

He takes a break from talking and takes the cigarette from you. “What about you?”

You wish he’d go on forever. Not really because he’s thrilling to talk to, but because when you get drunk you want everybody else to do the talking. You’re perfectly content listening and falling asleep. Sleep. God, sleep sounds so good. You force words out instead. “What do you mean, what about me?”

“Do you have anybody you’re into?” You furrow your brow softly, and it must take you too long to answer because he keeps going. “What’s happening with you and the blonde guy?”

It takes you another long moment to realize he’s talking about Phil. Your voice drops slightly in an attempt to seem casual, but the alcohol makes you a shitty actor.“I’m not into him.”

“Last time, you said you were.”

Hm. That’s interesting, you don’t really remember telling him that. Somewhere you must have skipped coming to terms with it yourself and gone straight to running your drunk mouth about it. You wonder who else you told. If Phil knows.

“...did I?”

He puffs smoke over his shoulder and hands the cigarette back to you. If he picks up that you’re startled, he doesn’t show it. “Yeah, you told me he’d committed to the marines and you were really upset about it. Back in March. Isn’t he leaving soon?”

Right, yes. Phillip Graves leaves for boot camp on Parris Island in 23 days. You have it marked on your calendar at home in red marker. Every day you cross off feels like another day closer to the end of the world.

“Yeah. In a month or something.” You blow out smoke. “It’s whatever.”

— — —

Velvet is bumping compared to when Phillip saw it last. There’s a band on stage in the back playing for a crowd of dancing drunks. It’s not late enough for it to be jam packed but not early enough for it to be empty, so the bar is almost full, and he follows you aimlessly as you pick out a chair.

You slip up onto a bar seat and give a friendly wave to the bartender. This is your usual station, the post you take almost every weekend in solitude. You can see the whole bar from here, though Phillip leans over the chair beside you and pointedly avoids sitting. “We could grab a table.”

A side eye is shot his way. “You sure this isn’t a date?”

He huffs out something of a laugh and shakes his head. Not a no, you note. “Don’t wanna be craning my neck. Wanna see your face.” You cock an eyebrow at that, and he lets out another breath. “Just haven’t seen you in a while.”

You think for a few seconds, but Phillip has already made up his mind.

“Let’s get a table.” He drums his hands on the bartop rapidly before pushing off and disappearing from your periphery. “I’m gettin’ a table.”

You order drinks while he searches. With both of them in hand, you find him sitting idly in a booth halfway between the band and the front door, quiet enough to talk but not so much so that it feels intimate. You set his bourbon sour down in front of him and the night begins.

Questions are traded between the two of you, passed around in a never ending circle. The dance you had both perfected in high school is very easily picked back up again. Pretending not to want the other is muscle memory for the both of you. But as you prattle on about work, about home, about life here, you watch him watch you. His blue eyes are a lot softer than the rest of his rugged face, especially when he looks at you. You’re probably just making that part up. Nevermind.

He’s pretty sure you’re talking about your job, and he’s nodding along and trying his best to listen, but he keeps getting distracted by how much you haven’t changed. It’s eerie, sitting here with you now, and you’re still the same. Same demeanor, same confidence, same laugh. So much has happened to him, to the world around him, and here you still are. He sets his drink down and chews his lip for a moment.

You notice he’s not listening pretty much immediately. “Spit it out.”

He falters when he’s caught, like he thought he was being more subtle, then focuses up again. “You’re just the same, is all.” He looks down at his drink. “Just wasn’t sure if you’d like to hear it.”

You prop your head on your hand and smile softly. For what it’s worth, he’s the same too, at least as much as you’ve seen. “In what way?”

“Same smile, for one.” He hums, nodding his head at you. “And same laugh. And you tell stories the same way you used to, the cadence, it’s the same.” You tilt your head softly, trying to decide what to think of what he’s said, so he clarifies further. “I like that you haven’t changed.”

“There wasn’t much reason for me to, I guess.” You swirl your drink around before taking a big sip of it. You’re moving through yours a lot faster, and you’re both very aware of how this night will likely turn out. Old habits die hard. “It’s the same town you left me in, just… older.”

He nods thoughtfully, looking around the bar. Your turn to press on.

“I’m glad you haven’t really changed either. As far as I can tell. I mean, aside from the-” You point at your cheek, raising your eyebrows at the scar he acquired in his absence. “But when you came back that one weekend after you’d left the marines, you just… seemed different. I was worried somethin’ had…”

His gaze shifts from the stage and lands back on you. “...changed?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, nothin’ can stay the same forever. I know that. But I was scared somethin’ had happened and I hadn’t noticed until it was gone.”

“Until what was gone?”

“Us.” You falter, then stammer out- “You. I don’t know.”

Nice save.

Your words catch the both of you off guard as the words leave your mouth, but to your relief he does nothing but smile. He seems like he’s going to press on further, but the band picks up behind him and interrupts whatever he had planned. He reels his head back, looking at the people on stage, before turning back to you.

“...wanna dance?”

— — —

Another shot and one blunt hit later and you’re leaning against the wall, watching a girl shake ass on a guy you think you recognize from gym. Or the football team, maybe? Phil might know him then—he played for a brief stint Junior year. Phillip, you jolt suddenly, realizing you haven’t laid eyes on him in over an hour. His existence fills your head for a moment as you scan the room for him, spotting him lingering in a circle of JROTC kids near the other doorway. He’s already watching you when your gaze meets his. It’s very likely that he’s been keeping tabs on you all night, a thought you enjoy a little too much.

He raises his arm to tap his watch before mouthing ‘Ready to go?’. You consider how great another shot sounds, but the image of you throwing up in his truck quickly changes your mind. Then there’s the party itself- you know a peak when you see one. It’s almost one in the morning. Things can only really go downhill from here.

You nod at him and he nods back. It’ll take him a minute to excuse himself from the conversation he’s in, so you dip into the kitchen to get a glass of water before your drive home. The people around you become less and less familiar, the world fraying more and more as you turn the tap on and chug the contents of your solo cup. You’re buzzing. Your bed sounds so nice. God, this is so much water.

“Hey.”

You turn to smile at the figure beside you, entirely expecting it to be Phillip. It is not.

“You’re from my math class, right?”

You recoil from the scent of alcohol on his breath, which says a lot, given your current state. “Oh.” Your face drops, and you clear your throat, looking towards the doorway to the living room. “Uhm, maybe, I dunno.”

“You are. I just thought I’d come say hi. You’re real nice on the eyes, you ever get told that?”

You don’t smile. “Thanks.”

You refuse to meet his gaze. He seems to take this personally, so he leans into your personal space until he’s right in front of you. You have to watch his gaze rake down your body. “Yeah, you’re real nice.”

Deadpan. “Okay.”

“Are you here alone?”

You try to move past him, but he steps to cage you in against the counter. His body starts to press against yours, and you lean as far back as you can to avoid him, hips digging into the sharp edge of the marble counter. You think about grabbing a mug out of the sink behind you and slamming it into his head. You think about what Phillip taught you, about how to hold yourself in a fight, how to beat someone twice your size. You are suddenly dead sober with your heartbeat hammering in your head. Everything is very, very warm, and your hand goes towards the glassware at your side.

Before you can get a grip on the mug, the man’s already being pulled back. Everything blurs together, but you manage to take a few steps back from the chaos. Phillip is there, grabbing the man by his jacket collar and shoving him up against the cabinet. The people oblivious to your existence five seconds ago are now silent and watching. The man looks like he’s revving up to make some smartass remark, but before the words can leave his mouth, he’s met with a strong left hook.

You all Phillip watch break the man’s nose. Unceremoniously, the man drops to the floor.

The party in the rest of the house continues. Destiny’s Child plays in the living room as the people in the kitchen stand deathly still, like they’re expecting Phillip to start swinging on them, too.

He doesn’t. He turns to you, face red, and holds his hand out. “Come on.”

You take his hand and move across the blood speckled floor.

The cool air outside hits you all at once as you two leave, and if you weren’t so shaken up, you would have demanded you both spend some time on the front porch and enjoy it. It’s a relieving sensation nonetheless.

He helps you into the truck, extra mindful of where his hands land. Neither of you say anything as he hops in the driver's seat.

Everything is already blurring together, and you’re having trouble remembering what had happened a minute ago. You’re not too sure you even knew in the moment. Wracking your brain spurs on a headache, a dull throbbing pain blossoming between your eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You turn.

He’s staring at you in a way you don’t think you recognize. Concern, you realize after a moment, mirroring his furrowed brow. It’s an odd look on him, someone usually so collected and cocky. You must take too long to answer, because he leans forward slightly and asks again.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” The world comes crashing back in on you. Faux sober. Headache. In the car. “I’m fine. Sorry. Shit.”

“Don’t apologize.” He shifts in his seat and chews his lip, trying to figure out how to be delicate with what he asks. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

You shake your head. “Just grabbed my arm.”

“Your arm okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. I’m okay, Phil.”

He goes to put his hand on yours but stops himself. “Are you sure?”

You move your hand the rest of the way to take his and nod. “I’m sure. I promise.”

It takes him a moment to believe you, but after a few seconds he gently nods and turns the car on. It rumbles to life and buzzes underneath you. “M’ sorry I wasn’t with you.”

“You’re fine. You damn near caved his face in.”

“Shoulda kept punching.”

You snort at that, propping your head on your hand and watching the house disappear as you pull away. You watch his hand shift towards your knee on instinct, but he stops himself before it reaches you. Lord knows you’re not brave enough to tell him he can touch you.

“Thank you, Phil.”

“Of course.” He hums, turning on his blinker for nobody.

Five minutes of silence turns to ten. Ten to fifteen. You watch the bluestem sway back and forth in the moonlight, and he expects that you’ll be asleep by the time you get home.

You stare at the moon, then the stars, but all you can think about is how the boy next to you will be taken from you in three and a half weeks. You know he’ll visit, at least that’s what he says, but what about when he’s sent somewhere far away? What will you do then, when he disappears from your life forever, when he gets hard and cold and mean? It all sounds like a tragedy, you think, like some play you’d read your freshman year where everyone dies in the end. You’ll be here, alive, but you doubt you’ll really be able to live without him.

You love this boy. You are so tired of pretending that you don’t.

“We should have danced together at prom.”

He looks over at you for a second. Deducing exactly how drunk you are is hard when he’s busy operating his shitbox truck, but he figures you’re pretty far gone. Just talking nonsense on the fly. “I thought we went as friends.”

You bulldoze forward, not really paying attention to what he’s saying. This is a stream of consciousness and it will never escape you if it doesn’t get out now. “You were making eyes at me the whole night. You should have asked.”

“...I didn’t know that was somethin’ you wanted.”

“I’m telling you now. You should have asked me to dance.”

He furrows his brow. “You should have asked.”

You can’t really argue with this, so you just turn away with a huff and let your head rest against the window. “Well, shit. Guess we’re both cowards, then.”

The car ride is silent after that.

The two of you listen to the car engine and the crickets for a long stretch of time. He moves to turn on the radio, and Keith Whitley starts halfway through I Wonder Do You Think of Me. You’re not mad at him and he’s not mad at you, but your words and the continuous Nothing thereafter lets the two of you think.

About the horrible party and about the truck and about Prom. About all the time you’d spent together, pressed side to side, laughing and talking and bickering.

About how he will go away and change, and you will stay where he left you. You wonder if you could beg him to stay. You wonder if he would.

You could have had everything. But the time has passed.

— — —

next chapter

#phillip graves #cod x reader #phillip graves x gn reader #phillip graves x reader #cod mw2 #mw2 x reader #jay writes

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