Giant/Tiny Mech Suits

When will you be posting the next chapter? I'm not trying to pressure you but I just am really looking forward to the next chapters!

tbh…..i know this is news people probably aren’t excited to hear, but i’ve come to the decision that i won’t be posting new gtms chapters—at least until i feel comfortable sharing it again. i’ll still edit existing chapters as i see fit (those are not going anywhere) and on occasion, i’ll post gtms stuff that i feel comfortable sharing (be it ocs or little writing snippets). but while i am still writing it, the story itself will not currently be updated on here.

if i’m being honest with myself, this is a long time coming. while i appreciate and am grateful for the enthusiasm and the potential people see in gtms, it’s a tiny original project in one corner of the internet, and it’s just not something i want other people’s eyes or opinions on anymore. i need to restore it as a project for myself without other people’s influence, so while i might someday publish the story, as of now, it will remain private.

tldr—i no longer feel comfortable sharing, so for the foreseeable future, there will be no new gtms chapters.

What about 'you're a weapon...' or 'everyone I've cared about...' for Morgan?

(hey remember how cass canonically tortured morgan for like a week and some change let's see what that was like) Cuffs around his limbs, binding his arms behind his back and forcing him onto his knees. A collar around his neck, keeping him from lunging at the prying eyes on the catwalk in front of him. He always had an audience, it seemed…Whether it be from the armed guards who were ever so eager to point their little guns at him, or the labcoat wearing vermin that delighted in sticking more and more needles in him. Morgan couldn’t say for sure whether or not these people were familiar–his memory failed him more than it saved him, as of late. The only person he recognized, the one that seemed to always show her face, was the blonde one. The woman with the cold stare and hateful sneer. Bagley, he reminded himself fiercely. Her name is Bagley. She liked to watch. To supervise. To dole out punishment, if she needed to. Though Morgan couldn’t say for sure, he was under the impression that he must have done something to piss her off in the past…or perhaps she just had a mean streak a mile wide. In a way, he was almost happy to see her–pleased that she brought a sense of consistency to this nightmare. That he could still remember her, or at least, remember the hatred that the sight of her face brought him, was a miracle in it of itself. His wrists were raw and ragged from straining against his bonds and every inch of his body was in agony. Exhaustion had taken its toll on him, making him feel as if he were a sailboat straining against the weight of the ocean. His eyes drooped, his head fell forward, and though he felt the gag of the choker against his throat, he hardly cared. Oblivion would take him, he’d fall asleep soon and– Fire through his nerves, an electric shock that tore through him with an unholy fury. The pain jolted him wide awake, if only for a second, as he stiffened hard and pulled hard against his bindings. Morgan struggled in vain, each tug earning him another shock, and another, and another until he finally gave up. Sucking in a ragged, wheezing breath into overworked lungs, he could feel his eyes begin to sting bitterly. No. No, no, no. Try as he might to fight it, he could not stop the floodgates as tears rolled down his cheeks. The most he could do was stifle his sobs, grit his teeth as hard as he could so that they couldn’t have the satisfaction of actually hearing him cry. The unfairness of it all, the depravity, and all the helplessness he felt came crashing down upon him as if Atlas himself had given Morgan his burden to shoulder. Another shock, this time stronger than the last, quickly stopped the tears. His back arched as waves of agony crept through his body in terrible droves, leaving him breathless and staring wide-eyed up at the woman orchestrating his suffering. She met his gaze unflinchingly, unwaveringly, and merely raised an immaculate brow up at him. “You are a weapon.” Bagley said, her voice calm. Matter-of-fact. “And weapons don’t weep.” Morgan was tired. He was tired, hurt, and in that moment he knew he would never stop hurting. So long as this woman lived, the pain would keep coming. Over, and over, and over again. No escape. No release. Not even a moment of rest. That realization woke him up better than any electric shock could, poured white hot fury into his veins that made his limbs feel just a little lighter, tricked his body into thinking it wasn’t on the brink of collapse. He would never stop hurting…so what was the point of being docile? Why let her trample all over him without trying to fight back? Morgan lunged forward with all his strength, straining so hard against his cuffs that he knew he must have pulled something out of place. Dislocated something. It didn’t matter. He could hardly breathe as he pushed forward, leaning up so that he was mere inches away from the catwalk. A snarl tore through the air, so forcefully he could see the catwalk shake and shiver as it echoed throughout the room. She was so close. She was so bloody close, just a little closer and he

could bite that pompous little head off– Bagley didn’t flinch. She merely stared up at him with the same neutral expression she usually wore, while her lackeys scrambled about like headless chickens. Frightened. At least he did something right. She pressed a button on the little device she held, and once again, he felt nothing but searing pain. Though it rippled through his limbs with a vengeance, he stayed firm, turning red in the face as he pushed harder and harder…Something in his throat burned. It was different than the electricity flowing throughout his nerves–a fire that most certainly did not come from the chains that bound him. Hotter and hotter it grew, its intensity rising as he fought with all his might to stay upright...until he could fight no more, and he fell back hard and fast, cracking his head against the wall as he slumped in a defeated heap. Chest heaving, he glared up at Bagley, the burning in his throat starting to cool. “If I’m a weapon,” Morgan wheezed, invigorated by his regained defiance. “I can’t wait until you’re looking down my barrel.”

❛ did i do good? ❜ -Nick/Morgan for the ANGST 🥲

(listen to This Song while reading for a better experience :) ) The guitar in Nick’s hands was old. Scratched, dented, and its chords were barely tuned and looked ready to snap at any given moment…but it was a comfortable weight, and he knew it’d croon softly enough for him if he gave it just a little tender love. He hadn’t played since he enlisted, but the second his fingers pressed against the old strings that rust hadn’t settled on him just yet. He sat around the dying embers of what had been a large bonfire in the center of the camp, carefully tuning the guitar as best he could, the idle conversations of those who remained quieting down as he began his work. An experimental strum…it wasn’t the best, and he knew if he kept messing with the strings that he'd have a good lashing in the face by one of them if he wasn’t mindful enough. He could feel eyes on him, from Bagley’s bright excitement and Obermann’s quiet curiosity–but most importantly, there was Morgan. The furrow of his brows, the way his nose scrunched up when he was lost in thought…the weight of his glowing eyes bearing down upon him, focused entirely on him… Nick met his gaze, offering him a sad little smile. Something in his heart ached, it mourned for all the nights they’d shared just like this that Morgan couldn’t even remember. He wondered if Morgan was mourning too. How much of this was familiar to him? How much of it wasn’t? His fingers settled against the chords like they had a thousand times before, and he began to play the first notes of an old song he knew by heart. When he was sure that the guitar’s wonky tuning wouldn’t completely butcher it, Nick continued on with the chord. The guitar struggled–its note were warbling, the strings were too stiff and the faults with it could make a list a mile long…and yet it played. Not perfectly, not expertly, but it played–and it was more beautiful than it had any right to be. The camp grew deathly silent, as if even the birds and crickets had decided to stop and listen to his song. Nick continued to play, lost in the joy of an old hobby he thought he’d never pick up again. Those few years he thought Morgan was dead were…soundless. Joyless. There was a gaping wound in his chest that only grew wider and wider each time he’d see something that reminded him of the man he’d lost. They very thought of picking up his guitar again would have been enough to drive him into a pit of misery that he could hardly climb out of. There was hardly a point in playing when he didn’t have his singer, after all. Above, he heard someone inhale–a gasp from the man of the hour himself. Nick stopped playing, looking up to the giant with a tilt of his head. “Is everything alright?” He asked, concerned. Morgan didn’t answer at first, his lips pursed together in a tight frown…but then he shook his head, gesturing absently with a hand. “‘M fine.” He replied, the frown slipping right off his face and replaced with a gentle smirk. “...Take that from the top, will you?” Nick obliged, and started the song over again. Though this time, he noticed something was different this go around. A quiet humming from the giant before him, going along with the sound of the guitar as he played. It got louder and louder, more confident, the further through the former pilot got… And then he heard a sound he’d longed to hear for three years. One he thought he’d never hear again. “And when you run Far from my eyes Then I will come In the dead of night,” Morgan’s voice rang through the night, echoing across rocky canyons and rocking Nick to his core. All those sitting around the fire’s embers and milling about in the wee hours turned to look at him, to take him in…The monster, the dragon, crooning out a melody that must have stuck with him even through the worst of his memory loss. His voice was just as lovely as ever–raw in a way that most singers were, cracking from years of disuse…Warbling, struggling, but beautiful. “But I won’t speak Till mornin’ light I’ll be the song Just be the song," Nick continued to play, even though his eyes

stung and his fingers began to shake as they ran across the chords. The bittersweet feeling that set his heart ablaze now was all encompassing. He wanted to drown in it, to suffocate under its bliss. The ground shook briefly as Morgan moved from his spot, kneeling down in front of Nick to tilt his head up with the tip of his finger as he sang, and sang, and sang. “Flow down all my mountains Darlin’ fill my valleys” Flow down all my mountains Darlin’ fill my valleys Flow down…” The guitar stopped, and so too did Morgan, as Nick could no longer play. He set the guitar down, grabbing onto the gigantic hand before him and holding on with everything he had. A sob wracked his body, and he felt weightless as the giant scooped him up into his hands and picked him up off the ground and brought him up to his chest. Nick was pressed carefully against him, the booming thrum of his heart drowning out his shaking breaths. “Did I do good?” Morgan murmured, rubbing the little man’s back soothingly. Nick buried himself into his chest, his little hands grabbing the material of his suit by the fistful like he thought grasping tight enough would keep him from breaking down again. He looked up, meeting those gleaming eyes again, and swallowed hard. “You did.” Nick managed to choke out, taking his glasses off to wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Can you…can you take it from the top for me this time?” Morgan nodded, and Nick settled in his grasp as their song echoed through the air and reverberated through him–soft, broken, and sweet. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

what did Morgan do for a living before he got put in the mech?

for a while he did basically anything that would pay him until he managed to fix up an old motorcycle and eventually settled on being a package courier that would agree to do any delivery--be it weapons, supplies, drug running, whatever. so long as he got paid what he agreed on, he was happy to ferry other people's shit around. morgan was pretty hellbent on keeping his "professional" and personal lives separate, mostly to keep his family safe. he never took off his bike helmet while on the job, and when asked for his name he told them to call him "morrigan", inspired in part from his childhood nickname and the deity it was derived from. he managed to make his mark pretty severely this way. "the morrigan" became known for his efficient and timely deliveries, as well as his rather...harsh temper when it came to a few missing dollars.