Eric Coulter Imagines

What If: Their Routine

Morning

Eric strode into the training room like he owned it, which, in many ways, he did. His presence was enough to silence the initiates before he even opened his mouth. Fear clung to the air, thick and suffocating, as the recruits scrambled to line up, their bodies tense and unsure. He scanned them, his gaze like a blade, slicing through their weak attempts at confidence.

"You." He pointed to one of the smaller initiates, a boy who had barely survived the last physical trial. The kid's eyes went wide, his hands trembling as he stepped forward.

"Show me your punch."

The boy nodded, his fist shaking as he swung it into the training bag. The sound it made was pitiful—a soft thud, barely audible in the large room.

Eric's face twisted into a sneer. "That's your punch?" He stepped forward, his voice cold and sharp. "You call that a punch? My grandmother could hit harder."

The recruit swallowed hard, looking like he wanted to melt into the floor. Eric didn't let up.

"Do it again." His voice was ice, and the room seemed to grow colder. "Or get out. We don't need weaklings in Dauntless."

The boy tried again, but it wasn't much better. Eric shook his head, turning his back on the recruit. "Pathetic," he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You're a dead man walking if you don't figure it out. Go sit down. Maybe you'll be better at doing nothing."

The boy practically scurried away, his shoulders hunched, and Eric's smirk grew. The rest of the initiates stood stiffly, too terrified to move.

From the corner of his eye, Eric noticed Four standing by, observing his methods with that usual tight-lipped expression. Eric didn't care what Four thought. He wasn't here to coddle anyone—he was here to break them, to make them tougher, and if that meant ripping them apart mentally, so be it.

When the next recruit stepped forward, Eric repeated the process, tearing into them with the same cold, cruel precision. It wasn't just about training—it was about control. And Eric thrived in it.

---

Break Time

By the time Eric finished shredding the initiates' confidence, the training room was practically vibrating with tension. Satisfied, he walked out, not bothering to check if they were still standing. They'd either figure it out or they wouldn't—and if they didn't, Dauntless didn't need them.

His next stop was Y/N. He leaned against the wall outside her training area, arms crossed, still riding the high of his morning destruction as he watched her finish up with her trainees.

She caught sight of him as she wrapped up, her eyes briefly locking with his before she dismissed the recruits with a calm wave of her hand. Her black dress moved effortlessly as she turned, the sides exposed just enough to reveal her skin at her waist. Eric's eyes tracked the movement, his fingers itching to touch.

Without thinking too much, he slid his arm around her waist as they began walking, his hand landing on the exposed skin. He didn't even bother to hide the possessiveness behind the touch. It was just something he did now—an unconscious way to claim her. But there was more to it, too. He liked the feel of her under his hand, liked the way she fit against him.

Y/N didn't pull away, just raised an eyebrow at him as she started talking about her day. "The recruits today were a mess," she said casually. "I had to reteach basic targeting drills. At this rate, they'll be dead in five seconds in a real fight."

Eric smirked, his mind still buzzing from the morning's takedowns. "They're hopeless. Just another batch of useless idiots waiting to wash out. Makes you wonder why we bother."