#and mark scout is going to fight it

[deliciousdietdrpepper]

Severance is going to end with Mark S and Mark Scout literally suing each other over custody of their body on national television istg

[normalaboutmediaa]

I've seen a few other people mention it but I do really resent the idea that Mark and Gemma's marriage was 'failing'. Like, bro idk how to tell you this but relationships ebb and flow when you're in them for long enough. There are rough patches, and what makes relationships strong is being able to work through them, especially when it's something as big and scary as pregnancy loss and infertility. From what I can tell they were trying to do just that, they were working through those stages when it all got cut off.

Gemma endured a horrific trauma- the loss of her child, the pain, the sense of failure and likely internal questions about if it was her fault somehow. But Mark lost his child too. No, he didn't have to go through the same visceral experience with it that she did but he was still grieving, and we all know what Mark Scout does with grief. He buries it. So yeah he was working a lot, probably drinking a lot, but they were still holding each other on Christmas. There was still love there, still something they could have salvaged.

Also, he *loves* Gemma. It was agonizing to watch her go through this disappointment over and over again while also feeling like he had to bury and ignore his own feelings and disappointment. Was he an asshole for saying 'maybe we should stop' like that? Yeah, absolutely. But I think it was coming from a very real place of 'This is putting so much stress and heartache into our lives, maybe we need to try and accept that it might not happen for us.'

So like. Yeah I really resent the notion that their relationship was somehow already over before she disappeared.

[kestrel-of-herran]

in all honestly innie mark needs to "win" the helly/gemma fight at least slightly or have his feelings for helly and desire to make sure she doesn't die as collateral to get gemma out validated bc otherwise we're back to the square one of "innies are subhuman" and born only to serve the outie.

mark should be getting gemma out and learning and growing and changing through his memories of the severed floor. he doesn't get to dodge the consequences of his grief-dodging. he's split his heart in two so now there's twice the room in it and he needs to live with that and fight for both women he loves until he figures his feelings out.

[bugswithmugs]

I think it's interesting that severance is kind of showing us that innies and outies are the same but also different at the same time. Irving still loves Burt no matter if he's an innie or an outie and the same goes for Burt, Helena is becoming more like Helly and Helly is becoming more like Helena (the head tilt!) the innies and the outies are at the core the same but ALSO Dylan isn't the same or at least not seen the same, Gretchen denied him, she broke it off because Dylan her husband thought it was wrong but both Dylans made the same choice in the end (quiting) and then there's Mark, Devon clearly cares about him but she seems to think of innie Mark as an extension to outie Mark not a different person with different goals and priorities, it's still her brother so why shouldn't he immediatly be on board with whatever weird plan they have

[aestheticsxemotions]

idek how but GEMMA AND DEVON GO FIND IRVING NOWWWWWW!

[gaypkins]

severance stans on twitter are so annoying it’s like there's a ship war between markhelly / markgemma like.... :| he loves them both what is there to argue

[vvildside]

just finished severance. I know the show itself leaning to innie people side more like they pushed the narrative we need to understand their feelings cz it's their outie who get them in there and also they're better version of their outie etc etc. but ngl I'm SO pissed at innie mark at the ending lol don't get me wrong I get him with his whatever reasons when he said to outie mark. but I love devon, she's my favorite character bcs she's the only one who always stood on her ground and not easily get manipulated by others in the middle of every other characters get manipulated here and there 😭 so the thought of her can't get her actual brother back after went through everything to help him really make me want to bash my head against the wall

[boasamishipper]

sooooooooooooo many things to scream about tonight but number one on the list is the difference in the ways dylan and mark's outies talked to their innies. from the get-go mark scout is nothing but patronizing to mark s. he created mark s as an escape from his grief, and now he wants to use mark s as a means to an end to save his wife and pick up his life where he abandoned it. he gets helly's name wrong and calls her 'the person you're seeing' because he doesn't recognize mark s's humanity. he sees mark s as an extension of himself, and he only loves gemma, so of course whatever mark s feels for helly can't be real or worth fighting for. and when mark s understandably doesn't see it his way, mark scout lashes out, calling mark s a child.

but then you have the letter dylan george wrote to dylan g. in three paragraphs dylan george talks to his innie like an adult, like they are peers. he's angry at dylan g, but at the same time, he understands why dylan g did what he did. he would have done the same if he were in dylan g's place. after years of being jealous of his outie, dylan g learns that his outie thinks he (dylan g) is the one to emulate, the self-assured badass. and where helena and mark scout made their innie's decisions for them ("i am a person. you are not.") dylan george breaks the cycle: he offers his opinion, but ultimately puts the decision back in dylan g's hands.

at the end of this season, dylan g is gifted agency. and after fulfilling his purpose, mark s steals his agency back.

[venusrobots]

i fully respect the decision mark s. made because i would have made the exact same one if i was in his position. if both of my options are getting me killed, i’m choosing the one where i die with the person i love, and maybe get an extra hour or two of life. why would i walk out of that door and die without taking any possible chance to fight? why would anyone expect another human being to just do that? why should mark s. just do what his outie says, when it’s going to cost him and the people he loves their lives? mark scout, devon and cobel miscalculated by assuming mark s. would be okay with dying. mark scout in particular fucked up by assuming his innie had no agency from the very beginning of those recordings - because even after all that mark s. did for them (he is the reason mark scout even found out gemma was still alive!), they still don’t see innies as people.

i also don’t think he was trying to screw over mark scout or say fuck you to him and gemma and their happy ending at all; he was just exercising HIS autonomy and making the decision HE wanted to make. to buy himself more time with the one life he’s been given.

his allegiance was also rightfully with the very few people he knew and loved. he had no allegiance to mark scout and gemma, but still did an incredibly kind thing by helping gemma escape - because he is a kind person. but assuming he’s kind enough to just choose to give up his own life without a fight is ridiculous.

mark s. has had literally had no control or say in his entire fucking life. him running in the hallway with helly, towards what they believe to be certain death - it’s cathartic. it was the right decision. i don’t think it came out of nowhere at all; they have been setting the stage for this all season, with the very first hint being in the new opening sequence where helly and gemma glitch and blur together.

what does it mean to be human? mark s. just told you

[asciendo]

The Weight of Crown and Heart

Summary: Seungcheol is a prince — bound by duty, raised for power, but burdened by questions he was never meant to ask. You are the daughter of a tribe fighting to survive, fierce and unyielding, with a spirit that refuses to bow.

When your worlds collide, drawn together by fate and circumstance, loyalty and love stand on opposite sides of the line. But some connections are impossible to silence — no matter the cost.

💌 Pairing: Seungcheol x f!Reader 📖 Genre: Historical Fantasy | Romance | Angst | Slow Burn | Hurt/Comfort | Political Drama 🖋️ Word Count: 15,727 📍 Setting: Fantasy empire-inspired world | Tribal villages & imperial palace

🚨 Warnings: Execution threats, political manipulation, war themes, imprisonment, smut / explicit sexual content (18+)

You had to find your father. No matter how many times they told you to let it go — that it was too dangerous, that you’d only be signing your own death sentence — you couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

Your village had been holding its breath for months, caught in the tightening grip of the Empire. Rumors spread fast across the outskirts: the Emperor was making plans to clear out the borderlands, to claim the outer provinces for the expansion of his reign. Entire tribes were being displaced — some erased entirely.

Your father had refused to bow. He had always fought for the people, for your home, standing at the front lines of quiet resistance. And then, one day, on what should have been a routine mission, he vanished. No word. Nobody. Only silence.

But you knew. Deep down, you knew. The Emperor had taken him.

Your younger sister had overheard an imperial battalion scouting nearby lands, their movements cloaked as routine patrols, though everyone knew they were the sharp edge of the Empire’s plans to push further. The soldiers traveled in and out of the capital under the cover of supply runs, their carts heavy with rations and weapons.

So you made your choice.

If the Empire had your father, then the city was where you needed to be. And if getting there meant hiding beneath the canvas of one of their supply wagons, smuggling yourself straight into the lion’s den — so be it.

No one was going to stop you.

You slipped away under the cover of darkness, your heart pounding louder than your footsteps on the dirt road. Dressed in oversized clothes stolen from the village boys, you wrapped a worn scarf tightly around your face, hiding every feature that might betray who — or what — you were. With your hair tucked beneath a cap and your frame swallowed by baggy sleeves, you hoped the disguise would be enough to pass for a scrawny servant boy.

The soldiers’ camp wasn’t hard to find. The flicker of their bonfire glowed like a beacon against the night, their laughter and the clatter of tin cups echoing through the trees. You crouched low, skirting the edges of the clearing, slipping silently behind the canvas of their tents.

There — near the far end of the camp — stood one of their carts, piled with sacks of grain and barrels of supplies. You watched carefully, waiting. The soldiers were still gathered by the fire, drinking, loud and distracted. They wouldn’t be hungry again anytime soon.

Now or never.

You crept toward the cart, heart hammering, limbs tense, and slipped into the back, wedging yourself behind a barrel of dried goods. The wooden planks beneath you were cold and rough, but you didn’t dare move. You stayed there, curled tight, barely breathing as the night dragged on, willing yourself invisible.

Sleep came in brief, fitful moments — always half awake, always listening.

Seungcheol awoke to the soft rustling of wind in the trees, the distant chirp of birds greeting the sun. Their seventh day out in the field. Seven days scouting the lands his father — the Emperor — had marked for expansion. Lands that didn’t belong to the Empire. Not yet.

Oddly enough, he preferred these mornings over the suffocating marble walls of the palace. Out here, the air was clear. No titles, no politics. Just duty.

Stretching the stiffness from his shoulders, he stepped outside his tent, already spotting a few of his men gathered around the supply cart, whispering.

“What’s going on?” he called out, his tone casual but commanding.

At once, the soldiers straightened, saluting him. One of the younger men cleared his throat nervously. “Sir. Uh… we thought we heard something last night. Coming from the cart.”

“Probably just a rat, Jinho,” another soldier snorted, elbowing him. “Or maybe it was the ghost of all the deer you keep missing with your arrows.”

A round of laughter followed, but Jinho’s face stayed pale. “No, I swear! I heard something.”

Their general, a gruff older man named Baekhyun, rolled his eyes. “I’ll check, if it’ll shut you all up.” He marched over to the cart, muttering under his breath about scared children.

A moment passed. Then another.

“There’s nothing here,” Baekhyun called out lazily — but just as he turned to leave, he paused. His brow furrowed. “Wait a minute…”

A sharp crash sounded from the cart, barrels tipping over, food scattering. The soldiers jumped to attention, weapons half-drawn as Baekhyun stumbled back, startled. And then — from behind the barrels — a figure burst out.

Baggy clothes. A scarf wrapped tight around the face. Small frame, fast on their feet.

“Stop!” one of the soldiers yelled, but the figure sprinted toward the trees.

Not fast enough.

Seungcheol moved like lightning. His hand shot out, grabbing the fleeing figure by the arm and yanking them backward. They struggled wildly, throwing punches and twisting against his grip, but he held firm.

“Stay back,” Seungcheol ordered his men with a sharp gesture when they started to rush in. “I’ll handle this.”

The scuffle was brief. The stranger fought harder than he’d expected, but Seungcheol was trained for worse. He pinned them easily, forcing the figure down onto the dirt, his weight pressing them into the ground.

“Now let’s see who you are.” he muttered.

The stranger thrashed beneath him, refusing to give in. But Seungcheol was stronger. With one hand, he ripped away the scarf and tugged at the loose-fitting clothes to uncover the face beneath.

And then he froze.

Wide, defiant brown eyes glared up at him, shining even through the grime and fear. Strands of raven-black hair fell loose from the cap, fanning out across the ground like silk. Her skin, pale as porcelain, was streaked with dirt, but it only seemed to make her beauty more striking.

A girl.

Not just a girl — beautiful. Proud. Unbroken.

For a moment, Seungcheol forgot to breathe.

She stared back at him, chest heaving, lips pressed into a thin line of stubborn silence. Even now, pinned beneath him, her eyes didn’t waver.

Seungcheol loosened his grip, stunned, and slowly rose to his feet, his gaze never leaving her face.

His men stepped back, exchanging confused glances, unsure of what to make of the figure struggling beneath their commander’s grip. Baekhyun jumped down from the cart, his brows knitted together, eyeing you curiously.

Seungcheol kept his stance firm, gaze sharp. “Who are you?” he asked, voice low but steady.

You slowly pushed yourself up from the ground, brushing the dirt off your borrowed clothes. Your hands trembled, but your eyes never wavered as you stared straight at him. “Just a beggar looking for food,” you answered coolly, chin lifted.

There was a flicker of doubt across his face, and from behind him, one of the soldiers — Jinho — spoke up, voice tight with suspicion. “She could be a spy.”

“I’m no one,” you shot back, your glare hard enough to make even Seungcheol hesitate for a moment, startled by the fire behind your words.

“I doubt that,” Seungcheol muttered, narrowing his eyes.

You sneered. “For someone with a crown on their head, you’re not very bright.”

The men bristled at your insult, some already reaching for the ropes at their belts, ready to bind you and drag you off. The tension thickened, their boots shifting in the dirt as they moved to surround you.

But then Baekhyun raised a hand, halting them. “Wait.”

His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, circling around you like a vulture sizing up its prey. His gaze dropped to the necklace half-hidden beneath your tunic — a small, carved amulet resting against your chest. Before you could react, his rough hand shot out, grabbing the cord and yanking the amulet free.

“Hey—!” You lunged forward, trying to snatch it back, but Baekhyun held it just out of reach, turning the piece over in his fingers.

“She’s from the Kagan tribe,” he said darkly, eyes gleaming with recognition.

The camp fell silent. Several of the soldiers stiffened at the name.

Baekhyun’s grin widened as he studied the carving. “Daughter of the chief, no less.”

“The tribe leader?” one of the soldiers echoed, frowning. “The one my uncle’s brigade captured last season?”

At those words, your fury broke loose. You surged forward, eyes blazing, shouting, “GIVE HIM BACK!”

Baekhyun barely flinched as he shoved you down again, forcing you to the dirt with a hand on your shoulder. “So that’s what this is,” he mused, voice thick with mock sympathy. “You were trying to sneak your way into the capital to find him.”

You struggled against his grip, breath coming hard and fast. But the weight of his hand and the truth of his words pinned you down just as much as his strength. Now you knew for certain — they had your father.

The soldiers began murmuring again, debating what to do with you, some already moving to restrain you.

Seungcheol raised a hand to silence them. His gaze remained locked on you, thoughtful, the earlier anger in his eyes dimmed by something closer to curiosity. “Bring her with us.”

One of the men blinked. “Sir?”

“She’s the chief’s daughter,” Seungcheol said calmly. “If the Empire’s holding her father, she might be useful. Either as leverage… or for information.”

Baekhyun didn’t wait for further instructions. Roughly, he grabbed your wrists and bound them tightly in front of you as you fought back, twisting against the rope. “Get your hands off me!” you snapped, but your struggles only made the knot tighter.

They dragged you toward the cart where prisoners were kept, shoving you inside with little care. You stumbled, falling hard onto the wooden floor, your knees scraping against the rough planks. Slowly, you pushed yourself back up, refusing to let them see you crumble.

As the cart began to roll forward, you looked out through the small gaps between the wooden slats — and there he was.

Seungcheol stood at a distance, arms crossed over his chest. His expression wasn’t the smug victory you expected. Instead, his eyes followed you, thoughtful, uncertain… with the faintest flicker of worry softening the sharpness of his gaze.

You didn’t know how many days had passed.

The journey blurred together — the rocking of the cart, the ache in your bound wrists, the endless stretch of road beneath the wheels. They gave you food, enough to keep you standing, and water to keep you from passing out. But beyond that, they got nothing from you.

Not a word. Not a name.

Silence was the only weapon you had left.

Eventually, the cart jolted to a stop. Commands were barked, tents were raised, and a small camp began to take shape. Evening had fallen by the time they settled, the sun dipping low against the horizon, casting the land in soft gold and purple hues.

You sat alone at the edge of the camp, your hands still bound, staring out at the distant line where the hills met the sky. Planning. Watching. Waiting. Wondering how much longer you could hold out — and how the hell you were going to get out of this.

The sound of footsteps crunching against the dirt pulled you from your thoughts.

You didn’t turn right away. You didn’t need to. You already knew who it was.

Seungcheol.

Slow, deliberate steps. No armor clinking, no heavy boots — just the quiet approach of someone who knew exactly how much presence they carried.

“I thought you’d be smarter than this,” he said casually, stopping a few feet away. “Sneaking into a soldier’s cart in the middle of the night? That’s not bravery. That’s desperation.”

You gave him nothing but silence, your gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Still refusing to speak?” he added, his voice dipping lower as he crouched down, trying to catch your eyes. “I’m impressed. Most would’ve begged by now.”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze, eyes sharp as steel. “I’m not most,” you answered, your voice hoarse but steady.

A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained cautious. He studied you for a moment, tilting his head, as if trying to puzzle out what kind of creature they had trapped.

“You’re loyal,” he said, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I’ll give you that. But loyalty can be dangerous if it makes you foolish.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know what’s dangerous? Men who think they’re doing the world a favor by stealing fathers from their children.”

For the first time, his expression flickered — a brief shadow crossing his features.

“You’re wasting your time,” you continued, voice colder now. “Whatever you’re trying to get from me, you won’t.”

Seungcheol straightened, standing tall above you again. The smile was gone, replaced by something harder to read. “I’m not here to interrogate you.”

“Then why are you here?” you snapped.

There was a pause. His gaze softened, almost like he hadn’t expected the question — or the fire behind it.

“Because I wanted to see the girl bold enough to insult me to my face,” he said simply. 

You glared up at him, defiant, but your chest rose and fell a little faster, betraying the way your body tensed beneath his stare.

He looked at you for a long moment, then quietly added, “Rest while you can. You’re going to need it.”

And with that, Seungcheol turned and walked away, leaving you sitting in the glow of the dying sun — your mind racing, your heart burning hotter than ever.

The next morning, the air around the camp buzzed with activity. Maps were unrolled over makeshift tables, soldiers standing around discussing the day’s plan — marking the lands they would claim, the borders they would push.

Seungcheol stood at the center, arms crossed, listening intently as Baekhyun traced his finger along the map’s edges. “The rivers here cut off most of the valley,” Baekhyun explained. “The remaining tribes scattered along this area should be easy enough to drive out.”

“They’re stubborn, though,” another soldier chimed in. “Won’t leave without a fight.”

“They’re nothing more than animals clinging to dirt,” Baekhyun snorted. “They’ll fall in line or they’ll fall beneath a sword. Either way—”

You scoffed, loud enough to cut through the conversation like a blade.

The men’s heads snapped toward you, narrowing their eyes. You sat against the post where they’d tied you earlier, arms crossed loosely over your bound wrists, watching them like they were the fools at the end of a joke.

“Well, well,” Baekhyun sneered, stepping forward with a crooked smile. “Do we finally get to hear the princess speak?”

They had been calling you that for days now — princess — a mocking title because you refused to beg, refused to cower, refused to speak a word to any of them.

You lifted your chin, staring at them calmly. “It’s just funny,” you said, voice sharp and clear, “how little you actually know about the war you’re fighting.”

The soldiers exchanged glances, some scoffing, others rolling their eyes. Seungcheol’s gaze, however, stayed on you, unreadable.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, brow raised.

You leaned forward, your glare steady, voice laced with disgust. “You sit here drawing lines across a map, calling it expansion — talking about the tribes like they’re nothing but savages standing in your way. But what you’re really doing is burning homes. Tearing families apart. You’re not fighting beasts. You’re slaughtering innocent people. You’re killing children.”

The murmur of the men rose instantly, their hands clenching at their sides, faces twisting with irritation.

“Watch your tongue,” one of them snapped.

But you didn’t flinch. “Tell me — where was the last tribe you passed on your way here? You say they’re given a chance to ‘join’ your empire, but there’s no one left standing to surrender.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened. “You’ve got it all wrong. The Empire doesn’t murder civilians. We give them the choice to assimilate — to live under the Emperor’s rule. We only expand where we’re allowed to.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Do you honestly believe that?” you shot back, eyes narrowing. “Look around you. The land behind you is empty. No villages. No people. No one left to choose. Only graves where homes used to be.”

The camp fell silent, your words hanging heavy between the two of you.

You pushed yourself up as much as the ropes would allow, your voice cracking with fury now. “My father wasn’t raising an army of rebels — he was gathering the other chiefs, trying to defend our people. Trying to protect us from monsters like you.”

Before you could speak another word, one of the younger soldiers snapped. His hand whipped across your face, striking your cheek hard enough to send your head snapping to the side.

“Watch your filthy mouth when you speak of the Emperor!” the soldier barked.

You tasted blood in your mouth but didn’t look away. Slowly, you turned your head back toward him, eyes burning with hate.

“Enough!” Seungcheol’s voice cracked through the air like thunder.

The soldier froze, stiffening as Seungcheol stalked toward him, anger radiating off his frame.

“Who gave you the order to lay a hand on her?” Seungcheol growled.

“S-sir, she insulted—”

“I heard her.” Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “But she’s still my prisoner — not yours to punish.”

The soldier lowered his gaze, swallowing hard, nodding quickly. “Yes, Commander.”

Seungcheol turned back to you, his expression unreadable again — a strange mix of frustration and something else beneath it. His eyes lingered for a moment on the red mark blooming across your cheek, your lip bloodied but your glare still fierce, unbroken.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and barked at the others, “Get back to work. The perimeter won’t plan itself.”

But even as the men scattered, their voices hushed and tense, you could feel Seungcheol’s gaze lingering on you — longer than it should have. His expression was hard to read, but in his eyes was the slightest crack, the faintest doubt. As if, for the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure which side he was truly on.

The camp grew quiet as the sky faded into deep blue, the crackle of the fire the only sound filling the silence. You sat alone, back against the wooden frame of the prisoner’s cart, your arms sore from the bindings, the sting on your cheek a dull throb.

Night fell heavier, and though exhaustion weighed on your limbs, sleep was slow to come. Your mind spun with thoughts of your father, of your people, of the lies that these men told themselves to sleep at night.

Just as your eyes began to flutter shut, you heard the soft crunch of footsteps approaching. You sat up, instantly alert.

It was him.

Seungcheol stood there, half-shadowed by the moonlight, arms at his sides, watching you for a moment before he spoke.

“I came to apologize,” he said quietly. “For what my soldier did to you. I didn’t give him the right to lay a hand on a woman.”

You scoffed, the bitterness rising in your throat. “So noble of you,” you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Truly. A hero.”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched, but his tone stayed calm. “No matter what you think of us… we’re not those kinds of men.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning your head back against the cart. “Right. Murderers with manners. What a comfort.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing slightly. “But your lies have to stop.”

Your gaze snapped back to him. “Lies?” you echoed, incredulous.

“You speak as if you know the Empire,” he said, stepping closer. “But you have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“No,” you cut him off sharply, sitting forward, your voice growing louder, angrier. “You’re the one who has no idea. Are you really so blind? Or do you just choose not to see it?”

The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw as he held your gaze.

“Where have you ever seen these tribes ‘assimilated’ so peacefully into your empire?” you challenged. “Tell me, where?”

Seungcheol straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve seen it myself. Tribes brought to the capital. Their leaders shaking my father’s hand. Swearing loyalty to the Emperor. Living safely under the Empire’s protection.”

You gave a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Is that what they told you? You really believe that?”

His eyes narrowed. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“You saw beggars in the city,” you snapped. “Men dressed up and paid to play the part of chiefs. Puppets wearing feathers and beads like costumes — paraded around for show.”

He laughed now, sharp and disbelieving. “You sound delusional.”

He turned, about to walk away, but your voice stopped him cold.

“Have you ever seen one of them with this?”

Seungcheol turned back just as you lifted your bound wrists, tugging the sleeve down past your bruised skin. There, inked into the inside of your wrist, was the mark — a small, intricate symbol, the tattoo of your tribe. A sign that could never be faked, given to every child at birth.

“We’re marked as infants,” you said, your voice steady but laced with quiet pride. “Every tribe bears its own symbol. Every single one.”

Seungcheol’s gaze dropped to the tattoo. His mind flashed back — the hands of the so-called “tribesmen” he had met in the city, clean, bare of any marks.

No tattoos.

His face froze, but you caught the flicker of uncertainty behind his eyes. He quickly straightened, forcing nonchalance, but his silence betrayed him.

“You haven’t seen one, have you?” you pressed, leaning forward, your eyes locking onto his.

Still, he said nothing.

Instead, after a long pause, his next words came softer — unexpected. “What’s your name?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

“I realized,” he continued, tilting his head slightly, “we’ve come this far… and I still don’t know your name.”

You hesitated, lips pressed tight, weighing whether to give him even that small piece of yourself.

He watched you for a moment longer, then gave a small sigh and turned to leave.

“…Y/N.”

You spoke quietly, but it was enough to stop him mid-step.

Seungcheol paused, back still to you. A slow smile crept onto his face — faint, but real. Without turning around, he gave a slight nod, then continued walking back into the darkness of the camp.

And for the first time since they’d captured you, you felt the balance between captor and prisoner begin to shift — even if neither of you understood yet which way it would fall.

The next location wasn’t far, so the men decided to march rather than ride. From the moment you set foot on the new site, unease prickled down your spine like a warning.

This place was wrong.

As the brigade began to unpack and make camp, your eyes scanned the clearing, reading the land like the back of your hand. Seungcheol noticed. His gaze followed you as you quietly studied the edges of the trees and the looming shadow of a rocky cliff nearby.

Later, they let you out from the prisoner’s cart — still bound but given the courtesy of washing your face at the stream. You crouched at the water’s edge, splashing the cool water onto your skin, the unease still weighing heavy on your chest.

You felt him before you heard him. “What is it?” Seungcheol asked, standing a few feet behind you, arms crossed.

You wiped your face, sighing as you stood. “This is a bad place to stop.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

You pointed toward the side of the cliff where a wide, dark hole yawned open at the base of the rock. “That’s a wolf’s den,” you said simply. “They’re not here right now… but they will be. And when they come home, we’ll all be nothing but meat on their teeth.”

The soldiers behind you laughed, some exchanging smug glances.

“Then we’ll kill them,” one of them scoffed, resting a hand on his blade.

You turned, glaring sharply. “Of course. You’ll take their home too? Not surprised.”

Baekhyun let out a sharp laugh. “All this fuss over some animals. You’re wasting our time, girl.”

But then, a low, guttural growl rumbled through the clearing.

From the shadows of the trees emerged a large wolf, its silver-gray coat bristling as it padded toward the camp, golden eyes fixed sharply on the intruders. The men scrambled, grabbing weapons, stepping into their attack positions.

Your heart clenched.

No. You wouldn’t let them take another home. Not tonight.

Before they could act, you stepped forward, slowly, carefully, eyes locked on the wolf. The soldiers shouted warnings, raising their swords higher, but then—

“Hold,” Seungcheol commanded, raising his hand to stop them, his eyes watching you intently.

You kept walking, calm, steady. The wolf’s teeth bared, its growl deepening, but you didn’t flinch.

Instead, you knelt before it.

Your bound hands reached out, slow and gentle, until your palm rested against the wolf’s head. You leaned your forehead down, pressing it lightly against the animal’s, your lips murmuring soft words only the creature could hear.

Baekhyun’s jaw tightened as he watched. “The Kagan people,” he muttered, “are known for their bond with the wild. Their priests say the earth and beasts speak to them.”

The men stayed frozen, tense, as the wolf gave a final snarl toward the group… then turned, padding silently back into the den, disappearing into the dark.

You stood, looking back at them, eyes hard. “You think you own the land beneath your feet… that the rivers and forests are here for you to take. But the trees are alive, the rivers remember, and the beasts have voices you refuse to hear.”

The men fell silent. Not one dared speak.

You continued, your voice calm but cutting: “You call this place yours, but you don’t even know its name. You hunt without gratitude, destroy without reason. And still, you call us the savages.”

The fire crackled softly. No one laughed this time.

Not even Seungcheol.

You turned away, stepping back toward the cart where they kept you prisoner, climbing in without a fight. Lying down, you closed your eyes, letting the quiet of the land settle around you.

But across the camp, Seungcheol stood frozen, watching you with something far from mockery — something closer to wonder. He had never met anyone like you. And for the first time, curiosity gnawed at him more than duty.

That night, when the moon hung high and pale, the door of your cart creaked open.

You stirred, blinking against the dark.

“What is it with you and waking me up?” you muttered.

Seungcheol’s soft chuckle broke the silence. “Come. Walk with me.”

You frowned, uncertain. “What?”

“Walk with me,” he repeated, stepping back, waiting.

Slowly, you sat up, hesitating. When you reached the edge of the cart, he leaned forward — and you flinched instinctively, expecting the harsh grip of rope. But instead, his hands moved gently, undoing the binds around your wrists.

You stared at him, confused. He gave no explanation. He simply turned and walked toward the treeline, expecting you to follow.

Reluctantly, you did.

As your steps caught up to him beneath the canopy of the forest, you narrowed your eyes. “Why?” you asked. “Why walk with me?”

Seungcheol gave a shrug, his hands loose at his sides. “Maybe I just want to understand the girl who tames wolves.”

You huffed softly but kept walking beside him.

After a few moments, his voice lowered. “How did you do that? With the wolf.”

You glanced at him, weighing whether to answer. “It’s something my people are born into. We’re taught to respect the spirits of the land — the animals, the trees, the water. We listen, and they listen back.”

Seungcheol slowed, eyes thoughtful, then turned toward you, curiosity burning behind them. “So tell me,” he said quietly, “what else don’t I know?”

This time, it was you who fell silent, staring at him in the soft glow of the moonlight. The light kissed his features, outlining the strong line of his jaw, softening the sharpness in his eyes.

There was something different about him here, away from the eyes of his men. Less prince. More… human.

“Tell me,” he urged again, his voice softer now.

You met his gaze, your voice lowering into something like a chant, like a lesson: “You think the earth belongs to you — all the lands, the rivers, the skies. But every rock, every tree, every creature has a spirit, a life, a name. They are not yours to take.”

His brow furrowed, the words sinking into him deeper than he cared to admit.

“You may build your cities and call it power,” you continued, stepping closer, your eyes never leaving his, “but you will never truly understand this land unless you open your eyes…and your heart.”

The air between you stilled. Only the rustling of the leaves and the distant call of night birds filled the space where neither of you spoke.

Seungcheol’s lips parted, as if to say something — but no words came.

You turned away first, stepping back toward the edge of the camp.

And behind you, Seungcheol remained frozen, feeling for the first time as if the ground beneath his feet didn’t quite belong to him after all.

The next morning, the camp was slow to rise, the men still wary after the events of the previous day. But Seungcheol’s mind had been racing long before the sun came up.

By midday, he called Baekhyun into one of the larger tents, the map from yesterday still spread across the table between them. Baekhyun entered, standing at ease, though he caught the tension in Seungcheol’s posture immediately.

“You wanted to speak with me, my prince?” Baekhyun asked.

Seungcheol nodded, leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed. His gaze was distant, jaw tight.

“I spoke with the girl last night.”

Baekhyun’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he waited.

“She showed me something,” Seungcheol continued, voice low. “A tattoo — here.” He gestured to the inside of his wrist. “She said every child in her tribe is marked as an infant. That every tribe has their own symbol.”

Baekhyun gave a skeptical grunt. “And you believe her?”

Seungcheol’s brows knit together. “I’ve… always questioned certain things. The way the land stays empty long after we’ve moved through it. How the people we claim have ‘joined’ us so willingly… yet their faces never quite match the stories.”

His voice trailed off, eyes fixed on the folds of the map, but it was clear his thoughts were miles away.

Baekhyun watched him carefully. “How do you know she’s telling the truth? How do you know this isn’t just another game — a way to twist your sympathy?”

Seungcheol’s eyes stayed on the map, his fingers tightening into a fist against the wood.

“I don’t,” he admitted quietly. “But… something about what she said, the way she said it… it felt different. I keep remembering the hands of those men we shook at the ceremonies. No marks. No tattoos.”

Baekhyun folded his arms, leaning against one of the tent’s support beams. His expression hardened.

“I just don’t want your mind clouded by your… interest in her.”

Seungcheol’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Interest? I’m not—”

“My prince,” Baekhyun cut him off gently, raising one brow. “I’ve known you since you were a boy. I’ve fought beside you, watched you grow. I’ve never seen you this… engaged with anyone. Especially not your betrothed.”

Seungcheol let out a dry, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Ah, yes. The delicate flower from the Jinhwa Empire. Met her twice. Both times, she couldn’t stop complaining about the heat, the dust, the ‘barbaric conditions’ of my father’s lands.”

He leaned back against the table, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll keep refusing, as I always do.”

Baekhyun chuckled. “And I can’t imagine your father taking that well.”

Seungcheol’s smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. His eyes dropped back to the map, his fingers tracing the borderlines absentmindedly.

“But tell me, Baekhyun,” he said slowly, “have you ever questioned it? What we’re doing?”

The question hung between them, heavier than the air inside the tent.

Baekhyun exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lately… yes.”

That admission alone seemed to surprise even Baekhyun as he said it out loud.

“I’ve noticed strange things back in the capital,” Baekhyun continued, voice quieter now. “A line of tribesmen brought into the square for a ceremony — but they couldn’t even speak their native tongue when asked. Merchants in the market selling goods they claimed were ‘from the conquered lands’… but I overheard one of them admitting the pieces were crafted right there in the city.”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath his skin.

“There’s also the patrol reports,” Baekhyun added, his tone grim. “Whole villages marked as ‘vacant,’ no resistance. But the scouts who return look pale — shaken. And they never speak of what they’ve seen.”

Seungcheol’s hand pressed harder into the table, the wood groaning beneath his grip.

“I told myself I was imagining things,” Baekhyun admitted. “That I was seeing it out of context. But if what you’re saying is true… if this tattoo is real…”

His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Seungcheol straightened, letting out a slow, heavy breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing briefly as the weight of doubt settled heavier on his shoulders.

“We continue on,” he said after a pause. “We follow the Emperor’s orders… but we keep our eyes open. If there’s truth to what she’s saying, we’ll find it.”

Baekhyun gave a small nod, though the unease between them remained.

The path to the next site was supposed to be a straight route — but the way was blocked.

A rock formation, collapsed and jagged, sealed off the narrow pass they had been following. The brigade halted, men dismounting, debating their options.

“We’ll have to take the Serpent’s Pass,” one of the soldiers muttered grimly.

Baekhyun’s head turned sharply. “That’s forbidden. No one’s cleared that trail. The Emperor’s brigades haven’t passed through yet — no one knows if it’s safe.”

“We don’t have a choice,” another replied. “If we’re to finish mapping the perimeter, we need to cut through. Otherwise, we lose days.”

Reluctantly, they agreed. Supplies were packed tighter, and the caravan shifted course. The men grumbled, unease hanging thick in the air as they pressed on toward the unknown.

You remained inside the prisoner’s cart, the rough wood digging into your back with every jolt of the wheels. Another day passed. Then another. The trees grew denser, the air heavier as they crossed deeper into the wilderness.

“It should be just beyond this ridge,” Baekhyun called ahead as they crested a hill.

But then he fell silent.

Seungcheol, riding beside him, squinted into the distance — and his breath caught.

Below them, where there should have been a bustling village, was ruin.

Smoke still curled from the blackened remains of homes, the charred skeletons of huts collapsing into ash. Scattered across the ground were bodies — men, women, children — lifeless and left where they had fallen.

The brigade froze.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Your head snapped up at the change in tone. You pushed yourself closer to the cart’s edge, trying to see past the wooden slats.

“What is it?” you asked sharply. The guard next to you kept his eyes ahead, ignoring you.

“Let me out,” you hissed.

When there was no response, your voice rose, anger trembling beneath the surface. “Let. Me. Out.”

Baekhyun, still staring down at the horror below, gave a stiff nod. The guard reluctantly undid the latch and let you step down.

Your boots hit the dirt, and your breath caught as the full scene came into view.

It was the Molrek Tribe. You hadn’t known them personally, but your father spoke of them often — their leader had been one of his closest allies.

You walked slowly through the wreckage, eyes wide, heart breaking with every step.

Then, near the remains of what once might have been a home, your gaze dropped to the ground.

A small, charred toy lay half-buried in the ash — a handmade doll, its fabric scorched, one button eye missing.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

Behind you, Seungcheol stood frozen, his stoic mask shattered. His eyes moved from your shaking form to the toy in your hands, and then to the bodies scattered across the village. His fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turned white.

Every doubt he’d carried, every uneasy question that had plagued him — answered.

The truth was in front of him now. His father was a murderer. And they had been the Emperor’s willing instruments.

Baekhyun stood nearby, shaking his head slowly as if refusing to believe what his eyes were showing him. The rest of the men remained still, faces pale, exchanging uncertain glances, each of them struggling to make sense of the nightmare laid before them.

For the next hour, they wandered through the village. Some searched quietly for survivors they would never find. Others sat down on the ground, heads in their hands, weighed down by the crushing guilt of complicity.

Finally, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the wreckage, Seungcheol stepped forward, breaking the silence.

His voice was hoarse at first, but steady. “I was blind,” he began, his eyes scanning the faces of his men, landing briefly on you before looking away. “I believed what we were told — that we were bringing peace. That we were bringing order.”

He paused, swallowing hard, his jaw clenched.

“But this…” His voice cracked. “This is not order. This is not peace. This is murder.”

The men shifted uncomfortably, heads bowed. Some nodded slowly.

“I was a fool not to see it sooner,” Seungcheol continued, voice growing stronger. “But I see it now. And now that we know the truth, we have a choice to make. We cannot stand here, knowing this… and do nothing.”

There was a murmur among the soldiers. One of them spoke, hesitating. “But… how? How can we stop it? This is the Emperor’s will.”

Baekhyun stepped forward, his face grim. “Then we stand against it. One way or another, we find a way to stop this. To stop him.”

Another soldier’s voice cut through the crowd. “But… he’s your father, my prince. Could you really raise your hand against him?”

Seungcheol’s gaze hardened, his shoulders squared. “I can no longer look past my father’s sins just because they are his. Right is right. Wrong is wrong. Even if the blood in my veins is the same as his — I will not be a part of this slaughter.”

The men were silent, but slowly, heads began to nod. Not all, but enough.

There, in the ruins of the Molrek Tribe, something changed in them. The first crack in their loyalty to the crown.

Seungcheol’s eyes drifted back to you. You stood still, watching, your arms bound, your face stained with tears and ash, but your posture unbowed.

Without breaking eye contact, he walked toward you — slowly, deliberately, the weight of every step heavy with purpose.

In front of all his men, he stopped before you.

He reached out, his fingers brushing the rope at your wrists.

And in one clean motion, he untied your binds.

The rope fell away, your arms free for the first time since they captured you.

You stared at him, breath caught in your throat. His eyes stayed on yours, softer now — but filled with something deeper. Guilt. Resolve. And respect.

The men watched, stunned, saying nothing.

Seungcheol’s voice dropped to a low murmur, meant only for you. “I’m sorry.”

And for the first time, the prince who had chained you, called you prisoner, now looked at you as an equal.

You were no longer locked inside the prisoner’s cart.

Now, you rode alongside the men — still at a distance, but no longer as their captive. They remained wary, exchanging unsure glances when they thought you weren’t looking, but the disgust that once filled their eyes had faded. Wariness, uncertainty… but also respect.

When the brigade set up camp a few miles away from the ruined village, Seungcheol gave the order to have a tent prepared for you. Your own space. A gesture of dignity. One you hadn’t expected.

You accepted it quietly. Grateful, but not comfortable.

You ate your meal quickly, away from the others, and retreated to the tent as soon as you could. The baggy clothes they had given you still hung awkwardly on your frame — freshly washed, but they felt heavy, like they belonged to someone else. You longed for your own garments, for the small familiarity of something that felt like you.

But right now, nothing did.

The images of the Molrek village clung to you like smoke. The blackened homes, the bodies scattered like discarded objects, the small toy in your hands. You hadn’t known the tribe personally, but they were people your father once called allies.

You couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t sleep. So you slipped out quietly, climbing to the edge of a nearby cliff — a tiny rise just outside of camp, where the ground dropped into a dark valley below. You sat down on the ledge, arms wrapped loosely around your knees, staring up at the moon. High. Untouched. Distant.

It felt cruel how the sky remained so calm while the earth burned.

“You were right.”

The voice behind you was soft, careful.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.

Seungcheol approached and sat down beside you, leaving space between your bodies but close enough that you could feel the weight of his presence.

“It’s not like I wanted to be,” you answered quietly, eyes still on the stars.

He let out a long breath, resting his elbows on his knees. His shoulders sagged, the heavy armor of command stripped away.

“I’ve been asking myself all day,” he said. “How I didn’t see it. How I didn’t know.”

His voice cracked, just a little.

“I believed what they told me. That the tribes were given a choice. That they came willingly, that they were grateful.” His hands clenched loosely together. “I was so sure of it.”

You turned your head toward him, eyes narrowed, voice calm but cutting. “You never wondered why the lands stayed so empty after each ‘peaceful negotiation?’ Why the so-called tribesmen paraded into the capital never spoke their own tongue? Never wore the marks of their people?”

His jaw tightened. “I told myself there were reasons. I convinced myself they had changed. Adapted.” He swallowed hard. “I was a fool.”

You looked back up at the sky. “People see what they want to see. What they’re told to see.”

He leaned back slightly, staring at the dirt beneath his boots. “I can’t erase what’s been done,” he said quietly. “But I can stop what’s coming.”

There was no doubt in his voice now.

“I’m going to stop it,” Seungcheol repeated, firmer. “But I can’t do it alone.” He turned to face you fully, eyes steady, searching yours. “I need your help.”

You studied him carefully, your expression unreadable. “And how exactly do you expect me to help you?”

“You know these lands better than we ever will,” he said. “You know the tribes. The leaders. Where they are, how they move, who might still survive. They’ll never listen to me — but they might listen to you.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “Your men won’t follow me,” you said. “Even now. I’m still the enemy to them.”

But Seungcheol shook his head, his gaze unwavering. “They will. Once they see who you are… what you are. They will.”

You frowned. “And what exactly do you think I am?”

His eyes softened as he answered. “Someone they can’t ignore. A leader. A voice that speaks for the people we silenced.”

You blinked, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his voice.

“I’ll help,” you said quietly after a long pause. “But not for you.”

“I know,” he replied.

“For my people.”

Seungcheol nodded once, accepting your terms.

“And one day,” you added, voice lower, eyes narrowing, “you’ll have to face your father. You’ll have to decide how far you’re willing to go.”

His jaw clenched again, but he didn’t look away. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It hung between you like a fragile understanding — the first thread of trust, spun out beneath the watchful eyes of the stars.

The next few days passed with the weight of purpose hanging over the camp.

After long nights of discussion, they had finally settled on a plan.

Baekhyun and Seungcheol agreed that the only way to stop the Emperor’s campaign was to expose the truth — not just to the people, but to the other provinces still loyal to the crown. They would gather evidence of the burned villages, the murdered tribes, and the so-called “assimilated” leaders who were, in truth, prisoners. And at the heart of their mission was one crucial step: infiltrate the capital and free your father — along with the other chiefs the Empire had taken.

It would be dangerous. Treasonous. But it was the only way.

As the plan took shape, so did the slow, tentative bond between you and the men of the brigade.

You began to assimilate into their ranks, their guarded glances softening as they watched the way you worked beside them. The way you carried yourself, strong but fair. There was no sudden trust, no easy forgiveness — but respect began to grow.

You shared long conversations with Baekhyun by the fire, debating strategy, exchanging stories about the land and the people they’d both known. Jinho, the youngest among the soldiers, warmed up to you quickly. His youthful curiosity and earnestness made him easier to trust, and soon he was asking you about the customs of your tribe, your language, your games.

One afternoon, you found yourself teaching Jinho one of the games from your childhood — a test of reflex and focus, your hands hovering close, tapping and dodging as each of you tried to catch the other off guard. The game required brief touches, laughter spilling between you every time Jinho missed his chance.

“Again,” Jinho grinned, determined, squaring his stance.

You laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, ready to begin — but as you glanced up, your smile faltered.

Seungcheol was standing a few paces away, arms crossed, staring directly at the two of you. His jaw tight, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable — but unmistakably displeased.

You blinked, unsure why that look made your stomach twist, and shrugged it off.

Later, as you and Jinho hauled a barrel of supplies toward the cooking area, chatting easily, you didn’t notice the figure stepping into your path until it was too late.

Seungcheol.

He stood in front of you, blocking the way, eyes pinned on Jinho.

“My prince,” Jinho stammered quickly, lowering the barrel and bowing his head.

“I’ll take that,” Seungcheol said, extending his arms toward the barrel.

“Oh, it’s all right, my prince, I can—”

Seungcheol’s face hardened, eyes darkening just enough to silence the younger soldier. Without another word, Jinho handed the barrel over, bowing again before stepping back.

Seungcheol turned on his heel and began walking beside you toward the supplies, carrying the weight with ease.

You arched a brow, half-smiling. “You suddenly feel the urge to do heavy lifting now?”

“What?” he replied, almost too quickly. “I always help.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “Do you, though?”

He said nothing, but the faintest flicker of a smirk betrayed him.

From across the camp, Baekhyun watched the exchange, shaking his head slightly with an amused grin. He knew his prince too well.

That night, as you often did, you found yourself sitting beneath the stars, legs pulled close to your chest, eyes fixed on the moon. It had become your quiet place — the one spot where the noise of the world, the burden of your mission, couldn’t reach you.

But you weren’t alone for long.

Footsteps approached softly through the grass, and without looking, you already knew.

Seungcheol settled down beside you, his arms resting on his knees, gaze lifted to the sky.

“I’m sure you’re excited to finally head back,” you said, breaking the silence.

Seungcheol let out a soft scoff. “Not really.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “No? I figured you’d have a Lady waiting for you at the gates. Silk dress, pinned hair, perfect smile…”

You caught the way his jaw tensed at your teasing, the flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

“Oh,” you leaned in slightly, eyebrow raised. “Going through a rough patch?”

Seungcheol exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s not that.”

His voice was quieter now, thoughtful.

“I’m betrothed,” he admitted after a pause. “To a princess from the Jinhwa Empire. A match my father arranged.”

“Ah,” you said softly, leaning back again. “So I was right. There is someone.”

Seungcheol’s lips curled into a faint smile, but there was no humor in it.

“She’s… fine. Beautiful, poised. Says all the right things.” He shook his head. “But she looks at my people like they’re beneath her. She looks at the land like it’s something she’s owed.” His gaze hardened, focused on the horizon. “I’m not interested.”

You raised a brow, voice light. “So… there’s someone else you want, then.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flicked to you, sharper now. “Why is that so funny?”

Your smile faltered, feeling the tension rise between you. His gaze didn’t waver. There was a weight to the way he looked at you — something unspoken lingering between the words.

You swallowed, the air between you suddenly heavier.

“I should go,” you whispered, breaking eye contact as you stood, turning quickly back toward your tent.

Behind you, Seungcheol didn’t move, watching your retreat, the words he hadn’t said still hanging between you like smoke.

The next day, the brigade passed through a small town on the edge of the province — a rare pocket of life untouched by the Empire’s destruction.

It wasn’t much: a scattering of homes, a marketplace, a square where music played and people gathered for the night’s festivities. But after weeks of tension and heavy planning, Baekhyun and Seungcheol agreed the men deserved one evening to breathe, to feel like themselves again before the real fight began.

“We let them enjoy the night,” Baekhyun said. “It might be the last chance they get for a while.”

The soldiers quickly changed into civilian clothes — simpler tunics, loose trousers, belts, and sashes. They laughed more easily, their shoulders no longer so stiff with caution.

But you… you stood out.

Still wrapped in the same baggy clothes you had stolen from your neighbor back home — sleeves too long, fabric shapeless, hanging off your frame like rags. You caught the side glances from the townspeople as they began to gather. Suspicion. Discomfort.

“You can’t wear that,” Baekhyun said, stepping up beside you with a half-smile. “No one here’s going to trust you looking like you’re about to rob their livestock.”

You gave him a dry look but said nothing.

“Here,” he added, pressing a few coins into your hand. “There’s a tailor’s shop down the street. Go on — get yourself out of those rags. You deserve to look like yourself again.”

You hesitated but nodded, excusing yourself as the men headed toward the square.

The tailor’s shop was small, tucked between two merchant stalls, but inside were rows of garments — robes, tunics, sashes, each stitched with the colors and patterns of different tribes across the lands.

Your fingers brushed across the fabrics, pausing here and there — until your hand landed on one that made your heart ache with quiet recognition.

Then your hand paused on one particular set.

A deep blue cropped top, sleeveless but high at the neckline, fitted close to the body with silver embroidery lining the edges like river waves. Paired with it was a matching skirt that sat comfortably at your hips, flowing down to just below the knees with slits at the sides for ease of movement, layered softly with a lightweight sheer fabric over the base. A dark sash wrapped securely around the waist, tying everything together. The clothes were practical but graceful — built for motion, for freedom, for you.

It felt like home.

You slipped it on and let your long hair fall loose down your back, finally freed from the scarf and cap where it had been hidden for so long. The weight of it felt unfamiliar at first, but it framed your face, softening the hardness the past weeks had carved into your features.

The music was louder now, drums beating rhythm into the square, strings and flutes weaving in between. The men had gathered near a stage where performers danced, villagers clapping and singing along.

As you approached, the soldiers noticed first. One of them let out a low whistle.

“Would you look at that,” Jinho grinned, nudging the man beside him. “She finally doesn’t look like a little boy.”

The group laughed, but their smiles were kind, not cruel. You smiled faintly, rolling your eyes.

But then your gaze caught on Seungcheol.

He stood near the edge of the group, arms crossed, his eyes locked on you — and he wasn’t laughing.

He couldn’t.

Beautiful. That was the only word that came to his mind.

You had always been striking — fierce, proud, unbreakable — but this was different. Your posture, the way your hair framed your face, the ease with which you moved, as though the clothes had unlocked something in you. You looked radiant. Confident. Free.

Baekhyun, standing beside him, leaned in and gave him a pointed nudge, breaking his stare.

“Careful, my prince,” he smirked. “You’re going to make a scene.”

Seungcheol blinked, tearing his gaze away, forcing a breath out through his nose.

The music swelled, drums speeding up as the villagers began to dance, spinning in circles, hands clapping, feet stomping to the beat. Some of the soldiers joined in, laughing as they stumbled through unfamiliar steps.

You felt the rhythm pull at you — the way the music used to back home at celebrations. For a moment, you let yourself forget the weight of your mission. The pain. The loss. And you stepped into the dance.

The soldiers cheered you on as you moved gracefully into the circle, your feet light, hands flowing with ease, the patterns of your tribe’s dances still in your body like muscle memory. You spun, dipping and swaying, and they watched, amazed. Elegant. Untouchable.

But Seungcheol couldn’t look away.

Every step, every turn — he only saw you.

You laughed, enjoying the freedom of the moment, turning as the music carried you — and then suddenly, there he was.

Seungcheol stood before you, closer than you expected, his eyes softer now, gaze steady.

He raised his hand toward you.

For a moment, you hesitated, your eyes flicking between his outstretched hand and his face.

But then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

The men around you cheered, but their voices blurred into the background as the two of you began to move. At first awkwardly, unsure — but soon, the music guided your steps. You matched his rhythm, spinning beneath his hand as he led, his movements gentle but confident.

You found yourself smiling, laughing even, as he stumbled once and recovered with a grin.

“Not bad, for a prince,” you teased softly.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m full of surprises.”

The music shifted, slowing into something softer. The circle of dancers thinned, and still, Seungcheol didn’t let go.

Instead, his hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer.

Your breath caught.

The air between you felt too thick, too charged. His other hand held yours lightly, but his fingers tightened just enough to keep you near.

You could feel his breath against your cheek as he leaned in, his gaze dropping to your lips.

Your heart raced. The distance between you shrank until it was almost nothing.

But just before his lips could meet yours, reality snapped you back.

You pulled away, stepping back sharply, your hand slipping from his.

“I have to go,” you whispered, avoiding his eyes.

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked quickly toward the edge of the square, heading back toward camp — your heart pounding loud enough to drown out the music behind you.

Seungcheol stood frozen in the square, eyes fixed on the direction where you had disappeared into the night. His chest rose and fell heavily, the weight of almost pressing down on him like a stone. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath.

But he couldn’t leave it like that.

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, carrying him through the quiet streets, past the flicker of lanterns and the distant hum of music. And there you were.

Exactly where he knew you’d be.

Sitting alone on the small rise just outside the camp, legs pulled close to your chest, head tilted toward the sky. The moonlight painted your face in soft silver, your eyes lost somewhere among the stars.

Seungcheol approached slowly, carefully, and sat down beside you — close, but not too close. He waited, saying nothing.

You didn’t look at him.

“What do you want from me, Seungcheol?” you asked softly, your eyes still on the sky.

He let out a sigh, his hands resting between his knees. “I think it’s pretty obvious.”

You shook your head, your voice steadier than you felt. “We can’t.”

His gaze snapped to you. “Why not?”

You turned to him now, eyes sharp, pained. “How could this ever work? You’re the prince of the Empire. I’m the daughter of the very people your father wants wiped from the earth. Our bloodlines are at war.”

“I’m not my father,” he said quickly, leaning forward. “I’m not him.”

“But you carry his name,” you bit back. “You carry the crown. And no matter what you feel right now, you’ll always be his son.”

Seungcheol shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t care about the crown. I don’t care about anything I ever knew anymore.” He reached out, grabbing your hand, his grip firm but gentle. “All of it — my title, my place at court, the lies they fed me since I was a boy — I’d throw it all away if it meant standing with you.”

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat, but still you hesitated. “And what happens when this is over? When the fighting starts? When you’re forced to choose between your people and mine?”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. His thumb brushed lightly against the back of your hand.

“I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted. “I don’t know how this ends. I don’t know what will come of any of this.”

He leaned in closer now, voice low, rough with emotion. “I’m not sure of anything in this life — not my father, not the Empire, not even the beliefs I was raised on. I know I have so much more to learn. So much more to understand.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on yours.

“But despite not being sure of anything else in this world… the only thing I am sure of — is you.”

You froze.

His words hit you like an arrow to the chest, tearing down every wall you had built between the two of you.

“I mean it,” he whispered.

And before you could respond, he leaned in and crushed his lips against yours.

The kiss was hard, desperate, filled with every word left unsaid between you. His hand tangled into your hair, pulling you closer, and for a moment, you forgot the war, the blood, the fire between your people — there was only the heat of his mouth, the taste of his breath mixing with yours.

When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, your foreheads pressed together, eyes closed.

“Come with me,” he murmured.

The walk back to your tent was wordless, your fingers laced tightly with his. Every step felt heavier with anticipation, every glance stolen between you like you were crossing some forbidden line.

Inside, the tent was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the moon seeping through the fabric walls.

He closed the flap behind you, his eyes never leaving yours.

There was no more hesitation.

Seungcheol’s hands found your waist first, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, his lips moving with purpose. You let your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to you.

You felt his breath hitch when your hands slipped beneath the fabric, fingers grazing the hard muscle of his stomach. His hands roamed up your back, tracing the curve of your spine as he guided you gently down onto the bedroll, never breaking the kiss.

When he pulled away just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, filled with want.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice rough.

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

That was all he needed.

He leaned down, his lips tracing along your jaw, down the curve of your neck, leaving soft, burning kisses in his wake. His hands moved to untie the sash at your waist, slipping the fabric loose with care. You arched into his touch, gasping softly as his hands explored the newly exposed skin at your waist, your ribs, the underside of your breast.

Your fingers trembled as you pushed his shirt up and over his head, and for the first time, you saw him like this — bare, vulnerable, eyes soft but hungry as they searched your face for permission.

When your lips found his again, he groaned softly against your mouth, pressing his body fully against yours. The warmth of his skin on yours sent a shiver down your spine, and your hands slid down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held himself steady above you.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered against your ear.

“You,” you breathed, tilting your hips up toward him.

His lips trailed down your chest, leaving a path of heat across your skin, his hands working to ease your top away, baring you completely beneath him. His mouth closed gently around your nipple, sucking softly, teasing with his tongue, while his hand caressed the other — drawing soft, needy sounds from your lips.

Seungcheol kissed lower, down your stomach, until his hands gripped the waistband of your skirt, sliding it down slowly, inch by inch, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your hips and thighs as he went.

You were breathless, eyes half-lidded as you watched him move, watched the hunger in his gaze as he drank in every inch of you.

When he settled between your thighs, his eyes met yours again, searching.

“Let me taste you,” he murmured.

You nodded, your body already trembling.

Seungcheol lowered his mouth to you, his tongue gliding softly at first, then deeper, more insistent as he found the spot that made your hips jerk beneath him. His hands pinned your thighs gently but firmly, holding you in place as he worked you open with his mouth, slow and thorough, pulling soft gasps and moans from your lips as your fingers tangled tightly into his hair.

“Seungcheol—” you gasped, your voice breaking as the pleasure built inside you like a rising tide.

He didn’t stop until you were shaking, your release crashing over you, his tongue softening as he helped you ride it out, humming softly against your skin.

When he finally rose again, his lips glistened, his eyes dark with desire.

You pulled him back down, your mouth finding his hungrily, tasting yourself on his lips.

His trousers were already loose, and you reached down between your bodies, freeing him from them. He hissed softly as your hand wrapped around him, stroking slowly, teasing, watching the way his eyes fluttered shut for a moment beneath your touch.

“I need you,” you whispered.

Seungcheol’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged as he lined himself up, his hand on your hip. “I’ll go slow,” he promised.

You nodded.

When he pushed into you, your eyes squeezed shut, your body stretching to take him, the slow, steady slide of him filling you inch by inch until he was fully seated inside you.

He stayed still for a moment, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips softly.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Move.”

And he did — slow, gentle thrusts at first, rocking his hips against yours, drawing soft moans from both of you as your bodies found their rhythm together. Your hands clutched at his back, his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

His lips never left your skin — kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone as he moved within you, his pace building as your breaths grew faster.

“Say my name,” he murmured, his voice rough against your ear.

“Seungcheol…” you gasped, your hips rising to meet his every thrust.

When your second climax hit, you cried out softly, your body arching against his as the wave of pleasure rolled through you. He followed soon after, burying himself deep, groaning your name as he came, his body shuddering with the force of it.

After, he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his lips pressing softly against your temple as your breathing slowed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no war. No crown. No chains.

Just the two of you. And the fragile hope of something real.

Seungcheol’s breath was still uneven, his heartbeat loud against your back as he wrapped his arms securely around you, pulling you close, your bare skin pressed to his. The heat between your bodies was slow to fade, but neither of you moved.

For the first time in weeks — maybe in his entire life — he felt still.

He rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy circles along the curve of your waist. Your breathing had begun to steady, your body soft and warm against his, and as he pressed a soft kiss to the nape of your neck, Seungcheol closed his eyes.

What are we doing?

The thought echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, but for once, he didn’t fight it. He let himself hold you tighter, his palm splayed over your stomach, grounding himself in the simple truth of your body beneath his touch.

You were here. Real. Alive.

Not a symbol. Not an enemy. Just you.

He pressed his lips gently to your shoulder again, eyes fluttering shut.

I was raised for war, but no one ever told me how easy it would be to find peace like this.

Your soft sigh pulled him from his thoughts as you shifted, settling deeper into the curve of his chest, your hand resting lightly over his.

In the quiet of the tent, with the faint chirping of crickets outside and the distant crackle of the dying campfire, Seungcheol let himself wonder, just for a moment, what it might feel like if this was all there was. No war. No crown. No betrayal waiting at the gates. Just this.

Just you.

“I meant it,” he whispered softly, unsure if you were awake enough to hear him. “You’re the only thing I’m sure of.”

The soft, early light of dawn crept through the seams of the tent, casting gentle beams across your tangled limbs. The coolness of the morning air kissed your bare shoulders, and you stirred faintly, blinking against the pale gold glow.

Seungcheol was already awake.

He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you quietly, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. One hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering against your cheek.

When your eyes finally met his, he offered the faintest smile.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice low and husky from sleep.

You shifted slightly beneath the thin blanket draped across your hips, suddenly aware of how exposed you were beneath it. But when his hand reached for yours, threading his fingers gently between yours, you relaxed.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then, quietly, you broke the silence. “We shouldn’t have—”

Seungcheol’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing, but before you could finish, he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I’m not sorry,” he said simply.

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by how certain he sounded.

He sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair, the blanket slipping lower on his waist. “I know things are complicated,” he added, glancing down at you. “I know there’s so much we haven’t figured out. But I’m not going to regret this. Not even for a second.”

You sat up slowly, wrapping the blanket tighter around yourself as you held his gaze.

“You’re still the prince,” you said softly. “Your father’s son.”

Seungcheol’s eyes darkened, but he nodded. “I know.” His fingers reached out, brushing along your bare shoulder. “But last night wasn’t about my father. Or the Empire. It was just… us.”

You swallowed, your heart hammering in your chest, unsure of how to answer the tenderness in his voice.

Then, as if sensing the weight between you, Seungcheol smiled faintly, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “You’re allowed to want this,” he whispered. “Even if it scares you.”

The flap of the tent rustled faintly with the morning breeze, the faint sounds of the camp waking up drifting in.

Seungcheol stood, pulling on his shirt and adjusting his trousers, but his eyes never left yours. Before stepping out, he paused at the entrance, looking back at you, his gaze soft.

“Rest a little longer,” he said gently. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

And with that, he slipped outside, leaving you alone in the quiet warmth of the morning — heart racing, mind spinning, the imprint of his touch still burning on your skin.

By the time you dressed and stepped out of your tent, the camp was already stirring with the sounds of morning — the clatter of pots, soft chatter between the men, the occasional bark of orders as the brigade prepared to move on.

You spotted Seungcheol near the supply carts, speaking quietly with Baekhyun. His back was to you, one hand resting on his hip, the other gesturing toward the map spread out before them.

For a moment, you considered slipping away unnoticed, keeping distance between the two of you — unsure of what last night meant outside the safe walls of your tent.

But then Seungcheol turned.

His eyes found you immediately, as if drawn by some invisible thread. And for a second — just a second — the look he gave you was soft, unguarded, the prince stripped away, leaving only the man who had held you like you were something precious.

You felt it in your chest, the way your breath caught, your body remembering the weight of him against you, the heat of his mouth on your skin.

But as quickly as it came, he shifted back into command — posture straight, eyes steady, nodding once before turning back to his discussion.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to move toward the others.

The tension between you only grew as the day went on.

Seungcheol kept his distance — not enough to seem deliberate, but enough that you felt it. His gaze would flick to you when he thought you weren’t looking, and every time your eyes met, the air felt too heavy between you, thick with all the things left unsaid.

During briefings, his voice stayed calm, collected — but his eyes always softened when they met yours. When you spoke, explaining the paths you knew through the provinces, he listened more intently than anyone, his jaw tight, fingers tapping absently against his thigh like he needed to keep himself from reaching for you.

And you felt it too — the weight of knowing, the memory of last night pressing into the space between you both.

You tried to focus on the mission, on the plans, but every time he stood too close, your skin prickled with awareness.

The others began to notice.

Baekhyun was the first to catch on.

You saw it in the way his eyes followed the subtle glances between you and Seungcheol. The faint smirk that played at the corner of his mouth whenever Seungcheol’s gaze lingered on you too long. The way Baekhyun’s eyebrow arched, knowingly, whenever he caught you shifting uncomfortably under the prince’s attention.

At one point, as you were helping Jinho secure the straps on one of the carts, Baekhyun passed by, leaning down just enough to murmur so only you could hear:

“Careful. The prince looks like he’s one heartbeat away from losing all his self-control.”

Your eyes snapped to him, narrowing, but he only winked and walked off.

By evening, the tension had thickened unbearably.

The men gathered for dinner, scattered near the fire, conversation easy between them. You sat beside Baekhyun and Jinho, listening halfheartedly as they joked about the clumsy dance steps from the night before.

But your eyes betrayed you, drifting again to where Seungcheol stood near the edge of the group, arms crossed, watching you.

When your gaze met his, he didn’t look away this time.

There was heat in his eyes. Want. But there was restraint too — barely held back, burning just beneath the surface.

You turned away quickly, your throat dry, pressing your lips together as if that could quiet the way your heart raced.

Baekhyun, sitting beside you, gave a soft chuckle, leaning in. “You two keep looking at each other like that,” he said quietly, “and the whole camp’s going to know.”

You shot him a glare. “They don’t already?”

Baekhyun shrugged with a grin. “Some of the boys are a little slow, but they’re not that slow.”

Jinho, oblivious, kept talking about his terrible footwork, while Baekhyun leaned back, arms behind his head, eyes still flicking between you and Seungcheol with barely hidden amusement.

But you felt it — the air between you and the prince like the pull of a tide, inevitable, inescapable.

It was only a matter of time before the waves would crash again.

Night fell over the camp, quiet settling in as the fires burned low and the soldiers began to drift off to sleep one by one. The soft crackle of embers outside your tent was the only sound as you lay on your side, staring at the flap of the entrance, your thoughts spinning.

You could still feel the weight of Seungcheol’s gaze from across the fire earlier — the way his eyes never quite left you, the heat in them impossible to ignore. Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since.

You told yourself to sleep. You needed to keep your head clear. But the ache of last night’s memory clung to you like the scent of smoke on your skin.

Then, just as your eyes began to drift closed, the tent flap shifted.

You shot up instantly, your body tensing.

Seungcheol stepped inside — slow, sure, his eyes locked on you in the dim light.

“Are you insane?” you whispered sharply, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself, glancing toward the entrance like someone might have seen him.

His expression didn’t waver. He stood tall, hands loose at his sides, gaze steady.

“They’re going to know,” you hissed. “If someone sees you—”

“I don’t care,” he cut you off softly, his voice low but firm. He took another step closer. “Let them know.”

You swallowed, your breath catching. “You should care,” you shot back, but your voice trembled. “You’re the prince. Your men—”

“My men,” he repeated, interrupting again, “already follow me because they believe in me. And if they’re going to keep following me, they’ll have to trust my choices.” His eyes softened slightly, but there was still that fierce determination beneath his words. “Including this. Including you.”

You stared at him, your fingers clutching the edge of the blanket tighter. “This could ruin everything.”

Seungcheol crouched down beside you then, leaning closer, lowering his voice even more. “I don’t care about the rules anymore. Not when it comes to you.”

Your chest tightened, your mind screaming at you to push him away, but your body already leaning toward him.

“You make me reckless,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “But I’ve never felt so sure about anything.”

You shook your head faintly, your voice softer now. “Seungcheol, I can’t be the reason you lose your men… your crown…”

“I told you,” he said, reaching up to gently brush your hair away from your face, “I’m not sure I even want the crown anymore.”

Your heart pounded as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your lips.

“I don’t care if they know,” he repeated. “I don’t care if they see.”

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw, and the weight of his gaze pinned you in place.

“What I care about is you.”

You closed your eyes for half a second, willing yourself to be stronger, to resist the pull of him — but when his lips brushed softly against yours, your resolve shattered.

You kissed him back, your hands finding his shoulders, gripping tight as he pulled you closer. His body pressed against yours, the heat between you building again, undeniable.

But even as the kiss deepened, even as your fingers slid beneath the edge of his shirt, your mind raced with the danger of it all. The risk.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, breathless against his lips: “What if they hear us?”

Seungcheol smiled faintly, his forehead pressing to yours. “Then they’ll finally know what they’ve been guessing all along.”

And before you could protest again, he kissed you harder — hungry, certain, as if he were willing to burn down the world for just one more moment like this with you.

The next few days passed in a strange, quiet shift of balance.

Seungcheol didn’t hide the way his eyes found you now. He didn’t hesitate to stand beside you during briefings, didn’t pull away if his hand brushed against yours when you passed him a map or when your arms grazed during morning preparations.

If anything, he seemed even more at ease — less guarded, more himself.

It was subtle, but noticeable.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t shake the nervous flutter in your chest whenever you caught the glances from the other men. You kept your head down, busying yourself with tasks, always hyperaware of the space between you and Seungcheol, wondering if it was obvious.

It was.

But to your surprise… the men didn’t seem nearly as bothered as you’d feared.

If anything, they looked like they’d been waiting for it.

One afternoon, as you helped Jinho secure supplies onto one of the wagons, you felt his eyes on you — the grin already on his face before you could even meet his gaze.

“So…” he began, dragging out the word, “you and the prince, huh?”

You froze, halfway through tying the rope, your eyes widening slightly as you shot him a glare. “Jinho—”

“What? Everyone knows,” he laughed, waving his hand. “We’ve all known for a while.”

You blushed, turning back to the rope, pulling it tighter than necessary. “I… we didn’t exactly mean for—”

Jinho raised a hand, cutting you off with a smile. “It’s fine. Really. None of us are upset about it.” He leaned against the wagon casually, arms crossed. “Honestly? We’re happy for you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his tone.

“I mean,” Jinho added with a sheepish smile, “I think we all knew he wasn’t going to marry that princess from Jinhwa. The way he looks at you? Yeah… we saw this coming.”

Your shoulders sagged slightly, some of the tension releasing from your chest as you gave a small smile. “Thank you, Jinho.”

He grinned, nudging your arm playfully. “Just don’t let Baekhyun catch you sneaking into his tent or he’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself.

That night, after the camp had quieted and the fires burned low, you sat inside your tent, staring at the small crack of moonlight peeking through the flap. You were still replaying Jinho’s words, unsure whether to feel relieved or even more exposed.

Then the flap rustled softly.

You didn’t need to look up.

Seungcheol slipped inside, ducking his head slightly beneath the entrance, his lips already curling into that smug, knowing smile.

“See?” he said softly as he knelt down beside you. “I told you.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “Told me what?”

“That they wouldn’t care.” His eyes softened, gaze steady on yours. “That they’d be happy for you.”

You let out a soft exhale, shaking your head as you leaned back on your hands. “I hate when you’re right.”

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning closer, his hand finding your knee as he brushed his thumb gently along your skin. “Get used to it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.

“And,” he added, voice quieter now as his fingers traced small circles against your knee, “for the record… they’re not just happy for you.” He leaned in, lips hovering close to your ear. “They’re happy for me, too.”

Your breath caught again — the warmth of him, the way his words melted so easily into your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

You turned your head, your lips brushing softly against his, the space between you closing once more.

And as his hand slid up to your cheek, pulling you into another kiss, you felt the last of the worry begin to ease away — replaced by the quiet certainty of what was slowly, but surely, becoming yours.

The days that followed moved quickly, the weight of what was coming pressing down on the entire brigade.

The plan was simple, but dangerous.

Sneak into the capital under the cover of darkness. Free your father and the other captured tribal leaders. Reveal the truth of the Empire’s brutality to the people — expose the slaughtered villages, the lies of “peaceful assimilation.”

Baekhyun and Seungcheol went over the maps again and again, marking the weak points in the city’s defenses. They found the prison beneath the city walls where your father was being held — along with the other chiefs.

There would be no second chance.

The night of the mission, you dressed in dark clothes, your blade strapped at your hip, your heart pounding so hard you were afraid the guards might hear it.

You moved through the streets like shadows, slipping past the patrols, hearts in your throats.

When the gates of the prison creaked open under Jinho’s careful hands, you led the way through the corridors, the torches casting long shadows on the damp stone walls.

You found him deep in the cells — weak, bruised, but alive. His hair had grown longer, streaks of gray at his temples, but the fire in his eyes was not gone.

“Father…” Your voice cracked as you whispered it.

His head snapped up, disoriented at first, but then his eyes widened as they met yours.

“Y/N?” His voice trembled.

You dropped your sword, rushing toward him, falling to your knees as your hands grabbed the bars, fingers shaking.

“Y/N, is it— Is it really—” He couldn’t finish. Tears streamed down your face as you nodded, your hands reaching through the bars to cup his weathered face.

“We’re getting you out,” you whispered. “I swear it.”

Seungcheol was already at the lock, breaking it open as your father’s arms wrapped around you tightly for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

“My brave girl,” he choked, burying his face into your shoulder as you wept into his chest.

Baekhyun and the men worked fast, freeing the other leaders. Word was spreading outside the prison. People began gathering, murmurs growing louder as the evidence of the Empire’s deception spread through the streets.

But the victory was short-lived.

As you stepped out into the square with your father and the freed chiefs, the sound of armored boots echoed through the streets.

The Emperor stood waiting, flanked by his soldiers, their blades drawn, torches blazing behind them. His expression was cold, but his eyes burned with fury.

“You dare,” he spat, glaring at the group, then at Seungcheol. “You dare betray me for this?”

The soldiers surrounded you, weapons raised.

“Seize the chiefs,” the Emperor ordered, his voice booming.

The guards surged forward, grabbing your father, forcing him to his knees. His face stayed proud, unyielding.

“Execute the leader,” the Emperor barked.

“No!” You screamed, throwing yourself between your father and the executioner’s sword, your arms spread wide, your body shielding him.

“Stand down, girl,” the Emperor growled.

Seungcheol’s voice cracked through the air, desperate, furious: “No!”

The Emperor’s gaze snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “You—” His lip curled. “You love her.”

The words hung in the air like a blade between you.

Seungcheol’s chest rose and fell hard, his fists clenched. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

The Emperor’s face twisted with disgust, his voice laced with disbelief. “My own son… defiled by some tribal girl.” His voice hardened. “Then let her die beside him. Execute both of them.”

“Wait!” Seungcheol shouted, stepping forward. His voice rang out across the square, sharp and desperate. “I’ll marry her.”

The crowd froze. Even the soldiers hesitated.

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I’ll marry the princess of Jinhwa,” Seungcheol said louder, his voice steady despite the ache behind it. “You want the alliance. You want to save face after this mess. Let them all go — her father, the chiefs, the tribes. The expansion is already ruined, but this marriage will strengthen your ties to Jinhwa.”

The square fell into a stunned silence.

Your heart shattered.

You could barely breathe, your eyes locked on his, your lips parted as the weight of his words hit you like a blade to the chest.

The Emperor stayed quiet for a long moment, eyes calculating. Then, finally, he nodded once.

“Fine. They may go.” His voice was calm again. Cruel. Triumphant. “But the deal stands.”

The soldiers lowered their swords. Baekhyun immediately started moving the chiefs away, motioning for the men to fall back.

But you didn’t move.

You pushed against the hands trying to guide you away, your voice cracking as you screamed, “No—! Let me go! Seungcheol—!”

Baekhyun grabbed your arm, holding you back tightly as you struggled against him, your tears blinding you.

“Seungcheol!” you cried out again, fighting to reach him, your body twisting against the grip of the men pulling you away.

He stood frozen where he was, eyes on you — full of love, full of sorrow, but not moving.

Baekhyun’s arms tightened around you, his face grim as he whispered harshly into your ear: “I’m sorry. He told me — whatever happens, get you out of here. Don’t let him see you die here.”

Your body was still fighting, thrashing against Baekhyun’s grip, but your strength was failing beneath the weight of heartbreak.

“Seungcheol!” you sobbed one last time, your voice raw, breaking.

He didn’t move. But as you were dragged further away, your eyes caught the moment his knees buckled beneath him, his body collapsing to the ground, his head bowed, his hands clenched into the dirt.

And as Baekhyun pulled you out of the square, away from the flames, away from him — you felt the last piece of your heart crumble.

Five Years Later…

The seasons had passed, and though the scars of war still marked the land, life had found a way to bloom again.

Your village stood strong, nestled between the hills where the rivers ran clear. Built by the hands of your tribe, your father, and the men who had once followed Seungcheol into battle — men who chose peace, who chose you.

There was still fighting to be done. Other tribes remained scattered, some still hunted, others in hiding. But here, in this place, you had carved out a home. A refuge. A small piece of freedom.

You spent the morning working at the back of your home, weaving baskets, your hands steady though your mind wandered — always thinking of the next step, the next fight, the people who still needed saving.

Then, faint at first, you heard it.

Cheers. Voices rising with excitement. The sound of feet running, men calling out to each other.

You stood, wiping your hands on your skirt, frowning. Curious.

You stepped out into the path, your brow knit, and saw the gathering — the men surrounding someone near the village entrance. Their voices were loud, joyful, filled with something like disbelief.

Baekhyun was there, and you caught the sight of him embracing someone tightly, his face breaking into a rare, wide smile.

Then Baekhyun turned — and the others slowly stepped aside.

Your heart stopped.

There he was.

Seungcheol.

Older now. His hair a bit longer, tied loosely at the back. Broader somehow, heavier at the shoulders. But his face — his eyes — those were the same. Still burning with that quiet, steady fire you had fallen in love with.

You dropped the basket in your hands, the contents spilling to the ground.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

So he did.

Seungcheol crossed the space between you in long strides, never breaking eye contact, and when he reached you, his arms wrapped around you so tightly you thought you might break from the pressure of it. But you didn’t let go either. Your fingers clutched at the fabric of his clothes, holding him close, the weight of five long years crashing into your chest all at once.

The men gave you space, drifting away, leaving you both in the quiet.

He followed you into your house, the door closing softly behind you. And for a moment, the only sound was the rush of your breath and the faint tremble of his hands still holding yours.

“I wanted to write,” he began, voice rough. “God, I wanted to write to you a thousand times. But I was afraid — afraid they would find the letters, intercept them, trace them back to you.”

You swallowed, nodding faintly, your eyes never leaving his.

“The day of my wedding,” Seungcheol continued, his voice breaking slightly, “it was the worst day of my life.”

You squeezed his hand tighter.

“They never touched me, Y/N. I couldn’t. I couldn’t be with her. I never even looked at her the way I looked at you.” He let out a shaking breath. “When she got pregnant, I knew. It wasn’t mine. It couldn’t be.”

Your eyes widened, but you stayed silent, letting him speak.

“The child was not mine. The marriage was dissolved. She was sent back to Jinhwa. My father was furious… but he needed the alliance too much to start another war.” He shook his head, frustration flashing across his face. “I had to wait. Wait until his focus was elsewhere, until he left on a long campaign, months away from the capital.”

His eyes softened, locking onto yours again.

“And now… now I’m here.”

Your lips parted, the flood of words waiting at the back of your throat — but before you could say anything, a soft voice broke the silence.

“Mama!”

You froze.

Seungcheol’s head turned, eyes wide with confusion.

A little boy, no older than five, came running into the house, his small arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he buried his face against you.

Seungcheol’s gaze dropped, stunned silent — and when the boy turned to face him, Seungcheol’s breath caught in his chest.

The child’s eyes, his nose, the shape of his face… there was no mistaking it.

The boy was his.

Tears welled in your eyes as you dropped to your knees, holding your son close, your voice trembling.

“I wanted to write to you, too,” you whispered. “But I couldn’t risk it. Not with him. Not when I didn’t know what your father might do if he found out.”

Seungcheol’s lips trembled, his eyes fixed on the boy, blinking rapidly as he tried to hold back the tears already threatening to fall.

“How…?” His voice cracked. “How could you have gone through this alone?”

“I wasn’t alone,” you said softly, brushing your fingers through your son’s hair. “All your men have cared for him. Baekhyun… he’s watched over him like he was his own blood.”

Seungcheol’s eyes darted back to you, overwhelmed, barely able to process the flood of emotion twisting through him.

“Does he…?” His voice lowered into a whisper, almost afraid to ask. “Does he know me?”

You gave a gentle smile through your tears.

“Jeonghan,” you called softly, lifting your son’s chin, “who is your father?”

The little boy beamed, his eyes bright. “His name is Seungcheol! And he is a brave and just man!”

Seungcheol’s lips parted, the tears finally breaking free and spilling down his cheeks.

You smiled gently through your own tears, your voice thick as you said: “Jeonghan… that’s him.”

The boy turned, his eyes wide with curiosity as he stepped closer. Slowly, without hesitation, he reached up and placed his small hand against Seungcheol’s cheek.

“Dada,” Jeonghan said softly, smiling. “You’re finally home.”

Seungcheol’s face crumpled. A soft, broken sob escaped him as he dropped to his knees, gathering the boy into his arms, clutching him tightly, holding him as if afraid he might disappear.

Jeonghan’s arms wrapped around his neck, giggling happily, unaware of the depth of the moment — but you saw the way Seungcheol’s shoulders shook with every breath, the way he held your son like a man trying to hold onto hope for the first time in years.

Through the tears, Seungcheol looked up at you — eyes shining, full of love, full of grief, full of the years lost between you.

But there was no anger in them. Only relief. Only love.

Only home.

[dearmash1975project]

It was fitting that Brian was the first person I spoke to for this. It was his letter, after all, and the age written on it (age 11), that touched me so deeply that it sparked this whole project. I’ll keep my methods on how I tracked him down close to the vest, so as not to illustrate how easy it is to find anyone in this digital age; needless to say– getting an email back that read “Dear Lily, Yes I did!” was thrilling. We scheduled to speak on the phone and did on July 15th, 2024.

{Interview continued under the cut}

Brian Nores was no longer 11 when we spoke on the phone. Between the passage of time and the life that fills the mind since age 11, he didn’t remember writing the letter until my email.

An email, he told me, that his partner advised him not to answer as it was “probably a scam.” Thankfully for me, Brian is “always getting himself into trouble” and answered my inquiry about a letter he may or may not have sent while living at X address in 1975. In hindsight, his partner was definitely right for being wary.

Brian credited his late father for the letter’s existence and described memories flooding back after reading the words he wrote nearly 50 years earlier. Not long before he wrote the M*A*S*H letter, Brian was a boy scout who wanted to quit. His father instructed him that he could quit, but he had to write a letter to the scout master explaining why he wanted to leave the troop. His dad ‘never let him off the hook for that,’ and it was likely this instillation of values that gave Brian the confidence to speak his mind after the fateful episode aired. [In a fascinating ending to the boy scout anecdote– Brian, who still lives in the area, was at the local frame shop years later where the owner recognized his name and produced the letter, which the scout master was having framed.]

When I asked if he remembered the episode he responded how anyone who has seen it would; he remembered it very well. He recalled being “disturbed” and “shocked” by it. In a world before spoiler alerts, he explained, “the whole world saw that episode and reacted in real time.” As an 11-year-old, but also as an American youth raised on American narratives of war, he remembered expecting Henry to “go off into the sunset” and be okay.

“For me, M*A*S*H ended after that episode.”

Brian watched occasionally after season 3 but had no idea the series continued for as long as it did (M*A*S*H aired from 1972-1983). “It was never the same, certainly.”

Brian was in 5th grade in 1975, and at his young age he had never seen something on TV that disturbing. He told me he reached out to an old friend to discuss the letter, and they reminisced about their lives at that time. “Age of innocence” was the term he used with me. At that point in his life, he had never lost any relatives or experienced any hardships. “The most shocking thing that I had experienced prior to that was a large earthquake in ’71.” For Brian, this episode marked one of the first experiences he had had with death.

It's an extraordinary level of influence to have, that the simple ‘writing off’ of a character can have such an impact on a young life. We often characterize television as a sort of hobby, one that has less of a cachet than movies; but the mechanism by which media compels our emotions is the same.

Brian reflected more on this impact when telling me that The Mary Tyler Moore Show was his favorite series, and he recalled crying at the finale in 1977. He remembered thinking “How could they end this?”

To Brian, television was “taken a little more seriously then.” With one TV, there were fights over who got to hold the clicker when you sat around the set as a family. “You got one chance to watch it.” He explained. “What a different world we live in now.”

Brian still lives in the area where he grew up and drives past his old house and “down memory lane” often. He is still close to two of his childhood best friends. He shared with me some of his thoughts on aging, a topic that still feels “surreal” to him. “Only recently have I started to experience change. Restaurants etc. going away. Everything that we grew up with has changed. TV, movies, roads, politics. I don’t like this!” He laughed. “You look in the mirror and think.”

Brian had no idea that his letter ended up in the archives of our country’s National History Museum. “Really surprised” is how he described his reaction to the news; one of the aforementioned childhood friends was “blown away.”

“What it said to me (...) was that it reaffirmed/reinforced some of the things that my dad told me. Doing the right thing and following through.” Brian shared.

“What a difference it can make. That this moment is occurring because I spent a few minutes writing.”

~~~~

Thank you so much to Brian for granting me this interview.

Subject photos courtesy of Brian: Letter-era Brian/current-era Brian, Huntington Library Garden, California.

Accession information: Photo taken by me, 3 July 2024. “Letters from viewers regarding the death of Henry Blake.” Box 22, Folder 4. M*A*S*H Television Show Collection, 1950-1984, Archives Center, National Museum of American History. https://sova.si.edu/record/nmah.ac.0117/ref359?s=0&n=10&t=C&q=NMAH.AC.0117&i=0

[mayajadewrites]

clean freak

levi ackerman x fem! reader

synopsis: you're levi's housewife, but your cleaning skills have not been up to his standards lately.

warnings: smut, smut, and more smut. levi is kinda mean in this but oh well

reblogs and comments are always appreciated pls my love language is words of affirmation

His huffs could be heard from a mile away. He's officially off from the Scouts for the weekend, and he's finally visiting his wife after a month.

Day by day, watching his comrades die, slaughtering mindless titans, has gotten to him.

All he wants to do is come home to his good little wife, to have a house that's impeccably clean after a month of fighting for humanity.

Yet when he walks into his home, it's not clean. Well, Levi's version of clean.

The house looks, homey - comfy even. He can see specs of dust on the table.

"Hi, honey." You emerge from the kitchen, wearing a dress that Levi hasn't seen you in yet.

His half-lidded eyes find yours as he takes off his shoes, sucking his teeth. "Tch."

You tilt your head, not knowing why your husband is so... tense. Usually when he comes home, he assaults your face with kisses and ends up on top of you.

"I made your favorite." You bring him a cup of his favorite tea - in his favorite cup. He glances at you, then the cup, before grabbing the top of it with his large hand.

"Are you just going to pretend your wife doesn't exist, Levi?" You say as you sit next to him at the table.

"Why is it that my house is a mess?"

"Your house?" You put down your own cup of tea. "OUR house is not a mess. You're here once a month - so I clean the way I like."

"That's not going to work for me." Levi crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes furrowed. "This is embarrassing."

"Embarrassing for who, exactly?" You mock his pose, mirroring his posture.

"Me. I would never let my house get like this."

"Funny, my boyfriend really likes it." You knew exactly how to push his buttons, and when to push them. His stone cold eyes darted to you - wandering up and down your body. "Oh, that makes you look at me finally?"

"Any man that likes a house like this has no taste." His eyes stay on you as he speaks lowly.

"That's very bold of you to say. You don't know, he could've tasted me."

His knuckles were turning white. Using jealousy against him was not your favorite, but he left you no choice.

"Are you done being an ungrateful dickhead?" You stand up, grabbing his cup to put it in the sink.

As you wash the dishes, you feel his large, calloused hands grip your waist harshly and pull you into his chest. You refuse to acknowledge what he's doing as you continue to wash the teacups.

His mouth found your neck, kissing gently before biting down, sucking on the sensitive spot. "Mm, you want to misbehave some more?"

Your head tilts to the side as he leaves his marks on you, but you're still scrubbing at the porcelain - ignoring him.

Levi hates being ignored.

"You're really gonna ignore your husband after he slaved away saving humanity?" He brought his right hand to your thigh, pushing your dress upwards as he squeezed the plush skin.

You refuse to acknowledge his digs, so you keep scrubbing the dishes to distract yourself from the heat pooling in your tummy.

"What an ungrateful brat I married." His mouth found a sensitive spot on your neck - where he can feel your pulse. His lips sucked, tongue swirling on the skin as he peered over your shoulder. "You can't even wash dishes right."

His hands gripped your hips, this fingers digging into your flesh as if he wanted to carve into you. His left hand stayed in place on your hip as his right hand dipped under your dress.

"Levi, I just cleaned the kitchen. Don't make a mess." You turn your head, slightly looking at him.

"You think this is clean?" His lips found your ear, his breath kissing it. "You think this is what your husband wants to come home to?"

You finally give in and turn around to face him. Even though he's on the shorter side, you're shorter than him. Gazing up into his steel grey, bluish eyes almost makes you forget why you're even arguing.

"I'm sorry I'm not a germaphobe like you who cleans every surface 5 times a day. I'm sure you can forgive your lovely wife, since she's holding your life together while you risk your life to kill titans."

His eyes turn almost predatory as he looks down at you, a smirk forming on one side of his face. You notice a new scar on his face, your hand almost magnetically going to the spot, rubbing your thumb along the skin.

The moment was soft, unlike the argument you have been having. He closed his eyes as you touched him, a deep breath leaving his lips.

Levi isn't one to apologize. Never was, and you were okay with it at this point. You know he's stressed and worried constantly about the future of the world, especially since the most important person to him, you, is in it.

Within a second Levi has you on the counter, his body in-between your legs as his mouth smashes against yours - your dainty hands cupping his face as he takes care of every inch of your mouth.

His hands pressed against the small of your back and your ass as he kissed you, soft moans leaving his mouth. "God, I missed you."

You smile at his words, he doesn't say things like that much, so you savor the moment. You drag your nails across his skin to his undercut, tracing shapes on the hair as your tongue slips into his mouth.

"Baby, I might come right here if we keep kissing." He pulled away, adjusting his pants slightly and you notice the bulge.

"A month without me, one kiss and you're already about to come in your pants?" You say in a teasing tone, pulling away from him.

"Tsch." His hands drag under your thighs, lifting you up and carrying to you to your shared bedroom. Luckily you remembered to make the bed, to which Levi silently appreciates.

His delicately lays you on the bed, making sure none of your hair pulls against your back as it splays across the sheets.

He's on top of you now, his stone eyes following your every move, every breath. Almost like he's studying you, not wanting to forget a single detail.

"Levi?" You interrupt his thoughts, your voice a half whisper.

"Sorry, I just..." His finger drags along your jawline, to your neck and then collarbone. "I missed you."

"I missed you." You lean into his touch, being gentle as you spot more scars on his hands. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"Please come home to me. Even if our house isn't clean enough, even if you don't want to see me. Always come home."

Levi takes in your words, seemingly having his own conversation in his head as he watches your expressions.

"Always. I promise." He captures your lips in a searing kiss, his body snaking over you as his tongue invades your mouth.

Your hands find his hair, pulling on his inky locks as his lips move down your skin to your chest, gently removing your dress to reveal your undergarments.

Like a work of art, his hands gently grazed your soft skin, goosebumps forming soon after.

"You are so beautiful." He whispers, studying every inch of your skin as he unclips your bra seamlessly, throwing it to the side. His lips found the supple skin of your breast, leaving heated kisses as his hand made their way to your lace panties, his index finger hooking onto the side and pulling them down.

Your mouth gapes open as you feel his touches, anticipating the next feeling. He takes his large hands as spreads your legs, his thumb caressing your thigh. "Are you ready for me? It's been awhile."

You nod, watching him strip off his uniform, his forest green cloak cascading to the floor, almost poetically.

You're mesmerized by his physique every time - but like always, you notice new bruises and scars that are now a part of him. Which makes them a part of you.

Levi takes his middle digit, sliding it over your slit to feel your slick. His mouth curves into a smile as he feels you, letting his finger envelope in the wetness. "I can just slide right in." He whispers.

Your hands grip the sheets as you feel him align himself with you, his hands gently holding your hips as he angles you upwards. As you feel his fat tip enter you, a moan so loud your neighbors definitely heard it escaped your lips.

Levi's head went back, some of his hairs sticking to his forehead from sweat as he entered you. Just like he said, he slid in, and your body automatically started taking him.

"Such a good girl." He grunts, picking up his pace as he looks at you. "God, I missed this pussy. Thought about it every day."

He's being super vocal today, usually he's all grunts and moans before he reaches his high.

You nod, moaning his name as he hits every spot, your back arching as he pounds into you. Your hands reach for his neck, hoping he can hold you.

"My needy brat." He whispers, obliging to your request as he leans down, letting you wrap your arms around his neck. He starts thrusting into you at a different angle, immediately hitting the spot that makes you crumble.

"Oh, right there Levi." You moan, closing your eyes as you both develop a rhythm.

"Open your eyes. I want to watch you come undone." He looks down at you, his eyes almost menacing.

Your eyes shoot open, capturing his gaze as he continues to thrust into you, the sounds of your slapping skin filling the room. Your mouth gapes open as the coil in your tummy breaks, your climax waving over you.

"L-Levi, holy shit." He continues to pound into you through your high, his eyes still on you. He watched as you came on his cock, but it didn't stop him. Watching you get off, was making him close.

Your nails digged into his skin as he thrusted into you to the hilt, this movements becoming more sloppy - he's close.

You tangle your fingers in his silky hair, the strands wrapping around your fingertips as you kiss his ear - one of his most sensitive spots.

He groaned, his body pressing into you one last time as he moaned your name, pants following soon after.

You both lay on the bed, sweaty and completely satisfied. He rolls next to you, closing his eyes and taking a few breaths.

"Wash these sheets." He looked at you, pinching your nose between his thumb and index finger.

"Why, you don't want to dirty them some more?" You purred, turning onto your side to face him.

You continued to dirty the sheets all night, until Levi forgot what he was mad at in the first place.

[imsojules]

Imagine surviving a zombie apocalypse with JJ

Hey y’all! So I had a dream a few weeks ago after binging The Walking Dead and The Last of Us, and it inspired me to get back to writing after a long time! While I’m working on the actual fic (I would like to make it into a series), I’d like to share with you some headcanon teaser-imagine-type thing. 1.2k

Any feedback is really appreciated!! ♥

TW for typical zombie apocalypse violence, established relationship, mentioned extreme violence/death, hurt/comfort, Pogue fem!reader, English is not my first language!

• The day they announced it as a pandemic, JJ rushed home and waited for his dad to come home; he never did.

• When everything went to hell, JJ was already running on instinct. He heard the news, saw the panic, and didn’t even stop to think. He found you in your driveway, confused and holding your phone like it still mattered. He didn’t even say hello, just grabbed your wrist and said, “We need to go. Now.”

• His voice was shaking. JJ Maybank does not scare easy — so when he looked at you like the world was ending, you believed him.

• John B hotwired a truck. Pope showed up with a first aid kit and four cans of soup. Kie had a machete and murder in her eyes. Sarah was already screaming at rich people to get off their yachts. And just like that, the Pogues became your apocalypse family.

• You’ve all got roles. Pope’s the tactician. John B’s the scout. Kiara’s the fixer. Sarah’s the backup. JJ’s the shield. You? You’re the glue. You’re the reason they haven’t splintered. You remind them there’s still something worth fighting for. Even if it’s just each other.

• JJ's survival strategy? Vibes and violence. He’s got no long-term plan, no route on the map, just a baseball bat, a stolen switchblade, and the promise he made to you: “I’m not leaving without you.”

• You’re in charge of rations, because JJ is not to be trusted around the food, and he’s not too proud to admit it.

• He deadass wants to go live in the mountains until all this has passed, and you’re like ?? “I’m not starving to death, Jay, forget it.”

• You constantly have to remind him he’s not Bear Grylls.

• He names his weapons. It’s dumb, but you let him have it. The bat is "Lucille 2," and the knife is “Karma.” You once caught him talking to them like they were teammates. “Nice work today, Karma. You really showed that corpse who’s boss.”

• You once found an abandoned community center with an old projector. Pope rigged it to work off a car battery. You all watched The Goonies while eating expired popcorn. It was the first time you saw JJ cry. He blamed it on “zombie dust.” No one called him out.

• Every new safehouse, he carves a tiny mark into the wall. A tally of the days survived. He never talks about it. You only saw it once—his name, yours, and a little plus sign between them.

• He taught you how to throw knives using an old road sign as a target. You beat him once. JJ claimed the wind was emotionally targeting him. “That was sabotage. Atmospheric betrayal.”

• Kiara taught you how to use a crossbow. JJ said it was hot. John B agreed. Sarah threatened to throw both of them into a walker pit if they kept being annoying. They shut up. (But JJ kept sneaking glances.)

• You kept a Polaroid JJ found—two strangers, smiling in some sunny-before-time. You call them "the ghosts." It’s silly, but sometimes you imagine they made it somewhere safe. That you will too.

• If there’s a tree in your path, you bet JJ’s going to fucking climb it. Passing an abandoned playground? Before you can blink, he’s on the jungle gym like “Look at me!!”

• He will insist he’s “scouting.”

• And it’s the little things that keep you sane.

• You both use humor to cope with the world.

• He can joke about the end of the world all day, but when you’re laughing, you’re reminding him that there’s still some piece of it left.

• You joked once about who’d be the first to die in a horror movie. “Definitely me,” he said without hesitation. “I’d trip saving you and get eaten with zero regrets. Classic heroic dumbass move. Five stars.”

• You started calling yourselves Team Cockroach—because no matter what came at you, you were still standing. JJ said it made you sound invincible. “Sexy little apocalypse cockroach power couple.”

• He made up a game called “Guess That Gunfire!” where you both guess what kind of weapon is being fired in the distance. Winner gets a protein bar. Loser has to cuddle him during night watch. You always lose. Mysteriously.

• You keep a small, battered notebook filled with sketches of places you’ve passed and letters you’ll never send.

• When things are quiet, the Pogues talk about what they miss most. Kie misses her garden. Pope misses his dad’s pancakes. Sarah misses showers. John B misses his freedom. JJ says he misses peace. You know he means it. He means you’re the closest he’s come to finding it again.

• At night watch, JJ exercises to stay awake. Like, you wake up in the middle of the night because you think you heard a zombie groan, but it’s just JJ doing sit-ups next to you.

• He senses you stirring and starts muttering, “Hundred and six, hundred and seven, hundred and—” but let’s be real, he only did like twelve.

• And you’re like, “How? Why? You’ve only had a can of tuna to eat in two days, where do you even get the energy??”

• “Gotta stay in shape if I’m gonna keep saving your clumsy ass.”

• JJ is the king of petty, spite-fueled motivation. “I’m not dying before I get to punch Rafe one more time.” “I didn’t live through the end of the world to starve to death. Not happening.” “I got bit by a duck, babe. A duck. I’m surviving out of spite.”

• He is terrified of losing you. Every time you two are apart, JJ is borderline homicidal.

• “I need to know you’re breathing. That you’re right there.” If he loses sight of you for more than ten seconds, it’s search mode activated. No one’s allowed to joke about it.

• There’s a comfort in knowing he’ll always fight for you. When the others doubt, when they hesitate, JJ’s always the one who steps up first, his fists clenched in a promise he’ll do whatever it takes to keep both of you alive.

• When you get to shower for the first time in a while, you suggest you just shower together and make the best of what little water you have.

• Imagine cuddling for comfort and warmth.

• Or patching him up after another close call.

• You once told him he was your home. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you like it physically hurt to love someone that much. That night, he held you like the world was ending all over again.

• You forget what day it is. Once, after spotting wildflowers sprouting through asphalt, you decided it was your anniversary. You didn’t know the real date, but you both agreed it felt like love.

• You have to be the responsible one, the decisive one, but in return, JJ will be your rock, your protector, steadfast and strong. Not even the weight of the world ending can faze him when he has you to worry about.

• When he says “I got you,” it’s never just words. It’s a promise. It’s a prayer. It’s a desperate, messy vow he’s never going to break—even if it kills him.

• After almost losing you once, he confesses that without you, he doesn’t have a reason to keep going. He survives to protect you.

• Never whines that he’s hungry or tired because he knows you are too, so whenever you ask if he’s alright, the answer is always going to be that he’s “okay if you are.”

• You once asked him what he’s fighting so hard for. He didn’t even blink. “You.” Then added, with a grin, “…and, like, definitely revenge on the duck.”

[kestrel-of-herran]

the gemma discourse lately...... yes she shouldn't die to further the markhelly agenda. that's idiotic storytelling. no self-respecting writer will assassinate a character like that. that's why i can't understand why some viewers think this is the route the finale will take, given the quality of the writing and the thought put into every choice so far. it would invalidate her autonomy by giving lumon license to dispose of her after torturing her, and would problematize the other relationship in a way that would drive viewers away. it's simply not going to happen.

don't you think it's ridiculously predictable if we're told multiple times that cold harbor is meant to kill her and then she does die??? wouldn't that be an incredible let-down from a plot perspective as well?

what the "gemma dying for markhelly is racist" (won't happen) discourse misses entirely is that markgemma driving off into the sunset after lumon ruined their lives absolves mark of his own actions in severing himself in a way that's narratively deus ex machina. this is the biggest conflict of the finale, not markhelly vs. markgemma but outie mark vs. innie mark.

can you create your own little slave to forget your pain for you and lock him in a torture labyrinth (mark s. and gemma are both held against their will) until he's no longer of service to you, take all the help he can give you and then murder him? i think the show needs to be explicit on this point, but it's obvious that reintegration is a long process that won't be completed until the two marks are completely aligned in terms of goals and emotions, e.g. until either mark s. is in love with gemma and wants to leave with her too, or mark scout is in love with hellyna and want to help her take lumon down. either of these options needs more development to be realized, which is what we have more seasons for, but in the finale the first step towards that synchronization will likely be taken. there will be a change of mind, a change of heart, a change of perspective for one of the marks that will be instrumental in deciding the next direction of the plot.

the marks aren't one yet -- there's the alcoholic widower desperate to rescue his wife, and the newborn prisoner trying to grasp happiness despite his limited existance. we haven't been told what memories they share, we haven't seen how they feel about them, so it's premature to declare gemma the obvious choice because we don't know how innie mark feels about that.

but it's also incredibly frustrating that so many people see this as a binary in which gemma either lives/leaves with mark or dies in lumon. i'm convinced mark and helly will get gemma out of lumon, no matter which version of the marks is active, because neither mark nor helly would perpetuate her suffering. hell, helly's memorizing the map to the elevator as we speak.

but whether either of the marks will choose to leave helly alone in lumon is the real dilemma here. there's really no choice to be made about gemma surviving -- she has to live through this or the writers risk upsetting the morality of the narrative in a way that would invalidate the human rights angle of the story.

but it is that same human rights angle that applies to the markhelly problem as well. can you create a person to give yourself "emotional convenience", then have him fall in love with another person's "pr stunt solution", and kill him after using him? can you meet helly -- with all her fire, all her fearless fight for life -- and say she's better off killing herself so you can go and live your full existance, an existance she's barely been granted a taste of? is that ethical?

[jessaerys]

the critiques of the severance finale wrt essentially (i)markhelly vs (o)markgemma keep hitting weird and ringing misplaced. to me. and i'm trying to articulate why and it's like. i think that the mark (pun not intended) of a valid racial critique is being missed by positing "gets chosen by mark" as the measuring stick that decides if the finale was Good or Bad.

my good faith take is that severance is ultimately working towards that final nirvana of synthesis, with dylanists having been framed as the more emotionally fulfilling, more fair, more peaceful path towards freedom vs the necessary but violent rebellion of mark and helly, both hellyists (and i don't think severance wants us to think they are in the wrong - helena and (o)mark are far more abusive to their innies than (o)dylan ever was. they have dug their heels in and refuse to relinquish their control over their subjugated selves, as opposed to (o)dylan. which is a far more common and expected reaction from those in power.) BUT. but. mark is not yet reintegrated. a complete mark reintegration is going to be an extremely momentous event upon which everything will revolve, when it happens. we are not at a point within the narrative where we can consider mark a single character (yet).

(i)mark has always been the main character. the arc of the show has always been about the innies fighting to first discover and then secure their personhood. severance is a rebellion storyline, an oppression allegory. like christ alive, we got the *stands on a table* we are many, they are few! speech.

(i)mark doesn't know that he (he! the mark synthesis! the mark final form!) loves gemma. i don't care about (i)mark and helly as a ship, i don't care to think about them in Scenarios or AUs or what have you. BUT i care about mark and helly as the vehicle through which severance explores and signifies choice and humanity. i find that deeply moving - that last moment of (innie!) mark chosing himself as an entity separate from (o)mark, chosing even a handful of minutes more of life and love and independence from the powers that be - it's a triumph. the show was always going to lead us here. lumon may or may not try to kill (o)mark, but there's (in the innies minds, at that moment) not a universe where (i)mark and helly get to live. they are in a doomed timeline. they have nothing, not even their flesh belong to them. they are so suffocatingly denied or personhood that to steal even one more moment together they must kidnap their own bodies.

THAT SAID.

that said. i have talked about how annoyed i am that gemma's motivation was "ohh woman can't have baby". i think that writing choice was lazy. believable, sure, and it makes sense within the narrative, but i hate it. it's reductive, it's objectifying. i wish they had given gemma more life beyond "marks dead wife", i wish we had gotten to know her as a person as complex and moody as mark scout.

i am also tired of allegories for oppression being filled with white faces.

the racial problem in the helly/mark/gemma dynamic exists within what i can only think to call the infrastructure of showmaking. with diversity being applied as a coat of paint to the outer edges of a cast, rather than roles being written for non-white people, or letting main characters be non-white. there's no reason why gemma couldn't be white and helly asian, or mark, or all of them, except racism in casting.

ON THE OTHER HAND.

i try not to judge shows before the story is completed. to let a non-white character end a story unhappy or in tragedy might often be an afterthought of racism in storytelling but it doesn't have to be. we have been shown that severance can handle a complex racial narrative with milchick. i am hoping that the same will happen with gemma, either because of critiques currently being made or because they have always planned to address her racial identity in relation to both mark, helly, and lumon, but we haven't gotten there yet.

or they might not.

they might have filled their talking-about-race quota, and the intersection of racism and misogyny might be a tragic, infuriating blind spot in the severance writers room. idk man, maybe we just need to give the writers the benefit of the doubt. only time will tell. and if they fuck it up we will still have our hammers next season

[godhandler]

[Martial arts coach! Sukuna x down bad!reader, huge age gap, couple of god-complex maniacs pining for each other, Sukuna being a tough coach]

“You won’t make it.” Sukuna spits carelessly, unwrapping his sweaty gloves post training. There are promising students he’s scouted in his gym, his favoured ones who’ll be the cash cows winning tournaments, buzzcut boys with tight abs who laugh mid-fight. Growing in his shoes. You’re not one of them. “You’re not good enough.” It’s a statement. 

No, you grit your teeth, it's a challenge. 

Sukuna the Ryomen: beastly calamity in the ring. Raw talent picked off the street, 80 international tournament wins over 25 years, bachelor villa bought with notoriety money. The Undisputed King of the Curses. 

Two-faced, he’d play by the rules as much as he wanted to– ran his tongue over the cheek of an opponent while choking him in a headlock, jammed his knees into countless shattered ribs, snapped spines into halves. He once bit a chunk out an opponent’s neck, goopy blood running down his chin and pecs as he laughed at the horrified screams of the audience, medics running, judges whistling, TV ratings shooting up like firecrackers.

He keeps that piece of chewed flesh, big as your fist, preserved in formaldehyde, on display in his office behind the locker room. It’s oddly captivating– you want to pull his lips up, matching his teeth to the canine marks on the chunk. 

Nutcase. Martial arts fiend. Often disqualified, but never for long: handsome money-maker was he. No one would turn up at a competition if not to watch the fiery Sukuna. His posters filled your childhood bedroom walls, unsupervised access to his gruesome fights on the internet, early 2000’s gossip columns of his many affairs with thin-thighed supermodels, little you copying his moves in front of the mirror. 

So yes, he could be as harsh to you as he wished, who gave a shit now when you’re lucky enough  to bask in his glow? You work just as hard as those boys, deserve his attention just as much, regardless of how cruel that attention comes. If you want to make it, Yuuji tells you, you callus your heart more than your achy knuckles. 

Sometimes at 3.45 am you wonder that if you had gotten more parental love and attention, you wouldn’t have attached yourself so deeply to this retired monster. Too late now, you suppose. 

A few days ago,  Megumi, one of Sukuna’s prize boys, said over a bowl of tteokbokki after practice, “Kamo Noritoshi likes you. So you can go after him and leave the elderly alone, okay?”

“I beat Kamo to a pulp, remember?” You pointed with poked tteok. “There’s only one of you losers I can’t beat and that’s who I’m fucking. Don’t go ruining my ambitions, Megumi-chan.”

The boy just sighed, ordering another bowl to go. Megumi, content being the sacrifice bunt, will never understand and it's not something you can explain. 

It’s that hunger that keeps you awake at night; you don’t want a trophy, you want the trophy– Ryomen Sukuna himself, the greatest one to be won. To be fucked, chewed, swallowed, surpassed. You want to have him, you want to be him. He’s you and you’re him and it’s written fate and oh god you need to go to therapy megumi was right you need to start taking your damn meds on time why is it 3 am again?

……. 

“Sup, coach!” 

You’re a cockroach. You arrive half an hour before session starts, practising kata moves by yourself, grappling dummy puppets double your weight to the ground, turning extravagant somersaults. Standing in front of the line. Every new move Sukuna demonstrates, you ask a billion questions, getting it right exactly as he does it. Running the extra lap, the extra sparring bout with your friends, the extra push-up. 

Sukuna peers inside Megumi's mouth, poking his finger into his gums, checking for any bleeding. Despite his actions, he’s not blind to you, the itchy teeth in your maw. 

It’s not just a sport for people like you and Sukuna. People a little fucked in the head. People whose names, announced out loud, get the audience jumping and cheering, the main attraction of the night. Hurricanes out to flatten the competition. 

See, it’s not about the points. Just the gold doesn’t satisfy: you want blood and broken teeth on the floor after you’re done. You want your opponents to refuse to fight you. You want them crawling, begging for time-outs, their coaches throwing the towel in to save their lives, their teary mothers cursing your very sight. Just like Sukuna.

Sukuna who relishes in your eyes on him. The way your breathing quickens childlike when he wrestles your face to the dirty mat, arms twisted behind you, his heavy foot pinning you down. The way you linger a bit longer when he shrugs his gi off, thick biceps flexing against the overhead lights. What a nut, he thinks: bitten fingernails, daddy issues, all the wrong things that excite you. This one’s gonna kill.  

Your hunger he rears by starvation. The harder you fight for a scrap of his attention to prove yourself, the sweeter you get. He can almost see his own tattoos on your eager face. 

So narcissistic, the way his pants tighten when he watches you fight: it's his devilry that flashes in your young eyes. Too young for him, some noble nonsense of not fucking your student, like he gives a rat’s ass. A rising Alexander, he’ll pick you for himself the second you’re good enough.

He knows to wait for it. Latchkey kids like you, raised to fight for love, you’d never want something you could have. The unreachable glory of Sukuna was what made having him worth it. 

He also knew that once you had him, you’d dig your teeth into him so hard that you’d tear right through him. Maybe preserve him in formaldehyde too. 

Not that he’ll spoon-feed you chances for that. Not that he has to, when you do it for yourself.

“Coach, could you spar with me?”

He’s terribly pleased, but the frown he wears for you remains on his face. “Aiming too high, brat.”

“Sorry,” an apology that you don’t mean in the slightest. “But I think I can qualify for the next tournament, coach. I can start cutting weight tomorrow. Put me in this time, please, coach!” 

“You’re not good enough.”   “Let me convince you, coach.”

“Convince me?” He sounds so bored, as if you’re the greatest waste of his time.

I’ll change your mind, you promise.

I’d like to see you try– he’s amused.

“Oi, Todo! C’mere, beat this one for me. You–” he bends down to hold your chin, privately delighted at your blushing face. “– you score six points in sixty seconds against him, maybe I’ll think of putting you on the tournament roster.”

Right. Aoi Todo, brawler build, has the height and weight advantage on you, which means he’ll go for grappling techniques and try to pin you down to the ground. He’s not the type to go easy on anyone, and he likes to show off, so he’ll keep it short distance and try out some fancy kicks– he’ll waste time on performance and then you’ll get time to return attacks. Here’s the M.O. then: you keep light on your feet, dodge every single attack of his, and go for the head. Amen.

Todo squares up, entering the ring, dabbing you up in a show of good faith before assuming his fighting stance. Just as you predicted, his arms are open to take you down. 

You hold your ground. Todo, my friend, you grin at Sukuna, who for once has all his attention on you, I’m going to kill you. 

Sukuna blows the whistle, and immediately Todo lunges for you. A feint, for he changes tactics immediately and is punching you from the left. You have to jump over his shoulder to avoid it (Yuuji whoops), land behind his back, and before he can turn around, kick his spine so hard that he stumbles forward a bit. 

“2 points!” Sukuna checks the time: it’s been 6 seconds. 

Todo’s impressed too, you can tell. You’re distracted: Sukuna nodded at you! Both of you come back to your original positions, ready for the next point match. The whistle blows. 

He’s cautious this time– you kick his shins but he doesn’t yield an inch, so you attempt an upper-cut, but are caught unawares by his hook straight to your mouth. 

“Todo–1 point!” Your jaw feels dislocated, there’s tears threatening to brim in your eyes. Did you forget your meds again? Why can’t you stop giggling? 35 seconds gone.

Restart. You’re playing dirty now, tripping his ankle as he comes forward to attack. You pass through between his legs (using his height to your own advantage) to get behind him again. As if he was expecting it, you dodge his back kick, taking the moment where he’s off balance to land a 360 kick– right on his face. He groans in surprise, but you’re not done.

This isn’t about winning fair or showing sportsmanship spirit, you remind yourself as you pull Todo’s face into your knee, repeatedly, the sick sounds of his nose cartilage crunching. This is about you, Sukuna. 

He blows the whistle. 42 seconds, the match is over, Todo’s burst his sinuses open, bleeding too badly to avoid medical intervention. A K.O. you’re calling it. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you’ is Megumi’s opinion. 

“Decent.” Sukuna’s smiling. Buzzed giddy on adrenaline and sweat, you want to kill the both of you. “Fine. Start the diet tomorrow.” He’s already leaving, other students to tend to. You’re a tad disappointed: you thought it’d be him checking your bleeding jaw, not the medic. Still, you’re happy taking what you can. It doesn’t come by often. “Come by my office after practice.”

a/n: i wrote this while looping bread by anya nami, really elevated the experience