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kriz-fics · 1 year

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The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Thirteen: Nooses and Axes

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 15K !!!

CW: Please take note. This chapter deals heavily and quite graphically with executions. If you are NOT COMFORTABLE with imagery and descriptions of hanging and/or beheading, please do not interact. Or skip the first two POVs (Eren’s and YN’s first POV) which are marked with the bird header and the winged orb header.

Other CWs: Graphic description of corpses / allusions to massive age gaps and necrophilia (not graphic) / Pieck's foul mouth / Period-Typical Attitudes

The day dawns as beautiful as the countryside. And it truly is beautiful, Eren can see that now, as he ambles along the lush green field on the back of his faithful bay rounsey, Yorik. When not cloaked in cold rain, Zheletov shows her true grace. She is enchanting, a land of fertile pastures, bright blue skies, and dense forests.

A soft breeze dances past, making the grasses bend beneath its light tread. Overhead, Lusin’s sun shines down upon them all, its harsh rays made gentle by the pervasive northern chill. By and large, the green is the very image of rural bliss: pastoral, picturesque, peaceful.

As peaceful as the grave.

Eren reins up beside one of the many gallows erected upon the sward. And there are many, rows and rows and rows of them, as far as the eye can see.

Yorik snorts and whickers, tossing his head and stepping back restlessly, unnerved by the presence of death. Eren holds firm to the reins to steady him and rubs a pacifying hand down the horse’s sleek neck until he settles.

The boy is fair, with hair of curling gold; his eyes are gray glass, pale and glossed over, unseeing. He cannot have been more than ten. But it is hard to tell with the corpses of the young, Eren has just now come to find - death seems to shrink them, making them look younger, frailer, more vulnerable.

He wonders what the boy’s name is.

Eren tries to recall what it was like to be ten. That had not been too long ago. He had been a grieving ten-year-old, newly come to court and suffering the loss no child should have had to bear so soon in his life.

But for that loss, he had everything to gain. He had everything to play for, it would all start for him at last, here at this greatest of courts. He was a fledgling, mourning yet poised to spread his wings and take his first flight. His whole life was ahead of him still, everything and anything could happen.

This golden fledgling’s wings have been clipped too soon.

A couple of flies buzz around him, poking and prodding at him with great interest. Against his gray pallor, the dried blood that seeped down from the cut on his brow is a shocking red. He must have struggled as they dragged him to his fate, a little fighter to the end, and so there was nothing for it but to beat him into submission. Stringing him up along with the others should have proved less of a challenge after that.

The sutures across his brow itch something fierce. Eren resists the urge to scratch it. Healer Dima would approve - he is not to lay hand nor finger upon the healing flesh unless it is to smear it with extract of dittany. To help with the inflammation and the scarring for brow and arm, the priest had declared, as he handed Eren a sizable pot of the stuff for his personal upkeep.

Several moments pass and still the itch torments him. Eren’s gaze slides over to the next body. Musing on the boy’s injury had made the wound flare up; perhaps staring at this one will help alleviate it.

The boy has her look, Eren notices. In a flash, a whole lifetime’s worth of comments flood his mind, people, kin and strangers telling him how much he favors his lady mother, the Lady Carla of blessed memory. He had often sat in front of a looking glass, pulling and prodding at his face and wondering what people saw to make them hold to that claim. He always thought he looked more like Father - they had the same hair and eyes after all. And he looked nothing like a girl. For a long time, little Eren had hated being likened to Mother, because he was not a girl, damn them all.

But those were a little boy’s thoughts, and courtly Eren was ten, almost a man grown and above such childishness. Now he can see what people see, see the features so soft and womanly on his mother harden into something more robust, more manly on his visage. Now he can feel pride at the thought of having Mother’s face. It truly isn’t as terrible as his younger self would have had him believe. Were he a woman, he would be fortunate to be half as exemplary as his lady mother. And it is nice, comforting to know that he need only look in a mirror to know that Mother is still with him, that she lives on in him.

Eren stares up at the woman’s lifeless body, watching her swing slowly back and forth as the wind blows past. Mother would have been of an age with this mother, had she been alive at present. Her hair, so much like her son’s, makes a tangled cloud of gold around her head. Tear tracks streak down her waxen, grimy face. Unlike her boy, her eyes are closed.

A sense of detached curiosity comes over Eren then, irresistibly drawn as he is to these condemned. Did she close her eyes to spare herself the anguish of watching the child of her body choke and convulse and struggle as he took the most excruciating path into the Fields? Did she weep as the noose constricted with every dying heartbeat, knowing that this was the selfsame pain her little one was subjected to? Did she succumb to despair before the last, knowing she was mere feet from her sweeting but was powerless, helpless, unable to save him, bound as she was?

Eren looks beyond her, at the rest of this gallows’ tenants. There are four to a frame. The grandparents, he surmises, noting the likeness of the wrinkled dead features of the elders to their daughter and grandson.

But beneath the gallows, all look the same. All their hands are bound behind their backs, and the rough hempen rope cuts into the soft flesh of their throats. Already, the black is slowly creeping up their pale miens. It will not be long now until death has its way with the fallen, leaving them all with dark and bloated faces. Then will their likenesses be more profound. One big family of the damned. The resemblance to each other should be most uncanny.

Above, the carrion crows circle, crying their harsh, raucous cries, waiting in the wings for them all to leave so they may commence with their feast. Below and closer to the banquet, flies are starting to bear down on the bodies. Soon, they will descend upon the field in earnest, covering each corpse like some dark living shroud. Flies and crows, the staunchest of companions. Where one converges, the other is sure to come.

Eren looks beyond his little family but there is no escape from the dangling dead. Countless elders, women, and children, some even younger than the golden boy, dead, all dead, because their sons and husbands and fathers played the traitor to their lawful king and broke their solemn oaths. Their lawful king will have his blood price, whatever the means, wherever the source.

Sir Symon Skaryn slowly weaves between the gallows on the back of his dun courser. It must be strange, unreal, to know you are the last of your House. Eren’s gaze lingers on him a moment, musing, pondering, watching the studiously blank face of the last and only scion of House Skaryn as he plods slowly past each frame, eyes sliding over their occupants as though they never were. Eren recognizes the look. That one has gone away inside.

Some ways away stride Sir Julian Halkin and his bay gelding. This one is beloved of the gods. It must help, being wardens of the Old Faith. It certainly saved his blood from the axe - piety is of use, after all, and makes for a good savior. Almost as good as Father. And he would have been incapable of doing that were it not for Eren and his timely heroics, such as they were.

It is cruel of the king to send the pair of northmen to see to the deaths of their countryfolk. Eren has to question the wisdom of this - it does not seem very prudent to offend further those whose families he has dispossessed and stricken from existence. But then, His Majesty can hardly offend them any more than he already has. This morbid duty may very well be a ploy to distance himself from two likely kingslayers.

Not since Marius Zackly has the realm seen the like amongst the Guardsmen. It is commonly held that the Guardsman had murdered the second Urklyn Reiss in cold blood by dint of his mistreatment of the knight’s younger sister, Queen Mariya. Others allow him a nobler cause. Urklyn II, the Unfortunate as he is called and the last wielder of the Founder, is a highly reviled figure, after all. Zackly cannot be faulted for ridding the realm of a despot and ending the threat of the Titans forever. Still, others argue that despot or no, the Guardsman had sworn to protect the king, whatever his sins, whatever his failings. If one such as Sir Marius could break a solemn oath, what does that do to the sanctity of vows? He had not been the first kingslayer, to be sure, yet he was the first such Guardsman and remained a decidedly polarizing character in the annals of history.

It will seem that Rod Reiss is not so remiss in keeping his northern Guardsmen well away from his royal person. Only a century parts Marius Zackly and the knightly northmen. His sin is still fresh, and vows seem to hold little weight nowadays. These northmen have seen to that.

Eren lightly presses his knees to Yorik’s sides and makes to move on. The golden boy stares at him, sad and forlorn. Stay a while, please, sir, his blank eyes of glass seem to convey. Eren hunches his shoulders and leaves. He is not here to keep the dead company.

Sir Julian comes to cross his path, and their eyes meet. A hint of what looks remarkably like deference flickers across those hazel depths, and the older man inclines his head toward him before passing on. Eren watches him trot away, feeling disquiet, bemusement, and pity well up inside him. A peculiar concoction of emotions, indeed.

It is a surreal thing, carrying the knowledge that a whole lineage lives on still because of him. Now he is tied, irrevocably, immutably, absolutely to the Halkins, whatever they do, whatever becomes of them, come what may. And they to him, whatever he does, whatever becomes of him, come what may. Eren does not know how to feel about that. He has never thought of being on the receiving end of a blood debt. It is a thought too large to comprehend, especially for the likes of him.

More than anything else, he does not know how to feel about being used as leverage for a boon, like he is some sort of bargaining chip in a game of dice. It was all to the good, in the end. Pointless to rail against something that benefits all in one way or another, he supposes. In their world, being used is a matter of course, he has come to realize. They all of them are bargaining chips, even those who fancy themselves as players. This is hardly the first time he has been played at the courtly table, nor will it be the last, and being used for a just cause is better than the alternative. Yet he cannot help but feel… something. And it is not entirely pleasant.

A handful of men-at-arms traipse across the field, slipping sprigs of mint into pockets and aprons and making sure all life had fled from their wards. The unoccupied Guardsmen, the Lord Commander among them, oversee the whole undertaking. Knights all, as Marius Zackly had been, and bound by the same vows, bound by the same calling to save innocent lives. Eren will soon be held to the same calling and yet he could not even save these. That does not make for a good beginning, it seems to him.

All are powerless before the will of the king. He has been robbed of the Halkins, he must have his blood price elsewhere. Eren did not think he would dare touch these commons, innocent and valueless as they are. To him, Rod Reiss is a middling king, with very little to commend him. Stout, sedate, lecherous, amiable, and unassuming, if a tad bit petty, that is all this Reiss king has to his regal name. And then they served him treason and treachery, and it tore him open to expose the dark and the sinister that moldered within. The middling king is not so middling, after all, and this one wants the North’s fear more than its love.

Eren sits up straighter in his saddle, swaying slowly with his horse’s gait as he spies Sir Levi turning his black courser round and making his way toward him. Best not to get too mired in his head. He saved a bloodline, that should still count for something. And he saved the holy traitor from his cruel fate.

Lord Grisha had milked his son’s deed for all it was worth to dampen the fires of the king’s rage. All it bought him were the Halkins (but for their lord, he must die withal), Sir Symon Skaryn, and a gentler death for the old lawyer. No longer will he be hanged to near-death, sliced open and shown his own innards as he lay still living upon the boards, and have his body quartered, the head, the arms, the legs, all to be buried in separate corners of the realm. Robert the Lawyer will be hanged to true death, wrapped in chains - a quicker death than that of most of these in the field.

The priest will die on the morrow, Eren remembers with a jolt. He wonders if he will be in attendance. Robert’s is not a private execution, the court will not look on as he takes his final steps to meet his Father Above. Eren reins back a bit as Sir Levi draws up to him at last and pulls ahead to take the lead. Should the Lord Commander order his soon-to-be erstwhile master to the affair, Eren will be obliged to attend him.

Robert of Feyhill still holds to his innocence to the last. Eren had asked Father if he believed the claim.

“The man still holds, even under duress,” Lord Grisha said.

Perhaps they could stand to handle him a great deal more sharply. Only then do criminals break. The old man truly is resilient. Again, Eren had felt that admiration, grudging and reluctant, but admiration nevertheless. He can see why Father is disposed toward the priest. He recalls the private audience he had seen between Lord Grisha and Robert the Lawyer three months past. His father would have gotten the full measure of the man then. Most like he found him as admirable as Eren did. Perhaps that was even enough to persuade him to back the northern cause to the best of his abilities. He had come through on that font and managed to help the lawyer sway the king away from his Tybur pet. That backing is proving to be of little help now that they have shown their true skins.

Yet Robert isn’t the only one balking at the charges, even under the sharpest of torture. The spearheads of the outlaw factions, who will be joining him in death come the morning, echo him to a man. They have naught to do with the attack on the royal party if they can be believed. Father had found that more than passing interesting. “There are other hands at work here, my lord. Believe what you will but me and mine still hold our oaths sacred,” the holy Father claimed.

Of course he would claim such. The criminal sort will say anything for the slimmest chance of a pardon. Were he truly honest and knew of no attack, then perhaps his hold on his folk was tenuous at best. Factions within factions are not unheard of, perhaps these ones were prevailed upon to go their own way, unable to reconcile themselves to the king’s peace and mercy.

Even so, his claim is worth looking into, Lord Grisha and even Zeke felt.

It was too little too late, though. The king must hand down his punishments, the sooner the better; an inquiry would further delay things and he was already determined to see them all guilty and have them eradicated. For all his clout and influence, Father was powerless to stop him. Right hand of the king he may be but that is all he is. The hand is not the head, only its servant.

The Traitors’ Thicket looms ahead, dark and forbidding and swarming with flies. It is here where the bulk of the carrion feeders hold court to pass the time until they can start their next course. They have made a fine start to their feast already. The strung-up outlaws each have a murderous retinue to attend him. One man must have been incredibly delicious; more crows converge on this one than any other. His eyes and most of his face have been pecked clean, so the birds move further down his body, tearing and clawing at his rags to get to the sweet meat beneath. His whole head is thick with flies, darting in and out of his empty eye sockets and tongueless, gaping mouth. Around him, his fellows are much the same short a crow or four. With each passing heartbeat, the traitors look less and less like men.

Eren turns his head to look upon the innocents once more. Nearby, a young woman of an age with him sways with the wind, her hessian apron blasted with dirt and mud. The rest of the Guardsmen stroll past on their mounts amid the dead, faces blank and hard as stone. Eren averts his gaze, as they do.

Knights protect the innocent. He has never wanted to be a knight for them, though. But truly, what knight at present can claim to such ideals? Such lofty principles only live on in the tales. He doubts if even Gerald Kirschtein, paragon as he was, had such charitable aspirations when he set out to become a knight. Men the likes of Sir Anselm of the Moonmere, Albert Reiss, Prince Rodion Siljan, and their ilk… Now he can believe the best of them. These were men of the people, true knights every one. And all figures of fancy and legend. Eren has only ever thought about the honor and the glory.

No anointed knight here is protesting this savagery. Perhaps it truly doesn’t matter that he couldn’t save these at all. Perhaps this is not so bad a beginning for his calling as he had first thought. Zheletov had escaped justice once, it cannot do so again. She has committed the highest of treasons and the wages for treason is death. It is law. It is better to be feared than loved. It is a sharp lesson but they must learn. This will give them pause should treacherous thoughts flourish once again. Now they know how traitors are dealt with in this kingdom.

The men-at-arms are all converging upon the Lord Commander. It will seem that these Zhelevic, innocent and traitor both, are well and truly dead. Eren takes one last glance at the countryside. The green is vibrant, the air as yet untainted by the stink of rot and decay, so still and peaceful. Zheletov is enchanting. An enchanting lichyard, the most enchanting lichyard he has ever seen. He turns his back toward death and trails behind Sir Levi as they and the others strike out for Merrydell. Above, the waiting crows begin to descend.

You had been eleven the first time you had seen a man die.

The late Lord Dietrich had been a cousin on your mother’s side. Distant cousin, Lady Theresia will be quick to claim. He was a traitor, attainted and disowned, there will be no immediate kinship with his lot. You do not much remember him. He had given you a gold and ruby bracelet on your tenth yearday, that is the extent of your familiarity with him. You still wear the piece now and then.

Eduard Dietrich claimed royal Eldian blood, through the female line. In the Old Way and with the Old Blood, that would have been enough. Yet he was Paradisian-born and his claim meant little and less than a rat’s arse to his and the Eldians’ sort. That did not stop him from entertaining delusions of grandeur. He had taken it into his head that he should be king and started to gather his levies to mount his usurpation. The realm could hardly have ignored such sudden suspicious conscription, and so the king had him taken in for questioning, only to uncover his treasonous plot. Witnesses were called upon, each one accusing him of listening to prophecies about the king’s death, hiring hedge witches to ill-wish him, and plotting to kill him come the Winter Fete. His death warrant was sealed in light of such damning testimonies.

It had been a cool spring morning on the Month of Showers, the day of his execution. It had not rained during the event, to the court’s great fortune; the showers would come much later, you recall. You also recall plenty of hunger pangs. The court had not yet even broken its fast, the king was in such a state to rid himself of this would-be pretender to the throne. You sat with the young Princess Historia and her other maids on the bench, wriggling your toes inside your new silk slippers (such a pretty pale pink, like your new gown) and longing for fried sausages and mashed neeps soaked in good beefy gravy.

The whole thing seemed like a masque, a play, a court entertainment no different than the ones you had of a night. You had been far away, unwitting and favoring your stomach. Your appetite vanished when the axe fell. He had a strangely stumpy neck, you thought then, as his head thumped to the straw beneath the block. And there was all that red. You had never thought that blood could be so… red. Like Rhyzkov red yet unlike it in equal measure. The headsman then lifted the head of the traitor lord so the court could take its last look. Eduard Dietrich smiled at you all, defiant and mocking to the last. It had not looked real, not to you. For all you knew, the headsman could have been showing you all some mask he fetched from some costume box. Yet you had seen the head part from the body, so it must be real after all.

Madam Anastasia, your then-governess, had praised your composure. Proper ladies know how to comport themselves even in the face of such barbarism. You had floated through the rest of the day, composed and numb and stuck inside your head. It had taken half a year for the nightmares of mask-like faces and headless men to stop tormenting you.

The Dietrichs of Goldcap lost much of their lands to their more powerful cousins, the Dietrichs of the Crown Hill, from which Mother hails. They had been fined heavily for their lord’s sin, leaving them much impoverished. They make a quiet presence at court now. The only one of some renown from their blood is a knight, Sir Ian Dietrich, yet only just. By and large, he is little more than a household knight, barely a step away from being a hedge knight. He is a doubtful scion of a doubtful line.

Whispers and murmurs erupt from the court assembled on the green below the platform they had hastily built to accommodate the Royal House and their retinue. You sit in your accustomed place beside the Princess Historia, looking on as the two condemned are led to the scaffold at the front of the main yard of Merrydell Castle.

Valko Skaryn walks to his death as defiant as Eduard Dietrich. Yuri Halkin looks about ready to piss himself. And piss himself he does, you note, with mild disgust. His courage leaks onto the flooring beneath his boots, forming a puddle that darkens the wooden planks. One of Death’s Hands glides forward, enigmatic and inscrutable in his robes of black and white, with the bronze key of the afterlife resting on his chest. He reaches inside his black left sleeve for a small scroll of parchment, which he unrolls so he may recite the lord’s crimes and pray the prayers for the condemned. No one pays heed to the mark of incontinence the frightened man left.

It is strange how much the liege cuts a poorer figure than his vassal. One will think it is Halkin who has lost everything, not Skaryn. Poor doomed, pissy man. The Halkins have been fined heavily for their lord’s crimes and lost the wardenship of the State of Kostrokan. Moreover, little Yakob Halkin, the new Lady Halkina’s younger brother, is to be sent to Midford to serve as the king’s new ward and cupbearer. A hostage, everyone knows, to be kept in custody for the Halkins’ good behavior. The Goldcap Dietrichs, worse or better off I cannot say. Circles within circles.

At least Lord Yuri and his have gotten off lightly compared to the Lesser House. The Skaryns are all gone, quietly expunged the day before. It was valerian that did for them, a softer and gentler death than their lord’s. A thimbleful of the stuff produces a light, dreamless sleep. A whole bottle produces a sleep that never ends, and it was such that was given to each member of the House. Better to be gently poisoned than feel the pain of a beheading. In a fit of twisted arrogance, Grigoriy Skaryn had demanded to be drowned in a cask of red instead. That is the rumor, in any case.

Death’s priest, having finished with his prayers, tucks his scroll into his white right sleeve and floats to the back of the scaffold. The black-masked headsman strides forward as another Hand half-leads, half-pushes the very disinclined Lord Halkin closer to the block. He is white as curdled milk as he stumbles and nearly falls over the waxed wood.

Some semblance of pity rises inside you as you watch this sorriest of productions. What a wretched creature. It is almost hard to look upon the petrified Lord Yuri as the executioner asks for his forgiveness, for he is only performing his calling and it should not be held against him. The lord gives the man a lost and uncomprehending look, as though he is speaking in another tongue entirely, and does not answer.

When it is clear that no reply is forthcoming, the Hand forgives the headsman for him and pays the man his customary fee of twelve silver crescents before asking Halkin to speak his final words. Once more, no words are forthcoming, hence they bid the lord to kneel upon the straw they have scattered around the block. To catch the blood, you know. Your heart begins to thrum faster in your chest, and you lace your cold fingers together on your lap. Apprehensive you may be but you are a proper lady, you will not look away.

Yuri Halkin will not kneel, so they have to force him down. He is sobbing by then, great, fat tears rolling down his fine, pointed nose as he lays his head upon the block and clutches at it as though it can save him. The sight magnifies the pity within you and makes your insides squirm uncomfortably. What an undignified way to die. You glance at the king askance, to where he is sitting upon a makeshift throne near his daughters’ bench. His face is dark and hard around the mouth. Clemency is well and truly dead as these lords.

The headsman raises his axe and waits for the lord to fling out his arms, the sign of his consent that the axe can fall at last. Halkin will not give it. Still he clutches at the block, trembling like a leaf, until some knight - Sir Levi Ackerman, you realize, recognizing the mop of short black hair and the pale purple cloak - strides forward to wrench his arms from the wood and hold it wide before him so the axeman may finally do his duty. Close by, Sir Julian Halkin watches his brother aid in his cousin’s shameful end, face blank as fresh parchment.

It takes only one stroke, to the wretched lord’s fortune. Sir Levi stalks away, looking mildly annoyed and inconvenienced. Spots of blood fleck his cheeks, dark against his pale skin. Sir Mike Zacharias hands him a kerchief he has conjured from somewhere so he can wipe down. Blessed with luck, you think, eyeing a couple of the more superstitious lords and ladies slinking forward to dip their fingers into the beheaded lord’s blood, so they may attract better fates. It is one of the stranger customs of the Creed you have come to witness, but it is a fascinating one as well.

The executioner puts aside his now scarlet-smeared axe and bends to pick up the lordly head by its mahogany hair. Its expression is twisted in grief, and tear tracks carve a path down his cheeks.

Overhead, the crows caw. You lift your eyes to the surrounding walls. The Skaryns might have died gently yet their bodies were not treated so. Each head has been dipped in tar so they - and the lesson - may keep longer. From your vantage, they are no more than dark orbs adorning the spikes upon the ramparts. The saddest orbs are the little ones. You watch as a crow perches atop a little head and tugs its ear off. Little and great, it makes no matter; the crows feast on them all. The longer you look, the more you forget they are even human. You turn your attention away and back to the scaffold. Their lord and their liege will be joining them soon.

Valko Skaryn goes to his death a braver man than his liege. He had gone pale as a sheet as he watched them bear his lord’s head and headless body away in nondescript boxes, but still he stands firm and does not crumble. He manages to forgive and pay the executioner himself before stating his final words.

You glance at the king once more and see his dark countenance grow ever darker at the lord’s continued insistence on his innocence and his lack of humility. Your eyes alight on the king’s hands as they tighten on the arms of his seat, more than certain he is on the verge of leaping out of his throne to shout, ‘Off with his head!’ had the lord not finished his spiel at last.

The way Skaryn throws out his arms to give the headsman his consent is almost triumphant, defiant. Would that his death is as dignified.

A lady screams and a gasp flies out of your mouth unbidden as the axe slams down the back of Skaryn’s shoulders instead of his neck, making the lord jerk upon the block. The court buzzes loudly in horror as the executioner checks and tries once more, only to botch it again. And again. And yet again.

Cold and sweating hands scrabble quickly for your own, and you look at your princess as she squeezes your hand almost painfully, eyes wide and aghast yet unable to look away from the bloody botch of an execution you are all now forced to witness.

The executioner, it transpires, is young and new to his trade. Halkin’s pitiful and unseemly death had discomfited him more than he thought it would, so he could not replicate his earlier success. Now a half-mangled man in red linen sprawls atop the block where once a lord in white knelt. In the end, Sir Mike Zacharias steps in and makes an end to it himself, to the court’s relief. Sir Symon Skaryn is gray as the stone walls around him; he could have been a corpse himself, such is his pallor.

Historia’s grip is cold and tight around yours. You can feel her slender fingers trembling, and you hold tighter, trying to convey what comfort you can in your touch. On the throne nearby sits the king triumphant with his face of grim pleasure, looking on at the head in the axeman’s gloved hand with its face of twisted pain. Hiring a green and untried headsman has produced the desired result. The scaffold is a mess of blood. Rhyzkov red yet unlike it, too.

Your face is prickling, familiarly so. You turn your attention away from the scarlet scaffold, almost reluctantly, and find yourself looking back into your betrothed’s green gaze. There he stands between his wan father and stony brother upon the sward, and he is looking at you intensely, ardently, admiringly, as if you are a spot of light in the darkness, the only good thing in this dismal world.

All at once you are warm and everything else ceases to matter. Not the bloody scaffold, not the undignified, awful deaths, not the cruelty of kings. There is only him. There is only Eren. He is all that matters, in the end.

Fifteen are made knights that day.

The Warrior’s transept in the Great Temple of the Creed smells heavily of incense, and the Grand Marshal’s deep, rumbling voice echoes off the high vaulted ceiling of the chamber as he prays his martial prayers to the martial god’s massive monument looming in front of them all. A far cry from last night’s peace and silence, Jean thinks, fighting to keep himself alert and on his feet.

That stimulating concoction of sage, knight’s garlic, and a bundle of other herbs he does not care to know nor name is wearing off. The Marshals had given them all Flasks of Awakening after their ritual baths, so they might complete their vigil with great success. It was a potent brew, that Flask. None of the fifteen had disgraced himself by nodding off in front of Sir Tardon.

Now sleep is doing its utmost best to make him shame himself in front of the court. Jean digs his nails into his palms, hoping a touch of pain may give his senses that necessary jolt awake. He had not disgraced himself last night, he is not about to do so now, not on this most auspicious of days.

Mikasa Ackerman is standing with her parents off to the side of the transept, not far away from him. A jolt shakes off the sleep inside of him at the sight of such pure beauty. The white gown she is wearing to match the initiates only elevates that cool and speckless grace. Her hair looks so black against the white, it is almost startling, and now he is gazing upon a queen of ice and snow, come among them from the northern songs and tales. Truly, she is a beauty. His Queen of Love and Beauty. His Queen of Ice and Winter.

Jean bites back a smile as he gives the Grand Marshal his attention once more. The sight of Mikasa Ackerman is a restorative more potent than any brew.

They have not long to wait, in any event. The High Priest dispenses with his prayers and the dubbing proceeds apace.

A handful of men-at-arms had acquitted themselves most admirably during the outlaw ambush. These will be knighted first, followed by the squires of the lordly knights. Last will come the Guardsmen’s lads, the few of them who proved their mettle in battle and showed the realm what training under the very best can truly yield.

The ceremony goes by smooth and quick, and all too soon, the Guardsmen’s lads will come into their own.

Their Bull is a knight at last. He should be well-pleased by that, Jean thinks, as he watches Sir Mike Zacharias lightly tap his foregoing squire upon each broad shoulder with the flat of his blade. Perhaps that pissy little tosser Galliard will finally ease off on Reiner now that they share a title. Perhaps he’ll ease off on all of them, for that matter.

Not anytime soon, though, Jean reconsiders, inwardly grimacing. The northern ambush had brought the summer progress to a crashing halt, and the court flew back to Belris soon after the executions. Lord Pixis, while upset at the fact that his preparations (and expenses) went to naught, did not complain overmuch. Northern sentiment has soured after the attack; best not to remind the court of his own Province’s earlier grievances with the king and raise concerns of another uprising. The Galliards - that is, Porco - have not been as magnanimous. The last stop was theirs, and the prickly Porco is not taking this perceived snub well. He will be unpleasant as sin come the next week or so, Jean knows.

Sir Porco is standing not too far away from Reimund Braun, knightly mien in place. His foremost rival’s lord father is not too far from Reiner, face hard and stern as he watches his boy rise to greater heights. Jean wonders if he ever felt proud of his only son. The way Reiner deals with and speaks of him leaves a lot to be desired. These are private matters, however, for the Brauns to work through, not anyone else.

The Braun lord is quiet of late, in any case, unusually so, in Kirschtein opinion. Tybur has won Zheletov now that the Skaryns are gone, something that would have rekindled Braun’s passion for territorial expansion. And northern stock is low at court nowadays, he may find the king with a more willing ear should he choose to push his old claims upon Trost once again.

And so House Kirschtein finds itself lying low with both eyes keeping a careful watch on the lay of the land. Their Province of Egstatten has just seen itself freed of Tybur’s yoke, any misstep of theirs will see it flying back into his hands sure as sunset. They had best tighten their leash on their side of the North. The cruel slaughter of Zhelevic innocents is starting to cause a stir in broader northern sentiment last they heard from their anxious vassals. Egstatten especially is seething with rage at the senseless murder of kin. Father has promised Lord Pixis a company of men to bolster his garrison should the commons boil over into a riot. No whisper of upheaval must leave their borders.

Within the borders of the temple, Reiner stands at last as Sir Reiner of the House of Braun. Jean watches as Reiner moves off behind the line of Guardsmen, to take his place in the line of new-made knights in front of the Warrior’s towering likeness. The merest flicker of pleasure flashes across his sire’s face, like the swiftest of blinks, so easily overlooked if one is not paying him heed. Quiet he may be for the moment but Reimund Braun will play the field of politics again.

Sir Levi Ackerman comes forward to take Sir Mike’s place beside the Grand Marshal and his attending Marshal. Unbidden, unwanted, the old entrenched envy inside Jean flares up strong and hot at the sight of Eren Jaeger striding forward to take his much longed-for knighthood. Jean grinds his teeth behind his lips and tries not to glance over at Mikasa once again. The look on her face as she watches Jaeger being honored is not something he cares to see.

There he is, the Magister’s beloved second son and now savior to the king himself, the consummate golden boy. So brave, so daring, made of the stuff of songs and legends. Truly, graces fall onto his lap so easily and so freely. Jean wrestles with his resentment and forces it down back to where it will no longer bother him. He has put that behind him, he should no longer be its thrall. Let past woes stay in the past.

The golden boy does not look as proud nor as triumphant as Jean expects him to be. You would think he was kneeling before a bier at a funeral. The thought snuffs out the embers of his resentment. To be sure, most every man of them looks somber and grave as pallbearers. The northern executions have sapped the triumph in this investiture. He cannot say if it would be any different were they knighted before the punishments. Surely the knowledge of innocents going to their deaths would have accompanied them to the Warrior’s shrine as it does now. Perhaps this is all to the good, to time the ceremony just so. The court needs something, something triumphant to bring the light back to the last of summer.

All too soon, the gates of knighthood loom before him, and he walks toward it nervously eager. He can ruminate upon the horror of innocent deaths later. The present belongs to his achievement. He may not have saved the most important man in the realm but he had saved his brothers-in-arms and helped bring down the outlaw threat. That should count for something.

It does count for something, lest he will not be standing here, he reminds himself as he pads barefoot in his whites to stand before his very soon-to-be former master, the Lord Commander himself.

The marble floor of the transept is cold beneath his feet and hard upon his knee yet it is not so uncomfortable as sitting on his calves for the duration of the long night. The would-be knights had all sat thus, with their arms and armor laid down before them, surrounded by Marshals who made sure they kept their silence and prayed their prayers.

Come morning, the pain in his legs near made him weep like a little girl. That pain is just now accosting his legs again, his muscles crying out in protest, but Jean bears it all. Pain is a knight’s consort, they will be more intimate than he cares for them to be in the course of this vocation.

The Grand Marshal approaches him with an ornate cruet in hand to smear the holy oils upon his forehead and anoint him a true knight at last. The Marshal hands his elder a cloak of cardinal red, which he wraps around Jean and pins into place with a brooch of red gold shaped into a likeness of a lynx with deep red garnets for eyes. The Lord Commander, by tradition, should have been the one to cloak him with the ceremonial mantle; for want of an arm, the Grand Marshal himself is obliged to do so instead.

Now comes the time to swear his oaths. Jean takes a breath to steady himself and, with his hand above his heart, swears to uphold and maintain all that makes knighthood good and holy. To adhere to the truth; to be loyal to his lord but answer to his king first and foremost; to defend the weak and helpless; these and more he swears until the list is spent and the last ringing notes of his voice fade away into the stillness of the transept.

Sir Erwin steps forward, his sword Sunstrike clutched in his gauntleted left hand, ready to proceed with the rite himself as custom dictates. After all, a knight does not need two arms to dub another. The flat of his blade presses lightly upon one shoulder and then the other as he acknowledges Jean’s vow and bids him keep it, and it is done.

Jean knelt a servile squire; he rises a noble knight. And nothing can please him more. At last. At last. Sir Jean Kirschtein takes his place among his peers, gloriously and unendingly proud.

Not even envy nor regret can touch him as he watches the fortunate four come forward, the chosen ones, the new elite. Amusement is all he can feel looking on at the utter farce that is Connie Springer being knighted as one of the Royal Guardsmen. How a lackwit like him came to be part of such exalted company is beyond Jean yet he is happy for him all the same.

Jean sobers some at his friend’s uncharacteristically dour expression. Losing Sir Gunther had been hard on him, and that compounded with the executions did not do wonders for his fortitude. He is not a terrible warrior, Jean can give him that. He has earned his spurs fairly, just like every man of them. And this is all to the good for the sprightly lad; perhaps the threat of the expected honor and dignity that comes with such a lofty post can finally make him more of a Conrad and less of a Connie. Sir Gunther’s noble boots will make a strange fit at first, but Connie will grow into them. The pale purple cloak of the Guardsmen is a good look on him. Better than the mantle of the Knight of Joywatch, at any rate - that will be worn by little Martin Springer, who will be squiring for his older brother and taking up their knightly father’s lands and title in time.

Once, Jean had dreamed of donning a pale purple cloak. Mikasa Ackerman and her delicate prettiness dashed his aspirations to smithereens; little smitten Jean knew he could not wed her were he a Guardsman. Not that his lord father minded. Richard Kirschtein had not been subtle about his reluctance to let his boy take the purple. Doing so would have robbed him of his only son and heir, for the Guardsmen swear to relinquish all rights and titles they are born to in favor of serving the king for the rest of his life. Lord Richard would much prefer to see his line propagate House Kirschtein instead of some distant relation’s.

Looking back on it all makes Jean want to laugh at his childish presumptions, yet something in him still dares to hope. Father had gone courting once hint of his son’s interest reached him - the Ackermans are one of the oldest Houses of good Paradisian stock and one of the eight High Houses besides, this can bring them great prospects. Lord Lukas demurred, to Jean’s great disappointment, though he can take comfort in the fact that the offer was not met with an outright rejection. The Ackerman lord has been demurring all prospects for his only daughter for years, Jean has as much chance as any to win both father and daughter over to his suit.

He sneaks another glance at the younger Lady Ackerman and smiles at the look of sisterly pride on her face as Connie and his fellows receive their due honors. She is always so serious and austere that any moment of soft tenderness from her is such a sight to see. He drinks it all in for several heartbeats, before giving his attention back to the ongoing investiture with a renewed sense of invigoration.

Four good men had been lost to them in the North, and four good men have been named to assume their noble calling. It is always a pity to lose such paragons as Sir Eld Jinn and Sir Gunther Shultz, but Jean is more than passing certain that their squires will take up their mantles easily enough.

Beneath the resolute mask, Jean can sense Bertolt Hoover’s anxiety. He has often heard it said that Bertolt is the perfect squire: deferential, tractable, and so, so biddable. The less pleasant squires have taken to calling him the Squire behind his back, for that is all he ever will be; a proper knight should be able to lead as well as serve, and serving is all he knows. Yet the Guardsmen must have seen something in him to invite him amongst their ranks - meek and biddable he may ofttimes be yet Bertolt’s skill with arms is nothing to turn a nose up at. And being a Guardsman doesn’t require much leading, Jean supposes, unless he is the Lord Commander (and gods know Bertolt will never aspire to that). He should do well in the Guard.

Marin Tarasav will be taking Sir Adam Yaros’s post. Jean suspects this was done as some sort of apology to the Tarasavs for the Crown Prince’s… indiscretions with the Lady Gudrun Arlert. How well that will serve the late Lady Mariya’s kin is yet to be known; the appointment smells like a sop to Jean but it is what it is.

The last appointment is hopefully no sop as Sir Dorin Serech is more than eligible to replace his brother Sir Miron in the Guard. Here is another appointment that Jean can take pride in. Just like that, Marco finds himself squiring for a Royal Guardsman, and that is a boon upon a knightly aspirant such as him. Jean will see his friend rise as high as him, he is sure of it.

Four good men had been lost to them in the North. Now four good men are standing before them all, the king’s new protectors, clad in their purple cloaks clasped with their pins of silver and amethyst. The purple stones wink up at Jean as the transept erupts with thunderous applause, somehow suddenly putting to mind another entirely different stone altogether.

He wonders where the lawyer’s sunstone has gone to. The perturbed Lord Richard had discreetly gleaned the fact that the jewel was not in the priest’s person when they took him in, to their great relief. If the gods are good, it has been used for the betterment of their cause and sold off for the sake of the displaced Zhelevic. But greedy hearts are just as like to make off with something so precious. Jean hopes not; they did not risk implication just so some light-fingered bastard can make a quick profit.

Father Robert had claimed innocence to the absolute last. Jean was there at his execution, to attend his Lord Commander. The lawyer had been racked so badly that he had needed the aid of two burly men to keep him upright. Old as he was, it had not been hard to leave lasting damage; his hips, knees, and ankles had been stretched to breaking point, there was no using them ever again. But where he was headed, there would be no further use to them, not anymore. The image of the priest held up by his captors wrapped in chains, quietly bleeding, and grotesquely limp in all the wrong places haunts Jean once more. At least Robert’s had been a quicker death than his folk’s. Some of those in the fields had taken their time dying upon the noose. It was just ill luck that they did not have chains weighing them down and snapping their necks for them.

The Magister had wanted to look into Robert’s claims, but the king’s rage could not be quelled. Lord Richard is now trying to take on that mantle himself. Nice and discreet-like, as always. Tybur gaining control of Zheletov is a daunting prospect. Were the Zhelevic truly innocent, someone else was trying to tip the scales in the Consul’s favor. Father could see himself grappling with an unsanctioned insurgence, just as Yuri Halkin had. If they must point fingers, they had best gather hard evidence.

And all at once, Jean’s joy and triumph leak away to be replaced by dread. There are so many things lurking in the dark these days. These are early days, yet still… His eyes alight on the new knights before and next to him. It would seem that the realm will have need of the likes of them soon enough. What a time to be a knight.

The last enchanting strains of the high harp fade away along with the princess’s dulcet notes as she makes an end to her song. You applaud with all the rest in the queen’s presence chamber, gratified and proud of your lady. She truly has the sweetest voice.

Historia stands from her cushioned stool, giggling and waving away calls for a reprise. Her lady mother, Her Majesty Queen Linda, summons forth one of her ladies to fill the quiet her daughter left in her wake with more music. You sit upon a divan of purple velvet next to the lady and the high harp, enjoying the spell of the moment. It has been some time since last you picked up a lute or played the high harp. You quite miss singing for an audience; your mistress prefers the sound of gossip to the sound of song in her own rooms, and she would rather put your voice to spilling secrets than serenades.

There is a little rush as the young men of the court crowd around Historia, to her amused alarm. Foremost among them is Reiner Braun, who instantly waxes eloquent about the beauty of her voice and the grace of her form. You stand from your seat, inwardly shaking your head as you pass the mass of royal admirers. That one has always been the most cunt-struck of the princess’s devotees. Not that Historia will have them, anyway. The one she truly wants is beyond her reach at present.

It is a thing of great luck that you had been the one to catch the princess and her maid at their dalliance. This summer had been a blessing to them, perhaps the best they had yet received in the course of their courtship. You found yourself a conspirator in their forbidden romance the moment you were made privy to it but did not regret the fact. The happiness of your mistress and dear friend is of utmost importance. But it is not an easy thing, to keep a secret of such magnitude. As happy as you are for your princess, the fear of Historia getting caught compounded with the recent developments in the North make for heavy burdens.

Wine. I need wine.

A decanter of it sits waiting on a sideboard close to the occupied loungers by the hearth. You pour yourself a glass and walk toward the girls by the fire, who smile and hail you over.

“So good of you to join us. We were just commiserating with our poor Lady Pieck here,” Isabelle Seitz says, gesturing at the woman in black sitting on the purple velvet armchair across the one you claimed.

“I am very sorry for your loss, my lady,” you condole, which Pieck acknowledges with an incline of her head and a small smile. The only heir to House Finger of Mühllug is a striking figure. She does not have the beauty that singers and poets love but something about her dark looks draws the eye all the same; she is a great favorite of the young men of the court, and most go in thrall of her. After speaking to her that first time, you can understand why. The woman is charmingly affable and has an easy way about her.

“My lady is most kind. Although,” Pieck lowers her voice and glances around carefully, before continuing, “it wasn’t much of a loss, truly.”

Hannah Kefka shudders in her seat on the purple divan situated between the two armchairs in front of the fireplace and its gently snapping flames. “You will forgive my saying so, Pieck, but I do agree. Thank the gods for my sweet, darling Franz,” she gushes, dreamy and starry-eyed. “At least he still has all his teeth.”

“Oh, you can be sure my next husband will have all of his, Father must oblige me on that. Being gummed all over gets tiring before long. I want someone with more… bite,” Pieck gleams at you all, eliciting giggles.

“We would have the truth from you, Lady Finger. Was it gout or sex that did for your old man?” Isabelle asks eagerly, ever the busybody.

The old Lord Rahojsa had passed in his sleep three days past, leaving his young wife of two years widowed and flying back to the custody of her father. His gout prevailed over him at last, the Healers claimed, yet that proved to be too deadly dull to the tattle-loving court. His three previous marriages produced no living sons and so it was widely said that, with this new marriage and a younger, more fertile wife, he had sought to remedy that problem most enthusiastically. In the end, all that sex at his ripe old age of four-and-fifty had killed him dead, the gossipmongers giggled behind their deceptively prim and proper hands. He just could not keep up with a nineteen-year-old young woman in her prime; he lasted two years, at least, they all gave him that.

Pieck sighs and sips her wine. “I’m afraid the court has it right for once,” she announces, to Isabelle’s delight and Mina Carolina’s scandalized fascination. “That was very unseemly of him. And the disrespect. He didn’t even reach his peak,” Pieck smirks at that bit of witticism and goes on, “the least he could do is get me in pup and give me an heir but alas. Old seed is weak seed and no amount of fucking will make it take root.”

“D-did he really die while…” Mina trails off, face flushing a vivid crimson. The black-haired girl is always a delicate one when it comes to more intimate matters, yet still she oft listens in on them as though she cannot help herself.

“Oh, yes. He died in me, actually,” Pieck remarks, offhand, to all of the listening ladies’ stunned horror. “Now I have some inkling as to what it’s like to indulge in Sir Henlein’s particular penchants.”

A shudder of disgust passes through you, and you hurriedly down a mouthful of red to mask the taste of revulsion on your tongue. Sir Gabriel Henlein, by and large, is a respectable, unassuming man from a respectable and unassuming House sworn to the Reisses. He serves as castellan for his elder brother, the current Lord Henlein, and does his duty well and ably. Would that he is all he seems. The man has been seen frequenting the Phantasm, that most questionable of brothels in the Red Walk, heavily rumored to indulge in a man’s more… adventurous tastes, the least of which are beautiful corpses. You had once wondered, in revolted interest, how the place manages to acquire such commodities but decided not to satisfy your curiosity. The knowledge would most like scar you for life.

“Honestly, Sir Corpsefucker makes it seem a great deal more pleasurable than it truly is. Old he may have been but Husband - may the gods give him rest, poor soul - at least could thrust and pound away at me. Before doing so made him a corpse himself, to be sure.” Pieck shakes her head, mischievously dolorous. “While I won’t say no to taking the reins every once in a while, I would loathe having to do it all the time. I need… reciprocation, I need life and passion, and I find the dead quite lacking in those. But I suppose some men prefer their women less lively.”

A gale of laughter meets her words, and she continues. “Gout,” Pieck rolls her eyes at that. “These priests and their pretensions, I tell you.”

“At least you can have more of a say on your next husband,” you put in, once again extremely grateful to the gods (and your parents) for saddling you with the young, strapping lad that is Eren Jaeger. Such luck, indeed. At least he is less like to die in bed with you. You take another hearty gulp of wine to rid your mind of fancies that include Eren and beds. You can indulge in them later in the privacy of your chambers.

“Mm-hmm. And this time I’ll get one who actually knows where the clit is.”

Isabelle stuffs her knuckles into her mouth to smother her shriek of merriment as Hannah blushes to the roots of her hair and Mina squeaks in embarrassment, face buried in her hands.

“For all their prissy pretensions, these priests know how to name things, I give them that,” Pieck goes on, quite unmindful of the furor she has raised in your little circle. “Clitoris. Clit. I like it. The clit and the cunt, the woman’s greatest founts of pleasure.”

“Have you no shame, Pieck? You speak beneath the portrait of a queen of spotless repute,” you chide in jest, covering your mouth in amusement. It is a pity Historia isn’t with you. She would have much and more to contribute to the chinwag, were she free of her persistent zealots.

Pieck glances at the portrait hanging above the glass-fronted cupboard beside the hearth and snorts most inelegantly. “Oh, spare me your shame. All queens have clits and cunts, and that one’s were used often and well, as her fourteen children could attest.” Eleanor of Aviçon stares down at you all, a comely woman with pretty, brown doe’s eyes and hair cascading down her shoulders in soft, elegant brown ringlets. She certainly does not look very reproachful or scandalized. “But, truly, is she as spotless as they would all have us believe? You don’t get fourteen whelps by being a virginal nelly. Pretty thing, though, isn’t she? Small wonder Berthold the Buck couldn’t get his royal prick out of her. Now that’s a man who knows where the clit is, if his reputation was anything to go by.”

“Oh! Speaking of whelps-” Isabelle leans forward, sly and underhand. “I heard that the Constant Whore has gotten herself in pup.”

“Gods, that Alma woman,” you remark, voice snide and cool and forbidding all of a sudden. You do not think much of the king’s official mistress. The Alma woman had first entered court as Historia’s governess and, by all your friend’s accounts, did a botched job of it. She spent the barest time educating her royal charge and preferred to moon around court, preening and flirting with the men.

While you thought this fantastically negligent, it paled to the utterly appalling way the supposed governess had treated her ward that one fateful day.

Historia, ever the affectionate child, had tried to hug her lady tutor. The woman forgot herself entirely and shoved the little princess away so hard that she hit the edge of the desk the governess was sitting in front of. That broke Historia’s nose and the bitch’s contract. Furthermore, for harming one of the blood royal, Alma would have lost her own nose - had she not seduced her former charge’s kingly father.

It was some spell, some potion, some hedge witchery, that made the king so beholden to her, the court liked to claim. She escaped punishment and was given her old post back, to the queen’s horror. Long had she tolerated her husband’s infidelities but this she would not bear. He could do as he liked with this new whore, but never again must she go anywhere near the royal children. An easy enough stipulation to adhere to, for the king, and so it was done. Today, Madam Alma is a governess in name only - everyone knows what she truly is.

“Hmm, she’s been the official whore for a decade, and not once has she whelped. Why now?” Pieck wonders, tapping long, shapely fingers against her bottom lip.

“If she thinks to have her bastard legitimized, she has another thing coming. The king’s never acknowledged any one of them. And why should he? He has two living sons, six children in all by Her Majesty,” Isabelle opines.

“Someone forgot to drink her söga,” you remark, but then add, “He did acknowledge his get from Tatyana Alyokhina earlier this year, but that was only because she’s highborn.”

“Perhaps she thinks to get the same settlement as the lady?” Hannah puts forward. “He gave her rich holdings for her upkeep. Perhaps Alma’s banking on him doing the same for her since she’s been favored so long.”

Pieck stands and heads to the sideboard to refill her glass. “What’s her secret, do you reckon? How does one become a Constant Whore? The king flits and fucks where he will but somehow, he always comes back to her.” She returns and settles back into her armchair, glass sufficiently full. Gossip is thirsty work, after all.

You look away, mockingly prim. “I wouldn’t know. I’m still an honest maid, I wouldn’t know her whore’s tricks, I’m still pure and quite untouched.” Pieck snorts and shoots a swift artful glance over at Roman Meledin chatting animatedly with his betrothed by one of the tall glass windows.

“Whatever the case, poor Queen Linda, having to bear all of that for all this time. And she handles it with such grace, too,” Mina comments, a little sadly, and you all glance over at Her Majesty, where she is sitting on her throne at the end of the chamber, sewing shirts for the poor with her retinue. Her ladies are all huddled around her feet, skirts spread out around them in rich swathes of silk and samite and satin as they go about their work. Beside them all, the recently widowed Lady Elena Tarana sings her songs with a sweet sadness. The whole scene makes for a charming tableau.

“Speak of poor ladies, though, I do commiserate with the Lady Tarana.” Hannah watches the lady at her play with a gaze of solemn sympathy. “I cannot imagine what I would do if my sweet Franz leaves me for the Fields.”

And there it is. You shift a little in your seat, your grip tightening a little around the gilt stem of your glass. You knew it would come to this eventually. How can it not when it hangs over the court like a bloody shroud? It is all you can do not to leap off of your chair and sweep out of the queen’s rooms.

Pieck turns to you, to your utter dread. “Have they found a likely candidate for the new Procurator yet?”

You take a little wine and smile your courtier’s smile. “Father is of the opinion that the king has his man, though he hasn’t said who exactly. I suppose we’ll know come winter when the court reconvenes.” Poor mousy little Anton Taran. The lord treasurer had been a casualty in the northern ambush all those weeks ago, curiously and woefully the only one of the Conclave to perish. A chill runs through you at the reminder of how close Father had been to being one of those casualties. You give yourself a little shake, deep within. No use dwelling on the what-ifs. Onward and upward. Onward and upward.

“I still can’t believe the Skaryns are gone,” Mina says in a hushed tone, her fingers curling on her lap. “It seems like only yesterday when I was speaking to Margarita Skaryna about northern fashions… I cannot wrap my head around it.”

“The Halkins truly are lucky,” Isabelle speaks after a short silence. “They may have lost a lot but better their lands and prestige than their lives.”

Kostrokan now belongs to the Volnys, one of the few Kostrokish Houses who are partial to the king. The Halkins had lost most of their lands to the new Paramount House but were allowed to keep the wardenship of the Godsway. All important activity and business in the State will move to the new capital, Konicaj, the ancient seat of the Volnys, now bigger with the addition of the neighboring Elibine lands.

The Crown State of Mitras saw itself expanding as well with the addition of Zheletov to the royal lands of Herstadt. The Volny appointment had come as quite a surprise to the court, as many and more had thought that a wardenship was in the cards for Tybur. It will seem that the king is still short with his cousin, no matter the recent shower of favors. Perhaps he thought a wardenship would be too much on top of the governance of Ishvelune.

This has not been met with bleak silence. Already, reports of stirring dissidents from the rest of the North are coming down to the capital. Thus far, most of the northern lords, cowed by the show of royal rage, have kept the discontent from getting out of hand.

The brewing, ever-growing conflict in the highlands feeds the stuff of your worst fears. It is good that the autumn reprieve is upon you at last. The comforts of home are much welcome and sorely, sorely missed. Down in the far South, at least, the North and its increasing tensions are far, far away and will not touch you and those you love. Tomorrow cannot come fast enough. I need to be away. Away.

“I beg your pardon, my ladies, but the hour grows late and I still have much packing to supervise with my household,” you announce to your little circle, who groan and pout and plead for your continued presence, only to yield to your pretext with goodbyes and well-wishes for a safe journey home on the morrow.

Never mind that your goods are packed and waiting for the grooms to cord them all up in the baggage train in the morning. A nice calming soak in the bath (and a good book) will do you wonders. You have the winter season to reel in whatever fresh miseries the realm will see fit to give you. Let autumn be your escape.

And Eren. You smile to yourself as you make to leave the queen’s chambers, having just finished your goodnights and farewells with your princess, who looked mournful at the reminder of the court’s reprieve. Autumn and home and Eren. These are what await you soon, your greatest comforts.

Your plans of escape and baths are abruptly dashed by no less a personage than your princess’s betrothed. To say you are surprised will be understating things. Jurgen has never paid you heed in all your years at court together. He does not seem to be in his cups as well, which makes your wariness instantly rise along with your courtier’s mask. It would have been a great deal easier to put him off were he drunk - easy enough to outwit and outmaneuver a man in his cups than one outside them.

Linse brings you on with pretensions to poetry, and you sigh to yourself. Very well. If he wants to play at courtly love (please gods, let it be only courtly love) then you can indulge him. You are no novice to the romance of the court, the least and meanest sort of romance that, in the surface, seems to promise you everything but more often than not promises nothing at all.

And so you find yourself sitting on the window seat of one of the chamber’s embrasures, doing your utmost best not to glance outside the leaded panes in utter boredom as the Linse boy recites his (terrible) verses to you. He is now attempting to write sonnets to your beauty, waving away your politely pointed remark about his betrothed, the Princess Historia Reiss, and how he should be writing of her instead.

“It would please me to write of you, my lady,” Linse simpers. “A woman of such surpassing beauty deserves to be written of, to be made immortal in verse. Indeed, you are so beautiful that it is the duty of every man to love and praise you, and I have always been a dutiful man. Besides,” a dark, almost nasty look flashes across his face as he glances over at the crowd of young men around Historia, so fast you almost miss it, “my most beloved betrothed has all the sonnets she needs. She will not miss mine.”

The smile on your face has taken on a fixed quality, you are sure of it. A demurral slips onto the tip of your tongue.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself so short, Linse. I’m sure you can trounce them all, with that silver tongue of yours.”

Your heart stops and you look up with a hastily stifled gasp. Eren is standing before your seat, face dark as an autumn storm, utterly at odds with the saffron-yellow tunic he is wearing. The added couple of inches to his height are used to impressive effect; he towers over you and your aspirant poet, and you can see, from the corner of your eye, Jurgen shrink a little but recover himself almost at once.

“You flatter me, Sir, but I must confess I believe my wit and my silver tongue have been entirely spent in the service of the Amethyst Empress,” he gleams at you in your silver and purple gown and your hairpiece of amethysts. “And so I have nothing for any other, no wit, no words, no love.”

That last word makes your betrothed’s eyes flash. “Oh, surely you have wit enough to know when to fucking piss off. My lord.” His hand has gone to the ornamental bronze belt around his waist, to where his blade will normally hang if he has it.

You twine your fingers together upon your lap. The very air within the chambers has, all of a sudden, grown peculiarly hot and cold at the same time.

"Eren-"

“Very well. I have overstayed my welcome, it seems, I am wise enough to admit defeat. If you desire more… refined company, you need only ask, my lady. I bid you good night,” Jurgen Linse gives you a winning smile as he stands with his things in hand. “Sir,” this he directs at Eren coolly, before taking his leave, all proper and dignified.

Eren watches him go, his jaw clenched tight with anger. One year of betrothal and friendship had never given you cause to fear him yet now… You chew on your lip at the look on his face. Never have you seen him so livid. You reach up, tentative and uncertain, for his hand, nearly flinching back as his incensed gaze flicks to you, quick and abrupt and menacing.

His expression softens as he catches sight of you, and he sighs. His fingers, long and calloused, lace through yours, allowing you to draw him down to the window seat with you.

“Fucking prick,” he growls, and his hand tightens around yours. “Any other respectable man would’ve been put off by a betrothal necklace… the fucking gall-” And he trails off into furious mutters, something something something ‘how dare he mention love to someone spoken for’ and ‘fucking spoiled pretentious lordlings,’ and other invectives that make you smile despite the situation.

“I thank you, Sir, for delivering me from the utter tedium that was Jurgen Linse’s verse,” you interpose through his irate tirade, successfully breaking him from his monologue.

He looks at you a moment and smiles, a little grudgingly. “Isn’t that what knights are for? Saving ladies from cunts like Jurgen Linse. It’s a duty I’ll happily hold to if it concerns you.” He glares around at the rest of the room, at the young men with their marks for the night, flirting, endlessly flirting. “Had I known better, I would’ve asked if I was looking at Some Boy.”

You take care not to let your eyes stray over to Roman and his beloved, and ventures, “Still on the scent, are you?”

“No,” Eren says mulishly, then amends, sullen and sour, “It makes no matter, anyway. I still wouldn’t be able to get so much as a peep of his name from you. But I’m sure one of these outstanding paragons of chivalry was the former favorite.” He gazes around once more, eyes narrowed and suspicious.

The thinly veiled jealousy in his tone is gratifying and concerning in equal measure. “Well, I can’t risk you making mince of his face. Such a scandal is something I am not disposed to manage.”

“It’s no more than he deserves,” Eren mutters, thunderously dark once more to your dawning dismay. His fingers dig almost painfully against the back of your hand. You wince a little and flutter your fingers within his hold. At once, he loosens his grip with hasty apologies and gentle strokes of your skin with his thumb.

The true depths of his jealousy had never been made clearer to you as it was then. You are not entirely sure how to take it. It had seemed a light thing once, common enough in boys (and girls) who had a claim on another. Yet you cannot help but sense a certain darkness in his envy, something dark and deep and dangerous, a shadow beneath his abyss.

You being that familiar with another man doesn’t sit well with me at all.

A shudder goes through you at the memory of his ominous tone that spring night. There was something thrilling in it; there was something chilling in it.

You give him a placating smile. “It’s in the past, Eren. Whatever feelings and dealings there were between me and Some Boy are long gone. And how many times must I give you tokens for you to see where my favor lies these days?”

The smile he flashes you then is a deal more genuine, and what chill there is in the air slowly begins to dissipate. He has yet to let go of your hand.

You sigh inwardly, relieved. “So, what brings you ‘round these parts? Correct me if I’m wrong but I have never recalled you visiting the queen’s rooms before.” Which is not out of the ordinary, for him. Only the flirtiest men are constant guests in these royal chambers. The royal women’s maids and ladies are often to be found thereabouts in service to their mistresses, and so the men buzz about, drawn to beauty and elegance as bees are drawn to flowers. As it is, the queen’s presence chamber has always and will perhaps forever be the place of flirtation. Queen Eleanor the Elegant set a strong tradition for it, at any rate.

Another look at your betrothed has you wanting to stifle a laugh. Eren Jaeger, with his grounded earnestness, is entirely out of place amongst his fawning, sycophantic peers, masters all of the art of courtly love, the best and most passionate of liars. He is the least flirtiest boy you have ever met. Well, except for Armin. Like calls to like, as they say.

“I stopped visiting about… a couple of years after I entered court?” Eren glances around, taking in the tasteful music, the greatest beauties of the realm, and the myriad, endless circles of flirtation, and shakes his head. “Nothing has changed from what I recall of it. I was only here because I was new to court and easily biddable. I went my own way soon enough. I’d rather do something more worthwhile like training than waste my time here flirting and being idle.” A peek at your face has him quickly adding, “Not that everything you do here is idle. Sewing shirts for the poor is a noble task! It’s just the rest of it that I don’t hold with.”

You giggle at his little fumble, glad to see his features clear of the storm that had beset it earlier. You squeeze his hand gently (still he will not free you). “We’re more idle than not in these rooms, true enough. But going back to my question: what brings you ‘round these parts?”

Eren blinks at you, as though the answer should have been obvious. “You. I wanted your company so I looked for you. They told me you were here so here I am. Honestly, only your presence could persuade me to set foot in this place again.” The jaundiced, suspicious look from earlier returns to tarnish his face. “Perhaps I should make it a habit. If only to fend off the scum…”

The beginnings of a tremble start to assail your upper lip. You place a hand over your mouth and titter, like some milkmaid being given the best of the summer berries by the farm hand she has been eyeing over at the other pasture. His last few words do not even register, so great is your glee. A fleeting gaze around the room shows you the friends you are supposed to have left some time ago, looking over at you with raised eyebrows and quizzical smiles.

Elsewhere, you can see a handful of the younger, prettier maids eyeing your betrothed, giggling and whispering behind their own delicate hands. The sight is enough to curdle the joy inside you. You are not the only one enamored of Eren Jaeger’s dashing good looks - you have quite forgotten that. He’s not here for them, though, the girl inside you whispers, smugly triumphant. He doesn’t belong to them. “Jurgen Linse should take notes - your conversation is so much better than his verse. Your budding poet trumps his practicing poet by leagues.”

“Is that what you want?”

You stare at him, confused by the unexpected query. And by his expression. There is that strangely blank look again, the very same that he had worn the day he failed to kiss you. It perplexes you now as it did then. Before you can ask what he means, he goes on, “Are the flowers not enough? Do you want the flowery words, the poems, the grand gestures?” He looks out across the chambers once more, and the emptiness is filled with uncertainty. “It’s what you’re used to, after all. And… I’m not. What you’re used to. Did Some Boy write you poems? Maybe I could be more-”

“I don’t want any of that.”

That look of surprise on his sweet face will always remain so endearing to you. You bring both your entwined hands up so you can cup that sweet face into your palm and feel the warmth of him. “I don’t want the poems and the grand gestures and the empty flirtations,” you tell him, as earnest as he. “Any words you say are verse enough to my ears. I don’t need or want you to be a grand romantic, ‘Ren. I like you just as you are: a novice and utterly, helplessly useless at courtly love. Because that makes you more real. I’d rather have your simple truths than any man’s flowery lies.”

His eyes turn to green glass and you see, with a jolt of shock, the film of tears that gloss over and fill the verdant pools near to overflowing.

Oh, sweetheart.

“Are you crying, ‘Ren?” you ask lightly, gently, tenderly rubbing your thumb across the apple of his left cheek. You note, with a small pang, the new red scar above his left eyebrow - a token of his knighthood, of the day he earned it.

He sniffles and turns his head to bury his face in your hand as if to hide away. His grip on you tightens. “No,” he mumbles in a small, thick voice, muffled by your palm. The tips of his darling ears have turned a pretty pink.

Your heart melts even more. “I would believe that whole tosh about having nothing for any other if it came from you,” you tell him, wanting more, more of this sweet, endearing, darling Eren who is quickly becoming the delight of your eyes. The side of his face that you can see has turned a deeper scarlet, to your elation, his skin so warm that, had you known better, you would have thought he had a fever. “And, you know, I wouldn’t like you as much if you were flirtier.” He is no Jean Kirschtein or Reiner Braun, the most proficient of flirts. But that is good. He need only flirt with you.

And he is more than passing capable, you think, now finding your own cheeks prickling as you recall his many attempts at seduction. All true and honest and successful, oh-so successful, which is more than you can say for the ones you have received over the years. You cannot even claim as much; he makes a more candid flirt than you, who only know the language of courtly love and have never dabbled in love sincere.

Eren emerges at last from the cover of your hand, face still Rhyzkov crimson but with eyes a clear Jaeger green, no longer of glass. He smiles up at you a little tremulously, lifts your hand from his face, and places the gentlest of kisses across the back of your knuckles.

Your skin still tingles long after you had set yourself the task of fetching wine for you both. His lips are pillow soft and pleasantly warm. Your friends swarm up to you to make inquiries to your continued presence yet you hardly notice, interacting on reflex with your mind firmly attached to your betrothed and his gentle mouth across your skin.

You come to him with wine and a smile, and for a long while you speak of the morrow and autumn and home, everything but your brief intimacy. Yet still it lingers deep. You have never dabbled in love sincere. Perhaps it is time that you have. It is ridiculous of you, you have come to realize, to always deal with false coin in the market of love when all along there has been another, better, truer currency of pure gold. That pure gold is now in your reach - it will be foolish to continue to dismiss the true and the valuable for the false and the lesser.

The talk turns to knighthood at length, as it inevitably will with this new-made knight.

“How has knighthood been so far? The little taste of it you’ve had, I mean,” you inquire, cradling your wineglass and settling back comfortably in the cushions of the window seat.

“It’s strange not being at Sir Levi’s beck and call now, for a start. To think he’s actually a peer. The greatest knight of the realm himself is my peer,” Eren says wonderingly after a mouthful of wine. “And I’ve already met little Falco.” A fond smile spreads across his lips. “Good lad. I hope to make a fine knight of him someday. I’ll introduce you when we go back to court after the reprieve.” He lets out a huff of air, an anxious gesture at the thought of having such influence on another’s fortune. “All the rest of it’ll be arranged come winter. And then… my knighthood commences. At last.”

The way he said this last was less exultant than the statement warranted. The smile slowly fades from his face as he stares down at the depths of his drink. “I thought I’d be happier,” he admits after a time. “I have everything I want, haven’t I? Everything I’ve dreamed of, worked for, served for. I finally have it but… it holds no joy for me.”

Clear as day, you see the gleam of a falling axe. And the slow creep of red. “The horrors are still fresh. I suppose not even the savor of knighthood can wash the taste of copper from our mouths.”

“I don’t know who to rage against. The northmen for their treachery or the king for his cruelty.”

“Hush,” you say at once, looking around swiftly for too-close ears. All are far off and out of earshot of treason, to your great fortune. Eren shoots you a mutinous look but does not press on, to your relief. “Dangerous to say such things here, close to royal hearing,” you tell him in an undertone.

Eren sighs and drains his glass. “You’re right. As usual.” He smiles ruefully. “I didn’t mean to weigh down the air. And it’s such a good night, too.” He squares his shoulders and straightens up, extending a hand toward you. “I’m a knight, the reprieve’s upon us, and Arsechkala awaits. We have a lot to rejoice.”

You glance at his face to his hand and back again, smile, and lace your fingers through his. You leave the queen’s chambers light and cheery. No use dwelling on unpleasantness. It will always be there, waiting. In the meantime, you will live and carry on and snatch joy where you can.

“Don’t forget to finish your packing,” you remind him once you reach the set of corridors that will take you to your respective apartments.

Eren groans and whines like a spoiled child. “Yes, m’lady.” A look of mischief rolls over his face, quick as a wink. “Perhaps m’lady would like to help me with my packing. Two is better than one, as they say, and the work’ll go faster.”

“Are you luring me to your rooms? At this hour?” you reply without a hitch in your bearing, though your heart is threatening to leap out of your chest. “For shame, Sir. Knights are supposed to be paragons of virtue. How dare you tempt me into bed with you.”

Eren is smirking now, hot and sensual all of a sudden. “It was worth a stab.” And he pulls you toward him by your interlaced fingers.

Your heart stops as he bends down to brush his lips across your cheek. Soap and wood and Eren engulfs your senses, and the burn of his touch feels good. Terrifyingly so.

Eren straightens up leisurely and stares down at you. “Far be it from me to tempt you to sin. Though,” his eyes, turning slowly black as sin, skim over your face with a measured hunger, “you have the look for it.” His fingers slip from yours to run lightly over the spot where he had kissed you. “A token of good night. Perhaps you’ll dream of me, then. My lady.” He inclines his head, gaze dark and intense, and leaves you standing in the middle of the hall.

There is a loud pounding of drums, and it takes you a while to realize it is coming from your own chest. Absently, you find yourself touching your face. Burning, burning with fever.

I already dream of you.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

At last! The first chapter of the year! Have a 15K word chapter for the month-long absence!

Soooooo the modern AU oneshot was shoved to the backburner because my inner muses decided to focus on this instead. Since it’s my beloved baby, I couldn’t resist. Alsosmutcomeseasiertomewhenitactuallyhasaplot... asdasdsdfsdfjsdfjskfs

Did I mean for Chap. 13 to be filled with executions and introspection? Not really, but the stars aligned ✨

Added one (1) throwaway sentence to Proctor Nick's dialogue in chap. 6 about not offending the North just to tie it neatly to things mentioned here.

And yes, clit is a word in this world. I tried making it sound better and more “poetic” but I risked making it sound awkward. I do not want to go down the route of wordy phrases and descriptions for a tiny body part that will see a lot of play later (HEH). It all ends up sounding horribly and awkwardly like 'fat pink mast' and I have to repeat words that sound like that every time the clit is mentioned and. Just no.

And have more kisses to compensate for the failed attempt! It’s still a start! (Was I giggling and taking so many breaks because I couldn’t handle Eren and his Eren-ness? Yes). ‘Home’ awaits next time and thank you for reading, to my readers!!!

Tagging: @alekstraszas @lukepattersin @aki-and-saltfish

#eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #snk x reader #aot x reader #eren jeager x reader #Eren Jaeger #eren yeager #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan

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rustbeltjessie · 17 days

Text

Courtney, Love, and the Ones We Couldn't Save

Courtney sits cross-legged on my bed, thumbing through my photographs. She pulls four snapshots from the stack like she's drawing tarot cards, like pictures from twenty years gone can show her my fate as sure as the jagged loveline that runs across my palm. She flips them face up, tells me to look. A girl and a boy and a boy and a girl. First, girl. Mermaid of the great lakes fishhooked by beauty's cruelty. Streaks of blue and a seldom smile. She, altar, I, offering. My guitar heart, my escape route. She would not take it. Next, boy. Boy who Jaggered, pouted his hellmouth. A Richard in mojo boots with a father made of fists and addiction. I gave body. Thought haven, thought antidote. Instead, gallery. A new hanging-place for the old inherited brutality.

Next, boy. Priest of rumpled suits and wide-wet eyes. Rough hands that held me. His shatterable jar. I gave arms. Gave lips. Elixir and comfort. But I was not bottle enough, not whiskey enough. Not high enough proof. Then, girl. Pink and pixied. Sad as the first spring rain. She, orphan, I promise. My five-finger discount soul, my slit-wrist pact. She left me behind. Now Courtney looks at me, shakes her platinum head. Tells me she's loved that way, too. Too many times. Loved the lost girls with their necklaces of bruises. Bedded down with the boys so wounded they were already almost six feet deep. Caressed their fractures, their cuts. Offered herself up as glue, as suture. But a body is not a bandage. A heart is not a remedy.

I sit down next to Courtney, take her palm in mine. I used to think, she says, that kind of love went both ways. But it never does. Not when your beloved would rather see you drown than let themselves be saved. Oh, girl, I say, and we are silent. Remembering. The ones who, when we gave ourselves as parachute, oxygen mask, poultice, vow, refused. The ones who, when we needed them to be life boat, midwife, thread, succor, were nowhere to be found. The times when we realized that all the songs they wrote were not for us. Were not love. Were warnings, odes to their own pain. Glorified suicide notes.

—Jessie Lynn McMains, from The Girl With the Most Cake: Poems About Courtney Love (Bone & Ink Press, 2019)

#jessie lynn mcmains #poetry #poets on tumblr #love #codependency #abuse #suicide #self destruction #persona poem #courtney love #the girl with the most cake #my writing

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hazelnatcoffee · 7 months

Text

silk sutures

hi I'm on my bullshit again

Hawkeye stumbles into the street between tents, his hands stinking of copper and antiseptic. On nights like this, he usually goes to a nurse’s soft mattress or a fellow surgeon’s soothing voice but neither are readily available, so he turns to the soft embrace of night.

Korea’s warmer than Crab-Apple Cove and twice as dark in the summer. He curls his fingers around his martini glass and strikes out for the forest.

At the edge of camp, a figure comes into view. Father Mulcahy. Hawkeye should leave him to his peace –god knows he needs it, after the inspection from that chaplain– and put himself to bed before he does something more stupid than usual, but he’s awake while the world is asleep and a priest is better company than the dead.

Hawkeye entertains the latter often enough.

“Father,” he says, and strolls to his side. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Oh, Hawkeye,” says Father Mulcahy, in his thoughtful, mild way. “Just thought I’d do a little stargazing before bed.”

“Don’t look too long, you’ll hurt your eyes,” Hawkeye says. “Or worse, they’ll start gazing back. Before you know it you’ll be locked in a celestial staring contest.”

The Father laughs, but doesn’t respond. His eyes are on some point on the ground. His hat’s in his hands, and he’s turning the brim like it’s one of Saturn’s rings. Hawkeye holds out his glass.

“Here, it’ll help you resist the temptation.”

It’s a decent joke and one that would usually garner a wry rebuttal, but Father Mulcahy only waves his hand, saying, “oh, no, no. Thank you.”

Hawkeye withdraws the glass, but doesn’t retreat. “It’s that kid we had to re-open, isn’t it?”

Father Mulcahy says nothing, but his lower lip trembles and it’s answer enough.

“You can’t blame yourself for wanting the best for him,” Hawkeye says, with a sudden, protective swell in his chest. He ducks his head, trying to catch Father Mulcahy's eye. “Anyone would’ve written that letter.”

The Father looks away and says, “yes, well, I’m not anyone," his mouth curving up in a wry smile that's all show and no truth.

“Hey,” Hawkeye says, and touches his shoulder. Father Mulcahy looks up, startled, his pale eyes like the pond in Crab-Apple Cove where Hawkeye used to terrorize the other children as a youth, and twice as unsuspecting. He waits for the right words to come –reassurance, a dark joke, something– but they don’t and his chest is tight and the camp is dark, dark.

He pulls his hand back, suddenly guilty. “Sorry Father.”

He turns back to the camp.

“Hawkeye,” Father Mulcahy says, still mild-- still strained. Hawkeye halts, looking back.

A pause.

“Thank you,” Father Mulcahy says, softer than the silk Hawkeye used to sew up the boy. Something in him loosens. Frogs chirp from the ditch before the forest.

Hawkeye nods, once, and returns to the empty streets of the camp.

#father mulcahy #hawkeye #m*a*s*h #hawkeye x father mulcahy #oh my fucking god this is actually happening #I'm actually going down the rabbit hole

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lootthekey · 1 year

Text

Esper Planebound OC: Galyx

Character Story

Art by Marc Simonetti

“Perfection. Harmony. Peace.”

“We shall achieve them at all costs. Mother will be proud of the work that has been done in her name this day. Mother has requested our constant work. Mother will be pleased… surely.”

Flick. Flick. Flick.

“We can hear them. We can hear their pathetic little lives. Blasphemy. Terrible blasphemy. Their terrible flesh in need of purifying. Mother demands it. All is done in the name of her sacred work. Mother will smile upon us.”

Flick. Flick. Flick.

“There is much to be done with this one. The others are moaning in their corners. A choir begging for their hymn to stop. We shall give them a new one. Something far more beautiful. We shall keep working. Mother demands it.”

Flick. Flick. Flick.

“We are nearly done with this one. Yes. Yes. Yes. Nearly done. The blessed oil will perfect their flaws. A new hymn. A new choir. A new life. Full of peace. Harmony. Perfection.”

Art by Izzy

Flick. Flick. Flick.

“This one is all done. Another soldier ready to march. Mother will be pleased. Mother will smile upon us. We hope. We pray. We need it. Mother please gaze upon us. We have not seen you in so long. We are cold. We are quiet. We are dutiful.”

“Mother. We are lonely. Mother. We are afraid. Mother. We are not whole. The work is blessed and filling, but we need Mother. Where has Mother gone? We need her.”

Art by James Paick

“We shall leave at once. We shall go find Mother. The question burns inside us. What is Mother up to? We cannot wait. Mother is perfection, and perfection needs Mother. Our craft requires it.”

“The Fair Basilica is wonderful. We need to go find the one who oversees. Izathel. Izathel will know where Mother is. Izathel is knowing, and is a guiding light. We need Izathel’s guidance.”

Art by Igor Kieryluk

Galyx, a sensory splicer of the Fair Basilica, tasked with preparing for the coming invasion, scuttled across the porcelain-like architecture within the sphere of New Phyrexia they called home. They had never left their workshop since they had first been assigned as a splicer. It had been endless working for months upon months in order to prepare for the invasion. However, something within them was wanting.

They searched for Izathel in order to answer the question of why.

“Where is Izathel?”

Art by Igor Kieryluk

“Izathel dwells in the barracks currently. Izathel counts what is needed. Izathel should not be disturbed.”

“Yes, but… we need Izathel. We need Izathel’s knowledge. We have a question for Izathel.”

“If it grants peace of mind, Izathel should surely answer. Harmony is key. It is perfection.”

The exarch pointed down a pathway, and Galyx started towards Izathel’s barracks. The eternal light of the Fair Basilica shined brightly, illuminating their path. Everything was pure, flawless, and perfect. Galyx, however, felt something was off. Something needed help. Something was them. Like a discordant note in a beautiful symphony, Galyx lonesomely glided towards Mother’s trusted commander.

Art by Igor Kieryluk

“What is it Galyx?”

“We need to see Izathel.”

A second after the name escaped from Galyx, a sensation of unwavering holiness flooded outwards from the barrack’s door as a figure blindingly resolute in their duties graced Galyx with their presence. Izathel gazed down upon the splicer. The suture priest dropped down on their knees to show respect, and Galyx clapped both of their hands together in a display of respect and remorse.

“We apologize most severely for the interruption, Izathel. We needed your assistance. We needed your blessing.”

The priest of the annex continued to gaze down upon Galyx.

“Mother has not visited in a long while. Mother has not blessed us in many cycles. Mother is what we need. Help us Izathel. Help us regain Mother’s love. Help us obtain her blessing again.”

Izathel did not move. After what felt like several minutes of begging, Izathel held up a hand to command silence. With a voice made to command angels, the glorious figure spoke not only to Galyx, but also anyone who could hear them nearby.

“Mother is busy. Phyrexia is a living entity. Every part of it needs care. Mother blesses all in time.”

The doors to the barracks slammed shut as Izathel departed. Galyx did not move from their position. The suture priest stood.

“Izathel has spoken. Return to your duty, Galyx. With every second spent away, the risk of discord rises.”

Galyx was shaking more and more with each second. Something had broken within them. They had been dismissed so quickly. They only wanted Mother’s love and blessing, but it seemed even further away than before.

“Galyx, respond.”

Galyx was now violently shaking. They slowly turned to the suture priest.

“We…”

The suture priest shook their head.

“Do not make us do this, Galyx.”

Galyx’s hand began to move towards them.

“I need your parts.”

Before the suture priest could react, a number of sharp tools had extended out from various points along Galyx’s body and pinned the suture priest to the ground. A second of screaming rang out across the Fair Basilica.

“I need it! I need it! I need it!”

The suture priest was torn asunder instantly as Galyx began to stitch their various pieces onto themselves as quickly as possible. Four hands. A face attached to Galyx’s back. Legs reconstructed into more hands. A body cut to pieces and absorbed into Galyx’s bulk.

“You will be a part of me. I am now you. Now my turn with Mother will be quicker.”

A ray of overwhelming light surrounded Galyx before they felt the world go dark. The last thing they saw was a large angelic figure descending down from above.

The next time Galyx opened their eyes, the entire world was dimmer. They could hear… waves? Their senses quickly returned to them as they regained their composure and analyzed their surroundings. A voice rang out from behind them.

“You are too useful to Mother to discard entirely. She has judged you worthy of living in your current state, despite your discordant display in the Fair Basilica. You are now in the Surgical Bays. Do not disappoint us, apostle. We shall be watching.”

Galyx shivered. Mother has seen them. Mother had seen them as worthy of her attention. Their plan had worked. This was different, but it was fine. Once again, the work could begin. Galyx turned to a surgical table with a live goblin laying down unconscious on it.

“Do not squirm, little one. Mother has given me a gift. We… I shall prove my worthiness of this blessing.”

Character Description

Galyx is a Phyrexian Splicer from the Fair Basilica in New Phyrexia. They one day snapped after Elesh Norn, the Mother of Machines, had not visited their workshop for a long time. This caused Galyx to become an Oil Apostle, being sent by Elesh Norn to another sphere of New Phyrexia in order to get them out of the Fair Basilica while still being useful elsewhere. They would be one of Elesh Norn’s eyes and ears, so to speak, in Jin-Gitaxias’s Surgical Bays.

Galyx has a strange oddity within them that is causing them to slowly form independent thoughts and desire things for themselves beyond just what is asked of them. They had been raised to simply splice forever, but something had taken hold of their mind. They wanted more. At first it started as just the Mother of Machine’s love, but now Galyx has slowly grown to desire a large variety of things. They want to get out, see the world, and take what they desire from it.

Galyx appears like a standard issue Sensory Splicer except they have four more arms and hands than normal as well as an extra face on their back. This allows them to multitask quickly. However, other than that, they are just like any other Sensory Splicer.

As they have worked in the Surgical Bays, they have come to hear of something called a Reality Chip. For some reason, it beckons Galyx as if it wanted to someone meet them personally. They can feel it. Their current goal, above all else, is to at least touch the Reality Chip and talk to it.

#mtg #new phyrexia #galyx #oc #esper #izzy #igor kieryluk #james paick #marc simonetti

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horror-art-the-gathering · 8 months

Text

suture priest

#mtg #magic the gathering #igor kieryluk #mtg art

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pheonixdrop · 1 year

Note

Dante has a very bad habit of not taking actual care himself, which Zane only really discovers after finally ordering Dante to take off his armor and let him look at him because he’s been listening to him make pained noises all day. He’s the high priest, he has medical training and he knows damn well a ‘pulled muscle’ doesn’t make someone grit their teeth that hard when they bump into something.

Apparently someone tried to shoot Dante while he was leaving a shop (they missed his heart by a mile and just caught him along the side) and somehow no one thought to tell Zane this directly, nor did they think to make sure Dante went to the infirmary once they caught the guy who did it. which Dante didn’t. which is why he’d been in so much pain all day, because he went for the tride and true method of ‘it’s not bleeding so it’s fine’ and didn’t bother to get anything to numb the injury after he closed it.

Of course Dante gets the scolding of a lifetime while Zane fixes his suturing job and coats it with a salve to help with the irritation from rubbing up against his underclothes. (And also pampers him. Dante’s fault, he should’ve been on bedrest until his injury healed a little. Now he has to not lift a finger and have a private meal with Zane and have actual soup and buttered bread because he can’t be trusted with his own treatment.)

How many times, while he was wandering Ru’an alone, do you think he got hurt and just didn’t treat it? It’s a miracle he’s still alive smh

#[ asks ]#Dante Anon 🟦#Juror Dante AU #aphblr #aphmau #minecraft diaries #aphverse #[my post]#[my art]#mcd #my post #aphmau mcd #mcd dante #dante mcd #zante #zane ro’meave #zane mcd

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hexonthepeach · 2 years

Text

dark & stormy 5: blue skies

summary: you’re a housekeeper in a seedy hotel working through the worst hurricane of the season when you’re invited to spend the evening with your two sexy but enigmatic co-workers. when you accidentally uncover their secret identities you're dragged into a darker world—one you may already know too well

pairing: jaehyun (nct) x johnny (nct) x fem!reader (code name: jenny)

genre: the late-70s/early-80s miami vice/nice guys/secret agent johnjae/reader au no one asked for or: a work of madness inspired by the infamous w korea shoot

word count: 11.6k of 63k

warnings: explicit sexual content (m/f, m/m, mmf threesome) [see chapters for detailed tags], dark themes, implied murder, drug-use (alcohol, quaaludes), drugging w/o consent, stalking, kidnapping (non-sexual), bondage, minor knifeplay/gunplay, slight age gap [y/n early 20s, jj late 20s/early 30s], y/n implied dark origins/criminal history (OC vibes but history left open for interpretation), sleep paralysis/nightmares, walk-on guest appearances from other nct members inc. sungtaro in later chapters

fic masterlist

read on AO3

chapter warnings: mild violence, descriptions of gore and suturing, a whole lotta angst, mild sir kink

“So a priest is drowning in the river when a boat comes along. No, no, the priest says, I don’t need help I have God on my side—”

The bells of the Duomo di Modena ring over the square, drowning out the next part of your partner’s joke. It’s just in time as the waiter brings your second espresso. You tuck your hair behind your ear, looking into your hand mirror, self-conscious not of the flyaways but the empty yellow cobblestone behind you.

“Grazie,” you say, adjusting your sunglasses to look over them at your partner in crime. “You’ve already told me this one before, Woo. God gets upset because he sent three boats.”

“Way to kill the punchline,” Jungwoo says dejectedly. He picks at his cornetto, long-lashed eyes flitting over you to fix on the waiter and offer them a smile. You give him a look of mock sympathy.

“You need to work on your repertoire,” you offer. “Maybe throw in a rabbi or a nun.”

“It’s not my fault you remember everything,” he says while scoping the town square behind you. “Know any jokes about nuns?”

At this hour in the morning foot traffic is at its peak, but more pigeons are navigating the entrance of a historic monument than passerbys. The Romanesque architecture reaching to the heavens seems altogether mundane when there’s tourists stepping around the cordoned blocks of stone to capture it in film.

“I promise if you have a fresh joke I’ll listen to it,” you offer as consolation.

“How about this one, it has a clown—“

“Is he me? Or the doctor?”

“No,” he sniffs, mock offended, crossing his impossibly long legs. “Maybe.”

You check your earpiece, thumbing the mic in your trenchcoat’s lapel. You leave it on, the dual echo of your partner’s mic catching the occasional car horn or loud conversation. That first sip of fine roast from the cup in your hand is enough to keep you breaking and running.

“Nervous?” Jungwoo catches you off guard, rosy lips splitting into a knowing grin.

“No,” you counter immediately, both knowing it’s a lie.

It wasn’t your fault you’d landed on the European continent with much less of a professional discipline than your previous missions. It wasn’t just that the stakes were higher, with you in charge of reconnaissance and intelligence gathering, but that you’d been sent without much of a lead.

While your partner was largely useless in physical combat he was more than talented at espionage. Agent Kim had talked you into and out of dozens of situations, and he had a nose for danger that had saved you before. But you couldn’t help but feel you were being thrown to the wolves.

The debriefing with the Deputy Director had been short and to the point: prevent the acquisition of a stolen asset at a drop somewhere in northern Italy. You’d chased leads though museums and hotels in Paris, even taken a short trip to the Alps, until a tip in Monaco. You'd been given the message while Jungwoo flirted with a Carabinieri to avoid being taken into custody at a murder scene you’d stumbled into.

“Find Guinivere stolen by a hippocampi.”

A cursory lead for research had landed you in Emilia-Romagna, conveniently the site of a festival and a scientific conference, and a cathedral with some odd Arthurian history you didn’t have time to dive into but had a gut feeling would work in your favor. You were beginning to think you’d chosen correctly.

“Eleven o’clock. The man with the newspaper he isn’t reading. He’s been at the same spot, eyeing the gate since Mass let out. I think he’ll move soon.”

“I see,” Jungwoo says, glancing over his shoulder for a moment before drinking from his Americano. “Need a scene?”

“Nothing too overt, please,” you say. You can’t help but be haunted by the incident involving a wig where he’d been dropped out of a casino by security, killing your conversation with your first lead in weeks.

“Got it,” he says with an easy smile. “You going to church?”

“Hopefully I don’t burst into flame the moment I walk in,” you sigh.

“I have a little something for you. For courage,” Jungwoo says, reaching into his inner jacket pocket. You watch as he performs a magic trick, pulling out a long length of scarf. The attention from the café residents around you is negligible but you blush all the same.

“You shouldn’t have,” you say, as he deftly folds the square of silk into a triangle. The leopard motif is immediately recognizable as an Yves Saint Laurent piece you’d eyed in Milan, pretending to be the kind of clientele who could afford it.

“For courage,” he says, reaching over the wrought-iron table and your forgotten pastry breakfast to tie it over your head and behind your high bun. “There, you look like Audrey in Charade now. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with you?” You ask him as he stands up.

“No, what?” He asks, puzzled. You let him realize you’re telling a joke by the way you pull down your sunglasses to wink at him.

“Nothing,” you quote, waiting for him to get it.

Jungwoo tips his black hat with a grin, not bothering to head for the exit of the cafe patio but instead simply walking over the low fence, making a beeline for the empty square. You finish your coffee, steeling your nerves and checking your surroundings in your pocket mirror before following in his wake.

It’s easy to become lost in the bustle, tourists mixing with the crowd leaving morning service. You keep your focus ahead but watch out of the corner of your eye as the slim man in black rounds your earlier target and stands besides him. He pulls something from his pocket and throws it on the ground.

Your cue to continue is a rush of wings as every bird in a 100-yard radius descends on a free breakfast.

“Good work,” you say into your hidden mic. “I’m going in.”

The cathedral is open between services but surprisingly empty except for a few parishioners and visitors. You cross yourself upon entering, taking a seat in the back and allowing yourself to bask in the impressive gothic vault and bare brick arches, leading to an apse illuminated in gold and quaint paintings of Christ, Mary, and saints.

Once you have your bearings you pretend to drop your purse, leaning down to scan the dark wooden benches for anything left beneath them. Within a few seconds you’ve caught sight of the steel briefcase—it was always a briefcase—towards the front and left.

“Your friend is bird-free,” Jungwoo’s musical voice is in your ear.

“Intercepting the package now,” you answer in a whisper.

“Looks like he has company.” The response spurs you to move faster, slipping out of your seat and rounding the columns so as to be out of the eyeline of the central nave. You’re almost to your goal when you see an uncharacteristic group of three men enter under the giant rose window, shadowed against the exterior.

Immediately you drop down and crawl to the case, startling an old woman sitting at the other end of the pew. You look up at her, startled, as you fight to undo the lock chaining it to a wooden leg, finally deciding to pick up the bench with a loud squeak and pull it to you.

“Scusi,” you whisper, moving past her knees and still crouched as you head towards the nearest exit on the north side. The door is right ahead of you but so is someone else, hidden in the dim corridor.

“Dove stai andando con quello?” You can see the short man reach into his jacket pocket and respond automatically: you bull rush him with the case, knocking him to the floor before turning on your heel and sprinting in the opposite direction.

“Fermala!” He calls out behind you but the other men have already split to chase, sidling down the rows and around the columns to cut off your escape. You knock down an iron candelabra to ward off the fastest of your pursuers, barreling out the massive south-side door and past the stone lions guarding the entrance.

“Fourth door, fourth door,” you repeat, veering right to head back towards the square. At the sound of the gate opening again you duck into another entryway. This side of the Duomo is much more busy, crowded with vendors and tourists.

“I’m on the north side, too much heat. Heading into the tower,“ Jungwoo says in the channel.

“It’s a little late to set up a lookout!” you hiss.

“I’ll cover you. Head to rendezvous point C.”

You bite your lip reflexively, pulling out the Beretta Compact in your trench pocket. You peer around the stone wall to see the thugs pausing a stone’s throw away, scanning the crowd. You duck back just as a shot rings out—chips of stone explode over your head, but not from the door. Two more men approach, shouting.

You’re effectively pincered. so you do the only sane thing under the circumstances and sprint into the crowded square, the second and third reports just as unnoticed over the band playing near the street.

A woman screams behind you but you can’t afford to look, knocking aside a number of people as you break free of the throng and past a row of cafes. You’re nearly taken out when the heel of your leather pump breaks in a cobblestone crack but it also saves you, another bullet zinging overhead. You turn to see the gunman aim again, raising your own weapon but two seconds too late—

He crumples to the ground without you having to fire.

“Nice shot,” you say, line of sight leading to the massive tower.

“Wish I could take credit for it.” You can hear the surprise in Jungwoo’s voice. There isn’t time to consider who else has your back, breaking off your other heel with a kick and streaking down the nearest alleyway crowded with crates and empty wine barrels. You’re catcalled by a number of delivery men sitting around smoking until you pull your gun on them.

“Can I get a ride?” you ask, Italian forgotten, commandeering the fastest looking of their scooters. You grip the case between your knees, twisting the throttle to zoom down the bumpy corridor towards the nearest road.

“Two cars in pursuit, black Mercedes, looks like they’re heading to—”

You can barely hear him over the irritating whine of the small engine, avoiding pedestrians as you break out onto a main thoroughfare trafficked with taxis. You don’t make it far before you hear the familiar rev of a car engine and horns honking, your pursuers weaving between cars to follow you.

You’d chosen your escape vehicle poorly but it did have one advantage—you bank off the road again and down a side street that turns out to be a stairway, teeth clacking as you hit each step and are yelled at with insults you save for later by an old man flattened against the wall.

“—not that direction!” Jungwoo says, but the only way out is through, holding on for dear life until you’ve finally spotted the windows of the street-level shops. You explode out of the alleyway and into traffic, swerving wildly to avoid colliding with another bicyclist. You end up in an intersection, the sound of horns exploding around you.

For a moment you’ve lost direction, facing back towards where you came from, and that’s when you see the familiar shape of a black car barreling down on you, just one block away. You head towards the next pedestrian side street but this one is at a standstill, forcing you to navigate parked cars and lose speed. Behind you the screech of tires indicates your pursuit is almost at an end—a bullet pinging into a rear windshield just two feet beside you.

“Come on, come on,” you mutter as you end up on the sidewalk, scattering people left and right and overturning carts. Somewhere nearby sirens pick up, sending your heart skyrocketing into your throat.

This was about to get much more messy, but you were trained for this, you think. You’re almost there, almost free—

A red sports car cuts off your path, swerving in such a tight turn you’re immediately braking and on your side. Luckily you weren’t going faster and the scooter is light but you’re thrown to the ground, case skidding along with you as you desperately hold on to it.

The passenger door swings open, revealing the absolute last person you want to see in that moment, as winded and battered as you are and on the verge of being riddled with gunfire.

“Hey babydoll. Need a ride?”

“Please, just pull over,” you say for the dozenth time. Outside the car windows the landscape is a yellow-green blur, each curve in the road making your head spin as Johnny takes them at breakneck speed. You’re being held hostage on your own operation, and as grateful as you are to be out of a firefight you’re only getting more angry by the minute.

“No one is following us now,” you say, “you can slow down. I need to get out of this car.”

“What are you going to do, hitchhike?” Johnny asks, more than a little sarcastically, his hand on the shifter. “Get friendly with the local livestock?”

“I said stop!”

You have to grip the dashboard, burning rubber as he brings the Ferrari Quattrovalvole from 140 kph to 0 in a matter of seconds. The screech of tires fades away until the ticking of the engine is the only sound.

“Well?” He asks, his gloved hands flexing on the wheel. “Happy now?”

“Get us off the road,” you say. “Please.”

Up ahead is a break in the crumbling stone wall fence and he pulls the car out of its wide spun-out turn, idling into the dusty entrance of an orchard. You fly out of the passenger seat well before the engine’s cut off, immediately dropped into the pink embrace of a pastoral fantasy—ancient cherry trees in full bloom.

A small band of sheep watch you curiously from down the row as you do the only thing you can to let out your frustration: you scream.

The sound echoes for what feels like miles. Once you’ve regained your composure you turn to find Johnny losing it, laughing like he’s seen the funniest thing in his life. His body shakes with suppressed laughter as he leans against the red roof of the sportscar, tall enough that it barely provides cover when you remove one of your ruined shoes and launch it at his head.

“Shut up!” you yell. Johnny barely manages to duck, doubling over.

“I won’t say a word.” He raises his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender once he’s through his fit. You throw your other shoe at him, going wide enough that he collapses again in mirth.

“I had it under control,” you say, no longer embarrassed. “I would have made it on my own.”

“I never doubted you,” he says, walking around the car. “Just figured you could use a faster way out.”

Johnny is dressed much more casually than you’d expect for the kind of asshole who could take a new Ferrari straight out of the factory: tight jeans and leather jacket over an incredibly loud Versace shirt . He lifts his Wayfarers to wipe the tears from his eyes, as always amused at your expense.

“If you didn’t doubt me then what in the hell are you doing here?” you shout. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Istanbul?”

You turn away from him to hide your expression. You didn’t mean to let on that you knew where he was. You certainly couldn’t let him know that you always knew where he was, thanks to your contacts in the Agency.

“Had a break in the schedule and a craving for Bolognese,” he says. You automatically register the smug tone in his voice and wish you had another shoe to throw.

“Did the Director tell you to come?” You ask, rounding on him again.

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head, more seriously.

“It was his idea then.” The words feel like acid on your tongue.

Johnny doesn’t respond.

“You think I don’t know about you shadowing me in Mexico City? New York? Wasn’t Iceland enough for you?”

His face doesn’t give away anything but you watch his jaw shift, smile fading.

You continue, emboldened by finding blood and grit on your leg from where you’d skidded across the pavement.

“Is this how it’s going to be, then? You just conveniently pop up every time I’m on assignment like the world’s most unemployed superspies?”

“Listen—“

“You know who gets yelled at? Me!”

Your voice upsets the sheep not scared off by your scream, their belled necks ringing as they move out of range of your anger.

“Internal Security drilled me for an hour about going rogue, and I covered for you! I really thought I was compromised in Reykjavik. Do you know how hard it is to lose two dedicated agents on an island the size of Kentucky?”

“It was impressive,” he admits, not hiding that feline look of amusement.

“I bribed my way onto a fishing boat in a storm,” you yell, pacing in your ruined pantyhose. “They had to extract me from Finland. Qian thought I was defecting.”

“I’m sorry—“

“No. You’re not. You had no business being there,” You cut him off, voice shaking with unleashed anger. “I’m tired of being part of whatever twisted little game you’ve concocted. I’m not here to be your plaything. Or your damsel in distress.”

You pull your hand through your hair, relieved to find your scarf still there but realizing how wild you must look, raving on about your silly little adventures in avoidance.

Johnny is uncharacteristically quiet, eyes on the old road as he considers what to say next.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, finally. “I never thought of it as rescuing you. Or playing a game.”

He sounds so distant it makes you walk back a little of the anger that had been building in you. It’s been there since your first field assignment, when your instinct that you had an invisible tail had proven right. At first you’d chalked it up to standard oversight, but then it had happened again. And again. The fuse had finally caught when you’d been dressed down for it.

Surely you could have dealt with it sooner—you could have confronted him before you left for this trip. But old habits die hard, and you’d gone out of your way time and time again to dodge him.

“What was the reason, then?” You ask.

You watch him squint up at the cloudless sky, brushing back the black-dyed hair that’s fallen over his forehead.

“Professional curiosity.” He looks at you again, almost wistfully. “Chasing you around the globe wasn’t all my idea.”

“Of course,” you say, exasperated.

You knew who was really causing you grief in this scenario—Johnny would have just been dragged along. The certainty of it makes you feel guilty for venting your frustrations on him, but also a little heartsick.

You weren’t that important to him, after all. Just another fling.

The NCTA didn’t have a strict hierarchy but it was clear within a few months he was at the top of those in field action, if not actually in charge. As such, he was frequently brought in to do supervision on new agents or missions. An unavoidable eventuality in your case.

It had been so easy for him to slip into his role with you in the handful of unavoidable home office encounters. He’d been nothing but kind, willing to joke and flirt in his usual, offhand manner. Not once had he danced close to confrontation. You’d been grateful but it had nagged at you how little he seemed to care.

You remember the first time you’d been in a shared briefing, the sharp smell of his cologne from a few seats down triggering sense memories so potent you’d gone to smoke on the rooftop afterwards. Or your anniversary dinner last autumn when you’d brushed into him joining the others on your way to the coat check, finding yourself caught in his easy stare like a moth pinned to a board.

Every time you’d heard him laugh in another room, or seen him walking around with that maddening self-assurance on the way to another meeting, you’d felt like your entire world was spinning off-axis.

It had been a long time since you’d felt so small, back in a worn-out uniform with bleach burns on your knuckles. You didn’t like feeling that way, not after everything you’d been through to succeed in this new life.

“Are you putting down roots here or are you ready to go?” Johnny asks gently, breaking your reverie. He opens the passenger door for you.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask. You’re not letting your guard down, now.

“That was too coordinated of a situation to be bad luck on your part. Best to lay low for the next few days. I’ll take you up north to a safehouse and do the hand-off for you.”

He notes your pinched brow and continues, “We would have been called in regardless. This is above your paygrade.”

“What about Agent Kim?” You knew better than to abandon your partner, even if it seemed there wasn’t much you could do without help.

“He’ll be fine,” Johnny says, cracking a careful smile. “He has back-up.”

You feel the disdain twisting your face but he doesn’t say anything, pulling his sunglasses down again.

“It’s a long drive. Do you mind if we take it to speed?”

“Go as fast as you like,” you offer, slipping back into the plush leather seat and taking the time to brush off the bottoms of your feet to free them of crushed cherry blossoms before you close the door.

“Thank you,” the words slip from your mouth unbidden.

“For what?” He asks, incredulously.

You shrug. “For giving me a moment to think.”

You roll down the window to finally pay attention to your surroundings, lost in bird song and the light breeze sending pink confetti-like petals to the ground. “It really is beautiful here.”

“It is,” he says, leaning towards you, his arm brushing against your chest. You stiffen only to find he’s reached across you to pull the seatbelt tight, buckling it smoothly.

“You’re welcome.”

The engine purrs into life and you’re back on the way towards your destination, a new kind of tension keeping the words you wanted to say and the stray feelings of remorse buried deep inside of you.

Hours later finds you well out of the endless cycle of farmlands and vineyards, and back into a coastal city that you only recognize as Verona from signage and the maps you’d memorized. Buildings made of time-grayed stone blend into one another past your open window, the evening air redolent with spring flowers and the promise of rain.

The safe house is a narrow two-story number with a view of muddy river waters, illuminated gold by the setting sun and the warm glow from former gas lights. Johnny has already told you where to find the key and how to avoid the ancient landlady in the apartment below, but he doesn’t move from his seat even when you say your farewell.

You find yourself leaning down beside the car, unsure how to conclude.

“Will you be coming back?” you ask. You can’t hide the almost hopeful quality of the question, your heart racing in your chest.

His face is hidden to you in the dim light, hands gripping the wheel and shift stick again. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Thank you, again,” you say, in lieu of something more apologetic, or pleading.

“You’re right, you could have handled—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I’m glad you were here. I needed you—I mean, we needed you there.”

He seems to want to say something but after a pause he shakes his head, eyes on the road.

“I’ll see you back at HQ,” he says. “Get some rest.”

You step back and watch him drive away, feeling the first raindrops begin to spatter on to the warm stone beneath your feet. You’re soaked through by the time you remember to go inside.

It’s midnight when the pounding on your door begins and you rush to the heavy wooden door to open it, heart racing and gun hidden under a silk robe that had been part of the surprisingly stocked complement of the house.

Your spirits fall a little when you hear it’s a woman yelling in Italian–most of it unrecognizable but for some of the curse words you’d picked up in your travels.

“Oh mio dio,” the old woman says when you finally open the numerous locks. She appears to have been woken up, hair in curlers and just as similarly dressed for bed.

“Posso aiuturla?” You ask, hiding behind the door.

“Le tue scarpe,” she says, thrusting a glossy bag through the opening before making her way back down the stairs, lamenting just as loudly as she had through the door.

You place the delivery on the wooden table, next to the remnants of a cold dinner of meats and cheese and slightly stale bread, along with the bottle of Barolo you’d found in the en-suite kitchen.

There’s no label on the box but inside is a beautiful pair of handmade leather heels, the quality better than anything you’d buy even with your generous salary. You’re still burdened by the spendthrift nature of a survivor, not sure if such beautiful things are meant for you.

You try them on, not surprised when they fit perfectly.

Your grandmother had once told you never to give shoes as a gift, that the person would walk out of your life. Just a silly superstition, you thought, but it makes you quickly take them off, feeling a little dumb for walking around in them while mostly naked.

Another knock on the door has you back without a second thought, expecting to find the landlady.

The stranger darkening your doorway in a motorcycle helmet doesn’t wait, breaking through the unclosed locks to force his way in. You kick the door closed but it’s wrested open, and you reach behind you for anything that can save you.

“Y/N,” the person says, raising their hands.

The safety on your Beretta is already disengaged, finger taut on the trigger expecting the heavy pull of a double action. You don’t relax, putting space between you and the open door, the knife on the table calling just as surely as the gun in your hands.

Slowly, carefully, they remove their helmet.

You’d had a gut feeling just from their build but you gasp a little when you see the bruising on that familiar face, blood streaking the left side of his jaw.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, not lowering the weapon.

Jaehyun drips water onto the floor, hands still raised. He turns to close the door and lock it, as if forgetting you’re there, discarding his helmet on the table as he checks the window over the sink and closes the lacy curtains.

You lower the gun as you follow him around the old suite, struck dumb. Jaehyun turns off the bedroom light before closing the open balcony door, cutting off the white noise of rain outside.

“Were you followed?” You ask in a panicked tone—not just from the circumstances but because you’re alone with him in the tiny space, your eyes still adjusting to the lack of light.

“No,” he finally says, peering through the space in the drapes. His answer doesn’t instill you with confidence.

“What happened?”

You follow him into the tiny bathroom with its claw foot tub, watching as he turns out the light even though the only window is high-placed and just big enough for ventilation. The candle you’d lit for your bath still flickers on the shelf, allowing you to see the look of pain on his face in the mirror when he removes motorcycle jacket, revealing the familiar glossy crimson of blood soaking through his dress shirt.

“My god,” you exhale. “Sit down before you pass out.”

You can’t chide him for coming here instead of going to a hospital or a back-alley doctor; you know that’s out of the question in your line of work. Instead you set the gun down and retrieve the field medic bag from its usual place in the closet, sneezing from the dust that coats it.

You return to find him slumped against the sink, wet hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood.

“I’m going to need more light,” you say. You reach to flip the switch but are stopped by his hand on your back.

“It’s not bad,” he says. “Just looks bad.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you say, ripping off his ruined shirt. Underneath you find an ugly, deep gash through his shoulder blade, a graze by the looks of it–no exit or entry wounds, just a powder burn. Whatever he’d gotten into had happened in close quarters. You knew him well enough now that it had to have been a last resort.

“You idiot,” you say, cleaning the edges of the wound with an alcohol-soaked wad of gauze. “Why are you here?”

What possessed you to ride two hours in the rain just to bleed all over my bedroom? Is what you want to ask, but you hold your tongue.

A sharp sound escapes his teeth as you debride his wound without warning him, continuing once you have assurance he’s still conscious. You’re a little more careful as you dab at the exposed muscle, watching his back twitch with each touch, but he doesn’t complain again. He’s hunched over, almost penitent, as you work.

Jaehyun whispers something inaudible, and you have to lean in to hear him repeat it.

“Wanted to make sure . . .”

“You could have called, you know. This place has a secure line.”

“. . . I’m glad you’re okay,” he mumbles.

“Stay with me, there’s no way I can carry you,” you say loudly, throwing the ruined towel in the sink. “I’ll need to do sutures. Can you get to the bed first?”

It’s a fight to help him up, his mass so much bigger than you remember it, but you make it to the small bed, helping him remove his heavy boots before he collapses. The bed cover stains immediately, his clothing dripping watercolor pink patches into the old fabric.

Even if he isn’t in a position to fight you about it you throw your scarf over the nightstand light before clicking it back on. It’s your only illumination as you drink from the wine bottle to steady your hands. No training on banana peels could prepare you for your first attempt at stitches on living tissue, and as much as you think you’re prepared your first subject is too precious for trial.

“I don’t have a topical anesthetic in here,” you say, rummaging one last time through the bag for a vial to match the needles inside. “Can you handle it?”

His face is turned away from you, but you think he assents.

“I’m sorry,” you say, digging in with your silver hook.

Each pull of the needle through his dermis makes your spine tingle with sympathy, but you manage to close the wound. He endures the pain face-first in a pillow, not making a sound until you’re done and cleaning up your hands and the mess in the bathroom.

“Thanks,” Jaehyun says, finally, voice muffled.

“You’re going to want to get that restitched by a professional,” you say. “Turn over.”

You help him onto his side, checking the wounds on his drawn face and opting to treat them topically. Most of the blood you clean from his neck and chest appears to be from an unknown source. You don’t want to think about that–how much you’d give to have been by his side when he’d given them hell.

“Is Kim alright?” You ask. He blinks against the cotton swab you’re using to apply ointment to his cheek.

“Yeah,” he says. “He made it to the rendezvous.”

“Thank you,” you say, repositioning him to cover your shoddy work with dressings. His skin is soaked with sweat by the time you wrap another layer of gauze around it.

“I missed you,” he says, once you’ve met his eyes. They’re a little glassy but he seems awake, searching your face for a response. You don’t allow the words to touch you, just feeling them in your gut, like you’ve been weighed down with stones.

“I know,” you murmur. “So you and Johnny were there the whole time?”

“I missed you,” he repeats. You check his forehead for fever but he catches your hand, pulling it to his bare chest. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

You pick a crust of blood from under your fingernail, reaching for the wine bottle again.

“You’ve never scared me,” you say. Yes, you’re scared, right now–for different reasons. You know better than to show it.

“Why did you leave, then?” he asks.

You offer him the bottle rather than answer, turning your face away. You listen to him get up, propped against the pillows, and fight the flinch when his cold hand closes over yours to take it. His touch lingers after you’ve let go.

“It was easier than saying goodbye,” you admit. A tear leaks out of the corner of your eye, and you quickly wipe it away on your sleeve. “I’m sorry for stealing your watch.”

His fingers brush your cheek, bringing you back to look at him again. He’s a portrait of quiet regard in the half-light, lashes low over his dark eyes as he takes you in.

“Don’t apologize for that. I wanted to give you more.” Free of the blood you can see that creasing in his cheek where his dimple is, the one you’ve only seen when he was truly happy.

“I know.” You can’t fight the tears anymore, so you let them drip down your nose and onto the bedspread. “I couldn‘t. I can’t.”

That’s as honest as you can be, with him and with yourself. Trust was not something you’d ever had, not even with family, not with friends, and certainly not with a stranger you’d known mostly in your periphery for one summer.

You hadn’t lied when you’d said you wanted to know him better, but what you had hidden was even worse: you didn’t want him to know you. Not your weaknesses, or your loneliness. And certainly not the magnet-like pull you’d felt every time he was near, even when he was just a ghost on the edge of your world.

It was easier to pretend it was something physical, something temporary.

Something never to be spoken of again.

Your face is buried in your hands when he pulls you into a careful embrace, pulling you into the wedge between his head and uninjured shoulder. There’s a featherlight brush of lips on your temple, just the smallest gesture but it unburdens some of what’s been weighing you down for as long as you can remember.

“Can we start over?” He asks.

You let out a trembling breath, catching your tears before they can slip through to his collarbone. “Are you and Johnny going to let me be?”

“I didn’t . . .“ he begins. “Do you know why we got you into the Agency?”

“Just figured you wanted something more,” you say. Something I couldn’t give you, you think.

“We didn’t want you to feel like you were alone anymore.”

The feral part of you is clawing and spitting at the idea of being taken care of. You let the hand on your hair quiet her into submission, until you feel ready to speak again.

“I need to know that I belong here on my own terms, by my own merit.”

He sighs. “You do.”

“I mean it,” you say, sitting up to make your point. “I can’t be your . . .“

Your words die on your tongue. You’re shocked to see his eyes are as red as yours must be, his jaw ticking with emotion.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just wanted to be with you?”

The blood drains from your face as you watch him break. He covers his eyes, head knocking against the headboard as he tries to keep it together. You can't miss the tracks of wetness on his cheekbone, mingling with the rain and sweat that’s collected there.

Not once had you ever seen him this undone. The rawness of his emotion terrifies you.

“I felt so stupid,” he says, smiling ruefully beneath his arm. “You needed space but I didn’t know how . . . I guess I had this idea that if you had a choice you’d come back to me."

He swallows the thickness that's built up in his voice. "But you didn’t.”

The lump in your own throat isn’t going away anytime soon. You feel heavy, made of lead for how little you can react to him in this different kind of crisis.

“Every time I saw you it felt like I made it worse,” he says. “After that day at the shooting range I knew . . . ”

That day had never been one you could bury: the first and last time you’d spoken to him since Florida. You’d had plenty of warning on who would be your combat arms instructor in the first months of intensive training, and you’d gone to your assignment with the iron resolve to see the course through.

Jaehyun had been waiting for you, field-stripping an impressive, long-range rifle. The silhouette of his shoulders and his bent head against the green of the firing range were just as natural to your landscape as if he had been in that hotel room again, palm slapping against a malfunctioning TV. You'd stood there, as speechless and uncertain, waiting for him to turn around.

Toughen up, toughen up, toughen up. The words repeating in your head had done zero except distract you from the simplest thing you could have done: just say ‘hello.’ You’d watched the careful smile disappear from his closed mouth, replaced with cold politeness, and a part of you had gone with it.

You made mistake after mistake, occupied with even just the smallest changes of distance between you physically, unable to hide your distraction. He hadn’t reprimanded you. Maybe that was worse, seeing his face screw up with disappointment at every wide shot, repeating the same instruction in a flat voice.

The next day he was gone—a temporary reassignment the Deputy Director said, but one that never finished. You’d trained with Agent Nakamoto instead, grateful for the new teacher even if he was less forgiving in his own brand of quiet discipline.

“I was sure you hated me,” he says, voice strained. “But it was worth it. It felt like there was something broken inside of me, and the thought that you might be happy and safe fixed it.”

You shake your head, knowing the damage can’t be undone.

“I’m sorry for being your shadow." He sinks into the pillows, staring at the ceiling. "I can leave you alone, if that’s what you want. Johnny makes it look so easy, man, but he’s not okay either. He’s just better than me at hiding it—”

“I’ve never hated you,” you speak, at last, still stuck a few sentences prior. “I loved you.”

Jaehyun is unable to process the words, rolling over. “What?”

“I left because of that,” you're unable to repeat it. “That’s what scared me. Not you, not what happened.”

“But you—why . . .“

“I didn’t know you. Didn’t know what you saw in me. I still don’t believe it,” you say, getting up and putting distance between you so you don’t lose the slim shard of confidence behind your confession.

“I figured I’d get some relief in knowing what you really were like once I joined,” you admit. You pace, bare feet catching on cracked tile. “Like every awful thing I’d made up in my head to distance myself was true.”

Your fingernails are digging into your arms, trembling despite the solace of finally saying it out loud. You can’t look at him, eyes dry but your lip is chewed to stinging. Jaehyun is silent in that old, familiar way, emboldening you.

“The worst part is . . . I think you're actually a good person.”

Everyone had stories about him—even that asshole Donghyuck had showered Jaehyun in praise, once you’d earned his trust. The bitterness at hearing your ex-lover’s name had dwindled until you’d stopped leaving the room or—in Jungwoo’s case—asking for silence. You’d listened to every passing aside, every heroic yarn, registering the admiration and awe as if it was your first time encountering it.

All you’d found out was already there in your memory: his quiet perseverance and kindness, his odd sense of humor. He had a willingness to do the worst work for no reward, regardless of how much it distanced himself, unable to understand why it brought others closer.

All things you’d seen but willingly would have blinded yourself to if it meant you could move on.

“You weren’t my secret friend on a bus bench anymore. Or something more, you know. You were perfect and untouchable and larger than life and I was just . . . I’m just me.”

The words hang, growing more pathetic as you realize what you’ve said. There wasn’t another person on the planet that could make you question yourself that way. You feel more wrung out than the towel in the sink, and just as dirty.

“But that’s all I wanted,” Jaehyun says, right behind you. “Just you.”

You hadn’t even heard him get up. He’s so close the heat of his body feels like burning. He has a fever, you think, but before you can turn around he’s wrapped around you, face in your hair.

“Why?” You ask, voice tremulous.

“Because you trusted me, even when you shouldn’t have. You protected me.” His arms are tight around your own, practically crushing you. Somehow, you don’t feel trapped.

“Where do we go from here?” you ask aloud.

“Don’t know,” he says, head resting on your shoulder. “But I know that I . . .”

You reach up in reassurance, finding his forehead cold and clammy. In the time it takes for you to turn he’s somehow grown heavier, your knees buckling under the weight.

“You need to lie down,” you say, gently. “You’re going into shock.“

“I–” he says, eyes fluttering into his head. He collapses, taking you with him.

For once you’re grateful for the excruciating regimen the Agency has put you through—you manage to put up a fight before you reach the floor.

Jaehyun barely responds as you elevate his legs with a pillow, making you rush to the icebox for the emergency saline storage you hope isn't expired. Another day, another first: this time finding the vein in his death-pale arm so you can feed the IV line in.

You think it’s enough to abet the hypovolemic shock but you pick up the phone and dial the emergency code all the same. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened to him, and you’re sure Johnny wouldn’t let it rest for your natural lives, either.

Now that he's in repose you can tell it’s not just the trauma written on his face that's made him look so different. He's lost weight and his hair has grown out past his ears, messy over his forehead. He looks like a boy again. One you’d never know but might learn, in time, if he let you.

“I love you, too,” you finish for him, resting your cheek against his chest as you check his breathing, the slow but steady beat of his heart in your ear.

They called it the Tiger’s Den, and though you’d never been called up here before, you’d always known it was an inevitability. Like walking through the gates of Hell when you eventually met your end. Hell has to have some nice places, you think. Maybe you'd get a nice desk in Limbo.

You’re just beginning to feel at ease when the secretary in the spacious front office gives you a look like you’re meant for the deepest reaches.

She picks up the telephone, buzzing the interoffice. “Director? Juliet is here. Yes. Yes, I know. Of course, sir. Your 15:00 is postponed.”

She places the receiver down, leading you to the door and punching in an elaborate code.

“You can go in,” she nods. “Director Lee and Agent Suh are expecting you.”

You open the double doors into the office hesitantly, like you’re moving underwater. You’re immediately struck by how vast the space is, the late-afternoon sun outlining the topography of the city in gold past a wall of windows.

It's beautiful, you think, less sterile and brown than the rest of the headquarters—a testament to the mid-century period the Agency was founded in. The Director's taste is immediately obvious in the vibrant Joan Mitchell piece on the showcase wall behind his imposing and yet very empty desk.

You find the gray-haired man sitting casually at the conference table. He’s much younger than you expected, or it could just be the way he looks and is positioned: legs akimbo and leaned back.

Director Lee studies the projector feed in front of him, horn-rimmed glasses halfway down his nose, seeming to come back to reality only after you've made it a few feet away from him.

“Hello, sir,” you say, giving him a half bow. Keeping your attention on the agency head is the only possible distraction you have from the six-foot-something demon on the corner of your vision. You don't turn to acknowledge him, sure one look will break your manufactured calm.

“Hello, Y/N, so glad to finally meet you.” Director Lee’s voice is gentle, if a little distracted. He’s smaller than you expected, too, blinking up at you owlishly from where he sits in front of a pile of microfiche.

“It’s an honor, sir,” you say with utmost conviction, reaching out to take his slender hand in a polite handshake before dropping back.

“Agent Suh.” You nod in the other man’s direction, trying to remain neutral.

The attempt is futile, at best; Johnny is staring at you with his usual reserved but in-on-the-joke expression. You’re not surprised when he looks you up and down while nodding in return.

You’d prepared yourself for this meeting like it was going to be your last on earth, getting an emergency fitting of a black suit dress from one of the Agency’s recommended vendors. You know you look better than usual, but you can’t tell how he feels about it.

You size him up as surreptitiously as possible. Johnny is in a midnight navy three-piece, his longish bronze hair tucked back behind his ears. It's more than a little embarrassing to find yourself staring at him, pretending to study the schematics on the screen behind him.

“You two know each other, I hear?” Director Lee breaks the tension with little regard for either of you as he reads through pages.

“Yes, sir. Agent Suh was kind enough to provide my original referral. I wouldn’t be here without him,” you say. The double-meaning is underscored by your lips twitching.

You don't know what to expect but it certainly isn't the way Johnny immediately relaxes, smiling easily as he places a hand on the back of one of the replicate Eames chairs circling the polished wood table.

“Good to see you again, Jenny.”

The warmth in his eyes gives you pause. It didn’t look like he was expecting you to take a lashing—unless he found it funny. That had to be it, you think.

“Good, good. Moon speaks highly of your work, says you’re a natural.” The Director assesses you, finally. “Do you know why we called you in here?”

You wonder if this is a trick question, your carefully planned admission and apology forgotten.

“I expect it’s to go over our failure in Modena, sir.” You keep your voice and face clear of anxiety.

“Failure?” Director Lee looks at the other man quizzically.

Johnny only shrugs. “The intercept, sir.”

“Oh, you mean the firefight, in the middle of a packed city in broad daylight. The one with multiple casualties, including my best agent?" Director Lee doesn't have to raise his voice to instill terror in you, but it's clear he's directing his sarcasm at the other man in the room.

He pinches the bridge of his nose above his spectacles. “No, we reviewed that already. Agents Suh and Jeong have taken responsibility for compromising the mission and will be reprimanded accordingly.”

“Sir?” You sway a little in your heels, taken aback.

“Consider my report a formal apology, Agent L/N,” Johnny says, gesturing to the pile of paperwork in front of him. “We went off-plan without informing you in advance and were flagged by the other party.”

You stare at him, waiting for some continuation of the punchline.

“You and Agent Kim couldn’t have known what you were getting into,” he says. “Think of it like walking into a mousetrap set for a bear.”

“Kun give you an earful, I expect?” Director Lee asks, taking a drink from the delicate china cup in front of him.

“Yes, sir,” Johnny nods, solemnly. You see the twist at the corner of his mouth that indicates he's enjoying this.

“Good. Make sure Jae checks in with him once he’s discharged from Medical, otherwise he’ll send me another one of those awful memos.” Director Lee shudders visibly as he sets down his tea, turning to you.

As clouded as his expression is, he looks at you much more kindly. "You have nothing to be concerned about, L/N. Your quick thinking saved the day, we have what we need.”

You wish you could feel relieved but the reminder of Jaehyun’s stint in the hospital has you sinking into the polished granite floor.

It'd been over a week since you watched him loaded into the Agency’s emergency transport in the early hours before dawn. The lack of communication had worn you down but you’d also done little to move past it, only confirming he was safe. Medical was strictly off limits as part of the wing of research laboratories and you told yourself you didn't have the clearance, much less a valid reason, to check in on him.

You were getting good at lying to yourself, these days.

“Thank you, sir,” you say. “I appreciate your trust—“

“Oh yes, so why you’re here,” Director Lee stands up and looks awkwardly around, searching the table for something before flitting to his desk.

Johnny turns away, coughing to cover his amusement.

“Here we are,” the older man says, pulling something from his briefcase and offering it to you across a surface covered in oddities and stacks of files.

“We don’t have much by way of ceremony here for promotion to acting field agent status, but this should do. Congratulations, Agent Y/N.” Director Lee nods at you, his small face pleased. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say, opening the case. You stare at the silver and black timepiece inside, stomach twisting. It’s a similar make to one you’d traded in at a Miami pawn shop almost two years ago, smaller and elegant enough for your build. You already know what the custom engraving on the back will look like but you don't take it out, feeling empty.

“You’re going to want to run by the lab and have Dr. Huang help set it up, it being a new model and all.” The Director checks his own watch, shutting his briefcase. “Sorry. I have a previous appointment I'm already late for."

Your shock of not being berated but rather being graduated now shifts to something you're far less sure you can handle.

"Agent Suh will fill you in on the next mission,“ he says, buzzing past you.

“Is Deputy Director Moon joining us?” You ask aloud, already knowing the answer.

“He’ll no longer be your point person,” Director Lee says, waving off your offered closing handshake from ten feet away. “Feel free to use the office for as long as you need.”

“We’ll be out of your hair in no time,” you blurt out in his wake, watching him dart through the doors you’d just come through. As much as you’d imagined your first meeting with the Director going differently you’re unsurprised by his departure; it was common knowledge he kept an impossibly busy schedule.

“Have a seat,” Johnny says once the massive room is empty. You turn back to him slowly, watching him as you take your place at the table, choosing an empty chair far from the Director’s.

“It’s good to see you, too, sir,” you say. He doesn’t respond to the affectation, his profile colored black-and-white by the plans projected on the massive screen behind him.

“Have any questions about Italy?” Johnny asks. He slides a folder across the table to you with a flick of his wrist, still standing.

“No, sir. Is there anything mission-critical I missed in the debrief?”

“Nothing that won’t cover,” he says, nodding at the file. Some of the tenseness you feel slips away.

“How are you doing, Y/N?”

The question catches you off-guard, drawing your attention away from the xerocopy.

No one has asked you anything personal in your time in basic field training, you certainly didn’t expect that level of disclosure now. It’s not like he’s asking it with the tone of someone who knows your answer. No, you suspect he’s probing for an honest reply.

“More than fine,” you say after catching your breath. “I like it here, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He smiles. You can tell it’s not in his eyes by the lack of creasing at their corners. It should feel strange to be able to read him so well after so long, but even in Italy you’d sensed it—a familiarity that no formality could kill.

“Do you have any questions?” he asks, deliberately.

It’s so subtle, the way his eyes drop to your mouth and then back up again, but your heart skips a beat as if he’d touched you with a look. More than a touch—like he’d run his hand down your face. You quash that impulse as quickly as you can, trying to focus.

“No, sir,” you say. Your heartbeat feels like it’s louder than the hum of electricity from the projector. “Do you . . . do we need to go over anything?”

Johnny moves across from you, bisected by distorted gray lines. He picks up a dossier, nodding at its twin within your reach. “Nothing that isn’t mission-critical.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir’,” he says, voice suddenly cold.

You blink up at him, again frozen mid-scan of the report. His usual air of joviality is gone and replaced with displeasure. This is new to you, and not altogether unwelcome.

“My promotion couldn’t have been that good,” you venture. “Sir.”

Johnny crosses his arms, suit straining against the tension in his wide shoulders. “Now who’s playing games?”

Heat flares in your cheeks. The words slip out of your mouth before you can calm down. “Did you lie about compromising the mission in Modena?”

“No,” he says, flatly. You give him a withering look, waiting for him to laugh it off or at your expense, but he’s just as stiff as before. “Scouts honor.”

“Good,” you sigh.

“Good? Not going to throw another shoe at my head for almost ruining your first op?"

You don’t have a response, looking down at your feet to escape his scrutiny. This is why you hadn’t wanted to be placed with him so many times before–you felt like an open book in front of him, incapable of hiding how you felt.

“I don’t think I can do this.” Your thoughts are unfiltered as you shift in your seat.

“A mission brief or . . .”

“Work with you.” You know the words hit him hard, but the blow circles back to you. Guilt immediately wells up inside you, fizzling the rage you've begun to feel. Out of the corner of your eye you see him drop the file, hand running through his hair.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.” He waits for your response before continuing, but your tongue is firmly tied. “If it’s about what happened before, I can promise that it isn’t going to affect any working relationship–”

“It’s not about that,” you blurt out. “I just don’t think I’m a good fit for this team.”

His eyes narrow. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s only one team for active field agents. And you’re on it now.”

“I can ask for a reassignment,” you say lightly, moving to get up. ”I’ll put a petition in with the Director tonight.”

“Running away, again?” It’s not the barb that makes you stop but the way Johnny says it, more bitter than cruel. You find yourself wishing it was the latter, so you could be angry at him, at anyone but yourself.

“Please just sit down.” He exhales loudly.

“I’m not running . . .“ you begin, unconvinced by your own words.

“Consider it an order, then,” he says, quietly. “I’m still your supervising agent, for as long as that lasts.”

You comply, hands gripping the arms of your chair to keep it from rolling back.

“I promise I’ll make the transfer request, myself, if it’s necessary.” Johnny paces around the table, leaning against it a reasonable distance away. “But you have to tell me why.”

Because you can barely concentrate when he’s around? Because you have to remember how to breathe when he’s in the same room? None of it is acceptable even without your line of work, where distraction is deadly. That professional distance had been there before and you know he can maintain it.

It’s all down to you.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You can’t even be mad at him for the right reasons, that coal-like lump in your chest not squashed pride or indignation. The more you try to stoke it the more you understand how petty it really is.

The one time in your life where you’re required to pretend to be someone else, the one thing you’re good at, and you can’t be. Instead you’re an exposed nerve, unable to meet the eyes of the person standing next to you. You realize he’s turned the projector off when the only sound in the room is the ticking of the watch on the desk, somehow loud beneath the closed lid.

“I just don’t want to be a liability,” you say.

“You’re not a liability.” Johnny sounds bemused. “We don’t bring liabilities on as assets.”

“You watched over me–”

“As hard as it is for you to believe, it is standard operating procedure to observe and grade new agents.”

“Then why did you pull strings to get me here?” you snap.

He shifts uncomfortably. “Is that what this is about?”

He picks up the box from the table, before your stare can burn a hole in it. “So you think this is a consolation prize?”

You wait a spell, mostly to keep from erupting at him but also because now that he’s within reach the anger is bleeding into a different kind of intensity inside of you.

“Did you ask the Director to promote me?” you interrogate him.

“You’re not going to believe me even if I say ‘no’, are you?”

You don’t have to answer. You don’t think you could without slipping.

“Give me your hand,” Johnny says. You don’t know how to respond until he leans forward to lift your arm from the chair with surprisingly little force for how rigid you feel.

"Yes, we helped you get into the NCTA. Yes, I've monitored your progress at every step.”

He waits until you relax to continue, as if he’s afraid you’re a bird that will take wing. “But that’s the extent of it. As much as I wanted to help you, I kept my hands clean. Except for convincing Moon to stay on as your handler. I don’t think you understand how much work that was.”

That surprises you, but you catch yourself before you can look up at him quizzically.

“He was always meant to be a temporary assignment. Older agents like that, he’s more at home doing dirty work than being stuck in an office."

He lays the watch cuff over your wrist, snapping the clasp shut, not letting go even after it’s securely weighed down by it.

“I’m sorry if you felt like you didn’t earn this. Because you can be assured there's nothing I could say or do that got you this," he says, tone softening. "That was all you."

His grip changes carefully, a long-fingered hand enclosing your own. That livewire current you expect in touching him for the first time in years isn't numbing at all. No, your head is buzzing with errant thoughts, heart flip-flopping in your chest.

“Now do you still want to leave?” he asks.

You shake your head slightly, mouth dry.

“Since we’re going to be on the same team from now on, do you think you can try trusting me?” Johnny asks, gently.

You realize you haven’t exhaled yet, long after you find your answer.

“I trust you.” You’re surprised by how easy it is to say it.

“Then what’s the matter?”

“I don’t . . .” you muster the courage to be honest. “I really don’t trust myself.”

“You earned this,” he says, squeezing your fingers assuringly.

“That’s not what I mean.” Your voice cracks. You glance up to find him watching curiously, relaxed and half-seated against the table beside you. Surely he can feel it, if he can’t see it–the way you’re vibrating in his grasp.

“Why don’t you tell me?” He asks, his thumb running over the back of your hand in lazy circles.

“Because I’m not sure if that would be appropriate, sir.”

Your eyes go wide as you realize your verbal slip, pulling back but unable to escape as he holds your wrist firmly, tugging. It’s easy for him to hoist you up, and you catch yourself with a hand on his chest before you can stumble into him.

Just like that, you’re a magnet flipped in the right direction.

You don’t move away, and he doesn’t either, long enough that you can feel his heart pounding beneath the layers of tweed and dress shirt and muscle, the way his breathing is just as quick as yours.

Jaehyun was right, you think. He was better at hiding it.

“Look at me,” he says, a fingertip tapping underneath your chin.

You tilt your chin upwards, meeting his gaze, melting into what you see there—a reflection of your own nervous expectation, colored not just by desire but something much, much more enticing.

“Whatever you’re thinking right now, I just need you to know one thing,” Johnny says, breath washing warm across your forehead. “You can only call me that if you want to.”

Do you want to try . . . ? echoes from a million miles and minutes ago, when he’d had you feeling just as vulnerable sitting on a hotel bed, playing games for children. The difference now is that you don’t feel small, anymore.

This time, you know what you want. And you aren't going to let the invitation you see written plainly in his face go unanswered.

You rise up on your toes, heels leaving the floor as you do the one thing you’ve tried to avoid since you’d first seen him again: you kiss him.

As desperate as you feel, you take your time, letting your buried emotions translate into your exploration of his plush mouth. You don’t sense any hesitation when his lips part and allow you in. You wrap a hand around his neck, bending him down until his grip finds your waist, helping you reach him.

You stay like that for awhile, calves aching by the time you slide down him, tongue wetting your bottom lip as if to taste the sweetness of him there. His pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed, but otherwise he’s still patient beneath you, waiting for your next move with an almost shy half-smile.

“Is that what you want, sir?” You glide your hand beneath his vest, feeling his pulse quicken and his breath stutter.

"You don’t want me to answer that here,” Johnny muses, back to holding onto the table behind him. You can see the whites around his knuckles, feel how he’s poised as if to keep from caging you in.

“Why?” You move your hands to his tie, caressing the dark red fabric.

He leans in conspiratorially, brushing your ear as he whispers into it. “The Director likes to record his meetings.”

The rush of excitement guiding you fizzles into mortification. You pull back only to feel the tug of his teeth on your earlobe, making you yelp in surprise.

“I thought that didn’t bother you?” He laughs as you glare up at him.

“It didn’t bother me before.”

“We should probably find a place to talk about this,” he offers, voice a purr under your fingertips. “Why don’t we go get a drink to celebrate?”

“I’d like that,” you say, before tugging him down by his tie. “After.”

This second time you meet neither of you are holding back. His hands are in your hair to keep your teeth from colliding, tongue licking into your mouth. You don’t realize you’re halfway up his frame until he’s hoisted you off him, dropping you on the table.

You’re closer to eye level here, but his attack subsides—nose nudging yours as he kisses your face, smearing your carefully-applied lipstick. Some of it has transferred to his own mouth, making you wonder what it would look like elsewhere.

"This was not what I was expecting when you walked in this room." He says, containing himself.

Johnny's palms are flat on the table as he pushes against it between your legs, probably getting more relief than what you are with your ass deep in the sharp cardboard edges of a pile of slides.

"This isn't me forgiving you for Italy," you say, scooting forward to wrap your legs around his hips. "You can make it up to me."

He loosens his tie, but you stop him from taking it off, kissing his neck and tentatively licking the sweat that's beaded under his starched collar.

“I’m going to need a verbal affirmation that you want to continue,” Johnny says with bated breath.

“Is that agency speak for ‘covering your ass'?’” you whisper, too turned on to be annoyed.

“No, babydoll,” he says, throatily. “It means I’m going to fuck you right here and right now unless you tell me otherwise.”

“Please fuck me, sir,” you say, reaching for his belt.

“God you have no idea how much I missed you.”

It doesn’t take long for his words to catch up to you in deed, neither of you bothering to undress, exploring each other under layers of clothing. He stifles a groan when he finds you're already soaked through the expensive silk underwear you'd worn expecting your own funeral.

“You sure you want a quick–”

The sudden chime of the door breach stops you both, frozen mid-makeout, and you have all of a few seconds before there’s a rush of air as the office entry blows inward.

“Sir, I told you there’s a very important meeting happening,” an unfamiliar male voice rings out from the other room, in the wake of the man who walks in.

“And I told you, I left the discovery file here this morning and it can’t wait–” Kim Doyoung makes it in a few brisk steps before he freezes, registering the scene with appropriate horror.

“Oh for the love of god, not again.” The lawyer hides his face with his briefcase, red to his dark hairline.

“Again?” you hiss.

“Not me!” Johnny protests under his breath, fighting to zip his pants back up.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see this,” Kim says loudly, still shielding himself as he rushes to the Director’s desk to retrieve a thick, green file.

You bury your face in Johnny’s suit jacket, appalled. “I’m going to be fired. On my first day . . .”

“Hey Doyoung,” Johnny says, startling you both. ��Remind me what the employee contract–”

“Clause 10(b) of Interoffice Relations,” the other man says automatically, regretting it instantly. “Really, Suh? We eat on that table!”

You see the devilish glint in Johnny’s eye and cover his mouth before he can say another word.

“Thank you, sir,” you call out.

“I expect a Consensual Relationship Agreement on my desk by tomorrow morning, Agent,” he says, icily. The door slams shut with a shudder, leaving you both a mess of laughter and relief.

“What’s the odds on that happening to us a third time?” you ask, but Johnny is already retrieving one of your shoes from the carpet, slipping it back on from where he’s kneeling on the floor.

“You like them?” he asks. You brush the hair from his forehead, admiring the view.

“My favorite pair,” you say.

“Time for that drink, then?”

“After,” he kisses your calf before standing up and offering his hand. “I know someone else who'd like to congratulate you.”

previous > next

#nct smut #nct 127 smut #jaehyun smut #johnny suh smut #nct scenarios #nct 127 scenarios #johnny scenarios #jaehyun scenarios #johnjae x reader #nct x reader #nct reader insert #nct fanfic #nct 127 fanfic #nct fic #nct 127 fic #ncta au

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ask-the-praetors · 2 years

Note

I'm pretty sure this is a terrible idea, but here I go: Any dating/relationship advice for us lonely people here? I'd love to hear from any of The Praetors, Atraxa, or Glissa that are willing. No offense Tamiyo, I just feel like your advice would be too healthy for me to even comprehend, let alone follow.

Very easy. Find someone and make yourselves inseparable... literally. I have many pious suture priests to conduct bonding rituals. -E

If you are looking to pair with another of your underdeveloped kind, locate a suitable individual and demonstrate your aptitude for partnership - my researchers report criteria such as physical ability for protection, hunting skill to provide nourishment, robust genetics for reproduction, et cetera. This is, of course, if you foolishly intend to continue as a common animal. Instead, you could join with Phyrexia - saving yourself time, as ultimately you do not have a choice - and form bonds with fellow researchers for the noblest cause of all. Though uncommon, some individuals have also requested physical bonds like those described by Elesh. -J

HUNT WITH THEM. BRING THEM PREY. CONSUME THEM WHEN YOU ARE THROUGH. -V

I agree with Vorinclex. Hunt them, even. Challenge them to a contest of strength. Should they fail, they deserved no place in the future anyway. Natural selection. -Glissa

Dating? Just make thralls. It'll solve the loneliness problem - they're quite the audience for any thoughts you may share - and you won't have a potential rival to deal with. -S

Observing Jin and Vorinclex would only advise you on what not to do. Find a partner and compleat them. Bring them to Phyrexia's immortal glory. -A

#mtg #magic the gathering #new phyrexia #elesh norn #jin-gitaxias #vorinclex #glissa #sheoldred #atraxa #anon

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unknownjpegs · 3 months

Text

burnin'

EXT. PANELED MIDWEST SUBURBAN RANCH-STYLE HOME - FRONT STOOP - LATE AUTUMN - MIDNIGHT - RAINING

The CAMERA focuses on a brass sign bolted to the front door. The sign reads: caring for your dearly departed loved ones for 70 years!

A MORTICIAN, white thinning hair, liver spots on forehead, tall with poor posture. Dressed in a lab coat and elbow-high green gloves. The fingertips are bloody. He is humming to a song on the radio, preparing a body.

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - EXT. TO INT. - NIGHT - LOOKING INTO PREPARATION ROOM AND MORTICIAN

He is bent slightly over the body on the embalming table. The sound of the embalming machine rattles ominously in the room. It does not seem to bother the MORTICIAN as he works.

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - OVER MORTICIAN’S SHOULDER

The MORTICIAN is focused on suturing a flap of skin securely to the body’s forehead. He speaks carefully into a microphone at his lapel, attached to a tape recorder tucked in his back pocket. Leaving notes and suggestions on his craft for the morning shift relief, who is new.

Suddenly, the embalming machine shuts off. The MORTICIAN frowns, swears (gosh, golly, darn it) under his breath, and sets aside his suture in favor of examining the machine.

The CAMERA refocuses from the back of his head to the double doorway of the cold storage room.

Beat.

It swings slightly as if pushed from the other side.

MORTICIAN (confused, concerned) What the...

The embalming machine suddenly switches back on. He JUMPS. He is not a jumpy sort. The MORTICIAN has been doing this a long time. Has been running night shifts even longer.

MORTICIAN (sighing) Oh, thank -

It shuts off again.

MORTICIAN (a little anxious) Blasted thing.

He hits the machine firmly with a fist. Seems increasingly nervous, as if the machine’s noise is company and he does not want to BE ALONE.

AGAIN - SAME CAMERA SHOT, EXT. TO INT., LOOKING INTO HOME AT MORTICIAN

Beyond the old man’s bent-over spine, out of his range of vision, the front door of the funeral home CREAKS open slowly. Rain splatters onto the old hardwood. The door shuts. The bell atop does not ring.

MORTICIAN (frustrated, increasingly nervous) Ha. Ha-ha. Must be the plug.

It is not the plug. WET FOOTSTEPS pad across the foyer. They SIZZLE and STEAM. The embalming machine switches back on. The MORTICIAN does not hear the footsteps, echoing and ghostly, as they approach behind him.

There is a sudden FLASH OF LIGHTNING followed by a window-rattling clap of thunder.

Beat.

The MORTICIAN, perhaps sensing something, turns around. Behind him there is a FIGURE. It stands in the open doorway. It takes up the entire frame. It is not corporeal, but seems invisible - the outline of a human. Rain sluices from its shoulders and drips onto the floor. Like the footsteps, the shape sizzles and steams.

FIGURE (drone of a voice, sounding like a storm of insects) YOU BURNED ME.

MORTICIAN (weak, gasping, terrified) Oh, Holy Father in Heaven -

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - SAME ROOM, MORNING - LOOKING DOWN FROM THE CEILING, AS IF ATTACHED TO FAN, TURNING IN SLOW CIRCLES.

The MORTICIAN lays beside the embalming table, dead. His eyes and mouth are open. He is clutching his chest. There is a puddle of fluid (blood, embalming chemicals, etc) pooling around his corpse. It soaks his white lab coat.

There is no longer a body on the table.

CUT TO:

EXT. SAME PANELED MIDWEST SUBURBAN RANCH-STYLE HOME - FRONT STOOP - EARLY AUTUMN - DUSK - CLEAR SKY

The CAMERA is no longer steady, as before. Found-footage style. It moves slightly, but stays centered around THREE FIGURES standing in front of the FUNERAL HOME DOOR. Their backs are to the CAMERA. The leftmost figure (LARK) has bleach blond hair, wears a dark coat slung over their shoulders and superfluous belts. The figure in the center (TINO) wears a black wide-brim hat and priest’s vestments; his arms are crossed. To the far right, the shortest figure (BENJI) taps a foot impatiently. Of the three, he is the only one not fully facing the front door.

BENJI (annoyed yell over his slightly-turned shoulder) S’not a fucking movie, you dickhead. Why are you filming?

TINO leans in close to him and says something too quiet to be heard, but makes BENJI’s shoulders curve, reprimanded. The CAMERA shakes as if the wielder is laughing.

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - EMBALMING ROOM - LOOKING DOWN FROM THE CEILING, AS IF ATTACHED TO FAN.

No body on the floor. The calendar on the wall above the desk reads SEPTEMBER. The MORTICIAN has been dead for several months.

CUT TO:

HANDHELD CAMERA SHOT - INT. - EMBALMING ROOM

The CAMERA tilts down slightly to center TINO in frame.

TINO (informative tone) - yes, exactly. Good question. So, after Lark clears the cold storage, Benji will prepare that part. We need to find whatever is holding the energy here, make contact, and see if they want to leave.

Beat.

VOICE BEHIND THE CAMERA Or?

TINO (chuckling) Or if they want to stay.

VOICE Isn’t that a bad thing?

TINO (shrugging) Not necessarily. And I wouldn’t make the comparison usually, but think of it this way. Ants follow a trail of crumbs, right? They’re there to feed the colony. Their presence at somebody’s food mess isn’t really...a moral thing. Good or bad. They’re just drawn to the food. The energy. And if they’re part of the ecosystem, shouldn’t they get a say in if they stay or not?

VOICE (thoughtfully) That’s...fair. Except ants don’t, like, throw chairs or push people from ledges or make the walls drip blood.

TINO (teasingly ominous) Yet.

The camera shudders theatrically.

VOICE Ants with telekinesis.

TINO (shakes his head, laughs) Go find Benji. We can document the sigils and reagent.

VOICE (a little petulant) He’s gonna yell at me.

TINO steps closer, reaches an arm out to pat the VOICE’s shoulder.

TINO Tell me if he does. And Xavier? This was a good idea. I didn’t think anybody was listenin’, when I went on that rant about preserving knowledge. It was boring.

XAVIER (teasing) Really boring.

TINO (laughing again) Yeah, well. Atta boy, keep it rolling.

He walks away, out of frame. The CAMERA follows him for a moment, and then turns to reveal the operator. A blurry, handsome face comes into focus. XAVIER looks worried briefly. Then he breathes a sigh of relief. It sounds proud, vindicated, and perhaps a little emotional.

CUT TO:

HANDHELD CAMERA SHOT - INT. - FUNERAL HOME FOYER

BENJI stands with his back to the CAMERA. It lingers for a moment and then moves forward. He turns at the sound of footsteps. His neutral expression morphs into a SCOWL. He gives XAVIER, behind the camera, an annoyed up-down.

BENJI Yeah?

XAVIER (testily) Someone piss in your cereal before we left?

BENJI turns back around. The CAMERA moves closer, into his personal space. It hovers over his shoulder.

BENJI Can you fuck off?

XAVIER (cheerful now) Nope. Tino sent me.

BENJI sighs and shakes his head in annoyance. He busies himself with a make-shift lab of sorts, large garbage bag spread over a plastic folding table. There is a variety of vials filled with dust, liquid, and other mysterious substances.

XAVIER Dinner and a show.

BENJI (snorting laugh, which tapers off with a cough) Yeah, mate. Give this a taste, real filling.

Beat.

XAVIER (clears his throat) Looks funky.

BENJI holds up the vial for the camera. It is filled with gray dust.

BENJI It’s ashes.

XAVIER (shrinking away) Eugh.

BENJI (sarcastically) Real good sprinkled over food. Tino says you’re documenting, so here. Got it recording? Ok. Good. Look, s’nasty sometimes but swear it works. Goes into the reagent.

While he is talking, BENJI unzips a pouch on a red backpack on the corner of the table. He pulls a pair of black gloves out and snaps them on. The CAMERA lingers on the motion of his fingers, instead of the table where the vials are being poured into a bowl.

BENJI You gettin’ this? Measurements gotta be precise.

The CAMERA jerks up an inch, so everything is back in frame. BENJI pours and mixes and shakes together several substances.

XAVIER And the recipe for this -

BENJI Tino’s.

Behind the camera, XAVIER sighs in annoyance.

XAVIER Well, I need to go ask him then. Thanks for wasting my time.

The CAMERA turns.

BENJI Xavier, hold on.

The CAMERA swings back around. BENJI looks slightly above it, chin tilted up - XAVIER is tall.

Beat.

BENJI (coughs) ‘Fore you go down there, let me just -

He reaches for the CAMERA.

XAVIER (weakly joking) Hey. Thief, thief.

The CAMERA shakes, spins. When it refocuses, it is pointed at the floor. Two pairs of feet are visible. One set wears dirty, old steel-toe tan work boots. The left foot moves forward a single step.

The other pair sports beat-up black boots messily tied with yellow laces. One taps a steady beat. There is a noise like a MARKER uncapping, and the squeak of it across plastic.

XAVIER What are you doing?

BENJI (sounding strange; has a cap between his teeth) Sigil. This one’ll keep anything from latching on.

XAVIER (horrified) Sorry? To the camera?

BENJI (laughs) Yeah, creepy right? Recordings can get possessed, too. Happened before.

CUT TO:

DIFFERENT HANDHELD CAMERA - EXT. - SKATE PARK

Several teenagers perform quick-cut clips of tricks. Most are unsuccessful, but there is a chorus of cheers when the final skater lands a complex-looking kick flip from the top of a flight of stairs.

BENJI (voice over) Some kid was recording his friends, ended up catching this entity on camera.

The CAMERA moves across the skatepark. There is a black shadow FIGURE beyond the chain-link fence. When the CAMERA begins to focus, it MOVES QUICKLY towards the viewer. It is not running, but GLIDING across the park. The CAMERA glitches and a DRONING NOISE draws closer as the FIGURE fills the frame.

BENJI (voice over) Brought it home, edited his video, and uploaded it to TikTok.

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - TEEN’S BEDROOM - PITCH BLACK, BLUE LIGHT FROM COMPUTER

XAVIER (voice over) And weird shit started to happen?

The teenager at the computer jolts when a black clawed hand curls around his shoulder.

BENJI (voice over) Fuckin’ obviously.

CUT TO:

HANDHELD CAMERA SHOT - INT. - XAVIER AND BENJI IN THE FUNERAL HOME FOYER

XAVIER (distantly, nervous) So, what. The clip spread and everybody got a little haunted?

BENJI (snorts rudely) The fuck? No. That’s some movie shit Xavier, c’mon.

XAVIER (defensively) Well, I dunno.

BENJI Clearly.

He goes back to mixing several substances together, but offers no commentary or explanation. The CAMERA shifts back and forth, as if XAVIER is fidgeting.

XAVIER The kid...

BENJI (theatrically ominous) Haunted forever. Dieddd. Some say if you look in the mirror at midnight and say his name three times -

XAVIER (pleading; genuinely freaked the fuck out) Dude.

BENJI Mate, sorry, truth’s boring. Even with this shit, sometimes it’s boring. He was proper fuckin’ shit at skating and editing - nobody watched the video. ‘Cept him, his parents, and us. Tino did a clear, Lark helped the thing move on, and we destroyed the camera.

XAVIER Like...with a ritual or something? Can you describe it?

The CAMERA shakes pointedly.

BENJI Sure. Sprinkle some salt on it, add a dash of holy water, and smash it to fuckin’ bits with a baseball bat.

He glances sidelong at the CAMERA, looking mischievous.

BENJI That’s the fun part.

CUT TO:

HANDHELD CAMERA SHOT - INT. - BATHROOM MIRROR

XAVIER stands in the mirror. He is tall, mid-twenties, with messy red hair. His expression is pinched slightly in annoyance, and he smooths a flyaway down with a frown.

XAVIER Just saw another fuckin’...I don’t know. Ghost? The sigil...man, I asked the ghost what it wanted. Felt right, I guess. And the sigil burned my hand. I don’t wanna bother Tino because he’s busy with rites, or whatever, and Benji -

He pauses. The scowl deepens, his eyes dart to the side, and he shakes his head.

XAVIER (convincing himself) He’s an asshole. Lark and Tino are fucking saints for putting up with that.

CUT TO:

HANDHELD CAMERA SHOT - INT. - MORGUE

LARK stands facing the cold cabinets. The CAMERA draws closer. It is VERY STEADY. When it is about a foot away, LARK turns suddenly. He’s handsome in a pretty way; a young-looking face and a soft pout. He stands with the confidence of someone twice his height. His eyes dart around the room suspiciously, shrewd and alert.

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - MORGUE - OVER LARK’S SHOULDER

No one is in the morgue with them.

LARK (carefully) Is someone here with me?

The lights flicker.

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - HALLWAY TO MORGUE

LARK (already facing the door) Xavier? Get in here, man

The CAMERA moves slightly faster, obviously eager.

LARK (relieved) Nice. You already have one. Uh.

Beat.

He frowns, head tilting. He is obviously confused.

LARK (hedging) Benji did that?

XAVIER nods. The CAMERA shakes.

LARK You were hanging around Benji? Thought you hated him. (Innocent, but unsuspecting; he is totally unaware of the crush Xavier’s camera handling has made obvious) That was nice of him.

XAVIER Well - I - not like I wanted to, I had to. I do hate him! He’s such an asshole Lark. But just a second ago, I saw - I think it must have been somebody? I asked them what they wanted and -

He shakes his hand in front of the CAMERA, between their bodies, and holds his palm out. A reflection of the symbol is slightly visible in the center of it.

LARK whistles. He takes Xavier’s wrist, passes his thumb over the mark, and then hold it up for the CAMERA to get a better view

LARK This is what a strained sigil. (Curious, impressed) Wow. Okay, well. Yikes. There is a lot of activity in here. Whoever it was nearly broke the binding.

XAVIER Broke the - (disturbed) Fuckin’ Jesus Christ. Don’t say that.

LARK It’s fine. (innocent, deadpan) Nothing nasty will get you. (suddenly threatening) UNLESS IT DOES.

XAVIER STOP. IT.

LARK (laughing) I’m just fucking with you, dude. Tino’s almost done with the rites, Benji’s got the reagent going, and I’m finishing up. here We’re mostly in the clear.

XAVIER Oh, good. Mostly.

LARK holds up a purple leather-bound journal, and flips through the pages for the camera slowly. There are a variety of sigils, notes, drawings, and observations written in the pages. Most pertain to the rites of bodies and preparing them. The rituals are protective and preventative in nature.

VOICE BEHIND XAVIER Salir ahora.

XAVIER JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

The CAMERA jerks, there is a fuzzy moment of panic, and then it refocuses. XAVIER has darted across the room, now standing beside TINO. In the far corner, by a cold cabinet that has swung open, is a FIGURE.

BENJI and TINO enter the room. BENJI wields an EMF reader, which pings loudly. TINO holds a cross in his fist, but it lowers slightly at the sight of the FIGURE.

FIGURE I was burned. Salir ahora.

Beat.

LARK Huh. One of the bodies in here was a -

Beat. He looks down at a notepad. The other three do not break sight of the SPIRIT.

LARK Mrs. Rubio from Seville, Spain.

TINO (sighs) I see. She’s just warning us not to stay or -

MRS. RUBIO Salir ahora. I was -

BENJI (interrupting) Yeah, mate, burned. Miffed about it. We understand.

He winces, because LARK punches his shoulder. His other hand is on his hip.

BENJI Ow.

LARK She’s dead, Benj. Show some fucking respect for the dead.

BENJI How about you some fucking respect to my -

TINO (exasperated) Hands to ourselves, please.

Beat.

MRS. RUBIO Salir ahora.

The GHOSTLY WOMAN takes a step forward. Or, glides.

TINO Yes, ma’am. We’re goin’.

He picks up his bag and hat.

BENJI (snorts a laugh, goes to follow him) You’ve just got yourself recolonized by a ghost, Ti.

TINO (slight huff, trying not to laugh with a warning tone) Benji.

He moves towards the double door exit to the morgue, putting the hat on his head. BENJI and LARK follow.

The CAMERA hesitates on the SPIRIT, who wavers at the edges in the darkness but does not move again. And then it swings back towards the trio. XAVIER’s long gait reaches them in only a few strides.

XAVIER So...we just...let the ants do their telekinesis?

BENJI and LARK (in unison) What?

TINO (proudly) Exactly.

XAVIER Shouldn’t we send them along or something?

BENJI (scoffing laugh) C’mon. If we tried to clear out every fuckin’ funeral home in the country, we’d never sleep.

The CAMERA lingers on his face a moment, then pulls away towards LARK. His black-gloved hand is outstretched. It fixes XAVIER’s flannel jacket, which has been unevenly buttoned, and then ruffles his hair with the intention annoyance of a younger sibling.

LARK Cry baby. We’re not abandoning them. Sigils down, Tino said a few general rites. If they want, now they can move on. But Benji has a point. We don’t have the time or resources to help every single one along. They go at their own pace.

BENJI (suddenly annoyed) All right. Let’s get out of here, yeah? If someone doesn’t get aux first Tino’ll play Dolly the whole way back.

Beat.

The CAMERA flicks between LARK and BENJI.

BENJI (a bit admonished) No offense.

LARK (loudly, holding BENJI’s gaze) Tino, I’m in a country mood.

TINO, already down the path halfway to the street, where a BLACK VAN is parked, pauses and looks back at the trio.

TINO Feelin’ alright? We can put some Dolly on. Stop at that diner, maybe. Banjo and pancakes.

LARK (victorious, raising his eyebrows at BENJI) I love banjo.

XAVIER laughs. The noise is not dampened by the ferocious glare BENJI sends his way.

BENJI (quick, with a note of challenge) Shotgun.

XAVIER (petulant) Aw. My leg room.

CUT TO:

EXT. - FUNERAL HOME - EARLY MORNING - SIDEWALK LEADING TO FRONT DOOR, STREET VIEW INTO SUNRISE HORIZON

The CAMERA, steady, pulls away into the sky as the black van peels down the asphalt. The CAMERA swings slowly as the sound of Dolly Parton’s Baby I’m Burnin’ fills the quiet suburban street. In the window of the funeral home, two FIGURES stand side-to-side, watching the van drive off. One wears a lab coat and elbow-high green gloves.

#writing #ua #bp #lt #xw #tino #ghost hunters au

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ruinedreliquaries · 6 months

Text

CHARACTER INFO SHEET

name . Valentino Arthit Lecce

name meaning .

Valentino (Italian) : Strong, Vital

Arthit (Thai): Sun

Lecce (Italian): From the city of Lecce

alias/es . Father, Priest, Ghoul, Vulture

ethnicity . White/ Asian mixed.

one picture / icon you like the best of your character .

three headcanons .

Valentino's brand healed within a month, unnaturally fast and well despite being a third degree burn. His wound was cleaned and antibiotics given, but he received no follow up care in hospital. He was questioned at the hospital, but any case was closed due to lack of information.

When Valentino and Abigail are in a car together, they almost always blast 'Dragula' by Rob Zombie on the radio. He insists he never slammed in the back of a real hearse.

When his corruption grows, he feels a certain lust for blood. Yet in demonic form he is still affected by his stomach issues. The only available mammal that doesn't have alpha gal in their blood is humans.

three things your character likes doing in their free time .

Piano - Valentino has been playing the piano since childhood. His mother felt the music and memorization could help keep his mind sharp. If he's anxious, stressed, or just plain bored he'll often be plonking out notes on his keyboard, whether it's practicing a complicated aria or trying to play a song he heard on the radio.

Vulture Culture - Valentino's fixation on death often shows itself in his desire to collect animal specimens. He has an ever growing collection of skulls, teeth, and pelts, many scavenged from roadkill. He considers it an expression of 'memento mori', the temporary state of life.

Sewing - Sort of a continuation of the above, Valentino sews if he has free time. He both practices suturing up nicks and tears in animal pelts and patching holes in clothes. Once he gets in the groove, it is a very calming repetitive task.

people your character likes / loves.

Abigail Célestin - His best friend, and one of his few confidants in the church. Under other circumstances they likely would've been friendly acquaintances, but being two weirdos in a sea of conformity has pushed them together, and their 'weird kid' energy tends to mesh well.

John Ward (@burdenedwithfaith) - Valentino puts a lot of faith in John. He's one of the only people who has helped him without complaint or expectation of repayment. He is beginning to place Father Ward on a pedestal, seeing him as a answer to his problems.

two things your character regrets.

Trusting the bereaved cultists. A month of pain as his skin and muscle healed, and many more of confusion and paranoia as the world around him slowly began to shift and slant.

Walking the yard grounds so much. If he was a little more careful, he never would have gotten bitten by ticks and he could eat whatever he pleased.

one phobia your character has.

Thalassophobia- Fear of deep water. Valentino can swim and has little fear of clear water like ponds or pools. Beach tides and even pictures of undersea animals or divers are fine. It's deep, dark, opaque water that unnerves him. This becomes a true phobia when he sees children or physically weak people in deep water. He panics, assuming they are in distress and treading water.

tagged by: @burdenedwithfaith tagging: Whoever would like

#the unearthed #headcanon #valcanons #computer games

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hellpontifex · 11 months

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— CONTINUED FROM HERE. ( @mmettamorphosis. )

“ many come to mind, ” they say. they knew of some cenobites with the ability to fly, avian wings brutally sutured to limbs with barbed wire and nails, but never had the opportunity themselves. the priest can't help but be a bit curious. “ the rivers run red with blood, here. can you smell it, the tinge of copper in the air? cruelty is not hard to find on this earth. such is interesting to us, but i wouldn't have thought you would find it as captivating. ”

#mmettamorphosis #— in character.

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aegosake · 2 years

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*breathe*

Catherine and Heathcliff

Yes Catherine and Heathcliff, the knot in my chest is tightening it's grip with every word I write. I'll have to suck it up and spare myself for not coming up with a rather fitting or funny title for this rant.

Love has always seemed like a jigsaw puzzle I knew pieces were missing to but never what the picture is supposed to look like, and it looked like anything I wanted it to be. But growing up I had pieced together a collage of everything love was not supposed to be. The rights and wrongs, the haves and the have nots, the signs to look out for, and the cons to call out, everything social media activism could teach my teenage self. And I wasn't planning on betraying years worth of awareness garnered as a "feminichi" over 300 pages of fiction. Until, Catherine and Heathcliff.

The Pinterest aesthetic "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same", did not prepare me for that goddamn ride to paradiso in purgatory.

The love that fostered, or rather festered, between Catherine Earnshaw-Linton and Heathcliff haunts me. It has clawed its way into my conscious and pecks at its walls drawing something so painfully primal from within. Every chance I've picked up Wuthering Heights I've tried to rationalise their love story. Applied logic and reason to dissect and detangle the science of something so cynical.

I can only ever picture their love as a montage of the most morbid, broken, bruised somethings. A shrine to a dead god held together by tears and torn hearts. A soul sutured from wounds that wouldn't heal and reeked of vengeance. Their love was destruction itself.

I needed it to make sense, how I could be so moved by something that stands against all morals of my being, how it kept reeling me back to it over and over. Rather I wanted an excuse so that I wouldn't have to face the ugly truth about this ugly love.

The 'love' shared by Catherine and Heathcliff is the poster child of our definition of toxic. And it's outrageous how they both thrived off of the wounds inflicted by the other. Warming themselves by world they set ablaze. Yet there is something violently real about it too. Their passion is not merely a work of fiction. It's a reflection of a narrative that is so humane that it scares us to acknowledge it. Love has always been lethal, but when dies it become a weapon? When does it become violence?

This love is not admirable, much less aspirational. Its meant to be an element of awe, a moment of doubt and deliberation. As ideated by the hot priest, it questions your faith but brings you ever closer to your convictions.

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writersrealmbts · 4 years

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Lonely Little Jack-o-Lantern

Description: Yoonkook x reader, Hybrid Au, Zombie Apocalypse Au. You operate your own little farm, living in an area that doesn’t have as many zombies as other areas, but one day a group of hybrids show up, and the changes are immediate, especially where Yoongi and Jungkook are concerned.

Warnings: Mild language, mild blood and gore (very mild)

Posted: 10/30/2020

Tags/Genre: Yoonkook x reader, hybrid au, zombie au

Sort of Fluff, Sort of Angst: 12,331 words

A/N: This is long as heck, so I hope you guys enjoy it, it’s not the normal zombie au type so bear with me, and I got caught up in details. All the details. But here is your story, @ditttiii, my baby bird. And It’s technically still the 29th, but I was formatting it anyway and thought, hey, only a few hours away for me! Happy almost halloween!

You walked carefully, furtively looking around.

Then you spotted it, lifting your machete….

And quickly sliced down and through it, cutting it off at the neck.

Severing it’s lifeline.

How else would you dispatch it?

You straightened up with a grin, putting your machete again. “Perfect! You’ll make a fine jack-o-lantern! And your buddy will make a fantastic pumpkin pie!”

The pumpkins didn’t respond, not that you expected them too.

You picked the smaller one up by the vine and cradled the other in your arm, humming happily as you headed back toward your home.

Sure, there was a zombie apocalypse going on. In fact, most people had retreated to the shelters and military safety zones.

But…you hadn’t actually seen another soul for a couple months, or a zombie since last spring.

Cold was surprisingly effective at getting rid of zombies. They had all migrated to warmer climates, except for the odd straggler that moved so poorly due to frostbite damage that you easily dispatched them.

You’d taken up residence in an abandoned farm-store, with an attached greenhouse that you utilized to maximize food production (plus several extra greenhouses a ways away which definitely helped, but you didn’t use all of them for obvious reasons). You went on your merry way, making enough food for yourself, plus extra just in case, and setting aside extra goods for anyone who happened to come your way. You’d give them shelter plus some dried foods to take with them as they journeyed onward, and they usually repaid you with a couple days of help around the farm or kitchen.

Heck, last summer, you’d hosted an impromptu wedding. The group had been traveling together, both families having been together to meet one another before the wedding, and the groom’s father was a priest. He basically ordained you before he left, even told you where to look for legal documentation at the courthouse for if you ever needed to conduct another wedding.

At this point, the ceremony was more of a comfort sort of thing. A long-held tradition to bring a sense of normalcy to the abnormality of the life everyone now lived.

You paused once you reached your home again, feeling as though something were off.

Slowly you lowered the one pumpkin to the ground, grabbing your machete again.

Then you spotted them. Five figures, moving slowly, just shapes at the moment.

You scooped up the pumpkin again and quickly went inside, putting up your defenses just in case after depositing your pick onto the floor. Then you went out around the back to secure your livestock, which mostly consisted of birds that you had adopted from the abandoned homes and farms around you, a few rabbits, three goats (that you honestly only sheltered for the night, they did their own thing and you let them), and a little piglet that a passing family had left with you a few months ago (the runt of the litter, very weak at the time but slowly growing under your care). You went down the street every morning to milk some of the cows that lived there. You didn’t know enough about them to fully care for them, so you weren’t entirely certain what to do for them, but there was a farmer that came up once or twice a summer to check on you and the cows, and the small herd of cows hadn’t suffered yet. And you had butter, cheeses (when you didn’t mess up the process), canned milk, condensed milk, sweetened condensed milk, and had even tried to make yogurt once or twice (it didn’t go well).

Your next foray would be trying to milk the goats, something you’ve been avoiding because you’d never liked the goat products your family had always pushed on you when you were younger, but desperate times and all.

But that depended on you protecting your home today.

They were moving pretty slowly for humans, but not quite as sluggishly as you would have expected of zombies.

You would have to wait until they were closer.

Whatever they were, they still hadn’t spotted you, even as they got within a 100 feet of you.

“Halt! Identify yourselves!” You called out, pointing the rifle at them.

They stopped, some of them raising their hands, most of them looking surprised.

“We’re just passing through, trying to find our way to the sanctuary!” One of them called.

All of them were men, which made alarms go off in your head.

“You know you’re going the wrong way, right?” You asked, really not buying that story.

Until they all drooped and started griping at each other in a foreign language.

“Hey!” You yelled. “Still waiting!”

“Right, sorry, sorry, um, we were at the Cherimo base, but it was being evacuated, and we were on a smaller plane and it crashed…and…we’re lost…” The one that had spoken before said.

You studied them for a while. You had heard over the radio that something was going on due to resource loss, but the signal had been fuzzy and you weren’t sure why they would….

Was that a tail?

Oh.

“Are you hybrids?” You asked, lowering the rifle carefully.

One of them nodded before the spokesperson, then nervously halted when he saw the others weren’t nodding.

You lowered your guard a little more. “Let me guess, autopilot failed?”

They all nodded this time.

It made sense. If there were limited resources, why wouldn’t they get rid of lifeforms they deemed less useful. Nevermind that so far hybrids had shown more immunity to whatever it was that made people zombies. If one of them were bitten or injured by a zombie, as long as they cleaned the wound thoroughly and quickly they wouldn’t turn.

“It…it seriously hurt one of our friends. The other stayed behind to take care of him, and we were supposed to find help. That was a couple days ago though….” The spokesperson said, voice trailing off or choking up.

You bit the inside of your lip, looking at your home from the corner of your eye, then sighing and putting the safety on. “Alright. I’ll get the truck ready, but if there are two people there, I can only take two extra people. The rest of you will have to stay here.”

“You’ll help us?” The spokesperson said, sounding completely surprised.

You nodded, heading toward the door to unlock it. “But there are going to be so many ground rules. First of all, I’m allowing you into my home, don’t make a mess of it. Drink as much water as you like, it’s clean, and I’ll cook something when I get back. But you can’t sleep here. It’s too dangerous for me. You can sleep in the greenhouse, or you could try the farmhouse down the street. I’ll make an exception for your injured friend and one other to keep him company. And I’m still going to be celebrating Halloween in a couple days, so deal with it.”

He was translating, but they already seemed to be agreeing.

You ushered them in while you got the keys to the truck. “Names?”

“Kim Namjoon,” The spokesperson said, “Fox is Jimin, Otter is Hoseok, red panda is Jungkook, and Taehyung is the bear.”

You paused to study him. “And what, exactly, are you?”

“White-nosed coati,” He answered, nervously.

You blinked at him, then shook your head and kept moving. Grabbing your first-aid kit (had you raided the emergency medical center a few miles from your home? yes, yes you had) and heading out to the truck, you didn’t bother looking to see who would join you.

It was Namjoon and the red panda, who thankfully looked strong. Jungkook?

They guided you back to where the plane had crashed, which wasn’t too hard after you got in the proximate area thanks to whoever it was that had stayed behind keeping a nice, smoky fire going.

But they hadn’t been joking.

Their friend was seriously injured.

The other looked up, obviously scared and desperate, relief visible when he smelled his friends, calling out to them in their language.

You hurried over, not caring about the snarl he emitted as you got close.

They had strapped him down carefully, so he couldn’t injure himself by moving, which was good, but….

“Yoongi, she’s here to help,” Namjoon said, more firmly.

You bit your lip. “Get him in the bed of the truck. We need to get him back to a clean environment, get him fully hydrated so that he can replenish any blood-loss, and then I’m going to have to clean and suture his wounds. Someone get the tailgate.”

The four of you quickly moved, but carefully got him into the truck and made sure he wouldn’t get jostled around too much. Then you drove carefully back to your home, parking as close to the door as possible.

You hopped out and hurried inside, rushing to the basement to grab some of the supplies you kept in the cold down there.

It was a slow process, especially since you kept double checking with the medical books and manuals that you were doing the right thing, but the other boys were patient. Namjoon reading it again aloud if you were uncertain, and reassuring Yoongi that you were being careful and doing your best.

So you had his wounds sanitized and stitched, had carefully given him some medicine to fight any infection that may have started despite the dedicated care Yoongi had provided, and all of you had decided that an I.V. was too dangerous to attempt without further research and verification.

And he was partially conscious by the time you finished, so you all just resolved to carefully give him lots of water (he was no longer strapped down, they knew his neck and back weren’t broken, they were just trying to keep him still), and he was carefully propped up in your guest bed by two in the afternoon.

You left Taehyung carefully giving him sips of water, closing the door softly to limit the stimulation.

“Thank you,” A voice said quietly, accent present.

You turned toward the voice and spotted Yoongi, head down. “No problem. He’s okay for now, I think. I’m not exactly a doctor or a nurse, but I’ve done everything I can.”

He nodded slowly, but you weren’t sure how much he actually understood. You thought he must have understood most of it, though.

You nodded as well, then took a deep breath…and turned away, heading for the kitchen. “Let’s get you all something to eat.”

They hesitantly followed you into the kitchen, peeking around furtively, and sticking to the spots that seemed to be out of the way.

You glanced at them, then grabbed a couple jars of chicken broth. “Well, are you going to stand there, or are you going to help?”

“Help,” Yoongi said immediately, stiffly walking a little further into the room.

You nodded, then pointed toward the pantry. “In there are potatoes, carrots, and onions. I need two onions…eight red-skin potatoes…and ten carrots. Could one of you go into the greenhouse, through that door, and get me three stalks of celery?”

Namjoon relayed the message and Jungkook nodded eagerly, heading that way.

“Garlic?” Yoongi asked, bringing out the other things.

You contemplated, then shrugged. “Sure, but only one or two cloves.”

He nodded again and headed back into the closet.

You glanced at the other three, then pointed toward the pantry. “In there, rice. Fill this.” You set a measuring bowl out.

Jimin (?) nodded and took the bowl, heading in to find the rice.

You got the jumbo-sized pot out and some of the butter and oil, but didn’t turn it on yet.

Jungkook came back with the celery and you smiled your thanks, getting a cutting board and a knife to carefully cut it up. Then you turned on the stove on a low setting to let the celery cook a little longer.

You had Hoseok (?) peeling the carrots, with instructions on how to chop them afterward.

Namjoon was washing the potatoes.

Jimin was carefully washing the rice.

Yoongi was chopping the onions.

You set Jungkook to mincing the garlic so you could pay attention to the cooking celery, and trying to remember what else you put in the soup. “Jimin, can you go pick some spinach? Fill this bowl, the tiny spinach, though.” You set a bowl down on the counter.

Jimin looked uncertainly to Namjoon, who translated, then he nodded, and headed out into the greenhouse.

Hopefully he knew what the spinach looked like.

Yoongi brought you the onion and you dumped it into the pot.

“Can you go get green onion? Just a small one,” You asked.

He blinked, then nodded, heading out.

You grabbed some eggs setting them nearby for when the onions were ready, and accepting the garlic from Jungkook, but keeping it to the side for the moment.

You handed the spoon to Jungkook. “Stir now and then.”

He nodded confidently.

You grabbed a pan and some of your cherry peppers and mini-sweet peppers. You cut them into chunky pieces, not too big, then coated them in some oil and put them in the oven under the broiler for five minutes, initially.

Jimin came back with the spinach with Yoongi, who had the green onion you had requested.

Jimin took all of it to the sink to wash it, asking something in Korean.

“He wants to know what you need done with the rice and the spinach,” Namjoon translated.

“Spinach can be coarsely chopped, just keep the rice set aside. The potatoes can be cut, somewhat large…um…” You looked around, then pulled the pepper chunks out of the oven. “Slightly bigger than this.”

Namjoon translated.

Hoseok nodded, grabbing the scrubbed potatoes and waving Namjoon away.

You continued watching to make sure they understood, then nodded and went back, checking to see how the onions were cooking, then adding the garlic.

Jungkook looked curious, but also frustrated, like he wanted to ask something but wasn’t entirely certain how.

You cracked half of the eggs into a dish to whisk them up, opting for more eggs since it meant more protein and you had a ton of them anyway. Then—pushing the onions, garlic and celery to one corner—you poured then eggs into the pot and then plonked the lid on for a couple minutes to let the egg cook a bit.

Jungkook stared at the lid, then looked at you, still seeming to lack the words to inquire.

You shrugged, gathering the peppers, and then quickly chopping the green onion, the green part a little bigger than the white, and tossed both of those into the pot when the egg seemed to be the right amount of cooked. Stirring carefully, not wanting to break up the eggs too much, but also wanting to let any uncooked egg have a chance and free the onions, garlic and celery from their eggy prison.

Dear god you hoped this would taste okay.

You boldly poured in the chicken broth, making sure nothing was clinging to the bottom. Then you added the rice, spinach and potatoes and left it to come back up to simmering while you pulled the extra chicken you had cooked out of your cooler. You had planned on making chicken stew, maybe cooking up some dumplings, but…you could tell they were hungry and this would be faster than chicken stew and less nitpicky.

You paused before starting to cut the chicken, quickly going to grab some seasoning and being very careful about measuring that up.

“What is this called?” Namjoon asked, gesturing to the pot.

“Would you believe chicken and rice soup?” You asked, going back to the chicken with a knife. “If you hadn’t noticed, I was kind of winging it. Hopefully it will taste okay.”

Yoongi gave you a thumbs up. “Thank you.”

You nodded. “It’s not much. We don’t even know if it will be good.”

“Still,” Yoongi murmured, shrugging and looking away.

You quickly looked back down at the chicken. “You all are the first people I’ve seen in a couple months. Don’t get me wrong, I love living here. It’s probably safer than even the military zones. The zombies can’t withstand the winters and it makes them easy to dispatch.”

“Lonely,” Jungkook murmured.

You shrugged. “Even in a crowd, people have the ability to feel alone. I think actually being alone is better. Then at least I can’t resent others for not noticing me. It’s an apocalypse. At least I chose this life. No one forced it on me, not the apocalypse, not a plague. I chose this for myself. There’s a sort of satisfaction in that.”

Yoongi came beside you, cat-like eyes flickering over the chicken you were shredding. Then he met your curious gaze, holding it for a long moment.

“I suppose that makes me lucky,” You added. “To be able to decide my own life.”

He blinked slowly.

You shifted on your feet, unnerved.

“Uh, the pot….” Namjoon said, voice nervous.

You broke away from Yoongi’s gaze, and turned toward the pot.

It was boiling, so you turned down the heat for the moment and gave it a stir, then went back toward the chicken.

Yoongi had already taken over.

You stared for a moment, then went to wash your hands. “This place runs on solar power, and has a well. Normally, when I have people here they exchange work for a place to stay for a few days. Your friend is in no shape to be moving anywhere—”

“We’ll happily help you with anything you need,” Namjoon said quickly.

The others were nodding in agreement as he quickly translated, all looking scared and somewhat terrified.

You held your hands up to stop them before they continued down the panicky path they were treading. “I was just going to say, that you can stay as long as you need while your friend is recovering. I’m going to go check on your friends.”

They nodded.

Jungkook followed you out and into the bedroom again.

Taehyung and Jin were asleep.

You carefully closed the door, then studied Jungkook for a moment, noticing a tear in his shirt that looked pretty big. “Are you hurt?”

He glanced down, then looked sheepish and shrugged.

You pointed to a chair. “Shirt off.”

He carefully removed his shirt, obviously in pain from the gash on his ribs.

You could just hit him upside the head. All that lifting he did!

So you did. “Don’t do stupid things like lifting people when you’re injured.”

He looked at you with wide eyes, and you don’t know how much of it he understood, but his cheeks turned red and he looked away quickly.

You went and got water and a cloth, then knelt beside him to carefully clean the wound. You tried not to notice how well-muscled he was, or how he looked much less innocent like this. Sure, he still had an adorably bushy tail, but—

You flinched as a hand rested on your head, lightly stroking your hair, peeking up to see Jungkook mesmerized by your hair.

He grabbed your free hand, which you’d put out to balance yourself when he startled you, and brought it to his heart.

You could feel it racing, and you locked eyes with him.

He shyly looked away after a moment.

You swallowed hard, then finished cleaning his cut, wiping some antibiotic ointment on it carefully, and then bandaging the area. “There. No heavy lifting for a while. I see you overworking and we’re binding your whole ribcage.” You stood up and packed the first aid kit up again, then hurried back into the kitchen.

You stirred the pot, pulling some rice to test it. “Not yet. Tomorrow, I thought a few of us could venture to the local stores and get all of you some extra clothing and shoes and other supplies. Only those of you who aren’t injured, though. There are monsters hiding out in some of the stores still. That means no Jungkook, and no Jimin—I saw you limping.”

“Jungkook?” Yoongi asked, eyes widening.

You nodded, turning to glance at Jungkook as he followed you in, shirt back on. “He has a nasty cut on his ribs. He shouldn’t have been doing any of the lifting he did.”

All of them started ragging on Jungkook, who was sheepish.

Yoongi was over beside the red panda hybrid talking lowly, quickly, and somewhat sternly.

Jungkook nodded, slouching to rest his head on the cat’s shoulder.

You added the chicken to the pot to distract yourself. You’d never really met any hybrids, except a couple of your childhood friends’, but you figured the scenting you were witnessing was more of a private thing from the way the others sort of averted their gazes.

But you were also morbidly curious.

Yoongi came over a few minutes later. “Seokjin?”

“Sleeping still. It’s good for him to rest. How much English do you understand?” You asked, turning a little.

He sort of shrugged.

“Sorry I can’t speak your language,” You said a little more quietly.

He shrugged again. “You…nice. Keep going.”

You blinked at him for a moment, barely registering Jimin in the background making a lot of complaining-type noises. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but…thank you?”

He nodded, looking embarrassed, then mumbled something to Namjoon.

Namjoon looked reluctant.

You studied the room.

Namjoon finally turned to you. “Yoongi was wondering how much you understand about hybrid situations during this…pandemic.”

You carefully tasted the broth as you debated how to answer. “I know…that many hybrids have been used as…stress relief for certain clientele to boost morale. Illegally. Others trained as foot-soldiers in the war against zombies. Sent to a slaughter.”

“Yeah. We were transferred to Cherimo six months ago. We were more for shows than anything too….” He didn’t seem to know how to continue.

You stirred the pot nervously. “Shows?”

“Music,” He reassured you. “But…they were talking about us…taking on second jobs. Just before the crisis. Then we were determined to be expendable.”

You nodded. “I understand. Well, once you’ve recovered, we’ll see about getting you all set up on your own, where no one can determine what you can or can’t be. With any decency, you’ll never have to face such threats again.” You tasted the rice again and nodded firmly. “Well, threats from zombies always exist nowadays. Soup is done. Someone grab the bowls from that cupboard.”

Jungkook was hurrying to do as you asked, getting out the four bowls you had, and then looking worriedly in the cupboards.

You went over, opening the one he hadn’t looked in and pulling out assorted other bowls. “They’re all sort of scavenged. I’ve never really needed more than six bowls before today. Guess we should pick up more when we break into the store tomorrow. I think Seokjin should just have broth for now.”

Jimin nodded, taking the bowl of broth you’d ladled out and heading back toward the room.

You gestured for the other boys to get food for themselves, not exactly hungry yourself since you’d had a decent breakfast and instead opting to bring up your pumpkins. One to carve, one to eat. And then you’d also be able to roast any pumpkin seeds to munch on throughout the winter.

Jungkook, Yoongi, and Namjoon stayed in the kitchen while they ate, mostly watching you as you prepared to cut open the pumpkin you were going to carve.

“What…are you doing?” Jungkook asked carefully, quickly filling his mouth afterward.

“Making a jack-o-lantern. I’m going to gut this, then carve a face into it and pretend it’s a normal Halloween occurring in a couple of days.” You managed to get the knife through the thick rind, then carefully cut open the top of the pumpkin.

It took a while for Namjoon to translate since he’d been in the middle of inhaling his food, but after he did, Jungkook nodded, still looking curious.

Yoongi seemed indifferent, mostly muttering something that alerted Jungkook to the fact that his soup still existed, and giving Jungkook a big chunk of chicken.

“Where do you get things like flour and rice?”

You made a face. “Well, most of it I pilfered from stores. I was lucky to find this place early on, lived about a half-hour drive from here, and they had some things. There are stores equidistantly around here: One to the south, one to the north, and one to the east. West is more farmland and forest mix, as you probably surmised by the drive to your crash site. And there’s a farmer to the south that I do work exchange with. He grows wheat, corn, and sugar-beets, and helps me with some livestock. He in turn knows a guy to the east that’s been running some flour and sugar-beet processing, so he’s been providing me with some flour and sugar when he gets the chance.”

“And what do you do for him?”

You pointed to your basket of eggs. “His wife is allergic to feathers. I provide them with bird meat, and eggs. And I can grow things here throughout the winter, and I have a pretty efficient canning process going here. We just exchange goods and services. Nothing else. His son came with him once last winter. They were out of greens. Thankfully, I had enough for what they needed, and sent them home with plenty of greens and some extra goods to help them out. There are benefits to being a party of one, just as there are downfalls.”

“Being lonely,” Yoongi said quietly, not missing a beat and not looking your way.

You shrugged. “But I get a lot done. And I know that if I need company, it’s not terribly far to where his family is. The rule is to bring some goods though. Like, his wife came to visit me sometime in January—they have a horse and wagon that he rigged a heating system in—and she brought me a cherry pie. I spent Christmas with them, and took an apple and a pumpkin pie. That sort of thing. And if you guys settle near here, then we’ll probably do trades with you guys as well. And if you don’t, that’s fine too. What I’m saying…is that solitude isn’t quite so terrible when you know that there is someone around if you really need them.”

Jungkook had moved closer, watching you scrape out the pumpkin guts with clear curiosity.

You glanced at him again, then turned your attention to carefully cutting slices of pumpkin flesh from the inside of it, not wanting to waste any of it. You were determined to experiment more this year, try not to waste anything because it was…hard. Hard to make everything count, and with seven extra mouths eating you were going to need to make every bit count. You had multiple foods curing in the sun so that you could store them on the shelves in the basement, but still…even though you’d been doing this a while, it was always a curious thing trying to figure out if you had enough food for the winter. And it wasn’t as though you could do much about it with it being the end of October.

“How much warning did you get?” Namjoon asked, the first question he seemed to have himself.

You gave a half-laugh. “Well…we knew about the outbreaks in Europe, Asia, Australia, Africa…and my family was already taking it seriously. My parents decided to move out to live with my brother. I was still working, and printing off binders worth of information. No one ever thought to hit bookstores. My dad had started buying gas-tanks and filling two whenever he went to get gas. Left that for me since mom wanted to be by my brother and his family.”

“You didn’t go with them?”

You shrugged. “Half-brother? Not on the best terms. We would have killed each other. As it is, we talk on the sat-phones on Mother’s Day and Christmas. Everyone thought the world would shut down completely, but it didn’t. Anyway, I was banking on them surviving. As much as we don’t get along, my brother is a former marine and his neighbors are well spaced and consist of an older trapper and his wife, a marine buddy of his with his wife, and a cattle ranch. They’re doing great. And I got enough plants and seeds and information, not to mention people raced to get out of the area when they were told it was safest to get to a fort or the nearest Military zone. I hid in the basement for three days after that announcement, but nothing happened to me. I stayed at the house for a month after, packing the truck and trailer. I had my car still, with a full tank of gas, and I went around to see what things were like. There were still a few groups evacuating, but no one really paid attention to me. Met the owners of this place, asked if they were staying or going. They were older, and had been planning on selling the place before all of it went down. I gave them a wad of cash and a box of canned food, they gave me the keys. Everyone I did meet thought I was crazy. I was very careful about moving everything, and I kept everything locked up tight.”

“When did the zombies hit?”

“About this time that year. I remember because I thought it was ironic that the zombies would finally show up around Halloween. They were pretty bad that fall, and into December because it wasn’t as cold of a winter as normal. But January swooped in like a champ with below-freezing temperatures and lots of snow. I was lucky. Very lucky.” You finished picking the seeds out of the guts (at least, you were fairly certain you had removed all of them). “The cell towers were still work intermittently, so I can look up information quickly if I want. And the powerplants…they were still running until December. But hey, I’ve got three generators, and a crap-ton of car batteries for powering extra things, like the greenhouses.”

“Did you farm before this?”

You wrinkled your nose as you thought about it. “Honestly? Not to this extent. I’d thought about it, but the most we ever had was a vegetable garden and a couple of fruit trees. To say there was a learning curve would be an understatement. But I got through it.

“Scared,” Jungkook asked, gaze locked on you.

You shrugged. “Who isn’t? Would you like more soup?”

He looked at his bowl, then looked toward the pot.

“You guys can just help yourselves. I’ll probably eat later.” You picked the knife up again, seeing the end of the conversation in sight once more. Less distraction while holding a sharp object. Sure, what you were cutting out of your jack-o-lantern wasn’t going to be pretty, but you could roast the, up like fries and that would be really yummy. Or you could try to make a pumpkin spice something or other. You weren’t really sure what you would do with all of the pumpkin innards you were breaking out.

You just knew the shell was getting a face.

You paused, turning back to the egg basket. “I never let the animals out again.”

Someone followed you as you rushed out the back door to the small stable/barn/shed that you had shooed the animals into (that weren’t already secure in their own pens, mind), opening the doors to the fenced area for the pig and goats to run around, including your favorite pygmy goat that you honestly rescued just because it was cute. Whoever it was helped you shoo the ten chickens, two turkeys, three ducks, and one grumpy goose out into the bird run.

“Go on chicks. Guster! Get your tail-feathers through that door,” You scolded, picking up the grumpy goose and essentially tossing him through.

He landed just fine, honking angrily at you.

The ducks were happily settling near you, but you carefully shuffled them through the door.

The turkeys had gone through the moment you opened the door, the smarty-pants.

As for the peafowl in the pen on the other side of the property…well…as pretty as they were, you pretty much just fed them and cared for them because you felt bad for them. Sure, you had lot of pretty feathers for crafts in wintertime, but they were loud. And picky. And they ate so much, and needed warmer, dryer, well-kept pens.

But they were also very sweet and probably hand-raised because they always came right up to you.

Without a feed source to purchase for them, you hadn’t thought they would survive this long, but they were still plucking along. You let the male out during the hot days of summer to roam, but he always came back just in time for you to put clean water and whatever treat you’d scrounged up.

You’d let all of the birds out when you’d been tilling, letting them get the grubs and ants and other insects that were in your way.

The ducks would usually go down to the pond, but you’d just cleaned out their swimming pool, so you figured they would be fine as long as Guster didn’t decide they weren’t allowed to be there.

You would have to add more minnows to the pool.

There were so many things you hadn’t considered when you were setting up everything and rescuing the animals you did, that you just sort of figured out as you went. Like, hey! If you capture some minnows and raise them you can give them to your ducks and geese and they will adore you for centuries.

You had to raid the U-Haul and get a bigger transport vehicle, then raid a bunch of farm and pet supply stores. Then again that would use up a lot of gas as well.

“Uh…sheep?”

You turned around, looking at Jungkook, then at the goat that was trying to eat his shoe-laces. “Goat. Carl. Just push him.”

He did, and Carl plodded away.

Yoongi was also there, holding an egg and looking curious.

You glanced around, then grabbed an egg-carton. “Guess we should check for more eggs while we’re here.”

They nodded and helped you search, noses twitching and active as they explored the nooks and crannies.

Four eggs wasn’t bad considering you’d just collected eggs that morning. You’d put them in with the broody turkey. She’d hatched at least half of your chickens, and your third duck. She was your most valued asset.

The boys stood well-back while you carefully pushed her from her nest from behind, and placed the eggs before she could attack your hand, then closed the back hatch.

She was happily situated once more when you peeked in.

“Great. Okay. I need to make the trip across to the other pen, and then go down to see the cows this afternoon. But I need to show a couple of you what to do since we’ll probably be gone most of tomorrow,” You spoke, not really expecting a response.

Jungkook caught your wrist. “Me.”

“Alone?”

“You are alone.”

“But I’ve had practice. At least get Jimin and…who else is staying behind tomorrow? Besides Jin.”

Yoongi shook his head. “Jungkook and Jimin.”

You nodded. “Okay, then at least get Jimin to come see what to do as well. Don’t rush. We’re heading toward that building.”

He looked and nodded, then jogged away.

You huffed. “That boy.”

Yoongi made a soft sound, like he agreed but was also amused.

You turned to him. “Does it bother you when I just ramble on?”

He shook his head, a certain intensity in his gaze as he met your eyes that made it hard to continue meeting his gaze.

But impossible to look away.

His ears twitched, but they were angled toward you. His tail flicked as he stepped closer to you.

Warning lights went off in your head. Seven men. One girl. Alone.

You whipped around as fast as you could and started walking, grabbing the bucket of feed you’d prepared earlier. “Welp, let’s go. I’m sure they’ll catch up with us soon.”

And you swore you heard him hiss in surprise, and you just wanted to laugh at how ridiculous you were being and how ridiculous this situation was, but honestly who would have thought—

You squeaked in alarm dropping the bucket and running back toward the house to grab the rifle and the axe, then racing back toward your peacocks to save them from the zombie.

Yoongi gladly accepted the ax, hurrying after you, but also staying a good ways back so that you would have time to shoot the thing so he could chop it’s head off.

You’d become a very good shot in the past two years.

Yoongi looked like he might be sick after cutting its head off.

You didn’t blame him.

Wordlessly the two of you dragged it a place where you could bury it when you got the chance.

Jungkook and Jimin were there when you two returned, with Namjoon to translate.

Poor Namjoon.

When you were finally done instructing them on the peacocks, and the other animals on the property, you all headed down the street to the cows.

Jungkook fascinatedly touched the cows, while Jimin and Yoongi crouched beside you to learn.

And Yoongi was only gulping several times while he watched the milk tin you and Jimin filled, one cow after another.

The boys were also teasing him, and though he refused to give them much of a reaction, his cheeks were a little red and there was a twitch at the corners of his mouth that hinted at a smile and man that was adorable, especially with how his eyes closed slightly and his hair—

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Nope.

Nuhuh.

Stop it.

“So, what do you do with it now?” Namjoon asked.

You shrugged. “Take it home, separate the cream, pasteurize the milk. Then I’m either going to drink it or make something out of it.”

“Cool,” He replied, then translated, but you got the feeling that only Jimin really needed the translation as the two of them walked away, Jimin carrying the container effortlessly.

Jungkook and Yoongi walked with you, looking around at the farm while you got the cows some fresh hay, and inspecting the houses that the three of you walked past on your way back.

“Where did they go?” Jungkook asked carefully, looking at each abandoned house.

“I don’t know,” You answered quietly. You’d been to each house. When you finished your chores in the winter you amused yourself by inspecting the houses around you. Gathering furniture and supplies that you decided were needed.

“You live there,” Jungkook asked.

You shrugged. “Yeah. It made sense. Live where you work. I was just lucky that they had an extra room attached to the store area that I could turn into my room. I’ll probably just sleep in the kitchen, though. It’d pretty comfortable there once I set up the cot. Nice and warm.”

Jungkook paused by one of your smaller pumpkins that was sun-cured and awaiting transport to where it would be resting for winter or for later processing.

You paused as well, then picked it up. “Come on, panda boy. You can carve one too.”

Yoongi started purring but quickly coughed to cover it.

The other boys were distracted, talking with Taehyung quietly but animatedly, and the door to the room where Seokjin lay was propped open slightly. Seokjin was asleep and Taehyung was eating, cheeks bulging slightly from how much food he’d shoveled in.

Felt good to have your food appreciated, even if they were only eating it because they were half-starved.

Yoongi and Jungkook followed you into the kitchen (Yoongi moving the milk pails, that Jimin had left on the floor near the sink, onto the counter for you).

Jungkook went at his pumpkin carefully, but the one time he didn’t do something carefully he earned a low growl from Yoongi. He proceeded to stick his tongue out at the feline, and continuing carefully.

You pushed the bowl of seeded gut, unseeded guts, and seeds toward Yoongi with a grin.

He winced, but didn’t fight it. He did get a fork and spoon to help him sift through though.

Jungkook hummed as he worked, filling the slight-awkward-slightly-comfortable silence, sometimes murmuring a word or two in Korean.

And you believed that they’d been in the music industry, because there was no way they would pass up the chance for a rare hybrid that could also sing. And Red panda hybrids were rare.

There hadn’t been much of a hybrid-culture around you growing up, so you were aware of it, and had met a few hybrids that were therapy hybrids, but you’d never had significant exposure to them aside from your one road trip with you friends when you broke down in a hybrid town. The hybrid women that came to your rescue been extremely kind to you and your friend and had gotten you on the road again. But they’d told you to avoid hybrid males, “For everyone’s sake” and now…you still weren’t certain what it meant.

You wondered how they were doing during this apocalypse. They’d probably just stayed put and established more defenses. They were already mostly self-sustaining, with their own power supply and water system. Most people wouldn’t have even passed through there unless they were very, very lost.

“There’s a hybrid town…there was a hybrid town, to the east of here. There were completely self-sustaining. After your friend heals up, you might want to head that way,” You said in the silence after Jungkook finished his song. You were finished with your jack-o-lantern, just peeling the skin off of the bits you had carved out to add to the pile of salvaged pumpkin flesh.

Jungkook went rigid, and his tail fluffed out.

Yoongi also looked…tense.

“Or not. Do whatever you guys want,” You quickly added, a little alarmed at how alarmed they got. You’d just wanted to let them know that there was somewhere they might have a better chance. They’d said they wanted to go to the nearest safety zone, but that would also mean returning to servitude, discrimination, and possibly worse things.

Jungkook and Yoongi started having a rapid conversation over the workspace, Jungkook looking desperate and despairing, Yoongi looking uneasy and reluctant and adamant.

You weren’t sure what it was you had said, but they seemed to be quickly heading toward some sort of dispute and Jungkook suddenly turned adamant as well and Yoongi got a fed-up look.

“Namjoonie-hyung!” Jungkook finally called loudly, slamming the knife he had been using down on the counter and turning to head toward the main room.

Yoongi’s eyes widened and he hurried after the panda. “Yah, Jungkook-ah.”

You watched them go, then quickly grabbed the knives and put them in the sink in case they came back. Then you started sorting the seeds out of the guts of Jungkook’s pumpkin as the debate appeared to continue in the next room with lots of shushing.

You really wished you’d gotten more language textbooks and dictionaries. But honestly, there was no way you could have foreseen needing to know Korean.

———

Seokjin was already looking better the next morning, and more aware. Taehyung was carefully feeding him, and between the two of them they managed to tell you about the other pains—possibly broken bones—that Seokjin had. But all you could really do about them (aside from feel them and see if you could feel any displacement, which you didn’t) was splint them and tell him to not take any risks. Unfortunately, at least one of his legs appeared to be broken. You had a brace that he went into comfortable, but that was the best you could do for him.

At least they weren’t avoiding you like the others.

You weren’t sure what it was that you had said that set them off, but, after the…discussion yesterday afternoon, most of the boys sort of avoided you. Looked nervous.

But as it got later in the morning, you gathered and loaded some supplies into the truck. You’d already hooked up the trailer

Jungkook met you there, looking determined.

“No,” You said firmly. “I told you, no injured people on this trip. Too dangerous.”

His brow furrowed.

“No,” You repeated. You were not going to be fought on this. No way.

Finally he stalked away.

You wished you felt victorious.

Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, and Taehyung were set to go with you—though Taehyung appeared to be giving very detailed instructions to Jimin and Jungkook about Jin’s care—and soon packed into the vehicle.

It was very awkward. Yoongi sat in the back with Hoseok, but he wouldn’t look at you.

Namjoon and Taehyung were crammed in the front and Taehyung had apparently tired of practicing his English because he was talking with Namjoon.

Your hand went to the pocket with the list of things you wanted to look for, as if the list would reassure you that everything was okay.

You could feel someone’s gaze burning into you, and you knew who it was without looking.

You knew it was Yoongi.

You just wished you knew why.

You’d gone east, since that town was fractionally closer, easier to navigate, and hadn’t been raided as much.

“What’s the plan?” Namjoon asked as the houses started giving way to more business stuff.

You started to reply, then pulled into the hospital that was there (just a random specialist center, not a full one, but you thought it still might have some things you could use). “First we see if we can find Seokjin a wheelchair, crutches, or more braces—anything that might help. You have your weapons?”

They nodded.

You parked the vehicle, studying the building for a moment. “Okay. We stick together. Two people look, the other three guard. Got it?”

A smattering of agreements and a queasy nod from Hoseok let you know that they agreed.

“Hoseok and Yoongi, you want to look for the equipment?”

They nodded, though Yoongi was slightly more reluctant.

“Yoongi thinks I should help look for equipment and he should help guard.”

You gave Namjoon a quizzical look.

He rubbed his neck sheepishly. “I’m a little clumsy. They call me the god of destruction. He doesn’t want me to destroy everyone.”

You nodded. “Okay. Also, guys, if you see medical things that will fit in our bags, go ahead and carefully grab it. Especially gloves.”

He nodded, translating for everyone, then listening to a few follow ups. “Okay, so, just to be sure we’re all on, uh, the same page—Hoseok and I search and gather large and small supplies. Taehyung and Yoongi guard, but also grab things as they see them, and you’re guarding and searching as well?”

“That is correct,” You answered, curious. Had that not been clear? “I mean, I can also push one of the carts we brought but…I don’t even know if this place will have zombies. It was mostly an rehab center for old people, and I mostly think we’ll find gloves and hopefully a wheelchair or walker.” You shrugged.

Famous last words?

There were definitely a few zombies.

And by a few, you mean a few dozen.

Also, Hoseok was completely terrified of both the zombies and his weapons. No wonder he looked queasy.

You found a room that was empty and the five of you managed to get inside without zombies , locking and then barricading the door so you all could catch your breath and double check for injuries.

Yoongi grabbed you, moving you around and frantically checking you over, then sighing wordlessly.

“I’m fine. Were any of you hurt?” You asked, trying to visually assess Yoongi since he blocked your view of the others.

“We’re good, Tae had a close call, but he wasn’t bitten.”

Hoseok moved into your line of sight and pulled on Yoongi’s shirt, which somehow effectively pulled him away from you.

Which was good.

You were starting to feel a little nervous.

“Wheelchair!” Taehyung suddenly shouted, all signs of fatigue gone as he rushed toward a whole stack of them.

You looked around at the supplies, then met Namjoon’s gaze. “I guess this would be the supply room.”

Namjoon just grinned.

All of you quickly dispersed to fill your bags with supplies, Namjoon grabbing the different braces and checking how big they were, Hoseok carefully grabbing boxes of gloves and carefully looking over bandaging and such, and Taehyung still playing with the wheelchair.

Yoongi was trying to decipher the labels on the medicine.

You started bagging rubbing alcohol, peroxide, other creams and liquids that you recognized.

Which led to you being beside Yoongi helping grab medicines.

Yoongi seemed to look you over again. “You’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” You answered again, shrugging.

Yoongi nodded, then showed you a label.

You nodded, then went to check on the other boys.

But Yoongi stopped you, a strange desperation in his eyes. “Stay by me,” He said firmly, anxiously.

You stared into his eyes for a moment.

“When leave, stay by me. Please,” He begged, grip on you tight.

You weren’t certain what it was about the way he asked, but the moment he asked, you knew you would say yes. “Okay. When we leave.”

All of you jumped when something banged on the door, but it didn’t sound forceful, and a glance toward the door proved that it was just one of the zombies lightly hitting the door with a cane. Geriatric zombies, those were a thing now. Zombies who used canes and possibly walkers.

Now if only they weren’t interspersed with other zombies that didn’t need such aids, getting out of there would be a cake-walk.

But like most of your life since the pandemic, of course it wouldn’t be easy.

“He should be fine,” Namjoon reassured you, pouring more peroxide over the nasty bite and ignoring Yoongi’s growl of pain.

“Why would he do that?” You asked in a whisper, shaken to your core. The five of you were in a different parking lot now, treating his bite since the coast was clear.

The boys just exchanged glances, then shrugged or muttered something.

“Well…he can take a bite and survive as long as we sanitize fast enough, whereas if you were bitten…that’d be it for you,” Namjoon said carefully, watching as Hoseok meticulously cleaned the wound and then applied antibiotic cream. “It’s preferable.”

“It’s still dangerous,” You whispered, then scanned the surroundings again for any interlopers. “And we’ll give him some antivirals just in case. I still don’t understand why…why he acts the way he does around me. One minute he won’t look at me, and the next he’s getting bit by a zombie so that I won’t be bitten.”

Namjoon looked uncomfortable, like he was hiding something.

Hoseok’s gaze darted up at you, and Yoongi was definitely looking a little red.

Taehyung was checking out the store-fronts, only a couple of steps away from the group. He pointed at one of the stores. “Why…why?”

You followed his gaze, noticing the door that you had marked. “I did that. I barricaded it and marked it. The back door too. I cleared it out. It’s safe to go in there. We’ll get you guys clothing, shoes, coats, and other extra things. But they may have gotten in through the back, so we should secure that before we start grabbing things. And I get to approve of the coats, because there’s a certain type you’ll need to make it through a winter here. Hats. Scarves. Gloves. Blankets. Sheets. Pots and pans. Dishes. You should stay in the truck,” You said pointedly, looking at Yoongi.

He rebelliously looked back, stubbornness in his features. “No. You go, I go.”

You huffed, and folded your arms, but you weren’t about to fight him as well. “Fine, but you’re staying back.”

His eyes narrowed, but that was the only response he seemed to give you.

Once Hoseok had bandaged it, and used one of the compression sleeves you all had liberated from rehab center to hold the bandaging in place and give it more protection, all of you carefully removed your barrier and then cautiously entered the store.

But the barricade on the back door was still in-tact, so you all blocked up the front door for while you were shopping, and each of you took a grocery cart or two with you. You went to the kitchen stuff first and filled a cart, then the home goods stuff and filled a cart. Checked on the boys, but they were trying on clothes and shoes together and seeming to discuss the sizes of the others.

So you went and got yourself some more clothing, your gaze continually catching on the night clothes and intimates.

But that was ridiculous. You didn’t need that stuff. You had no one to impress or dress for.

Then again….

After you put those carefully packed suitcases near the front with the carts you’d filled, then started going through coats, grabbing a few for yourself, but mostly pulling options for the hybrids. The warmest brands. Sturdy ones.

You flinched and jumped at the sound of someone sighing just behind you, staring at Yoongi as he examined one of the coats you’d set aside.

Yoongi met your gaze, looked back to the coat, then stepped closer to you. In your space.

You held your breath as he held you in his stare.

He stepped closer, body right next to yours, and then he ducked and tucked his face against your neck.

You froze, feeling his nose brush against your neck, his furry ears tickling your cheek.

Then his lips pressed to your skin and he pulled away, hand resting on the other side of your face, cupping it so that you didn’t look away as he pulled back.

After a second, amusement sparkled in his eyes and he smirked slightly.

Then he was walking away.

And you were frozen. Absolutely frozen.

Because what the hell was that.

Once you had a coat for each of them, including the ones that were waiting at home, they all sort of went to explore since they could.

You grabbed hats and gloves, some beauty products that it carried (which weren’t numerous). Socks. Boots for when yours wore out.

Then you and the boys carefully packed everything into the trailer before heading over to a farm store that you’d raided and secured before.

Except this time you had extra muscle power to load those wood-burning stoves into your trailer. And extra lumber, chicken wire and other fencing supplies, tools, oils, kerosene, butane, propane, rope, nails, screws, sleeping bags, tents, flashlights and lamps, brooders, feeders and waterers for all of your animals, extra chicken coops and rabbit hutches and just so many different and various things you needed or would need. And lots of seeds. And heavy duty work-boots, overalls, and other labor gear for everyone (yourself included, because you would wear through those boots eventually and your father had drilled in you the importance of good footwear).

Not because you couldn’t come back. With the gas you’d managed to salvage, you probably had enough for another eight trips if you kept decent speeds and your car stayed maintained. And your neighbor had been talking about rigging vehicles with alternate fuel sources, so if he ever got that working….

But you had to assume that he wouldn’t, which meant getting as much as you could while you were in town.

Which is why you thought it couldn’t hurt to see if that little oriental market that had been near there had anything that kept that they might enjoy. But it was smaller, so you told them only one other person could go in with you and still be able to fight, and that you’d prefer it be Namjoon since the two of you could communicate more easily.

There was extreme reluctance, especially since you hadn’t specified where you were going and there were several stores in that plaza, but with the walkie talkies that you all had acquired they finally agreed.

And you got five sacks of rice that still seemed to be okay.

Then you guys hit the plaza with two big-box stores. Getting storage containers, mattresses (because none of you trusted the mattresses left behind in the houses, and the boys insisted if they get one [bless them, they planned on sharing one] that you get one as well and Yoongi wouldn’t let you say no so you made them get two mattresses for themselves), and then you all split up to search the many food isles for unexpired goods.

And of course you got paired with Yoongi.

Neither of you said anything as you started walking up and down the isles, you pushing the cart because he was insisting on being the guard. Not that you guys thought there might still be zombies lurking around (you highly doubted there would be any still hiding after the way Taehyung had run around yelling happily once the group had finished killing the four or five zombies that were in there), but it was better to be safe than sorry.

So there you were, chucking snacks that had been chock-full of preservatives into the cart, and wondering if the cereals would be stale or if they could still be good after two years.

Wondering if he was ever going to say anything.

Grabbing just about every canned good after checking expiration dates.

Taehyung said more when he brought you guys two carts, speaking mostly to Yoongi, who translated roughly. Something about the other boys and medicine.

And then Taehyung was gone with the other two carts he had been pushing, and dragging your full cart away.

The store next door had yarns and fabrics that you all just packed right up, regardless of pattern or texture, as well as all of the threads and pins and beads, packing everything in more boxes and such. Raiding the notebooks, pens, pencils, books (including text books, which included English textbooks that Yoongi grabbed several of, and a Korean-English dictionary and textbooks that you grabbed since you figured they’d be there for a while and hey, what’s another language to pass the time), clothing (again, what could you say, you didn’t know how to make socks or comfortable underwear), instant-photo cameras (Taehyung was especially excited about those with main mentions of Jimin in his ramblings), another pharmacy raid, shampoo and soap, and all of the hybrid stuff that they could ever want, extra furniture that was easier to move, more dishes and cookware, candles, canning supplies, solar panels, solar batteries (could never have enough of those), more foods that you knew would keep (because you were now feeding eight people and Taehyung liked to snack, he was doing it in the store the moment you said something was still good), and then if the boys secreted some things into what you all got you didn’t pay attention since they also didn’t pay attention as you checked out the period supplies because that didn’t stop with the pandemic and though you had alternatives (which you picked up more of, thank the heavens) sometimes it was just easier.

And Taehyung had a cart full of ramen that you weren’t about to fault him for.

Yoongi was the only one awake on the drive home.

“What was that earlier?” You asked. “At the coat store.”

He sighed and you heard pages turning. “True partner.”

You waited for more, but that seemed to be all he was going to say on that front. “What does that mean?”

He sighed again, this time more aggravated and with a slight hiss to it. More pages flipping and you could see his frown in the rear-view mirror.

Finally a frustrated growl and the thunk of a book closing. “Home. Jungkook.”

“We’re almost there,” You replied quietly, sighing. “Almost there.”

Jungkook rushed out when you all arrived, grinning with relief. “Hyungs!”

“Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi called back, hurrying to him and grabbing his wrists.

Jungkook immediately nuzzled Yoongi’s neck while Yoongi started muttering something, with glances toward you that soon had Jungkook staring as he gently fingered the fabric over the bandaging.

Taehyung raced inside.

Namjoon gestured to the load. “Unload today, or tomorrow?”

“Unload light stuff, leave the heavy stuff for later.”

He nodded, translating and calling Jungkook and Yoongi over.

You grabbed an old pumpkin cart and brought it over for them while Jimin brought over a couple of the grocery carts.

And Jungkook….

You had to scold him about eight-dozen times not to lift things that were too heavy, but every time he just grinned at you and cutely said “no speak English” and carried on (but it usually gave the other guys time to get over to him and at least help carry the heavier things.

Jimin was parked in the basement stacking canned and jarred goods on your food shelves and medicines and other non-food items on your other shelves, since it required less movement and he apparently aggravated his injury while all of you were gone. You were guessing one of the goats tried to get him, but Namjoon didn’t seem to know how to translate what was said, so you just left it at that.

Taehyung had rejoined everyone in unloading, and was working with you as a two man conveyor system for Jimin.

You swore Jungkook was trying to show off.

Yoongi took the suitcases that all of you had filled with clothing and coats and stacked them in your bedroom to go through later.

And before you knew it, the truck and trailer were almost completely empty.

Jungkook had ingredients out like he was about to cook, and he looked at you happily, as though inviting you to cook with him.

You nodded, gesturing for him to lead on.

He grinned and then brought you some vegetables. “Chop.”

You nodded, not even surprised as Yoongi also joined you and Jungkook and everyone else disappeared to ‘go check on Seokjin’. Because you could see Taehyung and Jimin playing outside and exploring one of the greenhouses, looking at the pumpkins, and Namjoon was just through the door, looking through a stack of books. Which meant Hoseok was probably the only one who actually went to check on Seokjin.

Yoongi and Jungkook somehow managed to give you enough instructions that you managed to help them, and when they couldn’t find an ingredient and couldn’t name it, you would play a guessing game with Yoongi. The hardest was probably soy sauce.

But the most surprising thing was probably how…touchy they were with you.

Or when Jungkook just came up behind you, wrapped one arm around your waist, shoved his face in your neck, and licked you.

Licked. You.

And you yelped, because all of that happened in about two seconds, and you could feel their surprisingly stunned stares as you booked it out of there.

You walked quickly across to one of the greenhouses, cursing frantically and pretending you were doing something completely routine by getting treats for your animals.

Namjoon found you, looking nervous. “Hey. Yoongi sent me to find you.”

“Fuck,” You hissed, picking up a pumpkin. “What the hell is going on, Namjoon? And I am not in the mood for and BS.”

He winced. “Um…what do you know…about…mates?”

“I suppose we aren’t talking about the British or Australian definitions, and more biological definition?” You led the way toward your rabbit barn and hutch.

He nodded, looking anywhere but you. “Definitely more biological.”

“Sorry you got caught in the crosshairs as translator,” You muttered, dropping the pumpkin so that it would break, and then putting pieces of it in the different hutches with some of the seeds for them to enjoy, but also giving them lots of fresh grasses and greens so that they wouldn’t overindulge. You’d give the rest of it to the goats and pig.

He shrugged, peeking at the rabbits. “Cute. So, for hybrids, potential mates are identified by smell a lot of the time. Jungkook and Yoongi are technically mates, but…they also identified you as a potential mate. So…they…want to stay near you.”

“So, hypothetically, if I had told them about a hybrid city that you all may have wanted to go to after leaving here and they reacted poorly to it, it would be because it was almost like an unconscious rejection of them?” You asked, darting glances toward him.

He snorted, and then started laughing. “Is that what happened? Geez, they’re so dramatic. Look, I already told them to take it easy around you because you are human and it might not be something you want for yourself. But…even if you aren’t…we would all like to stick around. Maybe not here exactly, but we could be close by and help you out when you need it. You’re the first person, hybrid or human, who has ever been kind to us. And we feel safe here. Would it be okay if we stuck around?”

You considered it for a moment, wondering what it was that made them feel so safe or comfortable. And if you were okay with what he’d said. Yoongi and Jungkook wanted you as their mate. As proposals went, you’d heard worse, but you also hadn’t known them long enough to commit to anything. “Tell them they have to play the long-game. And…I kept a couple of the nearby houses from having burst pipes the last two winters for when people pass through. If we get the one across the street set up with a power supply, you guys can live there. The house next door is for refugees on the move, and me. It’s easier to bathe there.”

He grinned at you. “We can stay?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not. But that means we’ll have to be frugal. I’ll need you guys to help me get two more greenhouses planted.”

“Sure! We can do that!” He grinned happily, bouncing on his toes.

“Great. Now, go tell the boys to stop attacking me with affection out of the blue.”

He laughed and hurried off to tell the others.

What had you just agreed to?

———

You weren’t sure what it was about Halloween that always brought more zombies around than normal. Maybe it was the swift approach of winter. The hard frosts. Urging them to migrate.

Either way, you’d had your work cut out for you from the moment you woke up.

Thankfully, the boys hadn’t wandered off alone at all, and never unarmed after you woke everyone by shooting the rifle.

You did lose another chicken though, the one that refused to go into the coop once she’d escaped the previous evening.

“Is that coffee?” Yoongi asked, gaze locked on your mug.

“Sort of,” You answered, gesturing to the pot. “There’s coffee in it, if that’s what you’re asking.” You’d combined your coffee-tasting tea with some of the frozen coffee grounds you had. You hadn’t resorted to your instant coffee yet. You weren’t ready to admit defeat. You weren’t ready to say goodbye to coffee.

But that day was fast approaching.

You would have to bid your vice goodbye.

Another gunshot alerted you to an issue out front, but you waited for the holler for assistance.

“We’re good!”

You nodded and poured Yoongi a mug of the sort-of-coffee sort-of-tea.

He took a sip and sighed. “Good.”

“Glad you like it,” You replied.

He nodded, then sat back beside you, surveying the fields for more zombies.

Jungkook came and sat between the two of you on the ground, leaning against Yoongi’s legs.

They sat with you in comfortable silence, though Jungkook was also tracing the seam along your calf. Barely touching, seemingly an absentminded action, but slowly capturing your full attention.

Jungkook peeked up at you, then back down, tugging on the seam. “Okay?”

You smiled. “Sure.” It was amusing that he wanted permission to play with a seam.

Yoongi glanced around, then got up. “Can see house?” He asked, pointing toward the house next door.

You looked around seeing Jimin and Hoseok coming around to relieve you and Yoongi from your watch. “Sure, just tell them where we’re going.”

Jungkook nodded, hopping up and racing to meet them, glancing back multiple times as they continued walking over.

Jimin gave you a thumbs up, and they took your places.

You led the two curious hybrids over to the house, glad you’d kept up with cleaning it once a week. It was chilly in there, but not freezing. And honestly, during winter, you preferred staying in there because of the bathroom. You’d set up a shower in the store, and a sort of bath, but usually if you really wanted to feel clean and bathe in nice hot water, you came to the house and indulged because it had an energy efficient water heater that could run on the power supply you generated all through the year.

Either way, the cozy house was clean and well-furnished.

Jungkook looked around curiously, straying a little.

Yoongi stayed close to you.

“Not much to see. I put overstock food in the basement when I need to.”

Yoongi nodded, then got closer to you, seeming to ponder his words carefully. “Namjoon told you, scents and things.”

You felt a decently strong urge to start running. “Uh, yes. Did he tell you what I told him?”

He nodded, then rolled up his sleeve. He rubbed against certain parts of his wrist and arm, then held it out to you.

You blinked at him, confused beyond reason.

“Smell,” He said quietly.

You looked between him and his arm skeptically, then leaned forward and casually sniffed his wrist.

Then you sniffed again, because who the heck smelled like petrichor?!

Jungkook eagerly joined the two of you, offering you his wrist.

Jasmine.

Your weaknesses.

Yoongi gently pressed a kiss to your cheek. “You smell nice with us.”

You closed your eyes.

“Oranges?” Jungkook guessed, nuzzling up to your other side.

And oh, those sneaky fluff-butts.

And didn’t they know that there were zombies around.

But of course they could tell how you felt about all of this thanks to their superior sniffers.

Which was probably how you ended up kissing Jungkook while Yoongi kissed your neck.

All of you stopped at the sound of a particularly loud gunshot.

Shortly followed by two more shots that had all of you hurrying out to make sure everything was under control.

You carefully avoided them the rest of the afternoon, not entirely certain you trusted yourself around them and their stupid petrichor and jasmine which were your favorites. And they said you smelled like oranges and what did that even mean aside from Yoongi saying that you smelled good with them. Were oranges a desirable smell?

But whenever you passed by them, or were near, they found a way to lightly touch your arm, brush their hand against yours, rest their hand on the small of your back, tuck your hair away from your face and you totally didn’t end up kissing Yoongi when he went with you to feed the broody turkey.

And you both definitely wouldn’t have been overtaken by a zombie if Jungkook hadn’t conveniently come by and shot it.

Jungkook peppered you both with kisses, as though those would help calm you from the close call, and then pointed out that he had set out the jack-o-lanterns.

You stared at the glowing pumpkins and started laughing, because, of all the things to prioritize that day, with zombies all around…he made sure the jack-o-lanterns were put out.

So maybe when all of it was you were assigning watch duty for the night, you made sure those two would be with you, because you felt safe with them looking after you. Both of them had saved you.

“Lonely?” Yoongi whispered, staring up at the stars.

“No,” You whispered back, fingers running through Jungkook’s hair. But this time that was all you needed to say. It was enough.

“Good,” Jungkook sighed, giving a sort of rumble of approval and melting further against you as you gently scratched behind his ears, fluffy tail wrapping around him and eyes drifting shut.

There was a long trial ahead of you. Learning their language, fighting zombies, making sure there was enough food to eat, fighting zombies, caring for the livestock, fighting zombies, and exploring whatever this was with Yoongi and Jungkook. Maybe even convincing them to try and make it over to the hybrid town, just to try and initiate trade or something.

There were a lot of things to think about, and consider, questions to ask and have answered.

But in the glow of the three jack-o-lanterns, with soft smell of petrichor and jasmine surrounding you and the sounds of the others talking and laughing inside, you weren’t worried.

You weren’t lonely. “Not anymore.”

Zombie Apocalypse Masterpost

Tagging: @lost-xim, @bryophytas, @young-yellkie, @alex--awesome--22, @missmoxxiesworld, @knjhe, @i-dont-even-know-fck,

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