#apocalypse field trip

[teaitty]

mega edgelord o’here

[glitterfang]

field trip

post S4, apocalyptic, friends to lovers, road trip, smut

pairing: stommie (Tommy Hagan/Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson)

rated e | 9k | part 2 of an ongoing series

cover art by @mojowitchcraft

[kaiju-wolfdragon]

Field Trip Days-cityville 2: The Giant Apocalypse

In a place in the Cityville building, inside of the office is the mysterious person, after the success of the project called cityville, he decided to get this plan to come to place that humanity in the real city will face in an apocalypse plan of theirs. The mysterious person was now looking for his files of his favorite guest of 14 students, so many experiences for them to react…. Luckily for him, their fun has just begun…

The mysterious person called in his assistants skittles and mark, they were called in for an next plan, the mysterious person asked them “So, is the control device ready?” Mark answered “Indeed boss, it's up and ready!”. Skittles nodded nervously, Skittles wasn't sure it was a good idea to do that to the 14 students of blaze Spirit school, the mysterious person asked if it works, Mark said that it works quite well as it can control their behavior like giants.

It made the mysterious person impressed, then he looked at Skittles and walks towards him as the mysterious person hands over the control device and 14 bracelets and said, “Now Skittles, I need you to find the victims of blaze Spirit, and put this on their wrist, after you’re done, give mark a signal so he can use this to turn them into giants, but you got to do that in sundown when they're asleep”. The mysterious person gave mark the growth button that activates the bracelet to change their size, and then the mysterious person gave Skittles the files of the 14 students.

Skittles and Mark looked at each other and agreed on their boss and they're waiting until sun down to start their plan.

Meanwhile after school, the students were in a bus getting back to school, they do have fun but also worried about the victims from the cityville project the mysterious person did, but at least one of escape there thanks to a student name Theo with his eating trick to keep the tiny human safe, right now the tiny human is on his pudgy belly asleep and Theo enjoys the tiny human’s company too. Aiden watches his friends then goes back to look out of the window and enjoy the ride of the school bus, but also can't help but wonder about the mysterious person and why he made this project in the first place…

After school, 14 students went back home spending their time enjoying the weekend while out of school, then it's now getting late and each student went to bed to sleep.

Meanwhile, with Skittles and Mark, they're ready to do the job, Skittles looks at the files to find the right students to put the bracelet on, one by one, Skittles keep sneaking into their rooms and gently puts the bracelet on them as it beeps to green as it's locked on their wrist getting ready to start the plan. After Skittles got out of the last room, he gave Mark a signal to start, Mark pressed the button and then the students started to glow each random color, then the two assistants ran away back to the building and waited until the magic happened.

In the morning, Aiden slowly woke up and slowly noticed that something changed, Aiden got up and looked down in shocked that he's bigger than a building, he then got up and carefully trying not to step on anything, luckily the students didn't wear shoes as some wearing socks, then he saw the same students that's from his school, everyone here is so confused, as for theo, he was worried about school his tiny friend since he thinks he could have crushed the little fella, then he felt something very tiny and he saw was a dot, he noticed that was his tiny friend, it was on his belly this whole time, luckily for any size he’s now extremely huggable.

Every student looked at each other talking about what's happening to them and what makes them like this, then that's when Brandon saw what's on his wrist, it was a bracelet on them, he tried to get it off, but unfortunately, it's not coming off of his wrist, “Guys! It was this bracelet that happened to us!” said Brandon, it made the students notice the bracelet and they tried to get it off “Um, it's not coming out..” said Diego. He’s right, it's stuck like glue, it's not coming off!

Then one of the students noticed something's off and noticed not knowing what's going on… But who did this… The students now noticed a pattern that it was that mysterious person that works in that cityville project!

The students are pretty upset about what that mysterious person did to them, and then Nico tried to move out of the way and then accidentally stepped on a car which caused a panic from the humans, the students are nervous about their surroundings. Then something happened to the bracelet, they looked at the bracelet and then the bracelet glowed red, and suddenly it changed their behavior into enjoying the destruction as evil giants.

The giant apocalypse was a full success to the mysterious person, the mysterious person and Mark are quite impressed with their work, except for Skittles as he's getting worried about them, sure he doesn't want to let him down, but at the same time he's pretty concerned about them too.

“Um sir, are you sure it's a good idea? I mean the plan is quite a great success but is it really necessary to do this to them?” Said Skittles as he's very concerned. Mysterious person didn't say anything to Skittles for a minute until he looks at him with an unimpressed expression and said, “It is necessary Skittles, besides we seen the results for them at that project, and now everyone will have to survive 14 giants as they take over the world causing many destruction as they can!”.

It made Skittles even more concern about the situation, then he thought about it, he should stop this own his boss’s plan, Skittles got into another room and saw the blueprints of the device, then he saw how to disable the behavior section, then he tried to find a way to change their size back to normal, then he saw something that surprised him, it doesn't have to be shut off, but you can change their size to normal size or giant sized only.

Skittles grabbed the plans and snuck out of the building and drove a helicopter just to be safe from getting stomped by the students. At first sight he saw Aiden, destroying parts of the city by just crushing buildings with his foot like little ant hills that need to be destroyed.. Skittles looks at the bracelet and then the blueprint, all he has to do is to deactivate the rage behavior by turning a switch inside of the bracket. Skittles activate the grappling hook and hit it on the bracelet and slides onto it to shut it down, Unfortunately Aiden noticed and tried to grab skittles as he was working on changing the behavior route, Skittles kept dodging and dodging until he got it. Aiden stopped and went back to normal but he's still a giant, he feels dizzy and lost balance and crashed on some buildings and it made Skittles fall down and off of Aiden's wrist, but luckily Aiden catches him before he falls to the ground.

Skittles and Aiden are now face to face with each other, Skittles looked nervous at Aiden and then said, “U Um. H hey there, Aiden right? It's a long story but I used to work with the boss and-” he got interrupted by Aiden as he looked pretty angry “Did that mysterious person do this… to us?....” Skittles nodded in fear, Aiden bared his teeth and squeezed Skittles tightly but not too tight, Skittles had fear in his eyes looking at the angry giant, he struggled and tried anything to calm him down. “I know you're angry! But I'm here to help you!"said Skittles, Aiden growled a bit as he's still angry, but then he started to calm down and loosen his grip, letting Skittles sit on the palm of his hand. “I'm sorry, I was just very angry at that mysterious person that he did this to us…” said Aiden as he's calming down. Skittles understand their pain being an experiment as he's also part of the cityville project before, he was a test as he's a giant to the cityville, he tried his best trying to be friendly but they didn't see him as a friendly giant, they let him try stomping on buildings and cars and eating tiny people.

Aiden sees Skittles’ pain and can't help it but feels bad for him, after finding out his past with the mysterious person and all. Aiden got up while holding Skittles, all he needs to do is get close to all the students and deactivate their rage behavior, Aiden agreed and the other students to get them at their normal behavior, first Skittles deactivate Carly's rage behavior, then Cassie, then nori, Nico, Ava, Jake, Diego, Theo, sky, Nina, George, Ruth, and then last but not least Brandon.

It was very tough for them to stop their rage behavior, always moving around much and trying to eat him or destroy him. The students was what they did to the city as it's halfway destroyed, the students felt ashamed of what they did, then Skittles came below them, trying to cheer them up, the students were circle around him looking down on him which it made Skittles extremely scared knowing how it really feels to be a tiny person. Theo grabbed Skittles and gave him a great big hug which made Skittles feel safe from them. The students are having a conversation about how they can get the bracelet off. Skittles spoke to them, “Well… Unfortunately you can't get them off, but the good news is that you can change back to normal by pressing the red button to shrink back to normal sized, but before they're about to do that, they decided to give this mysterious person a visit after what he did to them.

Theo picks up Skittles and the tiny person on his shoulder so they can hang onto him, Skittles puts the tiny person in his coat pocket keeping them safe, then the students are now taking a stroll as giants, going back to the cityville building.

Meanwhile with the mysterious person and Mark, they're very upset seeing Skittles betraying them. “I can't believe that prick betrayed us like that! When I get back I'll show him what happened when he betrayed me!” Said the mysterious person as he's pretty furious. Then Skittles came back and saw that his boss was very furious at him. Skittles backed up away from the mysterious person and then the door shut behind him, then mark grabbed him by his arm and put the same bracelet that's just like the students had, Skittles wasn't ready for this and he wanted him to stop this madness, but then the mysterious person grabs out the remote button that will activate the same way as they did to them and said, “You're lucky that you're my assistant… but you need to learn the life as a giant like them, you're way to nice and kind for them and that sickens me a lot to see how very pathetic you are… and thanks to them, they're a perfect target for you to change your life… Enjoy your new rampaging life my assistant~” Skittles prepares himself to become a raging giant as he's about to press the button, until…. “He’s not your assistant, not even anyone else's!” it was the angry voice of the giant, and that voice was Aiden.

Nico and Brandon lift up the building as it's pretty big but not too big, just the same size as them. Mysterious person lost balance and dropped the remote as in shocked to see the 14 students coming to save Skittles. A mysterious person tried to keep them out of control with the backup button, but it didn't work. “How is it possible!” Said the mysterious person, mark noticed that the bracelet was rerouted by Skittles, Skittles ran away and jump out of the building and to land on theo’s soft pudgy belly, then nori grabbed the model city of cityville out and the gun from the the mysterious person, after nori got all the stuff they needed, Nico and Brandon threw the city at the other side to crash it far away from this city.

They watched the building crumble to pieces after throwing it far away, they're safe.. for now… A few minutes later, the 14 students are helping the city by cleaning up their mess and Skittles on the other hand are getting the pieces of the cityville model back to normal, including the people too.

After a long hour of cleaning the city up and everything is back to normal, Aiden let Skittles in his house to be his roommate after his place was gone for good by the mysterious person. Since the 14 students and Skittles had their bracelets, they all had to live as a normal sized person and a giant too..

Everyone thinks it's over.. until the mysterious person came out of the rumble and then smiled again and then said “well, at least that's a bust, but don't worry… soon they'll join my side.. and I know they will soon…” then the mysterious person took off his hoodie to reveal a dragon face with green eyes. Then his transformation turned him into an enormous city sized dragon and roared and then Mark crawled out and witnessed his form and then flew away never to be seen again soon…

The end..?

[msboutofcontext]

[anonymous-existences]

MasterPost

Updates are currently... Wonky. Inconsistent. This author is currently very sick, very tired. Stuck with School, and also writer's block so yes, Writer's schedule? None. QwQ(and the fear of the AO3 curse striking me again with a new found trauma I never knew I didn't have yet is terrifying to think of)

[Author's First Fic is Finding Family, it's kinda bad? I think—]

All the Chapters for Finding Family in Gotham:

Ao3 Link : Finding Family in Gotham

Prolouge : Last Moments

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12( TW:Depictions of Vivisection for Chap 12.), Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19

Spectral Mysteries On AO3

Part 1, Part 2

Title : Search For a Peaceful Resonance]

Also On Ao3

Search for Peaceful Resonance ReWorked

Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9

Title:Fatherly Struggles with Dan

DanxBruce Ship Name - Apocalypse Knight , thank you @kashlyn for telling me 🤭🤭 super appreciated!!!

Fatherly Struggles With Dan AO3

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Lost and Divided Fic

Chapter 1 : One Sided Family

Chapter 2 : Stargazing

Field Trip to Gotham Now in Ao3

Chapter 1 : Off to Gotham

Chapter 2 : Gotham Shenanigans

[Updated every New Chapter That's Posted and also Updated if a new Fic is being written :))]

[dannymayevent]

Dannymay 2024

Welcome back to Dannymay! We sincerely apologize for the delay this year, as we're releasing this just a day before the event is due to start. Life's been a bit hectic for all of us, but we're here now and ready to get this event started for you!

If you aren't aware, Dannymay is a yearly event where creators are given a daily prompt and are free to run with it! Any and all art is allowed; fanfiction, fanart, music, poetry, and anything else will be welcomed!

Feel free to complete as many or as few prompts as you'd like, and remember to have fun! When you're done, post your creations to Tumblr with the #Dannymay2024 tag so we can see it!

Like last year, we'll be compiling an ao3 collection under the tag Dannymay 2024, and we'll fire up the Dannymay discord for another year - the link is in our FAQ!

Full text prompt list and AU explanations are below the cut

Insect

2. Wish

3. Invisible

4. Wander

5. Nails

6. Immortal AU: What if Danny/Halfas couldn't die?

7. Mind Control

8. Style Challenge: A unique prompt to kick off the second week! Take the characters and draw them in the style of a different piece of media, or experiment with your own style and see what you can make!

9. Hunger

10. Mausoleum

11. Mutation

12. Time Travel

13. D&D AU: Drop the characters into the world of Dungeons & Dragons, or imagine them playing the game!

14. Light

15. Field Trip

16. Glowing Veins

17. Equilibrium

18. Revenge

19. Iron

20. Pitch AU: What if the show had aired as presented in the Pitch Bible, where Danny is a human with an owl named Spooky, rides a motorcycle, and has a psychic connection with Sam? For more information, the Bible has been uploaded to the Internet Archive

21. Funeral

22. Song Lyric: Just one week left! Take a line from a song you like and use that as inspiration!

23. Reflection

24. Electricity

25. Games

26. Shoes

27. Zombie AU: What if the ghosts were zombies, or what if canon Amity Park were to face a zombie apocalypse?

28. Healing

29. Fireworks

30. Goodbye

31. Free Day: You made it, thanks for participating in the event! For the last day, create anything you'd like!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. ���Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

[beforeimdeceased]

ENTANGLED IN YOU— WHEN WILL MY LIFE BEGIN?

ways to help, daily click, do not support neil

ellie williams x reader

a/n: this actually isn’t the best but i’ll post it now and edit it later :D let me know what you think

tags: @astralnymphh

masterlist

…

once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who lived a castle…

okay maybe it was an abandoned apartment complex, and maybe she wasn’t a princess, but that isn’t the point of our story. our story focuses on how fate is inescapable.

“flower! let me up.” the doctor calls. you look outside of your broken bedroom window and quickly rush to the main room where there is a lever. you then, twist it with all your might. this triggers a series of reactions going downward which opens a space in the wall for the doctor to walk up.

this was a daily routine. doctor would go out and forage for supplies and food while you tidied up your “tower” as you called it. it wasn’t much but it was home and helped protect you from the outside world.

many years ago an outbreak occurred causing a sickness in the people of the world. doctor says it was terrifying to see. disfigured faces as a parasitic virus took over their minds.

but you were special.

you were born a few years later in a hospital doctor had been working in at the time. your mother had been seeing doctor for months and she was finally ready to deliver you. then suddenly, there was a break in. the infected monsters stormed through and bit your mother as you were being born. in a panic, doctor wrapped you up, ran as fast as she could until she found this abandoned building, and promised to always keep you safe.

she waited to see if the affects of the bite were passed onto you, and gratefully reveled in the fact that they did not. she still continued to watch you carefully. just in case. then, one day while cleaning up, she turned her head for a moment and you’d been scratched by an infected that had found its way inside the building.

you wailed and so did she before she realized that you were not turning. days began to pass and you still hadn’t turned. you were completely fine other than a small scratch on the back of your neck.

doctor rapidly got to work. after running various tests she used your blood to create a cure. it’s temporary against the infection, but it helps keep it from doing extensive damage. it gave those who were previously hopeless a reason to be hopeful.

she was excited about the results and prepared to share them with the world.

once she’d gotten in touch with the others in her field, they said in order to make a viable cure for everyone you would have to die, which she did not agree with.

so she rushed back to the tower, closed the doors, and swore to never let you leave out of fear that others would hurt you. even after you’d grown older. even after a cure had been fashioned years later from a mystery flower. even after the apocalypse had been declared over and it was semi safe to leave again. you would never leave. and she was confident that you’d never try to, until…

“are you excited for you birthday tomorrow, flower?” doctor asks as she walks into the lounge area. you were sat in the corner knitting a scarf out of yarn you’d fashioned from leaves. “i am actually. i’m more excited about the possibility of-“

“leaving to see the festival?” she finishes your sentence. you huff. “doctor, please. i look outside of my window and i see people laughing and lights shining just down the mountain. i know that a settlement is out there. have you still not checked it out?”

“no i haven’t checked it out and i’m not going to. i told you it’s probably fires started to control a large population of infected.” her tone is stern. she has checked already, it is a settlement.

you slump down in a chair next to her, hands clasped together. bottom lip sticking out. “please. please! atleast promise you’ll check on your next trip.”

she looks over at your face and smiles. “fine. we’re running out of supplies anyway. i’ll check on my trip tommorow, would that make you happy?”

“very.” you respond, smiling.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

a loud clanking is heard from underneath the tower followed by a string of curses. “doctor?” you call out. your heart begins to race. what if she’s hurt again and she needs help? or more of the cure? you quickly turn the knob and listen as her footsteps get closer.

then you hear her speak and it is definitely not doctor. you hide behind the entrance, a frying pan in hand as it was the closest thing to you. you watch as the woman steps up and looks around. breathing heavily with dirt all over her. before she can turn around, you knock her hard on her head.

[dixons-sunshine]

Shopping Spree, Hangout Dreams AU Headcannons Part 5 | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Word count: 592.

A/n: Focusing back on them before the apocalypse for now. And the last part personally had me giggling. Kids, huh? Anyways, I hope you like this!

Specially dedicated to my biggest supporter on this au, @ddamm.

★ Daryl bought his own motorcycle shortly after the two of you moved into your final apartment.

★ He had spent years saving up for it, even hesitantly accepting any money you wanted to add to the savings for his motorcycle.

★ He was hesitant to take your money because he felt bad. He didn't want you to “waste” money on him, money that you could use to buy yourself something nice.

★ However, you were adamant, and your contribution to the savings helped him immensely.

★ The day he bought his own motorcycle, he was ecstatic. It wasn't anything fancy, but he loved it, and therefore, you loved it as well.

★ You'd been with him for over a decade at that point. You knew practically all the lore surrounding the motorcycling community. Daryl took great pleasure in teaching you everything he knew.

★ It made Daryl happy to know that you took interest in something he liked. He could go on for hours about motorcycles and you wouldn't mind. You'd actively ask questions and ask him to explain something you didn't understand.

★ Daryl was even teaching you how to ride one. It wasn't quite like teaching you how to ride a bicycle, like you had joked when he had suggested teaching you how to ride a motorcycle, but you got better with time.

★ Soon, you were able to ride one on your own, though you still preferred to have the professional—Daryl—ride it instead with you on the back, holding on to him.

★ Going away from motorcycles for a bit, Daryl was also the one that taught you how to drive a car.

★ Merle had essentially given his truck to Daryl way back when, and the old thing surprisingly still worked years later, all the way to the start of the apocalypse.

★ That was the first thing—apart from a bicycle—you ever learned to drive.

★ When Daryl bought his motorcycle, he basically gave you the truck to go to and from work, the supermarket, basically anywhere you wanted to go.

★ During the earlier stages before he bought the motorcycle, he'd go and pick you up from work with his truck.

★ He once picked you up a bit later than usual due to the field trip you had taken your class on, and when you had gotten off the bus to greet him with a cheek kiss, the kids all collectively commented on it, eliciting chuckles from you and your husband.

★ “Ew.”

★ That's also how your class had gotten introduced to your husband. After that, they never stopped asking about him.

★ “Mrs Dixon, how'd you meet Mr Dixon?”

“Mrs Dixon, have you and Mr Dixon ever kissed with your mouths like my mommy and daddy?”

“Mrs Dixon, do you love Mr Dixon?”

★ You had also once gotten a question from one of the kids that had you choking and blushing.

★ “Mrs Dixon, do you and Mr Dixon play with your clothes off?”

★ You changed that topic of discussion very quickly. Nope, you weren't gonna teach a bunch of five year olds about sex.

★ It did make for some good comedy when you got back home. Well, for Daryl at least. When you told him about that, he couldn't stop laughing. He found the question hilarious.

★ “Well, what'd ya tell him?”

“I didn't say anything. I changed the topic.”

“Ya could've said yes. We do “play with our clothes off” a bunch'a times.”

“Daryl, I'm not gonna say that! Do you know how many parents would be plotting my murder?”

“I know. M'jus' messin' with ya, Darlin'.”

[incorrectbatfam]

Each batfam member’s recurring stress dream

Dick: he was an only child again

Jason: he became the shortest sibling

Tim: Bart and Kon were in charge of Titans Tower

Damian: he got a squirrel that turned out to be the last of its kind and he had to protect it in against an animal zombie apocalypse

Duke: tarantulas in the toilet that laughed like the Joker

Cullen: his pants fell down in front of the Justice League

Stephanie: the waffle iron broke so she had to carve her own squares onto a pancake

Cassandra: David Cain dragged her back to where she came from

Barbara: she had to substitute for Ms. Frizzle on a field trip through a wormhole

Harper: her hands were welded to watermelons

Carrie: she was made of peanut butter and couldn't stop eating herself

Kate: her car got stuck in the snow on Mount Everest

Alfred: a new law passed stating all eggs must be cubes and he was on the run from the FBI with the last carton of round eggs

Selina: Bat-Cow sucking her toes

Bruce: Jason

[hyuuukais]

⋆₊‧⁺˖⋆˚.⋆ ͙͘͡★ LOOK UP TO THE STARS

pairing ▪︎ han jisung x fem reader

synopsis ▪︎ sent out on a mission to a neighbouring QZ that's gone radio silent, y/n falls into the hands of a post-rebellion group after things go terribly wrong. giving up on rejoining her squad, she joins the group on a trek to find a missing member, the group leader's sister. what's supposed to be a not-so-simple trip out and back to their base becomes a one-way ticket to the end of everything they know.

warnings ▪︎ general, blood, broken bones, some description of injuries

MASTERLIST | NEXT

CHAPTER ONE ▪︎ SET UP FOR FAILURE (7.2k)

"What do you do when a nearby Quarantine Zone has gone radio silent?"

The squad leader paces the front of the classroom, watching hands fly up. This year, there are fewer cadets than ever, the population dwindling constantly. They're eager, hungry for field action, wanting to see the hypothetical scenarios themselves. Sure, the simulations were exciting, and the history of the world prior to the apocalypse was interesting enough. Still, even you, one of the few who genuinely liked these classes, were getting sick of sitting back and hearing about missions instead of being able to see it all firsthand.

"Send out a squad?" You answer when your hand is picked, shrugging.

"No." You wince at your squad leader's strict voice, but it relaxes. "Not a squad, just a few troops to scout the area and survey the damage. So, not entirely wrong, but not entirely correct either." He leans back on the chipped blackboard, hands behind his back. "This is stuff you'll need to get down if you want to move up in the ranks, all of you. I'm not singling you out Y/n- ehem, Cadet L/n."

A few people in the back giggle at the slip-up, knowing your more personal relationship with the soldier standing before you. He hides a smirk behind a well-trained stoic face, your own painted with a furious blush of red. Like the professional he is, the lesson continues without much of a pause, only briefly calling out the laughter to remind everyone who's in charge here.

After being drilled with so much information it could cause a migraine, you're finally able to leave. The next parts of your day include physical training and weaponry practice, then dinner, and bed at 10:30PM sharp. No time for chitchat, no time for leisure outside of the confines of your small room. Not that you've earned your own room yet, so at least you have your roommates to entertain you.

You hang back, having a few minutes to spare before heading off to throw punches or do push-ups or whatever they'll have you doing next. Just enough time to give Minho an equally needed break.

"Squad Leader Lee?" You approach his desk once everyone is gone with a flirty tone in your voice. "Why, that lesson was... I have no words, truly. The way your voice projects over such a large room, so deep and velvety, really. And don't even get me started on how good you look in that uniform-"

"Cadet L/n, that's enough," he says in a strict enough tone you almost take him seriously.

"My bad, my bad. So, what is it?" You ask, grinning. "No dessert or bathroom duties?"

"How about both?" His face finally betrays him, the corners of his mouth upturned.

"Now there's that cruel soldier everyone believes you to be!" You cry, dramatically holding a hand over your heart. "How could you! You know how much I love the mushy crumble and how much I hate cleaning those disgusting public toilets. Just cause humanity has fallen doesn't mean you can't still be decent, people!"

You both laugh a bit too loudly, and you're about to continue your acting until a harsh knock on the open door interrupts you. Swiveling around, you're met with the hard stare of your Captain.

"Cadet. Squad Leader," He greets, clearing his throat and eyeing you. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Y-yes," You flinch. "Yes, sir."

"Better head off then," He says, waving you off as he enters the room. "Squad Leader Lee, spare a minute?"

"Of course, sir." Minho stands, voice fading as you rush down the hall.

-

"What is going on with you two?"

Standing over your panting figure is Seungmin, your best friend since coming to the QZ. He offers you a hand, taking it away just as you go to grab it.

"Dick." You push yourself off the ground, sweat dripping down your back. "Nothing, you know this! Why does everyone think something's going on?"

"Duh, because you knew each other before coming here? You have history," Seungmin wiggles his eyebrows, bumping his shoulder against yours. "Another round?"

"What? So you can just kick my ass again?" You huff. "We both know you're a better fighter."

"Only in the physical sense. I'd hate to be on your bad side with a weapon in your hand, sheesh." He hands you your water bottle and a rag, grabbing his own after. "Besides, you were obviously distracted today. Usually, you're much better."

"Complimenting me, are we?"

"Never." He grimaces, taking a seat on the bench.

You follow his lead, sitting back and watching your fellow cadets spar on the mats. Some just use their fists, like you and Seungmin, and some are equipped with small knives. No one is allowed to critically injure someone else, but accidents happen, usually among the more bloodthirsty of your peer group.

"Fuck, he's brutal," you say, pointing to the back where a larger member of the group is throwing down his opponent. "Lucky I got stuck with your skinny ass."

"My skinny a- really? Look," Seungmin smacks your right arm, as you shake with laughter. "Look. Call this skinny?" He flexes his muscles in his left arm, putting your hand over his sleeved arm to prove his point. "I could crush you. I will crush you."

Empty threats, empty promises, but full, full laughter erupting from your throat. It's short-lived, however, as your Captain is now walking toward you through the mats.

"Jesus, this guy and I just keep running into each other today, huh?" You mutter, wiping away excess water from your mouth.

"This guy could use you as zombie bait-" Seungmin abruptly stands and salutes. "Afternoon, Captain."

"Good afternoon, Cadet Kim. As good as it can be these days." He clears his throat as you stand, copying Seungmin's behaviours. "Cadet L/n, we meet again. First, you're taking up Squad Leader Lee's time, and now you're slacking in your physical training."

"She just needed a minute to breathe-"

"I'm talking to Cadet L/n right now," the Captain cuts Seungmin off who's barely hiding his annoyance. He's never liked your Captain. "If you keep up like this, you'll never improve. Just some food for thought."

"Yes, Captain Park."

"Now, get back out there. You still have time for a few rounds before weaponry training." He turns halfway, looking at you over his shoulder. "Change your stance and you'll get knocked down less. Cadet Kim, I trust you can show her?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good." With that, he heads out.

"Why was he even watching us?" You cross your arms, no longer hiding your disgust. "Doesn't he have better things to do?"

"Apparently not." Seungmin steps back onto the nearest mat where you like to train, easy to step off for breaks both necessary and unnecessary. "Let's get back at it, I guess. I don't want to get stuck on dish duty."

-

After all training for the day concludes, you head to the cafeteria, planning to grab a sandwich and head back to your room early. As usual, the area is full of hungry soldiers, making it hard to be quick. You tend to avoid eating here and getting stuck in meaningless conversations with people you likely won't see again, never sticking around long enough to make proper friends. Seungmin was scheduled for dinner a half hour after you, leaving you alone for the first half. The one time you waited to eat with Seungmin and his friends was the most painfully awkward experience of your life, standing against the wall with your tray of food trying desperately to not get knocked over by the sea of bodies.

Nothing against Seungmin and his friends, but you didn't know them that well either. You briefly met Ryujin that day, but she was similar to you. She spared enough time to talk and eat, but once she was done, she was done. Gone to her room early for God knows what.

For a while there was Jeongin, but he was mistakenly sent on a mission; something that was supposed to be a fake scenario turned out to be very much real. No one's seen him since. They didn't find a body, so you have to assume he turned. You've never asked Seungmin what he thinks happened knowing it's a touchy subject, changing the topic whenever someone else brings it up.

Today is different, something in the air makes you want to hang around. There's a feeling of secrecy, whispers of rumours thick in the air. Getting as close as you can to the people next to you in line without it being weird, you try to eavesdrop. They're also cadets, but from a different squad; you don't recognize them.

"No way, they would tell us that, wouldn't they?" The taller one says, further away from you.

"You really think so?" The one closer to you scoffs. "The higher-ups don't tell us shit about anything that goes on beyond these walls."

"Okay, but isn't missing a whole QZ kind of, I don't know, important?"

You grab a spoonful of bland potatoes.

"Obviously it is!" The shorter one whispers. "But at our level, I seriously doubt they'll let us know. We won't even be able to do anything anyway since we can't go beyond the walls yet."

"Sometimes they let squads out of training early." The taller one scoops some beans. "Maybe-"

"Shh, Captain Park is right there." He hands you the spoon, unaware of your part in the conversation.

So that must be why Minho had to discuss abandoned QZ's and the procedures today. You knew it wasn't the originally planned lesson, hearing Minho complain all about it the day before after class. Maybe he knows something. Maybe he's just as in the dark as the rest of you, only being told of a sudden lesson change and that's it. Could he be hiding something from you? That talk with the Captain...

"Hey, keep the line moving!" Someone shouts, unfreezing you.

You dash out of the cafeteria, leaving your food behind. It's okay, it was barely edible anyway.

If Minho knows something, you'll find out. He can't keep secrets from you and you know it, using the fact to get ahead of the rest of your class even though you already knew it all. But this? Something to this extent?

"Minho!" You swing the door open only to be met with not just Minho, but Squad Leader Seo as well. "Oh, um, evening squad leaders. I just, um, came to..." You spot an assignment paper on Minho's desk, snatching one up. "...grab a new copy of this! Once you're available, could we go over question nine? I got a bit confused."

"Question nine..." Squad Leader Seo leans over to look at the papers. "'What to do if a zombie bites your fellow soldier'? Sounds pretty straightforward to me."

You bite your lip, cursing yourself for not looking at the questions first.

"Of course, Squad Leader," you address her, putting on your acting face. "The thing is, the question's a bit broad, no?" She cocks an eyebrow. "Well, you see, where was this soldier bit? Obviously, there's no hope if it's the neck. Goner, shoot in the head. But what if it's the forearm? Or the calf? Are you not able to amputate the limb before infection spreads?"

Squad Leader Seo just shakes her head. "She's all yours, Lee."

You stand back triumphant. If there's one thing you're good at, it's annoying or confusing people to your advantage.

"Wow," Minho gives you a slow clap. "Just... wow. Next time I wanna get someone off my back, I'll give you a call."

"Gotta use my natural talent somewhere," you chuckle, taking a seat in the chair Seo must have pulled over. "Not like actress' still exist."

"Clowns do."

"Screw you!" You ball up the paper, tossing it at him lightly. It bounces off his chest and falls to the floor.

"So why are you here now? Don't you only have-" He checks his watch. "-eleven minutes until your dinner hour is over? Meaning I have eleven until mine starts."

"I had a question."

"Something more important than getting a well balanced meal in?" Minho raises an eyebrow.

"Way more important. And you know those meals are gross, you and your secret spice stash... you still need to tell me where you get those. Anyway!" You take a breath, unsure how to approach the topic without being too blunt. "I've heard people talking-"

"-because they're always so truthful."

"Shut up." You lean in, not wanting to risk any passerby hearing. You really should have shut the door behind you and risked talk about you and Minho. "I overheard some cadets talking about a neighbouring QZ going silent and couldn't help but think that it might have had to do with our lesson today. Do you know anything about this?"

Minho stiffens. "If I knew something, I couldn't tell you, you know that."

"But I'm your exception." You roll your eyes. "We both know that."

"For a lot of things, yes, but this?" He eyes the door. "Even if I wanted to tell you, I can't, and that's final."

"Minho-"

"That's final," His tone is harsh, the only way he knows how to get you to stop pressing further. "Got it, Cadet?"

"Got it," you mumble, pouting.

You really thought you'd be able to get something, anything, a crumb of information from him, but no. He had to put Squad Leader Lee on and Minho away, leaving you with the same info as you walked in with.

An idea was brewing, and Minho could tell.

"What's that face for?" He questions. "You're scheming, aren't you?"

"No," you say, all too quickly. "Course not. Nice chatting with you!"

You stand abruptly, your chair squeaking backward as you dash out of the room to avoid questions. Fellow cadets stare as you bound past them, back to the cafeteria. There were two minutes left in your hour, just enough to pull Seungmin out of his chair and to the side, leading him outside before he can protest or even register what was happening.

Cold air hits your face, skin prickling in the early spring moonlight. Turning him to face you, you let go of Seungmin's arm. There are few people occupying outdoor seats on the patio, still too cool to have a meal enjoyably. This works in your favour, moving to the table furthest from the doors for some privacy.

"Why'd you drag me out here? Can't a man eat in peace?"

"Short answer, no." You drag a hand through your hair, only loose during your free time. "Long answer, we're going to break into Minho's office."

"Should I get Captain Park to drag you to the infirmary? Because you've lost it, genuinely lost it."

"Ugh, I've seen him enough today," you groan. "Listen, Minho obviously knows something about what's going on-"

"What's going on?" Seungmin asks.

"Haven't you heard of the abandoned QZ?"

"Oh, that," he says. "It's just a rumour."

"Or is it?" You smile devilishly. "I asked Minho about it and the way he reacted suggests otherwise, plus my lesson today was all about radio silence. It all adds up!"

"It all adds up because you want it to add up." Seungmin scans the patio, inhaling when more people join you outside. "We shouldn't be talking about this."

"Fine, don't join me." You lean back hard, arms crossed. "I'm gonna do it anyway."

"Well, it was nice knowing you." He leaves you then, and you realize your dinner hour is past over.

Sneaking back to your room will have to do. Good practice for tonight! But your mind wanders as you head back. What if doing this hurts your friendship with Minho? Should you really risk so much over some rumour? Besides, even if it's true, if you get caught you won't be able to go with your squad to check it out anyway.

"Not that they send training squads..." You pout, opening your door.

You're met with hushes, creaks of beds, and giggling.

"Relax, it's just me."

"Oh good, it's about time you showed up." Your roommate, Yeji, sits up with her hair all messed up from trying to act asleep. "I thought you'd be in Captain Park's office again."

"Nope. Almost in Minho's though."

"Fucking finally!" Yeji cocks her head, a wide smile on her face.

"Took you long enough," another voice says.

A head pops up from Yeji's bed, and your other roommate Yuna lies there. You realize it's actually Yuna's bed they're in, having both rushed thinking you were someone else.

"I'm gonna get my stuff and get ready for bed," you say, grabbing a small netted bag with a towel and soap inside. "Don't have too much fun while I'm gone."

Closing the door with a soft click, you head to the communal showers. They're at the end of the corridor, each squad getting their own with their floor. Your squad, number fourteen-three, kept it surprisingly clean and even won an award for housekeeping the year before. This was your last year here, moving on with the rest of the squad to the frontlines next year. That is, if you make it that far.

Privacy was hard to come by, so you sit in the shower stall a little longer after the water's turned off. Wrapped in your towel, you slouch sideways against the wall, closing your eyes for just a minute. At first, you think you're dreaming of the voices you hear, shaking yourself awake. Goosebumps prickle at your skin for the second time that night, either from the cool air coming in from under the shower curtain, or the realization of people joining you.

"No, you can't tell her anything." Oh, you're definitely not supposed to be hearing this. "I don't care how much you trust her. You know how much I want to tell Bin, and I can't. I don't see how this is much different."

Squad Leader Seo sighs, loudly.

"She won't tell anyone," Minho replies.

They're talking about you.

"She'll tell Seungmin, who will tell Ryujin, who will tell Yuna, who will tell Bin. Then what?" Seo hisses. "You need to understand this."

"I hate this." Minho shuffles. "I hate not knowing and not being able to do anything."

"I know you do. I do too," her voice softens. "Last I heard is they're planning to make an official announcement tomorrow. Hopefully, that'll be enough to satisfy her curiosity."

"It better be."

Their voices fade and you wait, you wait until it's completely silent, and then some, ensuring they'll be gone by the time you step out.

-

Soldiers shuffle around to find empty seats, sitting with their squads. In the row in front of you sits Minho, next to him Squad Leader Seo, with a gap large enough for one person to walk through between their seats to separate their squads, fourteen-three and fourteen-four. The other two squads in your section are seated in the rows ahead of you, not much further away. Your squad only consists of ten people, two rows of five each. Yeji and Yuna sit to your right, Seungmin to your left.

"Attention!" Captain Park clears his throat from the stage; you think this used to be a school's auditorium. "Please, give me your attention!"

Everyone falls silent.

"Thank you. Now," He points at a white sheet behind him, an image of a map projected onto it. "We are here." He points to a small red dot at the bottom of the map. "Our closest neighbouring QZ's are here," he points at a green dot, "and here." He points at a blue dot. They look close enough, but you know from studying the maps they're a lot further than they seem.

"For a long time, we've established trade routes to help sustain us, sent trained soldiers and healers to each other when needed," he begins his speech. "This system has worked for thirty years." Captain Park takes a few steps on the stage. "Now, one of them has gone radio silent. We haven't heard back from them nor our messengers who've been sent out to find out what's happened."

A few people gasp, whispers arising. Panic fills the air, heads turning and some even standing up.

"Sit back down!" Captain Park barks. "There's no need to panic, really. All but one of our messengers have gone and not come back. It turns out they've been... overrun, slightly, forced to the middle of their zone where the infected beings have trapped them.

"Most of the infected have wandered back out, running out of resources." You cringe; he means people. "So we're using this as a training opportunity. Thanks to some of our best squad leadership yet, we're sending out squads fourteen-three and thirteen-four. You're about to graduate early!"

Shock runs through your body so intensely your hair could be standing up. So the rumour was true, and you're being sent out.

You're being sent out.

You.

"Shit," you gasp, tears forming in your wide eyes.

"Y/n! Did you hear- hey." Seungmin takes your face in his hands, catching the falling tears with his thumbs. "No crying where people can see you, remember?" You sniff, nodding. "Good. This is good news. We're finally getting a chance to get out of here and experience the real world."

"Right," you say, determination taking over your numb face. "Right! Finally!"

You jump out of your seat, joining the rest of your excited squad mates. This was an opportunity you couldn't pass up, no matter how frightening it is now that it's happening. You're leaving, you're really leaving.

But when you lock eyes with Minho, all you can see devastation.

-

Twelve hours later you were in the backseat of a vehicle heading to the next QZ. Sitting next to you is Seungmin, silently looking out of the window. Most of the surrounding area had turned into dense forest, the dirt road bumpy. Minho was up front driving, one hand on the wheel and the other lounging in the open window, wind coming back and hitting you in the face.

You drifted in and out of sleep on the trip, a restless night keeping you up before. This morning offered barely any time to down some kind of caffeinated drink and a small breakfast, packing some for on the road. It feels like a lifetime has passed since you left, seeing more of the real world than you've seen in a long time.

Most people in your squad had either been born in the QZ or arrived at such a young age that they don't have any memories of outside of it, but you had lived beyond it for the first decade of your life. It wasn't hard to forget since you'd become so accustomed to life inside the walls.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Seungmin's voice brings you back to reality.

"Hmm?" You detach your eyes from the trees, looking over at your friend. "Oh, nothing, really. Just kind of zoning out."

"You better zone back in." Seungmin points between the front seats and you follow his gaze. "We're here."

In front of you stands a large, grey wall with a secured gate and two lookout spots on either side. Barbed wire lines the top of the structure, although you highly doubt zombies can climb. There isn't much difference from your own, just a different number spray painted above the gate. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, minus the missing soldiers.

"How'd the infected even get in?" You ask, thinking out loud.

No one answers, unease settling in. Minho leaves the vehicle first, circling around to grab his gun from the back. Yeji leaves next and you follow, Seungmin and Ryujin out last. On you, you have two small knives strapped to your thigh and a small pistol on your hip. Lastly, you have a slingshot tucked into your back pocket, a small satchel secured across your body to hold ammo.

The five of you walk toward the gate, Minho punching a code into the pin pad on the right. With a groan, the gate starts sliding open. Behind that gate is another for extra security also requiring a code, so Minho continues on, the rest of you getting your weapons out to prepare. You hold one of your knives, opting for something quieter before the chaos ensues. This gate creaks open slightly faster, allowing entrance into the QZ.

"So," Minho slows to a stop a few steps ahead. "That must be how they got in."

To the left is a huge hole in the wall, still smoking from whatever- or whoever- blew it out. Infected figures twitch and drag their feet around by the opening, far enough away they won't see you quite yet. Unlike your own QZ, there's a big parking lot to your left with what you assume are all of this QZ's vehicles, still intact. The explosion might have been big, but not enough to reach every inch of the area. To your right is a short building, probably where patrol squads check in and out, or where newcomers are interviewed. Straight ahead is a homemade gravel road leading into more domestic areas, small houses lining beyond the obvious military buildings out front.

You knew once you reached a certain rank you'd be able to get your own apartment or even a house like these ones, but you've never seen so many. This comes as a shock to you, believing you were one of the largest QZ's in the area, but you guess largest doesn't need to apply to the population within the walls, but the space it takes up.

"Squad Leader Lee." Seo runs up, placing a hand on his shoulder. "How're we doing this?"

He thinks for a minute, staring at the gaping hole.

"Split your squad into two," he starts. "You'll take half to the left with half of mine, leave the rest with Changbin." She gives him a look, clearly against the idea. "We both know he's capable and this is training after all. He'll lead his half and mine to the right side, snaking through buildings to reach the middle ones marked on the map. You and I will head to the right, taking out the infected as we go."

"Should we not all go right? We're here to rescue, not to kill." Squad Leader Seo turns him to face Minho, hand falling from his shoulder. "We shouldn't go into unnecessary danger."

"If all of those infected catch wind of where we are, not only will everyone on the right side then be trapped, but we'll have every single one of them after us. This way we can thin out the hoard." Minho checks his ammo, a way of signifying the end of the argument. "Feel free to do what you think is right, but don't blame me when your squad gets killed."

Squad Leader Seo looks taken aback, unused to Minho in action, hard and strict. Face void of emotion, he motions his squad forward to section off who will go where. Of course, you're chosen for his group, along with Ryujin, Seungmin chosen to lead the others going with Changbin.

"I swear to fucking God if you die-" You adjust the strap holding Seungmins ammo.

"I should be saying that to you," He chuckles. "You die on me and I'll kill you."

"Please do," You say, semi-serious. "I don't wanna be one of them."

"I won't let that happen," Minho says from behind you, gaining both your and Seungmins attention. "Finish your goodbyes and let's go."

"He can be such a dick." Seungmin rolls his eyes. "Comes with age, I guess."

"Shut up," You laugh. "He's not even much older than us."

Seungmin half-smiles, looking down at you. "My squad is gonna leave me if I don't go now. Squad Leader Kim, out."

"Wait." You grab his arm when he moves past you. "Not even a proper goodbye?"

He considers this. "I don't want to say goodbye to you."

"How about see you later?" You offer. "That promises we'll meet again after."

"Promises don't exist in this world," He says, but notices the way your face drops. "I'll... make an exception this time. See you later, bug."

"Squad section one, over here!" Minho waves his arms, signalling you and the others assigned to him over.

"See you later," you say finally.

Your section moves out, staying low between abandoned vehicles and corners of buildings, slowly but surely making your way to the hole. The closer you get, the more infected you see.

They look worse up close, prominent black veins popping out of their necks. Some limp, some stalk, some just stand there unmoving. You're hiding behind the tire of a truck, barely out of sight, and watch as one inches its way over. Its eyes are sunken in, lines deep in the skin, and nails grown out long with dirt and decay stuck underneath the tips. As it starts getting closer to your location, you make eye contact with Minho who sits behind a concrete barrier across from you. He makes a motion downward and you know what he's saying immediately. Crouching low, you slide your body underneath the truck, knife ready. You can see the feet shuffling through the front.

"Stay there," Minho mouths, wielding a knife of his own.

Part of you wants to disobey; it'd be so easy to take it down! But you know better. Moving too early won't just risk you, but your squad too.

It stops at the side, tips of its feet underneath the truck and right by your arm. Sweat beads on your forehead, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. You didn't know how much intelligence these things really had, always learning they lost most of it once turned. Most, not all. What if it somehow senses you and crouches down; or turns around and spots Minho? Would it grab you, claw at your skin until it's raw and bleeding, dragging you out finally to feast?

But it does none of that, simply standing there.

You move slowly to the other side of the truck and survey your surroundings, taking in where you can move to for quick cover. There isn't much, mostly rubble, but you spot a home nearby where a piece of blown-out wall has made a new entrance. You'd have to stay low as there isn't much to hide you on the way, but you couldn't stay here trapped under this vehicle. Making eye contact with Minho, you nod your head toward it. He has an easy route to move there, and so does most of the squad, you're the only one who has to risk anything.

He moves toward the front of the house, opting to use the front door.

"Always has to do it his way," you mutter, dragging your body out from underneath the truck.

What you failed to see is another infected making its way from the back of the truck, a low growl escaping its throat as you go into a low crouch. Slowly, you turn around right as it sprints at you, pouncing and pinning your arms down. Instead of biting you right away, it screams, spit flying onto your face and neck, and you notice the way its skin is peeling away from the corners of its mouth. You fight your own shout, struggling against the strength of its hold.

This is it. It'll go for the killing blow in a second.

I'm sorry Minho, you think as you see other infected alert at the sound of your attack. I'm sorry Seungmin, I'm sorry Squad Leader Seo, I'm sorry Yeji, Ryujin, Changbin-

You fight back tears as the infected on top of you continues to wail and wonder why it hasn't bitten you yet, why it's prolonging this encounter when you could be dead already. The grip on your forearms is bruising, pushing them deeper into the ground.

You hear it before you see it- another explosion as the hoard gathers. All you can do is hope the others got to safety, even if you're going to die here. Your first mission, failed.

A hand comes out of nowhere, piercing the infected in the skull and it drops onto you, rolling to the side. When the grip loosens, you push the dead weight off your body, grabbing the hand now offering help.

"I said I'm not letting you become worm food." Minho runs with you, hand still holding yours. "Everyone, back down! Head to the gates!"

No one hesitates. Another two explosions sound behind you and you don't dare to look back, the second sounding closer than the first. The ground rumbles underneath your feet and you stumble, Minho barely catching you before you hit the ground. Shrieks sound from behind you, terribly human. You finally glance behind.

Ground and body parts fly up in the air and you can see the grenades being thrown from all sides. You catch a glimpse of someone running across the destruction, face half covered in a black cloth and sunglasses obscuring his eyes.

"There's people!" You shout over the noise, forcing Minho to stop as you stare in horror. "We have to help them!"

"Pretty sure they're the ones causing this shit," Minho says, close to your ear. "We need to get out of here while we still can."

You want to protest, but the grenade that lands by your feet suggests you move. The two of you barely make it behind a parked van before it blows, heat blasting over you. Whoever is doing this either has no idea your squad is there, or don't care.

"We just need to get past those buildings." Minho points, and you realize how close you are to the exit.

You're on the gravel road straight to the exit, right by the beginnings of the training buildings, short and matching the patrol station at the front. The next moves are obvious; book it out. Emerging from your left are the other two squads and you can see Seungmin scanning the area until he spots you. Clearly, he wants to run to you, but something is stopping him and you don't have to guess what it is when you hear the now familiar groans and cries.

"Now!" Minho shouts, running out of cover.

A second delayed, you follow. The gravel is uneven and holey, making it hard not to slip. Minho is faster than you as you pant, trying to catch up. At the gates, he stops and turns in your direction, watching in slow motion as a heavy-duty, homemade bomb of sorts lands near you, tumbling to the edge of a building and blowing bits of concrete everywhere, the force knocking you down. A larger piece traps your left leg, pinned against the ground.

"Y/n!" You look up, seeing Seungmin rush to you and Minho frozen to the spot. "Damn it, this is really heavy."

He attempts to lift the chunk off of you and you scream out, face contorting in pain. You can feel the broken bone threatening to rip your skin. Seungmin comes back into sight, gun in hand, frantically shooting above you. Twisting the best you can, you reach for your own gun and find it missing. You must have lost it with all the running and ducking.

Now you can see the infected coming at you in full force.

"Seungmin, go!" You cry out, panting. "Get out of here!"

"What happened to no goodbyes?" He backs up slightly, spotting something you can't see from down here. "Shit."

Seungmin is back by your side, desperate to get the piece of wall off of you. He falls back, an infected clawing at his shoulder. Blood seeps through the beige fabric of his coat and he winces, using his good arm to hit the creature in the neck with his knife. Distracted, you don't notice the infected leaping at your body unit it's too late, eyes now trained on Minho being held back by Squad Leader Seo. You can see her shouting at him as he struggles to get past her, ultimately failing when she gets Changbin to help drag him toward the gates. Reading his lips, you realize he's been shouting your name, and twist back around just in time to see the infected land over you.

"No!" Your body is contorted painfully, not able to fully turn onto your back to fend off the creature due to your leg being trapped. "Get off!"

Sharp nails claw into your hip and pushing it downward, a scream of pain ripping from your throat. Your hip was definitely not supposed to turn that far. The other hand digs into your jaw, a terrifying set of teeth descending on you.

A gunshot sounds and blood pours out of a small hole in its forehead and onto your neck, body falling limp and releasing your own. Your body falls back into the natural position it should be in; back on your stomach. People you don't recognize are helping Seungmin up from under the infected that attacked him, a couple more running behind you. You're too tired to turn around and see what they're doing, barely registering the pressure change on your leg. Minho is gone, and so is the rest of your squad it seems, gates closed.

They left you for dead.

He left you for dead.

Hot, angry tears roll down your face as your vision begins to blacken, unable to keep it inside anymore. Loose hair tumbles over your eyes, getting stuck in the mix of tears and blood, slicking over your forehead when you put your head down on the gravel path. Every muscle in your body is crying out, burning white hot as you're lifted.

Someone puts an arm under your armpits and another under your legs, holding you bridal style, and your head falls into their chest. You know it's not Seungmin, having forced him to carry you enough times when you were too lazy to walk to a shared class or back to your room. Eyes barely open, you watch as blurry figures run back in the direction of the hole in the wall. There's a group of three in front of you, one holding onto another while the third helps them keep up with the rest of the group.

"Anyone see Ji?" The one holding you yells out, voice thick with an Australian accent.

"Last I saw, he was climbing out of the lookout." Someone jogs up beside you. "She looks like crap. Why didn't you leave her?"

"Everyone else already left her, figured she could use a hand."

"Do you think he's gonna be okay back there?" They ask. "Lots of military personnel and still tons of infected wandering about too."

"He'll be fine." He stops walking. "Mind opening the trunk? And maybe riding back here with her?"

"You know I hate riding in the back, it makes me nervous," they grumble, but still obey the request. "Lemme go grab my pack from the other truck."

"Don't bother, we're all going to the same place." He lifts you up, placing you down carefully on what feels like a thin blanket and flat pillow. "Better to get out now-"

"Hey! I'm here!" A voice cuts him off. "Damn, that looks a lot worse up close."

"Oh thank God." The person who was supposed to stay with you steps away from the truck. "He can go with her considering he saved her life and all. See you!"

See you later.

"Seung... Seungmin...?" You mumble, eyes fluttering closed as you feel the back of the truck move under the weight of someone stepping on it. "Is he...?"

"Shh." A warm hand gently pushes the strands of hair off your face. "Man, she's burning up."

"Here. Keep an eye on her until we get back to camp." The voice gets further away. "Bang on the back window if she starts dying or something."

"Got it." That's the last thing you hear before slipping into the dark completely.

-

Three days later, you open your eyes. They're dry, having to blink several times before you can register the dim light around you. You're on an uncomfortable cot in what you assume is a medical tent, three other unoccupied cots around you. Next to each is a small wooden table, all empty except yours which has half a bottle of water and a lantern, the source of the light. The entrance of the tent is closed, but you can still tell it's night. Looking over to the other side, you see someone's back turned to you.

"Hel-" You clear your throat, voice low and rough. "Hello? Where... am I?"

You try to sit up as they walk over to you, but pain shoots through your very soul. Biting back a shout, you stop moving.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He hands you the water. "Drink up.

"You look familiar," You say, taking in his foxlike features. "Is this another outpost?"

"No, not exactly." He turns his face away from you. "I have to let the others know you're awake, but take this-" He hands you a couple of pills. "-it'll help with the pain."

With that, he exists the tent. You don't know how long it takes until he comes back with another man by his side, but you've managed to sit up the best you can. One of your legs is tucked under you, the left sticking straight out in a makeshift splint.

"You're awake." You recognize the accent.

"You're the one who saved me."

He chuckles, taking a seat in a chair on the right.

"I can't take all the credit," He says, looking down at his hands briefly. "One of our snipers took out the infected on you. You asked about your teammate before passing out... he's okay, still recovering from a shoulder injury though."

"Seungmin's okay?" You shift suddenly in your bed, bad move, and wince at the soreness.

"Try not to move so much," The boy from earlier says.

"Yes, he's okay, and he's been asking about you too." He sits back. "This is only the second time he's left your side since you got here."

Hearing that makes your heart ache.

"So, I figure it's time for proper introductions!" He claps his hands together, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "My name is Chan, welcome to what's left of the rebellion. That over there-" he points to the boy, who really looks about your age. "-is Jeongin."

"What?" Your head whips toward the boy. "That's why you look familiar! This is where you went? Oh my God, everyone thought you were dead! Does Min know?"

"That's..." Jeongin crosses his arms uncomfortably. "A story for another time."

"Chan!" A head pops into the tent. "Oh, I didn't realize she was awake, sorry."

"It's okay. What is it Chae?"

"The squad is back," She announces. "I told H-"

"Captain!" A man strides into the tent and 'Chae' leaves with a small eye roll.

"I told you to stop calling me that-" Chan stands, rubbing his forehead. "I'm kind of busy right now, the report will have to wait a minute."

Chan gestures toward you and the man's eyes widen.

"She's awake! I mean, you're awake, sorry," He says, giving an awkward smile and holding a hand out; you take it hesitantly. "I'm Han, Han Jisung. The guy who saved your ass."

---

notes ▪︎ first chapter let's goooo. i'm actually so excited for this u have no idea. i love love LOVE zombie/apocalypse stuff sm!! so it's nice to share smthn like that

─── taglist (18+) : @chaeryred @toplinelix @channie-143 @staysinbloom @manuosorioh @hanjisunglover @xxstrayland @puppyminnnie @hanjsquokka @kpopsstuffs @ot8girlfie

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Proposal

Joel Miller x fem reader (pre apocalypse)

Joel adjusted his grip on the handle of their suitcase as he and Y/N sprinted through the crowded airport, hearts pounding and breaths coming in short gasps. The final boarding call for their flight to Tennessee echoed through the terminal, pushing them to move faster than they thought possible.

“Come on, Babe! We’re almost there!” Y/N called over her shoulder, her voice tinged with urgency but also bubbling with excitement. Joel admired her energy, even in the most stressful situations. He couldn't help but smile at her infectious enthusiasm.

They made it to the gate just in time, breathless but relieved. The gate agent gave them a knowing smile as they scanned their boarding passes and hurried onto the plane. As they settled into their seats, Joel took a deep breath, the anticipation of meeting Y/N’s family mingling with the nervous flutter of the engagement ring hidden in his carry-on bag.

The flight itself was uneventful, giving Joel time to think about the proposal. He’d been planning this trip for months, knowing that Y/N's family was important to her and wanting to include them in this monumental moment. When they touched down in Tennessee, Joel was struck anew by the charm of Y/N’s southern accent, which seemed even more alluring amidst the local twang of the people around them.

As they drove from the airport to her family’s home, nestled deep in the countryside, Joel found himself falling even more in love with Y/N. The lush, rolling hills and the golden hue of the late afternoon sun made everything feel like a dream. The tension in his shoulders began to melt away as Y/N chatted animatedly about her family and the adventures they’d have on the farm.

Upon arrival, Y/N's family greeted them warmly. Her parents, her siblings, and even the family dog embodied the essence of southern hospitality. The house, set on 15 acres of land, was sprawling and picturesque, complete with a variety of farm animals roaming the property. Joel felt an overwhelming sense of welcome as he shook hands and exchanged hugs with her family.

“Come on, Joel, let me show you around,” Y/N said, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she led him by the hand.

They toured the cozy, welcoming home first. Every room was filled with a sense of history and love. Family photos lined the walls, and Joel could see Y/N’s life story unfolding before him. From childhood pictures to high school graduation, each snapshot added another layer to the woman he loved.

Outside, Y/N showed him the expansive land that her family owned. The fields seemed to stretch endlessly, dotted with horses, cows, and chickens. Joel marveled at the beauty of it all, feeling a sense of peace he hadn’t expected. When they reached the four-wheelers, however, his sense of calm wavered.

“Uh, I’m not so sure about this,” he admitted, eyeing the vehicles warily. The idea of tearing through the fields on one of those things made his stomach churn.

Y/N laughed, the sound light and teasing. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you how it’s done.” She hopped on one of the four-wheelers and demonstrated its use with practiced ease. The way she handled the machine with confidence and skill only made Joel admire her more. Then, with a mischievous grin, she took off, leaving him standing in a cloud of dust.

“Come on, you big baby!” she called back, her laughter ringing out across the field.

Determined not to be outdone, Joel climbed onto the remaining four-wheeler. He hesitated for a moment, then hit the throttle. The vehicle jolted forward, causing him to grip the handlebars tightly. The initial shock soon gave way to exhilaration as he found his balance and began to enjoy the ride. The wind rushed past him, the landscape blurring as he sped up to catch Y/N.

“Want to race?” Y/N shouted over the roar of the engines, her eyes gleaming with challenge.

Joel grinned, feeling a surge of competitive spirit. “You’re on!”

They raced across the field, the thrill of the competition electrifying the air between them. Joel, with a combination of luck and determination, managed to pull ahead and cross the imaginary finish line first. He stopped and turned just in time to see Y/N pulling up beside him, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with excitement.

“You won,” she said, breathless and smiling, clearly proud of his newfound skills.

Joel leaned over and kissed her, the thrill of the race still thrumming through his veins. “Guess I did,” he murmured against her lips.

The rest of the evening, Joel was the perfect southern gentleman. He helped with dinner, fitting in seamlessly with her family. They laughed over old stories and funny memories.

Later that night, as the house quieted down and everyone retreated to their rooms, Joel found himself alone with Y/N in her childhood bedroom. The familiar surroundings seemed to embolden her, and soon they were tangled in each other, the connection between them sparking into a passionate encounter that left them both breathless and sated.

As they lay in the aftermath, Joel's mind drifted to the ring hidden in his suitcase. He couldn’t think of a more perfect time or place to propose, surrounded by the love and warmth of her family and the memories of her past. With Y/N nestled against him, he knew that the future he envisioned with her was not just a dream, but a tangible reality waiting to unfold. He gently kissed her forehead, feeling her relax into him, and whispered, "Tomorrow. I'll ask her tomorrow."

The next morning, Joel awoke to the smell of bacon and coffee wafting through the house. He stretched, feeling the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the window. Y/N was already up, her spot next to him empty but still warm. He quickly dressed and made his way downstairs to find her in the kitchen, helping her mother prepare breakfast.

“Morning, handsome,” Y/N greeted him with a smile that made his heart skip a beat. “Sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” Joel replied, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing her cheek. “What can I do to help?”

The morning passed in a blur of delicious food and laughter. Joel couldn’t help but feel like he belonged here, among these warm and welcoming people. After breakfast, Y/N’s father suggested they take a walk around the property, a tradition that the family held dear.

As they strolled through the fields, Joel listened to Y/N’s father recount stories of the land and its history. The sun was high in the sky, casting a golden glow over everything. Joel’s nerves started to kick in as he realized the moment he’d been waiting for was fast approaching.

After the walk, the family gathered on the porch to enjoy the afternoon. Y/N’s father brought out a guitar and started playing some old country tunes, with the rest of the family joining in singing. Joel couldn’t help but be charmed by the simplicity and beauty of it all.

As the sun began to set, Joel knew it was time. He took a deep breath and pulled Y/N aside. “Can we talk for a minute?” he asked, his voice slightly shaky.

“Of course,” she replied, looking at him curiously. He led her to a quiet spot under a large oak tree, the golden light of the setting sun casting a warm glow over them.

“Y/N,” Joel began, taking her hands in his. “These past few days have been incredible. Being here with you, meeting your family… it’s made me realize how much I want to be a part of this, a part of your life.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, and she squeezed his hands. “Joel, I—”

He cut her off gently, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the ring. He dropped to one knee, looking up at her with all the love he felt shining in his eyes. “Y/N, will you marry me?”

Tears filled Y/N’s eyes as she looked down at him, her hand covering her mouth in surprise. “Yes, Joel. Yes, I will!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion.

Joel slipped the ring onto her finger, standing up and pulling her into his arms. They kissed, the world around them seeming to fade away. When they finally pulled apart, Joel rested his forehead against hers. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too baby,” she whispered, her voice filled with happiness.

They returned to the house hand in hand, Y/N’s family erupting in cheers and congratulations when they saw the ring on her finger. The rest of the night was a whirlwind of celebration, with music, dancing, and laughter filling the air.

After dinner, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a soft, twilight glow over the house. The family had moved to the living room, the comforting hum of laughter and conversation filling the air. Joel found himself sitting on the cozy couch, sandwiched between Y/N and her mother. Her father brought out an old, worn leather-bound photo album, its pages thick with memories.

“Y/N, why don’t you show Joel some of your baby pictures?” her mother suggested, a twinkle in her eye.

Y/N groaned playfully, rolling her eyes. “Do we have to?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Joel said, grinning. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

With a dramatic sigh, Y/N opened the album, revealing the first page. Joel leaned in, his curiosity piqued. The initial photos showed a newborn Y/N, wrapped snugly in a hospital blanket, her tiny face scrunched up in what seemed to be a permanent pout.

“Aww, look at you,” Joel teased, pointing at a picture of baby Y/N crying her lungs out. “Such a happy baby.”

Y/N rolled her eyes again, but she was smiling. “Yeah, yeah. I wasn’t a fan of the world yet.”

As they flipped through the pages, Joel’s teasing became more affectionate. He pointed to a photo of a chubby toddler Y/N with a face smeared with chocolate cake. “Now, this one’s a classic. You were really enjoying that cake, huh?”

Y/N laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “It was my first birthday. And yes, I was very enthusiastic about cake.”

Joel couldn’t help but chuckle at a picture of a slightly older Y/N, probably around four years old, dressed in an oversized cowboy hat and boots, wielding a toy lasso. “Looks like you were preparing for your future on the farm early.”

“I was quite the cowgirl,” she replied with a playful smirk.

They turned another page to find a picture of Y/N on her first day of school, her hair in pigtails and her backpack almost as big as she was. “You look like you’re ready to take on the world,” Joel said softly, his teasing tone giving way to genuine admiration.

“I was terrified,” Y/N admitted, her voice equally soft. “But my mom said I put on a brave face.”

Joel continued to flip through the album, finding more pictures of Y/N at various stages of her life. He laughed at the photo of her with braces, giving a shy smile to the camera. “You were adorable,” he said, earning a blush and a grateful smile from Y/N.

One picture in particular caught Joel’s eye. It was a candid shot of a teenage Y/N, sitting under the same large oak tree where Joel had proposed earlier that day. She was reading a book, her face serene and content. Joel stared at it for a moment, feeling a deep connection to the past and the present intertwining.

“This is my favorite,” he said, pointing to the picture. “You look so peaceful here.”

Y/N looked at the photo and then at Joel, her eyes shining with emotion. “That tree has always been my favorite spot. It’s where I go to think, to read, to just be.”

Joel leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Now it’s even more special,” he murmured.

They continued to flip through the album, Joel’s teasing becoming gentler, more affectionate. He marveled at the young woman Y/N had been and the incredible person she had become. Each picture told a story, a piece of the puzzle that made up the woman he loved.

Eventually, they reached the end of the album. Joel closed it gently, feeling a sense of awe and gratitude for being allowed a glimpse into Y/N’s life. He looked around at her family, who had been watching them with fond smiles.

“Thank you for sharing these with me,” Joel said, his voice sincere. “It means a lot.”

Y/N’s mother smiled warmly. “We’re happy to have you, Joel. You’re already part of the family.”

Joel felt a lump in his throat as he looked at Y/N, her hand still in his. “I’m honored to be here,” he said softly.

They continued to share stories and laughter, the bond between Joel and Y/N growing even stronger. The photo album had given Joel a deeper appreciation for the woman he loved, and he knew without a doubt that he had made the right decision in asking her to marry him.

The night had grown late, and the living room buzzed with a warm, convivial energy. Joel found himself more relaxed than he had been in a long time, thanks to the welcoming company of Y/N’s family and the few glasses of Tennessee whiskey he had enjoyed. Y/N, too, was clearly feeling the effects of the evening’s drinks, her laughter coming more freely and her eyes sparkling with a playful mischief.

As the clock ticked closer to midnight, Y/N leaned in close to Joel, her breath warm against his ear. “Joel,” she whispered, her voice husky, “I’m so turned on right now.”

Joel’s heart skipped a beat at her words, a flush creeping up his neck. He glanced around the room, noticing that her parents were still chatting, though the hour had clearly taken its toll on them as well. Her father’s eyes were drooping, and her mother stifled a yawn behind her hand.

“We just need to wait a little longer,” Joel murmured back, trying to keep his voice steady despite the surge of desire her words had ignited.

Y/N bit her lip and nodded, her hand slipping into his under the table. They exchanged knowing glances, the anticipation building between them. Finally, her parents stood, announcing their intention to head to bed.

“Goodnight, you two,” her mother said, smiling warmly. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Goodnight,” Joel and Y/N chorused, their voices a touch too casual. They watched as her parents made their way upstairs, the creaking of the old house signaling their slow ascent. The moment they heard the distant click of a door closing, Y/N turned to Joel, her eyes blazing with intent.

“Come on,” she whispered urgently, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the stairs.

They moved as quietly as possible, stifling giggles and shushing each other as they crept up to her childhood room. The door closed softly behind them, and the moment it did, Y/N was on him, her lips crashing against his in a fervent kiss. Joel responded eagerly, his hands tangling in her hair as he pressed her back against the door.

“God, I’ve wanted you all night,” Y/N murmured between kisses, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt.

“Me too,” Joel breathed, his hands roaming over her body, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

They stumbled towards the bed, shedding clothes in a frenzied dance. The room was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing and the rustling of fabric. Y/N pushed Joel onto the bed, climbing on top of him with a wicked grin.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she said, her voice low and seductive as she ground against him.

Joel groaned, his hands gripping her hips. “You’re driving me crazy,” he managed, his voice thick with need.

She leaned down, capturing his lips again as they moved together, the intensity of their desire building with each passing second. Joel rolled them over, pinning her beneath him, and she arched into him, her fingers digging into his back.

Their movements became more urgent, their need for each other overwhelming. The bed creaked beneath them, but they were too lost in each other to care. Joel’s world narrowed to the sensation of Y/N beneath him, her soft moans and gasps driving him wild.

When they finally came together, it was with a ferocity and passion that left them both breathless. Y/N clung to him, her body trembling with the intensity of her release, and Joel buried his face in her neck, his own climax crashing over him.

They lay tangled together in the aftermath, their breathing slowly returning to normal. Joel kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, every inch of her he could reach, murmuring words of love and adoration.

Y/N smiled up at him, her eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. “That was incredible,” she whispered.

“Yeah, it was,” Joel agreed, his heart full as he gazed down at her. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly.

As they drifted off to sleep, Joel whispered a silent vow to always cherish and protect the woman he loved. Joel couldn’t help but think about how perfect everything had been. From meeting her family to the passionate moments they shared, it all felt like the beginning of something beautiful. And with Y/N beside him, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

[mariacallous]

A long trip on an American highway in the summer of 2024 leaves the impression that two kinds of billboards now have near-monopoly rule over our roads. On one side, the billboards, gravely black-and-white and soberly reassuring, advertise cancer centers. (“We treat every type of cancer, including the most important one: yours”; “Beat 3 Brain Tumors. At 57, I gave birth, again.”) On the other side, brightly colored and deliberately clownish billboards advertise malpractice and personal-injury lawyers, with phone numbers emblazoned in giant type and the lawyers wearing superhero costumes or intimidating glares, staring down at the highway as they promise to do to juries.

A new Tocqueville considering the landscape would be certain that all Americans do is get sick and sue each other. We ask doctors to cure us of incurable illnesses, and we ask lawyers to take on the doctors who haven’t. We are frightened and we are angry; we look to expert intervention for the fears, and to comic but effective-seeming figures for retaliation against the experts who disappoint us.

Much of this is distinctly American—the idea that cancer-treatment centers would be in competitive relationships with one another, and so need to advertise, would be as unimaginable in any other industrialized country as the idea that the best way to adjudicate responsibility for a car accident is through aggressive lawsuits. Both reflect national beliefs: in competition, however unreal, and in the assignment of blame, however misplaced. We want to think that, if we haven’t fully enjoyed our birthright of plenty and prosperity, a nameable villain is at fault.

To grasp what is at stake in this strangest of political seasons, it helps to define the space in which the contest is taking place. We may be standing on the edge of an abyss, and yet nothing is wrong, in the expected way of countries on the brink of apocalypse. The country is not convulsed with riots, hyperinflation, or mass immiseration. What we have is a sort of phony war—a drôle de guerre, a sitzkrieg—with the vehemence of conflict mainly confined to what we might call the cultural space.

These days, everybody talks about spaces: the “gastronomic space,” the “podcast space,” even, on N.F.L. podcasts, the “analytic space.” Derived from some combination of sociology and interior design, the word has elbowed aside terms like “field” or “conversation,” perhaps because it’s even more expansive. The “space” of a national election is, for that reason, never self-evident; we’ve always searched for clues.

And so William Dean Howells began his 1860 campaign biography of Abraham Lincoln by mocking the search for a Revolutionary pedigree for Presidential candidates and situating Lincoln in the antislavery West, in contrast to the resigned and too-knowing East. North vs. South may have defined the frame of the approaching war, but Howells was prescient in identifying East vs. West as another critical electoral space. This opposition would prove crucial—first, to the war, with the triumph of the Westerner Ulysses S. Grant over the well-bred Eastern generals, and then to the rejuvenation of the Democratic Party, drawing on free-silver populism and an appeal to the values of the resource-extracting, expansionist West above those of the industrialized, centralized East.

A century later, the press thought that the big issues in the race between Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy were Quemoy and Matsu (two tiny Taiwan Strait islands, claimed by both China and Taiwan), the downed U-2, the missile gap, and other much debated Cold War obsessions. But Norman Mailer, in what may be the best thing he ever wrote, saw the space as marked by the rise of movie-star politics—the image-based contests that, from J.F.K. to Ronald Reagan, would dominate American life. In “Superman Comes to the Supermarket,” published in Esquire, Mailer revealed that a campaign that looked at first glance like the usual black-and-white wire-service photography of the first half of the twentieth century was really the beginning of our Day-Glo-colored Pop-art turn.

And our own electoral space? We hear about the overlooked vs. the élite, the rural vs. the urban, the coastal vs. the flyover, the aged vs. the young—about the dispossessed vs. the beneficiaries of global neoliberalism. Upon closer examination, however, these binaries blur. Support for populist nativism doesn’t track neatly with economic disadvantage. Some of Donald Trump’s keenest supporters have boats as well as cars and are typically the wealthier citizens of poorer rural areas. His stock among billionaires remains high, and his surprising support among Gen Z males is something his campaign exploits with visits to podcasts that no non-Zoomer has ever heard of.

But polarized nations don’t actually polarize around fixed poles. Civil confrontations invariably cross classes and castes, bringing together people from radically different social cohorts while separating seemingly natural allies. The English Revolution of the seventeenth century, like the French one of the eighteenth, did not array worn-out aristocrats against an ascendant bourgeoisie or fierce-eyed sansculottes. There were, one might say, good people on both sides. Or, rather, there were individual aristocrats, merchants, and laborers choosing different sides in these prerevolutionary moments. No civil war takes place between classes; coalitions of many kinds square off against one another.

In part, that’s because there’s no straightforward way of defining our “interests.” It’s in the interest of Silicon Valley entrepreneurs to have big tax cuts; in the longer term, it’s also in their interest to have honest rule-of-law government that isn’t in thrall to guilds or patrons—to be able to float new ideas without paying baksheesh to politicians or having to worry about falling out of sixth-floor windows. “Interests” fail as an explanatory principle.

Does talk of values and ideas get us closer? A central story of American public life during the past three or four decades is (as this writer has noted) that liberals have wanted political victories while reliably securing only cultural victories, even as conservatives, wanting cultural victories, get only political ones. Right-wing Presidents and legislatures are elected, even as one barrier after another has fallen on the traditionalist front of manners and mores. Consider the widespread acceptance of same-sex marriage. A social transformation once so seemingly untenable that even Barack Obama said he was against it, in his first campaign for President, became an uncontroversial rite within scarcely more than a decade.

Right-wing political power has, over the past half century, turned out to have almost no ability to stave off progressive social change: Nixon took the White House in a landslide while Norman Lear took the airwaves in a ratings sweep. And so a kind of permanent paralysis has set in. The right has kept electing politicians who’ve said, “Enough! No more ‘Anything goes’!”—and anything has kept going. No matter how many right-wing politicians came to power, no matter how many right-wing judges were appointed, conservatives decided that the entire culture was rigged against them.

On the left, the failure of cultural power to produce political change tends to lead to a doubling down on the cultural side, so that wholesome college campuses can seem the last redoubt of Red Guard attitudes, though not, to be sure, of Red Guard authority. On the right, the failure of political power to produce cultural change tends to lead to a doubling down on the political side in a way that turns politics into cultural theatre. Having lost the actual stages, conservatives yearn to enact a show in which their adversaries are rendered humiliated and powerless, just as they have felt humiliated and powerless. When an intolerable contradiction is allowed to exist for long enough, it produces a Trump.

As much as television was the essential medium of a dozen bygone Presidential campaigns (not to mention the medium that made Trump a star), the podcast has become the essential medium of this one. For people under forty, the form—typically long-winded and shapeless—is as tangibly present as Walter Cronkite’s tightly scripted half-hour news show was fifty years ago, though the D.I.Y. nature of most podcasts, and the premium on host-read advertisements, makes for abrupt tonal changes as startling as those of the highway billboards.

On the enormously popular, liberal-minded “Pod Save America,” for instance, the hosts make no secret of their belief that the election is a test, as severe as any since the Civil War, of whether a government so conceived can long endure. Then they switch cheerfully to reading ads for Tommy John underwear (“with the supportive pouch”), for herbal hangover remedies, and for an app that promises to cancel all your excess streaming subscriptions, a peculiarly niche obsession (“I accidentally paid for Showtime twice!” “That’s bad!”). George Conway, the former Republican (and White House husband) turned leading anti-Trumper, states bleakly on his podcast for the Bulwark, the news-and-opinion site, that Trump’s whole purpose is to avoid imprisonment, a motivation that would disgrace the leader of any Third World country. Then he immediately leaps into offering—like an old-fashioned a.m.-radio host pushing Chock Full o’Nuts—testimonials for HexClad cookware, with charming self-deprecation about his own kitchen skills. How serious can the crisis be if cookware and boxers cohabit so cozily with the apocalypse?

And then there’s the galvanic space of social media. In the nineteen-seventies and eighties, we were told, by everyone from Jean Baudrillard to Daniel Boorstin, that television had reduced us to numbed observers of events no longer within our control. We had become spectators instead of citizens. In contrast, the arena of social media is that of action and engagement—and not merely engagement but enragement, with algorithms acting out addictively on tiny tablets. The aura of the Internet age is energized, passionate, and, above all, angry. The algorithms dictate regular mortar rounds of text messages that seem to come not from an eager politician but from an infuriated lover, in the manner of Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction”: “Are you ignoring us?” “We’ve reached out to you PERSONALLY!” “This is the sixth time we’ve asked you!” At one level, we know they’re entirely impersonal, while, at another, we know that politicians wouldn’t do this unless it worked, and it works because, at still another level, we are incapable of knowing what we know; it doesn’t feel entirely impersonal. You can doomscroll your way to your doom. The democratic theorists of old longed for an activated citizenry; somehow they failed to recognize how easily citizens could be activated to oppose deliberative democracy.

If the cultural advantages of liberalism have given it a more pointed politics in places where politics lacks worldly consequences, its real-world politics can seem curiously blunted. Kamala Harris, like Joe Biden before her, is an utterly normal workaday politician of the kind we used to find in any functioning democracy—bending right, bending left, placating here and postponing confrontation there, glaring here and, yes, laughing there. Demographics aside, there is nothing exceptional about Harris, which is her virtue. Yet we live in exceptional times, and liberal proceduralists and institutionalists are so committed to procedures and institutions—to laws and their reasonable interpretation, to norms and their continuation—that they can be slow to grasp that the world around them has changed.

One can only imagine the fulminations that would have ensued in 2020 had the anti-democratic injustice of the Electoral College—which effectively amplifies the political power of rural areas at the expense of the country’s richest and most productive areas—tilted in the other direction. Indeed, before the 2000 election, when it appeared as if it might, Karl Rove and the George W. Bush campaign had a plan in place to challenge the results with a “grassroots” movement designed to short-circuit the Electoral College and make the popular-vote winner prevail. No Democrat even suggests such a thing now.

It’s almost as painful to see the impunity with which Supreme Court Justices have torched their institution’s legitimacy. One Justice has the upside-down flag of the insurrectionists flying on his property; another, married to a professional election denialist, enjoys undeclared largesse from a plutocrat. There is, apparently, little to be done, nor even any familiar language of protest to draw on. Prepared by experience to believe in institutions, mainstream liberals believe in their belief even as the institutions are degraded in front of their eyes.

In one respect, the space of politics in 2024 is transoceanic. The forms of Trumpism are mirrored in other countries. In the U.K., a similar wave engendered the catastrophe of Brexit; in France, it has brought an equally extreme right-wing party to the brink, though not to the seat, of power; in Italy, it elevated Matteo Salvini to national prominence and made Giorgia Meloni Prime Minister. In Sweden, an extreme-right group is claiming voters in numbers no one would ever have thought possible, while Canadian conservatives have taken a sharp turn toward the far right.

What all these currents have in common is an obsessive fear of immigration. Fear of the other still seems to be the primary mover of collective emotion. Even when it is utterly self-destructive—as in Britain, where the xenophobia of Brexit cut the U.K. off from traditional allies while increasing immigration from the Global South—the apprehension that “we” are being flooded by frightening foreigners works its malign magic.

It’s an old but persistent delusion that far-right nationalism is not rooted in the emotional needs of far-right nationalists but arises, instead, from the injustices of neoliberalism. And so many on the left insist that all those Trump voters are really Bernie Sanders voters who just haven’t had their consciousness raised yet. In fact, a similar constellation of populist figures has emerged, sharing platforms, plans, and ideologies, in countries where neoliberalism made little impact, and where a strong system of social welfare remains in place. If a broadened welfare state—national health insurance, stronger unions, higher minimum wages, and the rest—would cure the plague in the U.S., one would expect that countries with resilient welfare states would be immune from it. They are not.

Though Trump can be situated in a transoceanic space of populism, he isn’t a mere symptom of global trends: he is a singularly dangerous character, and the product of a specific cultural milieu. To be sure, much of New York has always been hostile to him, and eager to disown him; in a 1984 profile of him in GQ, Graydon Carter made the point that Trump was the only New Yorker who ever referred to Sixth Avenue as the “Avenue of the Americas.” Yet we’re part of Trump’s identity, as was made clear by his recent rally on Long Island—pointless as a matter of swing-state campaigning, but central to his self-definition. His belligerence could come directly from the two New York tabloid heroes of his formative years in the city: John Gotti, the gangster who led the Gambino crime family, and George Steinbrenner, the owner of the Yankees. When Trump came of age, Gotti was all over the front page of the tabloids, as “the Teflon Don,” and Steinbrenner was all over the back sports pages, as “the Boss.”

Steinbrenner was legendary for his middle-of-the-night phone calls, for his temper and combativeness. Like Trump, who theatricalized the activity, he had a reputation for ruthlessly firing people. (Gotti had his own way of doing that.) Steinbrenner was famous for having no loyalty to anyone. He mocked the very players he had acquired and created an atmosphere of absolute chaos. It used to be said that Steinbrenner reduced the once proud Yankees baseball culture to that of professional wrestling, and that arena is another Trumpian space. Pro wrestling is all about having contests that aren’t really contested—that are known to be “rigged,” to use a Trumpian word—and yet evoke genuine emotion in their audience.

At the same time, Trump has mastered the gangster’s technique of accusing others of crimes he has committed. The agents listening to the Gotti wiretap were mystified when he claimed innocence of the just-committed murder of Big Paul Castellano, conjecturing, in apparent seclusion with his soldiers, about who else might have done it: “Whoever killed this cocksucker, probably the cops killed this Paul.” Denying having someone whacked even in the presence of those who were with you when you whacked him was a capo’s signature move.

Marrying the American paranoid style to the more recent cult of the image, Trump can draw on the manner of the tabloid star and show that his is a game, a show, not to be taken quite seriously while still being serious in actually inciting violent insurrections and planning to expel millions of helpless immigrants. Self-defined as a showman, he can say anything and simultaneously drain it of content, just as Gotti, knowing that he had killed Castellano, thought it credible to deny it—not within his conscience, which did not exist, but within an imaginary courtroom. Trump evidently learned that, in the realm of national politics, you could push the boundaries of publicity and tabloid invective far further than they had ever been pushed.

Trump’s ability to be both joking and severe at the same time is what gives him his power and his immunity. This power extends even to something as unprecedented as the assault on the U.S. Capitol. Trump demanded violence (“If you don’t fight like hell, you’re not going to have a country anymore”) but stuck in three words, “peacefully and patriotically,” that, however hollow, were meant to immunize him, Gotti-style. They were, so to speak, meant for the cops on the wiretap. Trump’s resilience is not, as we would like to tell our children about resilience, a function of his character. It’s a function of his not having one.

Just as Trump’s support cuts across the usual divisions, so, too, does a divide among his opponents—between the maximizers, who think that Trump is a unique threat to liberal democracy, and the minimizers, who think that he is merely the kind of clown a democracy is bound to throw up from time to time. The minimizers (who can be found among both Marxist Jacobin contributors and Never Trump National Review conservatives) will say that Trump has crossed the wires of culture and politics in a way that opportunistically responds to the previous paralysis, but that this merely places him in an American tradition. Democracy depends on the idea that the socially unacceptable might become acceptable. Andrew Jackson campaigned on similar themes with a similar manner—and was every bit as ignorant and every bit as unaware as Trump. (And his campaigns of slaughter against Indigenous people really were genocidal.) Trump’s politics may be ugly, foolish, and vain, but ours is often an ugly, undereducated, and vain country. Democracy is meant to be a mirror; it shows what it shows.

Indeed, America’s recent history has shown that politics is a trailing indicator of cultural change, and that one generation’s most vulgar entertainment becomes the next generation’s accepted style of political argument. David S. Reynolds, in his biography of Lincoln, reflects on how the new urban love of weird spectacle in the mid-nineteenth century was something Lincoln welcomed. P. T. Barnum’s genius lay in taking circus grotesques and making them exemplary Americans: the tiny General Tom Thumb was a hero, not a freak. Lincoln saw that it cost him nothing to be an American spectacle in a climate of sensation; he even hosted a reception at the White House for Tom Thumb and his wife—as much a violation of the decorum of the Founding Fathers as Trump’s investment in Hulk Hogan at the Republican Convention. Lincoln understood the Barnum side of American life, just as Trump understands its W.W.E. side.

And so, the minimizers say, taking Trump seriously as a threat to democracy in America is like taking Roman Reigns seriously as a threat to fair play in sports. Trump is an entertainer. The only thing he really wants are ratings. When opposing abortion was necessary to his electoral coalition, he opposed it—but then, when that was creating ratings trouble in other households, he sent signals that he wasn’t exactly opposed to it. When Project 2025, which he vaguely set in motion and claims never to have read, threatened his ratings, he repudiated it. The one continuity is his thirst for popularity, which is, in a sense, our own. He rows furiously away from any threatening waterfall back to the center of the river—including on Obamacare. And, the minimizers say, in the end, he did leave the White House peacefully, if gracelessly.

In any case, the panic is hardly unique to Trump. Reagan, too, was vilified and feared in his day, seen as the reductio ad absurdum of the culture of the image, an automaton projecting his controllers’ authoritarian impulses. Nixon was the subject of a savage satire by Philip Roth that ended with him running against the Devil for the Presidency of Hell. The minimizers tell us that liberals overreact in real time, write revisionist history when it’s over, and never see the difference between their stories.

The maximizers regard the minimizers’ case as wishful thinking buoyed up by surreptitious resentments, a refusal to concede anything to those we hate even if it means accepting someone we despise. Maximizers who call Trump a fascist are dismissed by the minimizers as either engaging in name-calling or forcing a facile parallel. Yet the parallel isn’t meant to be historically absolute; it is meant to be, as it were, oncologically acute. A freckle is not the same as a melanoma; nor is a Stage I melanoma the same as the Stage IV kind. But a skilled reader of lesions can sense which is which and predict the potential course if untreated. Trumpism is a cancerous phenomenon. Treated with surgery once, it now threatens to come back in a more aggressive form, subject neither to the radiation of “guardrails” nor to the chemo of “constraints.” It may well rage out of control and kill its host.

And so the maximalist case is made up not of alarmist fantasies, then, but of dulled diagnostic fact, duly registered. Think hard about the probable consequences of a second Trump Administration—about the things he has promised to do and can do, the things that the hard-core group of rancidly discontented figures (as usual with authoritarians, more committed than he is to an ideology) who surround him wants him to do and can do. Having lost the popular vote, as he surely will, he will not speak up to reconcile “all Americans.” He will insist that he won the popular vote, and by a landslide. He will pardon and then celebrate the January 6th insurrectionists, and thereby guarantee the existence of a paramilitary organization that’s capable of committing violence on his behalf without fear of consequences. He will, with an obedient Attorney General, begin prosecuting his political opponents; he was largely unsuccessful in his previous attempt only because the heads of two U.S. Attorneys’ offices, who are no longer there, refused to coöperate. When he begins to pressure CNN and ABC, and they, with all the vulnerabilities of large corporations, bend to his will, telling themselves that his is now the will of the people, what will we do to fend off the slow degradation of open debate?

Trump will certainly abandon Ukraine to Vladimir Putin and realign this country with dictatorships and against NATO and the democratic alliance of Europe. Above all, the spirit of vengeful reprisal is the totality of his beliefs—very much like the fascists of the twentieth century in being a man and a movement without any positive doctrine except revenge against his imagined enemies. And against this: What? Who? The spirit of resistance may prove too frail, and too exhausted, to rise again to the contest. Who can have confidence that a democracy could endure such a figure in absolute control and survive? An oncologist who, in the face of this much evidence, shrugged and proposed watchful waiting as the best therapy would not be an optimist. He would be guilty of gross malpractice. One of those personal-injury lawyers on the billboards would sue him, and win.

What any plausible explanation must confront is the fact that Trump is a distinctively vile human being and a spectacularly malignant political actor. In fables and fiction, in every Disney cartoon and Batman movie, we have no trouble recognizing and understanding the villains. They are embittered, canny, ludicrous in some ways and shrewd in others, their lives governed by envy and resentment, often rooted in the acts of people who’ve slighted them. (“They’ll never laugh at me again!”) They nonetheless have considerable charm and the ability to attract a cult following. This is Ursula, Hades, Scar—to go no further than the Disney canon. Extend it, if that seems too childlike, to the realms of Edmund in “King Lear” and Richard III: smart people, all, almost lovable in their self-recognition of their deviousness, but not people we ever want to see in power, for in power their imaginations become unimaginably deadly. Villains in fables are rarely grounded in any cause larger than their own grievances—they hate Snow White for being beautiful, resent Hercules for being strong and virtuous. Bane is blowing up Gotham because he feels misused, not because he truly has a better city in mind.

Trump is a villain. He would be a cartoon villain, if only this were a cartoon. Every time you try to give him a break—to grasp his charisma, historicize his ascent, sympathize with his admirers—the sinister truth asserts itself and can’t be squashed down. He will tell another lie so preposterous, or malign another shared decency so absolutely, or threaten violence so plausibly, or just engage in behavior so unhinged and hate-filled that you’ll recoil and rebound to your original terror at his return to power. One outrage succeeds another until we become exhausted and have to work hard even to remember the outrages of a few weeks past: the helicopter ride that never happened (but whose storytelling purpose was to demean Kamala Harris as a woman), or the cemetery visit that ended in a grotesque thumbs-up by a graveside (and whose symbolic purpose was to cynically enlist grieving parents on behalf of his contempt). No matter how deranged his behavior is, though, it does not seem to alter his good fortune.

Villainy inheres in individuals. There is certainly a far-right political space alive in the developed world, but none of its inhabitants—not Marine Le Pen or Giorgia Meloni or even Viktor Orbán—are remotely as reckless or as crazy as Trump. Our self-soothing habit of imagining that what has not yet happened cannot happen is the space in which Trump lives, just as comically deranged as he seems and still more dangerous than we know.

Nothing is ever entirely new, and the space between actual events and their disassociated representation is part of modernity. We live in that disassociated space. Generations of cultural critics have warned that we are lost in a labyrinth and cannot tell real things from illusion. Yet the familiar passage from peril to parody now happens almost simultaneously. Events remain piercingly actual and threatening in their effects on real people, while also being duplicated in a fictive system that shows and spoofs them at the same time. One side of the highway is all cancer; the other side all crazy. Their confoundment is our confusion.

It is telling that the most successful entertainments of our age are the dark comic-book movies—the Batman films and the X-Men and the Avengers and the rest of those cinematic universes. This cultural leviathan was launched by the discovery that these ridiculous comic-book figures, generations old, could now land only if treated seriously, with sombre backstories and true stakes. Our heroes tend to dullness; our villains, garishly painted monsters from the id, are the ones who fuel the franchise.

During the debate last month in Philadelphia, as Trump’s madness rose to a peak of raging lunacy—“They’re eating the dogs”; “He hates her!”—ABC, in its commercial breaks, cut to ads for “Joker: Folie à Deux,” the new Joaquin Phoenix movie, in which the crazed villain swirls and grins. It is a Gotham gone mad, and a Gotham, against all the settled rules of fable-making, without a Batman to come to the rescue. Shuttling between the comic-book villain and the grimacing, red-faced, and unhinged man who may be reëlected President in a few weeks, one struggled to distinguish our culture’s most extravagant imagination of derangement from the real thing. The space is that strange, and the stakes that high. ♦

[concernedbrownbread]

Oops, started outlining tua s4 au/fix-it (now posted). Spoilers for season 4 + fic below

Basically, this is what I imagined s4 to be. That is, "you painted over the cracks in the wall, but the cracks are still there and now they're getting wider"

Here's what I've got so far (in no particular order):

Raymond Chestnut, man myth and legend, is an important part of the story. What's a man pulled out of time, with nowhere to go and feeling out of time and place to do? Join the Keepers ofc!

Instead of Reginald's cool little memory machine, the family has to actively work to unravel the mystery of Ben and his death (the mystery has changed)

DAVE IS HERE

Jennifer doesn't exist, sorry. Ben is still causing the apocalypse but for way different reasons

Lila's parents are not alive. This is Allison's selfish dreamworld. If she didn't think to bring back Sissy, she did not think to save Lila's parents. Lila and Diego only have Grace.

Speaking of Allison ... whooo boy get ready for her to parallel Reginald, because who else pulled their partner out of their ending for their own selfish love ...

Allison gets a happy ending don't worry. She just faces consequences of s3 first

Obligatory DANCE BREAK~

Five Deli and the Subway have a plot and the plot is trauma and revisiting trauma

Timelines are used as a thematic device cause time travel makes no sense and I've decided it doesn't need to make sense as long as it develops character arcs & plot. I ain't no physicist

Abigail is 100x more evil (with similar motivations) and Gene and Jean are ... themselves

Lila & Five timey whimey field trip that is PLATONIC (I can't believe I have to clarify that).

DOLORES MAKES A CAMEO

Klaus has a side-plot actually relevant to his character and the plot. He continued being the best Uncle

Viktor gets to yell at Reginald. I'm not changing that that was amazing.

Viktor and Allison make up with each other

Luther gets recognition for holding the family together this timeline. He's trying so hard.

The fact that "timelines are spilling into one another" is relevant

It all comes back to Five and his apocalypse. It always does.

Anyway. Here's chapter 1.

[e-rated-beardo]

Today marks the first time someone notices (edit: tells me they've noticed) the tiny, insignificant, sidenote, literally-one-word clue to the plot-irrelevant fact that an OC in the Second Coming fic I completed two months ago is trans - so I'm going to take the shaky pride month justification and reshare the fic and some of the artworks I made before I joined Tumblr 🏳️‍🌈

Length: 3 parts, ~117k words; complete Series rating: Explicit (but the three sections where it applies are skippable) Tags: They Are Not Talking, The Second Coming, Crowley Is A Mess, Finding Meaning, Heaven Is Terrible, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, Protective Aziraphale, BAMF Aziraphale, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Exiled from Heaven, Temporarily Human, Memory Loss, Skippable Smut, South Downs Cottage, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Ineffable Husbands (plus about 3451325 more tags on ao3)

Summaries for the three parts + art dump below the break! ⬇️

Part 1: After The End (T; 26k words)

Summary: Aziraphale has gone back to Heaven and Crowley has gone… well, in the direction his bonnet pointed, really; it doesn't matter, as long as it's anywhere but London. His back seat full of plants and his passenger seat full of empty bottles, he starts finding that his bonnet points back towards Soho more often than not and that the music is oddly appropriate. And some of the humans—and angel—on Whickber Street seem to care, for whatever stupid reason, whether he's dead or alive.

Part 2: Is It Raining In Heaven? (T; 30k words)

Summary: "It was the lark, the herald of the morn, no nightingale... I must be gone and live, or stay and die." (Romeo and Juliet, Act III, scene 5)

The new Supreme Archangel is Struggling. He can't stop the Second Coming, the archangels barely take him seriously, and a fog of blissful joy, only controllable by incessant, stone-cold fury, seems set to make his own mind betray him. Aziraphale has never been the one with the plan, but now, he needs to prevent the next apocalypse and keep Crowley safe on Earth, all while that reckless serpent insists on meddling in Heaven's affairs. (At least the new Christ is a good kid, and the Pope has nice tea.)

Part 3: Not Single Spies (E; 61k words)

Summary: A man with pale hair turns up in Saint Peter's Square, naked and without memory, and Crowley's old sense of Aziraphale's location snaps like a twig.

Heaven is down another Supreme Archangel—but the new Christ is already on Earth (in France, to be precise) and the Second Coming is well underway. And Crowley works for Hell now, but really, he works for the good of humanity; pulling on every friend he has to stop the end of the world.

Everything comes to a head with a delivery van, a flaming sword, a road trip, a prophecy, a wheat field and a miracle of rather significant proportions.

ping @goodomensafterdark ❤️

[yes-i-am-happyaspie]

⬇ What I've Been Reading Recently! [In No Particular Order]⬇

Rivers and Roads (Rivers Till I Reach You) Series by peterparkersbff @pbpsbff

[Series Description and Notes] Zombie Apocalypse, No Powers AU centered on Peter, Tony, and Rhodey (But if we're being honest, it's pretty Peter-centric)

Updates will likely be posted out of order, but will be reordered so they are in preferred reading order. I'd recommend reading in series order.

Peter Benjamin Stark Series by MoonBoo

[Part 1, Stars Align Summary] Pepper is concerned about Stark Industry's image and organizes a tour for a group of orphans. It's during this tour that Tony meets a five-year-old Peter Parker, who is mute due to the trauma of witnessing Ben and May dying in a robbery, and realizes they're soulmates.

Time Brings All Things to Pass by MsWinifredQuale

Tony feels like he's in a good place right now. He's got a great fiancee, a makeshift but settled little family, and he's even in a fairly ok place with the former Rogues.

So naturally the universe decides to throw him some curve balls, when he gets a call one morning from the police claiming they've just picked up Howard and Maria Stark from the side of the road.

And that's not the only time-related event about to unfold.

Tony really hates time travel.

[Also includes de-aged Peter Parker]

Please obey the signs by Bergen

“This young man claims to have been invited by you personally.” Tony has learned to read Happy’s expressions. That one is disapproval, and it’s highly familiar. “Peter is helping me out in the workshop today.” “Why?” “Uh.” Tony has enough presence of mind not to carelessly throw Peter’s alternative identity around. “He won a competition.” Happy’s expression flickers, grows tense. “I did not approve any competition that included a trip to Avengers Tower.” “Okay. Well. If we had theoretically organized a competition, he would definitely have won it.” - Tony’s life lately has been a perfect storm of incompetence. But perhaps he can get some solid spiritual advice from a mischievous teenager with a secret identity he meets by the side of the road one evening, like a lucky little leprechaun. If only Happy would stop being so paranoid about Tony inviting a random kid into Avengers Tower, sheesh.

The Chill Factor by Tashie

5 Times Peter's thermoregulation caused issues +1 Time Others tried to do something about it.

Broken Thoughts (I Remember Everything) by blackwatchandromeda (avenris)

"Peter, who am I?"

He hesitates. "I'm sorry. I... I don't know."

Peter Parker has been missing for thirty-six days. When Tony Stark finally finds him, he's wandering around New York with no memories, unaware of where and who he is. The missing month is a mystery, and nobody knows what happened to him - least of all the kid himself.

Peter, meanwhile, is trying to piece together who he was. What doesn't help is the big secret he's sure Tony is keeping from him, or the way the man is avoiding him.

Nobody notices how the missing month is catching up to them until everything goes wrong.

(Not Infinity War compliant, but takes place after Civil War.)

When spiders tour their houses, chaos ensues by pirateninja9

"I am very pleased to announce that we’ve been invited for an overnight tour at Stark Industries.”

Join Peter and his Academic decathlon team on a chaotic field trip to the Stark Industries. Featuring a bullying teacher and student, a confused tour guide and many Avengers shenanigans. With luck like his, Peter should have known this would be as far from a normal tour as possible.

Mugs Are A Problem (I Do What I Want) by JAWorley

It’s not usually a problem. Tony doesn’t usually have to work so hard to hide it because Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey know. He can be himself around them. Right after the compound had been built, Tony had been worried about moving in with the Avengers full time… worried they’d notice his tics and figure out his secret. Then Germany had happened and the team had split up before they could fully move into the compound. Tony had had two years where he hadn’t needed to worry about it. Now that the Rogues are back and are living in the tower full time, it’s on his mind again and stressing him out. The problem? Coffee mugs. Well… coffee mugs, and other things and the fact that when he’s stressed out, the tics get worse. But mainly coffee mugs. Coffee mugs are the bane of his existence. OR Tony has Tourette Syndrome and he doesn’t want the Avengers (or Peter) to find out about it. The newly returned Avengers think Tony is just being a jerk when he knocks things off of tables and counters, because they think he’s doing it on purpose. Despite the angsty summary, this is all about the team coming back together and Tony learning that the people in his life can’t accept him as he is until given the chance to know him as he is.