#locust attack in UP

[cephydeluxe]

WHO OR WHAT IS RESPONSIBLE FOR TUMBLR PUTTING HORNY SANS AU FANART ON MY DASH?

[ennn]

Hold the fuck up, this isn’t a real trial.

In retrospect a number of things about the episode, especially the coven's characterisation felt off... and now on rewatch I'm pretty certain this isn't a trial of the Road at all – it's the Salem Seven punishing Agatha.

Clues under the cut with some spoilers from future scenes in trailers / promo clips.

Clue #1 – No screen aspect ratio change

As @wolfcracker points out, for the two previous trials the screen ratio changed once they entered the place (going full screen). We didn't get that for this cabin.

Clue #2 – No phase of the moon decoration at the entrance

We've had these obviously built into the previous trial entrances but there's no sign of one for this cabin.

The coven's so panicked getting chased by the locusts they don't notice it running in. The door is made of wooden planks with tiny gaps in between and you don't see a sign of any moon on the other side either.

Notably, in a trailer and promo shot, you see the moon featured prominently again for an upcoming trial, when Agatha and Billy cross a stone bridge structure and approach an entrance (presumably of the tower).

Clue #3 – Each trial has an element, this cabin doesn't

This was something that seemed odd even before this episode, we saw five weird horror movie-trope settings – assumed to be trials – in posters and promotional materials but there are only four identified elements for the Road.

Sure you could have more moon phases (like we do irl) but the Ballad that is central the show only mentions four elements: fire, water, earth, and air.

Our first two trials had strong ties with an element: if you failed you'd be killed by that element or something associated with it i.e. drowning or burning.

Now from the promos, an upcoming trial with the anti-gravity effect going on in a tower fits well with the air element. And the threat of death here is associated with going into the air (spikes in the ceiling).

Notice from the flying forms that this trial does go full-frame like the first two we certainly had (clue #1).

Another upcoming trial we know of (that looks like a morgue or asylum-like place) can be linked with the earth given that we see rocks and earth falling in a shot. Death by crushing earth.

This cabin had no element associated with it at all. The threat of death was by... Agatha siphoning your magic? Or in the case of Agatha, to be tortured forever by her mom?

Clue #4 – The trial area doesn't necessarily keep out the Salem Seven

From the promo shots of presumably the air trial (see above), we clearly see the Salem Seven in the tower attacking them. Why then did Locust and the rest of the Seven leave them alone in the cabin when they were right behind them?

Other sus elements

OK, these are more ambiguous and could be the result of bad writing but here's the other stuff in this "trial" that just seems off

The coven turns really really quickly on Agatha and viciously. And they literally just rode broomsticks where it's mentioned it's "about selflessness" and "we fly together or not at all". I mean yeah the people might lie but they were enough of a team that the magic for the broomsticks worked.

The trial's instruction was to just "punish Agatha"? That's oddly specific and pointed. Previous trials had the entire coven in danger (e.g. everyone had to drink the poison). Between this and the above point it feels like someone is mad at Agatha for killing lots of witches over the years. Some people like the Salem Seven.

The trials so far have tested the witch's ability in the craft (potion-making, protection) and how they work together. How does punishing or sacrificing Agatha align with the Road's test of "Burn and brew with coven true / And glory shall be thine" -- which we were just reminded of last week.

Jen calling and dismissing Billy as a familiar is... more mean-ness that I'd expect. You could make a case for her disliking Agatha, but the amount of venom in this moment towards the boy for trying is surprising considering she was trying to watch out for him not too long ago. Of course, it could be her frustration and fear in that moment boiling over.

Pretty much everything at the end after Billy snapping and going all dark and vengeful.

Ultimately we don't know what the Salem Seven can do. Sure they shriek like Nazgûl but turning into animals isn't the most threatening thing? So, bad writing and copium or is this show being truly tricksy and reality-bending?

[evilminji]

Okay, but... now I'm wondering >.>

@the-witchhunter We talked about Danny being Morningstar's feral, probably engineering oils and ectoplasmic goo covered, mad scientist/himbo hybrid (attack) purse dog. His special lil guy.

But!

I seek your Knowledge(TM).

From second hand accounts? He seems to HATE the hypocrisy. The blaming HIM for humanity's own choices. The rat race and endless song n dance of "Righteous Good VS. Cartoonish Evil". Because it let's humanity paint themselves the helpless victims. Because it's all surface level. Because it is not so easy to escape the ugliness of your Sins, yet they keep trying to scapegoat him.

Fuck um.

He was tired of it.

But? He still has CONSIDERABLE POWER. It's probably written down. And the Ring Of Rage? Is proooobably not the loveliest of artifacts? I imagine, like the Crown, it's NOT leaving Danny alone. One of those "we don't CARE if there is no throne left to sit upon, you WILL wear us, as King" sort of systems.

It genuinely would not and DOES NOT matter, if not a single soul in all the Zone bows to him. Did he defeat the previous holder of their Right To Rulership? Yes or No.

If No, fuck off.

If Yes, new monarch.

Is it hurting him? Not the rings problem. Nor the Crown's. Heavy is the weight, etc etc. But! DANNY would certainly care. He is... is ANGRY all the time now. Has no idea who would even MAKE this bullshit ring. Why JUST Rage? Yeah, it makes ghosts stronger, but at what COST?

He can't even get rid of it!

......by himself.

Luckily, he's still clear headed enough to know that he's NOT in this by himself. And it's amazing what "mom, dad, this ring is trying to drive me insane. Help me" in a terrified and tearful voice, can brush over. No one threatens their baby and all that.

It would honestly be hilarious, seeing the extended Fenton clan decend like LOCUSTS on Pariahs Keep, searching for clues, terrifying the local ghosts, if... if he wasn't so tired.

God he's so tired.

It's Aunt Alecia who... "politely encourages" a passing scholar to lend them the book they need. Took the poor sucker right out of the sky. Guy never stood a chance. RIP.

He learns he has to head..... over? Like... 27 that-ish way, then up. Huh. 27 WHAT?

Realities, apparently. He's in the wrong bundle. Branch? Neighborhood? Eh. Clan Fenton rolls back out, he packs his bags, and hilariously enough? Goes off to the devils night club. Hopes he likes rings. Or hates them.

Thankfully, being "king" means the Zone? Kinda... humors him? Like... it still has RULES(tm). He can... can FEEL that now. But it's willing to bend some for him, if he asks. And anything NOT against the rules? If it's in the right mood? He need only ask. It's weird. Being suddenly so powerful, yet NOT, at the same time.

Cause none of it's his.

All he has is the Zone's attention. The ability to ask pretty please. If you don't mind. And then? The highways between... ALL will just? Shift and change for him. He can see how it went to Pariah's head. The Zone is pretty agreeable. Is by nature Amoral, cause it's not a Being, it's... well, it's the Zone.

And everyone wants him to ask things. Do things. Demand this or that. Use this power.

Maybe he doesn't WANT too! Maybe he didn't WANT to be king! Doesn't he have the right to say NO? To refuse? Why do they think he OWES them service? An eternity of politics and people trying to kill him, for something he never wanted in the FIRST PLACE.

He's so tired.

The nightclub's pretty cool.

So he comes to ask, politely of course, cause the guy's probably busy, if Morningstar could... dunno, fix or destroy it? Want a ring, maybe? Also he heard you MADE the stars. Huge fan of all of that. Can I ask about the process? Or are you in the middle of something?

And? Lucifer? Turns around, from where he's Leaning Seductive Yet Elegantly(tm) to see... scrawny. Tiny corpse child. No... half? Corpse? Alive. Dying. Alive yet dying. Huh. Well, that is different. And here he didn't think he'd get see anything NEW. You, child, are NOT a zombie. What are you?

Halfa.

I have no idea what that is. What do you want?

He gets shown the ugliest, crudest, peice of shit ring imaginable. A genuine foul little curse. Really stinks up the place. He destroys it, obviously. This club has STANDARDS. Hope that wasn't important?

Kid just smiles the biggest fangy lil grin. No. No it was not.

Obvious, lie, but cute lil teeth. He'll allow it.

He gets dragged into talking about the stars. And talking. And talking. Mostly bragging and explaining. Kid hangs off his every word. Follows him around as he makes his rounds. Asks good questions. Completely focused, dispite the booze and barely dressed dancing all around him.

Lucifer can't help notice the crown.

Lovely little thing. Space ice and star dust, glittering like jewels and light catching the mist. If he remembers right... that one iiiiiis..... not Limbo, it's.... Zone! That crown is the Zone, it changes to suit the wearer. He recognizes the vibe. Awfully young, aren't you?

And.... it all burst forth. He didn't even need to press. Use persuasive words and honeyed tones. Like an inflamed, festering wound. The merest brush is enough to spill everything.

Negligence, greed, blood lust. Bigotry and xenophobia. A tyrants endless quest for power. Ah, humans. They truly don't change do they? Realities away, dead or alive. Now they're harrasing a child. He honestly looks miserable. Whereas just a moment before, listening to Lucifer talk about his work on the stars, his soul practically GLOWED with light. A tiny little star unto himself.

.......maybe it's the big ol "I'm you BIGGEST FAN" eyes. The sad wet cat aura. Perhaps the scrawny "could snap you like a twig" teenager, all elbows and knees. The fact he is, in fact, NOT human; for all that he once was. But?? The kid? Is... not terrible company.

He'd even go so far as to say? It's like having a pet intern.

He can sleep on the couch.

Tell you what, you stay here? I'll keep taking about stars and YOU can do the chores I don't feel like doing. I'll take care of you and all that.

And Danny? Honestly was sold at the word "stars" but? This sounds like a phenomenally terrible idea... and he has yet to meet one of THOSE he hasn't made out sloppy still with, so deal! But as a minor, that DOES make you his new gaurdian for the next four-ish years. He's legally obligated to finish schooling.

Ah.

.....well shit.

(Just? Local stressed 14-15 year old Ghost King does RESPONSIBILE thing and finds Adultier Adult. With more qualified Adult powers. Unfortunately for everyone, the adult is Lucifer Morningstar, night club owner. Even MORE Unfortunately, said ghost kind has pack bonded with the Nice Star Man, who saved him from the Bad Ring, and effectively offered to let him crash on his swanky couchs.

Now Morningstar has to? Somewhat VAGUELY pretend he gives a shit local schooling system, as he puts his charge INTO it. Actively giving waking terrors to the magical community. What evil plot is afoot? Where did he get this tiny minor death god? What is his end goal FOR said child?

No one knooooows~

But Lucifer is just doing this cause he's a Being of his word. He hates the tedious minor chores he'll be foisting off onto Danny. And? Most importantly? Look at that face. *shoujo sparkly eyes of Star Sempai Noticed Me!* it's like having a golden retriever puppy. Ffs he has STANDARDS.)

(It'd be hilarious to watch the hostile 5th dimensional chess DC characters have going on in the background, all while? Danny is like? Man! Isn't this universe GREAT? Everyone here is so CHILL! And nice to me! I'm so relaxed now! Finally, I can finish my education in peace.)

@hdgnj @hypewinter @lolottes @babbling-babull @nerdpoe @mutable-manifestation

[amirasainz]

Omg I've literally just read all of the works you have put up. LITERALLY LOVE ALL OF THEM. Could you write on where baby sainz has a panic attack while in the paddock because of the paparazzi and carlos gets mad and Alex, Rebecca, and Kika try to help her afterwards while the drivers take action.

Hi loves! This request was so hard to write. I hope I did good. Please send me some requests and enjoy reading. (The title got inspired by the Weeknd "Happy House". A great song) -XoXo

Happy House

Amira stood frozen in the center of the paddock, her senses assaulted by the relentless barrage of flashing cameras. The paparazzi had descended upon her like a swarm of locusts, their lenses hungry for every detail of her life. She had seen this happen to her brother, the other drivers, even the glamorous partners of the racing world. But never to her.

Her heart raced, and she fought to maintain composure. The tight circle of photographers closed in, their shouts echoing in her ears. She squinted behind her sunglasses, trying to locate a familiar face among the chaos. Her trusted members were nowhere to be seen, lost in the sea of flashing lights.

Amira’s breaths came in shallow gasps. Panic threatened to overwhelm her. She attempted to break free from the paparazzi’s grip, but their collective force held her captive. Tears welled up, blurring her vision. The questions hurled at her were like daggers, each one piercing deeper into her vulnerability.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos—a lifeline. “Hey, everybody, take at least seven huge steps away from her!” The male voice was authoritative, commanding. Amira’s blurred gaze fell upon her savior, but she couldn’t make out his features. He gently took her arm, leading her away from the suffocating crowd. Her dam broke, and tears streamed down her face, a mix of relief and exhaustion.

In that moment, the stranger became her hero, shielding her from the paparazzi storm. Amira wondered who he was, but gratitude overwhelmed any other thought. She clung to his arm, seeking solace in the unexpected sanctuary he provided. The world outside might still be chaotic, but within the circle of his protection, she found a brief respite—a chance to breathe.

“Shhhh, you’re alright, pequeño Sainz,” said the soothing voice of Sergio “Checo” Pérez. The two of them had interacted quite often already, because sometimes it was easier for Amira to speak Spanish with someone. And Checo had to listen to all the yapping from Max about her. And let it be known that Max could talk for hours about her.

He gently started to steer her away from the prying eyes of the public before he stopped them gently again. “Make sure that all these monsters are banned from the team garages ,” Checo ordered a Red Bull employee. “And someone inform her brother!”

“Vamonos,” he ordered Amira softly. They had to walk quite slowly because her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Thankfully, after walking for about 5 minutes, Carlos ran towards them. At the sight of her big brother, she let out a big sob.

“Ohhh, Amira. Estás bien. Nadie puede hacerte daño ahora. No dejaré que nadie te toque,” Carlos whispered while he hugged her tight. Picking her up gently, he brought their little group to the Ferrari garage. At their entrance, the happy smiles from Rebecca, Kika, and Alexandra faded, replaced by concern and relief.

Carlos reluctantly released his grip on Amira, allowing her to be enveloped by the comforting embrace of the girls. Their whispered reassurances—“It’s okay, little dove,” “Deep breaths,” and “You did so well”—echoed in the air, soothing her frayed nerves. They settled her into a plush chair, each taking their place around her. Rebecca knelt in front of Amira, holding her trembling hands. Kika sat on her left, guiding her through calming breaths. Alexandra, on her right, gently stroked her hair.

As the girls tended to their princess, Carlos turned to Checo, his voice edged with urgency. “What happened?” he demanded, his eyes searching for answers. Checo’s calm demeanor contrasted with the tension radiating from Carlos. “I don’t know, mate,” Checo replied evenly. “One moment, I’m walking out from the media pen; the next, I see her surrounded by a horde of paparazzi.”

Carlos ran a hand over his face, his concern etched deep. He lowered his voice to a whisper, not wanting to alarm Amira further. “Thank you, Checo. Truly.” After a brief pause, he inquired, “Are those idiots still here?” Checo nodded in confirmation. Carlos’s resolve hardened. “Tell the others what happened. We’re meeting in ten minutes at the entrance. We’ll handle this ourselves—no FIA, no teams. And most importantly, no cameras.” The protective brother in him had awakened, ready to shield Amira from the storm that raged beyond the garage walls.

Carlos gently approached his sister, relieved that her breathing was now under control. Tears still streamed down her cheeks, but the panic had subsided. Rebecca, seeing Carlos’s arrival, made space for him. He took her place, cupping Amira’s chin with one hand. "Look at me, hermanita,” he ordered softly. When Amira finally met his gaze, he reassured her, “Those idiots will never come close to you again. I promise you on my life. Aunque sea lo último que haga en mi vida.” His vow hung in the air, a shield against the world.

After a small nod from Amira, Carlos stood up, pressing a kiss to her hair. He instructed the girls to remain where they were. Unseen by anyone else, the wags exchanged glances—hesitation and unease etched in their eyes.

At the entrance, Carlos found a gathering of drivers. Some, like Nico and Kevin, surprised him. Nico explained, “I have a wife and a baby daughter. I want to make sure that nothing like that can ever happen again.”The others murmured their agreement. Before Carlos could outline the plan, Lance interrupted. “I’m sorry, but Lewis, did you seriously bring Roscoe here? I mean no offense, but he isn’t exactly—” Before Lance could finish, Roscoe growled, catching everyone off guard.

“Boys, attention!” Carlos commanded. “Now our plan looks like this…”

And if the media asked the next day why so many drivers had cracked knuckles or bruised eyes, they’d be met with smirks. Sometimes, actions spoke louder than words.

[astra-ravana]

Astra's List of Baneful Components

I hope to make this list as comprehensive as possible and will be adding to it whenever I discover something new. If anyone has any suggestions for things that should be added, please let me know. 🖤

Herbs/Plants

• Bloodroot- Substitutes blood

• Jezebel Root- Wickedness, ending relationships, punishing cheaters

• Bindweed- Binding, ensnaring

• Dogbane- Deception

• Rue- Misery

• Saffron- Destruction

• Lemon- Sourness/bitterness, reveals damaging truths

• Lemon Verbena- a boost of power, ending relationships

• Lime- Sourness/bitterness, encourages deceit

• Lobelia- Discord

• Hemlock- Discord, sadness

• Spanish Moss- Bad luck

• Vertiver- Silence

• Mace- Misery, strife

• Slippery Elm- Bad luck, negativity

• Bittersweet- Loss, sadness

• Mandrake- Misery, strife

• Mistletoe- Isolation, confusion

• Wormwood- Delusion, misery, strife, madness

• Sumac- Bad luck, negativity

• Mullein- Spirit work, nightmares

• Patchouli- Illness

• Mustard Seed- Strife, discord

• Hemlock- Destroys sex drive, break ups

• Poke Root- Confusion, upset

• Blackberry Root- Distress

• Myrrh- A boost of power

• Tobacco- Subs any baneful herb

• Belladonna- Discord, conflict, illness, suffering

• Cinquefoil- Discomfort

• Ague Weed- Confusion

• Blueberry- Confusion

• Cloves- Domination, stops gossip

• Stinging Nettle- Jealousy, discomfort

• Cramp Bark- Pain, illness

• Licorice Root- Domination

• Tormentil- Distress, harm

• Asafoetida- Drives enemies away

• Henbane- Emotional instability, melancholy, storms, spirit work

• Hot Peppers- Anger, fighting, discord

• Blackthorn- Illness, bad omens

• Elder- Suffering, spirit work

• Dittany- Mistakes, setbacks, depression

• Garlic- Disgust and repulsion

• Yew- Spirit work, destruction

• Onion- Disconnects relationships, strife

• Poppy Seeds- Intoxication, confusion, discord

• Foxglove- Manipulation, heartbreak, devastation

• Alum- Stops communication and speech, impotence

• Wolfsbain- Madness, loneliness, rage

• Knotweed- Binding, trapping

• Black Pepper- Revealing the truth, binding

• Green Apple- Unrequited love

• Radish- Sexual shame, STDs, infidelity

• Yohimbe Bark- Impotency

• Chicory- Discord

• Agrimony- Return to sender

• Datura- Psychic attack, nightmares, misery

• Bay Berry- Depression

• Angelica Root- Misery, strife, distress, discord

• Dragon's Blood- Destruction, pain, misery

• Chili Powder- Anxiety

• Bladderwrack- Illness, weakness

• Boneset- Distress, confusion

• Black Locust/Hawthorne Thorns- Struggle, agony, injuries, wounds

• Calamus- Control, domination, commanding, compelling

• Cocoa- Bitterness

• Black Mustard Seed- Confusion, discord, non-stop trouble

• Sumac- Discomfort, bad luck, painful lessons

• Willow Bark- A dose of their own medicine

• Stagger Weed- Disabling, trips them up

• Bar Berry- Stops progress

• Black Nightshade- Sickness, depression

• Oleander- Devastation, silence, doom

Crystals

• Opal- Amplifies negative energy (Black Opal works best)

• Ruby- Focuses intent on target

• Malachite- Anxiety, fear, cowardice, nausea

• Peridot- Confusion

• Obsidian- Reveal their darkness

• Petrified Wood- Ruin, abandonment

• Clear Quartz- Amplifier and energy holder

• Black Moonstone- Deceit, distrust, confusion, paranoia

• Onyx- Breakups, loss

• Amethyst- Self destruction, nightmares, paranoia

• Garnet- Siphons target's energy, steal their love/friends

• Diopside- Reveals a target's true colors

• Bloodstone- Sucks the life force from enemies, chaos, frailty

• Carnelian- Pain, anger, rage

• Black Quartz- Darkness

• Sardonyx- Return to sender

• Jet- Cloud their vision/blind them

• Serpentine- Illness, unsteady ground, mishaps

• Jade- Domination, control, manipulation

• Amber- Trapping, cause obstacles and setbacks

• Hematite- Negativity

Misc. Ingredients

• Salt- Painful cleansing, salt in their wounds

• Sulphur- Stops plans, causes harm

• Alcohol- Makes the work last

• Vinegar- Souring, dissolves relationships

• Pins/Needles- Pain and agony

• Thumbtacks- Makes the work stick in them

• Razor Blades- Sadistic actions, sharp words

• Broken Glass- Cut ties, emotional wounds

• Scorpions- Betrayal

• Spiders- Danger, ensnarement

• Wasps- Punishment, non-stop pain

• Grave Dirt- Enlists spirit's help

• Snakeskin- Removes them from your path

• Cigarette Butts- Snuff their will

• Thorns- Annoyance, pain

• Dog/Cat Poop- Rottenness, depression, life stinks

• Sticker Burs- Crippling emotional shock

• Spiderwebs- Crossing, binding

• Coffin Nails- Stay home, withdrawal, binding

• Lead- Weigh them down, make them late

• Black Salt- Misery, strife, banishment

• Dog Hair- Agression, combat

• Cat Hair- Passive-Aggression, conflict

• Bad Water- Stagnation, depression, illness

• Murder Scene Dirt- Crimes, complete ruin, terror, demise

• Nails- Binding, pain

• Thumb Tacks- Pain, discomfort

• Broken Glass- Disaster, accidents, injury, pain

• Blood- Longevity, boosts curse power

• War Water- Chaos, psychic warfare, banishing

• Razor/Barbed Wire- Pain, restriction, loss of freedom

• Fish Bones- Decay, bad reputation, loss of friendships

• Moths- Fragility, tunnel vision A

• Goofer Dust- Crossing, misfortune, illness

• Bone Ash- Instability, weakness, demise

• Storm Water- Destruction, upheaval, chaos

• Potato Eyes- Rot, loss of control, sickness

• Cat Claws- Helps curse cling to target, sudden agony

• Butterfly Wings- Loss of control, injury

• Egg Shells- Breaks down barriers and boundaries

• Ants/Ant Hill Dirt- Annoyance, overwhelming, banishing

• Hospital Dirt- Illness and injury

• Bullets- Devastation, destruction, suffering, demise

• Iron- Banishing, destruction

• Super Glue- Permanence, binding, damage

• Dirty Pennies- Financial loss

[dradrianmilk]

I feel that theres a distinction between hob liking dream still despite him being Like That as being a moral highground where hes just like,, just an extremely empathetic Good Person Saint and hob liking dream bc hob is just fucking buckwild and hes just into whatever dream already has going on type of "i like watching him commit atrocities but if my consistent love (obsession) makes him more emotionally stable thats cool too i guess" like,, he wants dream to be happy but theres a "support womens WRONGS" trait in him where he would probably put up little to no fight if dream just wanted to be this just awful being.

Death or someone idk: dream has literally just become a swarm of locusts and is attacking london as we speak because someone gave your pub a bad review in the paper

Hob: but look at how good of a time hes having biting people and destroying things!!

Like this is nothing but shitposting and im not telling off anyone elses interpretation but theres something so great to me about hob having a bright curious personality but also he genuinely pats himself on the back for his restraint of only breaking the kneecaps of the dude who stole his parking spot and not full on draw and quartering the bastard

[jennifer-jeong]

Angst + Fluff | Ryomen Sukuna x Reader Next time

hehehe see what I did with the header picture, they're leaning on each other (you'll get it if you read)

SUMMARY Sukuna promises you he’ll be better for you in your next lives.

CONTENT NOT SPOILER FREE, suggestive, angst to fluff, gender neutral reader, it’s supposed to be a happy ending if you pretend that things don’t go according to canon LOL, very OC Sukuna so he actually has emotions, near death experiences, injuries, blood, death, suicide, ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+

AUTHOR NOTES I can’t write canon Sukuna because he doesn’t even like humans 💀 Basically this is pookie Sukuna LOL There’s a lot of deviation from canon in this fic. I'm probably going to make a smut portion to this in a separate fic so stay tuned hehe, I'll link it here if I finish it!

WORD COUNT: 2244 why did this turn out so long... maybe I actually do like him

Back in the Heian period (a millenia ago), Ryomen Sukuna, “the king of curses,” peaked in power. At the same time, you were just getting started with your adult life. Unfortunately at this moment, however, it seemed that it would be cut short. A strong, locust-like, curse manifested in your village and you’ve been trying your best to stop it but to no avail. In fact, it’s currently pinning your body to the ground, trying to bite your head off. You imagine that the curse came to be due to the fear of famine in your farms, but you didn’t think it’d be this strong. You struggle but the curse is much larger than you are. You don’t even know what your last words should be, your mind going blank in panic. Your life starting to flash before your eyes-

“I suggest you fuck off my turf,” says a dangerously domineering voice. The curse looks up down the road and sees something you can’t in your current position. You barely need to look to figure out who it is though. The curse above you freezes in pure fear and eases up on crushing your body in a jolt. You hear the same voice “tsk” at the curse’s “disrespectful” hesitation and suddenly the giant bug flies in a seemingly random direction before essentially exploding due to the force. You sit up slightly with shock evident on your face, you turn around to finally see your unfortunate savior. He takes your silent shock as confusion and explains “the area is mine… filthy curses have no right to do as they please around here.” Your body feels heavy from the sheer aura of power he gives off but you can’t help but still make a mildly disgusted face at him for what he’s saying. You’ve heard he treats humans like livestock and you have always despised him for having power like that and choosing to do this instead of something good. He makes an angered face back saying “hah?” and just when you start to regret your choice of facial expression, he rolls his eyes and walks away. You pause for a few seconds before taking a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You mutter a “thanks” that you don’t think he hears before heading back to your home to tend your wounds.

Sukuna had been watching you recently. It was no coincidence that he appeared in front of you that night. He first noticed you when you were able to kill any of the curses that attacked your village. He watched, quite amused, that you continued to struggle with no fear against these monsters while the rest of your idiotic village sat back and watched, some even calling you insane despite you saving their lives. Sukuna doesn’t understand why you don’t just beat up the humans that don’t listen. You let them take advantage of your kindness even though you could wipe them all out with an arm tied behind your back. You’re overly kind but you still have the guts to stand up to someone like him. He heard your small mutter of gratitude while he walked away and smiled slightly. He’s never met someone he actually felt bad for in this way. He’s found something he feels pity for, and it’s enough to make him want to protect it, treat it like it’s special.

So now you’re here, a few days later in his temple, bowing 90 degrees in front of him with an offering in your hand. You came here to show him respect for not killing you or the other villagers. He’s impressed you even found him and more impressed that you made the trek here. He walks towards you and reaches for your chin with his hand to make you look at him and stand up. His eyes inspect your slightly flustered face while his thumb very slightly caresses your chin. He releases his hold on your face and takes the offering. You stand there, still on guard and weary of the man. But you know he hasn’t done anything to your village in the time that you’ve been alive, you just know he’s the “disgraced one” and that it can’t be good.

For the next few weeks, your time is spent half at the village and half at Sukuna’s temple. He decided to help you with the journey by just teleporting you with a “simple” technique that you couldn’t comprehend. You slowly discover that Sukuna is actually just so strong he’s bored, no one really stands on equal ground with him. Even if all the sorcerers in the world fought him, he’s confident he’d win, and you don’t doubt it (canon).

He thinks it’s cute that you still go back to the village to help out here and there. He’s only okay with it now because he can watch over you and intervene if anyone wants to be rude. Many of the villagers are kind to you from a distance, only some actually approach you to thank you from time to time. A small group of the villagers unfortunately highly suspect you to be a curse of some sort though and don’t trust you because you’re so powerful. You’ve only ever done good with your power and you know that for a fact, so you ignore them. Sukuna, however, sits in his temple absolutely fuming whenever they interact with you, he’d maim them if you told him to, but you specifically told him he can’t hurt any humans unless they attack first.

Sukuna enjoys watching your little daily endeavors, smiling whenever you’re clumsy while cleaning or when you accomplish hunting down and killing some curses. It brings a sense of innocent joy to his life that he hasn’t ever really had. He’s had violent, murderous joy in his life, but nothing like this before. Some might say it made him soft, but really it made him stronger in a sense, he finally had something to protect.

As time goes on and seasons change, you and Sukuna only grow closer. You can’t explain why you’re still here with someone you used to hate with every fiber of your being. You think it might have something to do with how he actually sees you. He sees your struggle and your kindness and properly appreciates you for it. No one else in your life has done that for you. No one protects you and cares for you like he does. You also learned that he’s always been pretty good or at least neutral in using his power too. Only killing humans when attacked, beating up strong sorcerers but not killing them, and killing curses that bother him in his land. He was never actually as bad as the rumors made him out to be. Basically, Sukuna fell first and fell harder before you realized that you had fallen all the same.

Sukuna can’t help but be a little obsessive over you. You’re the only one he has eyes for afterall. He always checks in to make sure you’re safe when you aren’t at the temple and actually learns how to cook new dishes so he can feed you. His touches always linger on you: his hands on the small of your back, fingers brushing through your hair, lips ghosting over your skin. When you spend nights together, he’s essentially worshiping your body, telling you how beautiful you are and how he’s all yours. You make sure to return the favor and make him feel loved, it makes his heart feel so full and only deepens his love for you.

You’ve discovered overtime that Sukuna is actually human, he’s just so unbelievably strong and feared that people think he’s a curse. It was strange, you could almost draw a parallel between Sukuna and yourself. Both of you were feared by some because they just didn’t understand you or your intentions. It was an unfortunate part of this reality, but as long as you could live happily together, you didn’t really mind.

Another unfortunate part of this reality, though, was that things never go according to plan. Your plans of living happily together with Sukuna quickly fell apart soon after your 3 year anniversary. The sorcerers knew that they could use you to bait Sukuna and have a much better chance at defeating him. So that’s exactly what they did. They caught you when you were out in the village in the late summer. You were strong, but there were too many of them.

It was doomed before it even started.

In the end, Sukuna is out of energy, being forced to fight offensively instead of defensively if he wanted to save you. You managed to escape to return to him and help, but you were both quickly overwhelmed since the sorcerers decided to play dirty like this. You were both sitting outside of the temple, having teleported away to buy some time. You both just sit and talk. “Have we even killed anything other than curses recently?” you question. He chuckles at your seemingly lighthearted question in this situation, “not that I can think of… I think this was always coming for me though.” You look up at him with concern, he can only smile back even though you can see the clear sorrow in his eyes. “Humans are always scared of what they don’t understand. It’s just how it is” he says as he closes his eyes and enjoys the sun. The warmth drying the blood on both of you, some of it belonging to you both, most of it belonging to your attackers. You’re silent, not sure of what to say in what seems to be your last few moments. He leans on you and you turn your head to touch foreheads. He sighs and says “I’m glad I met you at all though… You showed me what being loved is like. It was something I never thought I’d find or deserve.” You start to tear up and reach a hand to caress his cheek. “You always deserved love, darling. I’m sorry the world was so horrible to you,” you say to him in a gentle voice. “Don’t apologize, love” he says as he kisses your forehead and wraps an arm around you.

“Maybe if we can get them to hate us enough, they’ll curse us together and we can live on like that” you say jokingly. He chuckles and says “wow you really do like me, huh?” You both laugh and hold each other.

A group of sorcerers are within view and are approaching fast. You give him one last kiss and speak your last words to him: “maybe we’ll reincarnate together someday. Maybe as curses, maybe as humans.” His eyes soften with sadness written all over his face “if that happens, I promise our lives won’t be like this one… I want to be a good man for you next time… I’d give all this power up if I could just live a long and happy life with you.” You close your eyes as tears fall. Your eyebrows scrunch as the pain washes over you, physically and emotionally. You see him tear up ever so slightly and whisper “I’m sorry for all the trouble, my love.” “Just make it up to me next time,” you giggle. He knows you never blamed him. He smiles.

You always knew what you were getting into when you approached Sukuna. It was dangerous, delusional, and stupid. But you know you would’ve never had it any other way.

You both still sat side by side, foreheads touching, holding each other. You quickly charged two shots of cursed energy. One piercing his skull, the other, yours.

You eventually become a small part mentioned by people when they retell the tale of the king of curses. Many described you as a traitor or as a curse. But some could see that you prevented Sukuna from spiraling deeper into his distaste for humans. Without you, he might have become a sadistic psychopath as time went on since no one would have any way to kill him. They praised you for that, thinking you did it on purpose to save the nearby villages. Both these ideas were lost in history though. In modern times it’s only written in some books at jujutsu high as hypotheses. No one truly knew what happened.

Sukuna’s powers sealed into his fingers upon death. A technique he used on himself before he met you and one he long forgot about. The sorcerers, out of fear, scattered his indestructible fingers to prevent anyone getting their hands on them and reincarnating the king of curses. Hoping to keep the man dead.

Again, reality makes sure things don’t go to plan, and it’s Yuji’s first day meeting some of his classmates. Sukuna has been wondering what to do since he’s been reincarnated into Yuji’s body. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet in Yuji’s mind and it makes everyone question if Sukuna is really the evil being they all thought he was.

Sukuna is barely paying attention until he feels a familiar warmth walk into the room, not even needing to see you to know who you were. He couldn’t believe it, he almost laughed, thinking that the universe really brought you two back together after more than a thousand years. But he paused, suddenly serious because he realized he had a chance to make things, not right, but different.

After class, Sukuna switches with Yuji, and lo and behold, you show him the exact same disgusted face you made to him centuries ago when he came to greet you in Yuji’s body. It made him smile as he let out a whisper,

“I missed you.”

|| MASTERLIST ♡ || Thank you for reading! ||

[ross-hollander]

Lesser Known Legends...

...of the Inner Sphere and Beyond: everyone knows their The Bounty Hunter and their Black Marauder, but some notables never seem to really find the fame they deserve. For instance...

"The Grinch", name unknown, attacked Christmas tree farms in a pine-green Hatchetman across the Commonwealth in the years following the Jihad; speculated to have been disgruntled with the omnipresent holiday season sales advertising. Never apprehended. The damage was estimated to have been in the tens of millions.

Willy Divou, the "Red Paper Clip Bandit". Started in a raggedy CattleMaster, broke into military bases ranging from the Capellan Confederation to the furthest reaches of the Combine, swapping for a new, better 'mech each time. Arrested and executed after being baited with a rumors of an 'experimental improved Atlas'.

Theodora Mirene, the "Brick Wall". A Civil War mercenary whose grotesquely modified Stalker avoided differing weapons restrictions and parts availability in the various systems she operated in by not having any. She butted and body-checked over twenty enemy 'mechs down over her career, before retiring from battle strain.

Toni Anathol, "The Solaris Menace". Active from 2904-6 as the only person to ever reach double digits (27, all told) for streaking in the 'mech arenas. Was captured when he twisted an ankle brutally mid-run, but fans demanded his release. His career was over after that, though he received the only official Solaris Medal of Spontaneity.

"The Possum Pilot", spotted across numerous battlefields but consistent in their tactics during the Andurien Crisis. Always piloted an Archer so dilapidated as to appear to be a wreck, then sprung up and fired on unsuspecting FWL troops. Killed when stepped on by a Zeus that took them for underfoot wreckage. Body was unidentifiable.

Susan Ravenwater, "The Party Bus", a Hell's Horses pilot active during STAMPEDE with a dicey strategy of ordering every Elemental in their Nova onto their 'mech, and moving as a flanker to drop twenty-five Elementals into the fight when the enemy was fighting what they assumed was elements of a standard Star.

"Big" Boots A. Tajag, a mercenary for the Dominion during their war against the Combine. A dedicated Trebuchet pilot who practiced the self-taught "art of 'mech-jitsu". Never scored a confirmed kill in the field: only ever knocked over or tripped enemy 'mechs. Died to a Locust whose reverse knee joints baffled his technique.

Jared Hada, the "Turtle of Terror". Piloted a massive, over-armored Rifleman which would drop into planetside docks and depots, firing on anyone trying to enter or leave until a ransom was paid for access to the supplies. This worked until a Lyran supply depot simply waited him out, breaking in and arresting him when he fell asleep during the standoff.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 7: Heart Attack]

A/N: Hello all! Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥰 Thank you so much for loving this fic and giving all my eccentric AU ideas a chance. I’m currently in Washington DC visiting one of my best friends, so if I’m a little bit tardy replying to your comments/messages then that’s why. Don’t fear!! I will check in as soon as I can, and I am still amazed by and will forever cherish your support. 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, Shelby being a bigger plague than the locusts of Egypt, mental health struggles, references to violence and abuse, New Jersey, pregnancy, mini golf, lots of content for the Cregan girlies.

Selected Chapter Quote: “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ @seabasscevans​ @tsujifreya​ 

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

You type into Google as you hide in the public bathroom stall, pink tile walls and mint green porcelain, very 1950s, phantom drips of water and humming florescent lights: Can Plan B make your period late?

You scroll through the results, clutching your iPhone with both hands. Faintly, you can hear the rest of the band outside, chattering, laughing, slurping on Slush Puppies, smacking trees and rocks with their golf clubs. Yes, the consensus seems to be; Plan B can delay your period. Incidentally, so can pregnancy.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You peer down at your panties, as if you can force bloodstains to appear: sparce rosy threads of warning, dark red splotches like rust, you aren’t particular. You’ll take anything. “Fuck,” you say again, defeated. You get dressed, wash your hands, and head back out into the cloudless afternoon sunshine.

“Stargirl, it’s your turn!” Aegon shouts as you trot over to them: tenth hole, shaped like an L, featuring an intimidating loop de loop. The course is dinosaur themed; Rhaena picked it. Aegon points to Jace. “This deformed bastard wanted to skip you.”

“I told you,” Jace moans. His speech is garbled and lisping, his face comically swollen, bruised yellow-emerald-indigo and drooling blood, stitches above his left eyebrow. He just had his dental implants placed yesterday; the four teeth that he lost at Club Camelot could not be readily located for reattachment. “I can’t keep track of who’s next. I’m on like four different opiates.”

Baela frets over him. “Shh, shh, baby. Try not to talk.” There’s something about watching someone get almost-murdered that makes you want to forgive them, you suppose.

You grab your club and golf ball, dark blue, from where you left them by a tree. Rhaena gives you a covert little thumbs up and raised eyebrows. Everything good? You smile—too widely, insincere, a liar—and nod. Technically, you have yet to obtain concrete evidence to the contrary.

You take your turn, somewhat awkwardly due to the splint that still encumbers your dominant hand. You are thinking about anything but mini golf. Your ball goes halfway through the loop de loop and then comes rolling back. How many strokes? Four, five, you lose count, it doesn’t matter. Aegon is snickering, though not in a mean way, never in a mean way. Aemond is watching you. He does this constantly; you can feel his eyes—river water, otherworldly atmosphere—on you all the time, you can see him on the periphery of your vision. But when you glance at Aemond, he looks away. You’re wearing flip flops, a black NSYNC t-shirt, and bright pink shorts that Baela insists are of the very short variety. Aemond is staring a little extra hard today. Shelby alternates between glaring at him and at you.

Jace putts next. He misses the ball twice. On the third try, he hits it into a nearby pond. Golden koi fish scatter beneath the rippling sheen of the water.

“Loser,” Aegon declares mildly. “Criston, why the fuck are we in New Jersey?”

“Because you’re playing three shows at the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford,” Criston says as he putts; his green golf ball sails through the loop de loop, bounces off a wall, and then rolls straight into the cup, a hole in one. “One Direction did it, Taylor Swift did it, and now you’re going to do it too. And if you don’t make it too unbearable for me, I’ll even take you to the beach while we’re here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees. He slurps on his Slush Puppie. “Oh, Aemond, I need the Netflix password.”

“You forgot it again?!” Daeron says. Jace, groaning softly, lies down on the ground in a patch of shade. Baela gets a bottle of Orajel rinse out of her purse and starts pouring it into his mouth.

“Get your own account,” Aemond snaps at Aegon. “I think you can afford it.”

“Bruh, that’s not the point! I don’t know where I left off in Grey’s Anatomy!”

They keep bickering. You stop listening. You can only hear the sounds of rustling leaves, squawking seagulls, the whistling of the warm August wind. You can only feel the weight of Aemond’s half-fascinated, half-resentful gaze on you. He wouldn’t believe me, you think. If I really am pregnant, he would never believe that it was an accident. He would never believe that I was that guilelessly, unambitiously stupid. Hell, I did it and I barely believe it.

You steal a glimpse of Aemond—black shirt and black sunglasses, white shorts, Adidas sneakers—and he turns away, pretending to pick dirt off his golf ball. Interestingly, he will talk to you about things not related to that night in Tokyo; perhaps it would be too suspicious not to, a neon sign for the rest of the band to read. But he never allows himself to be alone with you. And he never touches you, not even a grazing of hands or an absentminded bump as he passes you in aisles or hallways.

Bump, you think miserably. An inauspicious choice of words.

“We should watch Se7en,” Aegon is saying now. “Comet fam movie night.”

You mutter: “We’re not watching Se7en.”

“What’s Se7en about?” Rhaena asks.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“What’s in the box?!” Aegon shouts dramatically—quoting the beautiful yet doomed David Mills, a name he once borrowed to schedule a Zoom meeting with you—and then cackles. It’s his turn. He clobbers his golf ball and sends it flying through the loop de loop; it pops over the barrier and disappears into a bush. Startled squirrels dart out of the leaves.

“Loser!” Jace slurs as he lies sprawled across the ground, vindicated.

“Stop spitting blood everywhere,” Aemond says. He putts next, and badly: poor depth perception. “You’re getting it on my sneakers.”

“Watch it, cyclops.” Jace points to his own stitches, bruises, surgically replaced teeth. “I let you have this one. Now we’re even. But next time I won’t be so charitable.”

“You’re not even,” Aegon tells Jace, abruptly severe. He whips off his aviator sunglasses, crouches over Jace, glaring and thunderous like a storm. Baela observes this warily. “Not even close.”

Jace is intrigued. “No?”

“No. Your face will heal.” Then Aegon pokes him in the jaw and Jace screams, tears slithering down his puffy, mottled cheeks. Cregan yanks Aegon away before Baela can scratch his eyes out. Criston repossesses Aegon’s blue raspberry Slush Puppie as punishment. Luke wins the game, five under par.

Comet’s first shows in the United States this tour start just like the last few in Asia: Jace is iced, painted with concealer, thoroughly medicated, numbed into semi-consciousness. He does lines of coke in the bathroom under Cregan’s supervision. He can’t perform without it. Criston tried to negotiate a month off for Jace, but the label’s message was clear: get him on stage, we don’t care how you do it, we don’t want to know about it, here’s a blank check, figure it out or we’ll find another manager who can. Now Criston watches Jace with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes wounded and anxious, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of what he believes is failure.

The story released to the press is that Jace fell down a flight of stairs but is recovering smoothly. He can barely sing; his mic is turned up, and during Jace’s verses Cregan or Luke layer their voice with his. He wobbles and flubs his way through Night 1 in East Rutherford. You spend the show staring up at the stage without seeing it. Baela and Rhaena are with you, but you aren’t really with them; you feel like if they reached out to touch you, their hands would find only translucent emptiness like a mirage. Shelby is flocked by fellow influencers that she’s invited in from New York City. Aemond is somewhere, somewhere: lurking in shadows, brooding, avoiding, musing, suffering, jotting down starlight-colored judgments in his black-paged notebook.

Per tradition, the band and their entourage coalesce in Jace’s suite after the show. Jace himself, the gracious host, promptly collapses on a couch and lies there senseless as the party spins around him like the planets of a solar system. Baela is perched dutifully beside him, holding ice packs to his jaw, wiping away drool the color of one of Aemond’s Brambles. A tattoo artist is inking a goldfinch, New Jersey’s state bird, to the top of Jace’s right foot. Criston is across the room and speaking—rather tensely, it seems—with cigar-smoking label executives. Shelby is snapping photos with her friends; they take turns posing each other out on the balcony, adjusting elbows and wrists and knees, swiping away stray flecks of mascara, rearranging hair, recommending plastic surgeons. Aegon is typing WhatsApp messages—mostly emojis, from what you can see—to Miley Cyrus. At Luke’s prompting, Aemond begins sharing his comments to the presently sentient members of Comet. He puffs on one of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes as he reads aloud. He kindly skips over any criticisms of Jace’s performance.

You can’t stand hearing Aemond’s voice; not because there’s anything wrong with it, but because there isn’t, because you can’t stop remembering what he said to you in that florescent-white bathroom at Club Camelot in Tokyo, because he uses his words on so many people who aren’t you, because sooner or later your time with Comet will be over and you’ll only ever hear him again through Spotify songs and YouTube clips from before the accident, because he will one day be a ghost who haunts you, rattling doorknobs and chilling pockets of air but never speaking. You escape to ask the bartender: “Can I get a Coke?”

“A rum and Coke?”

“No.”

“Like…white powder coke?”

“No, a Coca-Cola. With nothing else in it.”

“Okay, whatever,” the bartender says, perplexed. He fills a glass with ice and dark liquid that pops and fizzes with carbonation, then slides it across the counter to you. You meander out into the hallway where you can be alone, where you don’t have to pretend to be okay.

The carpet is gold but frayed, the walls adorned with faux marble columns and scuffs from recklessly handled suitcases. Even the hotels are worse in New Jersey. You sip your soda—nonalcoholic, huh? you think, then push it aside—and roam past suite doors and vending machines until you reach the cove of elevators. There’s a full-length mirror hanging on the wall there, gilded, gaudy. You frown at yourself, a reflection that suddenly looks a bit like a stranger. You’re wearing a short seafoam green dress, gold earrings and sandals, and an eerily vacuous expression. You turn and move your hair aside so you can peer over your shoulder at what’s been indelibly penned there since Rome: the tiny comet, the lyrics that encircle it.

I wanted to remember this band forever. To remember Aemond. You can feel your stomach drop as it grows heavy with dread. The pulsing music from Jace’s suite has followed you down the hall, Sugar by Robin Schulz and Francesco Yates. I think I might just have more than a tattoo to remember him by after all.

One of the elevators dings and opens. A man lumbers out, towering, broad, monstrous. You gape up at him: brown threadbare coat, heavy boots, unruly dark beard, grey eyes like a bleak winter sky. There is a miasma that colors the air around him with smoke and alcohol, sweat and earth.

“Hello there,” he says, politely enough. His voice is such a baritone rumble that it’s difficult to understand. He has a British accent, but not like Aegon’s, not like Aemond’s. He reminds you of someone you can’t quite place. “I’m looking for a certain young gentleman. I’m hoping you can point me in his direction.”

“Sure,” you reply, trying to disguise your shock so you don’t offend him. He could be someone important. He could be an eccentric producer or a consultant. Or a drug dealer. “Who…uh…who was it you were hoping to speak with…?”

He smiles: sharp canine teeth yellowed by nicotine, glinting eyes like silver coins. “Cregan Stark.”

“Okay,” you stammer. Drug dealer?? “Okay, okay, I’ll…uh…I’ll go get him.”

You hurry down the hall and into Jace’s crowded, smokey suite, clinking glasses and flirtatious titters in dim lighting like late twilight. You return your empty drink to the bartender, then tap Cregan on the shoulder and inform him that someone out in the hallway is asking for him. He doesn’t seem surprised to hear this. Drug dealer, you think confidently. Cregan gulps his vodka shot and follows you out of the suite. He steps through the doorway. He turns towards the stranger. And then he stops dead. His eyes go wide. The blood drains from his face. And Cregan—immovable, inscrutable, unflappable Cregan—shrinks until he is a child again.

Immediately, you know you’ve made a mistake. You reach for him. “Cregan, wait—”

“My son,” the monstrous man sighs. And of course now you’ve realized exactly who the mirrorlike grey of his eyes reminded you of. “My son.”

You can’t stop him. How could you stop him? Faster than you can think, he has crossed the space between you and entombed Cregan in a stifling embrace. Cregan stands paralyzed, his eyes shifting, searching for escape. Tentatively, appeasingly, his hands slowly rise to hug the man in return.

“Criston?!” you shout. But within the suite, he cannot hear you over the music and the berating of smoke-veiled, bejeweled label executives.

“Did you forget about me, huh?” the man asks Cregan gruffly. And as he steps back he grips one of Cregan’s shoulders: not like Criston would, not like a father, like a vice, like a bear trap. He shakes Cregan once, not too hard. “You can fly your private jet all over the world but you can’t call your own father back? Huh? Huh?!” He shakes Cregan again, harder.

“Criston!” you scream. “Security! Somebody!”

Nobody can hear me. Nobody is coming.

You sprint into Jace’s suite, seize Criston by one hand, drag him out into the hall. On the blurry periphery of your vision, you can see Aemond getting up off the couch to follow you. The second he spots the monstrous man, Criston is roaring. “No no no, get away from him!” He pushes between Cregan and the giant, terrifying, wrathful. The man dwarfs him. Criston doesn’t seem to know it. “You can’t be here. We’ve been over this, you’re not allowed to be here—”

The man tries to reach around him to clutch at Cregan’s shirt. Aemond pulls you away from the scuffle. Criston hits the man in the solar plexus; he is momentarily stunned, wheezing. By the time he straightens up, Criston—louder than you, bellowing and fierce—has summoned security. They are swarming the man and escorting him back down the hallway towards the elevators. Aemond goes to Cregan. Criston looks at you. You’re quivering, penitent.

“I had no idea…he asked for Cregan…I would never have…I thought maybe he was a friend of the band…”

“He’s on our no fly list,” Criston says. His voice is tired yet patient. “But you wouldn’t know that.”

You try to apologize to Cregan, but he isn’t listening to you. He’s listening to Aemond. Aemond is speaking to him, low and calm, too quietly for you to hear. “I’m okay,” Cregan says unsteadily. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright if you’re not,” Aemond tells him.

And you know that right now you are unnecessary, intrusive. Criston goes downstairs to figure out how Comet’s security guards in the lobby didn’t catch this and—presumably—to ensure that the invader is properly dealt with. Aemond slings an arm across Cregan’s shoulders and leads him back to the party where he is cared for, welcome, valued, safe. You hide in your own suite and try not to think about the dates on the calendar—missing blood, summer days ticking down towards zero—as you steep in a hot bath and attempt to scrub everything you’ve done wrong, today, yesterday, ever, off your skin. Then you change into an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants.

You try to sleep but of course you can’t, surrounded by a silence that only gets louder. When you hear the swipe of a keycard and the creaking of your door, you don’t know who to expect: Cregan, Criston, Rhaena, Luke, Baela, Jace, Daeron, Shelby, Aemond, ghosts. The clopping of his Crocs gives him away, neon pink to match his tank top. “I’m really not in the mood for anything resembling sex.”

Aegon replies as he kicks off his Crocs: “Did I ask, succubus?” He crawls into the bed, throws an arm casually across your waist, rests his head on your belly as your fingers thread through his chaotic blond hair, fond and tender. He burrows into you, into your softness and your warmth and your truth and your mysteries. Sometimes you feel like you’ll give until he falls into you like a trapdoor, the bones of his hands tangling around your spine, his blood vessels spilling into all of your rage-scarlet cavities, hollows of the flesh, hollows of the soul. “You’re sad.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. That’s the strange thing. Usually I can tell.”

“You’ve been gone.”

He looks up at you, confused. “I’ve been right here.”

“You know what I meant.”

Aegon doesn’t argue with you, doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t make promises both of you know he could never keep. He only lays his head down on your belly again and pulls himself closer to you, closer, closer, melting into your melancholy, dissolving into dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I was eleven when he broke my arm. Thirteen when he cracked my skull for the first time. Then I got big enough to hurt him back.” Cregan looks out over the waves: blue currents, white froth, sunbeams like glinting blades. As Criston promised, Comet is spending an afternoon in Seaside Heights. You and Cregan are sitting on the sand together twenty yards from the others. “I grew up in a two-bedroom cabin with no electricity or running water. We had a metal wash tub outside, ate deer and squirrels and rabbits, never had clothes that fit, never saw a doctor except when what was wrong might kill us. We had a woodstove and chopped down trees to burn in the winter. I had eight siblings, six of whom are still alive. Barnett overdosed. Courtland drove his friend’s Nissan into a brick wall. I’m not sure it was accidental.”

Your words are soft like a whisper, like gentle hands. “Cregan, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not…” His voice breaks. He stops for a while, composes himself, begins again. “It’s not something I talk about. Not because I’m trying to forget it. I can’t forget it, I’ll never be able to, I understand that, believe me. There’s just nothing to be gained from talking about it. I never feel better afterwards. I always feel worse.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?”

You wait, watching him. There’s something he needs to say. Down the beach a ways, Baela is doing yoga, her bare feet sure and agile in shifting sand. Rhaena, Luke, and Aemond are flying kites in the breeze: black dragons, green dragons. Shelby is, predictably, filming them from where she stands on Aemond’s good side. Aegon and Daeron are swimming so far out that you’re beginning to worry about sharks. Criston is parked under an umbrella with an unconscious Jace, reading Memoirs Of A Geisha and eating a sandwich full of something called pork roll.

“After Comet happened, I got all of them out,” Cregan continues. “My mum, my siblings. Good houses in safe neighborhoods. Security in case Dad makes an appearance. He does, every once in a while. He’s locked up, he’s free, he’s locked up again. He has nothing else to do but haunt us. I’ve been waiting for him to die since I was old enough to understand what a graveyard is.” Cregan looks at you. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

“The thing is…” He holds out one large hand, palm down, like he’s resting it on a table. Then he shakes it. “Nothing ever feels stable. Nothing ever feels safe. No matter how much money I see stack up in accounts, I lie awake at night wondering what I’ll do if it disappears. So many people rely on me. I can’t stop worrying I’ll end up back in that cabin somehow. I can still hear drops of rainwater seeping in through the gaps in the roof. I can still smell burning wood.”

“The fact that you feel this way, given your history, is completely logical…even if the fear itself is not. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Cregan says. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you think it would help if we sat down and looked at the numbers and did some math? Because I suspect that even with a hundred dependents, you’d easily be able to float them for the rest of your lifetime just using the money you already have. And there will be royalties from Comet’s songs forever. Maybe if we can show you exactly how improbable your worst case scenario is, that fear will begin to fade a bit. Not go away, not completely, maybe not ever…but I think you’ll be able to quiet it down.”

“I’ll give it a try. If you recommend it.” Cregan lights a cigarette and takes a drag. Criston glances over and then pretends he didn’t notice. “I have a daughter,” Cregan says; and you can’t stop the shock from hitting your face like a fist. He smiles faintly, wistfully. “I know. I’ve worked very hard to make sure she is kept away from…” He gestures broadly. “All of this.” Fame. Debauchery. Tabloids. Reddit threads. “I was way too young. And her mother and I…we were never really together. It was contentious for a while, but we’ve sorted through things. I support them financially, obviously. And when I’m not on tour or in the studio, I disappear up to Lancaster for a few weeks at a time and no one is the wiser.”

You study him as wind tears in off the Atlantic Ocean, as seagulls swoop and screech overhead. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate how you’ve protected her once she can understand.”

“I don’t know how to be a father. Not a good one. But I try. I don’t just show up for movie nights and birthdays. I take her shopping for school supplies. I put her back to bed when she has nightmares. I take her to the dentist, to the park, to the library. She really likes pigs, so I adopted a few from a farm animal rescue and we learned how to raise them together.”

“You caring about being a good parent puts you ahead of a lot of people already,” you say. “Nobody in Comet knows?”

“Just Aemond. Once, years ago, her mother needed something and I was out of the country. I had to let somebody in on the secret, somebody I could trust. I chose Aemond. I chose right.” Now Cregan is amused. “He’s the one who suggested the pigs.”

“Of course he did,” you say; and you can’t help but smile. “How old is she?”

“Six and a half. Do you want to see a picture her?”

“Absolutely. If it’s alright with you.”

Cregan pulls his iPhone from his pocket, swipes around for a while, and then turns the screen so you can see. She looks like him, a lot like him, but with round cheeks and long dark lashes. And Cregan is beaming as he says: “Her name is Iris.”

“So you didn’t have to do the Maury paternity test thing.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I knew from the second I saw her she was mine.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Cregan shrugs, pensive, evasive. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” And he believes that you mean it; you can see it on his face. Aemond is watching you and Cregan, you notice now. He glances over, pretends he didn’t, glances again. You gesture to the crashing waves and say to Cregan: “If Aegon gets attacked by a shark, will you jump in and punch it or something please?”

Cregan chuckles. “Yeah. That’s my main job here, I think. Stopping people from dying.” And then, seriously: “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything that warrants it.”

“No. Really.” Cregan reaches out, takes your uninjured hand, squeezes it briefly before releasing you. “Thank you, Stargirl.” Then he stands and walks to the water’s edge, letting the surf rush up over his ankles, for just a moment feeling nothing on his shoulders but the sunlight.

Aemond gives Shelby his kite and, as she glares bitterly, makes his way over to you. He takes off his sunglasses so he can see you better and hooks them on the waistband of his swim trunks: black, of course, his usual color. You’re actually wearing black today too, a flowing coverup over a pink swimsuit. You feel very much like hiding. When Aemond speaks, there is perhaps a hint of envy, green like leaves of poison, gleaming like snakeskin. “What were you and Cregan talking about?”

“Fatherhood.” And then you realize how it might sound.

There is a split second where Aemond looks startled; then he remembers Iris. “Right. Not so easy for people like us to navigate.”

People like us. Celebrities, boy band members, haunted men. You scramble for a nonchalant way to feel out the subject with him. “How does Louis Tomlinson handle it?”

“He’s a saint,” Aemond says. And you think: Patron saint of baby daddies? “Freddie was very, very unplanned. The mother was a nobody, a rebound. And a lot of people assumed she did it on purpose to try to keep Louis. Or to get eighteen years of a luxury lifestyle out of him. Or to just get fame in general. Personally, I believe it was all of the above.”

“Right,” you say, sweating heavily beneath your coverup.

“But none of that is the kid’s fault, and Louis is a good enough guy to realize it. So he plays nice with Freddie’s mother and they don’t go to war through tabloids anymore.”

“So, uh…” How can I put this? “You��re good with kids too. Cregan told me you had the pig idea.”

And the look that crosses Aemond’s face, the look: caustic, incredulous, night-dark, self-loathing. “Are you insane? Have you met me? I terrify kids. And I should, but not just because of the eye and the scar. What the hell do I know about being a decent father? What do I know about being a decent anything? I’d have no idea where to start. I’d fuck it up even if I tried desperately not to. I’d end up with kids like Aegon: addicts who hate themselves, people who are irrevocably lost.”

You say meekly: “I think Criston is something like a father to you. He could be a role model.”

“I’m not half as good a man as Criston is.”

Change the topic, change the topic, before Aemond gets suspicious. And there’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask him. “Aemond…after you almost murdered Jace…when we didn’t know if or how he was going to be able to perform until he healed…did anyone ask you to come back to Comet and fill in for him?”

“No,” Aemond says. And he’s thunderstruck by the thought, appalled, petrified.

“You don’t think that it might have been a good idea? That it might make sense?”

“No,” he says again instantly.

“But…in Tokyo…when Daeron made that speech at the last show…I think the crowd’s reaction was pretty powerful, don’t you? People still care about you. They love and respect you. And I think…maybe…it might help you with what you’ve experienced. To get back on stage—even just one last time—and prove to yourself that you still have what it takes. To know that if you do leave Comet, it’s your choice, not anyone else’s.”

“They love who I was,” Aemond says. “Not who I am now. And that’s easy to do. They don’t have to look at me.”

“Goddammit, there’s nothing wrong with how you look, Aemond!” you burst out. “You look fantastic. I never get tired of looking at you. I want to look at you all the fucking time. I’d hang life-sized portraits of you on every wall in my apartment in Kansas City. That’s how much I enjoy looking at you.”

He thinks you’re joking, he thinks you’re trying to make him feel better. You can’t stop him from thinking these things. And yet still, as he turns away, he is smiling: just a whisper of a curl at the corner of his lips, secretive, fragile.

As Comet is leaving the beach, you stop at a souvenir shop on the boardwalk to buy your keepsake for this tour destination. You settle on a pink frisbee that has I love the Jersey Shore! embossed on it in large, abrasive letters. You think your parents’ Australian cattle dogs will enjoy fetching it when you get home. Home feels so much closer—both literally and figuratively—than it did just a few weeks ago.

Criston is browsing through the t-shirts. “Hey, what size is your mom, Aegon? Medium?”

“How the hell would I know? Probably.” He holds up a pair of red, white, and blue bikini bottoms that say Firecracker across the ass. “You think my dad would mind if you sent her these?”

Criston is blushing. “Aegon, stop.”

“You could get her a bikini top too. Oh look, that one over there is red, it matches. And it says MILF across the tits. So that’s pertinent.”

“Stop!” Criston cries, distressed, and flees the store.

Halfway through the hour-long drive back to the hotel, Aegon insists that Criston stop the Escalades so he can get a hoagie from a Wawa. Aegon has never had a hoagie before. He says he cannot truly experience America without one.

At the ordering counter, Jace—slightly less bruised and swollen today, and thus in better spirits—taunts Aegon: “Are you sure you need all that bread? You’re going to be wearing a muumuu on stage by the time we get to the Midwest.”

“You know, just because you said that, now I’m going to get two hoagies…”

On the television mounted inside the Wawa, CNN is reporting on a group of tornadoes that just struck Wichita. And it occurs to you that tornadoes don’t have trajectories to calculate like hurricanes or airplanes or comets; they are climatological sharks. They strike quickly, indiscriminately, and then they’re gone again. They aren’t named. They aren’t enshrined. They don’t even have a belly to cut open and retrieve pieces of your loved ones from. If they take someone, they’re just gone.

While the rest of the band is in line to order their food, and Aemond is scrutinizing the dried fruit and nuts selection, you sneak through the other aisles.

It’s time. I have to find out eventually. I have to know.

You pluck a pregnancy test—cute, pink, nausea-inducing—off a rack, purchase it with truly impressive speed at the checkout counter, and race to the bathroom. It’s surprisingly difficult to piss on a tiny stick of doom, especially when your primary hand is in a splint and only partially useable. Eventually, you manage. You put the cap back on the pregnancy test, set it on top of the toilet paper dispenser, and stare at the metal door of the stall. The Wawa speakers are playing The Fray’s Over My Head.

It won’t be positive. It can’t be positive.

You think of pregnancy test commercials you’ve seen: happy couples rejoicing, happy single women getting negatives. How are you supposed to react to bad news? Nobody ever tells you. Do you scream, sob, beg for forgiveness, schedule an appointment at Planned Parenthood? Do you kick the bathroom stall door down in mindless feminine fury? Do you throw yourself off a balcony?

There’s no way it will be positive. It was one time. Just one goddamn time.

And who knows if that will ever happen again with Aemond. This does not improve your mood.

You pick up the pregnancy test. It is unequivocally positive.

You shove it into the small rectangular trashcan for pads and tampons, things you won’t be needing in the immediate future. You get dressed, leave the stall, go to the sink and wash your hands. Then you grip the cool, slick, white porcelain and gaze at yourself in the mirror under nowhere-to-hide florescent lights. What do you feel? Everything, nothing, things you can’t name yet. You’re a raw nerve, you’re completely numb.

The bathroom door swings open. Shelby enters. She squares up with great purpose. Your eyes roll to her, slowly, with no tolerance left, not a drop of it. “Stay away from Aemond,” she demands.

“Make me.”

She is in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?”

You turn all the way towards her. “Fucking make me, Shelby.”

“I knew you wanted him,” she says, she seethes. “I saw you in those paparazzi photos from Reykjavik and I knew you were already twisting your claws into him.”

You hold up your hands to show her; your thoughts are fuzzy, dazed, without inhibition. “I have no claws whatsoever. If I did, you’d know about it. Believe me. You’d be able to look down and watch your heart beating through the gashes.”

“You don’t belong here. Some Midwestern farm girl running around in flip flops and Cookie Monster pajama pants? You’re trash. You’re a user. You’re a nobody. And if you’re trying to steal a taken man, then you’re a whore too.”

“I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

“I can make them hate you,” Shelby says indignantly. “Comet. The world.”

“Good luck with that, Malibu Barbie. Nobody even knows I exist.”

“Stay away from Aemond,” she says again, trembling with her futile bleach-blond rage. “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

“And yet no future.” You smile sweetly, breeze past her, step on one of her perfectly pedicured feet with a thoroughly unpretentious flip flop. By the time you return to them, the band is almost ready to leave Wawa.

You’re not hungry, but Aegon coaxes you into taking a few bites from his hoagie. You’re not able to focus on what people are saying, but you hear Aemond mention that he wishes Comet had time to visit a planetarium in some nearby town called Toms River. You think about what it would be like to lie side by side with him under the stars, under the sky where comets appear again after vanishing for centuries. You wonder if there’s anyplace where you and Aemond could ever be truthful with each other.

At night you can’t sleep. There is no shortage of reasons why. You wander from your bed to the gold-carpet hallway to the vending machines, where you stare brainlessly at the options. Am I supposed to not be drinking caffein? Did I get any Vitamin D today? How much sugar is too much? You buy a bottle of apple juice—surely a safe bet—and head back to your suite.

As you walk by Aemond and Shelby’s door, your steps slow. Some nights you can hear them in there arguing: Shelby reiterating all the reasons why they’re perfect for each other, clearly a rebuttal to an accusation you weren’t privy to. Some nights you hear muffled casual conversation or episodes of Cosmos. Some nights you hear nothing at all. Some nights your imagination colors in the gaps before you can stop it: his hands on her, his mouth on her, things you know you have no right to dread and yet you do. But tonight, Shelby is momentarily removed from the scene. You can hear the distant pattering of the shower, and then Aemond alone in the living room gathering up plates and glasses. He’s singing something very quietly, so quietly it takes you a while to recognize it. It’s not even a Comet Donati song. It’s Through The Dark.

You sit down in the empty hallway, your back to his door. And you lean your head against it as you listen to Aemond singing softly to himself, doubt sinking into you the same way that trapped blood fills a bruise: Maybe it wasn’t as good for him as it was for me. Maybe he doesn’t talk to me because he doesn’t want to. Maybe I don’t belong here anymore. Maybe I’ve invented a history that we don’t really share. Maybe he didn’t mean it when he said he loves me.

“What am I going to do?” you whisper, scalding tears brimming in your eyes, shivering hands settling on your belly. In a few months, you’ll be showing. “What the hell am I going to do?”

[wtfgaylittlezooid]

Saw your Bug!Vicagent.

... could you please give us some more tidbits of them in your Au? Because I've been staring at that post since you posted it lol-

I'm so normal about them /j

Sure! :DD I don't have any references for them on hand, but these two images show their designs pretty decently.

Agent is a pretty rare case of a tall dragonfly, so he's one of the lucky few bug species who can still fly.

Victim is a very special case: a cordyceps fungus in a locust host. Cordyceps are pretty rare, and locusts are just as rare. Locusts aren't born, they are triggered. Usually from a grasshopper or cricket, after going through an extreme trauma they become locusts, but the only locusts discovered are dead. Victim is no different.

Cordyceps are also pretty weird. Most cordyceps simply take the body and woe. zombug be upon ye. However, ancient Roaches wanted to try and replicate immortality and thus began the kidnapping of other bugs and experimenting on different species and themselves with cordyceps. It IS possible for somebody to live on thanks to the fungus, as the fungus can take and hold memories rather than replacing them. Only thing is, those cases tend to be artificial due to the extremely specific requirements

That being magic and a strong body. Poison and Ice are the easiest kinds of magic to work with, and one of the few species that can physically handle the cordyceps and magic without overloading the fungus are moths.

Victim got lucky. He was Alan's first little experiment when he discovered that bugs come from little larvas and eggs and if he grows his own bug then he can have endless entertainment. Victim couldn't fight back well against Gammas or whatever other Deadlanders Alan threw at him, but Alan is observant. He knows bugs use roach crystals to heal by hitting them. So he basically impales Victim alive with a crystal and murders him lmao

Cordyceps finds Victim's body and attaches to it, and he got lucky enough to where the tiny shards of crystal stuck in his system was just enough for the fungus to hold his memories and self. So victim basically becomes the fungus.

BUT THAT IS STILL NOT GOOD. It was sheer luck and because hes not even a moth the connection is pretty unstable. In a strong bond, there would be no worry about reverting to the zombie-like state, but since his connection is so unstable it can get triggered.

On the bright side, this makes him a living magic detector. Its how he finds one of the shards of the Wasp King's crown so easily, which allows him to brainwash Chosen One. On the ugly side, you get this:

This happens after Victim tries and fails to kill Alan. He basically gets really pissed that Alan doesn't want to kill him anymore, that he isnt even trying to fight back, and starts mentally spiraling because of it. He compares himself to the other Hollows which are all sorcerers and have magic, and chalks up his failure and lack of control over the situation to that lack of magic.

So to fix that he basically ditches everyone and goes to Snakemouth Den, aka the original lab where the Roaches experiment cause goddamn that place is potent with it you can literally see it in the air. Basically goes there and something something recreating the events of trauma so you can control the outcome, smashes a shit ton of the crystals into smaller shards.

Agent brings the color gang into this (the only mercenary who knows about vics situation) because he had a feeling shit would go wrong and boy was he right. Victim drives the crystals through his exo-skeleton and

he does it. he gets poison magic. but he still gets knocked down easily so rinse and repeat of him attacking, getting beat, healing by impaling with a crystal, and so on. But yeah the more magic he siphons from the roach crystals the more it makes the fungus kinda lose it and slowly but surely the grip the fungus has on his memories and self starts slipping and the instincts from the fungus and the sentience starts getting blurred. Yeah sorry victim in your obsession and greed for control for others you lost control of yourself

Basically a boss fight at that point, feral zombie vic vs his loyal lapdog of a bug and 5 children. At first its just operating off of the instinct of getting them OUT of the territory, but he also burns through the magic really quickly which means he needs more and oh look at that cute little bee hes full of magic. Basically a stalling game of blocking off the exist and making sure he doesnt rip the crystal stuck in seconds head out.

Eventually they win and after a quick revive from Second, an unconscious victim gets carried to an inn by Agent and everyone leaves the caves that day with so much trauma yippeeee

[kayawolfhorse]

Day 8 — A Hazy Temptation

—☾—

Someone is attacking the desert.

The foundations of their base shutter between each thunderous boom, and ever-growing cracks clung along the seam of every wall.

There’s shouting, screaming, and Scar’s sword is in his hand and its grip is wrong against his palm and his mind roars but he can’t get his bare feet to unstick from the sandstone beneath him—

Scar wakes in a single heaving gasp.

Sleep’s syrupy pull tugs at his heavy limbs and seeps into every pore, and it’s burning; suffocating. The thunderous rumbling falls heavy against his ears and it won’t stop.

He forces a breath through his smoke-clogged throat, then another. Belatedly, he realizes the sound is his own pounding heart rattling within his own chest.

In, out. The sturdy beams above him support an intact ceiling. In, out. The desert is quiet around him, and the light of the nearly-full moon spills in through the slim window on the opposing wall, a pretty contrast to the faint embers still crackling in the furnaces. In, out. Grian slumbers on by his side, warm, trusting, vulnerable.

The thought nearly chokes Scar as he scrambles against it, desperate to keep his clear lungs. Beneath his gray skin, something red-hot and razor-edged buzzes like a swarm of locusts, eager to consume; eager to destroy. Bloodlust is a stranger beside him no longer, but its lingering presence will never be something Scar regards as a friend.

Checking on Grian is as much of a comfort as it is a distraction. He’s in his sweater and bundled beneath the blanket cast over them both, the desert nights too cold for—if he’s honest with himself—the lack of clothing Scar insists upon. His face is relaxed and his left arm hangs partially off the bed.

He doesn’t want to hurt him. He’s scared that he might.

Scar scooches back until he’s as far away from his partner as he can manage without falling off the narrow bed. He mourns the line of brisk air wedged between them and begs his brain to come up with something, anything else to think about. The thoughts are sluggish to break through the haze that seems to circle his head, and Scar holds each one he can get a grip on tightly. Slowly, in fits and starts, he recounts to himself a familiar tale.

It starts with an ingenious scheme and enough silver-tongued sweet talking to fill a barrel or few. It starts with a prank gone wrong and a promise of devotion laid at his feet. It starts with a sunset over newly claimed land and a partner on the llama at the end of Scar’s lead.

Alliances rise and fall; enemies are made and plotted against. Tensions grow as the number of lives dwindle. Grian, a green life who shouldn’t yet know the taste of blood, kills three and breathlessly declares it in Scar’s name and Scar can’t do this.

With trembling fingers, Scar moves the blanket aside as gingerly as he can and holds his breath as he lifts himself off the mattress. With one leg swung over the side of the bed, he starts to get up—

A hand gently, clumsily wraps around his wrist.

“Scar?” Grian’s voice is sleep-heavy and rough around the edges. Scar freezes. “What are you doing up?”

Scar collapses back into bed at Grian’s light tug, and his heart starts its nervous drum once more. Grian’s facing him now, and he’s hardly awake but his eyes are crinkled with concern.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Scar replies after a beat too long.

Grian hums slightly. “Insomnia loves a friend, doesn’t it? Stay with me; I’ll keep you company.”

Scar could cry. Wordlessly, he nods, and tries his best to get comfortable. Grian’s hand finds his own beneath the blanket and he interlocks their fingers, warmth pulsing softly between their palms. The tightness wound around Scar’s body slowly starts to thaw.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Scar says quietly, after the silence has stretched on long enough that he’s sure Grian has fallen back asleep, and saying it out loud brings a sort of hesitant relief that cuts through his quiet suffering. The bloodlust isn’t him. It can’t be.

“You won’t,” Grian says, and his voice startles Scar. He shapes the words like something absolute, like he’s not in bed with a red life and the world around him isn’t one ruled by death.

Scar believes him.

He believes him even more when Grian unlaces their hands so he can throw his arm over Scar’s hip, pulling them closer together until his head rests lightly against Scar’s collarbone. Scar rests his own arm against Grian’s back and squeezes him lightly; Grian responds by snuggling further into him.

The story that dances behind Scar’s eyes stops and starts spinning again like a disk set upon a jukebox; violent throes melt away into the golden light cast against the kitchen floor the first time he and Grian baked together. Aching pins and needles soften to the sensation of running his hands along Pizza’s shaggy coat, and shared laughter drowns out the calls for blood.

Scar couldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t.

He won’t.

[vibrantbirdy]

hi! i was hoping i could request a poe dameron x reader where he has a huge crush on the reader who works a small part of the resistance but he keeps making a fool of himself in front of them but the reader finds him cute anyways. thank u!!

Yes anon, thank you! This is such a cute request. I hope I've done it justice.

Requests for Character x Reader fics are currently open in my Asks. Please read the guidelines first before requesting.

-Birdy

Title: Crush Fandom: Star Wars: Skywalker Saga Genres: Sci-Fi; Romance; Fluff Setting: Sometime later on in the Force Awakens Characters: Poe Dameron; Reader Pairings: Poe Dameron x Reader Chapters: 1/1 (Complete) Warnings: None :) Perhaps extremely mild, fluffy, sexuality Word Count: 2805

Summary: You work for the Resistance at the Base on D'Qar. Wing Commander Poe Dameron has a crush on you and he's surprisingly awkward about it...

It's late, and you are walking the empty corridors of the Resistance Base on D'Qar. You like the base at this time of night. It's peaceful and your long trips between the various offices and briefing rooms and your own place of work, the records room, give you time to think.

You're making your final trip back to the records room for the night. In your hands is a box full of data sticks and holo chips. Every time there's a skirmish, a raid, or an offensive to plot against the First Order, Resistance Officers descend upon the archive, stripping it like locusts. They are looking for information, knowledge, maps, schematics anything that might help them understand the weaponry, tech, locations and terrain they might be up against.

You have tried to explain that if they really have to take records out of the records room, they really do need to bring them back. If this information gets lost, so too does the history of the Republic, the Resistance, the First Order and its Imperial predecessor, the Galactic Empire. No one listens. You don't mind that much. It is wartime after all.

So you spend your nights too-ing and fro-ing until you've gathered up all the records left abandoned in consoles and holo readers and on the tops of desks. You really have had to burn the candle at both ends recently and you think you know why. There are whispers spreading through the base that General Organa will soon need to launch an attack on the First Order's monstrous weapon on Starkiller base.

You take pride in what you do. It's not flying an X-Wing, but it's important.

Someone who does fly an X-Wing - and does it very well - is Wing Commander, Poe Dameron. But right now, he's scrabbling about on the floor with you, trying to salvage the precious hoard of information that went flying in a shower of little plastic bits when his droid barrelled into you from the opposite direction and sent the box flying from your hands.

"BB-8!" he exclaims, bending down to scoop up handfuls of data chips and throw them in the box he has righted for you, "C'mon buddy, how many times have I told you to watch where you're rolling!"

The little round ball of orange and white metal chitters indignantly. From your sitting position on the floor, you pause in your work to reach over and give BB-8 a reassuring pat on his semi-spherical head. The droid vibrates and makes a docile purring sound. You can't help the small laugh that escapes you. You've always thought he was the cutest little astromech around.

When you raise your eyes, Dameron is staring at you, slightly open mouthed. You're seen him around the base plenty of times, but this is the first time you've really looked at him up close. His handsome face is framed by a crop of brown curls and adorned with deep set eyes that are so dark they are almost black. Still, they sparkle like a night full of stars.

Wordlessly, Dameron reaches out a free hand to you and you take it as he pulls you back onto your feet. You pick up the box and he funnels the last of the data sticks balanced precariously in the crook of his elbow into the receptacle.

"So, how come I've not seen you around before?" He asks.

"Oh, I've been here," you laugh, "I think you've probably just been too busy to notice."

"Yeah, I'm busy, not blind..." he mutters, more to himself than to you, "Uh, I mean..."

He looks awkward and you cut him off to introduce yourself and save him from his unease. Still, you feel a pleasant blush creep into your cheeks at both his insinuation and the fact that appears to be slightly flustered in your presence.

"Poe," he responds, confidence returning with a dazzling smile that you are certain must get him into trouble.

"I know," you reply, allowing yourself to give him a cheeky smirk of your own.

"Do you always walk around the base this late at night?"

"Yes," you say simply, then, after a pause, you throw the question back at him, "Do you?"

"No," he chuckles wearily and rubs the back of his neck, "Couldn't sleep."

He does look tired. Upon closer inspection, there are dark circles under his eyes and a five o'clock shadow sits upon his well-defined jaw and creeps up towards his sharp cheekbones. There have been a lot of skirmishes with the First Order lately and a lot of good pilots have been lost, pilots under Dameron's command. You feel a flash of deep sympathy for him. You don't envy the responsibility he bears and it is clearly weighing heavy on him tonight.

"Well. Goodnight, Commander," you say after a lingering but not uncomfortable pause.

You hope he'll maybe get some rest tonight at least.

He nods at you and smiles softly.

"Goodnight."

BB-8 cheeps a farewell.

************************************************

In all the time you've been on D'Qar. You've never once seen Poe Dameron, ace pilot, in the records room. Yet here he is at your desk with BB-8 in tow.

"Hello Commander, what can I help you with today?"

"I..."

Poe draws the syllable out as he leans forward conspiratorially across the desk. He raps his knuckles on its cheap plast-cast surface. He's stalling for time. He's here to see you, you realise, and it sends a giddy little thrill through your body.

"...am here for some records," he finally says and you can tell he instantly regrets it.

He attempts to give you his trademark winning smile but it's really more of an embarrassed grimace. He looks away from you with a imperceptible shake of his head that sends a few of his rich, chocolate curls spilling across his forehead. He runs his hands through his hair, sweeping the dark tendrils back off his face.

You can see that he thinks he looks stupid. He's clearly not used to it, and you want to say something to make him feel better. You think it's sweet that he's come to see you.

Was he just passing, you wonder? Or did he plan it?

You never get the chance to ask. The sudden din of the pilot scramble alert swallows any potential words you might say whole. It is accompanied, as always, by the emergency lighting system which sets off flashing red pulses throughout the entire base.

Poe Dameron doesn't move. He's studying you intently with those endless eyes that are paradoxically both dark and luminescent.

"Uh. Commander?" You point upward to the nearest emergency light which is flashing just above your head.

Slowly, as if reluctant to tear himself away, his gaze leaves your face and follows your finger up to the ceiling.

"Right," he says, then starts and looks around wildly as if he is only just hearing the blaring alarm for the first time. "Right!"

He turns and sprints away from your desk at an alarming pace, BB-8 whizzing after him. He spins clumsily halfway down the room, momentum almost sending him barrelling into a row of desks where readers can, usually, study in relative peace and quiet. A haughty looking admin officer seated nearby rolls his eyes.

"I'll be back for those records!" Poe shouts back at you, as if it's the most important promise he's ever made.

It makes you laugh, and you hope to the Force he has the opportunity to do so as he and BB-8 disappear round the corner to prepare to take to the skies into some awful fray.

"Saved by the bell, huh?"

You jump, startled out of your reverie, and turn to see your colleague Marjane who has sidled up beside you. She's a gregarious, older lady with big heart and a preference for men half her age.

"That young man has never been awkward around a woman a day in his life," she says sagely, pointing to the spot where Poe had stood moments ago as if the outline of him were still tangible, "What spell did you use and can I have it?"

You grin and hold your hands up defensively.

"He's got a crush on you," she winks slyly and walks back to her desk.

**********************************************

The next time you see Poe Dameron it's milliseconds before he crashes into you at speed in the same corridor, on the same corner where BB-8 sent you sprawling only a few weeks earlier.

You've smacked your forehead right off his sharp, chiselled cheek bone and the two of you are are nursing your wounds either side of the corridor. You are resting your sore head against the nearest cool durasteel wall, and he is leaning his back against the opposite one, holding a palm to his face which is stricken with a comical expression of surprise.

BB-8, perhaps the most compassionate droid you've even known, rolls back and forth between you both, as if unsure of who needs the most of his sympathy.

When you finally feel like you can open your eyes again without seeing stars, you turn away from the wall and find that Poe has moved to stand directly in front of you. He's wearing a white tank top and lightweight cargo pants and he has clearly been running. His broad shoulders rise and fall from his interrupted physical exertion.

A lot of the pilots keep fit by jogging through the endless maze of corridors within the labyrinthine base during the heavy torrents of rain that occasionally lash the otherwise temperate D'Qar.

"Are you ok?" he asks, concerned, and he cups your face gently in his hands with exhilarating forwardness to examine the red mark that is blossoming on your forehead.

It's a surprisingly intimate gesture. You wonder if he can feel the heat growing in your cheeks, but his hands are already warm from exercise. You can feel the course pads of his finger tips exerting a reassuring pressure against your skin.

"Force, what a shiner, I didn't know my head was that hard!"

"You've got a good one coming in too," you say, snaking your hand up between the two of you to carefully press a finger against the clear point of impact on his cheek.

"Ow!" he breaks away dramatically and you both laugh. "I'm not sure we can blame the droid this time," you say.

BB-8 chirps and wobbles cheerfully on the floor.

"No, this one's on me. I mean you too, I guess. It takes two to uh...you know..."

"Collide in a corridor?"

"Yeah, that."

There's a stilted silence and you hope he might say something more, like, wanna hang out sometime? or I know this great place to watch the stars or let's go for a joyride in my X-Wing... but he doesn't.

"Well, I better ..." he makes a little jogging motion with his arms, "Sorry about the whole running and the crashing and the headache thing."

You smile, and try to hide the little twang of disappointment you feel.

"Of course," you say, "Good evening, Commander."

He taps two fingers off his forehead in a mock salute before jogging past you in the opposite direction from your way of travel.

BB-8 doesn't follow immediately, sitting at your feet for moment longer. You look down to see his dark, glassy photoreceptor fixed on you. You shrug at him and he gives you a consolatory whirring sound before rolling off to catch up with his master.

*************************************************

It's Poe's birthday and General Organa has given everyone strict orders to have a good time. The Resistance leadership are having to launch so many sorties against the First Order lately that she's had to place a complete ban on alcohol consumption lest the pilots have to enact an emergency scramble. This doesn't appear to have dampened the mood one iota and as you enter the hanger, the party is in full swing.

The whole base has turned out, as you'd expected. The hanger is packed with people chatting and dancing. Some of the engineers have obviously been hard at work wiring up whatever miscellaneous light sources they could find to hang rustic makeshift fairy lights from the durasteel beams and support columns. The upbeat music pulses through ancient, crackling speakers and is joined melodiously with people singing and raucous bursts of laughter.

It's a glorious feeling. Wartime hasn't been easy. You all need this.

Before you can even get yourself a drink or find your friends, someone takes your hand and leads you into the crowd of dancers. Your heart skips a beat as you realise it's Poe. He's a good dancer in that way some men are - all bent knees and elbows, but somehow able to make it rhythmical. You are grinning at each other like idiots, mirroring your energies, lost in the music.

Finally, you think.

Then, without warning, somebody jostles past you and grabs Poe around the waist. Then someone else comes. And another. And another. You soon realise it's members of his fighter squadron as they cart him away from you through the hangar and outside onto the landing grounds.

You laugh as you are swept along in the stampede of excitement that follows. Of course, you remember. It's tradition amongst the flyers to soak the birthday boy or girl with the emergency fire hoses.

Finn, the ex-Stormtrooper who has recently joined the Resistance, has the courtesy to give you an apologetic smile as he races past you to join in on the action. As a close friend of Poe, you have a suspicion that he is probably more aware than the others of the moment they have just interrupted. You don't mind. Not really.

Once outside underneath D'Qar's clear night's sky, Poe barely has the chance to ready himself when four powerful jets of water are turned on him. He jumps this way and that in a futile attempt to avoid the deluge. Any time it looks like he might escape, someone grabs him and spins him around so that he redirected back to his watery fate. He is wet through in seconds.

The gigantic, gruff but beloved Second Engineer, Toko, notices BB-8 by his feet and he picks up the little droid who screeches in alarm. Poe shouts over the noise, pointing at the big man with one hand as he skips around, trying to deflect a myriad of water blasts to his face and body.

"Not my droid! NOT MY DROID!"

Everyone laughs. The Engineer, only teasing, sets the wriggling mechanical ball down gently and gives him a pat on the head.

Finally, the hoses are turned off and Poe's squad rush towards him cheering and shouting. He shakes himself violently and flicks his dripping hands over his nearest assailants. His flyers drag him to the ground and they all collapse on top of him in a soggy, giddy heap.

*************************************************

There has been a skirmish with the First Order and the atmosphere on the base has been tense all day. The sun is setting on D'Qar and finally, finally, the fighter squadrons are retuning.

You count the X-Wings as they land, your heart racing. They're all here, you realise. Every single one of them has come back. It's so rare these days.

Your friend, Maya, claps you on the shoulder as she speeds past to greet her twin sister, Selina, the two young women colliding into a rough embrace as the latter leaps out of her X-Wing.

You are overcome with emotion and you clasp your hands over your mouth and fold in the middle. With a disbelieving laugh you put your hands on your knees and push yourself upright slowly.

Then, you are looking for him. For Poe. Your eyes scan the hanger and the landing pads beyond, a sea of orange flight suits. There. In the midst of the joyous commotion, there he is. He's checking on his flyers, slapping them on their backs, giving and receiving hugs, grasping arms tightly with comrades in relief and celebration.

As if he senses that you are looking for him, he locks eyes with you across the hanger. With a purposeful gait, he strides over until he's so close you can feel the victorious energy vibrating off his body.

He surveys your face intently with those deep pools of midnight, flicking his gaze between your lips and your eyes. He's trying to suppress a smirk, a muscle working in his cheek.

"I think I'd like to see you more often," he finally says.

It comes out funny, almost like an order, but it's the most direct he's ever been. Without hesitation, you grab him by the lapels of his orange flight suit and pull him into a deep kiss.

Fuelled by adrenaline and the heady jubilation of the moment, Poe drops his helmet, and without breaking your embrace, he circles one hand around your waist, and uses the other to support the nape of your neck. Then, he dips you almost parallel to the ground as you kiss like a scene from a romance holo.

A ripple of cheers and good natured laughter passes around the hanger as Poe sets you, breathless, back on your feet.

A dashing grin spreads wide across his handsome face.

"I'd like that too," you say as you lean in for another long awaited kiss.

[lloydfrontera]

"I don't run fast. I may be faster than ordinary people, but I am not confident I can outrun the locusts. But you are different. You are fast." “But with you on my back, I cannot ascertain that I will succeed. You could have easily run away if I stopped them in the front," Javier reasoned. "I'm doing this because I don't want that." “...” "Come on. Do you have some fantasy to become a hero in your head? Why do you keep trying to die so often? You did this back in Cremo as well." “...” "Let's just stretch the idea, and you stay behind so awesomely and die. And I live because of your sacrifice. You think that would make me feel good? Huh?" "Master Lloyd..." "I don't want that. So run faster. Come on! Giddy up!" [...] "Anyway, let's leave this place together alive. It won't be right if one stays and dies while the other runs away and lives. It's also just unfair." “...” Lloyd Frontera. Javier wondered how much truth was in his words. Sometimes, no, most of the time, the young master puzzled him. But he knew one thing for sure. He wanted to get out of this place alive together. "I like the sound of that."

bk moon setting up that lloyd doesn't see javier dying for his sake as an aceptable price to pay all the way back in the giant locust attack,,, lloyd not wanting to sacrifice javier, not even for his own life, even back then,,,, this is a hundred chapters before lloyd even admits they're friends,,, setting up the crux of the conflict of the latter half of the story more than two hundred chapters before it's even introduced,,, ultimately foreshadowing the ending,,, sick and twisted and i really fucking dig it

[tyitri]

Entangled Heart - Chapter 1

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Summary: The world had gone to hell a few years ago. No one cared about preserving other beings, endangered species. The crown of creation was quickly deemed a threat, and the hunters became the hunted.

The world changed, we were no longer at the top of the food chain. The plants were.

They passive-aggressively spread, allowing a new plant species, called the 'Verdantia aurea' or Goldleaf Fern, to thrive. No one knew it was an invasive species. Other regional plants died, throwing the world out of balance. Many still remember the initial reports.

It felt like the Seven Plagues of the End Times, written as if in the Bible.

You're part of that fucked ecosystem now together with a few survivors who made an oath to save humanity or at least whats left of it. One of them in particular doesn't seem to like you, everyone calls him Ghost. And you're pretty sure it's not because of the report when you were found nude, nestled between a bush of Goldleaf Fern itself by some Scientists.

Tags: Post Apocalyptic,Slowburn, No use of Y/N, Nicknames, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Mild Gore, Violence.

Wordcount: 2,6k

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

"What do you mean, you're in charge of the medbay for today?"

The chair you were just sitting on tilted backward as you suddenly got up. Your palms slammed onto the typical school desk that had been brought over from the neighboring facility. Old, wobbly, and already smelling musty from years of use. The table had seen better days, probably even before the apocalypse.

"Come on, Milow! Max! You two can't leave me alone with this group!"

You looked at the two of them with concern and disapointment. You were almost sure that Milow would accompany you, if you would ask Desperately.

"Your little sister needs help, so please don't let me hanging, maybe you coulds ask if one of the medics can switch-"

before you could even finish speaking, Max raised his hand to stop you.

"No chance, Ghost explicitly said I should keep an eye on the newcomers. Who knows what they might have brought in."

He took a sip from his steaming cup and looked at the locked door across the room. It had a sign with a radioactive symbol on it, at least you think that that's what is displayed on it. It had seen better days for sure.

"Milow, what about you?"

You looked pleadingly at the gaunt guy, silently sitting in the corner of the old sofa. He was currently solving a crossword puzzle in an old soggy newspaper, but Milow just shook his head and gestured towards Max. He wanted to stay with him

"Alright, I see. Fine, just great."

You narrowed your eyes into slits before a sigh escaped your throat and you repositioned your chair, sitting down in frustration.

The world had gone to hell a few years ago. No one cared about preserving other beings, endangered species. The crown of creation was quickly deemed a threat, and the hunters became the hunted. The world changed, we were no longer at the top of the food chain. The plants were. They passive-aggressively spread, allowing a new plant species, called the 'Verdantia aurea' or Goldleaf Fern, to thrive. No one knew it was an invasive species. Other regional plants died, throwing the world out of balance. Many still remember the initial reports. It felt like the Seven Plagues of the End Times, written as if in the Bible.

There were reports of wandering locusts searching for habitable areas. Fish died due to lack of food. The sun's radiation increased, making daily wandering through the city torture. Then the animals went berserk, attacking their owners as if they were all rabid beasts, and ultimately, people started behaving differently. Once at the top of the food chain, now they fought for survival. But against what? What was the cause of all this? If one glanced out during the day at the streets of Berlin, one could see golden reflections, a shimmer that might lure a greedy fool.

Too late the humandkind realized that it was a mere plant, the Goldleaf Fern that changed people, animals, and the whole ecosystem. No one knew what it really wanted, if it could even think, but in many eyes, it had a goal: to eradicate all life to create something new. There were some who thought differently.

"I won't forget that."

You murmured as a warning. Your feet swung onto the table. Coughing could be heard from the next room, a side effect when exposed to the spores of the Goldleaf Fern. Just recently, the 141 team had rescued a group of survivors from an old collapsed farmhouse.

They talked about being locked up, how the strange plant had blocked their way, as if it came from a completely different genus, the genus of Dinonaer, the Venus flytraps. But you had no idea about that, you couldn't remember anything, at least the two years you apperantly were out there and survived on your own. Milow and Max were in charge of medicine and gardening of useful vegetables. Secretly you were nervous that the tomatoes they harvested last week might turn into concious venusflytraps too. They, along with 6 others, observed the quarantined survivors.

If one of them was infected, surely they all were. Max talked a lot about the events in the quarantine areas when he had the chance to. People died left and right. It usually started with shortness of breath, then with ravenous hunger, and ultimately with plant-like growths and complete brain death.

Despite the morbid disease, Max could never stop making jokes. He teased you about believing as a child that if you swallowed the seeds of a watermelon, a tree would grow inside you. Now that horror had become a reality.

As you looked back at Max and Milow, they strangely raised their gaze as if looking behind you, observing something that made them uncomfortable.

"Morning, Lieutenant."

Came from Max, who then returned to his book. As you leaned your head back to look up at the lieutenant, you were first met with his cold gaze.

"Rookie, we expect you downstairs in five."

Lieutenant Ghost. That's how everyone else here knew him, nobody except for his closest friends knew his real name. Since your arrival, he hadn't been very hospitable or inclusive. You couldn't even answer before he was gone. He was very taciturn and seemed to enjoy making your life a living hell.

He was also in charge of assigning tasks, and more than once, he had given you tasks that were the worst. Cleaning the restrooms, getting rid of any biodegratable trash, so that no plants can access it or the guarding dayshifts. After those dayshifts everyone kept their distance. Understandable noone wants to sit or stand next to a sweaty and sleep deprived piece of shit. The few times he did speak to you, he only asked about your file, which wasnt ready when you departed in the USA, or if you had done your blood test yet. You could deliver neither, and honestly, it probably never would be, not with what the other doctors and scientists at the US base had discovered.

Even in front of Max, you kept the past at bay. After he flew to Germany for his medical studies, everything went downhill. Frank died, and you were left alone in a shitty suburb in the USA. A few old friends of Frank's, from his biker gang, occasionally stopped by, after all, they had known you since you were a child and you had worked in the diner next to their Gas-Station.

You would argue that it had been tough years, had you not retreated into the world of video games and occasionally attempted hacking for some money, albeit unsuccessfully. In hindsight, it would have been much easier to strip in the local pub, had you had enough courage.

You still remember the day when the spores took over their hosts. It was January, doctors suspected a simple flu wave. No one could have guessed that the affected people would become more aggressive, whole stores would be looted, and countless people would die. But once again, it was blamed on something else. Theorists blamed it on some radiation, others thought it was the video games.

No one could have guessed so quickly that it was an unknown plant species posing as a normal shield fern. Biologists only became aware of the plant when it was too late.

"So then Max, Milow, have fun nursing the sick."

You gave them a brief, not entirely serious, contemptuous look.

"Have fun searching for the sick."

Max repeated, grinning.

"Go on, your buddy is probably waiting for you."

He added smugly. Chuckling, you shake your head and leave the break room. The right corridor was guarded by a few other rookies, ensuring that no one left quarantine or entered without permission. So your path was the left one.

With heavy steps, you shuffle along the corridor, your gaze fixed on the wall. The wallpaper was partially torn, probably out of fear of mold or something similar. Sooner or later, everyone would succumb to the Goldfern anyway. A little mold should be the least of the worries. You disliked the smell of the building as much as its appearance. Musty and uninhabitable, but you'll have to manage. With a certain bounce in your step, you took the stairs to the ground floor and headed to the hotel reception, to Jade.

"Evening, Jade."

You lean half on the counter and grin at her warmly. Jade was one of the few female survivors here. Just like you, there were occasional issues with feminine hygiene products.

Since you weren't able to stock them up yourself yet, she was kind enough to share with you, as long as you shared your findings with her.

"Evening, Fern."

She smiled casually at you while checking a vest, as well as a revolver and a rifle.

"Ghost already informed me. Your first outing with the team, huh?"

Her long golden hair fell over her shoulder, down towards the rifle.

"That's right. He seems to talk a lot about me, if thats the case"

You show her a broad grin and accept the equipment she had just inspected and now passed over the counter.

"Might not be a good thing, Take care of yourself, okay?"

Her gentle maternal smile had disappeared, and she now looked at you warningly.

"You know me."

You respond amusedly and casually grab a packet of ammunition. The packet, you can barely grasp properly with your delicate hands; you can still remember when König teased you for it during training in the USA.

"I mean it, Fern. Ghost and his team have often returned without rookies."

You pause and then look at her. "You're just trying to scare me," you reply cautiously, laughing to lighten the mood. She, on the other hand, just shakes her head.

"The last one was shot because he went alone into a building and apparently had official contact with the Goldfern."

She emphasized the 'apparently'.

"Then it was probably his mistake," you say cautiously. Jade rolled her eyes and sighed strenuously.

"Fern, listen to me, even if Ghost and Price have command here, you shouldn't necessarily trust them or turn your back on them. With a snap, you're gone. If you're not worth it, you're gone."

She hissed and roughly placed a knife on the counter, which you promptly stuck into your boot.

Ghost seemed like someone who would shoot you in the head without a second thought if you didn't follow an order. Price, on the other hand, seemed different to you. Neutral. As if he cared about everyone. "Jade, hey. I'll be careful, okay?"

You shoulder the rifle and knock twice on the wooden counter, which wobbled a bit. Already musty.

"Until later."

You give her one of your familiar grins and then quickly head for the exit. Speaking of not following orders. you were late.

"Two minutes late, Rookie."

Atleast his watch was working. Ghost admonished you, looking at you disdainfully. You could be wrong, after all, he almost always looked like that.

"We won't let it happen again, Sir."

You assure, hoping that would be the end of it. He nodded to Price, who then pointed in a direction.

"We're patrolling within a one and a half kilometer radius."

He explained and marched with Ghost leading the way. Just the thought of it made your feet hurt. How much you'd give to sit in the break room with Max and Milo right now, browsing through an old comic or doodling in a magazine. You walked in the middle and kept an eye on your surroundings. You were just starting to register who was there. You could spot another rookie trailing behind Price and Ghost, playing the lapdog.

You knew Soap as well; he was close with Ghost and Price, also pretty team-oriented and accommodating. There weren't any more, probably not necessary anyway.

The world had changed, and honestly, you thought it looked more beautiful than before. Everything was overgrown. The Goldfern seemed to have an influence on the local flora as well. It spread faster and grew better.

Even during dusk, you could see the newly discovered property of the plants luminescing. Probably a mutation or a simple selection of plants that were no longer able to survive and had to find other ways to prevent going extinct.

Surprisingly, the life-threatening environment calmed you, as if it were something familiar, something rooted deep down in your heart.

Suddenly, you ran into the backpack of the person in front of you, and you stumbled back a few steps.

"Watch it."

he hissed, looking at you hostilely. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Soap, amused by your mishap. Price and Ghost had stopped. A figure sat on the road worn down by roots and vines. She was wrapped in fabrics and seemed to be twitching, as if crying.

"Why are we stopping?"

you ask and take a few steps towards the person. Soap held you back by the arm and shook his head.

"Nuh-uh, we don't do that."

Your brows furrow, and you look at him confused.

"Someone needs help, and we have beds available."

But before you could protest, the rookie sprinted ahead of the group and raised his assault rifle. "Damn it, hands up!" He shouted and aimed directly at the figure on the ground. A bit too intense for your likings. The figure stood up but made no noise, no sound.

"Are you deaf, hands up!"

Now Ghost and Price also drew their weapons, aiming at the figure wrapped in rags. You remained rooted to the spot. Soap followed. It's movement were too soft for it to be human.

As you examined the figure, something caught your attention. It seemed not to touch the ground; it seemed to be floating?

There was an unpleasant crack, and the figure seemed to lift its head; it was pale, bony. Its eyes milky. It didn't move on its own; it was as if it was being moved.

"Get back, that thing doesnt seem safe!"

You screamed and tried to reach for the guy. Everything happened so fast; a root shot out from the lifeless body of the figure and surged towards the rookie. The tangle pierced his stomach, and the root, which had formed barbs within seconds, clutched onto his back. A blood-curdling scream pierced through the seemingly pointless hail of bullets which had started only mere milliseconds ago, and he was dragged across the ground slowly, as if the thing was teasing and humiliating us.

The rookie desperately clawed at every uneven surface, hoping to fight against the monstrosity.

His horrified gaze fell upon us, who could only shoot and watch as he was pulled towards a small hole in the wall of the ruin, pleading bitterly.

"Make it stop, get me out of here!"

Shooting at the vine was futile; you'd either hit him or just the ground beside the root. It was a waste of bullets. You watched in horror as the rookie, who had just been alive moments ago, fought against his inevitable death.

"There must be something we can do, damn it!"

Just as you were about to go after him, a final shot rang out from Ghost's direction, abruptly cutting off the screams and pleas.

"Let's go, it's had it's fill,"

the shooter replied disgustedly, throwing you a brief warning glance, as if to say, don't make the same mistake as that idiot.

Just as you were about to turn your head towards the group, you heard a crack and a sound akin to the preparation of meatballs.

He had disappeared into the hole. All that remained were some shreds of fabric and the blood trail leading to his ultimate end. You could only stare into the darkness of the hole for a moment until Soap nudged you in the side and pulled you out of your stupor.

"Come on, we're not waiting long."

With those words, you absentmindedly continued with the others to continue the patrol.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Chloe Simon and Reed McMaster at MMFA:

On September 9, Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump’s running mate JD Vance claimed that Haitian migrants had “abducted and eaten” pets in Springfield, Ohio, seemingly referencing debunked social media rumors.  Though local officials explained that there was no truth to the claim, right-wing media immediately jumped on the bandwagon, amplifying Vance’s allegations and pushing racist narratives about Haitian immigrants.  Some right-wing figures accused Haitian migrants of consuming “cats and ducks” and comparing them to “zombies” and “locusts.” 

JD Vance falsely alleged Haitian migrants are kidnapping and eating people’s pets, continuing long-standing right-wing media attacks on Haitians

JD Vance wrote on X that he had previously raised concerns about “Haitian illegal immigrants draining social services and generally causing chaos all over Springfield, Ohio” and “reports now show that people have had their pets abducted and eaten by people who shouldn't be in this country.” While Vance did admit in a subsequent post that “it's possible, of course, that all of these rumors will turn out to be false,” he doubled down by telling by telling his “fellow patriots” not to “let the crybabies in the media dissuade you” and encouraged them to continue making “cat memes.” [Twitter/X, 9/9/24, 9/10/24, 9/10/24]

The claim Haitian migrants are eating cats seemingly originated from a commentator at a local meeting, Facebook rumors, and a video of a woman accused of eating an animal. The video used as evidence took place in Canton, Ohio, not Springfield, Ohio, and The Guardian reported that the woman did not appear to be a Haitian immigrant. [The Guardian, 9/9/24]

Springfield City Manager Bryan Heck says there is no truth to the story. In a statement to ABC News, Heck said that “in response to recent rumors alleging criminal activity by the immigrant population in our city, we wish to clarify that there have been no credible reports or specific claims of pets being harmed, injured or abused by individuals within the immigrant community.” (Vance had previously cited Heck in a Senate Banking committee meeting about issues Springfield has had with housing for Haitian migrants.) [ABC News, 9/9/24]

The debunked attack on Haitian people is the latest in years’ worth of racist right-wing media tirades against the country. In the aftermath of the deadly 2010 Haiti earthquake, right-wing media said that the “Haitian pact with the devil is historical fact” and that the country was “so screwed up because it wasn’t colonized long enough.” Then in 2018, when Trump had labeled Haiti a “shithole country,” Infowars’ Alex Jones backed him up, saying it is a “literal craphole” and a “hellhole.” [Media Matters, 1/14/10, 1/20/10, 1/21/10, 1/12/18; NBC News, 1/11/18] 

Right-wing media gin up anti-Haitian racism with the false "Haitian migrants are eating pets" BS.

[quirkwizard]

Apologies in advance, Wizard, if you have any phobias related to insects or being eaten alive: Food + Queen Bee?

That doesn't scare me. Men with sack masks and evil highschoolers, on the other hand.

New Quirk Name: Locusts

This Emitter type Quirk allows the user to make a cluster of bio-mechanical locusts from their body, forming dozens of them at a time. The user can control these locusts and send them out up to a five-meter radius. The true power of the Quirk comes from the locusts' ability to eat, shown by their buzz-like teeth and mouths. The locust is able to eat their way through various materials, including tougher ones like metal and stone, before quickly digesting them. This even applies to more dangerous materials, such as poisons or other waste. The user is always aware of where the locusts are and what they are eating. This gives the user a dangerous ability, eating away at whatever may be in their path. They can eat around defenses to get around, chew away at their foes to deal damage, cluster them together to block an attack, disable hazardous materials, or simply horrify people with the ravenous locusts. The bugs are fragile and can be destroyed, especially with large scale attacks, and eating too much too fast can end up slowing them down while they digest them. The bugs seem to have issues with organic materials as well as larger and tougher materials, being slower to eat through them.