#transporter paradox

[3liza]

the level two inquiry about the Transporter Death Paradox imo is what is causing the continuation of consciousness in the new copy of yourself. how does the universe know to assign your memories and consciousness to the new body. imo the answer is either some quasi-mystical phenomenon having to do with individual "prints" a person makes on their experience of linear time (the wormhole aliens would agree with this probably), OR your entire personality and memory is physically encoded in your cellular structure in a way the transporter can scan and store (more likely imo)

[trolley-problem-memes]

we are about to cause some Big Time Problems

[microwave-core]

maybe the real paradox was the friends we made along the way

[ranger-kellyn]

still haven't decided if i'm going to get the s/v dlc. esp considering i still haven't even TOUCHED the swsh dlc 😅

[genreral-systems-vehicle]

Holy shit two boyfriends

hey um so i slowly started replacing all of your boyfriend's parts with indistinguishable, identical parts and now he's not sure he's your boyfriend anymore. sorry about that

[ariemfox]

so, yeah. um. about that new timeline. i think it'll probably be destroyed by another kugelblitz, lol.

since the umbrella academy saved allison's and lila/diego's kids by transporting them to the new & original timeline, i think the umbrella academy inadvertently caused the grandfather paradox to happen, again.

meaning the new universe would have been annihilated by a kugelblitz, again.

this is because if lila, diego, and allison never existed in this new timeline to give birth to their kids, their kids should not exist in this new timeline.

so much for saving humanity, i guess. ✌️☂️

[rosepinks-world]

WHEN SHE SQUEEZED ME TIGHT, SHE NEARLY BROKE MY SPINE!

logan howlett x fem reader

logan meets wades friend in the void and to his surprise and dismay she’s stronger than he is.

a/n: powers are basically my girl queen maeves

After Wade had got beaten up by every Wolverine variant he encountered he decided to call in the big guns.

“Y/n I need your help jumping into different multiverses to find a new Wolverine.”

“…Well I ain’t got nothing better to do.”

You were not a hero. You knew from a young age the world was poisoned with corruption and evil so naturally you decided to take matters into your own hands. You were unwillingly experimented on and as a result gained intensified strength and healing factors the perfect combination to become an infamous assassin- which is how you met Wade.

After a while of searching, you met the best Wolverine you could possibly find. Although hope began to fade when you and Wade watched in horror as he chugged a whole bottle of whiskey and passed out on the floor.

You easily hoisted the unconscious man onto your shoulders and carried him out of the bar letting Wade transport you back to the building that you learned was called the ‘TVA’ You threw Wolverine down harshly as Wade presented him to the man who reminded you of someone from pride and prejudice.

Mr Darcy Paradox was not happy. Was it because you had plucked the so called ‘worst’ Wolverine from a different timeline? That Wade had broken his nose? Or because you were now suddenly involved when you really shouldn’t be? Ultimately, he immediately transported the three of you to the void.

You sat criss crossed on the floor, drawing random patterns in the sand as you waited for the two men infront of you to gain consciousness.

Logan jolted up looking around erratically. He made eye contact with you and looked you up and down before he yelled a rather polite: “Who the fuck are you?”

You went to answer but Wade finally woke up.

“That’s Y/n she’s basically an off brand Wonder Woman.”

You gave Wolverine a bright innocent smile and Logan brushed off Wade’s reference with a confused look on his face. Now realising Wade was awake, he immediately stood up and attacked him, jamming his claws into his chest and hoisting him in the air. “Where the hell are we?”

“I don’t know!” Wade yelled defensively.

You sat there entertained as you let the two grown men throw each other around for a bit when Wade said something that seemed to have struck a nerve.

“Is that what you said when your world went to shit?

Your eyes widened in surprise. If this was the worst Wolverine (according to paradox) you wondered what had happened to him to make him so bad. Logan retaliated by throwing Wade through a concrete wall. He looked pretty proud of himself and you just couldn’t help yourself. You rose from your spot kicking away the sand where you had created a very artistic depiction of their fight. You cracked your knuckles and snuck up behind him reaching up to tap his shoulder. He turned around confused and sighed dissatisfied when he saw you.

“Listen bub. Just leave this between me and red I don’t want to hurt a powerless girl-“

Just as he finished his sentence, you punched him square in the face and sent him flying through the same wall that he’d sent Wade into.

Logan threw his body up in shock for what seemed to be hundredth time today. He was getting sick of these surprises. The injuries you’d caused to his body began to heal as Wade cackled at the man from his spot on the floor.

“Told ya she’s like Wonder Woman.”

Logan growled at Wade but was also in disbelief.

You had just caught him off guard. Yep, that was it.

He charged towards you with his claws ready to attack but you countered. You grabbed his claws drawing blood from your hands and threw him to the ground. He groaned and watched as the cuts you inflicted on yourself began to heal the same way his had done. You stood above him a stern look on your face.

“I’m not doing this with you Logan. Just listen to us.”

He wasn’t giving in. He grabbed your calf and pulled you to the ground, flipping you onto your back caging you in with his muscular arms.

He won.

You groaned in anger as you shoved him off of you sending him flying once again. He fell next to you on his stomach, face first into the dirt. You stood up quick before he could and placed a foot on his back and crouched down so you were closer to his face. This was how he realised the intensity of your strength. He could feel the weight of your foot and he was built of fucking adamantium.

“You gonna stop being a little bitch and listen to me or do I have to toss you around some more?”

Logan growled in a mix of anger and embarrassment. Wade had returned, finally healed, and decided to make a comment. “I’ll listen if it means you’ll toss me around.”

You rolled your eyes at Wades comment and picked up a stone throwing it at his face with your intensified strength which knocked him back onto the floor.

Still not getting an answer from the Wolverine you flipped him onto his back pinning his splayed arms to the ground as you straddled his waist. He writhed underneath you- still trying to prove his strength- but you had him, he couldn’t move.

You won.

You tilted your head at Logan and he angrily answered your question.

“I’ll listen.”

You patted the side of his face condescendingly.

“Good boy.”

You graciously unpinned him and he shoved you off, moving away from you rapidly.

He was humiliated.

You looked so ordinary. No indication of your strength and you were half his size. And here you were, tossing the big bad, made of goddamn metal Wolverine around like a fucking rag doll. He’d never met anyone that could do the things you had done to him. Wade had matched his strength when they had their little fight but you didn’t just match his strength you were exceeding it. He didn’t hold back once. He was using his full ability and it didn’t even effect you. He felt a whirlwind of emotions but one stuck out the most to him.

Lust.

He would be lying if he said this whole situation didn’t turn him on. Which didn’t go unnoticed by Wade

“You kinky son of a bitch you into a bit of masochism?” Wade asked getting dangerously close to Logan’s face.

Logan snapped out of his thoughts (unfortunately) and growled at Wade as a warning, “Shut the fuck up.”

You couldn’t help but smirk as Logan started to walk away from you two. It was kinda flattering to beat up Wolverine and also turn him on within the span of five minutes. Wade looked at you, eyes still somehow expressive through his mask.

“Oh! That was definitely a yes!”

[worsehaircut]

alternately, if there was a perfect clone of me made, and the perfect clone continued to live my life, while I was stuck in a smelly cave for 5 years, would I be me or would they be me? would I have the right to replace the copy because I am the original? even tho the copy has continued on my life path, developing relationships, forming new memories with the people I love? and I, the original had not only missed out on those experiences, but had experiences that had drastically altered who I had been? would I have the right to demand that my friends and family sever their relationship with the perfect copy?

at what point does the distinction between original and an utterly perfect copy who doesn't happen to share the same matter/energy as the original cease to matter and if circumstance led to the copy taking over the life path, does that make a difference or not?

In Star Trek, the transporter works by converting you as a complete copy from matter to energy containing all information necessary to reassemble you, sends that information wirelessly over a distance to a location where you are then reassembled, molecule by molecule. Since the copy is so perfect you do not perceive any interruption between conversions and everything about you is physically in tact at the end of the procedure (assuming nothing goes wrong, which canonically very rarely happens).

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 6: I'm The Resident Leader Of The Lost And Found]

A/N: Be sure to vote in the poll pinned to the top of my blog AFTER you finish reading! It will be available for 1 week 🥰

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

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

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

Chapter title is a lyric from: “St. Jimmy” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.2k (she's a little chonky)

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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

What happens to the people who turn? You know because you saw it back at Saratoga Springs, an EO from Oklahoma named Greg Flurry—Equipment Operator, he spent his days driving a forklift, everyone called him Snowflake—who returned from weekend liberty with a bite on his left wrist that he said was a gift from some drunk girl who attacked him outside of a 7-Eleven. You had all laughed and taken turns poking at the wound, making him wince: a ring of tiny bruises, not deep at all, the skin only punctured in a few spots, corporeal gemstones of trapped-blood amethysts and sapphires and rubies. Snowflake rubbed it down with a splash of Grey Goose vodka—the same kind your Mama always drank—and didn’t think of it again for the rest of the day.

On Tuesday, he felt fine; but the bite mark, paradoxically, was not healing. On the contrary, it was turning dark and angry, maroon trails along the paths of veins that shuttle blood back to the heart. Snowflake got a shot of antibiotics at the med clinic and was back in the driver’s seat of his forklift before lunch.

On Wednesday, he had a headache and nausea that wouldn’t go away. Snowflake attributed this to particularly questionable chicken fried steak from the chow hall. At night he tossed and turned in his bunk, and when Rio went to check on him, Snowflake was burning up with fever, sweating through his sheets, staring blankly through pupils like pinpricks. You, Rio, and Parker carried him to the med clinic.

On Thursday, in the early hours of the morning, Snowflake began to decompose. But he was still alive. His skin turned grey and sloughed off, his body purged itself: vomit from his throat, diarrhea from his intestines, blood beading out of his pores like sweat. His corneas went cloudy. His lungs flooded with decay-dark mucus. Snowflake sobbed and shrieked as you and Rio sat with him and held his disintegrating hands, as the corpsmen phoned every hospital they could to try to get him transported. All the ambulances were unavailable. All the hospitals were already overwhelmed. They gave the corpsmen peculiar guidance: Palliative care. Prepare to restrain him if he becomes a danger to others. The virus appears to be transmitted via bite wounds.

“Virus?” Rio had said, dropping Snowflake’s hand. “What the fuck kind of virus does this to someone?”

The corpsmen had shaken their heads—We don’t know—and attempted to administer narcotics intravenously. Snowflake received no relief. His blood vessels were collapsing, dissolving, turning to a noxious soup beneath what was left of his skin. Becoming a zombie is not unlike radiation sickness. It rots you from the inside out, and you can feel everything.

As the sun was rising, Snowflake died. And by then you were glad; it was the most merciful outcome. The corpsmen covered him with a sheet and called around for a morgue. They were full too. As you all stood in an exam room trying to understand what had just happened to Snowflake here, what was going on in the world outside Saratoga Springs, the fresh corpse sat up on the table. You had screamed and clutched for Rio; he shoved you behind him. The corpse, still covered with the sheet stained with black and brown and red, followed the noise of your voice and staggered towards you, snarling and groaning, arms outstretched, teeth clicking as they gnashed beneath the sheet. The corpsmen tried to grab him, then shrank away when the ghoul clawed at them, putrefied fingers peeking out from beneath the linen. The zombie lurched closer, and Rio struck out: colossal knuckles to a soft skull, the monster sent hurtling headfirst into a wall. The body plunged to the floor and, enveloped by a puddle of its own bodily fluids, died for the second time.

And Rio had glanced down at where Snowflake had been bitten—now indecipherable on his black, gangrenous wrist that jutted out from beneath the sheet—then turned to you and said: I guess it only takes once.

~~~~~~~~~~

You doze against Aemond’s shoulder as Baela drives the Honda Odessey across Indiana, goldenrods and dogwood trees, green weeds growing tall and wild, red bloodstains on pavement. Visions of the past come to you in spider-thread thin fragments of dreams.

Building dams of sticks and pebbles in the swamp-colored creek that runs along Kentucky State Route 1087. Balancing atop rusted railroad lines that once connected coal mines like ligaments link bones, bare feet, box turtles and milk snakes, autum leaves falling into your hair. Scratching black-ink battleships into the pages of your fifty-cent Walmart notebook as teachers drone on about things that mean nothing to you, things that will not take you away from here, Shakespeare, the Krebs cycle, the Tet Offensive, Spanish words for colors and animals. Mama glancing up at you as she scrubs dishes in a sink nearly overflowing with bubbles, too nonchalant to intend to be cruel: You’re lucky you ain’t too beautiful. Do you know what happens to beautiful women? Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy, Natalie Wood, Anna Nicole Smith? Horrible, horrible things. And then they die.

Once in a while you pass a car or truck or SUV coasting east as you roll west, strangers who wave and give you nods of grim, transient greeting. Good luck. I’m sorry you’ve lost people. I hope you live. At a Speedway outside of Kokomo, Aemond, Aegon, Rio, and Luke draw Uno cards to see who will attempt to siphon gas from the three vehicles you find there with closed fuel caps. Aegon loses with a blue four. The Kia and Toyota are empty; there’s almost a full tank left in the Ford. You refuel the Honda Odessey and scrounge through the convenience store for supplies. Helaena seems to have developed a sort of fixation with pain pills, hoarding Advil and Tylenol. Aegon finds a few more packs of Marlboro Golds. He puffs on them, windows down and breeze blowing, neon green plastic sunglasses shielding his eyes, as Baela skirts around Indianapolis. Even from fifteen miles away, you can see the billowing smoke from the fires, hear the manmade thunder of explosions.

“Bet people are having a great time there,” Aegon murmurs as he takes a drag, embers glowing and blonde hair thrashing in the wind.

Baela follows the course he plotted, swinging just south of Peoria, Illinois to avoid the nuclear power plants between there and Chicago. You cross the Mississippi River and into the southern tip of Iowa over the Fort Madison Bridge, the toll booth occupied only by a carcass that buzzards are pecking apart, a zombie that someone else already put a bullet in…or perhaps the man did it to himself. Maybe he didn’t see a point in sticking around to watch the dead inherit the earth. You cannot agree. Each day you find more reasons to stay alive in this treacherous new world. It’s like when you were back in Soft Shell, Kentucky. You can’t give up, you can’t surrender. The only way out is through.

The black Honda Odessey—a good soldier, having taken you six hundred miles and into the vast flat vacancy of the Midwest—at last runs out of gas as you are approaching Bonaparte, founded in the 1830s as a lumber mill on the banks of the Des Moines River. You unload the minivan and trek into town; you will find somewhere to spend the night and then in the morning head south to Route 2, which you will follow all the way across Iowa to the Nebraska border.

The first house you try is at the edge of town, eggshell-colored vinyl siding and an empty gravel driveway. Rio tries the front door—locked—then tells everyone to back up. He kicks it once, no dice, gets ready to try again. Then the door opens. A woman with wide fearful eyes stands there with two boys cowering behind her, maybe ten and twelve.

“Please don’t break the lock,” the woman says softly. “We need it. Sometimes they try to get in.”

“Oh hey, lady, I’m sorry about that. We didn’t know anyone was home. You okay in there?”

Her voice is so quiet you can barely hear her. “Please leave us alone.”

Aemond climbs the steps of the front porch, taps Rio’s shoulder to tell him to back up, and kneels in the doorway so he isn’t so tall. He asks the woman: “Do you need supplies? Food, medicine?”

“Please leave us alone,” she says again.

“My name is Aemond, and those two are my brothers Aegon and Daeron, and that’s my sister Helaena, my cousin Luke, and then Rhaena and Baela. The big guy is Rio, and the girl over there…” He smiles as he gestures to you. “We like to call her Chips. Everyone is healthy, and everyone is here by choice. We’re going to the West Coast, Oregon and California. Do you want to come with us?”

But the woman shakes her head almost violently. “We’re safe in the house. We have to stay. My husband is a long-haul trucker, but he’s on his way back to us.”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“Go away. Please just go away. Before they see you.”

The woman shuts the door and you hear her throw the deadbolt. You leave like she asks you to; but not before Aemond collects an armful of supplies you can spare and places them in a pile on the porch for them to take inside once you’ve vanished.

The sun is sinking into the west as Helaena lights candles in Bonaparte Baptist Church and Rhaena shakes out dusty, mothball-smelling tablecloths to use as blankets. Luke finds gallons of grape juice and bags full of tiny flat bread wafers in the cabinets of the kitchenette, once used for sinless communions. It’s Daeron’s turn to stay awake for first watch. If Jace was still alive, it would be his too; instead, Aemond takes his place and refuses all offers of relief. You lie down on a pew with thin violet cushions and are thinking that you’ll never get comfortable enough to fall asleep when you are abruptly swallowed by omnipotent, black nothingness.

You jolt awake sometime in the middle of the night, a bad dream you don’t remember and don’t want to. Daeron is perched on the altar and using a hunting knife from the cellar back in Distant, Pennsylvania to sharpen the sticks he’s gathered into arrows. Baela is sitting with Aemond, their backs against the wall and voices hushed so as not to wake the others. Aemond is telling her that everything is going to be okay, that he’s still here, that Jace is gone but he’s not going anywhere, and candlelight is flickering across his scarred face, and he’s afraid but he doesn’t show it. He can’t. Too many people need him.

Oh, you realize; and it doesn’t feel awful at all, doomed or apocalyptic, a curse or a plague. It feels better than anything you knew existed. I might fall in love with him after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aemond, take a look at this,” Luke says, offering him the binoculars. You have walked several miles on Iowa State Route 2, an asphalt atoll in an ocean of emerald green flora, buffalograss and prairie roses, ash trees growing over defunct power lines.

Aemond peers through the binoculars. It’s a small farmhouse about a quarter mile off the road, rugged and weatherworn, besieged by a flock of zombies. There is something large and rectangular flapping in the wind like a white flag of surrender. “Hm,” Aemond hums sympathetically. “It’s a shame. Poor guy.”

“What do you see?” you ask, and he gives you the binoculars. The zombies, approximately thirty of them, do not appear to have breached the interior; they shuffle through the yard and up and down the steps of the porch, smack their palms against the wood siding, leave stains of gore on the boarded-up windows. None appear to be aware of you yet. The bedsheet that hangs from the attic window has a message painted on it in something dark and viscous, perhaps motor oil:

One alive inside

I can hunt, fish, and fix things

Please help me

God bless you!!!

“We should be able to get to Cantril before dark, it’s about twelve more miles,” Aegon mutters, pondering his map. “Boner-party. Who names a town something like that?”

Aemond stares at him. “Bonaparte. Like Napoleon.”

“Who?”

You pass Rio the binoculars, then say to Aemond: “We’re going to help him, right?”

“We sure as hell aren’t,” Rio replies as he studies the farmhouse. “You want to risk our lives killing all those bastards? I don’t.”

You turn to Aemond, incredulous, but he concurs with Rio. “It’s too dangerous.”

“What’s going on?” Baela says testily from where she’s sprawled on the pavement sipping a half-full plastic gallon of bruise-colored grape juice. She’s already exhausted, but you have no way of transporting her.

Rio points across the field. “There’s a sign saying someone’s trapped inside that house. Tough fucking luck, ain’t it?”

Baela stares at the farmhouse uneasily, her brow furrowed. Rhaena fans her with a paperback copy of Catching Fire. Daeron has wandered off the road to collect more sticks to sharpen and fill his quiver; Helaena is with him picking wildflowers.

“That was us,” you tell Rio. “We were stranded on that transmission tower and we would have died if we’d been left there. But we weren’t. Someone saved us.”

“Things were different then,” Aemond says, unemotional, uncompromising. “We had the Tahoe. Now we’re on foot, and we’d have to kill each of them individually. And there’s no way to make a fast escape if something goes wrong.”

“So we’re just going to leave him?” Aegon says doubtfully, his large ocean-blue eyes flicking between you and Aemond. He stuffs his map back into his shorts pocket and scratches at the tattoo on his forearm: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

Rio groans. “Come on, man, we don’t even know if anyone’s still alive in there! What if he’s dead already? What if he got bit or starved to death or fell down the steps and snapped his neck or something?”

“What if he’s not a good guy?” Aemond adds.

“There’s a Trump 2024 sign in the front yard,” Luke says. He has the binoculars again. Aemond opens his hands, an I told you so sort of gesture. Luke amends: “Not that anyone deserves to get eaten alive or transformed into a walking corpse. But, you know. I figured I’d mention it.”

You are not swayed. Had you stayed in Soft Shell, Kentucky, you might have believed the same things. “People deserve to have the chance to start over.”

Aemond’s eye is on you, narrow and seeking, desperate to understand. “Why are you so fixated on this stranger?”

“He hunts, he fishes. What are we going to do when we get out into Wyoming and Nevada where towns are fifty miles apart and there’s hardly anywhere to scavenge for food? What are we going to eat when the beef jerky and Skittles run out?”

“You said everyone hunts where you’re from.”

“Not literally everyone. I don’t hunt.”

“You can shoot.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how to track animals. And even if I killed a deer, I wouldn’t know how to dress it.”

Aegon blinks at you. “To what?”

“To remove the skin and organs and everything.”

“Oh. Okay. That makes more sense.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Aemond repeats. Rio is nodding in agreement. Baela’s lips are pressed into a thin, thoughtful, rigid line. Daeron and Helaena have returned to the road to see how the discussion unfolds.

“There are about thirty zombies out there,” you say. “I can take fifteen. I just need you guys to do the rest.”

“Everyone here is my responsibility.” Aemond is severe, but he isn’t angry.

“Then you’re responsible for their humanity as well.”

“I can’t justify risking our lives for this.”

“I’ve killed people, living people, and I didn’t like how that felt. Make no mistake, this is killing too, just by omission instead of with bullets. We’ll all have to carry that weight. The man in that farmhouse hasn’t threatened us. He’s helpless, and he’s trapped, and if we don’t save him, who else is going to do it? What if it was you in there? What if it was me?”

Aemond, frowning, contemplates the house that has become a prison. Rio looks at you, one eyebrow raised. You gaze stoically back. He sighs. “Okay, what the hell, let’s rock,” Rio says.

Baela holds up her Ruger in one hand, slips her hammer out of a belt loop of her shorts with the other. “I’m on board.”

“You shouldn’t be on anything except bedrest,” Aemond tells her.

“I can take fifteen of the zombies myself,” you say again. “I have two M9s, thirty bullets total. I won’t need more than that.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron says.

“Shut up,” Aegon replies, though his tone is gentle. “You can’t even donate blood.”

“I can take ten,” Daeron insists, clutching his compound bow. “At least ten.”

Aegon swings his golf club around. “I can take…like…probably approximately three.”

Rio grabs his face and squeezes his sunburned cheeks as Aegon giggles and slaps at him. “You won’t get the opportunity, Honey Bun. Stay in the kitchen and bake apple pies until Daddy comes home from work.”

“You really think this is the right thing to do?” Aemond asks you. It’s not a challenge, only a question. He’s at war with himself, you can tell. He’s trying very hard to treat you like someone he’s not terrified to lose.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

He pulls his Glock out of its holster. “The gunfire will attract more of them.”

“Then we’ll have to move quickly.”

Aemond turns to Baela, still wilted on the pavement. “You, Rhaena, and Helaena will follow behind us with Luke and finish off any zombies we missed.”

Baela gives him a weak, acquiescent thumbs up, breathing heavily. “Got it.”

“Helaena, you still have your Ruger, right?”

“I won’t need it,” she murmurs, wildflowers tucked into her long blonde hair, watching a ladybug skitter across her knuckles. Aemond is exasperated.

“I’ll make sure she’s okay,” Luke promises. He’s using his binoculars to scout for any threats on the horizon, additional zombies or approaching strangers. Evidently, there are none.

“The grass,” Helaena says. “It makes it hard to see the snakes. Watch your step.”

Aemond replies distractedly: “I think we have bigger worries at the moment, babe.” As Rio pumps his Remington and Luke fumbles nervously with his Marlin .22 to make sure it’s fully loaded, Aemond walks a few yards away from the others and gestures for you to follow him. Aemond’s voice is low, the blue of his eye river-clear and blade-sharp. “I want you to stay near Rio.”

You give him a small, teasing smile. “So you won’t worry about me?”

“So I’ll worry slightly less.” He brushes a piece of buffalograss from your hair, his fingers lingering there longer than they need to. “Rio’s the biggest, he’s the best fighter. And if one of those things catches you by surprise, he’ll be able to crack its skull no problem. So keep close.”

“I’ll try, but sometimes it’s more complicated than that.”

“Please work with me. I’m giving you what you want.”

To be useful, to be merciful. “Thank you, Aemond.”

“Thank me by not letting anything bite you. Not today, not ever.”

“Well, except you of course.”

He laughs, the tension in his face breaking; he skates his thumbprint over your cheek and kisses your forehead, swift like a reflex, unthinking, instinctive.

“Good to go?” Rio asks with a grin, holding his Remington with both hands.

Aegon’s golf club is resting across his shoulders, and you have a sudden vision of Jace doing the same thing with a baseball bat, a vengeful ghost peering out from beneath his curls with cunning dark eyes and a smirk. “Yeah, Chipotle, you’re leading the charge here.”

“No she’s not,” Aemond says, striding to the edge of the road. Across the field is the farmhouse, the white bedsheet S.O.S. still whipping in the wind. “I’m in front. Everyone else is behind me.”

“Oh yeah? Then who’s gonna watch your blind side, huh?” Aegon jogs over and whacks Aemond’s left shoulder with an open palm, beaming up at him. “Don’t worry. You’ll still get to be the hero. I was born talentless.”

“You have talents, Aegon,” you say. “You can sing.”

“Not relevant in a zombie-riddled apocalyptic hellscape, Cow Chip.” He and Aemond start across the field, then you and Rio, then Daeron, darting around in your peripheral vision, nocking sharpened sticks like arrows. Luke, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena trail at a distance.

You have closed half of the gap between the road and the farmhouse—and Daeron has already felled several zombies—before the beasts begin to turn around and notice you. They do not understand danger; they only understand hunger, and they lurch towards you with teeth gnashing and claws outstretched, strips of decaying flesh hanging like sleeves from their arms. You hate the way they move, like they’re trying to imitate life, like they are receiving some sinister transmission that reverberates inside them, like they are soulless vessels to be used in the darkest ways.

You stop, plant your feet in the earth, and raise one of your Beretta M9s. Your eyes find the sights; your finger settles on the trigger. You are rusty at first: a miss, a bullet in a rotting shoulder instead of a skull. Then you click into a rhythm and the zombies drop as they stumble towards you, infected dark blood spewing, brains pouring out onto the soil. When your clip is empty, you shove the first M9 back into its holster and pull out the other.

Daeron is putting his makeshift arrows through eye sockets, Aemond is firing his Glock, Rio is erasing entire heads with the grotesque power of his Remington. Aegon is swinging his golf club around wildly. His Marlin .22 hangs from its strap across his back, but he’s hopeless with it; his aim quite literally could not be worse. You hear other gunshots too, maybe Luke. A stranger appears from the front door of the farmhouse: red flannel shirt, roomy jeans, tan work boots, long messy russet hair pulled back in a man bun, almost as big as Rio. He is carrying an axe and begins helping to cut down the remaining zombies. Rio realizes you’re no longer with him and turns around to find you.

“I’m good!” you shout, waving him forward. “Go, go!” Rio nods and takes off again towards the farmhouse, blasting his Remington 12 gauge like a cannon.

Your ankle snags on something, a gnarled root, an old piece of farm machinery. You fall hard, hitting the ground and knocking the air out of your lungs. Your M9 is flung from your grasp. You roll onto your back and sit up to see what you’re caught on. It’s the grasping hand of a zombie, an old man, long white hair and dead milky eyes, only a torso, nothing below the ribcage except a tangle of dirt-coated intestines. It is scrambling towards your legs, jaws rattling, teeth covered in the blood of the other people it has eaten.

You shriek and try to kick it away. You reach for the empty M9, rip it out of its holster, and hold it by the barrel so you can use the grip, the heaviest part of a pistol, to bash the zombie’s skull in. But you aren’t Rio; when you strike the zombie’s head, it keeps hissing and scrabbling towards your flesh that sings to it like a siren, irresistible, divine.

I can’t let it bite me, I can’t let it bite me—

There is a boom and the zombie drops face-down to the earth. You are saved; you are free. You turn to see Rhaena standing beside you, clutching her tiny Ruger in trembling hands…but her eyes are closed. Slowly, petrified, they come open, one after the other.

You gape up at her. “Did you aim?!”

Rhaena shrugs guiltily. “I don’t remember how.”

“Jesus Christ. Well thanks, I guess. Glad you missed my pelvis.”

She laughs shakily. “Yeah. Me too.” Rhaena holsters her Ruger and helps you to your feet. By now, everyone else has realized you’re in trouble and are sprinting over, including the new guy.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say, holding up your arms and skimming your palms down your bare legs to show them you haven’t been bitten. “No need to despair. Rhaena rescued me.”

Aemond gets to you first. “Can I see?” he asks breathlessly. You give him your hands and with his fingertips, he reads you like Braille: palms, forearms, throat, jaw, gingerly turning your face away from him and then back again. He exhales, relieved. “Good job, Rhaena,” Aemond says, and she smiles. Baela uses her hammer to smash the skull of a zombie that’s still squirming. Aegon yanks a snarling toddler to its feet—Pokémon t-shirt, left leg missing, wearing one of those child leashes—and swings his golf club so hard its whole head pops off and rolls away into the buffalograss with sick wet thumps.

“I thought you couldn’t kill the kids,” you say.

Aegon spits on the corpse’s collapsed, headless body. “It’s different now. These monsters ate Jace. Fuck ‘em all.”

“I can’t thank y’all enough,” the axe-wielding stranger says. “I was sure I was going to die in there like a rat in a trap. There’s a hog farm on the property behind mine, and I think the…you know…all the meat attracts zombies. A pack of them saw me in the yard and followed me to the house, and when they’re in a group like that, they seem…well, I just couldn’t get rid of them. Alone they wander wherever, but a hoard has structure, it has a mission, and they were waiting me out. I didn’t have my guns, I didn’t have my truck…”

“What happened to them?” Rio asks.

“I got robbed, that’s what happened.”

“No!” Baela says. “Really?”

“A week ago, five men I’d never seen before broke in while I was sleeping. They must have drugged my dog, who knows with what—she slept for twenty hours, have you ever heard of something like that?—and locked me in my bedroom. By the time I kicked the door down they were gone, and so were quite a few of my earthly possessions. It was nice of them not to murder us, I guess. I have a couple boxes of ammo left, but that’s all. Mostly 9mm.”

“That’s exactly what I need,” you say.

The stranger gives you a curious, appraising glance. “I’m very glad to be able to assist you, ma’am.” Then he finally gets a good look at Aemond, who is glaring at him. “Lord almighty, what the hell happened to your face?”

“A piece of sheet metal fell on me.”

“He stitched it up himself,” Luke says. “I watched. It was wild.”

The man is impressed. “You’re a doctor?”

“No, no, no,” Aemond amends. “Just an intern.”

“He’s basically a doctor,” Baela says.

“Well, you’ll be useful to have around, I expect.” The stranger offers his hand and Aemond, somewhat unenthusiastically, shakes it. “I’m Cregan Stark.”

“Aemond Targaryen.”

“Targaryen?! That’s a heck of a name, sir.”

“It’s Greek,” Aegon says.

“Where are y’all headed? Not all the way back to Greece, I hope. That’d be a hike. And a swim too, I guess.”

Aemond smiles tightly, polite but guarded. “Not that far away. We’re on our way to the West Coast, California and Oregon.”

“And you’re on foot?! You need horses.”

“We haven’t come across any that are still alive.”

“Do you want to travel with us, Cregan?” Luke asks amiably.

“I reckon I would, for now at least. I got nowhere else to be and no one to care for.” Cregan looks to Aemond. “That alright with you, doc?”

“Sure,” Aemond replies ungenerously.

“My folks got a trailer over towards Cantril, and a truck parked out back too if nobody’s stolen it yet. We can stay the night there if you want and then drive west in the morning.”

“Cantril! That’s on our route!” Aegon exclaims, he of the map and the gel pens.

Aemond narrows his eye at Cregan, suspicious. “If your parents are so close, why aren’t you staying with them? Why didn’t they swing by to check on you and see you were in trouble here?”

“Well, ‘cause they’re dead,” Cregan says, and Aemond is abruptly remorseful. “When all this started, I went over to get them and they were out in the front yard, just bones. All the flesh was chewed right off. But I found their wedding rings in the grass, and Mama’s pearl necklace that her Grammie gave her when she got married, Mama never took it off as long as she lived. It looked like a string of rubies.”

Aemond swallows noisily. “I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothing I can do about it now,” Cregan says, staring out over the field and biting his lips so they don’t quiver.

“Did your parents have guns?” Rio asks hopefully.

Cregan chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that’d be swell, wouldn’t it? Daddy got all his guns taken away when I was in high school.”

“Taken away…?” Baela echoes.

“Yeah,” Cregan says casually. “After the methamphetamine conviction.” He whistles, and a dog comes loping out of the front door of the farmhouse. It’s huge and mean-looking, fur the color of ashes or smoke. It goes directly to Cregan and noses his hands; you are reminded of how Aemond searched you fearfully for injuries. “She’s half-German Shepherd, half-grey wolf. Her name’s Ice.”

“Does she bite?” Aemond asks tentatively.

“My little princess?! Hell no! I wish she did, then maybe those robbers wouldn’t have gotten what they wanted. But she knows when those things are around.”

Aegon pats her angular, steel-colored head. Ice puts back her pointy ears and closes her eyes, basking in the attention. “Hey, fuzzball. I’m going to call you Blue Raspberry Icee.”

“You can call her whatever you want to as long as she’s allowed to come with us.”

“She’s welcome if she sniffs out zombies,” Aemond says.

Baela is struck by a thought. “Cregan, what kind of truck did your parents have? I hope it’s big. We’re a lot of people.” She’s resting her hands on her belly. And we’re about to add one more.

“A Chevy Tahoe,” Cregan says. You all begin chattering excitedly, then have to explain why.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Y’all like fishing?” Cregan asks. He’s cooking dinner for everyone with his dead parents’ Coleman butane camping stove, only one burner, each course prepared individually. You are all seated around him on the living room floor, sipping cans of Coke and Sprite—what Cregan calls “pop”—and eating turkey-flavored instant stuffing that came out of a cardboard box. Now Cregan is working on Hungry Jack mashed potatoes, tiny white flakes like snow that puff up in boiling water. Rhaena is staring at the pot with horror. Baela scarfs down her stuffing like she’s been starving to death. Flashlights illuminate the room in dim ocher like a setting sun, the roof vents open to let in cool night air. The trailer smells like cigarette smoke and dust and mildew. Piled haphazardly in corners are old newspapers, mounds of unfolded clothes, empty boxes and plastic bags, VHS tapes—Star Wars, 80s rock concerts, Clint Eastwood movies—and unwashed cups.

Aemond chuckles like it’s preposterous. “No.”

“Garth Brooks?”

“No.”

“NASCAR?”

“Who watches NASCAR?!” Aegon says.

You smile. “Everyone’s got a driver where I’m from.”

Cregan, vindicated, thumps a closed fist against his chest. “I was a Jeff Gordon guy. His car reminded me of a box of Froot Loops or something.”

“My brother Denver covered the inside of the garage with Dale Earnhardt Jr. stuff. I got obsessed with Juan Pablo Montoya for a while, he was cute.”

“So you chase the dark-haired fellas,” Cregan says, grinning, still stirring the potatoes. Everyone else’s wide, perplexed gazes fly between you and Cregan as they eat their Stove Top stuffing from Styrofoam bowls.

You titter nervously. “I don’t usually chase anyone.”

Aegon notices a taxidermied largemouth bass mounted on the wall, approximately fifteen pounds. “What the fuck,” he whispers, dismayed.

“WWE?” Cregan asks you.

“Oh, Rey Mysterio, no question. He was cute too.”

Cregan snorts. “He literally never took off his mask!”

“He was cute underneath it. I could tell, I have a sense for these things.”

“I’ll let you live in delusion.”

“I thought wrestling was real back then. When he’d get beat up and covered in fake blood, I’d start crying because I figured he’d die. Who was your favorite?”

“John Cena.” Cregan waves an open hand back and forth in front of his face. “You can’t see me!” You both burst out laughing. No one else gets it.

“It’s John Cena’s signature move,” you explain.

“Hm,” Aemond says, but he’s watching you and Cregan with deep grooves in his forehead and a solemnness in his lone blue eye, tapping his chin restlessly.

“Now, we might not have any butter…” Cregan picks up one of the containers scattered around him, a plastic jug of Great Value powdered coffee creamer. “But this makes for the best potatoes on the planet.” The others watch, stunned, appalled, as he adds several heaping spoonfuls to the pot.

You smile wistfully. How is it possible to be so nostalgic for a place you once believed was killing you, wringing you dry until all your blood dripped onto the floor and you were left a husk, a ghost, a myth? “My Mama always did that. She put it in mac and cheese too.”

Cregan serves you first, taking your empty stuffing bowl and returning it nearly overflowing with Hungry Jack instant potatoes. “Here’s a taste of home.”

And he’s right; you take a bite—hot enough to burn your tongue, smooth, rich, soupy in texture—and it’s just like being five or ten or fifteen again, when this was your idea of luxury, a good day, lounging on a sagging couch torn to hell by the cats and watching The Simpsons or Malcolm In The Middle with your brothers. Cregan scoops Hungry Jack into all the bowls. Baela digs in enthusiastically. The others, following your lead, take cautious tastes, shrug, and decide it’s tolerable for one night. Cregan grabs a new pot and dumps a box of Rice-A-Roni into it, along with the packet of seasoning, a bottle of water, and a single spoonful of coffee creamer for good measure. As the rice cooks, he distributes one can of barbeque-flavored Vienna sausages to each guest. Rhaena pops hers open and immediately begins retching. Aegon feeds his to Ice.

After dinner, Cregan compiles all the extra blankets and pillows he can find, then supplements with bath towels and bedsheets from the closet in the hallway. The trailer is small, only one bedroom; you all agree Baela should get it. She will share with Rhaena and Luke, as she always does now. She doesn’t like sleeping alone. Cregan offers to take first watch, a gift in return for being rescued from a slow death by deprivation. Aemond agrees, but only because Rio—with a wink and a knowing smirk—volunteers to stay up too. Rio will keep tabs on this almost-stranger; Rio is the only one big enough to knock Cregan around if such an occasion ever arose. Aemond tells them to wake him up halfway through the night so he can take over and let them rest. You say you want to do the second watch too, and this time Aemond doesn’t argue.

Helaena gets the couch and Daeron curls up on the olive green carpet beside her, Aegon claims the tattered old recliner, you arrange your pillow and blanket—thin, scratchy, a weak blue mottled with dark stains you can’t identify—against the wall on the other side of the living room. Rio is teaching Cregan how to play Uno on the small plastic folding table by the kitchen, only spacious enough for two. Ice is stretched out beneath the table with her grey muzzle resting on her paws. At the moment, Aemond is supervising; he’s still trying to decide how much he can trust Cregan.

Aegon wanders over to you then bends down, his hands on his knees. “This place is revolting,” he whispers.

“It’s alright.”

“Where did you grow up? Alcatraz?” You laugh, and Aegon gives you his pink CD player, Ava still written across the top in rhinestones. “Just in case you need to get away for a while. It’s wasted on me. I’m going to be unconscious about two seconds after my head hits the pillow.”

“I’ll take good care of it.”

“If you see any meth lying around, you let me know. I’m always in the market for new ways to shorten my life expectancy.”

“I’ll keep any such discoveries to myself. I enjoy you too much.”

Aegon recoils, lets that sink in, then beams as he saunters back to his creaking recliner.

“Hey, Chips?” Luke says, approaching you shyly. He’s holding his Marlin .22. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but my rifle was shooting way to the left today, and I don’t think my aim’s that awful.”

“No problem.” You take it and remove the remaining bullets so there’s no chance the gun will accidentally fire, then examine the sights. “Can you get me Baela’s hammer?”

“Sure.” Luke dashes off and then returns with it moments later.

“You said it was skewed to the left?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

You take the hammer and tap the rear sight a few times. Luke watches you, fascinated, troubled. When he speaks, his voice is soft and miserable.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at everything.”

“You know, this is the only possible scenario in which someone like you is worth less than me.” You give him an encouraging smile. “I didn’t go to a fancy school. I work with my hands.”

“But you’re smart, Chips. You could have gone to college if you wanted to.”

How would I have paid for application fees, or to take the SAT? How would I have gotten Mama to fill out the FAFSA? What school would have given me a scholarship with my mediocre grades in standard-level classes? Who would have driven me to school and helped me move in? How would I have bought books, shampoo, tampons, a laptop? Where would I have gone if I had trouble finding a job after graduation? What if the people there saw through me? What if they shrank away from the frayed threads I’m built of? There is no point in saying these things. The gulf between you is too great; it will only confuse Luke and hurt you. “I wouldn’t have known where to start.” You reload the Marlin .22 and pass both the gun and the hammer back to him. “I think it’ll work better now.”

“I bet you wish Jace was here instead of me,” Luke says, and it shocks you. “Everyone does, except maybe Rhaena.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jace was a good fighter, and he was smart, and brave, and capable, and I’m just this…this weak scared loser who only knows how to write screenplays. And what goddamn use is that? Hollywood doesn’t even exist anymore! Scraps of Tom Cruise are probably stuck in some zombie’s teeth right now!”

“Luke, I’m glad you’re here.”

“I shouldn’t have left Jace,” he whispers, distraught. “I betrayed him. He was always protecting me and I couldn’t even save him once.”

“We did everything we could. And we all left Jace, not just you. It was me and Rio who said it first. You haven’t earned the blame.” If Jace’s ghost comes knocking, it won’t be your door he opens, Luke.

“Okay,” Luke replies softly.

“Baela is very, very grateful to still have you and Rhaena, Luke. She told me.”

Luke stares at you, doubtful, hopeful, wanting to believe. “Really?”

“I swear she did. I think you two are keeping her sane. The world, the baby, Jace…sometimes what’s most valuable to people are simple things, kindness, gentleness, compassion, support. I can kill zombies, sure, but I’ve never been good at knowing the right thing to say. You are.”

“Okay,” Luke says again, but he seems more at peace now; perhaps even the tiniest bit proud. “I guess I should go make sure Baela has everything she needs before I go to sleep.”

“That sounds like a good plan.”

Luke walks a few steps, then turns back towards you, smiling. “I think you know the right thing to say once in a while.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Luke insists, then disappears down the shadowy hallway and into the bedroom.

Aemond arrives at last with his blanket and pillow, arranges them beside yours, then joins you where you sit cross-legged on the floor. “You didn’t stay with Rio today when we rescued Cregan,” he says; not an accusation, a statement, a surrender of sorts.

“No. I didn’t.”

You must be visibly preoccupied. Aemond asks: “What are you thinking about?”

You decide to tell the truth. “How you were never supposed to meet me.”

“What do you mean?”

You point to him. “Rich boy with a beach house on a cliff.” Then you tap your own heart. “Poor girl who grew up playing with sticks and box turtles.”

“And that’s why you like Cregan so much.”

“It’s nice to have someone around who speaks the same language, sure. It’s nice to not have to explain things or think up lies so I can fit into other people’s idea of what the world is. But I don’t like Cregan more than I like you. Not even close.”

Aemond smiles, a warm glow like fire from under his scarred skin. “I’m glad I met you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even if it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I’m sorry I’m not…” Someone sophisticated, seductive, experienced, bewitching. “I’m sorry I don’t already know how to do everything.”

“I don’t care. I would have liked you however you were when I found you.”

You look up at him skeptically. “Really?”

“Yes. Zero boyfriends or ten or twenty, I would want you the same way I do now.”

It hits you so suddenly you can’t stop the tremor in your voice, the shimmering tears in your eyes. “Aemond, please don’t die.”

“I’ll do my best.” He lifts the CD player from your lap and offers you an earbud. You accept it and slip it into your right ear as he puts the other into his left, then clicks the play button on Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman. What you hear are the opening ukelele plucks of Riptide, and you are spirited back to 2013: middle school, oversized hoodies and ripped jeans, hair you have no idea what to do with, the librarian letting you browse music videos on YouTube during lunch because you never cause any trouble, taking bites of your sandwich—one piece of Wonder Bread folded in half, a glob of Skippy peanut butter—and chewing slowly to make it last longer.

Aemond lies down and you rest your head on his chest as he covers you both with his blanket, circles his arms around you and pulls you in closer; and through the music you hear him mutter: “I wish this disgusting Hoarders trailer had two bedrooms.”

You laugh, burrow deeper into him, let his warmth and the drumming of his heartbeat lull you into darkness, still and serene, a place that exists beyond the world and the fear that it is ending.

When you open your eyes again, Aemond is up and speaking in hushed voices with Cregan and Rio in the kitchen, but he hasn’t tried to rouse you yet. I shouldn’t be awake, why am I awake?

Because someone is shining a flashlight directly into your face. You blink and swat at the blinding yellow-white gleam, your eyes aching, your vision hazy and distorted.

“He must check below the racks,” Helaena says. She is on her hands and knees and peering down at you like a bird of prey, like a goddess on Mount Olympus.

“What…?”

“He’s tall, so he won’t look, but that’s where it is. Below the racks. He must see it. Promise me you’ll make him see it.”

“Who’s tall…?” Aemond, Rio, Cregan?

“Promise me!” she hisses fiercely.

“Okay, Helaena! Okay. I promise.”

She crawls away without another word, climbs onto the couch, clicks off the flashlight, and tumbles back into the abyss of sleep with her back to you.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Chevy Tahoe—2001 instead of 2023, a dull rusty red instead of glossy dark blue—barrels down Route 2 past fields of soybeans ravaged by deer and rabbits, high feral weeds, tree branches entombing power lines and houses and barns, leaves freckled with cicadas and caterpillars, hay bales and archaic churches, life in shades of peridot and malachite and bloodstone and jade. Baela is driving, Ice has her big shaggy head hanging out of an open window, Cregan is examining Aegon’s map…and meanwhile, Aegon and Rio are singing along to the Enrique Iglesias song blasting through the speakers as one of the mixtapes spins in the Tahoe’s CD player, pretending to serenade and propose marriage to each other.

“Bailamos, let the rhythm take you over, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, bailamos

Gonna live this night forever, bailamos

Te quiero amor mío, te quiero!”

Up ahead there is something in the middle of the road. No, not something; someone, parked across the double yellow lines on a small black motorcycle. As you approach, this person—made blurry by the distance—removes their helmet and seems to wait for you.

“What’s up with that?” Baela asks apprehensively, slowing down from her previously brisk eighty miles per hour.

Aemond frowns at the figure and then scans the fields on either side of the road. “I don’t know. Luke?”

Luke stands up through the sunroof to get a better look with his binoculars. “Oh my God, it’s…it’s…”

“Jace!” Baela screams, and slams on the brakes. She bolts out of the Tahoe before remembering to put it in park; the SUV rolls along sluggishly until Rhaena yanks the gear lever into the proper position. Now everyone is pouring out of the doors and rushing to him. Jace is laughing; he embraces Baela as she crashes into him and sobs into the curve of his neck. Jace is wearing jeans and a leather jacket despite the heat, safety precautions for the motorcycle. If he were to fall off, he’d keep most of his skin.

“I was hoping I’d run into you guys. I didn’t know if I was too far ahead or falling behind.”

Aegon gawks at him, sputtering. “How did…? How are you…?”

“You showed me your map, idiot,” Jace says; but he sounds relieved. “Route 2 all the way across Iowa, that part was pretty easy to remember. I figured if I could get here, I might be able to find you. If not, I’d just surprise you in California.” He grins, huge and teasing, ecstatic tears glittering in his eyes.

“The river,” Luke says, thunderstruck. “We thought you were dead…we left you…Jace, I’m…I’m so sorry we left you…”

“Hey, I get it. The bridge situation was fucked, there was no way you guys could fish me out. The river washed me miles downstream, way too fast for the zombies to keep up. I eventually got dumped on the shore near where some people had set up camp for the night. They were living out of a school bus, about fifteen of them. They heard me coughing and moaning, hunted me down, and dragged me back to the bus. Super nice, right? I told them about the zombies, and we relocated in a hurry. They were headed for a town up near Chicago, Rockville or something, so they took me with them and then one guy gave me his bike and taught me to ride it so I could go west. It’s a Honda Rebel 300. It can get 70 miles to the gallon. I’ve barely had to siphon any gas! And the siphoning hose my new friends gave me is the kind with a pump. No more Uno roulette, bitches!”

“I can’t believe you’re okay,” Baela whispers, tears flooding down her face.

“Don’t cry, I’m here, I’m back, everything’s the way it should be again. Now how’s my baby doing…?”

You, Aemond, and Rio exchange astonished glances. Luke snaps out of his shock and runs to hug Jace and Baela, and Rhaena follows him. Daeron searches the horizon for movement, for danger. Helaena rips the pristine white petals off a bloodroot blossom one by one.

For the first time, Jace notices Cregan. Ice stands beside the flannel-wearing Iowan on the pavement, wagging her long grey tail. She barks at Jace uncertainly. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Oh yeah, that’s Cregan Man Bun Stark,” Aegon says. “And his anti-zombie wolf Blue Raspberry Icee.”

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 5 part 4

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4])

(this is a sad one, apologies in advance)

agatha just had the unimaginably traumatic experience of her mother's evil ghost possessing her body, so of course she cracks jokes. she's shaking like a leaf, but hey, coping mechanism gotta cope!

when evanora tried to execute agatha, stealing secrets or whatever was only an excuse, she was punishing her daughter for the sin of being born. whatever she says, her so called worry for these other witches is also an excuse. she's simply furious that someone has begun to think of agatha as a person rather than a monster. it's once again a selfless VS selfish paradox, evanora is always framing her actions as selfless and for the greater good, but her hatred for agatha is undeniably raw and personal. I would love to learn what evanora's life was like, who were her parents? what turned her into such a hateful mother?

(look at how angry rio already is. and alice always protecting the person closest to her by default.)

this is the ultimate humiliation for agatha, someone who has always kept her past and struggles so close to the chest. now one of her deepest traumas is laid bare for everyone to see and judge. she's always trying to come off as strong and unfeeling and formidable, but here she is, a sad little girl abused by her own mother.

btw I see you all have strong feelings about ghosts and billy's powers! lol I got so many comments. I see you, I see you! Granted I'm not actually super invested in my ghost theories, this being a made up marvel show and all, but here's what I think:

agatha says to wanda, "you have no idea how dangerous you are, you're supposed to be a myth, a being capable of spontaneous creation, and here you are, using it to make breakfast for dinner!" agatha, one of the most powerful witches ever existed, could not create food for nicky. like, the scope of wanda's powers (and billy's by extension) is the kind of scary that can reshape reality itself and truly and properly fuck up the Sacred Balance or whatever rio calls it.

when I say billy created a ghost evanora, yes it's a copy but in the same way a Star Trek transporter makes a copy, you know what I mean? whether the orignal stays behind or not, billy's evanora is the real evanora. and if you believe in souls, that gets even more complicated! did billy take evanora's soul from the afterlife and plopped her in here, or did it copy it too? and was wanda actually able to create billy's and tommy's or did she catch the wandering soul of stillborn twins?

see I don't think evanora was a ghost prior to this (again, I might be proven wrong in the future, but this is where I'm at right now). if that were the case, you know she'd been haunting agatha's ass, wouldn't have given her a moment of peace. maybe rio took extra care to send her to the afterlife, idk. now rio looks shocked and angry to see evanora, like this is a new development.

rio's voice is literally roaring with anger

like i cannot overstate how much rio hates and despises evanora for what she did to agatha

evanora zeroes in on rio, approaches. rio takes a whole step back and makes herself smaller. she's nervous. she says that ghosts are cheaters, but it goes beyond that, doesn't it? rio understands life and death, but a ghost is neither, or both. it goes beyond all her control and expertise, and for the first time since we've known her, she's at a disadvantage. ironic, isn't it, considering what happens to agatha in the finale?

agatha, who's been cowering in a corner, chooses this moment to approach. does she want to protect rio and billy and the others? or is she so desperate for an ounce of love and affection from her mother that she, coward as she is, actually wants to put herself in arm's way?

while everyone is focused on agatha, alice looks at rio. she is putting together evanora's words, agatha's terror and rio's hatred. jen is being selfish. alice, generous alice, could never be selfish

the last time agatha saw her mother she was still a kid. now she is a mother herself and the mere thought of not loving, not wanting to protect your child, of actually going out of your way to harm them? it's simply inconceivable to her.

the shock. the tears forming in her eyes. the same heartbreak she felt when she realized her mom was about to kill her at the stake. she's feeling small and wretched and unloved like only a parent can make you feel

it's the matter-of-fact tone she uses. it's worse than hatred. she despises agatha beyond hatred

there is a moment in a child's life when they see a parent clearly for the first time, their weakness and their flaws. this is especially true for an abused child, it comes a day when you realize that despite being called bad and evil and blamed for the pain happening, it was never really your fault. agatha knows what a parent's love should look like now. and this is not it.

rio visibly deflates. she is the only person in the room agatha opened up with about her mother. there is nothing she can do to spare her pain now. she has no power against evanora

alice has a blinding moment of shock, realization, pity. she knows only too well what generational pain and trauma can do to a person. but she still had a mother who loved her. agatha didn't.

jen, who used to be a healer, can no longer feel compassion. jen has had to learn to protect herself above all others. because evanora hurt agatha, and agatha hurt jen in return.

and when it's all said and done, agatha will always beg. all her power, her brains, her experiences are nothing. she regress to that girl at the stake. I can be good. please.

alice, who's always been the first to jump to everyone's defense, who always puts others before herself. she has seen agatha bare and helpless, she has seen that raw core that agatha has always hidden and, in her final moments, she's accepted agatha in her coven. it's more instinct than rationality, but alice has always been a heart over head kinda girl. if she can see the harpy, if she can see the pain, by GOD she'll do something about it.

“The Knight of Wands.” full of fire, fights bravely.

lilia's gut-wrenching scream. she knows what is happening. agatha already told her.

a succubus who hasn't fed in so long. I keep thinking, there was never anybody who loved her enough to teach her control, to seek alternative solutions to satiate her hunger. rio never could, rio cannot interfere with who lives and who dies. but could a coven together have fed her? could a big coven have donated power little by little, and kept her safe and valued and protected? nurtured her in every way? or was she always doomed from the start? was evanora right, did alice sign her death warrant the moment she chose to love agatha? I know what my answer is to all that, but what do you guys think?

and another question for you: billy casts around desperately for help, nicky answers. was nicky, or rather a shadow of nicky, created by billy too? or was the son of Death powerful enough and scared enough to reach out on his own, maybe with just a little push on billy's part?

a name was all it took for agatha to pass her trial, and look how much was needed to get it out of her. only billy's chaos could do the impossible: drag agatha's ravaged and wrecked heart to the surface. billy only wanted to help her heal, but he's a just a boy with the power to shape the universe. it took evoking ghosts and dredging up horrible trauma to make all of agatha's defenses crumble and raw-beat her into admitting her pain, into maybe, if we're lucky, starting on the road to recovery. oh, billy. you don't know how to handle things gently yet, with your big man's hands and your young, too young soul.

she stops IMMEDIATELY. she didn't know how to control her hunger, until now. the monster was human all along

by. as in, by billy, because he did it all. and also, good-bye. good-bye, mama.

oh, alice. there are no words.

and now they're no longer just numbers, just fools she conned and killed and abandoned on the road. now it's the girl with the big luminous heart, who sang the Ballad with her, who shared her same pain, the first human being in agatha's life who wanted to selflessly help her.

there is a moment, in a child's life, when they see a parent clearly for the first time.

[driaswrld]

what was i made for? — gojo satoru and geto suguru.

wc : 1.3k

summary : reader and the boys go through the aftermath of the star plasma vessel incident, which leaves reader questioning just how much things have changed and if there's even a way to move forward from here.

part of : the star paradox collection.

notes : this is readers pov of how things are going, and im hoping to do satoru and suguru's own parts as well bcus this really fleshes out the dynamics in the trio. also, the tsr collection will dive into more of this in terms of character analysis for the sake of the au - but i won't kill y'all with too much angst. yet. IM KIDDING CHILL!!

other : jjk szn two spoilers! mentions of toji incident, mentions of hickeys, reader dissociates, rs label is undefined (they're literally dating without knowing it bye) yes im also having thoughts abt barbie goodbye. @kfmcykdy gets the privilege tag today <33

current casette : what was i made for? - barbie, the album.

The summer of ‘06, everything changed.

It started days after the incident with Riko.

You’d been sitting on Suguru’s bed, back leaned against the headboard as he smoked a cigarette, shirtless and flat on his back, head leaned over the edge of the bed.

More often than usual now, Suguru smokes.

Satoru makes fun with it all in good faith most times and takes a few drags from the stick himself before coughing out the smoke.

He’d say something along the lines of him and Suguru being the first to kick the bucket, leaving you behind — one from lung cancer the other from diabetes, cause truly, there’s nothing in this world living and breathing that could kill them.

Suguru would say, he isn’t afraid of death. And if he goes out, he wants it to be because you and Satoru smothered him in his sleep.

Everything’s changed, hasn’t it?

“It’s raining,” he murmurs, a puff of smoke leaving his mouth. Subconsciously, you lean forward a little to inhale it, chasing him. Always chasing.

Because if Suguru is smoke and Satoru is fire, what are you? If they’re the strongest, what are you? “Satoru forgot his umbrella.” You finish for him, like you’ve taken residence in his mind.

Suguru hates it. But his existence, it’s yours and Satoru’s isn’t it?

There’s a hickey adorning the base of Suguru’s throat, another trail of marks covering his collarbone. If you looked lower, you’d see more of you and Satoru embedded in his flesh. But even now, you can’t move your eyes below Suguru’s neck. So you look away entirely.

Too many times these past days have you looked straight at him, and have your mind transported back to the image of him bloody and bruised, caked in crimson from the edge of his shoulders, across the expanse of his chest down to the curved line of his pelvis.

It's funny how now the scar is shaped like a star.

That day, you’d just returned from a mission, a day later than your arrival was scheduled for. Your bag clattered out of your hand the moment you opened your dorm door. Drops of blood in dried trails led from the doorway to your bed, to the bathroom then back.

He came to you first, and you weren’t there.

“name.” Suguru whispers, and when you look over to him again, he’s sitting upright and looking at you. “Where’d you go just now?” He asks, and a chilly feeling blossoms on your skin. But it’s not from the rain breeze wafting through the window.

If I tell you, you’ll hold me.

And if you hold me, I’ll shatter in your arms.

“Just daydreaming.” You say and he looks at you, one brow raised slightly. Suguru leans to the side and flicks the cigarette butt through the open window.

He doesn’t ask. Maybe because he knows if Satoru asked him, he wouldn’t say it either.

Everything’s changed.

“Okay,” he says and Suguru, your beautiful Suguru — “name.” He calls to you again, except this time it comes out softer, more like a plea.

His body shifts atop the sheets, curling into a fetal position, the side of his cheek resting on the fat of your thigh. “Don’t go too far away from me next time,” he whispers, your fingers sifting through his dark hair.

Two days later, Satoru leaves for a mission in Shinjuku.

He wakes early, knocks on your dorm door twice, slides a note under the door with a thin packet of powdered candy taped to it.

You don’t get out of bed to pick it up. Satoru thinks you must be tired again. You look so tired these days.

When you finally wake up, it’s afternoon.

Suguru is home from his own mission, and he makes you a cup of tea, kisses your cheek and heads to his room.

Lately, the thing you and Suguru have most in common is that you sleep. All the time, sleep. You wonder if it’s for different reasons.

Then later, the clock in the corridor of the dormitory building strikes nine.

You hear Satoru’s shoes against the hardwood floors and you look over your shoulder from where you’re seated on the common room couch, some cheesy romcom playing on the tv.

“Yo.” Satoru smiles, white plastic bag rustling in his grasp when he pushes his sunglasses up to rest in his snowy hair. You smile back at him, and despite yourself, your gaze goes back to the tv, the soft lighting hiding the furrow of your brow.

Does he not notice?

No, it’s not that.

“Did you eat already?” He asks, setting the bag down on the coffee table in front of you. Rather than sitting beside you on the couch, he pushes the plastic bag to the side and rests his weight there on the coffee table, one leg crossed in an ‘L shape’ over the other.

His collar is high, even though it’s hot out.

Maybe, if you didn’t know him enough, all these things would sneak past your gaze.

Everyday, every new detail, every new scar whether physical or not, gnaws at you like a disease stirring your insides.

Satoru won’t say it, but he doesn’t like when anyone touches his neck anymore.

He used to love it, when Suguru would kiss his nape, when you move the soft strands aside to cut his hair. When the tip of Suguru’s nose tickles his adam’s apple, or when you lick a stripe at the bottom of his throat.

Limitless. Infinity. Invincible.

Until it isn't.

“Yeah, Shoko brought over takeout,” you say and the glow of his blue orbs don’t really feel like Satoru right now.

If this was a month ago, you’d laugh at yourself for thinking that. When is Satoru never Satoru?

But, has everything really changed?

You want to reach a hand out to him and unzip the top of his uniform, maybe then he could breathe a little easier. But why?

Why do your fingers tremble in your lap?

Something inside of you feels like your fingers will be met with a barrier. And if you try to touch him now, with a barrier between you two, it will kill you again.

More than the sight of his near lifeless body ever could.

“name?” He tilts his head to the side, and your eyes dart back to him, unaware that you even looked away in the first place.

There’s a sound of static from the tv just as your eyes meet his, and the two of you rise from your seats at the same time —

Who’s chasing who this time?

There's a scar there on his neck, you know it. He hasn't given you the chance to look at it for longer than a few seconds — Toji is burned into his flesh.

Or rather, a reminder of his weakness is.

Satoru opens his mouth to say something. But he isn’t as easily read as Suguru sometimes.

His emotions are clouded by more complex emotions. When Satoru feels, he feels everything.

He comes in a box with one hundred different user manuals in different languages that no one knows. Suguru was a translator, and you, a scribe, committing him to memory. But even then —

Why won’t you say what you feel, Satoru?

He clenches a fist by his side, like he's holding back, his gaze drops from yours and he walks over to the tv, knocking the top of it a few times to get it to stop glitching out. In between that he whispers, “I brought noodles — somen for Suguru and the cold soba you like…”

Satoru looks tired, he falters in his stride.

Strength, huh?

The air around you feels cold with the weight of his cursed energy, no matter how thin and how much he tries to regulate the flow, you can feel it.

You would know him blind.

How long have you been seeing everything in the world but us?

You’ve never wanted to cry more in your life.

“I’m sure Suguru could eat,” you whisper back, voice a little hoarse. Suguru is probably asleep, or pretending to, like he does sometimes, just so he doesn’t have to see Satoru after missions like this – where he’s trying so hard. So hard to do more, to be more.

And you don’t see it, but you have a feeling Satoru’s heart is breaking in two. Why?

Why are things so different no matter how hard we try?

“Yeah? I have a dvd of that movie we never got to watch somewhere under my bed—”

Maybe.

Everything’s changed.

But maybe, things need to change.

[iridiss]

he wakes up in a highschool-shaped hell where everyone he knows has been turned into 2000s era American teenagers. Naturally he goes and asks the nearest familiar-looking child for help

Only good things could come from this I’m sure

Someone should play around more with the fact that Laurance is the universe’s chosen special punching bag for throwing people into other dimensions and timelines. Laurance has canonically been transported into other universes. Someone should play around with that more, put him in even more worlds. someone should make an au where the mind of MCD!Laurance gets transported into the body of a Mystreet Laurance in the middle of highschool, and now this grown-ass traumatized medieval fantasy man has to deal with the challenges of highschool drama and college and chemistry homework. and everything that happens in season 6. MCD Laurance should be there to witness and participate in the events of when angels fall methinks. someone should draw that

and that someone is me

[melancholymetropolis]

Exchange

plot: In which a Bridesmaid finds out she accidentally got married in Vegas months prior.

pairings: Clan Leader!Gojo Saturo x Lawyer!Reader

genre(s): Second Chance; Accidental Marriage

warnings: unedited (mostly). Golden Retriever/ Fox Au. Gojo is a goofball and makes Y/N laugh a lot. She is very much anti-marriage, but open to love. COMEDY. Couple's Banter. Lots of fluff. Gojo fell first and hard. New Love.

a/n: this will be a mini series with weekly updates.

w.c: 3.5k

“You have gotten even more beautiful since the day you left me.”

My eyes immediately widen from the sentiment. The air in my throat had become thick and my hands had begun to shake. I almost didn’t recognize his voice. Its cadence was a distant memory; one I had left behind months ago. In Vegas, of all places. It was the way he said “beautiful” that transported me back in time. It was the first thing he said to me. In a dark club, under neon lights and a cloud of smoke. He didn’t use basic, sexually charged words to get my attention. He was respectful, I liked that about him. He had been the only guy to introduce himself and offered to pay for my drink properly. He called me things like “beautiful”, “gorgeous” and “breathtaking”. Those three little words had meant more to me than whatever bullshit the other guys were doing. 

His electric, blue eyes seemed to glow in the low light. They never wandered anywhere else but my face when we talked. He seemed genuinely interested in everything I had to say. From me saying that it was my first time in Vegas to how much I hated crowded spaces. I had only come to the club to celebrate a friend’s engagement and was labeled the designated driver for that night. If I recall, he said my job was “honorable” and applauded me for taking it seriously.

And, in an effort to make up for our lost drink, he gave me his number. Told me to call him when I was free. 

Gojo’s eyes were just as I remembered. So bright and powerful— almost inviting to look into. He wore a navy blue suit to compliment the intimidating orbs and brighten his pale complexion. His unruly, white hair had been combed back with a singular curl setting in the middle of his forehead. The silver watch on his wrist looked heavy and vintage— possibly a family heirloom of some sort. I had forgotten how tall he had been. Even though I had worn six-inch heels, he still was a few inches taller than me. And I definitely was not a short woman.

“I left you?” I said, finally coming back to earth. “I don’t recall ever doing such a thing.”

A sly smirk began to form on his face. “Oh really?” He replied, taking slow steps towards me. “That’s mighty convenient on your end.”

“How so?”

“It relieves you of any guilt.”

A painful silence fell between us. Our eyes locked in a heated exchange, while our hands remained by our sides. I couldn’t deny the connection we had—couldn’t forget the spark. 

“Bride or groom?” I asked, turning my back to him. 

The tall man grew closer to me. He took his stance about two feet away from my spot on the balcony. He placed his forearms on the edge and leaned forward. There was a painful aura lingering above his head. Something was wrong. It was more than simply not seeing me for a few months. It wasn’t my habit of escaping in the middle of the night. It was complicated and conflicting.

“Groom,” he sighed, looking at the beautiful countryside of Japan. “I'm guessing you're here for the bride, given the Bridesmaid dress.”

I hummed in disagreement. “I know them both, actually. We worked at the same law firm for a couple of years. I believe I introduced them to one another, all those years ago.”

“Oh, okay,” Gojo snickered. “A divorce lawyer playing cupid. And I thought I saw everything.”

A quiet giggle fell from my lips. “That's right. Consider me a walking paradox.”

“That you are,” he replied sweetly.

The tension from earlier had broken and was replaced with a sense of familiarity. 

It was nice.

A few breaths later, Gojo opened his suit jacket and pulled out a white envelope. He handed it to me. 

I gave him a questionable look. “What's that?”

“Open it and you'll see,” was all he said before placing the envelope into my hand. 

I lifted the tab and pulled out a folded piece of paper. At the very top was the letterhead for the Clark County Department of Records in Nevada State. The letter read:

  Dear Mister Gojo Satoru,

We are pleased to inform you that your marriage license has been processed successfully and your certificate will be arriving at your residence in 3 to 4 weeks. 

As of April 25, both you and Ms. Y/N L/N are legally m—

“Nope,” I said, folding the letter and shoving it back in the envelope. “No the fuck we aren't.” I handed it back to Gojo. “Over my dead fucking body.”

“You hate me that much, sweet pea?” he chuckled. 

“I don't know you to hate you,” I replied, stuffing the envelope in my clutch purse. “And I would like to keep it that way.”

“You're breaking my heart, Y/N,” Gojo replied. His tone was still playful but there was a twinge of sadness in it. “Surely being married to me couldn’t be that bad.”

I scoffed and plucked a flute of champagne from the waiter’s tray. I took a big gulp of the bubbly beverage and sighed deeply.

Fate must've had something against me. I must've done something extraordinarily vicious in my past life to warrant such treatment. Marriage? The whole thing felt like a nightmare. I spent my whole life running from the false institution that was called “marriage”. It's a contract that almost always ends poorly. From spouses cheating on the other to emotional abuse and gaslighting— I had seen the most stable of unions crumble after a few decades. Families broken apart by secrets,  betrayal and unfortunate circumstances. Men and women alike pleading  for one more chance to correct their mistakes. And if that doesn't work, greed takes over. The desperate struggle for power between the couple and how it always ends badly. 

Marriage wasn't something I was particularly fond of. I didn’t see my sentiment changing any time soon. Even if the tall drink of water before me was legally my husband. 

I finished the rest of my beverage and placed it on a different waiter’s tray. I took several more deep breaths and turned my back to the white haired man. 

The alcohol had sedated the raging storm of emotions swirling in my being. A somber feeling eased into my heart, but I quickly shoved it back down. The blasting music in the background had made it abundantly clear that we couldn't do this here. Not now. Not at my best friends’ wedding. 

“I just need time to think this over. Figure out my next move,” I reached in my purse and pulled out a business card. I placed it on the railing. “Call me tomorrow afternoon and I'll tell you how I'd like to proceed.”

“Wait, Y/N—”

“Goodnight, Mr. Gojo.”

I didn't even look back as I walked away from him.

“Come on, Jessica,” I practically begged. “There has to be a way to end this shit sooner.”

“I hate to break it to you, Y/N,” my colleague sighed. “But there isn't. As you could imagine, a lot of people accidentally get married in Vegas. The number is close to about 50,000 couples. And a little less than half of them get their union annulled. Meaning, divorce court is overloaded with requests, follow ups and cases. If you file your paperwork today, you probably won't get a response for 1 to 3 months. Even then, the annulment might not even go through.”

“Because I was already married to him for six months without me knowing?” I said, pinching my nose bridge.

“Yup. To the judges eyes, it might not look like a mistake. He can still deny your annulment.”

My head was pounding and my mouth dry. An unknown fear started creeping up my spine. When I thought of the goals I set out for myself, for my life, marriage was never on the vision board. Especially not an accidental one. And definitely not one with a white haired, blue-eyed, Japanese man. However, he seemed to be awfully giddy about the union. Gojo sent upward of twenty text messages asking me how I was feeling or if I needed anything. He, also, suggested having lunch together to talk everything over. 

I looked out the cab’s window, watching the restaurant come into view. The place was clearly exclusive and very expensive. The right side of the establishment was made entirely of glass, overlooking the ocean just below the cliff. The sun was high in the sky and the clouds danced across her warm light. Waiting patiently in the front of the establishment was a familiar flock of white hair. The taller man had been shrouded in black this time. His overcoat perfectly matched the crisp suit underneath. The stark white shirt seemed brighter in the light; it made his chest glow. 

He looked entirely too perfect. As if he wanted to deflect my attention from something else. 

“Okay, Jess,” I said, pulling my gaze away from him. “I would like to survey all my options before I make a final decision.”

“Take all the time that you need, Y/N,” she replied in a sympathetic tone. “I will assist you in whatever way I can.”

“Thank you,” I smiled. “I will ring you soon.”

The car came to a gentle stop at the restaurant’s doors and I quickly ended the call. I thanked the driver once more and opened the car’s door. I barely had time to place my high heel on the pavement before a flock of black appeared in front of my door. A pale hand flickered in the doorway with outstretched fingers. I could only see his glowing chest and black attire from that angle. Not his face. I swung my other leg out of the other vehicle and took hold of his hand. The taller gentleman takes a firm grip and aids me out of the cab. As I rise from the leather seat, my eyes ease up his glowing chest and broad shoulders. They cascade up his broad shoulders and slender neck. His sharp jawline was relaxed and his plump lips in a soft smirk. Round sunglasses rested on his nose, covering his electric eyes. His white hair was messily styled atop his head and, also, seemed to glow in the sunlight. 

With my bag resting on my shoulder, I used my hand to close the car door behind me. Gojo held my hand tightly as he started to walk to the restaurant. The fingers were warm against my cool ones. It felt nice and. . . comforting. I didn’t have the desire to pull away from him. The realization we were still holding hands didn’t dawn on me until he dropped my mine. 

“Let me take your coat, Mrs. Gojo.”

And just like that, the cocky bastard ruined a perfectly good moment with a couple of words. 

I allowed him to slip my trench coat from my shoulders and settled in the seat before me. The taller gentleman slips off his jacket and takes the seat across from me. A toothy grin plastered on his lips as he eased the round sunglasses off his face. His eccentric eyes were already glued to my face. His gaze was unwavering. It was almost like he was waiting for me to say something in response to his little comment. The white haired man was ready for battle.

Unfortunately for him, I left my bulletproof vest at home. 

“Do you come here often?” I asked, bringing a glass of water to my lips.

Those bright blue eyes flickered to my lips. They darkened at the sight of such glossy softness and lingered on them even after I had placed the glass back on the table. It was almost like he was in some sort of trance. Lost in a memory that he treasured and never wanted to part from. 

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Gojo?”

“What gloss is that?” He questioned, abruptly breaking his gaze from my mouth.

“It’s from Juvia’s Place,” I answered with a raised eyebrow. “Why?”

“It just looks so good on you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I want to buy you a lifetime’s supply.”

“You’re laying it on a bit thick there, don’t you think?

“That’s what you do when you’re on a date.”

“This is not a date,” I deadpanned. 

“Sure it is,” Gojo chirped. “I mean why else would we be in such a romantic establishment.”

The wife joke seemed to be a warning shot in hindsight. The taller gentleman was trying to test the waters to see just how far he could push me. I left him stranded the day prior. In mid sentence. He was not able to plead his case, explain his side of the situation. I had laid my intentions out to him loud and clear. I wanted zero parts in this relationship. Our union was supposed to be limited anyhow. A vacation fling that went on a little too long for anyone’s liking. At least for my liking. The marriage was clearly a mistake and one I wanted to rectify quickly. However, any time I clearly displayed my disinterest in our union, Gojo was quick to deflect with a quip. That meant he wasn’t going to take anything I said or did seriously. I would have to approach this matter from a new angle. 

I would have to play his game and play it well. 

The waiter walked over to the table and set down our menus. “Is there anything I could get started for you?”

I hummed sweetly and looked over at Gojo. “What do you recommend? I’ve never been here before.”

The man’s chest practically swelled at the sentences. A new source of pride pumping through his veins. A sly smile fell on his lips as the words started to pour from his lips. In Japanese. 

“What dishes do you have without shellfish? She’s allergic.”

The question caused my eyebrows to shoot up. 

I didn’t remember disclosing that information to him. At least, in the past twenty-fours that we had reunited. That could only mean that he remembered the little tidbit I shared all those months ago. Six months to be exact. He carried that information with him for half the year, almost like he intended to use it again. His memory must’ve been impeccable, which was why he was able to recognize me at first glance at the wedding. Looking back, I didn’t even notice him until he approached me on the balcony. I had been seated with the rest of the wedding party, practically on a stage overlooking the venue and I still didn’t spot him. He would be hard not to notice. He was one of the only people I knew with stark white hair and was under the age of eighty. Along with those electric blue eyes that pierced me like a needle. The chemistry we had was undeniable and I knew we shared a mutual attraction to one another. 

Would that be enough to have a fulfilling marriage?

The waiter skated away with our orders and Gojo’s eyes locked back with mine.

“So, how long are you in Japan for?” He asked, bring a glass of water to his lips.

“Originally, I was supposed to only stay two weeks for the wedding,” I answered, tapping my hand on the edge of the table. “But, a potential client just called and asked for a consultation. They are from New York but live in Japan temporarily. So, the answer is a little unclear for me at the moment.”

The taller gentleman sighed, amused. “It seems like I have a little bit of time before we part ways once again. The heavens have truly blessed me this time.”

“And just what do you intend to do with that information, Mr. Gojo?”

“I’d like to convince you to remain Mrs. Gojo for the rest of our days together.”

“As in for the time being? While I am in Japan?”

Gojo smirked at that comment. “As in for the rest of your life, sweetheart.”

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. “And how exactly are you going to get me to do that?”

Gojo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His pink lips spread into a full blown smile. Those blue orbs sparkled dangerously as they flickered over my face. He seemed to be brimming with excitement. He wanted nothing more than to display his nefarious plan and keep me entangled in his spider’s web. 

“Originally, I planned on going the traditional route,” he conceded. “Showering you in gifts, expensive dinners and maybe a romantic weekend trip to Nokonoshima Island.”

“Buying a woman’s love? That is very traditional.”

“I know, but you are not a traditional woman,” he observed. “You are a divorce attorney. You are used to men attempting to buy a woman’s affection.”

“Very true.”

“So I came up with a proposal.”

“Do tell.”

“As you said, you don’t know me to hate me. Which means you don’t know me to like me either. And I, personally, think I am pretty fucking awesome.”

I chuckled, loudly. “You’re that confident, huh?”

“I am. Which is why I am suggesting that, for however long you are in Japan, we hang out.” 

“Hang out?”

“I would like to use this time to get to know each other. Continue what we started back in Vegas. Before you left me.”

“I didn’t leave you.”

The white haired man scoffed and leaned closer to me. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s not lie to each other. You practically ran your pretty booty out of my hotel room the moment the sun came up.”

“That’s not true!” I interjected with a smile.

“It is true! And you had the nerve to leave me a couple of twenties on the nightstand like I was sorta cheap whore you met on the street. I never felt so violated in my life.”

A fit of giggles burst from my lips, shattering the remaining wall we had between us. 

“That was never my intention! I just felt bad for ripping the buttons off of your Armani shirt. So I gave you some cash for dry cleaning.”

“There’s no need to explain yourself, Y/N. Your message was loud and clear,” he sighed dramatically, leaning back in your chair. “I was just your sexy little secret for the weekend. No plans of marrying me. You just wanted to hit it and quit. Leaving me to deal with the pain of your absence alone. Not even a cover to keep me warm, just the memories of our last rendezvous.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” I laughed, shaking my head. 

“However,” Gojo replied, completely ignoring my comment. “Unlucky for you, I have decided to get revenge by blackmailing you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“If you don’t hang out with me while you’re in Japan, I am gonna tell everyone you snore in your sleep.”

“I do not!”

“And you are a blanket hogger!”

“Blasphemy!”

“And you got me pregnant while we were in Vegas.”

A slew of laughter erupted from my being and I could feel tears beginning to prick the edges of my eyes. “ That is not even scientifically possible."

"It is so!" He laughed. "Why else would I have morning sickness and swollen ankles?"

"Gojo, please. I cannot breath. . . !"

"How could you attempt to abandon your child, Y/N?" He crossed her arms over his chest and playfully shook his head. "I am not fit to be a single mother and take care our baby alone."

"Well," I paused and attempted to catch my breath. "You should've just kept your legs closed and this wouldn't have happened."

The taller man let out a dramatic gasp and placed a hand to his chest. "Did you. . . did you just try to slut shame me? After you basically paid for my services? How dare you?"

I lifted a glass of water to my lips; a weak attempt to calm my explosive chuckles down. I gulped the cool drink down and placed the glass back on the table. In the same instance, the waiter started to place our meal before us. There had been a collection of small plates carrying different items on them. Some had stir-fried vegetables and garnish, while others had different kinds of sauces. The bigger plates had anything between sashimi and grilled fish to sauteed pork and beef. Once the waiters were done plating, our table was suited for royalty. All the different dishes came together to create a marvelous spread and their aromas were simply magical together. 

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a little bit of everything,” Gojo replied, meeting my gaze over the food. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

Like a light switch, the playful (borderline pain in my ass) was tucked away from view and replaced with a dashing gentleman. Familiar feelings started to bubble in my chest. Ones I had tucked away months ago. A small wave of adoration danced between our beings. Along with attraction. The little exchange, our unorthodox banter, had lightened the tension that was between us since we reunited. It made room for why we were originally drawn to each other. His playful, almost youthful, side was almost like a cushion in my high-stress daily life. He breathed cool air into my hot tempered mind and gave me a sense of mental clarity I never experienced. It was easy for me to like him. To be attracted to him. To lust for him. But to love him?

That seemed like a different story. 

“It’s perfect.”

---------

Part II

a/n: don't fight me y'all! i've been adulting something fierce. as previously mentioned, this will be a series and i will post updates regularly. if you would like to be on the official taglist, let me know.

[darklinaforever]

I don't understand some people's obsession with the age difference between Edwin and the Cat King.

Yes, Edwin is a perennial 16 year old.

But the Cat King isn't even human. He is literally a cat deity. And as someone @jaks21 pointed out to me in the comments, the Cat King has the overall behavior of a cat : "I think it's also being forgotten that the cat king isn't human. He can shift into human form, but he is essentially a cat. This is all cat behavior. They have absolutely no sense of personal space (unless it's their own), they like the thrill of the hunt and they like to play."

Soon people will talk to me about zoophilia maybe ?

Beyond that, the Cat King's behavior seems to be quite immature most of the time as well.

So why are people absolutely trying to categorize him as a straight-up adult when he's not a human being ? Who tells you that his brain works like a human's ? Who tells you he's not a baby compared to other supernatural beings ?

It's all well and good to judge Edwin for his reality on the show, but give the same courtesy to the Cat King in this case, otherwise it just seems designed to unnecessarily lower the ship.

Also, if we want to speak realistically... since the Catwin plot revolves around Edwin finally coming to terms with his sexual orientation through his attraction to the Cat King (even if we know that there is also an important emotional context involved ) well it seems to me that Edwin is exactly the age of consent required for sexual relations, namely 16 years old.

Sexual maturity is not the same as legal age making you an adult and I feel like people often confuse the two.

I also find it paradoxical to say that Edwin, who lived more than a century, is judged as not being able to date an almost immortal divinity (because yes, one day the Cat King will no longer have his 9 lives and will therefore die for of good) clearly outside human norms because he happens to be a Cat King and not having at all the behavior of an human adult, or even of a real human, under the pretext that Edwin has his brain blocked at age 16 years old.

But many people will also say that Edward in Twilight cannot love Bella, a teenager, on the pretext that he has lived several centuries due to being a vampire, even if this type of vampire in this universe mentally stops evolving at the age where they were transformed, making Edwin an eternal teenager of 17 years old. Yet he is considered disgusting for wanting to be with a human teenager of almost the same age mentally ?(Be careful, I'm not saying that Twilight is an excellent and brilliant story, I'm just talking about the context of the age difference between the protagonists and the ridiculous discourse around it)

The battles over the age difference in fiction featuring supernatural beings are almost never consistent. And for good reason, I find it useless !

Because most of the time, the supernatural creature does not meet human standards in order to be associated with the younger person (at least if this person is actually younger, in the term of non-majority, because otherwise, as long as everyone is an adult we don't care). Or if it is not the creature that follows a particular pattern, we are for example transported into a universe inspired by a particular era, where the legal age is then different.

So, we must stop judging imaginary beings as if they were human adults, it makes no sense.

Yes. Edwin has been a 16 year old ghost for a very long time and technically cannot mature beyond this age. Tragic. But in the show, which is not the comics, it doesn't really matter. Edwin remains a character with an arc and evolution. So he has undeniably experienced things as a ghost that allow him to change and evolve in his own way.

Of course, it can be confusing, but Edwin's case aside, the Cat King does not meet human standards. And he clearly doesn't behave like a human. Even less that of an adult human. So stop judging him as such.

Essentially the Cat King resembles in his behavior a mixture of... well, a cat, since that's what he is, and a form of immature teenager.

That the Cat King is older than Edwin doesn't matter if he doesn't have a maturity greater than Edwin.

Once again, the Cat King clearly doesn't have the mentality or maturity of most healthy adults of our world. So why absolutely try to judge him as such ? Again, that doesn't make sense.

The Cat King is a being to be judged outside of our realistic standards.

Plus, being uncomfortable with the Cat King & Edwin relationship because Edwin is 16... seems ridiculous again.

Although I would love for the show to make Catwin canon in the future I doubt that will be the case (but good if it happens !), as things stand the Cat King only seemed to be a tool to allow Edwin to open up a little more about himself, in particular about accepting his sexuality, even if not only that. So, since the sexual aspect is very much emphasized in this relationship, it must be taken into account. And Edwin is a 16 year old teenager. Not only do adolescents inevitably have a period of trouble linked to sex, but in fiction the treatment of sexuality is sometimes done through a creature outside the norms of reality, therefore fanciful, often morally dubious.

It’s a classic trope in the world of fiction !

And if that makes you uncomfortable... well I don't know what to do for you.

Again, as I said before, Edwin is of the required age of consent in terms of sexual relations.

So how does it shock you to see someone old enough to explore their sexuality find themselves in a sexuality-related scenario with the classic trope of a fantasy creature to do so ?

This kind of controversy is beyond me! We're talking about fictional characters of a supernatural nature !

[pyrobot1cs]

i dont get how people can call sollux a loser he wins so much in the comic. i will now refresh some of these wins in the form of a greentext

> be me, goldblood mutant with x-men powers

> restore world-altering video game my powerful girlfriend found scraps of through just my knowledge of code

> form two teams to play this game. pitch flirt with my cute hemo-anon friend about it

> predict i will die

> die from vast glub

> hot fuschia princess kisses me back to life

> i have double the amount of extra lives. on account of my swagger

> beat sgrub with the rest of my session

> transported to meteor in The Veil

> be the most tech savvy troll on the meteor, explaining timeline communication on Trollian to other trolls

> robot ex apologizes to me and explodes

> in a red relationship with aforementioned princess

> princesses violet ex goes berserk

> get knocked out

> im the only survivor from the trolls that he attacked

> cute hemo-anon friend protects my knocked out body

> he drops me down a flight of stairs

> wake up

> lisp gone

> voices of the doomed gone

> fuck yes

> talk to hot girlfriend whos now a time god in the dream bubbles

> drive the meteor into The Green Sun with my x-men powers

> die again. only a little bit this time though

> half ghost now hanging out with my time god girlfriend

> fuck off from the meteor to chill with her in paradox space

> somewhere my half corpse gets prototyped

> fully alive again, also fully blind

> chilling

> mfw

[dragonthunders01]

Spectember D29: Speculative Biome

Is not an oddity for geologists to look at some strange landscape formations, many caused by singular events or just by erosion, but the most particularly perplexing ones have been made by what is not considered to be a thing from this world...

North America seems to be dotted with dozens of these structures and the remains of already fallen ones, looking like gigantic towers of more than a kilometer in height, structured like a strange tree shaped form, it rises like a testament of the biggest terrestrial organism known, a monster tree made of stone and shaped by the millions of years of constant growth by part of a singular organism.

In Wyoming there is the most intact and oldest specimen of such beings, bein nicknamed Heaven’s Tower, unique megaorganisms formed by thousands of  individual slime like organisms that behave like a stromatolite as it accumulate over layers over layers of sediment and material it built its structure, the way it do it seems to comprehend a system of vessels that transport the material from the terrain, often hollowing the terrain below forming a large cave chamber system that accumulate water and organic matter, preserve itself from erosion protected by a microbial layer product of the same organism. The tower seems to often renovate itself by the use of a special slime covering every century based on studies of change of texture and viscosity in the tower surface, but from what accounts on different expeditions into the inner cave system denote that the whole Tower formed dozens of millions of years ago, from mining expeditions around the chamber as well drilling in the main structure it was found it preserved a decent amount of data in the form of layers created by the accumulation of minerals by the slime into the main structure like a terrestrial stromatolite, this giving a possible date of the formation of the original tree around the late Eocene or early Oligocene.

As well seems to be every 5 to 10 million years there is a process that allow the introduction of surface fauna that always ends up into the lower chamber, to be eventually isolated which seems to last for few million years until there is a occurring a total extinction of the inner fauna, caused by the replacement and collapse of a old layer as its being replaced by a new one of almost 20 m of thickness, so far from fossil record the last breach occurred around the late Pliocene, isolating the fauna that lived upon that time.

The way one of the Heaven’s Tower specimen grow or originate is pretty much unknown for the very long span of time it takes to even start forming, is believe one of these might find a specific and rich place to feed its structure, more or less an old volcanic region and slowly accumulate to form the megastructure that feed symbiotically by chemosynthesis from the igneous rocks and photosynthesis, as well there has been identified fossil remains of older already fallen Towers that also expose similar patterns of growing. The Heaven’s Tower of Wyoming is the last intact structure as many seems to have been destroyed by the last ice age, and will take millions of years to recover, this itself is a testament of a paradoxical being that is still investigated, as this being for many accounts seems to not share any significant relationship of any living organisms.