#swarming dead brains

[maxiwaxipads]

babbling about potential fragaria memories worldbuilding (of course, it is made up <3)

Essentially, the concept of a “castle” is a kingdom’s lifeblood and creates the entire kingdom in the first place. It originates from the “Lord” who creates the castle and shares both a physical and mental connection to the Lord.

(The castle creates the castle itself and is a literal and symbolic heart of the kingdom) (Potentially creates the walls that protect/surround the kingdom, and might have the power to erect entire buildings) (Technically, a castle can expand its borders but expending too much power might strain the lord who creates the castle(?)) (Can only create buildings within the boundary of the walls)

(I like the idea that SEEDs are naturally attracted to castles because of the high density of magic surrounding these areas(?)) But also because the existence of a lord is essential to the kingdoms since they’re highly exalted and revered, taking them down would mean taking down the whole kingdom.

If the lord is damaged in any way, the castle itself will be vulnerable to attacks depending on the severity.

Relying on the idea that magic doesn’t come naturally to faeries (or whatever the people in fragaria are), I describe it as more “communal” if that makes sense? Castles provide unlimited magic to all citizens for public and daily use. Everyone has access to magic but is limited if too many are using magic at the same time. Communal magic can only be used within the bounds of the kingdom.

Using communal magic in an attempt to harm the castle is possible, but barely damages the castle. I imagine foreign magic or attacks by SEEDs are the only ways of directly harming the castle without attacking the Lord themselves(?)

Maybe the idea of “communal magic” can only be used through special wands(?)

If a castle undergoes damage, it can heal but requires the concentration of the lord to perform the healing.

Alternatively, everyone can use magic but has a limited use of it per month. The wand thing still applies. (Perhaps you can buy extra chargers for magic, but maybe it is a bit costly(?)) (Technically you can probably hoard magic, but maybe a heavy tax is placed to prevent people from hoarding magic(?)) (<- I kinda forgot, but I remember the initial idea was that hoarding magic is bad since it is considered a precious source and it would be preferred if it can be used for more important and practical matters rather than being stored and saved up(?))

Technically “communal magic” comes from the lord but are still vulnerable to others using their power against them(?)

(i like the idea of castles being a physical and mental representation of the lord) 

(something similar to brainless witch but less depressing) (…or would it be just as depressing?)

(creating a castle doesn’t require a constant maintenance of power, but for things like “communal magic,” it does)

(i like to think of castles as an extension of the lords)

Knights of Fragaria require a lot of power to form contracts and may deplete the kingdom’s defenses. They’re considered great assets for their loyalty and ability to act around as they please. Unlike normal faeries, they’ve been granted the ability to use magic as they please and more capable than the average faerie. It can be risky to have two knights of fragaria since it may endanger the defenses of the kingdom.

(Maybe Knights of Fragaria have an intrinsic connection to their lords and the castle themselves(?)) 

(I find it more instinctive rather than all-knowing(?))

A SEED that takes over a castle will absorb immense magic power for their own and may become unstoppable. Their abilities are heighten but are bound within the castle until it stops possession for whatever reason. A SEED possessing a castle may also strengthen SEEDs within the vicinity and birth new SEEDs. (Maybe they drain the castle themselves until it disappears for good(?))

“Purification” is the magical defeat against a SEED.

“Banishment” is the physical defeat against a SEED.

Music is something culturally significant in the world of Fragaria, especially during the SEEDs crisis. I might not explain this idea well, but imagine playing songs and trying to soothe a loved one while trying to remove the SEED from them? Even melancholic music being used to attract SEEDs.

Imagine singing being an important song to a loved one, hoping they turn back to normal? or maybe this is just me trying to make the fragaria memories music videos have lore significance aha 

Maybe I haven’t seen a lot of others write about lore, but have you ever thought about the implications of forgetting someone because of a SEED? 

Imagine looking at old photos, but suddenly recognizing someone you once knew as a stranger? Imagine having decorated rooms meant for someone, but not remembering who these rooms are for? Imagine finding old letters and notes you’ve lovingly written to others or have been written to, but not knowing the context or the people behind these letters.

Imagine someone sacrificing themselves under the brave act of protecting people from SEEDs but only to be forgotten.

What is the pain of wanting to desperately remember someone? Do you even want to remember anyway? Should we forget the people we can’t even remember? Maybe there are memorials or murals that honor these people, how would kingdoms honor those who are forgotten?

Maybe they don’t in the first place? Who knows?

But I’m more curious about the nature of SEEDs themselves? Are they a species that is controlled or are they animalistic and feed off a person’s negative energy for survival?

Do SEEDs have some level of intelligence? If they do, I imagine it isn’t too comparable to a human’s. I feel like it’s similar to the demons in Frieren in the Funeral(?)

In my opinion, I think SEEDs can discern if emotions are “negative” but are unable to truly understand the essence of negative emotions. They see it as a source of food. I mentioned melancholic music as bait for SEEDs, but I wonder about the idea of "manufactured negativity," if that makes sense? Imagine the sounds of crying children being used to attract SEEDs themselves. Imagine trying to purposefully invoke the saddest moments in life just to see if you can use that negative energy to attract a SEED?

I find it more meaningful that SEEDs have always existed as a consequence of the world. In Twisted Wonderland, using magic produces a pollution known as blot. But if Fragaria Memories was once a world that relied on magic but never thought of the consequences of producing its own blot?

So basically: "SEEDs are the consequence of using magic."

what if SEEDs is like the original sin if you get me...?

What was the world like before the arrival of the Strawberry King? Before the idea of lords and their kingdoms existed?

[evilgwrl]

TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: One

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Minor gore

ANYTHING IN ITALICS IS A FLASHBACK

Masterlist

It only started as a cold. Then it spread to a viral infection, consuming people faster than poison. It didn’t take long for the world to stop, for terror to appear, spreading like a wildfire, destroying cities as quickly as they appeared.

It was a vastly asked question growing up, “Do you think you would survive the apocalypse?” and to those who answered yes, where are you now? For you, surviving came easy. You remember it, the scene playing in your head like clockwork.

“Vienna, we have to go!” You spat, your voice scratching against your parched throat as you watched the dead-alive tear at the walls, staggering limbs chasing after the scent of beating veins.

“I can’t run any faster,” Vienna spat, sheer fire running through her exhausted body as she stumbled upon the concrete road. You trusted her. You were going to get through it together. You were all each other had now.

You didn’t stop, only grabbing her hand as your worn shoes skidded against the floor, the smell of rubber burning your nose. “We need to get over that fence!” You yelled, your eyes blurred from exhaustion as you tugged the girl next to you, your sweat dancing along your palms.

You stumbled, heavy feet clamping into the chain as you attempted to pull yourself up. The taste of metallic engorged your mouth as you bit harshly on your tongue, gripping onto Vienna’s hand in an effort to pull her up.

“You need to hurry!” Your voice yelped out, dragging the girl as if she was a rag-doll, your efforts rushed as you attempted to pull her up. It felt like a movie, the sound of gargling flesh, mangled between broken teeth and rotting skin acting as a soundtrack, yet it wasn’t fiction. This was real, this was reality.

Your leg was now hunched over, your body positioned between the fence as you focused on saving your friend. The clamminess between both of your hands, causing a friction as she continued to slip. “I-I can’t, Y/N, pull me harder,” Vienna exasperated, her voice high pitched as she watched behind her, rotten claws scratching the air.

Vienna’s feet dug into the chain as she wobbled, slick pools of blood flooding at her palms as she sliced the tender skin upon the metal. A grunt left her mouth as she clasped onto your hand, the dead swarming closer, desperate and starved.

Almost comically, Vienna whispered out an “I’m sorry” before tugging. You landed with a whack, your knees hitting the ground as you winced, your jeans skidding across the ground, fresh marks of friction, followed by the prickle of blood appeared quickly upon your palms and knees as your eyes darted to the girl infront of you, clambering up the fence.

Your breathing stilled, the sound of static filling your ears, muting everything around you as your limbs froze up. This was it, you thought, the stench of death approaching you as you attempted to stand, hands gripping out to reach for any weapon as the sound of struggle behind you deafened you.

You covered your ears, tucking your face into your knees as you sat up, flashes of everything you were running through your brain like a compilation. Instead, you were met with the trample of feet and bodies toppling over you. Your eyes adjusted, looking at the huddle of zombies walking near you, not paying you a care as they focused on the flesh of your once friend.

Your body stirred for a second, your flesh searing in the sun as you crawled up, your legs weak. You almost wish you had died then, the sound of Vienna’s scream even after her betrayal paralysing you. You didn’t stick around, your hand securing your satchel as you limped off, the sound of squelching and gnarling being the only thing you left behind.

You kept a calendar on a torn, leather notebook, marking each day carefully since the first. It had been 296 days. 296 days of being alone. 296 of being invisible. 296 days of nothing. You survived in an old farm house, tucked away in a rural forest in God know’s where. It was funny, you expected to see someone, anyone, but you never did.

Maybe it was easier that way, you were a given a chance with someone, and they left you to die. It was easy to make a simple life for yourself out here and you often wondered why the previous owner’s had left.

Your food was supplied by the garden, a plethora of fruits and vegetables adorned across the land as you tended to them. There were animals too. Cows, chickens, horses. You grew to care for them, speaking to them often as if they would reply. It was worth a shot, you thought, and it made you less lonely.

You survived by fending for yourself, learning how to shoot an arrow as you hunted the occasional deer in the forest, tenderising the meat on their gas stove. There was a small town nearby, practically untouched that you had raided, using the spare pickup truck that dusted away in the garage.

You had never seen anyone, but if you did, whoever lived here didn’t shy away from guns, the shotgun he left behind and the small pistols he littered around the house, along with your bow and arrow, were your forms of protection. Everything was simple. Everything was as perfect as it could be, you were fine.

It was a regular occurrence for you to ride now, your ass plush against the saddle as you trotted around the acreage. It was rare to see zombies along here, the silence speaking for itself, and if they did, they didn’t pay any attention to you walking over to them and chopping their head off with an axe. You found it comforting as you listened to the whistle of the horse’s nostrils, breathing out slowly.

As it grew dark, you locked the barn, securing it tightly before heading inside. You were thankful for fire as you chucked a log of wood you had chopped into the burner, lighting it with a match. You locked the door, front and back, as you shut the blinds, a simple routine you did to soothe yourself. Your feet, covered by fluffy socks you had found in a cupboard, padded against the floor as you headed up the creaky stairs.

Your body conformed to the blankets covering you, hushing you to sleep as your body gratefully accepted. The only thing that would wake you would be the sun, and the haunting memory of Vienna.

The teapot whistled, steam singing out of the nozzle as you carried it to the bath. Though it was a luxury to shower in hot water, it had rained these past couple of weeks, allowing for the rain tank to fill up and be put to good use.

Your body scorched against the porcelain tub as you stepped in, the muscles in your thighs kneading themselves into tight balls before the tension released. You used one of the several soap bars you had stored, scrubbing against your tender skin as you washed yourself. Your fingers trailed against the gash of a scar on your forearm, a reminder of the fence, a reminder of her.

You finished up, your body snug around a towel you had recently washed using an off-the-grid washing machine they kept stored in the basement. Thank God people lived like that before civilisation turned to shit, either that, or Amish. You weren’t complaining about either.

You changed into a pair of shorts, the weather slowly warming up as the winter passed, the celebration of spring approaching on your calendar. You fed yourself with an apple before approaching the barn, the key clicking against the door as you greeted the animals, feeding them with a mix of leftover animal food and vegetables. Sure, it wasn’t the best diet, but it fed them well enough to provide milk and eggs.

Your feet padded against the hay-covered floor, arms stroking the horse you were most fond of (that you called Nancy) before letting her out, straddling her waist with a saddle as you dragged her to the fenced paddock. You were quick to grab Cecil, the male of the pair. While he was now fond of you, your stomach had still not fully forgiven him for the brutal kick he gave you when you first met.

Once your legs grew, sore, staggering to continue directing the horse, you huddled inside, as you began to sew, using an old dress you found to create a shirt and a skirt. You hummed softly to yourself, the silence of the house speaking back to you, the distance sound of a chugging engine humming in as you stilled.

Like a statue, you froze before dropping expletives, your body slinking over to the window as you looked outside. Is that.. a truck? The soft hum of the engine grew closer as you rushed to grab your shotgun, before rushing outside, hands flailing around as you waited for the car to turn around.

“This is private property!” You yelled, your voice stern, “You need to leave.” Your face was vastly covered by the large gun you held, doing your best to intimidate whoever it was that drove on the land.

You heard the sound of doors opening, before four different doors closed. You lowered your gun, eyes squinting as you froze. You almost felt like your eyes were betraying you as you took in the group before you.

A man wearing a bucket hat, raised his arms slowly, slinking towards you as you stepped back. “Listen, we ain’t- we ain’t trying to scare you,” he spoke, his voice authoritative, “we didn’t think anyone would be out here.”

“Well, I am,” you snapped, lowering the gun slightly to look at him, “So fuck off, you and whoever is behind you isn’t welcome here.”

A man, the tallest of the group, stepped forward. He was intimidating, a black balaclava with a skull face situated on top covered his identity, his frame bricked with muscle as his chest puffed forward, “Listen-“ he began before the man with the hat cut him off.

“We ain’t here for issues, sweetheart, simply need a place to stay. We were in the military and we would greatly appreciate it.”

You furrowed your brows as you raised your gun again, “If you were in the military, why the fuck are you still here? Shouldn’t they have shipped you off somewhere safe?”

“We were on a mission, stuck in a safe house in the middle of nowhere. We assumed we had lost connection when no one could contact us. Took us a while to realise what had happened,” he spoke, arms over his chest, “I promise we ain’t here to hurt ya, at most we just want to eat and if you don’t want us here tomorrow, we’ll get out of your hair, a’right?”

You stilled, taking in their clothes, lined with badges and gear you would only seen on someone in the military. You lowered your gun before turning on your heel back to the house. You waited for a second, not moving, before you heard the sound of multiple feet against gravel before they walked into the house, soft sighs leaving their lips.

“Do you have supplies?” You quipped, tone harsh as you looked at them, placing the gun down yet keeping it in arms reach. Sure you had never shot one, but how hard could it be?

Another man nodded and you could finally take a look at him. Does he have a Mohawk? You couldn’t help but let out a dry laugh as you stared at him. “Got some bottled water in the boot, and some military meals we found at some shops along the way as well as some toiletries. It’s not a lot- but it’ll help,” he said, a thick Scottish accent causing you to scrunch your brows together in an attempt to understand him.

You nodded slowly, still not taking your eyes off of them before reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a labelled pot. The words stew stared back at you before you turned on the stove, letting it simmer. “The best I can feed you all with notice is left over deer stew. If you don’t want it, fend for yourself else where,” you snapped, rubbing between your eyebrows as you grabbed a spoon.

“That’s more than enough, thank you,” the hat man said, his arms resting on the table before he headed outside, to presumably grab the supplies in the boot.

“You been out here this whole time?” An unfamiliar voice spoke. You turned to him. He was handsome, with a boyish smile and soft features, his skin a complimenting shade of brown.

“Not the whole time, ended up here by mistake I suppose but I’m not complaining.”

“You survived this entire time by yourself?” The masked man gibed, looking you up and down as if you were useless. You shot him a nasty glare, your tone spiteful, “Yes, I have and now I have four dickwads at my door, begging to stay with me.”

The man silenced himself, eyes crinkling slightly as he turned around. “What’s your name?” The Scottish one asked, stepping closer to watch you heat the food as your body tensed.

“Y/N,” you said curtly.

“I’m Soap,” he announced, bouncing softly on his feet as he breathed in real food for a change.

“Hell kinda name is Soap?” You spat, staring at him.

“Military name, lass. Real names John,” he added, a small smile on his face before he turned to the others. “That’s Gaz, or Garrick,” he said, pointing to the handsome one, “and that’s Ghost, or-“

“Just Ghost,” the masked man grumbled. You rolled your eyes at his lack of manners, growing more frustrated by the second.

Soap strummed his fingers against the counter before clearing his throat. “The one outside is Price, names also John so it’s easier to just call us Price and Soap.”

The man you now knew as Price walked back in, hands clutching plastic containers filled with water bottles, items stacked on top as he placed them on the counter. “Thank you,” he said, gesturing towards the stew as you nodded.

“There are two spare bedrooms upstairs that you can rest in for the night, I’ll show you to them after we eat,” you say, grabbing a ladle and 5 China bowls.

As you sat down, you felt yourself relax slightly, trying to reassure yourself that if they wanted to hurt you, they would have done so already. Would others around the house be that bad? You shook your head, shaking the idea away.

They’re leaving first thing tomorrow.

[stareiiez]

You're Mine, Now and Forever

notes: first actually long fic for this fandom, and its giving a slow start. don't worry! it gets better from here. also idk how I feel about this style of writing, it feels off. idk.

warnings: MINORS DNI.

words :3.3k

chapter two

You don't know how it happened, or how much time passed when the first scream ripped through the air and the first bloody body collided with your frantic driving on the express lane outta town. After all, it was just supposed to be like any other day, with you spending your time at work during a slow hour; organizing and reorganizing dresses for what felt like the nth time that hour just so you looked productive. Pop music filtered slowly through the store's speakers and you hummed to the few lines you knew of Chappel Roan's new hit song. The two customers milling around the clearance section chatted to another one of your coworkers across the store, and your manager was at the cash register, scrolling through logs of ordered clothing items to make sure they were in stock in the store's catalogs.

It was a boring day. A lunch break was the motivation for you to continue mindlessly nitpicking at full clothing racks when the first explosion shook the very building. The music stuttered glitching just to accompany the flickering overhead flourescent lights. Then another explosion follows soon after, a deep heavy boom that sinks into the soles of your shoes and rockets up your spinal cord to shake your back molars. Your mouth wants to open, to ask the obvious ' What the fuck was that?" out loud like every stereotypical blonde that questions the bloody scream they heard in the middle of the night in every 90's horror movie. But the chorus of screams and chaos answers your inner thoughts instead. Screams of fleeing citizens running away from whatever danger caused the very ground to shake, and smoke to plume into clouds upwards.

"Stay back, " your manager barks to you and three other women who cower together in a small huddle. She walks towards the still rattling glass doors of the store. A shared fear decorates your faces as you all watch with bated breath; the two sets of wide doors swing open, and your manager steps out into the chaotic mass of running bodies that swarm past her.

Horror paints her face when she sees the source of the destruction. Her head is tilted backward and jaw slack, her amber eyes the size of marbles, she's rooted to the spot. You're surprised she's not knocked off her small feet with every push and shove she endures. "Oh my god." Your ears strain, eyes focused on the way her mouth moves over each syllable with a slow, shocked pace. You're not blessed with reading lips, but you'd like to think that adrenaline fuels your brain enough to make out the word 'Invincible' before the ground shakes again.

This time, the destruction targets your building particularly. One second you're standing and the next, you're knocked on your ass washed away in a wave of shattered glass and minuscule pieces of asphalt and rubble that spray into your vicinity. The outside world, once muffled by plexiglass, screams with sirens, and people running for their lives berate your ringing eardrums. Your front doors are destroyed and buried under brick-and-mortar rubble. Severed limbs stick out this way and at odd angles from the tight crevices of drywall and insulation. The dust makes your eyes water, and you choke on a scream that squeezes your throat something fierce. You like to think you're not consumed by the panic and the trauma of watching your manager and several others get crushed to death in a matter of seconds because Mark has gone off the deep end.

"Come on!" Your coworker's words bark at you. Suddenly she's at your side, in your shocked haze, she managed to be the functioning one out of the rest of your group. Her hands grab onto your forearm and yank all your dead weight to your feet. "We need to leave! I don't want to die here!" Her free hand holds onto the sobbing customer, the other woman accompanying her is missing. Surely buried under the rubble that caved in one corner of the dress store, maybe she was one of the hands that was reaching out from the concrete bloody mess. The thought makes you want to stop and vomit, your stomach curdles with how much stress and adrenaline swarms through your body in nauseating waves.

You follow her, not like you had a choice, she's pulling your trio towards the back of the store and the emergency exit. Her breaths are ragged and half-sputtering between prayers to some god she believes in that your only exit isn't blocked off either. "Stay here, I need to get the keys in the office." Your coworker says, dropping both of your hands. Her face is an ashy pale gray when she turns to give both you and the other woman a once over, checking to see if you're all in one piece and able-bodied enough to book it once she gets the door open. You must look just like her, the expression of unrestrained fear and cement particles dusting your face. Small streaks of blood trickle down your temples and nose bridge, thanks to the shards of plexiglass that rained over you in the third explosion.

You nod, swallowing down acidic bile that bubbles at the back of your throat. Your eyes linger on her small back when she makes a mad dash to the small back office down the hall. When she disappears from your line of sight, your phone vibrates in your pocket. It makes you jump right out of your ashen grey skin. The woman beside you startles as well, her hand clutching at her heart. "Sorry," you manage to whisper, while your hands scramble to the right back pocket of your jeans to dig out your phone. The now cracked touch screen illuminates too brightly, shining a picture of you and Mark Grayson posed in a goofy pose. Your fingers poised in a 'peace' sign, while the male was peeking out from behind your shoulder with his two pointer fingers raised above either side of your head. Your twin smiles look so carefree in the saved contact picture you have of him.

Your thumb taps on the green answer button, and you raise the phone to your ear. Mark's out-of-breath panting sends chills down your spine in some sickly worrisome way. Your name barks through the speaker of the phone, the continuous screams make it almost hard to hear him. "Mark? Mark, what's going on? " You don't even question why the hell he's calling in the first place, isn't he the supposed one murdering and tearing down the city? Isn't that why the people screaming his superhero name saw him wreak havoc?

"No time! Please tell me you're safe. ." a pause, his ragged inhale makes your heart squeeze in time with your clammy palm gripping the phone tighter to your ear. "Please."

"I'm fine." You copy his pause, brows wrinkle in thought. You know you're lying, you're not fine. You're dazed and confused, shaking in your sleek shoes. Your legs are unsteady and becoming more and more unstable, the comedown from adrenaline is going to be a fickle bitch that'll do you in if whatever happening outside doesn't kill you first. "I'm still at work, I'm waiting for the door to get unlocked as fast as it can be."

Even through the grey background noise on the other side of the line, Mark's sigh crackles through the call. You could picture his shoulders just dropping the tiniest inch in relief, that a loved one of his hadn't been hurt or god forbid, even slaughtered mercilessly in the devastation that had been going on. "You need to get out of here." His voice urges, tensely.

"Mark-"

"I'm serious!" His tone jumps, he's barking. Halfway yelling, and you flinch. The woman at your side reacts by recoiling, both of your nerves bouncing off one another like electrons bouncing off the walls of an atom. "You need to get the fuck out of here, find a car-- any car. Don't even think about hiding, you need to drive as far as you can outta here. You hear me?"

You swallow dryly, fingers squeezing tighter. Blood rushes in your ears, you know you can't argue. There's no way to get information outta him now, not when his words are clipped, whatever is happening outside is far more important and drastic than arguing with his girlfriend who's too stubborn to flee for her life without asking stupid questions. You're smarter than that, and he knows it. He's lost far too many things, and gone through too many traumatizing situations than to waste time and not save the people he loves. Your eyes close briefly, counting to three in your whirling hellscape of a mind. You nod like he can even see you. You can sense it's different now. This isn't some closed-off fight between Nolan and his son that trying to stand up to him and not ' ready the Earth' for the viltrumites to come. This is far more scarier, it's drastic and life-shattering. "What about you? People are screaming Invincible is causing this."

"Don't worry about me." Mark says, his tone more gentle than before, "Just run, I can handle them and if anything happens to me? Just know I love you, okay?"

Your breath hitches. You hate how that sounds; you hate the confession on his lips. It sounds more like a goodbye than him admitting his affection for you like he does every day so casually. It feels heavier on your heart, it rattles your bones, and the tidal wave of curdling bile in your stomach roars into a tsunami. You need to vomit. You need to yell at Mark and tell him to not talk like that. You want to tell him that whatever is happening outside can be handled by the two of you together, even if you don't have any powers. Yet, before you can even voice any of those options over the phone, the call ends with a sharp click. You don't know tears are dotting your waterline till you blink so rapidly that a few salty drops cut trails down your ashy cheeks. Gray water stains the front of your shirt, and your phone lowers from your ear. Your grip is loose on the device.

"Got them!" Your coworker calls out, jogging back to you and the other woman; the jangling keys clenched tight in her fist. You don't know if it adds to the hurt your heart is already holding onto when she doesn't acknowledge the distraught on your face. She's more focused on jamming one of the silver keys in the keyhole and twisting it to the right, the satisfying click and rough opening of the door rings in your muffled ears.

The woman shoves past the two of you without hesitation, making a break for it as fast as her forty-five-year-old bones can carry her. She won't make it far, she barely would last surviving running around the bend of the building before the crowd of citizens tramples her half to death in their need to live another minute longer. Any man for themself is a fickle bitch. Your head turns to your coworker as you follow suit, breaking into a jog. She's already following behind, her pace a lot faster. "Stay safe." You call to her when she breezes past. Her silhouette disappears when she blends into the waves of people, fighting against the current so she can get to some sort of safety before she gets crushed to death herself. Her kindness, her stupid jokes, and her natural leadership are all you're going to have to remember her by; if you live long enough to even see her again.

You run a different path, following the makeshift alleyway that's half crumpled down and now smaller in size, your shoes threaten to trip on jutting-out stone and rebar when you traverse too fast. Your heart thuds faster in your chest, brain running a million miles an hour on how to keep yourself from running further and further away from the manic crowds. Alley water splashes at your ankles, sinks into your shoes, and makes your socks stick to your soles. You cringe inwardly, pumping your legs harder till you too start to run. The small alley breaks out into wide open space, and sunlight and smokey skies greet your frazzled complexion. Crashed cars and abandoned vehicles greet you immediately, some are still smoking and burning. Hot oil and melted rubber don't do anything to quell the queasiness you've been fighting this entire day, but there's no stopping now.

Now, you have to leave. No matter who Invincible knock-off is causing this; they'll be busy fighting off Mark and his team. You run along the cracked sidewalk, eyes sweeping over the conditions of the vehicles.

The lessening of people crying for help is eery, the whole city should be shouting from the tops of their lungs. It's like everyone got wiped out in a matter of seconds, or on a lighter note, they're all hiding and being as quiet as possible so they don't die next. You expected to see clogged highways and people running along the highways seeking freedom, instead, there are only deserted streets and cars tipped over on their sides that you brush past in your search for a ride.

Finally, you spot a buggy. A cute little Volkswagon with dents decorating its doors, and still running. Its engine is the loudest thing in the pin-drop silence, even compared to your sneakers pounding on the pavement. You know it's stupid to take the bait, that some conveniently placed car is here while you were in the middle of your search. You like to think you're better than the dumb female lead of a horror movie, that falls for every trick and ploy the killer lays out for her; but you're desperate. You need to fulfill Mark's wish, that you get the fuck out here and run as far as you can. The leather seat squeaks under your weight when you throw yourself inside the car and shut the door behind you. The car's radio crackles with dead static over its speakers, it sends chills up your spine and only adds to the apocalyptic atmosphere your once-busy city has been subjected to.

You're a walking target. The last survivor of your bug colony that trying to outrun the burning magnifying glass held above your head by some sadistic fucking toddler. The realistic side of things is, that you won't live to see the outskirts of the city before the Invincible knockoff crushes you and your car into smithereens. It'll be quick and painless, but you would hate to be another headstone in a graveyard that your family and Mark would have to visit. That's if they can separate your body from twisted metal and leather. With bated breath, you shift the car from park into drive and slam your foot down onto the gas. Clammy hands clench the wheel when you speed down the streets. You weren't prepped to see the mass destruction that greets you with every twist and turn you made. Bodies littered the streets, some in one piece, others most likely ripped into multiple pieces and scattered over the road and sidewalks. Collapsed buildings and homes make you swerve and splash puddles of oil and blood on the car's exterior. Your tires have run over a body part or more not to crash; the squish of flesh being flattened unnaturally is unmistakable in your ears.

"This is so fucked." You whisper under the roar of your pounding heartbeat. The city limit sign seems to grow closer and closer to you once you hit the wide-open highway. The drive through the rest of the city was thankfully quick, and you still were alive and unharmed. It's a miracle.

Your hope swells and stirs in the pit of your stomach like acid-covered butterflies, you're going to make it. You're going to make it! The delirious bubble of laughter peels from your parched throat, you can't help it. However, that laughter dies just as fast as it came. Just when you were going to pass that beloved city limit sign that seems just in arms reach now, your car hits the dark blue blur that launches itself in front of you. Your foot doesn't react quickly enough to hit the brake, but somehow you're violently stopped. Your chest hits the steering wheel, forehead threatening to follow suit if it wasn't for the seatbelt yanking you back just in time to save you from a concussion.

"Well, and who do we have here?" A male voice speaks out, way too calm for your own disorientated liking. "Hey pretty girl, didn't know if I'd see you again."

Again?!

You blink quickly, as a hand rubs at your bruising chest. In front of you, is . . Invincible. His color scheme is the same, black and blue, but he looks different. His ears stick out, and his hair is hidden away by his suit. His smile which you thought was charming and shy, is replaced with a sick stretched look. He bares all of his white teeth at you like a predator intimidating its prey. In your heart you know this isn't your Mark, it can't be. Not with the way he doesn't move a single centimeter of his body, he doesn't even look like he's breathing. The man is so quiet like he's waiting for you to freak out or scream, yet you disappoint him when you don't do either option. Boring, all you do is stare at him. Jaw slightly slacked, brain whirring a million microseconds a minute. His smile, however, doesn't waver. No, not at all; of course his pretty girl has always been smarter than any bimbo bitch that cried out when he flew through their bodies and ripped them to shreds in his hands.

It's what he loves- - no, it's what he was obsessed over back in his world. It was a shame you didn't last long in his care, and now it's like a higher being is rewarding him for his hard work here in your world to plant you in front of him so suddenly. He's glad the others didn't get to you first, who knows who he would have had to kill off his variants to get to you. He rounds to the side of the car so smoothly, your eyes watching his every step. A hand smacks down on the roof of the car, adding to the multitude of dents to its being. His other hand grips the handle of the driver's side door and pulls it off as easily as peeling off a sticker from its page.

He bends at the waist, his face invading your space far too close to your liking. He can smell the waves of fear and the new spike of adrenaline leaking from every pore of your body. Your natural scent mixed in is an addicting concoction that he never seemed to get enough of, you smell the same. You look just like the one in his home world. He hit the jackpot. You flinch at his movements, leaning far back in your car seat.

"Who are you?" Fuck you sound just like her. Your voice exhales so quietly, warmed breath fanning over the lower part of his face. Delicious.

The Invincible doesn't respond, doesn't even emote as much as that smile you start to grow unnerved of. It's unnatural, just like this entire day. Just like you don't know what the fuck even happened to get you to where you are now, staring in the face of a clone of your beloved Invincible.

[scribesynnox]

Apocalyptic Ponyo: Escape From The Poachers

@keferon for the apocalyptic ponyo au and @sightseertrespasser cuz the poachers idea was so big brained and I just ended up writing this whole thing in my notes app cuz of it and it was so good that I had to share it:

OOOOOOOO, SSTP WAS SO BIG BRAINED FOR INCLUDING THE POACHERS IN HERE!! Another point of drama! Having to avoid them! Trying to release the humans back to the biggest group of humans except those humans are actually poachers and the humans are hesitating but the mers are trying to encourage them to go back, and then suddenly the humans are making loud noises and-

OOOOOOO, Blurr and Swerve should like, they DEFINITELY have a system of communication, simple noises or hand signs to convey meaning given how much they had to depend on each other as they navigated the washed up ruins of the island.

So Swerve and the other humans are all wary and making their barks and chirps at the big group of human, and then Blurr registers the wide eyed look of fear and anger on Orange’s face. Orange immediately books it back towards him and barks the noise that means HELP! DANGER! And jumps down to Blurr’s who had automatically outstretched his hands at the noise. Upon landing, Swerve points in a direction and Blurr immediately starts swimming away, having enough time to process what just happened and shout back at the others, “GET AWAY, THEY’RE NOT SAFE!!”

Shockwave is already swarmed with his guppies and swimming away, while Ratchet and Hot Rod make their escape.

Now it’s a chase as the mers try to get away and-

Oh my god, that would make SUCH a good chase scene video game wise, all the different characters with their different mechanics trying to escape the poachers.

With Swerve and Blurr, you’d have a punch of sonic style fast speed running away with Swerve occasionally having to heave Blurr up and dead sprint on dry land to escape the poachers.

With Shockwave and his kids, it would be Shockwave trying to get away as fast as he can, using his size and strenght to break apart buildings in the way and occassionally lob debris at the poachers while the kids shoot at the poachers trying to give Shockwave enough time and space to do all that.

With Ratchet and HotRod and Drift… well we don’t have a lot for them yet, they’re very new, so I’ll just come up with whatever, hmmm. Dratchet is not a speedster. He’s not giant like Shockwave is with a gaggle of guppies who are more than willing to draw blood.

But he DOES have Drift who knows poachers, and Hot Rod who is more spry.

This may be more of a hide and seek sort of escape for them, Hot Rod peeking around corners to look for them, Drift using his knowledge as a former poacher to know their tricks, and- oooooo, what if Ratchet had weapons stocked in his fins. He has to get new fins, might as well ALSO make them tasers.

So their escape is less of a runaway, and less of a smash and run, and more of sneak and ambush.

Ooooooo hehehehe yesssss, I LOVE that. This is so fun, I’m having a great time.

So we have three different escape sequences. I don't know if Jazz and Prowl should be there too because if they are, I feel like everyone would get the danger they were in much faster and also this would quickly go from "run run get away" to "we have two apex predators here and two giant fuck off mers (Shockwave and Ratchet) who definitely know how to fight and the apex predators are on their side and also there's Drift who is ABSOLUTELY going to fight when he realizes there is no running away and CAN fight and also an entire swarm of children who have a lot of pent up stress and zero issues with taking it out on a bunch of adults who were going to hurt their father figure that they're very attached to". Like I can't imagine Jazz and Prowl being there and it NOT ending up into a boss fight. Oooooo except if Jazz got injured, badly. That would make running away a priority, and THEN! Ratchet could help Jazz after they get away! In this situation though, I can't imagine everyone accidentally getting separated like in the situation above so this chase scene would probably play a little different. Instead of three separate chase scenes, it would be EVERYONE swimming away, and at different points of the chase, you'd control a different character, using different game mechanics based on who you're controlling at the time to help get away- oooooo, to be even harder, maybe you'd have to pick and chose who to control based on the environment around you, deciding if you need to be fast so that Blurr can speed ahead and clear the path for the others, or if you need to be the kids and distract the poachers, keeping them off of you, or if you need to be Ratchet and and do some field medicine while swimming so that Jazz can stay stable, doing some quicktime events at some parts, and puzzles at others and shit. That could be fun too, hehehehe.

I'm having a great time, this is great, I'm loving it here, this is so fun to imagine.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #12

Danny Fenton never meant to end up in space, much less as part of a dysfunctional alien superhero squad led by a tree, a raccoon with PTSD, and a guy whose only qualification is that he’s listened to every 1980s mixtape ever made. But when you accidentally fly through a NASA portal powered by ectoplasm while trying to stop Technus from hijacking the International Space Station, you don’t really get much of a say in where you land. Which, in Danny’s case, was the cockpit of the Milano. Mid-flight. Mid-chase. Mid-explosion.

Rocket screamed. Gamora drew a blade. Star-Lord yelled, “WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?” And Danny, with his hair floating around his face in zero gravity and a half-melted Fenton Thermos in his hand, went, “Hi. Uh. I’m Danny. Do you have any snacks?”

A lot of things happened after that. For one, Rocket immediately declared Danny a “haunted science gremlin” and demanded he be dissected. Gamora stabbed him (not fatally, but like, “welcome to the crew” levels of stabbing), and Drax attempted to bond by declaring they were both hunted weapons of mass destruction. Groot tried to plant Danny in a flowerpot. Star-Lord, upon learning that Danny was from Earth and had ghost powers, decided he was now the team’s “Spooky Mascot” and handed him a Walkman, which promptly exploded when Danny touched it. Apparently, ghost boy plus alien tech equals “we now need a new comm system.” Danny fixed it in thirty minutes and Rocket reluctantly stopped trying to murder him in his sleep.

The team wasn’t sure if Danny was a ghost or an alien or some weird human mutant until he started phasing through walls and talking to the disembodied soul of a long-dead Xandarian war general haunting their fridge. (Her name was Bev. Danny and Bev played intergalactic chess on Thursdays.) Once the Guardians realized Danny could punch the soul out of people (and then slam-dunk it back in), they promoted him from “weird hitchhiker” to “full member with explosive privileges.” This was a mistake.

Danny was a space nerd, sure. He watched every space documentary, built model rockets, and could name the moons of Jupiter backwards. But what the documentaries didn’t prepare him for was being shot at by a gang of space pirates because Groot accidentally won a planet in a poker game, or Rocket creating a neutron grenade disguised as a cookie (“Don’t eat it, Danny—DANNY THAT’S NOT A REAL COOKIE”), or Star-Lord insisting they stop at an interstellar karaoke bar in the middle of a war. Danny had to fight off a swarm of brain-sucking parasites while singing “Eye of the Tiger” in full ghost mode. He got a standing ovation.

Things got worse when Technus came back, this time infecting Nova Corps servers and announcing himself as “God of Wi-Fi.” Danny had to team up with Rocket, who uploaded himself into a blender for reasons no one fully understood, to create an anti-ghost firewall using a toaster, Gamora’s sword, and Groot’s root clippings. The good news? It worked. The bad news? They accidentally opened a portal to the Ghost Zone mid-fight, unleashing the Box Ghost into the Nova HQ. The Box Ghost was immediately arrested and sent to space prison, where he became king of the vending machines.

Danny tried to explain Earth things to the Guardians. Like taxes. And Target. And what a cow was. Drax was horrified. “You allow milk beasts to rule your society?” Star-Lord cried when he learned Blockbuster was dead. Gamora tried to understand TikTok and ended up nearly assassinating a diplomat during a trend called “smash or pass.” Danny didn’t help by going ghost mid-video and screaming “pass” at the ambassador. They were banned from that planet forever.

But despite the chaos, Danny kind of… fit. He’d never felt truly understood on Earth, where being half-dead meant constant fear of being dissected by the government, but out here? Out here, people didn’t blink when he turned into a glowing, green-eyed wraith who could fly through spaceships and scream in an eldritch tongue. If anything, they applauded. One particularly wild night, Danny exorcised a Kree emperor’s cursed hover-throne live on intergalactic television. Ratings spiked. He was declared a demigod in three sectors. Star-Lord tried to get merchandising rights. Rocket tried to sell his ectoplasm as a weapon. Danny put them both in the Ghost Zone timeout corner.

They kept running into other people. Thor once landed on their ship looking for a beer and a nap, only to get into a flexing contest with Danny. Danny won. Barely. Thor still calls him “the glowing child of sorrow.” Tony Stark tried to recruit Danny for the Avengers. Danny politely declined by phasing through his hologram and turning it into a haunted Tamagotchi. Doctor Strange asked Danny to stop creating micro-rifts in the astral plane every time he hiccuped. Danny said he’d consider it.

The Guardians eventually got wind of a plot involving the Collector trying to obtain Danny’s core to power a ghost-zombie version of Knowhere. Naturally, they handled this in the most reasonable way possible: by launching a full-scale assault while disguised as a musical theater troupe. Danny, dressed as Phantom of the Opera, used his wail to destroy an army of spectral cyborgs, then accidentally set the Collector’s hair on fire. Gamora tackled him out a window. Rocket declared it a success.

Danny missed Earth sometimes. Jazz would call through the interstellar line to check in, often while holding a frying pan and yelling at someone in the background (“NO, TUCKER, YOU CAN’T ORDER CHICK-FIL-A TO SPACE”). Sam once left him a thirty-minute voicemail about ghost gentrification and the ethics of ghost labor unions. But even with all that, Danny knew he wasn’t the same kid from Amity Park. He’d been to star systems no human had seen, danced with sentient nebulae, and accidentally became betrothed to an alien princess after sneezing in her direction. He had battle scars and space memes and an intergalactic criminal record that included the phrase “unauthorized spectral possession of a judge.”

Rocket taught Danny how to rig a ship to explode using only shoelaces and spite. Groot taught him how to grow little plant buddies that helped him cook. Drax taught him the art of standing dramatically in silence, which Danny now did every time someone asked him about his tragic backstory. Star-Lord taught him how to moonwalk in zero gravity. Danny taught them all how to scream “GET BENT, YOU INTERDIMENSIONAL TWERPS” in ghost language, which they used during diplomatic missions. They were banned from another planet.

There were close calls. Danny once got trapped in a black hole and had to phase out by screaming every bad memory he’d ever had at once. He and Rocket were fused for a full day after a teleportation mishap—Danny’s ghost tail merged with Rocket’s back leg, and they had to fight like that. Gamora walked in on Danny watching High School Musical and refused to speak to him for a week. Star-Lord caught Danny crying while watching old Earth footage and tried to cheer him up with mixtapes titled “Sad Boi Vibes Vol. 1-9.”

But for all the wild, unhinged nonsense, Danny had a place. He’d spent so long being hunted, misunderstood, called a freak. But here, with this chaos crew of space weirdos and traumatized murder-huggers, he wasn’t just accepted. He was wanted. He was the team’s go-to for ghost stuff, space stuff, sarcasm, and emotional trauma suppression. He became a Guardian of the Galaxy not because he asked to be—but because he fought a black hole, exorcised a death god, and beat Star-Lord in a dance-off to “Take On Me.”

And when Earth eventually called—when the Avengers requested help with some “small ghost invasion” (Box Ghost had escaped space prison again)—Danny arrived with the Guardians, blazing through the sky like a neon comet. He kicked open a portal, yelled “SUP SLUTS,” and unleashed Groot, Drax, and an emotionally unstable raccoon with a bazooka onto New York.

Nick Fury sighed.

Tony screamed, “Why is there a tree in my penthouse?”

Danny just smiled, green eyes glowing, and said, “I brought friends.”

[avayarising]

Deaths of Jason Todd

Part of the Batfam Death Project.

Jason has died five times. There are also a further three times when he might have arguably died. I have not found any instances of Jason visiting the afterlife without being dead.

Total time dead: 6 months, give or take a few days.

Verifiable deaths

1. Killed by the Joker in Ethiopia (Batman 1:427–428, 1988)

As we all know, Jason was killed by the Joker (Batman 1:427–428, 1988).

He went to Heaven (Green Arrow 3:7, 2001).

He woke up in his coffin six months later because something something Superboy Prime (Batman Annual 25, 2006),

and was restored from catatonia by Talia via the Lazarus Pit (also Batman Annual 25).

Time dead: probably around six months, but it’s complicated.

2. Killed by Batman to release him from demonic possession (Trinity 2:15, 2017)

Circe and Ra’s al Ghul worked together to get the Outlaws (Jason, Artemis, and Bizzaro) possessed by demons from the Pandora Pits intent on sacrificing Batman, Wonder Woman, and Superman. Bruce injected a possessed Jason with potassium chloride to kill him, forcing the demon out, then restarted his heart by defibrillation.

(This comic also features Superman and Constantine climbing through a portal to hell in possessed!Jason’s mouth.)

Time dead: a minute or so.

3. Beaten to death by groblins (Dark Nights: Death Metal 7, 2021)

Jason, along with other members of the Batfamily, was overwhelmed by a swarm of ‘groblins’: mindless evil Jokerised Robins invading from the Dark Multiverse, led by the Robin King (an evil child Bruce Robin).

Shortly after that he was raised as a zombie (missing an arm) by Black Lantern Batman to continue the fight.

Jason was restored to proper life when Wonder Woman, powered by the determination of her friends, defeated the evil Batman Who Laughs and persuaded the gods to remake the multiverse as it was before the evil universes invaded the good ones.

Time dead: somewhere from quarter of an hour to an hour? Or perhaps a lot longer, if it took longer to rebuild the world. It’s always a little tricky to be sure when world remakes are involved.

4. Shot in the back by zombie Deadshot (Task Force Z 3–4, 2022)

Jason joined a team of zombies called Task Force Z, an organisation run by Harvey Dent with questionably legitimate government backing and copious quantities of Lazarus resin to bring them back every time they died. He was sent to recruit Deadshot by raising him from the dead. Apparently some fool buried Deadshot’s wrist guns with him, because the first thing Deadshot did on being resurrected was to shoot Jason in the back.

Jason was rushed back to the organisation’s facility but flatlined on the operating table.

He was revived by an injection of Lazarus resin into the brain (or possibly just the outer ear? picture is unclear), administered by one of the staff of the questionably legitimate facility.

Time dead: less than a minute.

5. Killed by the Batman of Zur-En-Arrh (Batman 3:148, 2024)

Batman’s dissociation backup personality, called Zur-En-Arrh, turned evil and downloaded itself into a robot. It fought Batman and Jason jumped in to save him; Zur took him out with a stong uppercut to the jaw, smashing his facemask, and threw him down hard, which broke his neck and killed him.

This was a setup by Bruce and Jason: Jason was wearing a special suit that injected him with Lazarus resin, so he was revived almost instantly, while having killed someone caused Zur-En-Arrh to crash.

Time dead: a few seconds.

Inferrable and arguable deaths

1. Arguably died when Joker takes over the world (Emperor Joker, 2000)

After the Joker stole reality-altering powers from Mxyzptlk and remade the universe to his liking, he placed Jason’s rotting corpse alongside Dick’s and Tim’s for a macabre poker game.

Emperor Joker was published in 2000, well before Jason was revealed to be alive in the Under the Hood storyline, published in 2006 (and later retconned to have been present in the Hush storyline in 2003), and absolutely before any writer had conceived of bringing him back to life. But given that he is supposed to have been shambling around as a zombie and then getting assassin training for a long while before that, taking the retcons into account he ought to have been alive at the time of Emperor Joker.

So while at the time of writing Jason was intended to be continuously dead, after the retcons we have to say that Joker killed Jason again, perhaps even unknowingly, to put him in his poker game.

After Joker was defeated, Mr Mxyzptlk, with Spectre!Hal’s guidance, restored the world to its previous state, which presumably also involved restoring Jason to life again.

Time dead: it’s complicated.

2. Perhaps dies in the confrontation with Bruce involving the Joker (Batman 1:650, 2006)

When he returned to Gotham as the Red Hood, Jason engineered a confrontation between himself, Batman, and the Joker. Batman ended up throwing a batarang which clipped his shoulder. (Jason had previously in this story monologued about how shoulder wounds can kill quickly from blood loss but are easily treated if you’re quick.) Then the Joker shot the explosives Jason had set and the building blew up.

Batman presumably assumes Jason is dead (Jason and Joker were right on top of a large pile of explosives – in fact, it’s pretty amazing even Bruce, who was standing a few feet away, managed to get out). So no-one is around to rescue and treat Jason. But Jason returns later with no explanation of how he survived. Either he’s returned from the dead again or he is supernaturally good at not dying.

Then again, the Joker survived too, so who knows?

Time dead: unknown, if any.

3. Perhaps dies when Dick throws him off a bridge into Gotham River (Batman: Battle for the Cowl 3, 2009)

After Jason nearly killed both Tim and Damian, during the Battle for the Cowl while Bruce was lost in time, Dick confronted him in a battle which ended up on top of a train going over a high bridge. Dick knocked Jason off the train, and they ended up on the bridge with Jason dangling off the edge.

Dick did the whole ‘Take my hand’ thing and Jason said “I’ll be seeing you sooner than you think,” before letting go and dropping into the water from a great height.

This suggests either Jason knows he’s going to come back from the dead or Jason thinks Dick is going to die soon. Dick definitely reacts as if he thinks Jason is dead, and Dick probably has a pretty generous idea of what’s survivable when it comes to heights.

Again, Jason returns later with no explanation.

Time dead: unknown, if any.

Batfam Death Project Masterpost

[prisvvner]

Free Shipping, Internal Screaming

pairing: massage gun!sukuna x broke college student!reader

content: you're a broke college student whose last resort of stress relief is a shipping-free, cheeky looking massage gun from amazon. turns out it was worth the money, just in ways you did not expect!

warnings: CRACKFIC!, MDNI, object!kuna or whatever we call this menace, lots of smut with barely any plot (if you squint), missionary, kuna giving mean backshots, mating press, dirty talk, reader losing the will to resist (and walk)

author's note: blame @yenayaps for this shit i couldn't get it out of my head- but whatever object!kuna is, i'm so glad you introduced it to us T.T anyways proceed with caution and read to fulfill your naughty dreams! <3

You’re officially at your wit’s end. Finals week has been an unrelenting beast, gnawing at your sanity with a relentless, merciless grip. Your sleep schedule isn’t just messed up, it looks like a Jackson Pollock painting: chaotic, splattered with irregular bursts of insomnia, naps stolen on grimy library benches, and late-night panic scrolling through lecture slides. Your brain feels like overcooked spaghetti—tangled, mushy, and utterly useless.

And then there are your roommates. You love them, kind of, but right now they’re driving you straight to the edge of madness. Between their midnight karaoke sessions, which sound suspiciously like an off-key tribute to every 80s rock ballad ever written, and their “study breaks” that suspiciously align with every hour on the clock, your stress meter has officially exploded. The walls of your tiny dorm room seem to close in, suffocating you in a cloud of noise, caffeine, and desperate tension.

You collapse on your cluttered bed, staring at your phone with dead eyes, desperate for a miracle. And then you see it: an online ad for a “miracle massage gun” promising to “release all your tension and bad vibes.” The price? So low it might as well be a joke. And FREE SHIPPING! The product photo looks like it was snapped with a potato, and the seller’s rating is suspiciously perfect. But hell, at this point, you’re desperate enough to ignore every warning bell ringing in your head and hit buy.

Days later, the package arrives. A small, squarish box with questionable tape sealing the edges, like it’s been shipped via a conspiracy of raccoons. You tear it open, and the first thing that hits you is a strange smell. It’s this weird hybrid of old gym socks fermented in motor oil and something chemical, sharp and unsettling. You pull out the massage gun, and immediately, your eyes narrow.

It’s a bizarre, bulky contraption that looks like someone glued together random parts from a junkyard. The plastic is scratched and peeling in places, with stickers half-lifted like ancient relics. Wires poke out at awkward angles, twitching like nervous fingers. You grimace, your fingers itching to drop the thing back in the box and forget you ever saw it.

Then you grab the manual. The thing is a masterpiece of confusion—pages full of cryptic symbols, nonsensical instructions, and what looks like a half-hearted attempt at translating from a language no one quite remembers anymore. You squint, trying to make sense of the diagrams that might as well be hieroglyphics.

But hey. You’re not exactly picky. If it even sort of works, you’ll consider it a win.

You set the thing down on your cluttered desk, your textbooks and half-empty coffee mugs crowding around it like uninterested spectators. You eye it suspiciously, feeling a knot of dread and hope twisting inside your gut. With a deep breath, you flip the power switch.

The moment it buzzes to life, the noise assaults you. It’s deafening—a harsh, unholy symphony of blender blades whirring, a swarm of angry bees trapped in a tin can, and the relentless pounding of a jackhammer. The vibrations shake through your fingers, the entire device thrumming so violently it nearly slips from your grasp.

A sharp jolt shoots up your arm, electric and raw, making you flinch and squirm. Instead of soothing your knotted muscles, it feels like a tiny electric beast gnawing at your nerves, sharp teeth sinking into every fiber of your being.

You grit your teeth, willing yourself to tough it out. “Okay, maybe it just needs to warm up,” you mutter, voice tight with skepticism.

You're on your last brain cell. Maybe even past that—this is ghost-of-a-brain-cell territory now. Finals have turned your spine into a Jenga tower of regret and muscle knots, and if one more roommate belts out Celine Dion at 1 a.m., you will commit karaoke-related crimes.

Which is why you're now lying belly-down on your bed, propped up by a questionable number of pillows, trying to angle a sketchy "miracle massage gun" at your lower back like some desperate gremlin. You’re already regretting the purchase, but your spine makes a noise like a crumpling soda can every time you move, so here you are.

The thing groans to life with the sound of a malfunctioning blender and the subtle grace of a jackhammer. It's vibrating so violently your whole arm jiggles. "Okay, calm down," you mutter, aiming it at the middle of your back.

It makes contact.

And then you—God help you—moan.

Loudly.

Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, completely mortified. "No. Absolutely not. Nope."

You fumble with the switch, but the thing won’t turn off. It’s buzzing like it’s possessed, hopping in your grip like a deranged robot chihuahua, and you have to wrestle it to keep it from drilling a hole into your hip.

"This is not tension relief!" you shriek, flinging it away from you like it’s cursed—which, honestly, at this point? Would track.

With a theatrical WHAM, you hurl the massage gun against your bedroom wall, expecting a satisfying crack or snap. Instead, a low hum fills the air, growing louder and deeper, vibrating through the plaster like a pulse.

The thing glows—first a faint shimmer, then a dazzling, blinding light that floods the room. The massage gun fractures into a swirl of radiant fragments, spinning and twisting, each shard catching the light like stars caught in a tempest.

You stand up and grab the box from the desk in an attempt to hide.

But then—

You stare.

Your brain is still buffering, absolutely refusing to comprehend what your eyes are seeing: the broken remains of the bizarre massage gun now completely gone, replaced by a man standing in the middle of your bedroom like a storm dressed in skin.

A very naked man.

And not just any man. He looks like a painting that came to life and decided to ruin yours. Every line of his body is sharp and divine, sculpted like a cruel deity carved from obsidian and arrogance. Broad shoulders taper into a trim waist, cords of muscle shifting smoothly under pale, flawless skin. Dark markings twist and slither across his body in hypnotic patterns, wrapping around his arms, slicing down his chest, disappearing along the deep V of his hips.

You blink.

Then blink again.

“I’m hallucinating,” you whisper, voice dry, eyes wide as dinner plates. “This is a stress-induced hallucination.”

He tilts his head, smirking like the cat that not only ate the canary, but seduced it first.

“Cute,” his voice rich and warm and laced with something ancient. “Is that what you humans tell yourselves now? Must be finals week.”

You’re still frozen in place, backed against your desk like it might absorb you if you wish hard enough. Your gaze drops— obviously against your will—and there it is: the thick, heavy curve of him hanging between his thighs, long and shameless, already semi-hard and stirring slowly to life.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, panicking quietly, brain spiraling. “You’re naked. There’s a naked hallucination in my room. I need sleep. I need a priest. I need a psych eval.”

He laughs—actually laughs—a low, velvety sound that curls around your spine and pulls tight. He steps forward and you instinctively back up, hitting the desk harder this time.

“You’re not dreaming, little thing,” he murmurs, crimson eyes gleaming. “You summoned me. Or maybe it was more of a... release.” His gaze lowers, flicking to your parted lips, your chest rising with each ragged breath. “And you seemed so eager to throw me around.”

You gape at him, mouth dry, heart hammering. “You were a massage gun.”

Another step. He’s close enough now that the heat from his body wraps around you like a blanket made of sin. “Mmm. You were grinding on me like one, weren’t you?” he purrs, voice dipping low. “Maybe I liked it. Maybe that’s what woke me up.”

You open your mouth to protest but his hand suddenly lifts, two fingers catching your chin and tilting your face toward him. His touch is warm, too warm. Not human. Not safe.

But god, your knees nearly give out.

“You threw me,” he repeats, smirking. “Do you know what happens to girls who try to manhandle a curse?”

Your stomach flips. You don’t know if it’s fear or something much worse. Much more dangerous.

“I—I didn’t know you were cursed,” you whisper.

“No,” he agrees, voice dark and pleased. “But you do now.”

And then he brings your hand to him. Presses it low. Makes you feel exactly what kind of monster you’ve just unleashed.

Your fingers curl instinctively, brushing against hot, velvet skin stretched over iron. You gasp, the sensation is jarring, electric, far too real to belong to a hallucination. He's thick, heavy, growing impossibly harder beneath your touch, and the pulse of heat radiating from him is unmistakable. Not imagined. Not a dream.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, voice curling like smoke around your spine. His fingers are still under your chin, tilting your face up, eyes gleaming like molten garnet. “Still think you’re imagining me, sweetheart?”

You try to pull your hand back, but he holds it there, firm, not painful—just enough to remind you who's in control now.

"I—" you start, but the words dissolve when he leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"Shhh. Let me show you just how real I am."

The moment stretches, impossibly tense— and then he kisses you. Not gently. Not sweetly. He kisses like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. His mouth claims yours, demanding, coaxing, consuming. His tongue slides against yours like he already knows every secret you’ve never told, dragging a desperate moan from your chest before you can stop it.

You don’t remember your legs wrapping around his waist. You don’t remember how he carried you, how the world blurred— just that suddenly your back hits the mattress and he’s above you, caging you in with his body, heat radiating off him like a fever.

"You're soaked already," he growls against your neck, one hand sliding down between your thighs. His fingers drag up the inside of your thigh until they press against the damp heat waiting for him. He groans darkly, almost reverent. "And I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You’re squirming, panting, caught somewhere between protest and begging, but his touch is relentless, rubbing, circling, coaxing your body into betraying every ounce of logic left in you.

He moves lower, eyes never leaving yours as his mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, over your chest. Every kiss is hot and slow and just shy of cruel, lips brushing, teeth grazing—enough to make your back arch, to make you whimper his name even though you haven't said it aloud.

"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin, licking a stripe over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. His fingers slide lower, slipping between your folds, rubbing slow circles that make your hips roll against his palm without permission.

"You're going to take me so well," he says, voice dropping like a stone into your stomach. He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet, just teasing, just enough to make your thighs shake around him.

“Ready?” he asks, tone mocking, almost smug,  but his gaze flickers with something deeper. A hunger you’ve never seen before. A need barely leashed.

Your breath catches. “Yes,” you whisper, not even recognizing your own voice.

And then he pushes in.

He pushes in slowly—agonizingly slow—like he wants you to feel every inch, every stretch, every second of what you’ve just allowed into your bed. Your body yields, tight and fluttering around him, and he groans low in his throat, head dropping for a moment like he’s savoring the moment as much as you’re unraveling beneath it.

You gasp, hands fisting in the sheets, thighs trembling as he sinks deeper. The sensation is overwhelming, hot, full, an exquisite pressure that makes your toes curl. It’s too much, and not enough. You barely recognize the sound that leaves your mouth—half-moan, half-shock—as he bottoms out, filling you completely, the curve of his hips pressing against yours.

"Look at you,” he growls against your throat, breath hot. “Stretching so sweet around me... all for a cursed little relic you tried to throw against the wall.”

His words make your skin prickle, heat pooling low in your stomach like wildfire. He rolls his hips once—just once—and your back arches off the bed like you’ve been struck by lightning.

He finds a rhythm next, slow at first, teasing, dragging his length out before driving back in with a smooth, devastating thrust. Your breath stutters with every movement. He watches you like a man possessed, his eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every twitch, every shudder, every quiet, desperate sound you make.

"You keep clenching like that," he warns, voice gravel-thick with restraint, "and this isn't going to be gentle for long."

You don’t reply. Can’t. All you can do is move with him, meet each thrust with rising need, fingers clawing at his back, at his arms— anywhere you can reach. His muscles ripple under your touch, hard and warm, tattooed with markings that pulse faintly with each deep, rhythmic snap of his hips.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding that aching spot between your thighs with maddening precision. He circles it with calculated, possessive attention, pushing you higher, closer, unraveling you with expert ease.

“Come on,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Let go for me. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You’re already there—your body taut, trembling, slick with sweat, the pressure building impossibly fast. Your breath hitches once, then breaks completely as your climax crashes over you in a wave of heat and sensation that leaves you trembling.

He doesn’t stop, not immediately. He rides you through it, your name low and filthy on his tongue, hips still working until he groans deep and curses into your skin, finally following you over the edge with a growl like thunder.

He doesn’t stop at one climax. Not even close.

You lie beneath him, breath ragged, chest rising and falling like a storm surge. Your hips twitch involuntarily, still echoing with tremors you didn’t know your body could hold. The aftershocks ripple through you, hot and raw, and just when you think you might finally find a moment of peace, he leans down—not with tenderness, but with a slow, deliberate possessiveness that makes your skin prickle.

His mouth presses against your throat, lips grazing over the delicate pulse point with a weight that demands your attention. It’s not a kiss, it’s a claim, slow, knowing, marking. His teeth trail along your skin like a predator savoring his prize, and the slight scrape makes you shiver in spite of yourself.

“You break that easily?” His voice is a low murmur, thick with amused contempt as he nips at the soft skin just beneath your ear. “Tsk. I thought you had more bite.”

You manage a sound somewhere between a breathless laugh and a trembling whimper—part defiance, part surrender. Before you can fully gather yourself, his hands are already sliding beneath your thighs, lifting you up with effortless strength. The shift in angle is immediate, deeper, sharper, like a secret key turning in a lock you didn’t know existed. The sensation settles deep in your bones, in the arch of your back, in the trembling of your legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

His pace slows. Not gentle— no. Deliberate, calculated. Every movement measured, like he’s testing the limits you didn’t realize you had. Each thrust carves itself inside you, claiming space, staking a territory you never agreed to give but now can’t imagine ever reclaiming.

“Eyes on me,” he growls, his tone sharp when you begin to let your head fall back, overwhelmed. One hand cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his, demanding submission as his hips roll in with purpose. “I want to see the exact moment you come undone again.”

And come undone you do. Harder this time. The pleasure crashes through your body like a tidal wave—your spine arches instinctively, fingers digging into his shoulders with desperate claws, your mouth parting, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry. The crescendo builds and breaks over and over, unstoppable, consuming.

His groan vibrates deep and guttural, a sound that seems to reverberate from his very core, reserved just for you, for this. You tighten instinctively around him, and he grips you harder—a low, rumbling growl escaping him, thick with possession and hunger.

But he’s far from finished.

In one fluid, seamless motion, he pulls out, flips you over onto your stomach, and drags your hips back toward him. His chest presses flush against your spine, breath hot along your neck.

You yelp—or maybe it’s a moan—lost in the sudden shift. Then he slides back in from behind, burying himself so deep you feel every inch with a raw, exquisite sting. This new angle is merciless, devastating in its precision. Each thrust drives into you, hitting some hidden place so perfect it steals the air from your lungs and sends your thoughts scattering into a white-hot blur of sensation.

He growls something filthy into the shell of your ear, voice rough and demanding, but your mind is already too tangled in heat and need to catch the words.

His grip tightens around your hips, anchoring you firmly to the mattress as your legs tremble uncontrollably beneath him. You dribble sweat and breath into the sheets, utterly broken, like every defense you thought you had has crumbled under his touch.

Then, without warning, he shifts again.

You don’t know how he does it, some impossible feat of strength and precision, but suddenly your knees are pulled up, pressed tight to your chest, and his body folds over yours like a dark, unyielding weight. He holds you open, deep, utterly locked inside you.

His thrusts now are brutal, surgical in their intent, each one angled perfectly to find that one soft, perfect spot that makes your fingers dig into his back and your throat catch on choked sobs of desperate pleasure.

He is everywhere—in your head, beneath your skin, beating like a second pulse inside your chest.

And through it all, he watches you.

Smirking.

Growling praise and filthy words in the same breath.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs against your throat, his voice dropping just low enough to make your skin crawl. “Look at you… ruined for anyone else.”

You nod, or maybe you whimper, the distinction no longer matters. You’ve let him in, utterly and hopelessly. Your mind is wiped clean by heat, need, and sensation, a blank canvas painted only with his touch.

You can’t remember who you were before this.

You can’t imagine who you’ll be after.

All you know, with every shuddering breath and every aching, trembling inch of your body, is this:

He owns you now.

Every inch.

Every breath.

And he’s not letting go.

The silence afterward is… thick. Not peaceful. Not quite comfortable.

Just heavy.

Your chest heaves, skin slick with sweat and barely cooling in the still air of your bedroom. The ceiling looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago, but you feel like you’ve been flipped inside out, turned into someone else entirely. Someone who just had mind-shattering, leg-shaking sex with an ancient cursed being who was, until recently, a defective massage gun.

You lie there, dazed and spread across your sheets like a crime scene, limbs tangled and useless. He’s still above you, propped on one elbow, watching you like he’s not even winded.

Of course he isn’t.

You glance at him, regrettably, and immediately regret that too. Because he’s smirking again, lazily, like he just took your soul and is wondering what’s for dessert.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, dragging a pillow over your face.

“Like what?” he says, feigning innocence in a voice that could cut diamonds.

“Like you knew that would happen.”

He chuckles—a low, dangerous sound—and reaches over to casually tug the pillow off your face, pinning you with those molten crimson eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart. I did know. The moment you straddled that poor little machine and started whimpering? I knew exactly what you needed.”

You gape. “I wasn’t—! That thing was attacking my spine!”

“Sure it was,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle slowly down your collarbone. “But you didn’t stop. Not even when it was vibrating like a demon in heat.”

You let out a strangled groan and cover your face again. “I can’t believe I’m going to be haunted by this for the rest of my life.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You’re not haunted.”

Pause.

“You’re owned.”

Your hand slides down your face slowly. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “You activated a cursed object using body heat, desperate frustration, and what I’d generously call light dry humping. The contract is sealed.”

You sit up a little too fast. “There’s a contract?!”

His grin widens, wicked. “Unwritten. Intimate. Binding.”

“Binding my ass—”

“Oh, I did.” He glances at your hips, then meets your gaze again with a sinful smile. “Thoroughly.”

You’re torn between smacking him and pulling him back down for round two.

Instead, you sigh and flop back down onto the mattress, one arm flung across your eyes.

“…So what now?” you mumble. “You live in my room and I pretend you’re not a walking red flag with tattoos and attitude?”

He stretches like a lion, clearly pleased. “Darling, I am the red flag. But lucky for you…” He leans in, lips brushing your temple, voice a low promise.

“You’ve already surrendered.”

Your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with fear—and everything to do with the fact that, for better or worse, your life just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @strangergraphics-archive ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not.

[ohmygodryan]

Scars | Astarion x Dark Urge Reader

Summary: Astarion goes to comfort you after finding you’ve wandered from camp.

Pre-confession. Takes place in Act 1. Dark Urge trauma. Hurt/comfort.

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Two things constantly swarmed Astarion’s mind—fear and, of course, eternal hunger. The innate bloodlust that came with vampirism was manageable to a degree. His nightly hunt in the woods was enough to keep him sated, at least for a certain amount of time. 

It was the fear that truly plagued him. He had been thrown from a life of enslavement to a life of uncertainty. Even with the newly found amenities the parasite had brought him, he felt he was doomed no matter what. He wanted to believe it could bring him salvation but around every corner, another danger seemed to emerge. He had never been accustomed to trusting others. Yet there was one person he felt himself growing more attached to every moment. 

You, of all people, had shown him nothing but kindness. You, who clawed through bodies with a tantalizing ambition, always turned a soft gaze to him. It wasn’t your spells of primal violence that frightened him—that part was actually quite delightful, it was that through all of that, you still seemed to care. 

You had let him feed on you, which was the first time he’d ever drank from something other than lowly vermin or unfortunate animals. You had protected him from the clutches of the monster hunter who Cazador had sent after him. You even allowed him to slaughter the Gir without question. You were understanding and even more so exciting. It almost made him feel bad for manipulating you so brazenly.

The thought was beginning to trouble him to such a degree he’d taken to hunting more frequently than usual. On tonight's menu was an unlucky deer. It had been fast, but he was always faster. Although this was a waste of his talents, he much preferred to feed on you. Usually, you were quick to offer. But there had been something troubling you for the last couple of days. More so than the usual brain fog.

He had settled to make his way back to camp for the night. As he stalked through the foliage back to the comfort of his tent, he noticed a familiar figure sulking next to the lake. 

~

Nightfall had become a loathsome burden for you. Your companions welcomed the comfort of their bedrolls at the end of a long day of searching for a cure for your shared affliction. However, you had begun to dread the nightly ritual of tossing and turning. 

You were plagued with growing visions and fantasies of your gory nature. The Urge inside you was growing more impatient by the day. There may have been a time when darkness was an exciting veil that created a playground for your violence to lavish in. Even if that was the case, reminiscing wasn’t a luxury you were afforded. 

Ever since you had ruthlessly savaged that innocent Bard, Alfira, your urges had begun to fester like an open wound. The guilt was eating you away. You hadn’t wanted this. Sure, the occasional violence was necessary and you couldn’t deny that each foe you fell was like the pleasures of a healing spell. However, she wasn’t deserving of your blade. She had offered to join your cause, you had even helped her finish her song in honor of her dead teacher. 

Yet it was not to be. Because you are a monster. 

You gazed at your reflection in the water below. You had wandered from camp in hopes of distracting yourself from another wave of horrible thoughts. Although it was proving fruitless. 

Your face was the only familiar thing about yourself. You didn’t know your own mind or your past. Now, even your reflection was growing foreign. You had been pondering the long scar that stretched from your chin across your cheek. The tissue was mangled, whatever wound you endured was deep. How you procured it was another mystery to you.

As you were about to look away, you saw another image appear next to yours. He had been the only one to notice you were gone. Or maybe you had somehow disturbed his nightly hunt. 

“Darling, what are you doing away from your bedroll?” His flirtatious drawl snapped you out of your stupor. 

You hesitated to answer. The last thing you wanted to do was burden him with your depravity. Although it was likely he didn’t want to listen to you prattle anyway. 

“I couldn’t rest.” You responded simply, “I came out here to clear my thoughts.”

He was uncharacteristically quiet as he considered your slumped form. He had never seen you so dejected before. Usually, you carried yourself with an intimidating—if not a little unhinged form. But in the cover of darkness, you looked almost scared.

“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but it doesn’t seem very effective. You look a little, how do I say this…lost? A bit more desperate than usual.” He garnished his words with a little smirk. 

You scoffed at his typical attitude. He never turned a nose to an opportunity to comment on you or your companions. Although, he seemed to enjoy a reaction from you in particular. However this time, you thought you could hear a tinge of concern, or perhaps curiosity, in his tone.

“I just have a lot on my mind.” You replied.

You knew Astarion all too well. He likely wanted something from you. He had his charms and usually you humored his antics. You couldn’t deny you were the most fond of him out of all your companions. Right now, however, you weren’t in the mood for any flirty banter. 

To your surprise, he didn’t respond with any snarky remarks. Instead, he took a seat next to you on the grassy bank. You turned your head quizzically, regarding his pale form. His hair was tousled from the night's hunt, only slightly disturbed from its usually pristine form. The silver lighting framed the fang indents on his neck, a crude reminder of his vampiric curse. 

“What troubles you, my dear?” He asked, eyeing you with his ruby gaze.

You surveyed him, trying to clock any deception on his features. You were all too aware of how practiced he was at enthralling others. He had an uncannily silver tongue. 

He maintained his usual flirty smile, although there was a softness to his gaze. You shifted uneasily in your spot. You hated when he gave you that look. The Urge laced your consciousness with visions of his demise with every sweet feeling you perceived him with. You cast your gaze back to the lake, holding your tongue fast. Your throat ached to spill what had been ailing you, but your fear was a far greater master. 

“Why do you care?” You questioned, distracting yourself with the steady ripples of the water.

He chuckled at your harshness. You weren’t usually so brash. It only served to further pique his curiosity.

“Well we can’t have our fearless leader out of commission, can we? Don’t tell me the worm is besting you now?” He pushed.

You gritted your teeth in hopes of killing the feeling sputtering inside you. He was right. With how you’ve been acting, the group would never make progress in removing the tadpoles.

“The parasite isn’t the one scrambling my brain. My head is a mess.” You confessed, refusing to make eye contact.

He paused, joining you in looking out at the landscape. He wasn’t a fool. He had noticed your episodes of flitting between selves. After all, you had executed a poor innocent squirrel unprovoked. 

“You are referring to your mysterious past, correct?” He didn’t wait for you to reply, “It is quite obvious you’ve got something besides the tadpole swimming in that lovely little head of yours.”

You frowned at his words. What little of your memories remained could only be recalled in a painful fog. They were like mismatched puzzle pieces, entirely incomprehensible. 

“If I could remember something, maybe I could figure out what is wrong with me.” You declared hopelessly.

Your mind raced across the weeks before. From crashing to invading goblin camps, you were still no closer to knowing who you were. 

He took in your words with careful thought. He hadn’t entirely expected you to open up as it was.

“Well if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this peculiar adventure of ours is that anything can happen. If I can walk in the sun again, who’s to say you can’t you can figure out who you were?” He expressed, looking at you from the corner of his eye. 

He wasn’t wrong. You knew his entire life changed from your group’s capture. Although, you hesitated to want to know the truth of who you were before the crash. It could be a horrific truth that you were a depraved being who deserved to die on that nautiloid. 

“Sometimes I get a brief inkling of recalling something and then… nothing. Maybe if I could remember I would know how to stop these urges.” You thought out loud. 

His attentive expression willed you to voice your confliction. You pressed on, uneasy at the prospect of being so honest.

“It’s like there's a sea of thrashing tides when they come over me. I can’t be sure what will set them off. Just when I think I will be able to resist them….” You trailed off, refusing to put into words what you’d done.

A grim silence surrounded you. For a moment, you feared you had shared too much. He may very well be considering his place in the party, probably debating whether or not it was worth being around such instability.

“I know what you did.” He said finally.

You tensed at his words. Images of the fiendish entity that claimed to be your butler pranced in your head. He had even given you a prize for your macabre achievement. 

“I know it was no rabid boar that killed that bard from the grove. You may have convinced the others but I could see it in your eyes. I recognize the remnants of repressed savagery.” Astarion looked back at you, but instead of an accusatory gaze, you saw understanding.

“I do not blame you for it.” 

You furrowed your eyebrows. He had knowingly slept in the same camp as you for all this time, even seeing how you gored Alfira beyond recognition. You felt your stomach swirl in unease.

“Why didn’t you tell everyone?” You questioned.

His expression hardened into one of bitter sympathy, “Because, I know better than anyone what it’s like to not have control over your own body. Whatever compulsion plagues you isn’t really who you are.”

Your face fell at the mention. You clenched your hands together, the memories of what he’d shared with you about his previous life flooding back. He was a vampire spawn, he wasn’t afforded such basic rights such as free will.

“Cazador…” You spoke the name of his old master hesitantly. 

He nodded grimly, “It never mattered what I wanted. I had to bend to his every whim.”

You watched as his eyes danced with the painful memories. His delicate lips pulled into a deep frown as if the very thought filled his mouth with a foul taste. 

“But I have been made anew. The tadpole gave me a chance to become more than just his slave.” He looked at you determinedly, “You too have been given an opportunity and I suggest you don’t let it slip away.”

You felt a flicker of optimism in your chest. But even so, it seemed your past was following you. You knew finding a cure for your parasite wouldn’t be the end of your problems

“Do you really think this will help me remember my past?” You said with uncertainty.

“Maybe. We’ve seen more things than I thought possible on our little misadventure. Even so, you at least have a chance to figure out what's causing these urges of yours. You said you have been able to recall a few memories, right?” He replied with a gentle conviction. 

His words seemed to soothe you and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You looked back to your reflection as if examining your face would retrace your steps through the fog of your mind. 

You scoffed as you stared at yourself, “It’s not like they are much help. I can’t even remember how I got this scar.”

You gestured to the obvious laceration on your face. He surveyed you thoughtfully, taking in your exhausted expression. The moonlight cast a serene glow on you, painting you in a haunting beauty. Whatever had done that to you hadn’t done much to tarnish your allure. 

“It seems like both of us have scars we don’t know the meaning of.” He mused.

You held his gaze sorrowfully. You recalled him basking in the sunlight after the night you’d spent together. The strange marks carved into his back by Cazador sparked in your memory. 

“I’m sure there’s someone out there who can tell you what they say.” You offered him a hesitant smile.

He returned it, his expression looking more genuine than you’d ever seen it before. He leaned back and rested his weight on his palms. He stared up at the stars, allowing himself to relish in the comfort of understanding.

“Perhaps you’re right.” He let out a peaceful breath, “‘We can figure it out together,’ I think you said that to me once?”

You nodded and he continued with a smile, “Well it’s true. We can solve our mysteries one step at a time.” 

You joined him in looking up at the sky. For the first time in countless days, the urges didn’t tug at the back of your mind. It was just you and him in this moment. It was like you were invisibly bound together by what you had shared. Even in the silence, you savored in each other's company. 

You didn’t care if his coming to comfort you had been sincere or not. He had given you hope, that’s all that mattered. 

That night you would partake in something you hadn’t in quite some time. A tranquil rest.

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Let me know if anyone would be interested in more bg3 content or a full series. This game is my bread and butter.

[lizdive]

saw ur inbox is open so i jumped right into the opportunity 🤭 just recently discovered ur blog and AUGH i love your writing!! the lack of platonic stuff is a CRIME.. 💔

could i request something with aventurine being an older (adoptive) brother to teen reader? if you want some extra lore, the ipc basically found the reader and wanted to use their powers for themselves cuz theyre like- crazy op- 😭 (reincarnation of an aeon typa shit) so they placed the reader into aventurine's care bcuz he was the only person they weren't hostile towards-

SORRY THIS GOT A LITTLE LONG ?! you don't need to use the extra lore if you dont want to btw! i just put it there :3

can be either hcs or a oneshot/drabble, u can choose!! >_<

please and thank u!!!! (ゝω・´★)

YOU’RE SO SWEET YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME ILUSM ☹️🩷🤍 Aventurine is my everything I love when people send me reqs about him he’s never left my team since I’ve gotten him 😭 ALSO I LOVE THE EXTRA LORE I LOVE UR BRAIN LEMME KISS IT MWAH 💋 tysm for requesting <33 if you’re unsatisfied just tell me and i’ll redo this 🫶

notes 𐙚 gender-neutral reader — "you" + "they/them" used to refer to the reader ,, reader is a teenager but is implied to be ancient ,, reader is implied to be a part of tayzzyronth — aeon of the propagation — and can be up for interpretation, however they do have swarm abilities ,, i did some research on tayzzyronth however there may be things that are not accurate or do not align with canon as tayzzyronth and the swarm is very confusing ,, reader grows a hatred for qlipoth — aeon of the preservation and their followers aka the ipc ,, platonic relationships ,, ipc activities as usual ,, penacony mission at the end ,, i feel like i derived from og request i’m sososo sorry ,, ending is cringe ngl ,, this is not proofread so ignore typos

Bugs, insects, flies — you do not know what these creatures are referred to as. You do not know of their origin, and you do not know if you are one of them taking a different form. They treat you as if you are one of them and protect you like you are their ruler.

The planet you reside on is dark. There is no other being except for these creatures that swarm you like you are their creator and their savior. You rarely move. Your cheek has grown accustomed to the cracked grounds of this wasteland as you slumber for periods of time you know not the length of. It is gray, yet you sometimes spot the colorful liquid that leaves their bodies as they succumb to the eternal slumber you sometimes seek.

There is no coldness and there is no hotness — you are always warm. They blanket you with their wings and speak to you in a language you have learned to understand.

"The followers of Qlipoth are coming!" they would say, and yet you did not know who they spoke of. The concept of beings existing that are not you or the insects that flutter about bringing you sustenance and company is foreign, and your young mind cannot comprehend it without physical proof. You assume they jest as they always do to try and humor you, and so you do not acknowledge their warnings.

"The followers of Qlipoth have come, you must leave!" And yet you chose to remain on the cracked grounds that have filled your sight for the many years you have lived. You chose to remain under their wings which shielded you as they fought against Qlipoth’s devout to keep them away from your form.

They are weak, you convince yourself, as you hear the shrieks of your swarm. They are weak, you convince yourself, as you hear the loud explosions which cause the frail floors to crack more and more. They are weak, you convince yourself, as you hold a baby bug in your arms like a toy to sooth the bubbling feeling of fear which is so foreign to you.

They are not weak, you realize, as you feel their hands pull at you from beneath the pile of dead creatures, doing their best to fight off the hallucinations from their wings.

These people — the followers of Qlipoth — are enemies. They do not deserve what the insects would call 'mercy'. The chains which cling to some of your joints barely hold you back as you scream at them in what sounds to them like gibberish. Your body is weak from the lack of movement, yet what you consider weakness is considered as strength that was once unattainable to them.

"If I didn’t know of the swarm I’d assume they were an abomination of the abundance," a woman speaks, yet her words mean nothing to you for you cannot understand them. You do not know who spoke, and you do not care. They are all enemies, and this 'Qlipoth' that they follow will be struck down by your own hands one day. They follow this being and therefor this being is the one to order them to do such horrendous acts.

You make an attempt to flutter the thin wings that decorate your back but they feel heavy. You look back and find them to be hidden away and chained. You do not feel the pain, but perhaps it is just the adrenaline rushing through you.

"Did you really have to cover them up like that?" "The workers said that they were hallucinating, we couldn’t risk it."

A gloved hand is placed in front of you. There is nothing in it. The golden rings shine under the lighting of the room you are in. The shimmer is new to your eyes and makes you squint from the reflecting light. You are used to the dullness of your 'home' planet, so when you look up to properly face the man who seems innocent enough, you recoil at the brightness off his appearance.

The many layers of clothes he adorns makes you curious. You do not wear much, only enough to properly cover you. The insects would keep you warm. Yet he wears so much — so many layers of attire made from materials you didn’t even know existed.

Your rage and hostility is pacified with curiosity, and that makes his smile a bit more genuine. He brings a hand to your head, and you’re ready to tear him to shreds should he try anything, but he only pets you gently. It reminds you of when the insects would nudge your head whenever they wanted you to wake up.

The sense of familiarity makes your eyes water but you do not shed the tears. You don’t like how they blind your sight and you blink rapidly to make them go away. The man clad in bright colors says something, but you once again can’t understand him.

But when the suffocating chains no longer cling to your tender skin, you understand that he is safe like those that cared for you and he is trying to comfort you. It works.

The man is named Aventurine — he repeated it constantly until you finally said it, albeit with the accent of a toddler. Still, he praised you. When he smiled and pat your head, you felt happy. It was a good thing.

You follow Aventurine around. He is the only one you have familiarized yourself with. He gets frightened by the swarm that follows you, so you scold them whenever they show themselves unannounced. You do not want him to leave you — you’ve noticed it happens a lot as you are exposed to human beings. He tells you he won’t leave you, how you’re his responsibility now.

You only understand a little bit of what he speaks, but you want to learn more to get more head pats and praise. The language they use is very foreign and requires much more effort to sound out the words as well as memorizing the symbols they write with. It is a lot of effort, but Aventurine is very encouraging.

Aventurine is nice. He is patient. He is understanding. He is helpful. You have been told that the one who has given you your strength was born from loneliness, but if that was the case, them shouldn’t your abilities be gone by now? Because with Aventurine, you do not feel lonely.

You want to tell him this, and one day you will. But for now, you’ll sit in his office, dressed in the nice clothing he has bought for you, and continue to practice your speech and writing.

You do not like leaving his office, because Qlipoth’s devout will then try to talk to you. You have tried many times to send your swarm after them, and you have succeeded many times, but Aventurine always scolds you. You do not like it when he scolds you. It’s a bad thing.

He tries to get you accustomed to human society. It is hard, especially because the human society he tries to make you interact with is filled with Qlipoth’s followers, but for him, you will try.

For him, you will listen to them as they order you to send your swarm to terrorize planets littered with precious material. For him, you will listen to them as blood stains your hands — blood which is not yours. For him, you will allow others to call you a monster which he reassures you that you aren’t.

For him, you will let yourself become the tool Qlipoth’s devout want you to become.

Something you have noticed and have been taught about human society is the concept that is family. You have heard the term many times, especially on this planet called Penacony. The main heads of this big hotel are called The Family. The head of The Family is the brother of his sister. You make sure to remember that.

Aventurine tells you to keep your features hidden as well as your little swarm bug which you brought with you, and you do not protest. The hotel is big, perfect for your insect friend to flutter about freely. Your hand clings to Aventurine’s coat, a habit you have picked up on. When you cling to him, people talk to him first. You don’t know why, but you do not care because it has yet to fail you.

You do not pay attention to the woman at the front desk. She speaks too fast for you to properly comprehend her words, anyways. You take note of the people around. There is nobody adorning the familiar uniform of Qlipoth’s followers, much to your relief. You tug on Aventurine’s coat, looking at him.

He hums, and looks at you while the woman looks the both of you up to check for the reservation. "Finish?" You ask quietly. "Almost. You can sit if you want," he replies, pinching your cheek playfully. You frown and shake your head.

"Alright, It seems you both have reservations. Here are the keys for your rooms. We hope you and your younger sibling enjoy your stay in penacony." The woman smiles and slides the cards on the counter. Aventurine thanks her and motions for you to follow, which you do without hesitance.

The walk is silent, and once the two of you are in the elevator, you decide to speak once more. "We are like Sunday and Robin."

Aventurine blinks at your declaration and turns so his body is facing you, leaning on the support bars of the elevator. "Is that a statement or a question?" He asks, but you don’t directly answer his question, only explaining your words.

"I am younger sibling, you are older sibling." It is then that Aventurine realizes you had paid attention to the woman’s words, or at least her send off ones. He didn’t think much of it, it wasn’t the first time people had assumed you both as siblings. Then again, you had yet to learn the concept of family and the various titles during those encounters.

Still, Aventurine smiles, chuckling lightly as the fuzzy feeling in his chest grows. "Yeah.. You’re the younger sibling, I’m older sibling." The elevator grows silent once more as you both wait for the doors to open.

He’ll need to finish those custody papers once this mission is over.

[machveil]

The Zombie!AU but with Moose!König thoughts...?1

OKAY, you unlocked some hidden compartment in my brain—

CW: nondescript zombies, Moose!König, minimally descriptive gore visuals

Survivor!Reader who’s been constantly on the move during the apocalypse. they figure it’s never truly safe to fully settle down, hoards of zombies often migrating around. the fear that a location can suddenly be swarmed, so they don’t stay one place for too long. the world fell apart quickly, no sign of a beating heart anywhere

you find yourself cutting through a thick, wooded area on your way to the next small town. the trees give you cover, a way to lose any wandering corpses. the sun is dipping in the sky, the moon visible not too far away. clear skies, the canopy lets what little light there is peak through. it’s quiet, no undead groans or the buzz of flies, just the soft pad of your footsteps against the ground. it’s too quiet, when did the birds stop chirping? how long has it been since you’ve heard the odd cricket? how deep are these woods? the roughed up map you found made it seems tiny—

is that a body? sucking in a breath, dulled knife in hand, you eye the body on the ground. dead, not reanimating upon your approach. this deep in the woods? maybe someone passing by had killed a stray wanderer? but there’s another, and then a handful more. all slain on the forest floor, it’d be best to leave. there’s something foreboding about the scene, it doesn’t look like they had been killed by blades or bullets. maybe it’s best to turn back. you’d seen enough horror flicks before the world went to shit, smart enough to not continue this way

pick a direction, go. you got a little turned around in a brief moment of stress, your map useless until you could find somewhere to act as a point of recognition. it’s eerie now, the sky darkening overhead and the crunch of leaves underfoot. a clearing? there’s a patch without trees in the distance, dead shrubs and bushes had been growing there where the sky opened up. maybe you could set up camp there. maybe if it weren’t so cold out it’d be nice, reminiscent of camping before the outbreak. the quiet and stillness of the looming night isn’t terrible, there’s a crispness to the air

if you weren’t so distracted by your thoughts you’d notice the gored ground - maybe the lack of dead is to blame. dulled, matte red staining fallen branches and logs, speckled on the leaves you’re walking on. antler velvet. but you’re caught up looking skywards, small, dazzling stars peaking out as dusk settles into night. looking towards the heavens, only brought back to earth when you hear a huffed groan, the cracking of twigs and heavy footsteps behind you. knife drawn, when you turn it’s not a zombie, maybe it would have been better if it was. shock rushing through you momentarily, grip slack as your knife falls, a sudden course of adrenaline shoots through you

red, raw antlers with velvet hanging off them, a massive frame looming in front of you. cold, apathetic eyes. a muscled, heavy body marred by old scar wounds - a zombie you could handle, what the fuck do you do about this? it’s— he’s stood still, gaze cast down on you. he’s a brutal sight, the need to look away overpowered by the fear of breaking eye contact. where did he come from? the woods are dense, but not so much you’d miss a behemoth. a slow step backwards, what else can you do other than put some distance between you and— this? but where would you go? there’s no clear direction towards what had been civilization. the chance of running into the undead in the dark is even less appealing, of course, that doesn’t matter if you’re killed here

“Stay.”, god, one word has your throat tight with stress, nerves on fire as he slowly approaches. it’s too much, especially when a strand of velvet falls from his antlers in front of you. there’s curiosity in the way he tilts his head, how he crowds a little too close to you. you can’t help but flinch when he brings a rough, calloused hand up towards your face - it makes him pause, fingertips ghosting over your cheek. his near silence is awful, deep, heavy breathing cutting through the quiet when he breathes out. he doesn’t ask for your name, retracting his hand before glancing around the area

suddenly he’s giving you space, still eyeing you as he steps further into the clearing. “You can stay.”, his voice is quiet, pitched a little higher than you’d think for someone of his stature. and then his words catch up to you, staying in the clearing with him. as much as your head is screaming to leave, that this could be a ploy to some— some trap… unfortunately, it’s better than wandering the pitch black woods. the clearing at least has scattered beams of moonlight illuminating it, moonlight reminiscent of his pale eyes. the better of two evils, hesitant all the same, you let your backpack fall to the earth

one night in the woods with a stranger is better than dying to the dead, right?

[miss-oconnell]

Kaylani (around 8 years old) knows that Billie played in a show called Swarm, but she doesn’t let her watch it since it’s not age appropriate. One night, when her moms aren’t home, Kaylani binges the entire show and has nightmares after

Home alone

Mom!Billie x Fem!Reader

Swarm. That's all that’s on 8yr old kaylani’s mind right now. y/n and billie haven’t let her watch it since she’s too young.

“I’ve told you before it's for grown ups” Billie had to explain for the millionth time. Kaylani nodded and thought.

Swarm. Swarm. Swarm. Swarm. Kaylani has a bit of obsession with billie and not in a weird stalker way. It’s mainly because Billie is her mom and she feels the need to watch every single interview, song and film. Billie and y/n didn’t mind since they thought it was cute.

“Ok we’re trusting you to be a big girl without a babysitter. Bye love you princess” you explained.

But the second you and Billie left she hopped to the couch and turned on ‘swarm’. She was only gonna watch maybe a few episodes. But as she watched, she didn’t see Billie so she kept watching.

Her mom's gonna be gone for a while so she accidentally binged watched it all. It was all too much for her. Kaylani didn’t have a typical brain where she saw it and it clicked nor did she really understand that tv was fake so all she could think was…..billie was dead. Yea she saw it on tv but this was different.

“Mommy’s dead?! Am i seeing a ghost” kaylani breaks into tears and cries all night then falls asleep but has a nightmare about her mom dying. More so a replay. How could the woman who makes music for her, makes shaped pancakes with chocolate syrup be dead?

She woke up the next morning to y/n and billie “get away mommy! You’re not real!” she shouts.

Billie gets confused as you get concerned “what?”. Kaylani trembles “i-i watched you d-....die on tv last night”.

Instead of being mad billie laughs “baby that was acting” even if billie was laughing, y/n was upset.

“I told you not to watch that you’re too young!” you exclaim. Kaylani looks down in guilt and billie pats your ass and says “Baby calm down, she’s young and sneaky”.

[dreamofhircine]

You don't feel hands on your chassis. You can't feel boots pressed into recessed maintenance holds, or climbing ropes shot across your frame. Your sensor suite is powerful, the neural link is advanced, but these are just sensory hallucinations as your mind tries to process data. You know this, and knowing doesn't help.

The angle grinders and plasma torches don't sting, don't burn, not really. That's just the alerts flooding through your brain, warning glyphs and imminent core compromise tones blaring in your ears and projected into your mind, re-mapped onto your body. You thrash and whine in the dark, in the rapidly cooling anti-g liquid.

Your lungs still respirate, oxygen rich anti-compression liquid still pumps manually through them even as every other system around you dies and discharges, battery power burning down while the collection crew swarms around your corpse looking for your soft spots like ants carving up a dead animal.

It's been a day, maybe longer, since the hit. A perfect shot from an anti-orbital cannon mid-insertion, just as your atmospheric entry sled was opening. You'd barely seen the ground before everything below the cockpit was severed in blinding flash of heat and light and you were crashing into the dirt, dug meters into frozen earth.

You've wasted so much energy sending pulses up into the sky, trying to reconnect to WarSats that you'd seen the glittery death-flashes of already, trying in vain to call down some last gasp of atomic fury, begging a broken fleet to annihilate you and the insects trying to scrap you, trying to take you alive.

Even your reactor is offline, cold and dead before you got a chance to flare it, to pop the sacrificial plug that would have sent purifying gout of plasma into your cockpit as it squelched out. All you have left are fitful, angry bursts of radar and ranging lasers, something to warm the bones of anything careless enough to pass in front of a functional sensor pod. You hope it fries them, hope they choke on future cancer like you're starting to choke on congealing immersion fluid.

You know that when they open you open, cut your cables and drag you out of yourself, that it won't be kind. Won't be quick. You used all of your anti-personnel munitions on the first group that tried to break you open. And the second. You didn't have enough to finish the third.

You can't feel the anger in their cutting torches, nor malice in their stomping and scrambling around for purchase, you don't have a sensor that can detect rage or tag malevolence-at-range. But you feel it, growing as the skies above darken again and the pulsing warnings in your brain die down.

[howtonerdoutovereverything]

An Analysis of the Black Parade - ALIVE! Promo Video + Analysis of the Long Live The Black Parade Promotional Material So Far

OK Y'ALL THE SCHOOL YEAR IS DONE AND MCR ARE AT IT AGAIN SO LET'S STRAP IN AND DO SOME THEORIZING

So, if you haven't seen it, MCR announced a show in Mexico City called Black Parade - ALIVE!, an obvious homage to their iconic The Black Parade Is Dead show in the city in 2007 that ended the Black Parade era and marked the last time they played the full album live. The video instantly caught my attention, as it seems to only further solidify that MCR's 2025 tour cycle is hinting at something much greater, perhaps a new story to tell interwoven with the established lore and legend of The Black Parade.

I also realized that I've yet to actually sit down and analyze the rest of the promo material surrounding the 2025 tour (in my defense, the first post was made on the same day my dad had brain surgery). I've been theorizing about MCR5 and all of the tour imagery since 2022 (I have a whole theory doc which I will share here and reference throughout this post), and a lot of this stuff seems to be confirming ideas I had even during the SWARM tour, including this new video.

So without any further ado, let's get into it. We'll go in chronological order, starting with the very first post made.

This post shows us a foggy cityscape with what looks like confetti in the air, with giant red letters that resemble MCR, but don't look quite like English. They seem to resemble Russian, but it has since been confirmed that this language was created by the band itself, although the Russian influence is definitely there.

As for the city, it also seems to resemble Europe or at least somewhere in Eastern Europe, perhaps more specifically in the 20th century. Notice the spires.

We can't ascertain much from just this image, so let's move on to the first video that announced the tour.

Immediately, that Russian/Eastern European vibe returns, with an ornate room and soldiers guarding a door. I tried looking for buildings that this could be and struggled, but then again, I don't think this is supposed to be an actual country. It's meant to just LOOK like a 20th-century Eastern European country run by a dictator.

Speaking of, we see that dictator walking down a hall with two other men.

I assume these men are advisors to the dictator, but am unsure if they are meant to be alluding to anyone in particular. I WILL say that the dude with the mustache sort of makes me think of the guy of the cover of Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge (he's wearing a red flower on his suit, and red flowers were a big part of the Revenge imagery). The flowers can even be seen a few shots later.

To me, the flowers look like red carnations, which symbolize romance, love, and passion. They also stand out amidst the mostly black, white, and brown surroundings. Perhaps this is intentional.

We see this woman with sunglasses and a coat sitting with a dog. Her outfit resembles an outfit Gerard wore on tour in 2023.

In my mind, this woman has a lot of power, perhaps related to war. Her dog seems tough and intimidating, like a guard dog. She also stands out pretty starkly from the others. But she is just sitting there, not involved in what the other men are doing. Perhaps she is pulling strings behind the scenes.

Finally, the dictator steps onto the balcony to address a cheering crowd within the same cityspace we saw in the first post. I know I mentioned buildings before, but this makes me think of the Palazzo Venezia in Italy, where Mussolini famously delivered his speeches from a similar balcony. I imagine this is an intentional homage to emphasize the dictatorship energy.

We see the name of the tour, "Long Live" The Black Parade. Why are the words "Long Live" in quotation marks? I have two answers. One: this could be a potential future song title. Two: It is a lie.

What do I mean? Remember that The Black Parade is a fictional band that supposedly filled in for MCR during the Black Parade tour, until they played their last show in 2007 and apparently died (hence The Black Parade Is Dead). So how could they be alive? Keep this thought in the back of your head; it will be important later.

Let's analyze the video caption.

"It has been seventeen years since The Black Parade was sent to the MOAT. In that time, a great Dictator has risen to power, bringing about "THE CONCRETE AGE"; a glorious time of stability and abundance in the history of DRAAG. His Grand Immortal Dictator wishes to celebrate our rich and storied culture, fine foods, and musical entertainments by welcoming you to these great demonstrations of power and resolve. And lending voice and song for the first time in six thousand two hundred and forty six days, their work privilege ceremoniously reinstated, will be His Grand Immortal Dictator's National Band...The Black Parade,"

There are several things of note here. First of all, the reference to seventeen years connects us back to The Black Parade Is Dead, as there is a seventeen-year gap between The Black Parade Is Dead and this tour being announced. Let's also pay attention to the specific number of days we are given: 6,246. Taking the day this video was posted, November 12th, 2024, and subtracting that number of days gives us October 7, 2007, AKA the day of The Black Parade Is Dead.

Second, what is the MOAT? It seems like an acronym for something, but the only thing I could find that was even tangentially related was "Missile on Aircraft Test". So I think this might be a fictional creation, and given the context, it sounds like a prison, perhaps a concentration camp, given the European dictator vibes. The Black Parade was supposedly sent there, probably because the music they were performing contradicted the growing dictatorship's goals. We then hear about a supposed "concrete age", which explains the barren buildings we see. All color and joy seems sucked out of the city. We get another acronym: DRAAG. I think this is a reference to a lyric in The End: "Here's my resignation, I'll serve it in drag". Perhaps DRAAG is a nation similar to the USSR, and is what The Black Parade was referring to.

The real question here is if The Black Parade were supposedly exiled for not aligning with the dictatorship's goals, then why are they being brought back? Perhaps as propaganda?

The next post shows us a clearer view of the dog we saw before, with the caption saying "Good Boy". It is once again in quotes, making me think that this could be another song title. This also reminds me of one of the drumheads from the reunion tour, which said "Sit. Stay. Beg." That, combined with the way its eyes are shining directly into the camera, makes me think this dog represents a couple of different things.

First, it represents war and violence against the people. Think police dogs being unleashed on protestors. This dog enacts the dictatorship's goals using sheer force, much like an army or large weapons could. This explains the almost evil eyes. However, it could also represent the common people themselves. "Good Boy" and "Sit. Stay. Beg." imply treating people like they are animals and forcing them to comply. This dog is just doing what it's told so it won't get hurt or punished, like any person in that situation would. We've yet to see this dog do anything really bad.

Then we have this post, "Long Live". Four men in different outfits. They could represent several things. Are they stand-ins for the four members of MCR? Are they simply the four currently in power within the dictatorship? Or are they representative of the four horsemen of the apocalypse? In the video that follows this post, "Opera", we see more of the men. One looks nervous, one coughs, one laughs, and one is silent. I could see the one who coughs representing Pestilence (sickness) and the silent one representing death (figures that embody death are typically silent). The woman with the sunglasses is also sitting behind them, further hinting that she's somehow involved (literally "behind this").

We then see an opera singer in an opulent dress walk in front of the men to perform. A piece that sounds a bit like an orchestral arrangement of Welcome To The Black Parade plays on a record player. But when she opens her mouth to sing, all that comes out is horrible screeching and industrial noise. I think I also hear screaming in there.

I think this could represent the dictatorship looking towards entertainment to distract them from the horrors they're enabling, only to have it spat back in their face. It could also represent how they view music: chaotic and uncontrollable. We also heard opera pieces during the reunion tour, particularly Casta Diva, a piece that tends to allude to impending doom and ruin. This could be a way of playing on that notion.

Next is "Feast", where we see a lavish meal being enjoyed by those in power. One crucial detail is that we see the dog being fed by one of the soldiers. If the dog is truly representative of war, this could represent how all of the dictatorship's assets are being invested in war and violence. In general, the feast seems to be highlighting the disparity between those in power and those not in power.

Finally, we have the thing I want to talk about that shook this whole thing up: The Black Parade - ALIVE!

We see what looks like an old news program broadcast from DRAAG, showing a statue of the dictator, a shot of the city, and a field, presumably to mislead the populace into thinking there is no famine or shortage of food, something real dictatorships commonly do. We see what looks like the logo of the news station before a news anchor starts speaking.

A couple of things. First, this footage looks like it comes from quite a few decades ago, when supposedly this is supposed to all be happening in modern times, given the dates (they're even referenced again in the report). Perhaps technology in DRAAG is severely outdated? Second, the news anchor calls the viewers "dragoshkas", confirming that the country is called DRAAG and thus its citizens are known as dragoshkas. Third, the footage is subtitled in Spanish, meaning this is being broadcast internationally and is not exclusive to DRAAG.

The news anchor references the Palace of Sport, a generic term used to refer to indoor sports venues built during the Soviet Union, like the Kyiv Palace of Sports in Ukraine. However, this term is also used in other countries, and in Spanish-speaking countries, the term is translated as Palacio de los Deportes. This is seen in the Spanish subtitles.

He tells us that The Black Parade "never returned" from their concert in Mexico City, as they perished in a fire during what was supposed to be their final performance.

This fire imagery is reminiscent of fire imagery shown during the reunion tour, specifically the "burning man" image on their merch truck, which looked very similar to this image. One of the drumheads also read "muy fuego" (a lot of fire), connecting to the concert being in Mexico. And during a noise jam, Gerard said, "I’m gonna set myself on fire, never mind, I want you to set me on fire".

As you might be realizing, this whole news report directly contradicts what we were told happened to The Black Parade. Weren't they sent to a prison by DRAAG? But obviously, they wouldn't want the public to know that, particularly those who saw them live in Mexico, as they'd be furious. So they made up this tragic story to take the heat off them (no pun intended). Not to mention, they can look like heroes by "discovering" that they're not dead at all.

This is also why I said that “Long Live” could be a lie. Maybe they really DID die and a fake band is being sent to perform. This makes me think that perhaps we’ll be seeing something reminiscent of this on this tour.

We then hear once again that it was the dictator's idea to bring back the band, along with the Cabinet of Operatic Retaliations. Could this be what those old men were a part of? Could "Opera" be a play on "Operatic"?

Finally, we see what looks like the national seal of DRAAG. The text is hard to make out, but we can see a deer holding an arrow while also being pierced by arrows. Deer represent grace, elegance, greatness, and innocence. In other words, everything DRAAG is not, but everything they want people to think they are. This deer clearly also represents prey, with it being hunted, but with the arrow in its mouth, it could also subtly represent how the hunted can become hunters (the people rising up), or conversely, how the hunters can become hunted (the dictatorship being overthrown).

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOK, that was a lot, but I know I still missed stuff. If you have any ideas or theories or details, or if you want to ask me questions, feel free to send me an ask! I'd love to talk more about this!

[lover-of-mine]

I'm gonna be very real with you all. I'm just a girl with a fucking hyperfixation and too much information in my brain. I love that you trust my speculation but dear GOD. Every time I talk about that damn timeline, I get swarmed by anons telling me that I'm just deluding all of you into following me into my madness and that I know bt is endgame and I need to shut the fuck up and I keep moving the goal because I know it's not happening. I don't want to adjust that damn timeline. On a lucky stroke, 811 was dead on. 12 and 13 focused on Eddie and his parents, and we got nothing on Buck. It happens. I don't know what's gonna happen. I think 16 is the number. I think they'll be together by the time the season ends. I'm not adjusting an imaginary timeline I came up with after 3 hours on a call with every little piece of information because I don't know. Jesus, I'm tired of getting hate because of that timeline, I don't want to talk about it anymore.