#the idea is so vivid in my head AUGH

[oh-gh0st]

ok i need to write out the isolation after choro confession i am spitballing thoughts and they need to be out NOW!!!

so to start: choromatsu confesses to ghost after theyve finished their shift at the library and are walking nearby the riverbank

he goes on about how much he's appreciated them since theyve met and that he wants to pursue something more with them, blah blah "i-i love you!" yes. OKKK

imagine ghost feeling like glass and getting hit with a massive sledge hammer at that moment. they were always the one to say i love you, and rarely ever got confessed to about it when they were a little bit younger. and everything just stops in them like you could almost swear their heart stopped

they get physically sick and nauseous after hearing that. and almost had to lean over the bank just in case if they did get sick. ghost is silent for a LOOONNGGG while and choro gets stupid fucking anxious cause this is technically his first confession. they hate it, he tells himself, they really hate it!

imagine his disappointment when ghost tells him to wait a while before they give him an answer...

sooo atp methinks ghost wouldve gotten choro a phone... and ever since that day ghost has been Holed up at their condo and has refused to come out unless absolutely necessary (eg work or groceries) and it only spirals from there. even if choro tried looking into their condo from afar all the blinds are shut and windows closed... he cant see a thing, and he's starting to get worried.

like he is constantly trying to reach them everyday on his phone to no avail. the only thing that keeps him going is the "read" caption that he sees on texts at times. at least theyre alive...?

he doesnt know why ghost is doing this, but they do. theyve noticed him getting closer to them, and all the little things that he's been doing is making their heart hurt. they can't go through heartbreak again, they cant !

they absolutely refuse to believe choro is in love with them. or someone like them. sure, theyve teased him or flirted with him, but that was all in good fun, right?! right...? come 2 weeks after that day and ghost wakes up in their bed, tired and absolutely understimulated and weak. they dont want to get up again, but they have to. the birds need to be fed. dishes still have to be done. laundry... shower... have they changed clothes recently? they cant even remember that.

it isnt until they get a singular text from choro that they snap out of their daze, looking over to their phone on the nightstand. they can see his icon, and the special nickname they gave him as his contact name. god...

its the 23rd of the month. they last talked to him over 2 weeks prior... has it been that long? not even ghost has a clue anymore

this is where the relationship picks back up again with ghost finally taking the step and texting him back. a singular "I'm sorry" is all he could ever ask for as a reply, even if it hurt him so much.

they meet up at ghost's place and go on to talk about what happened and choro learns the full extent of why ghost has been skittish around love and distances themselves from it a lot. he reassures them he wouldnt do anything like that, and if he were to they have all rights to beat the shit out of him for it (his words not mine) and choro finally gets to see the more vulnerable side of ghost. its hard for them at first, but once they feel comfortable enough with him its opening floodgates from there

choro does help ghost get out of their isolative and depressive state dw ^-^ he cares way too much but its endearing to them that he would take time out of his day and worry himself over them. like wow....

[unknownarmageddon]

thinking about proximity boys getting into like. a fight with other survivors

like they get jumped one night, and are just having a good time, being all gay (they are kissing and smooching) and then a big ass rock comes flying out from fuck knows where and killer is suddenly staring at cross’s unconscious body, horrified at the spiderweb of cracks, a bloodied stone thudding onto the dirt and then a group of monsters, like 4 of them, come crashing out of the surrounding buildings

and killer snarls angrily, and grabs his bat and cross’s machete and he goes in swinging like a rabid animal, cursing at them, and just going apeshit, “you MOTHERFUCKERS.”

and like, they had taken out cross cuz he was the bigger one of the two, and deemed killer harmless, so imagine the shock when killer comes charging with murder in his eyes

and he like. comes at them and just stabs, slashing at them so angrily that he nearly decapitates one and he leaves the machete in the chest of the other and he whips around, and there’s the other two, trying to make a break for it, cross’s backpack slung over one of their shoulders

and killer just, forces them back, bashing one upside the head, tearing one of his knives out to drive it through the other’s eye

and the whole time, he’s just fucking terrified and not really aware of what he’s doing because all he can see is cross’s cracked skull and they took him away and it’s just this rapid spiral of snowballing grief and anger and he just screams at the very dead body and hits it harder

meanwhile cross comes to, a little concussed but perfectly fine, and he sits up, confused and dazed, and then it’s killer’s yelling and he scrambles to get up, and turns around to find killer stabbing some very dead monster in the face over and over

and cross stumbles over, panicking at the blood on killer’s body, and grabs him and killer starts thrashing and giving these watery, sad shouts, clawing blindly at this perceived attacker, but cross drags him off of the dusting monster and clings to him, “it’s me! it’s me, it’s okay, they’re gone-“ and killer just goes limp for a moment before just crying

and anyways the idea of killer thinking cross died, killing the attackers, and then just sobbing hysterically when cross is not in fact dead, i dunno. i dunno man

and i wanna think, this happens like, right after the distance arc, so im just. it’s still raw, all the hurt from that, and now this scare, the brief moment when he was certain he’d lost cross again, it just tore the barely healing wound wide open and killer just

anyways killer nursing cross back to health from a minor concussion and then being very very protective and clingy and in turn, cross makes sure to THOROUGHLY check their surroundings when they set up camp and weeping sobbing i keep just thinking about killer having nightmares about it and it’s like

it’s not the first time they’d been attacked or wound up in a fight; it was rare, but it wasn’t the first time, but like.

it was different this time

OUGHHH HOLY SHIT FUCK MAN

SO REAL ACTUALLY

I’m obsessed with that actually ough ough

Just the. Whole thing with the distance arc making killer that much more desperate and worried about losing cross. again too in a way HEAD IN HANDS

That whole scene gave me. Such a fucking vivid mental image ohhh my god dude augh augh

And the shear contrast between their reactions is tucking murdering me

OHH okay. Okay. Maybe killer even. After the first scare of Cross getting knocked out. Starts wandering away less. Like before he’s go off for hours or days doing his own thing in the city and like. Neither of them thought twice about it. And Killer generally had been fairly aloof the whole time up until then despite always coming back

But after that Killer starts doing it less and less. And starts leaving for shorter and shorter periods of time. And starts running ahead less, and. Ough man

cause he just. Is so fucking worried about what if he came back and Cross wasn’t there. And he couldn’t possibly bare that after the distance arc

so instead now he just clings to cross. Literally but mostly metaphorically. And cross notices but he doesn’t say anything. Cause he knows why he knows and in turn he clings to Killer

And just I feel like. They’re both reminded how fleeting everything really is

and maybe it’s not like that permanently like they’ll go back to some kind of normalcy but it’s not the same. Everything’s shifted and warped

Cause everything’s different now

[nerdydowntherabbithole]

Hi I'm back again and I have more TLAI stuff to yell about

Except this time it's what my brain decided to come up with the literal second I woke up. My mind chose violence.

If this becomes canon somehow. All the more suffering lmao

OK SO. BIG BIG WARNING FOR BODY HORROR FOR THIS. B I G.

So I woke up and my brain's favorite activity is torturing the blorbos in my mind so. I got this idea.

Directly post the group minus Moon and Sugar find a new shelter to sleep in, Pebbles ends up having a nightmare. A bad one. One vivid enough that he doesn't even recognize it as a dream.

He 'wakes up' outside, in the swamp. There's no fireflies anymore. He's alone. He cannot even access his Overseers. He walks through the swamp, trying to find his way back to the shelter, but he doesn't recognize where he is. At one point he's grabbed by some of that rot plant, and he pulls himself out successfully only to get a good look at it. It isn't the rot plant anymore. It's actual Rot. Pebbles looks around and realizes- Everything, it's all Rot. Cysts of black and blue coat the entire swamp, reaching up trees and taking over the leaves and it's even in the water, the ground he walks on is marked with x's everywhere and it isn't mushy dirt anymore, it pops and squelches under his steps. Of course, he's horrified, trapped in this rot-infested location, to the point where the only noise he can hear is these moist dragging popping and his own electronic whines as the Rot tendrils try to grab at him. But it gets worse. There's finally a noise under everything else. Pebbles turns and he sees Peach, finally, a familiar face, but something is wrong. The lizard's head is dull of color, and its torso is covered in cysts, it's being held up by long tendrils of pinkish rot. Its eye is dead, it's dead, Peach has died and it was killed by the Rot. Clover comes next, its entire body consumed, leaving just its blacked out head visible, jaw open and drooling an acidic black liquid. One by one they all appear- Angel's been reverted to her taken over form. Cherry's fur is no longer spikey but bumpy and squishy, bright red x's covering her normally scarred eye. Cream and Sugar are taken too, Sugar's rot-infested body marred with bite marks, one of its ears is entirely gone. Even the pups, one of them has a giant tumor growing right where its heart should be. They slowly surround him, he's more than just trapped he's doomed, he will die, and then- Moon. Moon finally appears approaching him dead on. But she isn't Moon anymore. No, the Rot got her too, it's taken over her puppet, bursting under panels and her eyes have x's in them and all of her is gone except for maybe a leg, scraps of clothing, and her face.

And then, he wakes up.

So yeah my imagination is horrifying

I AM GOING. TO BITE YOU. EXPLODES YOU. KILLING AND KILLING AND KILLING YOU. HELLOO??? WHAT THE FUCK. JUST KILL ME WHY DON'T YOU HE ALREADY SUFFERS ENOUGH. OOUUGHHH ITS SO GOOD THO BUT I HATE IT AND HATE U FOR IT. THANKS/POS. AUGH.

[androgymagnus]

tag game!

tagged by @amiharana

rules: tag 10 people you want to get to know better

relationship status: extremely single

favorite color: green, especially darker but more vivid shades--like leaning less army and more emerald/forest

song stuck in my head: earlier i had "dream" by imagine dragons stuck in my head for some reason!

last song i listened to: the rowdy three theme (extended) -- i'm doing an animated project set to it. this is some Wreckin Shit music and i love it

three favorite foods: any form of like, loaded potato, particularly fries. or just plain hand cut fries. or cajun fries. listen i really like fries. but okay to say something other than fries...... uhhh. well i don't actually like fish and chips that much but it has emotional significance so i might count it anyway. i've developed a taste for medium rare ribeye + mashed potatoes recently. chicken tikka masala and garlic naan. i'm sure there's other stuff but nothing's coming to mind... honestly i'm pretty basic taste-wise. i'll try almost anything but i tend to stick to the same basic shit, especially potatoes and beef. ah, burgers... strawberry milkshakes. does that count. bonus if it's the artificial sweet kind with no actual strawberry bits bc i love artificial strawberry flavor so much. it tastes so pink (affectionate)

last thing i googled: "field guide to memory". it's a video game thgat was mentioned in a video i watched. looks cool!

dream trip: i have genuinely no idea. ireland? tokyo? i'd only want to go if i was friends with either a local or someone very familiar/comfortable there though bc i'd hate going somewhere new alone. oh! or i'd go to where specifically one of my internet friends live. i won't list all the locations but unfortunately they're all scattered around the globe so i'd have to choose one and augh!!!

anything i want right now: energy to do things and a hug. also a plate of hand cut fries sounds so fucking good. i WILL actually be getting some tikka masala after class but not for another literal 2+ hours. im so hungry yall.

tagging: ohhhh i don't know. it's not like mutuals and friends it's people you want to know better and i'm BLANKING

uhhhhh @oflightningandstars @itsgoghtime @shineon-abrastone @sophieswundergarten @applemyjack ??? or if you just wanna do this feel free to count this as a tag

no pressure though!

[asktheplethaura]

If Only , If Only - Unicorn Wars Fanfiction

(((Chapter Twelve)))

((Turn around...... turn your ass back around...)) ((Musical notes here))

~~

Fun-Fact: This fic is actually inspired in concept, by a song called 'Epoch' the Remix by The Living Tombstone

www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3m3_7RoGZk

~~

(Content Warning: Sui**dal Actions and Thoughts)

((To my two lovely commenting parties on the last chapter... this is the worst christmas present ever.))

All of the other bears were confused at first- however, not even two full minutes after Azulin had consumed the slug- he became erratic and aggressive. The very first thing he did was start to babble about this, that and the other. These things ranging from the most moderate thoughts and some of the deepest inner-tainted thoughts of his shaken psyche.

Azulin held his hand over the hilt of his knife- his arm jolting closer and further away from himself several times as his wild, barely-concentrated eyes narrowed themselves at all of them.

These thoughts were becoming more and more jumbled, and the movement of the blue bear started to falter from being unfocused as he was already. He brandished his knife at them again and tilted it in several directions- finally spitting out a solid trail of thought.

"Co-come on!! I was so- so aw-ful earlier!! Come at me! Take me-e down!" the voice was lulled despite it being a shouted confrontation. "I know-w you wan-na!" it was like he was hiccuping, nearly building up into a tremendous urge to cry or scream. These words became fast and almost blended together when he started to mumble to himself- looking around at shapes and shadows that weren't there. "Take me down al-ready dammit!!"

Sargento was unsure of how to approach the blue bear at this point. However, the wheels in his head were turning at a mile a minute- trying to calculate an easy way to get to the weapon of his soldier- lest Azulin stab someone else in his delirious ramblings.

He could see why the younger bear was adamant about them not eating the slug though. The severe psycho-hallucinatory effects were something of such a dangerous caliber, de-realization and sensory dis-communication were causing vivid neurological trickery.

"Azulin, please! Come on! Settle down and snap out of it!" Gordi was the first to run at his brother- not really a bright idea considering just how sensitive the younger twin was to movement right now- on top of his aggressive hallucination reaction. "Come on, drop it, drop the knife..!"

Azulin started to hiccup- trembling as he shook his head. "You slugs don't... ha-ave the right to use the voice of my br-brother-er this way. You si-ick freak-s-s." It was like Azulin was finding it hard to breathe. He grasped at his throat, nearly stabbing his own face with the knife as he couldn't possibly thing to put the weapon down when tending to himself. "You-ou are all such-ch awful.. awful crea-atures." he continued to hiccup, soon delving into a fit of sobbing.

Gordi stopped, hoping his lack of movement would soothe his younger sibling.

Coco and the other bears snapped out of their shock. He shook his head and looked between the rest of the bears before gesturing for them all to make a silent circle around Azulin. Maybe, hitting him with sensory confusion in all directions would keep him from attacking any one other of them without any backup immediately nearby.

Azulin started to sob in such a gut-wrenching, depressing way it caused all of them to freeze.

A screaming sob rose from his throat, and the blue bear fell to his knees, scratching at his face on the right side. His claws digging into his fur and flesh with no resistance at all as he started to yell several different words of unknown meaning. He cursed himself, and 'the black abyss' and the generals in charge of this cesspool of pain and hatred they called a war.

""Augh! Dammit! Fucking damn it all! Send me back to the pits of he-ell where I bel-long!! Send Me-e back-k!! Take my *hic* stupid, useless, *hic* motherfucking stup-pid d-amn-mn filth-yy-" Azulin started to make no sense at all- and he hoisted up his knife before pointing it at his own gut his hands stumbled and fumbled- nearly dropping the objects several times as his body lurched forward getting closer and closer to the blade.

During all the sobbing, the blue bear seemed to have an epiphany, his unsteady head looking over to the knife in his hands before a wavering, terrified smile crossed his face.  His lips quivered as he clumsily brought his other hand to the blade of the knife- a laughter escaping from within him.

"I- I can... I am... I... i'm..." he couldn't form thoughts anymore- he was getting cold and all he could hear was shouting as his vision clouded over all of the rainbow dystopian overlay that clouded him. He couldn't help but laugh harder. His hands felt wet and sticky.

"Haha.. ahhaha-ha I... I... I pissed mys-self didn't I" Azulin mused to the seemingly open air as a chorus of gasps came from the approaching bears around him. At this point, all plans were out the window. What they needed was to just stop him without getting stabbed too badly.

"Ah-! Azulin!! Hold on, please!! We're here- put the knife down. Give it to me..!" Gordi was too mortified to try and talk down his brother, too frightened by the sight of blood pooling under his brothers body as the blue sibling continued to laugh himself into the raw edges of the knives blade that he was somehow now lying on top of.

The mournfully delightful delirium that he was enduring knowing no bounds.

Gordi and the polar bear twins started to cry- both from fear and alarm. The pink bear quickly pulling Azulin to his back and securing down his arms as the blue hear started to flail- weakly at that. The blood loss becoming too great for him to laugh through.

"Heh.. ahaha... I... i'm such a scumbag and a loser... and... such.. a stupid.. dumb... mis-stake. I.. I finally... I finally did something... right..."

It was at this point that Azulin started to black out, his arms stopping their uncontrolled movements. and erratic gestures.

"We need medical assistance, don't just sit there!! Come on!!" Sargento started to bark orders, his eyes still panicked from what he had just witnessed. The bigger bear sat next to Gordi and kept the knife in Azulin's abdomen to prevent the faster flow of blood-loss.

The other bears were too stunned to speak- even Padre. He yelled the orders again- sending all of the other bears scrambling to get what they needed to at least heal and patch up what looked like a critical wound.

Sargento looked down to the blue bear- the worry eminent in his eyes. He kept his paw near the area were the knife was- Gordi the only one still next to him.

"When did these thoughts first start showing...?"

Gordi wiped his face as he struggled to swallow his own building emotions.

"Iv'e never... seen or heard him like this before..."

Sargento used his other pawn to pat Gordi on the Shoulder. "After this, we are finding that lost troupe and heading back to camp. We all were not prepared for this mission and he kept us from what could have been an even bigger disaster... it that did THIS to him... who the hell knows what would have happened if all of us ate those things..."

Gordi shakily nodded.

"Si..."

((To Be Continued))

[ieattaperecorders]

Something's Different About You Lately - Chapter Seven: Carrying On

A challenging work environment proves to be too stressful for some.

Read on Ao3

Jon missed the tape recorders. He wanted something to talk into, a way to externalize his thoughts. Before the institute he'd write things down – not notes, really, just lists and scribbles he'd use to map his thinking, then discard. Couldn't do that anymore, though. Not without Elias seeing him plan.

He had a notebook and pen in front of him at the moment, and he was using them to draw the same simple pictogram, over and over. A horizontal oval, a smaller circle inside it, and a black dot in the center – which was immediately scratched out until it was no longer recognizable.

The idea had come from Gertrude. Her crates of eyeless dolls, magazines with the eyes cut from every face, they had felt like wards. He wasn't sure how effective they were against Elias, but doing something with his hands helped him think. He'd been at it for a few hours and had managed to fill most of a notebook with crossed-out eyes.

Melanie was being difficult. It was his own fault, really. He'd made the mistake of trying to discourage her from following the incident with Sara Baldwin, and only led her to feel dismissed and disbelieved.

She'd stormed out and he'd run after her, catching up outside the Institute and all but pleading with her. He confessed his fears and repeated what he'd told the others about the paranormal being dangerous. She wasn't pleased, still indignant that he'd take it on himself to decide what was best for her. But she did soften a bit. Made it clear she had every intention of continuing her investigations, but agreed to keep working with him. That was something.

It wouldn't save her, though. Not if she was determined to keep throwing herself at sites of blood and violence.

There was a knock at the door, and Jon flipped the notebook shut.

"Come in."

His door – unpainted wood, bright brass handle – opened a crack and Martin's head poked through the gap. He was still hesitating, taking stock of how busy he was before entering. Jon smiled and he took it as the invitation it was, shouldering his way in and closing the door behind him.

"Brought you some tea," he said, setting down the red and green mug Tim had bought ages ago. "Thought you might be needing a break."

"Not sure if I've earned one. But thank you."

". . . Been quiet today, huh?" Martin's tone was aimless, talking largely as an excuse to linger. "No weird surprises?"

"Not today, no. Would you like to count the doors?"

"Um. Wouldn't take long, would it? Just the one."

Jon smiled, closed his eyes and took a sip of tea. He used to take it black. He'd just defaulted to it naturally, always, until one afternoon when Martin brought him a cup made the way he took his – with too much sugar and just a little milk. Jon had taken a sip of it and realized that he liked he tea sweet. That he'd denied himself that little pleasure for years, for no real reason but habit.

That was before, of course. The Martin who brought him that tea was the one in his memories, not the one standing in front of him. This Martin thought that Jon had always taken his tea with sugar.

"No sign of Michael, then?"

"Still nothing. Maybe it's gotten bored, found someone else to harass."

"Doesn't it bother you? Knowing he's out there, trapping people in those hallways?"

"I don't know." Jon set the mug down, looking at his hands. "Obviously, yes, it bothers me. But I suppose I'm not sure what I could do about it."

"D'you think – maybe this is too easy, but – d'you think you could just smash it with an axe? The door, if it appeared? I know it's supernatural and all, but it's still wood, right?"

"I think we can be quite sure it isn't wood, actually."

"Still thought. Might be worth keeping a fire axe around? Could at least chop through a wall if you got trapped like before."

"Chopping a hole through evil architecture – strangely practical, blunt, and a little bit violent." Jon observed. He couldn't help thinking that Adelard Dekkar would be proud. "If anyone could do it, it would be you."

"Oh –"

"But no one can," he finished. "It's impossible and it would be foolish to try."

"All right, all right. I get it." Martin rolled his eyes. "Suppose I'll let you get back to it, then . . . ."

Jon stood, the scrape of his chair against the floor loud enough to make Martin turn. He hesitated, standing awkwardly by his desk.

"Ah. Hey. H-How are you holding up?" he asked.

Martin blinked. "What?"

"It's been a difficult few months," he continued, hesitant. "There's everything with Prentiss, and even if you didn't encounter Michael yourself, everything I said . . . it's a lot to take in?"

"Oh . . . well, um. Not much to say about Prentiss, I guess. You know I've been settled back home for a while. Still go a little spray-crazy whenever I see an ant, but, um. I know she's dead, so," he shrugged. "Thanks, by the way. For the, um, jar."

"I know it was a bit weird. I just thought it might, um . . . closure and all?" He tapped the edge of his desk, looking down. "Someone did something similar for me once, and, ah, it helped."

"Yeah. I mean. It is sort of weird, but it's nice." Martin rubbed at the back of his neck. "Also uh – y'know. Appreciate all the phone calls. I'm sure you're sick to death of them."

It had taken a little encouragement, but Martin had been phoning him at night for a few months. First hesitantly and infrequently, then with something approaching regularity. He'd call when he wasn't able to sleep, or wakened by vivid nightmares, and in need of another voice to settle him. No singing, thankfully. It seemed that danger was in the past.

Mostly when he mentioned nightmares, they were about the worms. But Jon suspected there were other things behind some of those calls. He remembered one occasion when Martin didn't say why he'd phoned, barely said anything at all. Just rang Jon up and asked him to please, talk to him about something, anything. He sounded like he'd been crying, and it had taken all of Jon's willpower to not ask why. He'd fumbled around until he found a book on naval history that had been left beside his bed, opened it and began reading out loud. It was all that he could think to do.

It wasn't usually so fraught as that, though. Usually Martin just needed to get his mind off things, long enough to calm down and rest. They'd reached a point where it was a pattern, a quiet little ritual of their own. A moment at the beginning talking through it, then a shift to something easy – books they'd read, movies they liked, silly things that had happened at work.

Sometimes when Martin didn't feel safe in his flat, Jon offered to come over and look over it with him. He always declined, and Jon promised himself that he wouldn't push the issue. Not unless he believed Martin was in real danger, which fortunately never seemed to be the case.

"I've actually come to enjoy our little late night chats," he said. "I'm learning a lot about independent film."

"I know I'm waking you up a lot."

"Sometimes. I still keep odd hours, though. Really there's nothing you could do to my sleep schedule that hasn't already been done." He paused, glancing back at Martin. "Ah . . . what about the other thing? What I said about Elias? We haven't . . . well, we never really talked about it?"

"It's . . . augh, I don't know." Martin shifted from one foot to the other. "Okay, would you explain something to me?"

"Of course."

"So you said that Elias is spying on us, with some supernatural clairvoyance. And he was probably doing it when you told us that, meaning he knows the secret's out, right?"

"Almost definitely. I can't be sure when he's watching and when he isn't, but I would be very surprised if he doesn't know."

"Then why hasn't he done anything?"

"Why would he?" Jon shrugged. "What could he gain from addressing it? Look at it this way – if you all think I've lost it, then he has every reason to keep you thinking that. Even if you believe me, if there's room for doubt at all he's still better off acting normal. He has no reason to discard the facade until it stops being useful."

"I suppose . . ."

"Look, its – it's all right if you don't believe me. I know it's a hell of a claim to make, and I don't have any proof. But don't trust him. Even if you can't trust me, don't trust Elias either. He doesn't have our best interests at heart."

"I didn't say I didn't trust you . . . ."

Jon blinked, startled. "Then you do trust me?"

"Wh – That's not what –" Martin shook his head. "I mean . . . yes? I guess? I don't think you're lying about this. It's just a lot, I guess."

"Have you tried quitting yet? That's probably the closest thing to proof I can offer."

"Nah." Martin shrugged. "Don't see the point, really. Either I try and I can't, so no reason to bother, or I can and I'd be leaving you all to deal with the monsters, so . . . ."

He shrugged again. So. So he wouldn't leave even if he could. Jon shook his head and sighed, smiling.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. That is – obviously I'm not glad you're trapped here, I don't, ah, I don't want that. But just . . . in general."

A surprised huff came out of Martin. He looked down and smiled, leaning towards the praise like a plant to sunlight. "Ah, y'know. Even without supernatural compulsion, I'd probably be stuck here anyway. Don't think my job prospects are that impressive."

"That's not true," Jon frowned. "You've been here, what, over ten years? That shows reliability. Then there's experience, familiarity with the catalog systems . . . you'd have an impressive resume even without any—"

Shit. He cut himself off as he realized what he'd nearly referred to. Unfortunately Martin noticed the abrupt stop, furrowing his brow.

"Without any what?"

"Hmm? Nothing." Jon looked hard at the wall, trying not to betray the tension he'd created in himself. "Was thinking of something else for a moment."

Stupid, stupid. He wasn't supposed to know about the fake degree. Martin hadn't told him about it, or he had but not this Martin, not this time, couldn't he keep the two straight in his mind? He tried to think of a direction to turn the subject towards. Martin was giving him a searching look and he knew damn well he needed to stop looking so caught, he'd said almost nothing, and if he could just act casual there would be no reason at all to assume –

"Oh . . . oh." Slow realization built on Martin's face. "Shit."

"It doesn't matter," Jon blurted out. "Forget I said anything, please."

". . . Did Tim tell you?"

"No. It's a long story and – and it doesn't matter anyway, does it?" He shrugged, a sad smile on his face. "None of our resumes mean anything here. You can't lose this job however much you might want to, and Elias already knows, so . . . ."

"Wait, what? Elias too?"

"He's known from the beginning. I suspect he's enjoyed having something to hold over you."

A conflicted look passed over Martin, and Jon saw him rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

"God, that . . . that actually makes a lot of sense." He let out a frustrated sigh. "I used to think maybe, with some of the things he'd say . . . but I thought I was just being paranoid."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said."

"No, no," Martin exhaled, tension still fixing his features. "I'd rather know. Thanks for telling me, I guess. Even if it was, you know, an accident."

The thumb and forefinger again, moving back and forth at his side. Jon had noticed him doing that in the time they'd spent in Daisy's cabin. It was a habit that would come up sometimes when they talked about Peter, or Elias. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was . . . tension, rumination? More that anything else, Jon had come to liken it to the repetitive movement of a tiger pacing a cage.

". . . Are you all right?"

"Yes! No!" Martin dragged a hand over his face. "God, I don't know! It's such a stupid thing to get worked up over. I mean, if anything it's good news, right? One less thing to worry about . . . ."

"The revelation that a man you've known for the majority of your adult life has been deliberately letting you sweat over a harmless lie for a decade?" Jon shook his head. "No, I wouldn't say that qualifies as good news."

"Right!? It's messed up, isn't it?" He threw his arms out to the sides. "I just . . . now I'm thinking about these comments he'd make? Never anything where I could say for sure, but he'd mention someone else not being qualified for their job and look right at me. Or ask weird, pointed questions about the university I didn't go to so I'd have to make up something on the spot and –" his hands shook as he gestured, "– and he was laughing at me the whole time. Wasn't he?"

"It's what he does. It's what he is," Jon said darkly. "He watches other people squirm."

And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? He could almost hear the smug bastard's voice in the back of his mind, but he shook it off. That wasn't the point. He looked over at Martin, who had gone quiet, and wondered if it would be inappropriate to put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Jon continued, staying where he was. "You have every reason to feel . . . I don't know. Angry? Betrayed? Used?"

". . . The whole ‘no quitting' thing. I saw people come and go in the library a lot. It doesn't apply there, does it?"

"No. Just the archive."

"He knew about that too. Didn't he?"

"He did. That's something we have in common," Jon said softly. "I brought Tim and Sasha into this – that's my unfortunate role in it all. But you and I were placed here by someone who knew exactly what he was doing to us."

". . . Fuck."

"Agreed."

"Well, I sure as hell don't trust him now." Martin let out a long breath, straightening up, releasing a little of the tension he seemed to be holding. "I guess this means everyone knows? Except Sasha . . . ."

"I'm sure Sasha knows too. Do you really think we have any secrets from her?" Jon shook his head. "The other day I made an offhand comment about the trouble with statements coming from criminals, and she started needling me about the time I spent in juvenile court."

That seemed to startle Martin enough to shake his mood. "Wait, what? Back up. You've got a criminal past?"

"Nothing so dramatic," Jon huffed, waving his hand "it was all incredibly minor offenses, childish things, you know."

"Sorry, I – I'm just having trouble imagining you as a juvenile delinquent."

"Whatever you are imagining, it wasn't that." He leaned stiffly on the desk behind him. "I was a fairly troublesome child. I was bored easily, and I liked to explore. Sometimes I found myself on one side of a fence that I . . . simply needed to see the other side of. A number of authority figures took issue with this."

"Huh," an amused smile crossed Martin's face. "That's . . . honestly kind of adorable."

"My grandmother did not share your opinion. The point is, Sasha didn't learn that through me. She's probably dug into all of our backgrounds."

"Ugh. Probably." Martin shook his head. "We really ought to have a talk with her about that . . . it's getting less and less like a quirk and more like a serious privacy concern? I swear she sees even the monster stuff as a mystery for her to solve."

"At least she's taking it well."

"Yeah . . . not like Tim."

Not like Tim, no. He wasn't the bitter, broken man in Jon's memories. He still smiled and joked around, and he wasn't isolating himself. But the revelation about this place had reached something deep and wounded in him. He got into somber moods, and his humor had taken on a noticeably harsh edge. Even his more playful moments seemed worrying -- he was impulsive in a way he hadn't been before, like he was desperately trying to cover it all with cheer. They were still talking at least, Jon hadn't ruined that line of connection yet. But seeing Tim's pain poke its head above the surface made him fearful. He knew that it ran deep. It was hard not to be skittish around him now.

"No," Jon said. "He puts on a brave front but I know it's hit him hard."

"Have you talked to him about it at all?"

"Not really. The other day I tried to ask how he was handling things and he just . . . slowly shook his head at me. So, ah, I –" hid in my office like a coward until everyone had left "– thought it best to drop the subject. You?"

"Mostly the same. I mean, I know it's bothering him, and I've tried bringing it up. But he always brushes it off with a joke, or just tells me to leave it. I think he talks to Sasha more."

"Yes . . . I'm glad he has her here," Jon sighed. "She seems to keep him grounded."

"And Sasha seems to manage on her own. So they're okay, more or less." Martin glanced pointedly at him. "What about you, though? Who's keeping you grounded?"

He asked as if the answer wasn't obvious, but Jon supposed it wasn't. Not to him.

"I could ask you the same," he smiled. "You're always checking in on us. Reminding Sasha to eat, nudging Tim, seeing that I don't waste away in here. Who's checking in on you?"

"Oh. You know," he shrugged, "I-- I'm pretty good at taking care of myself."

"Maybe," Jon said softly. "But you could still let somebody take care of you."

Surprised, Martin blinked and looked away with a nervous little laugh. His voice cracked slightly as he spoke – easy to miss, even easier to ignore, a quiet and ordinary pain.

"Well, unless you know someone who's likely to volunteer, I don't think –"

Jon's feet moved without his permission, one step forward, two, until he was close enough to put a hand on Martin's arm. Enough to stop his waving hand, to quiet the gesture of brushing away concern. He stilled immediately.

"You deserve to be cared for, Martin."

He knew right away it was too much, it was far too much. He'd crossed a line that he should be leaving alone, the words were too honest and too intimate and too close. You deserve to be cared for. If he'd said it from across the room in a different tone of voice, it would be possible to hear as advice – something about self-care or accepting help or something more removed. But not there, not standing so close. Nothing about this was removed.

"Oh," Martin's eyes were wide and staring. "Um. Oh."

He didn't pull back, but he was stiff under Jon's hand so he let go. If – if Martin was just startled, frozen like a deer in headlights, he didn't want to box him in. Unmoored, his hand hovered as if it had forgotten where it belonged.

". . . I would like to take care of you," he let it out in a breath. It felt like he'd been holding it forever. "If you would let me."

Martin breathed in sharply, but didn't speak. Jon spoke, words spilling out faster than he could hold onto them.

"I've felt this way for a while," he said. "I . . . I want to be there when you're afraid, or when you're lonely. I just. Want to be with you."

Something shattered when he said that, and Martin took a step backwards. He placed a hand over his mouth, stifling what might have been a laugh and might have been a sob, shoulders shaking, gaze cast down and away. There were tears in his eyes and Jon knew he'd made a mistake. It was too much, too close, too soon, and he'd hurt him and he couldn't take it back and he'd ruined it all –

"Oh, Jon . . ." Martin looked at him, eyes still shining with tears. "I've been in love with you since we ran from Prentiss together."

Carefully, Jon reached forward. Martin didn't freeze and he didn't step back, he moved towards him like a miracle. Jon's hand remembered where it belonged, it ran itself along Martin's cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, smoothing the hair at his temple. Martin closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, and it was a gift, a prayer answered. He moved closer and then there were Martin's arms encircling him, Martin's head resting on his shoulder, Martin's breath against his ear. It was like coming home, like remembering himself. Nothing was certain and nothing was safe and none of that mattered at all, because finally, finally, he was back where he belonged. They were back in each other's arms.

"I love you," Jon said. "I'm so, so scared, but you give me a reason to be brave. You make me want to be human."

"I'm scared too," Martin whispered. "All the time."

"I know . . . God, I know," he whispered back. "I want us to have each other. I want to just – just take you places. To cook for you and show you things that I like. To do all the simple, normal things we could never do before."

"I want that too. I want to walk in the rain with you, and hold your hand, and read you my poetry."

"I want to fuss about my appearance, because I know I'm going to see you later," Jon laughed, "I want to worry about harmless, little things like that."

A contented sigh came from Martin, and he pulled back, taking Jon's hands in both of his.

"You know what I really want to do, though?" he asked, "more than anything in the world?"

"Gouge our eyes out, murder Elias, and flee the country together?"

Martin grinned. "You read my mind."

"I didn't have to!" Jon said, grinning back.

* * *

"Jon? Jon. Are you all right?"

"Hmm?" Jon blinked, pulling himself back to reality. The edge of his desk still pressed against his back. "Sorry, what?"

"We were talking about Tim?" Martin frowned. "Then you just sort of stared into the distance for a minute."

"Right. Yes. Sorry," he cleared his throat, glancing away. "Low blood sugar."

"Oh. When did you last eat? I could grab something from the break room, if you–"

"S'fine. Really." Jon pulled himself back behind his desk. "I'm sure the tea will help. I should get back to work."

"Oh. Okay." Martin hesitated, glancing back. "Don't work to hard, all right? We worry about you, you know."

The door closed behind him and Jon slumped in his seat, sighing. When his own lovesick daydreams veered into self-mockery, it was probably a bad sign. He picked up the mug, letting it warm his hands, sipping slowly.

Martin had been attentive since he came back from the Distortion's door – checking in, bringing him tea, prodding him to come out for lunch. It was . . . well, it was familiar. And nice. God, it was nice. But did it mean anything? Martin was drawn to taking care of people. Fussing like this, it meant that he was worried about him, and that thought alone made something in his chest ache sweetly. But he wasn't sure if it meant anything else.

He knew Martin had feelings for him long before he himself had noticed, but where those feelings had begun, he didn't know. He absolutely didn't know how his actions might have changed things, might continue to change them. That left him guessing, and he had never been good at guessing such things. He'd admired Georgie for a while before gathering the courage to ask her out. When he had she'd been surprised – apparently she'd been flirting with him without him noticing or responding to it. By contrast, he'd been awkward around Tim for almost a week after misinterpreting a few comments he'd made and not knowing how to feel about them. (Tim had rather kindly, if embarrassingly, put an end to it by pointedly saying Jon was ‘nice, but not his type' within earshot.)

Still. He didn't need to know how Martin felt about him. He could take a risk. Risks were something he was always taking.

Things still weren't that simple.

His feelings for Martin weren't small. They had a weight that he didn't always know how to carry. He looked at him and saw someone who'd kept vigil at his hospital bed until the pain of waiting had worn him down. Someone he'd pleaded with in the cold, deep heart of the Lonely, who'd clung to him as they walked through the fog. Someone he'd been with during the last peaceful weeks the world had ever had. Someone who gave him hope when all was hopeless.

How was he supposed to make that seem like anything that had developed in the time they'd known each other? At best he'd seem over-invested in a relationship that hadn't begun. More likely he'd come off as an obsessive stalker. And if he shared his feelings with Martin, he wasn't sure he could keep a lid on everything else. It wasn't just the end of the world. There were so many things.

How's the poetry going, Martin? What's that? How did I know you wrote poetry? Well, I assure you I found out through entirely non-invasive means that require no follow-up questions.

Say Martin, how is your relationship with your mother? Any pressing emotional difficulties you'd really like to have closure on there? Why yes, these are extremely strange and inappropriate questions for me to ask considering you've never talked to me about her! Unrelated, but if I knew the date of her impending death do you think it would be crueler to tell you, or to let it be a devastating surprise?

While we're on the subject of things I know, M artin, have you ever wondered what it's like to be digested alive? Or to be an unwilling spectator trapped in you own body as it stalks and kills everyone you love? Because I can describe both of those experiences in intimate, firsthand detail if you're curious! Ah, you appear to be backing away slowly. What a reasonable reaction.

Time was passing intolerably slowly, yet it still felt preciously short. And while he waited, hesitated and worried, he was running out of time for himself.

The Unknowing would fail, but the circus was still coming for him. And perhaps he should just let them have him? He'd survived it once, after all, and there was reason to assume things would play out as before. If he tried to struggle, tried to change things, it might go badly. They might decide he was too much trouble to hold for a month and flay him as soon as he was caught. Or someone else might be grabbed alongside him, even killed outright. To say the circus was unpredictable was an understatement that bordered on comical. The safest, most practical option was to play through his period of captivity again.

But . . . God, he didn't want to. He hated to admit it - wished there was another reason, some danger, some unacceptable risk. But the simple truth was that he didn't want to live through that month again.

He was being childish. It wasn't as if they would actually take his skin in the end. He wouldn't die or lose anything permanent, he just had to spend a month in their hands. It was only a month. He'd seen worse. He'd caused worse. Every time he thought about it his hands shook, he felt sick and couldn't eat.

Circus aside, he'd at least learned something useful after his failure to save Helen. He'd done some snooping behind Rosie's desk and found that Elias had ordered a cab for her, just as he had done originally. Meaning he was still trying to mark him. But surely, he was marked already – psychological scars had been enough the first time, and he had the full compliment there. If Elias didn't know that, that was some reassurance.

Jon was fully marked, but he was not yet suffused with the Eye's power. So the world was safe from him, for now. All he had to do was stay human. That was it. He could surely manage that, couldn't he?

Except . . . there were still other things.

The table had shaken him. He'd kept out of the archive on the day it was to arrive, not wanting to encounter Breekon and Hope. But when he returned, nothing had come. He waited, he checked and triple checked artifact storage, asked around to see if anyone had signed for it. There was nothing. After a month he accepted that it simply wasn't coming. But why? Nothing he'd done could have caused this. It was new. A change that came from something other than him.

The spiders were becoming more noticeable as well. Everywhere he went, he saw cobwebs clinging to the corners, or spotted something skittering in the outskirts of his vision. It was worst in his flat – he'd destroy any webs he found on sight, only to find they'd respun themselves hours later. They appeared in odd places – in cabinets, drawers, strung across his pillow. Sometimes he'd wake to feel something crawling on his neck, that vanished when he tried to grab at it.

They gave him peace now and then, leave him just long enough for desperate hope to leak in. Then he'd catch himself in the mirror and swear, swear he noticed a dark little leg vanish into the crevice of his ear.

All that was nothing against what happened a week ago, however.

A woman had come to give a statement, someone he didn't recognize. She wouldn't take the form. She insisted he hear her speak, said he had to know her story, that it had to be him. He protested and tried to pull away. But then she started talking. And he started listening.

He didn't want to. He tried to interrupt, stop her, walk out of the room, but he just . . . couldn't. It felt different. He remembered what being dependent on statements was like – after reading out loud became automatic, after listening was a physical need. This was something else. He wasn't in control of his body, couldn't put his hands over his ears, couldn't force his thoughts away from the rapt attention he was giving her.

It was a spider one. Of course it was.

She'd succumbed to a mysterious malaise that was making her grow slowly weaker. Not an illness, no – the doctors were no help at all, sending her back with a shrug about chronic fatigue. But it wasn't just the tiredness. Her thoughts were foggy, her emotions were both heightened and muddled. It felt like being drugged, but she was on no medications and took nothing that was recreational, so it couldn't be some previously unseen side effect. It wasn't likely anything in her environment, either. Her partner had no symptoms, and they lived together and shared most of their meals.

Of course, her partner was the one who prepared all their meals. She loved her partner, trusted them, and yet . . . it would be too easy, wouldn't it? To slip a little something into her plate every time. Just a few drops of liquid, a few granules of powder, carefully dissolved into a heavily seasoned sauce, undetectable under everything else? Her partner always did spice things so heavily, enough to disguise anything. Paranoia became hostility, and the relationship fell apart. But even after they moved out, that hazy, lulled feeling got worse. She had dizzy spells, lost time, she never felt quite herself. Her suspicions broadened. Was her food being contaminated at the store? It wouldn't be difficult to slide a needle through the loose, plastic packaging. Could it be one of her neighbors? She slept so heavily at night, any of them could slip in with an eyedropper to hold over her sleeping lips.

That last notion is what prompted her to place a camera over her bed.

When she played back the footage it recorded, she got an answer of sorts. She watched herself get into bed, toss and turn for a while before falling still. Then she watched as the blanket covering her sleeping form shuddered, as something dark began to spread from under it, out over her body. A swarm of tiny black spiders crawled over her, covering every inch of skin, biting her just hard enough to inject a tiny drop of venom. They withdrew a moment later, vanishing under the blanket and leaving no marks behind. She slept through it all.

None of the frantic investigations she made of her bedclothes revealed any sign of infestation. She burned the blankets and replaced the mattress, but the process repeated itself the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Even leaving her apartment didn't make a difference. Wherever she slept, they came. The watchful eye of the camera captured the same image – a thousand thousand bodies swarming over her, poisoning her, without waking her.

Each day, she grew weaker. But thanks to the camera, she knew now that there was no escape.

He'd stood frozen afterwards, whether overwhelmed by the horrors he'd been force-fed or stilled by some other hand, he didn't know, but by the time he came back to himself she was long gone. He tried asking after her – Rosie hadn't spoken to the woman much, but she did sign her in as a visitor and pointed the name out to him: Hazel Rutter. It was all he could do not to scream.

The Web had led him to the end of the world as surely as Elias had, keeping its hand in everything. And he was still dancing on its strings. Had sending his memories back been what it intended all along? Was he keeping himself free of the Beholding only so the Web could come pouring in? Would he be made into a destroyer again, remaking the world in the image of a power that had held him in its threads since childhood?

He was afraid of being taken again by the circus, but there was another fear behind that. That this time he would escape would come not through a deceitful door, but because of a lock clogged with cobwebs, a captor bloated with venom, a path to safety marked by pale, silk threads. If his salvation came at a puppeteer's hands, what would he do then?

He didn't have an answer. He spent most of his time hiding in his office, turning over these things in his mind, and he knew that he wasn't doing well.

The more he agonized, the more confining the walls began to seem. He stood to move to the door, but stumbled and hit the floor instead. He felt lightheaded. Rather than trying to stand again, he pressed his back against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. Motes of dust swam in his vision as he tried, desperately, to get his breathing under control.

There was a noise somewhere near him, and the room was flooded with light.

* * *

Someday, Tim was going to get it through his head that knocking on a door while opening it was basically the same as not knocking. Today wasn't that day, though.

At first he thought he'd caught Jon out of his office and had been about to leave the papers he'd brought on his desk. But then he heard something shift against the wall and his fight or flight switched right on. He should probably have wondered why, like a teen in a horror movie, his instinct was to go towards the mysterious noise in the creepy, dimly-lit room. But this time it didn't matter because it wasn't an army of worms, or a soul-stealing clown. Just Jon. Sitting on the floor, breathing erratically, with a thousand yard stare on his face.

Tim hesitated, glancing quickly around to confirm that whatever Jon was spooked by wasn't still in there with them. Then he took another step forward, carefully.

". . . You okay, boss?" he asked.

Jon turned towards him and stared, his mouth moving in an unsuccessful attempt to reply. After a moment, he managed a shaky inhale and a nod.

"Yes," his voice was tight, barely above a whisper. "Yes, I'm fine."

Tim nodded. He wouldn't dignify that one with an eye roll or a sarcastic reply. He stood there for a little while, thinking.

There were options. He could drop the papers on the desk and leave, do a casual ‘well, see you later' as if there was nothing noteworthy about coming across your coworker having a panic attack on the floor. It was embarrassing, being found like this, and Jon would probably rather have privacy. Tim could walk right out and pretend this never happened. Or he could tap his shoulder later, after he'd pulled himself together, ask what it had been about then. If he did that, of course, Jon would no doubt say it was just a bit of stress and thank you for your concern but there's no need, and so on.

And maybe that was all right. Maybe that was all either of them needed.

Tim still remembered the early days, back before he'd gotten comfortable at the Institute. Back when Danny was too fresh and raw a wound, before the pain had dulled enough for his dazzlingly charming personality to come back. When he was quieter and much more short tempered, and the only person who tolerated him for long was a prickly nerd that most people found just as irritating as him.

There had been a lot of late nights in the library back then. Jon catching up or getting ahead on whatever bullshit they were supposed to be working on, Tim obsessing over his own work, looking for anything he could find about circuses and hidden theaters and place that take the people you love. They didn't talk that much, certainly not about the important things. There was some small talk, complaints about other people in research, arrangements to go in on takeout together. Mostly there was silence.

Sometimes Tim would take a bathroom break that lasted far too long and come back with his eyes red and puffy. But Jon never, ever commented on Tim's absence or on the state of his face. He'd sit quietly at the table across from him, occasionally remarking on something unimportant, certainly not asking what he'd been crying about. And maybe – hell, probably – Jon just genuinely didn't notice, because that was how Jon was. It didn't really matter either way.

Later, he would get comfortable. Later his laughter would come back, people would warm up to him and he'd warm up to them. And later, everyone would wonder how two people as different as himself and Jon could end up being friends. But during those late nights, Jon had been what Tim had needed. More than anything.

Maybe that was what Jon needed now. Someone to not notice his pain.

". . .You sure about that?" Tim asked.

Jon nodded again, whispering. "Come back later."

It was what he was asking for. No surprise there. He'd been secretive and edgy and weird for ages, and Tim hated it. But still he couldn't leave. It was that face – tear—trails drying on his cheeks, but not crying. Eyes glazed, expression distant, as if he was nowhere near his body at all. It rung against Tim's core, like a familiar tune. Like tucking someone into bed on his couch and finding them gone the next morning.

He closed the door behind him and sat on the floor, putting an arm around Jon's shoulders.

"Nah," he said. "Not gonna do that."

Jon stiffened for a moment, shaking his head. "I – really, I don't need –"

Tim squeezed just the tiniest bit, and he would never hear what Jon thought he didn't need. Words dissolved, shoulders dropped.

He knew Jon's secret. He didn't come off as the touchy sort – not like Tim, who was all side-hugs and handshakes and high-fives with everyone. Jon kept a careful bubble around him, but the second that bubble was popped-- the second someone else initiated contact, that was it. He tightened his hold, and Jon let himself be pulled closer, bringing a hand up to grip Tim's arm. He took it as silent confirmation that a tighter hug was right, brought his other arm around the front and squeezed.

They sat that way a while - Tim holding Jon in place, not looking at him, focusing instead on the opposite wall. On the stacked boxes and itchy-looking olive green coat that hung on the hook. What material was that thing made of? It didn't look comfortable, and was probably a nightmare when it got wet. Tim didn't know what a head archivist got paid, but it had to be enough to afford better outerwear than that. He contemplated this as Jon shuddered against him, muffled noises coming from him in the quiet. If at any point Tim felt tears through the fabric of his shirt, he would never, ever, ever admit it.

Gradually, the shaking died down. As Jon slowly relaxed, Tim felt a small, quiet tension melt out of him as well. When it felt right he loosened his grip enough for Jon to pull away. He did, taking his weight off and sitting a little straighter. He kept close, though, and didn't try to shake the arm off his shoulders. The bubble was popped.

"I-- forgive me," Jon's voice was hoarse from crying, but it sounded better than the strained crack he'd been speaking through before. "I don't know what came over me. Stress, I suppose. Getting to me a little."

"Yeah," Tim sighed, making a point to keep his tone casual. As if this was small talk, as if nothing worth commenting on had just happened. "It's been a heck of a year, huh?"

Jon let out a weak laugh, wiping his face with the end of his sleeve. "It certainly has. Hah. Exceptionally so."

"Not the cushy academic careers we were promised, huh?"

"Not in the least." Jon's face was grim. "I'm – I'm sorry. For dragging you into it."

"You didn't know about the not quitting thing. S'not your fault."

"You don't . . . ah – You don't think so?"

"Don't mistake it. I fucking hate that I'm here," he smiled without really feeling it. "If I could go back in time and make you absolutely hate me, so you never wanted to see me again, so you'd ask for anyone else, I'd do it. But it's not your fault. Just . . . rotten luck."

Slowly, Jon nodded. He looked surprised. This had probably been on his mind a while, then.

"Can't do that, though. So this is it," Tim sighed. "Just got to make the most of what we still have. Until something out there gets close enough to take it from us."

". . . I won't let that happen." Jon's response was immediate, reflexive, even. Sharp, quick, and absolutely meaningless.

"So what?" Tim asked. "You think you need to let it happen for it to happen? That monsters are only going to get in here with your permission?"

"No . . . no, you're right," he drew a breath. "It's not as simple as that."

"I'm not saying not to fight, though. If anything comes for me, I for one plan to go down swinging."

That quieted Jon. He looked down at his folded hands, frowning, for a while.

"Just don't be too eager for it," he said eventually. His tone was strange, careful, uneasy. "Things might not always be this way. It might – might be worth staying alive a while longer."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "You know something you're not telling me?"

". . . More than you can imagine," he sighed, leaning back against the wall and letting Tim's arm slide off him. "But I can't explain. It's . . . complicated."

He could practically hear Sasha's voice in his mind, begging him to press for more. But Sasha wasn't here, and he honestly wasn't sure if he wanted to know whatever secrets Jon was holding back.

"All right, Captain Cryptic," he nudged him with an elbow. "I won't push it. Just promise me there aren't any more worm queens hiding in the walls."

"I certainly hope not. I've had enough of worms for –" Jon laughed once, to himself, looking down at his hands "—more than one lifetime."

"I'd drink to that. Now if only I had a flask to pull out here. Then you could say--" he shifted his tone, imitating Jon's voice "'Tim, I hardly think that's an appropriate thing to have in the workplace.' And I'd remind you we work in a building of pure nightmares, and tell you to stuff it."

"Honestly, if you pulled out a flask right now I'd be inclined to join you."

"Scandalous. And here I thought you were supposed to set a good example for us."

"It's become abundantly clear to me that no one should be following my example."

Tim paused for a moment, then smiled. "You know what? Fuck it. I don't have a flask, but there's a bar a few blocks down." He elbowed him again, putting more weight into it and actually knocking him back a little. "Let's get shitfaced at eleven on a Tuesday morning. Not like they can fire us for it."

"Oh. Uh." Jon bit his lip, tension slipping back into him. "I'm not sure if it's a good idea for me to go outside right now . . ."

"Mmm." Nope. Tim wasn't going to let him get away that easily, and he was pretty sure he knew more than one of his secrets. "Not even if I rope Martin into coming?"

"I-- ah," Jon's gaze was suddenly on the coat that had captured Tim's attention earlier. Small world. "I don't really see how that would be relevant--"

"Would you swallow your damn pride and ask him out already? It's getting hard to watch."

A slightly choked noise came out of Jon, and his back went ramrod straight. And it was satisfying, so satisfying to see that even with the danger and the fear and the cloud hanging over them all, Tim could still get him worked up over something like this.

"I don't know what-- I think you've misinterpreted. . . ."

"Have I, then? Sorry for making assumptions."

"Yes, well," he was going to bore a hole through that thing if he stared any harder at it. "You ought to be."

"In that case, guess I've got the all clear." Tim pulled a leg up, leaning casually back. "If you don't want to play hooky with me, maybe I'll see if Martin wants to get drinks. Just the two of us."

"—Don't."

"Ha!" Tim grinned as Jon looked away again, diving wholeheartedly into friendly sadism. "Goodness. Who would have thought our beloved leader was the jealous type?"

"I'm no- - that isn't- -" He frowned, shoulders hunched, quietly radiating pique. "Martin is - - he's free to do as he likes. I don't - -" he glanced back anxiously. "But you were just saying that to provoke me, weren't you?"

"Seriously? Ask him out. Worst thing is he says no. And if you haven't got the guts to ask yourself, you've really no business getting riled up at the idea of someone else doing it."

"I know, I know. . . it's just - -" Jon sighed and looked back at his hands, having apparently given up on denials. "It isn't that simple."

"Right. ‘Cause you're his boss."

"Ah . . . ." Jon blinked. "Yes, that is an issue, isn't it?"

"But really, what're you going to do? Fire him if he says no? Don't think the chain of command really means much at this point. No offense."

"Mmn."

"So. I'm going to get Sasha, and we're going to use peer pressure on him, which we all know he's helpless against. Then the three of us are going to hit the bar, because fuck this place. You joining us?"

He hesitated, conflicted. "I . . . I shouldn't."

Tim shrugged. It was disappointing, but if Jon was determined to crawl back under his desk and hide, that was his choice. He stood and headed for the door.

"Suit yourself," he said. "But don't lean to hard into the whole ‘fearless leader' thing, huh?"

"Wait –"

He paused, hand hovering over the doorknob. Jon stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.

"I, ah . . . come to think of it, I--" he glanced at the clock. "Twenty minutes? I'll meet you there."

Tim smiled. "Sounds good, boss."

[levyfiles]

helloooo!!!! since you are my fave blog about shyan content, i must ask: what are your favorite fics???

AHhh! I–OK well, Lately I’ve been finding more and more fics that fill my heart right up with every gorgeous headcanon there is, but If we’re talking all-time favourites, I have finally compiled a List from the moment I started reading shyan fic in 2018 of fics that have ruined my life; all of them here in no particular order.

Be All My Sins Remembered by spoopyy

Summary: In every lifetime, they find each other.

Review: This fic manages to take you on a long journey through what feels like a series of AUs and they all weave in and out of the wealth of their relationship with some vivid descriptions of the historical settings their journey takes them through. As someone who grew up reading Anne Rice’s epics through historical events, this fic is right up my alley. A vampire Shane passing through the wave of human society’s climb searching for a reincarnated Ryan again and again, trying to hold on to him and keep him through great tragedies and timeframes that just don’t let them be together. This was one of the first fics I read when I was only a lurker and to be quite honest, I need to give this one a nice re-read, maybe for the book club which would be loads of fun. Either way, 10/10. Would be Hurt in the heart again.

Perfect Fit by @beaniegara

Summary: There’s a legend that says anyone able to take all of statue Shane’s cock will summon the god to the mortal realm. Given the statue’s excessive size, no one has ever succeeded to prove or disprove the story.Until Ryan that is.

Review: Listen. You wanna talk actual fandom legends. This fic is one of them and it pulls out all the stops on being delicious and evocative. Also features one of my favourite incarnations of size queen bergara. Good stuff and you’re really rooting for Ryan in this lol. 

Everything’s Weird and We’re Always in Danger by the beethechange

Summary: Ryan perches on the edge of the bed, an indistinct shape that Shane can only just make out in the dark, so he turns the lamp back on. He wants to see Ryan’s face, wants to know that he is alright. Ryan’s cheeks are damp, his hands fisted in the hideous flowered duvet.

“It won’t go away,” Ryan says miserably. “I’ve been like this since we got here, basically, and it won’t fucking—”

“Ah,” Shane says. “Well, you know, sometimes fear…adrenaline…they can affect people. Physically.” He waves his hands indistinctly crotchward. “It’s a, a scientifically known phenomenon.” Shane feels a little better staying in the realm of scientifically known phenomena.

Review: Word of advice. You see a fic is authored by beethechange, run don’t walk because you’re absolutely always going to be treated to the best of banter, the best of prose, chemistry, organic execution and feels right up the bottom end of your heart. This fic, this changed everything I thought I knew I wanted out of a bed-sharing fic. It’s got a little bit of two treats here. You got a sex-pollen-esque situation mixed with bed-sharing and holy fucking damn that is more than you think you deserve, but read this because you do deserve the best of the best. The build up, the dialogue, the surprisingly hilarity of it, the hotness woah, and The Aftermath. When you think you know what you’re in for, you’re wrong and you’re most pleasantly surprised. Get this fic in your life and honestly? while you’re at it, you could do a clean sweep of every fic in her list of works and while my less than adequate reading time management may still be short on some of her most well-recommended pieces, I have an adamant faith that Bee doesn’t disappoint. Go get y’all juice.

Maelstrom by thewindupbird

Summary: Here’s the thing about driving halfway across the country to see someone. You can’t really deny, after that, that you’re pretty much head over heels for them.

Review: Listen. One morning on a day off, I just laid in bed and read this– all 40k+ words– while lying there clutching my pillows, hurting and loving every moment of it. The descriptions of Americana, the slow steady metronome rhythm of Ryan’s feelings as frightened and helpless as they feel when you’re relating deeply to them juxtaposed with the deep-seated struggle of understanding what it is to be with someone you love so much but your mental health is burning quiet holes in your ability to express it in a way that can be understand. Ryan’s fierce determination, breaking through the silence of their non communication is really Everything to me in this fic. i think I really left my heart in the scene in Shane’s parents kitchen. That finished me. Read this fic and understand the deep relief you get when you’ve finished a fight with someone you fiercely care about and they understand you and you understand them and it’s OK; it’s gonna be all right. Augh. 

A Burial on Box Hill by InkStainsOnMyHands

Summary: The Celtics believed that the yew flower symbolized both immortality and death. Meanwhile, for centuries, the buxus flower was seen as a symbol for safe passage into the afterlife.

Or,Shane and Ryan were never the same after investigating the Black Forest of Germany alone.

Review: Let me just quote my bookmark comment here. Usually I flee from tragedy like a cat spotting a cucumber but the brevity and the prose dragged me in and now I’m a functioning mess. Bless this fic. Oh my god it’s short and reads like one of those quick horror stories you’ll read to your friends just as the scary stories are transitioning from the urban legends to the ones that feel real. Big warning for main character death but still read it if you appreciate a good story told.

Body Farming by shiphitsthefan

Summary: Failed suppressants and a surprise heat: the worst of cliches, and here Ryan stands, living the trope on location with the alpha he’s hopelessly in love with. Even worse, they’re spending the night in the famous Bell Witch Cave, completely alone and with no way to contact the outside world.

Ryan knows he can survive and keep his preheat a secret, as long as Shane will stop being so protective and concerned. After all, it’s not like Shane wants to bond with him.

Right?

Review: Now judging from the reactions of many people I’ve spoken to, big heavy ABO kink is not popular here but guys, GUYS. This one. Let this one in I promise it is not what you think it is. The dynamic is organic and the worst side of the trope is subverted in all the best ways and lord help us, the smut is hot, like swelteringly smoking. It’ll stay with you. 

Believer by cellard00rs

Summary: Some demons and otherworldly creatures love climbing up the power ladder. Shane is not one of these. He likes where he is (thank you very much) and has no interest in moving up. All he wants is to give his friend Ryan a nice birthday gift. So, naturally, everything goes to hell.

Review: This fic is another fandom legend. When I think demon!Shane. It’s this and one other one that always pops right into my mind. This was my first exposure to the bureaucracy meets the supernatural!Shane trope and I was sold from the get-go. The Shane in this fic is everything I imagine a demon!Shane is and his ginger care for Ryan, the concept of their bond and how even though Shane is a demon and responsible for keeping the supernatural a firm secret from Ryan and the rest of the world, his skepticism is relayed through his status as a demon. I want to talk more about it but I think so much of the enjoyment comes from the surprises as the plot unfurls. 

Heartbeat by quackers

Summary: So the guy Ryan sits next to at work is a vampire. That’s no big deal, right?

Review: I could talk your literal ear off about this fic. Vampires, man. I love the trope; you don’t know me as a person if you don’t know this at least. And this fic kept me fed all damn year. It was a readable garden. If there is one thing I can guarantee about quackers’ work, it’s that their world-building is a festival of detail. The realms and alternate universes they work with while still managing to keep Shane and Ryan’s voices so familiar and real is a talent not attributed to your everyday author. This fic propelled me into wanting to write more and more because quackers makes stories so much fun! Reading their work is, to me, not unlike the feeling I got when I was younger and finding series that speak to my need to escape this crummy existence, made me want to believe in fun spicy things like a vampire that lived through centuries, cynical but still searching, navigating a world where people are still people, adjusting to differences and prejudices, finding comfort in a guy that understands that and more. I’ve talked about this fic in more than a few different posts so I’d just be reiterating a lot of things I loved about the more historical aspects of Shane’s journey, the way Ryan is so firmly curious and inventive in ways to connect with Shane. Look, even if vampires aren’t your thing, I can promise that if you visit quackers list of work, you will find something for your supernatural-lovin’ palate that speaks to a gentler side of your own curiosity about monsters and the jocks that love them. lol.

I’ll Crawl Home by carrieonfighting

Summary: “Shane was almost unnerved by how quickly he’d settled into this body, this name, this life - his friendship with Ryan was the most time he’d spent with any human before, and yet the man fascinated him.”

Review: This is the second fic I think of when someone says the words ‘demon!Shane’ to me because ohhhh my word, this fic is a masterpiece. I really am hard pressed to find anything better than the feeling I get when I think of demon!Shane headcanons interwoven with the irl Buzzfeed reality and the idea of the Ryan as we know him being protected and watched and loved so deeply by a demon that found him so long ago and wanted nothing but to protect him. I feel an almost vicious glee reliving that moment when Ryan and Shane are on goatman’s bridge and man, I just really love canonical fic mixed with a slight twist. The writing in this makes it work so well with lines that still haunt my heart and soul like “Ryan liked popcorn. So did the demon. Genuinely, not just out of a desire to please the human – he liked the way it crunched between his vessel’s teeth. There were some aspects of taking a corporeal form that were…nice; laughing, coffee, feeling warm. Ryan made him laugh.” FUCK! The beautiful agony of it, watching the demon fall in love with Ryan through the eyes of his vessel. Just stark with pain and unspoken, well-written angst and pain with a perfect ending, I wouldn’t change for anything. I love this for us as a fandom and will always love that author crafted this piece and shared it with us. (Also every time I hear Work Song by Hozier, I think of this fic again and sigh).

Like I said at the beginning, thanks to @skepticbeliever-bookclub I’ve been discovering and re-discovering some fics I hadn’t had the chance to read and or have never even heard of before and my bookmarks list is growing with each new week. So if you get through this list and need more in your life, here you go. Every fic in my bookmarks deserves the community’s attention. If I can just make one special request of you guys? If you do happen to click any of these and enjoy what you read, please take the time and tell the author what you loved about it. It really changes the game out here for fanworks and fan-creators like you wouldn’t even believe and the people who shared these works with us worked hard to make the stories what they are and put a great deal of emotional investment in sharing it. Share more than your silence in return. 

Hope you find something you like here, nonnybabe.. 

[redzeverin]

//cough/ One of my guilty pleasures--- Soukoku adopting Aya.

Here’s something to accompany this drawing~!! 

Tags: Soukoku kinda domestic in ADA’s office, Headcanon Kunikida teaching Aya math and stuff, Aya is sunshine, Chuuya is proud mom, Dazai is Dazai, Kunikida is Kunikuncle, Aya & Dazai annoys Kunikida, Chuuya & Kunikida annoys Dazai, //CLUTCHES HEART/ Be prEPARED---

“I told you, I was picking her up today.” Chuuya muttered under his breath, elbowing Dazai- a benefit to his height since he didn’t have to move much to aim it straight to the lanky man’s ribs. His eyes never left Aya’s figure as she gushed her accomplishment on Kunikida’s face, effectively blocking his laptop with her paper of a math quiz she thoroughly aced, “Now it’ll take more than an hour to get her away from your four-eyed worker,”

“Exactly~” Dazai chimed in a sing-song voice, unfazed from the hit, to which Chuuya rolled his eyes at.

He had told Dazai earlier this morning that he’ll pick up Aya from her school so he could surprise her on a new cake shop nearby, but the bandaged-man beat him to it again and managed to convince her that her math achievement was apparently a more pressing issue. And who better to annoy than the ex-math teacher Kunikida, which falls for both Dazai and Aya’s whims.

Two things got to him: The amount of free time Dazai had was annoying, and the fact that Aya was getting Dazai’s perks for annoying certain partners was unnerving.

Cue his third thought: Sorry, Kunikida.

It wasn’t until he had seated himself on the couch of the office and Dazai had brought him sweetened coffee (“Five cubes of sugar?! Really, Dazai?!”) that Aya finally trotted to his side, accomplishment beaming on her face.

He had an idea that it wasn’t just from the math quiz anymore, considering how Kunikida was now furiously rewriting schedules on his Ideals.

Chuuya reached out and patted her head, giving his own warm smile, “Congratulations, sunshine,”

“Thank you!” She giggled and settled beside him, pulling the side his coat over her head as she rummaged through her bag. It became a habit of her to huddle under his coat, the first few times made Chuuya uncomfortable with whatever smell or stains had gotten there from previous missions that she didn’t seem to particularly mind, until he decided to get a couple more cleaner coats to use when he drops by her school or the Agency.

At these times, Dazai is already on the sofa in front of them, a broad smile on his face, watching with fondness his little beans together. He tried his luck before with getting on the other side of Chuuya’s coat but to no avail, and for once, he cursed his tall stature.

“Oh, and I drew this!” Aya beamed as she pulled out a paper from her bag, cutting off Dazai’s thoughts as he scrambled beside them, peeking over their shoulders.

There, in bright crayon colors, were three people- and it wasn’t hard to distinguish who they were: Chuuya with his vivid orange hair topped with his hat, and what would look like his trademark smirk; Dazai and his easy-going grin, clad in warm brown colors; and Aya, holding their hands together with an open-mouthed smile on her face. Chuuya’s eyes lit up as he leaned over and kissed the top of her head, smile uncontainable as he continued to ruffle her hair.

“That’s beautiful, Aya-chan,” Dazai said, wrapping his arms over them as he laughed, “You captured my beauty better than chibi’s~!”

Chuuya snorted, “Maybe I do prefer seeing Aya’s drawing of you now. You may leave, real life Dazai.” He made shooing motions with his free hand, smirk faltering back to a smile, even when Dazai feigned a look of hurt

“Chuuuuuuya!” Dazai gasped dramatically, “I work here!”

“You may leave, real life Dazai,”

“Kunikida-kun! Don’t side with them!” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, slumping against the backrest of the seat. After a few moments of whining and Aya’s little pats on his head, he finally pipes back up, “Can I keep it?”

“What? No, I’m keeping it.” Chuuya huffed and pulls Aya over to his other side, out of Dazai’s reach, who resumed a louder version of his whining.

“I’ll draw another one!” Aya said, grasping her bag once more as she stood up, “I’ll make one now!”

“And I get to see my little master artist work? My, how lucky of me~!” Dazai pushed himself back up to follow her to his rarely used desk, crayons and paper already spread on the desk top. Chuuya laughs and rests longer on the couch, taking in as much of the calm atmosphere as he can. He briefly sees the look of slight irritation on Kunikida’s face (Dazai is probably supposed to do his paperwork, judging by the stack of papers adjacent his desk) but one sigh later, he resumed typing on his laptop and the faintest of smile crossed his face.

“Make sure chibi stays chibi, okay Aya-chan?”

Okay, maybe not as calm as he thought, “Augh, Dazai. Shut it would ya?!” He growled out, half-heartedly at most, but he smiled anyways. Chuuya looked back down to his lap, eyes softening, heart warm, as his fingers traced the paper of their first family photo.

[motokiharuna]

deleted scenes from my birdflash parallel universes/quantum immortality fic . most of these are from back when it was originally a spitfire fic, but [shrugging text emoji]

“I thought we... I thought we were going to stay friends?” She says quietly, more like a question than anything, and Wally's neck almost snaps with the speed he turns his head to look at her.

“What was that?”

“You know,” she says, gesturing vaguely. When his face doesn't change from the absolutely flabbergasted expression he has on, she stamps her foot in the ground and gestures more violently at him. “Well! You know!”

He stares at her, thoughts going a mile a minute, maybe faster, he can barely catch every third word of his own thoughts and he feels a sense of irritation rising in his throat.

“Artemis, do you not get it?” He says. “I'm not Kid Flash. I'm not the Wally West that you know, okay?” He throws his arms out to the sides, frustrated with this fact. “So... so tell me what the hell it is you're talking about or just... just go away, okay!”

“You were my boyfriend, you idiot!” She yells at him, clearly wanting to bash his head into the wall next to them.

“Yeah, right.”

“We kissed on at midnight on New Years. We broke up six times before this one. We can never keep it together.”

“And now we can't even look at each other!”

“I don't know you!” Wally blurts out. “I don't know you and I never have and? Frankly, I have no idea why a girl like you would even go for someone like me, even if I am a superhero in this universe!”

“What does that mean?” She half-screeches.

“I am a loser, Artemis! I am in this universe and I was in my last! No friends except for D--” He catches himself almost too late, and he forcibly measures his voice. “Robin. And he lives halfway across the country from me!” He can feel tears, hot and embarrassing, stinging at his eyes, and he sits on the bed, burying his face in his hands, unable to say anymore. He has already divulged too much information, and he can't keep it up any longer.

“Wally, please,” she says, voice calmer and quieter than he has ever heard. She takes a few steps towards him and hesitantly puts a hand on his shoulder, and he surprises himself by not moving away. Artemis sits, and he lets her, and it feels familiar and uncomfortable at the same time

“I don't know anything about you,” he says, bitterly. “And you don't know anything about me, either. So let's stop pretending like we do.”

“Your favorite color is yellow,” she responds, automatically. “Like your costume. Your favorite flavor of chip is sour cream and onion. You blew yourself up trying to repeat the Flash's accident that gave him his powers and you were in a coma for a week.” She takes a step forward, and he stares up at her. “You hate being late, but you always are. We kissed for the first time on New Years. We've broken up six times before this one.”

“It's complicated, okay?” He says, meaning for his words to have more strength than they do. “You're my best friend. Were my best friend? Augh! I don't know anymore!!” He wants to throw himself onto the floor to stare down the fibers in the carpet for the rest of eternity, he feels so lost and frustrated and utterly hopeless. “In my universe, I loved you!” He blurts out, an unwelcome confession in the face of his best friend who knows nothing about him. Dick stays still, stone-faced, only the faintest flicker of emotion passing through his blue eyes, only slow enough for someone with super speed to perceive.

And I think you loved me too, he thinks but can't bring himself to say. He swallows, willing himself to go on.

“M'gann has given me memories of this universe, and now I don't know what's real and what's not.”

A few days later, Wally has his first mission briefing. It's something almost unimportant, just a small squad going out to check out Cadmus to see what they have been up to.

“KF! First mission, are you pumped?” Dick grins.

“Honestly, I'm feeling kinda overwhelmed,” Wally admits, shrugging his shoulders.

“Stay whelmed, my friend,” Kaldur says, unsmiling but voice warm, putting a hand on Wally's shoulder. “You will do fine.”

Wally is able to force out a weak laugh.

“Right, of course. Cadmus, how hard can it be?” He asks, giving a half-hearted smile.

They set out – Aqualad, Robin, and himself. They arrive at the entrance to the building – a benign-looking two story building, but somehow Wally remembers that there's lower levels, dozens of them.

“Just like old times,” Dick comments with a boyish cackle as they enter. “Finding a Superman clone and almost dying notwithstanding, of course.”

Guardian meets them as they exit the elevator to the lower levels.

The memories he had of before are sepia-toned, like a movie, the colors washed out to a dull brown. He is a spectator in memories that no longer feel like his – memories of a kid on the track team who had no friends, memories of private jet rides to Wayne manor courtesy of Dick, memories of trips to the West coast.

These slip away, into memories of the kid who blew himself up with a chemistry set at age 13, of zeta tube trips and super speedy runs to Dick's house, of missions with the team to places across the world. Memories fade and get replaced but sometimes, he has flashes of his old life that feel vivid and real.