#I need Jon to be tormented by this so bad

[babybells123]

Can you imagine Jon and Sansa reuniting (which actually feels more like meeting for the first time) and absolutely chaotic angsty tenderness unfolding.

Jon’s perception on Sansa…..initially mistaking Sansa as Ygritte and having to pinch himself several times as to how he cannottt be comparing his lover to his sister for gods sake!! What would Ned think ???? But omg when the light from the fire catches in Sansa’s hair….and when she sings in that soft voice of hers and tends him with gentle hands, brushes the hair from his brow (perhaps her lips ghost over it), holds her legs to her chest and just smiles at him with that easy Tully smile, and when she kneels next to Ghost and buries her face in his fur and Jon can’t help but think what a lovely sight it is but Lady is dead and Jon feels immense grief for Sansa because he knows what it feels like to not be able to sense your wolf and Sansa is kind and soothes him when he wakes from nightmares in the middle of the night and sometimes her face will get real close (and she’ll be all flustered) because she’s worried for him and Jon just thinks oh she smells so sweet.. like flowers and lemons , a warm summers day, ahhh the bliss of youth , and sometimes his eyes will flicker to her lips and just linger on her face but then he’ll start blushing like some green boy yet how does he lament this all to his half sister when he can’t even process his own feelings and they all just appear through this conundrum of fleeting moments? So then he visits the godswood and prays prays prays for reprieve oh father forgive me I have sinful wanton lust-filled thoughts I’m going to kms what is duty what is love , duty is death to desire, I have no nefarious intentions I just want to love her and be loved by her am I truly this depraved, and did I mention I want to love her? Spare me from this treachery 😔😔😔(I want to love her so bad)

[lokorum]

what would you say is your favorite jonmichael fic..... im very curious and love to reread anything in that tag

oh but how can i pick only one when they all are so good??? (,,•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ ,,)?

aaaaaa can i make the several honorable mentions of the fics that made me scream and roll on the floor?????? pretty please???

scheherazade was one of the first jonmichael fics that i found while going through all of the cher's works because, evidently, they have no fics that are not worth reading!! (i'm sorry if and forty feet down only confirming it!!!)

sleep inertia has one of the best dialogues i ever read!!! the way cruelzy writes michael's lines??? aaaaaaaaa its so delicious and believable and never for a second i thought i'm reading something out of canon?? its just that good. 

carousel is the only one fic (from what i found) that i set in the last season and its adds a lot of layers to that big jonmichael onion that torments my eyes for a while now ldkfjgkdfjg also it's messy?? i mean the whole situation in the fic?? its so humanly complicated and it does not gives you the chance to experience any of the feelings clearly and i love it!! screechfox somehow captured all of the complicated stuff in one fic, blendered it together and for the whole time i just couldn't take my eyes away from it. 

five times michael saves jon's life and one time he doesn't have to - is here to sooth our pain and heal our wounds. i reread it so many times!! the dynamic between jon and michael in it is one to live for!!! sometimes you think 5+1 kind of fics can't surprise you anymore and then the coolest author like paisleycowboys enters the room and proves you wrong. 

to be like super honest, the 100 ways to say i love you series, when i first saw it, made me think im not gonna like it? i love my fanfics long and scary and bittersweet and with a bad-very-not-good-endings, so the title of this one made me go "hmmmmm HMMMMM hmmmmm hmmmm?" but ive started to read it anyway, theres not that many fics on the ao3 for jonmichael, we cant afford to be capricious and gosh GOSH i was so fucking wrong!!! its sweet AND sad AND scary AND awkward (in a best way!!!) AND it made me giggle so many times!!! NeedsCaffeineRightNow can make even the edgiest of us enjoy the soft kinds of fics (its not hard when they are written with so much care and love.)

POSSESSIVE!! MICHAEL!! COMBING!!! JON'S!! HAIR!!!!!! what else do we need from life?

transition, every time i reread it or think about it, makes me painfully aware of how many things should coincide for something to work. it's not one of those fics that completely encompass you; nor its the one that leaves you with new headcanons or in a good mood, no, i think it's the one that leaves you in dissoray, making you want to argue with author, to ask them what were they thinking about, pointing on your weak sides like this?, giving you something precious and then stealing it away? pushing your old bruises? that is to say, i have nothing but deep respect for indefensibleselfindulgence. to write fic that makes you want to engage in conversation? thats powerful 

Our 'Angel' of Static and Bone is written so inexplicably good, that more than once i wondered, how NeverwinterThistle was able to do it? and then i realised they are one of my fave bg3 and dishonored authors phpphp but really, the care, the effort that went into this fic? they are literally visible! you can feel the amount of time and brain juice that went into writing it. and the neighbor character? they appeared like two times?? and still their addition left me speechless with how clever it is, how different!! absolutely amazing work.

adjective noun has jonmichael chapter (11) that destroyed me as a person i swear i laughed so hard i dropped my phone and just kept giggling face-into-the-pillow style!!!!!! its rare for the fics to bring you this childish kind of pure joy; the little in-between moment of forgetting about everything, good and bad, and just have a good time. this chapter is definitely one of those rare things and it also made me wish there would be more jonmichael fics from cuttoth. somehow they nailed everything that should be nailed about this ship and did it in a couple of pages, what a magical work!! 

and well, now here's my fave fic, the one that took my head, shaked it like it's a soda can, and then left it open, fountaining at first and then dented and empty. 

I ask for nothing, but maybe I'm lying is the work that made me grateful for the fact that i know how to read in english. its....mmmm, you know that feeling when fic makes you go through literally everything? and then, as a bonus, through all stages of grief as well?

first you get hooked up by the beautiful writing style and so you know the fic is gonna be good and you get comfortable and you turn yourself off from the rest of the world and you read. 

you love pov, you love mood shifts, you love pacing, you love when scenes are short and you pause to think about what happened / you love when scenes are long and you get overloaded with the simple things that make you feel complicated emotions, you love it all. 

then you start to wish it would never finish; you look at the scrolling bar from time to time, a little bit too aware of how much there's left to read, a little bit too anxious about it. and at the same time, the fic starts to make you feel safe, confident, that at least it's gonna be alright, its gonna be that one work that will replace the canon events for you. it was the

“Oh. Oh, Archivist, no. That’s not right at all,” you say to yourself as you watch him march into artefact storage, both hands clamped around an axe. 

On a whim, you decide to save him."

line for me for sure uhhh it still hits as good as the first time too 

and then you get to the ending and you just stare at the screen. that hollowing feeling slowly spreading inside you. *sigh* its the best sort of inspiration im sure, but its the worse one too. i have no idea how possessedradios and authors like them are able to write something that kills you, then reanimates you and then makes you sit in front of the tablet drawing hours non stop. ''I ask for nothing, but maybe I'm lying" is so beautiful its scares and fascinates me, just like the podcast did. hell, better then the podcast did.  i know its silly but i even named my fisrt fanart of michael as the title of the fic 👉👈

ahhhh SO i rumbled again SORRY!!!!!!! every time someone asks something from me its either "i'll reply later" (replies 10 years after) or "tolstoy, hold my fucking beer". but i really hope that fic writers, not only those who are mentioned here but like in general? know how much they affect other people!! how their work creates safe spaces for others!! how they make readers smile or cry, even if those readers (im not pointing finger on myself idk what you talking about pgphpphph) are little gremlins that leaving comments once in a decade....................

have fun time reading!! <3

btw im working on a little fanart rn............. (expressing my deepest grattitude to ao3 johmichael writers 😳🔪)

[soggedboytroutanti]

About The Summoning…

I know *why* they couldnt, but when it comes to the summoning I wish so hard theyd made jon be pokey. Just imagine if each vessel they took was the person they tormented. Nibbly being Linda. Blinky being Bill. Wiggly being… hm. He could be Wilbur or Howard? (As to not repeat Linda, though he didnt really torment her). Tinky would be Ted of course (which, can you imagine Petes reaction when a god shows up as his brother?). Pokey as Paul obviously. God its not plausible but I need it so bad. To *me* this is canon. This is my hc. They all have the same outfits by the way. I cant stop thinking about this Ive been thinking about it since NPMD came out. Please see my vision

[pcr-alice]

I vaguely remember seeing a prompt that was vivisection but not Danny (please point me to it if you know what I'm talking about). Anyway, something dark came over me and I decided to torment little Superboy Jon.

Check it out on AO3.

cw: vivisection, medical torture

1666 words below cut

Jon could feel that something was wrong. He couldn’t quite place what that something was. His head was fuzzy. He couldn’t focus. He didn’t know where he was, couldn’t remember what happened. Kidnapped? Okay, don’t panic. Damian had taught him what to do in these situations. Stay calm, pay attention, don’t make a scene until it’s beneficial.

First, relax. Clear your head. A sharp mind is crucial. Next, focus on your senses. Don’t open your eyes! Let the kidnappers think you’re still unconscious. Instead...the air smelt strong. Metallic and sharp. Sharp as in sterile. A hospital? That’s bad, vulnerable people are in hospitals. A hostage situation here could really hurt someone.

Now, what could he hear? Some humming and whirring, probably hospital equipment, and...is that sobbing? That means at least one civilian is also here. He’ll have to protect them. Last thing to check (yes Damian, it should have been the first thing to check), was he tied up in any way?

His whole body was slightly numb. Drugged? Maybe. Definitely gagged. And something was tickling his chest. He seemed to be lying on his back on a cold, hard surface. His wrists were bound, but not together? One to each side? Wait, his ankles too? What kind of kidnapping –

Then the pain hit him.

His eyes burst open and he tried to scream, but it died against whatever was tied around his mouth. He lurched up, yanking on his restraints, but his entire chest howled in agony, and he fell back down as his head clouded over and darkness invaded his vision. He panted short, heavy breaths, each one igniting a new inferno in his lungs, barely managing to stay conscious.

After some number of breaths he didn’t have the stability of mind to count, the harsh edge of his pain dulled, and he was left with an agonizing ache and dull haze in his head. Eventually he realized he could still hear the sobbing, but this time there were words between them. One word, specifically. Sorry.

Jon tilted his head as much as he could toward the voice and sluggishly tried to focus his eyes, squinting at the light. There was another boy, about his age. His eyes were wide with panic and tears, long black hair messily cut away from his face. For some reason he seemed to be wearing scrubs. Right, hospital. The pain. Injured somehow. But why was this kid here? Jon tried to speak, but all that came out was a muffled moan.

“Ah!” The boy flinched. “Okay, okay. I can take it off, but you have to promise to keep quiet. I’m not supposed to be here.”

Jon blinked at him dully and tried to nod as best he could. Thankfully the kid understood and reached around his head to unhook the gag. He pulled it away and dropped it to the floor with a clatter.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were awake, I forgot about the morphine ‘cuz it doesn’t work on me,” the kid stammered out.

“Wha –” was all Jon could get out.

The kid scampered around him and began undoing his other restraints, sniffling the whole time. Jon blearily looked around the room. It was the strangest hospital he’d ever seen. There was equipment that looked like it belonged in a junkyard and glowing green liquids and Kryptonite can’t be liquid right?

The last of the restraints was undone, and Jon began to sit up, but the kid stopped him.

“Careful, go slowly, it’s going to hurt a lot I’m sorry, I’ll help you, okay?”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and had to focus to decode the kid’s words through his constant sobbing.

“I...what?”

“You...you’re really hurt. I patched you up, but you’re gonna need time to heal. I’m...I’m really sorry.” He nearly lost himself to the sobs with the apology.

“Wha – why,” Jon was so confused, “what happened?”

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, “they didn’t get what they wanted from me, so they – they thought –”

The kid snapped his head to look somewhere else and his eyes went wide again.

“No no no it’s too soon I can’t –”

He looked back down at Jon, breathing hard, clearly panicking.

“Okay okay it’s okay…”

He took a deep breath and visibly steadied.

“I’ll be right back I promise.”

And he was gone. Jon groaned, half in complaint, half in panic. He heard a crash from where he thought the kid ran off to, then a few seconds later some clattering from his other side. He struggled to sit up again, but the pain stopped him. After a few hazy blinks, the boy was back.

“Okay I’m gonna help you up it’s gonna hurt I’m sorry but we gotta go.”

Jon closed his eyes. The black was encroaching on his vision again, and he couldn’t decipher whatever the kid just said. He gave a small nod anyway. Then he felt hands on him, rolling him to his side. He was pretty sure his chest was screaming at him again, but his mind was too foggy to recognize pain. And suddenly he was sitting, solid blue eyes staring at him, anchoring him to the moment.

“Ready?”

Oh, he missed something. Ready for what? He couldn’t figure it out. His eyes drooped and head tilted forward. Then there was a pinch on his thigh.

And he was wide awake.

He sucked in a quick, full breath, and his chest went tight. His eyes shot open and looked around everywhere in sudden awareness. This couldn’t be a hospital room. He didn’t recognize any medical equipment, and those definitely looked like guns of some sort. The floor was angled down toward a single large drain, and his “bed” was a metal table, smudged with red – blood – and who knows what else. He could barely make out the corner of a single steel door hidden behind a huge cabinet, tilted over and resting on a workbench, contents spilled out on the floor.

The kid was holding his shoulder with one hand, the other wrapped around a small green cylinder and pressed into his leg. His own hands were squeezing the boy’s arms with a force that should have shattered his bones. He gently released his grip. The kid’s scrubs were old and tattered, clearly several sizes too big, and stained dark in so many places that the original green barely peeked through. The top fell around him like a dress, and he was barefoot and probably bottomless. The oversized collar fell wide enough around his neck to reveal scars from his sternum to his shoulders, still raw and poorly stitched together.

“...boy! Superboy!”

What? The kid was talking. Yelling. At him? But why? Oh. Oh no. Red sleeves. Jon was in costume. He looked back into the boys eyes, the deep blue cooling his panic just enough to be coherent.

“Where am I?”

“You were captured. I’m sorry. We’re underground in an abandoned town. But I’m gonna get you out.”

The kid was much more coherent now, but Jon could tell he was barely holding it together.

“You’re badly injured and need medical attention. I gave you a shot of epinephrine to get you up. We have to hurry, it won’t last long.”

“Injured how?”

The kid dropped the injector he had been holding to Jon’s knee and pulled him away to the back of the room, opposite the door. Jon was too stunned to resist, too shocked to question how the injection pierced his skin.

“They tried to do...an operation on you. One you didn’t need.”

“What does that mean!?”

Jon made the mistake of looking down at his torso, where he saw his costume unzipped and a thick, red line of blood and flesh trailing down to his waistband. He stumbled and fought back a gag. Something told him that would be a bad idea right now.

“Hey, hey!” The kid grabbed his shoulders and forced him to make eye contact, “It’s okay. Don’t look. You’re gonna be okay.”

He zipped up Jon’s costume while reassuring him and pulled him over to a large cabinet like the one obstructing the door behind them. He then shifted his weight against the side of it and slid it over with a hideous screech. There was a sheet of metal, maybe three feet across, leaning against the painted cinder block wall. He tipped the sheet to the ground to reveal a messily-carved hole in the wall, then grabbed Jon and pulled him down.

A loud thunk sounded from the door behind them.

“Crawl through here. Stay on your side. You’ll come out in an old sewer tunnel. Keep to the right hand wall and follow it all the way to the end. There will be a manhole cover above you. I haven’t assembled the ladder yet, so you’ll have to fly. Here.”

He shoved another injector into Jon’s hand.

“Use this when you get there. Fly up and through the manhole. You can do it.”

“What – Why – How?”

“Once you’re on the surface, call for Superman. You’ve been here for a few hours, so they have to be looking for you by now. Got it?”

“I – What – You’re staying here!?”

Another thunk sounded from the door.

“You’ll be fine on your own. I believe in you. Go!”

He pushed Jon toward the hole.

“Wait! What – I don’t understand.”

Thunk.

He shoved Jon harder into the hole.

“Hurry!”

Jon felt himself instinctively crawl further into the hole in response to the kid’s increasing panic.

“Are you in danger!?”

Thunk.

“Now!!”

The kid gave one final push, and Jon slid fully into the hole, scratching his leg on the jagged concrete floor and barely catching himself on his elbow.

“Wait! Who are you? What’s wrong?”

The kid gave Jon one final look before tipping the metal hole cover back up.

“I’m Danny.”

The light disappeared with a slam. The screech of the cabinet sliding back into place followed.

[13phantom13angel13]

Wayne Woes Pt 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I am extremely late with putting this out. Too much shit has been going on in my personal life so I haven’t had the time. So, without further ado, here is the long awaited part 2! Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clark had noticed the past couple of times that he and Jonathan went to Wayne manor that Damian was a bit mopey. And maybe a little jumpy. He avoided being too close to Jon at all costs. He noticed the little flinch he gave if Jon moved too suddenly; noticed his heart rate increase with anticipation.

Jonathan, out of respect for his friend, tried to keep his distance to not spook the baby bat. Sure, it was fun to tickle the hell out of him, but he wasn’t so cruel as to continuously do it every time they visited.

So, they’re current visit had the boys hanging out in the cave again as their dads worked on another case. This time they just sat around playing on their phones several feet apart. Clark watched them intently with a slight frown. He knew Damian was a little upset still. He wanted to cheer him up and let him know it was ok to be ticklish. It didn’t make him weak.

His gaze fell on Bruce as he worked on the bat computer. A wicked smile started to form on his lips. He glanced back at the boys.

“Hey Damian. Come here for a second.”

Damian glanced up at Superman and stood from his spot, walking over to him. Clark grinned, leaning down slightly to whisper to him.

“Wanna know a fun secret about your dad?”

The mischievous glint in the Kryptonian’s eyes intrigued him. He tilted his head slightly in curiosity. Miraculously, Bruce hadn’t heard them; too focused on his current task.

“Watch and be amazed.” Clark stated as he zipped up behind Bruce with the speed only a superhuman can have, latching on to his sides before Bruce even had a chance to react.

The squeal that ripped out of Bruce’s throat was loud, high pitched, and hilarious. But Clark didn’t stop there. He started wiggling his fingers up and down from the tops of his hips up to his armpits. Bruce’s back arched away as frantic laughter escaped him with no hope of stopping it.

Bruce squirmed around in his chair in hysterics trying to grab ahold of Clark’s hands.

“DAHAHAMMIT CLAHAHAHARK!!! STAHAHAHAHAP!!!”

Clark laughed along with him, continuing the torment as Damian and Jon watched on. Both of them wore highly amused smirks with just a hint of surprise. Who knew Batman would be so ticklish?

“CLAHAHAHARK PLEAHAHAHAHASE!! I’M BEHEHEHEHEGGING YOU!!!” Bruce sank down slowly in his chair as his cheeks flushed pink, tears of mirth beginning to form in his eyes. That was new.

“Aw…come on, Bruce. Damian needs to see that even big bad Batman is ticklish too.”

“OHOHOHOK!!! YOU MAHAHAHADE YOHOHOHOUR POINT!!! I GIHIHIHIVE!!! CUHUHUHUT IT OHOHOHOHOUT!!!”

Clark chuckled, retracting his hands. Bruce slumped forward against the computer system gasping for breath.

“Alright alright. I’m done,” he stated turning back to Damian. “See? Even your dad is ticklish. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone is ticklish somewhere.”

Damian’s eyebrow raised with a slight smirk.

“Everyone? Including you?”

Clark paused, his eyes going wide. Jonathan laughed on the other side of the room.

“Yes he is! Don’t let him lie to you!”

“Jonathan!” Clark squeaked out in embarrassment. Damian chuckled softly.

“Thank you for the demonstration of father’s weakness. Jon already informed me of it. However, I’ll keep that information safe for a time when I need it.” He turned to face Jonathan and motioned for him to follow. “Come, Kent. Let’s go play a video game.”

As soon as both boys were out of the cave, Bruce growled out in a menacing voice.

“So, about my revenge…”

Clark swallowed hard. Oh he just screwed up.

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 168 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: cutting the Kolkwitzia amabilis in my garden.

Ah yes, another ambiguous... thing. Roots, routes.

I feel like Martin dancing around at the beginning here, asking Jon if he‘ll gonna be okay on his own is already because he‘s jealous and he wants to bring this situation in a certain direction. It sounds like they have already talked about crossing Oliver‘s domain cause Martin knew it’s his.

MARTIN: "So, are you gonna smite him, then?" Hehe, Martin showing his petty side xD The topic is serious, but it's still funny to hear that conversation xD

MARTIN: "I know what I said, and I don’t – (sigh) I don’t know, Martin. I just – I don’t think he’s – (sigh) I don’t know; I don’t think he’s evil." Yeah, that’s also what I thought. He seems neutral? I mean he even tried to save people at first. It was a bit more unfortunate for that boat crew that they were caught up in his little breakdown… Actually how does Oliver feed the End? Is it just those little gestures like looking all sad at Jane or asking the statement giver of MAG 42 what she‘s listening?

MARTIN: (really?) "Oh, yeah, sure; he’s probably a really kind, benevolent ruler of a hellish fear prison." Martin still couldn't wrap his head around the concept of watcher and watched. He is just as much a watcher as Oliver is. Jon is a watcher, that at least he knows, I think, and he doesn't see him as evil.

Ahhh, this scene is so perfect! It's well written and funny and the acting is on point!

That little laugh when Martin is finally out of earshot xD Like „I can’t believe we actually had that conversation r.ight now”

"I have no power to stop it, and even if I did, I would not do so. For to rob a soul of death is as torturous as its inevitable coming." There’s a reason the trope of not being able to die/a fate worse than death is called And I Must Scream.

Is this statement a comment on the rise of self-diagnosing because of the Internet? There have been Hypochondriacs have been around pre-internet, so I'm not so sure about this.

"She may see Maria lying in her hospital bed, monitors crowding her as the doctors struggle to get an IV into her wildly convulsing arm. She might have a flash of Bobby, fingers tightening around the rungs of the ladder as the rusted nails give way. She often sees Dennis’s face as the knife slips eagerly between his ribs, even though he doesn’t die for hours afterwards." Jon‘s mum (surgery complication), Jon‘s dad (fell of a ladder) and Jon himself. This says that Dennis didn’t die for hours, so there’s still a chance for Jon to be saved when they‘ll arrive somewhere else!

"a) When Danika Gelsthorpe reaches the end of her Corpse Route, she will die. This new world of fear reviles death as a release, but the Coming End cannot exist without its reality. It is not a being of dangled promises and shifting torments. The certainty of death waits for all who travel the Corpse Routes, and that certainty will be delivered on, without hesitation or consideration of any other factors." That does very much make sense, otherwise it would lose the one thing the End is about.

"b) This place is a limit on the fear that can be generated from them, as their pool is necessarily finite and ultimately, however slowly, it will be exhausted. To be offset, this consideration will require the acquisition of victims from other domains as replacements, potentially inciting… bad feeling between those domains." When they run out of people, they will get them from somewhere else. Wonder what that "bad feeling between those domains" was meant to be telling us. That watchers would start wars against the End?

"c) A metaphysical quirk of this new reality’s divorce from the traditional concept of time, and – one for which I have no further explanation, means that I do not believe new humans are being created or born." This does make sense in the way of their bodies stopping metabolism. They don't need to eat, they don't need to drink, they don't need to sleep. They are frozen in time. Probably also won't age. And without aging no new life can come into being. (I also headcanon hair stopping to grow, fingernails etc.) But what about domains that feed on the fear of pregnancy or childbirth, bringing up a child? Well, we learn in MAG 178 that the Fears can create artificial people, decoys, NPCs for the sole purpose of making the real ones more afraid. I guess it would be like that.

"d) When this happens, the Great Powers themselves will also fade and die, withering away into nothingness and releasing this reality from their grip." If they need to feed on fear to survive, they will starve. Absolutely makes sense. That's also very similar to the stop-feeling-fear strategy because of which we heard a bunch of people escape their situation. There's just nothing that keeps them going.

"I… do not know how I feel about this." I love Oliver Banks. He's my favourite Avatar side-character!

"Perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned." Okay, not cool, Oliver. It was Jonah Magnus who did this.

JON: "The Avatar of Death shall live. (heavy inhale) Martin’s going to be thrilled." It's so poetic, I can't imagine why Martin dislike this.

@a-mag-a-day

[landscaping-your-mind]

ATTENTION ATTENTION

IF YOU GET NOTHING ELSE OUT OF THIS POST AND SCROLL AWAY WITHOUT READING THE READ MORE OR APPRECIATING MY WINNING HUMOUR PLEASE JUST. PLEASE JUST LISTEN TO THE SECOND OUTLIERS TRAILER. ITS SO FUCKING LIKE- "HE GRIPS MY ARM WITH A STRENGTH I SHOULD NOT HAVE THOUGHT POSSIBLE AND BEGINS TO TELL ME ABOUT THE STARS" WHO LET JONNY BE THIS GOOD AT VOICE ACTING HHH

That out the way, welcome to 154, aka the episode in which jon and martin say fuck! And jonny does a great job with the voice acting here bc of course he does he's like a fantastic actor and writer or SOMETHING. gosh.

i swear the rest of this is gonna be really tma related, but i heard that trailer today and cant stop thinking about it.

without further ado, @a-mag-a-day, it's TIME for the episode that LEFT US ALL IN SHAMBLES!!

(this is all rambling, my words are not the grand words of episode 152)

Shout out to patreon "Jess?", their name gave me a sensible chuckle.

(sigh) Hm. (sharp inhale) I’ve, uh, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking after what happened with Daisy last week. About- what I can do. What I am. What feels right.

Immediately puts me in mind of

MARTIN I’m sorry. That sounds… (small sigh) That sounds horrible. ARCHIVIST I wish it was, Martin. I really wish it was. But it feels… right.

(MAG 160.11)

Hm.

There was one, this one, that my hand…. pulled back from. I dropped it, twice, when I went to pick it up. Even now, I’m… (slight quaver to his voice) struggling to hit play.

Ok, like, his voice puts me in mind of this line

I don’t like this. I don’t like not being sure what’s going to be in my mind, what thoughts are mine and what are from… elsewhere, why I just know some statements are what I should be reading.

(MAG 129)

And how like, yeah, if you think about it, that must be really like... there's something else in your head, pushing unwanted "awful knowledge" in it, altering your perceptions, your wants and needs, yourself in a fundamental and unchangeable way, like. UHM. THAT'S TERRIFYING.

God, why's Jonny such a good voice actor? The way he does Jon's... sort of about to laugh in a very bad way voice? That's just fantastic.

I am the avatar of awful knowledge and revealed secrets, so what does it not want me to know?

EATING YOUR PROSTHETIC MEET YOUR ANESTHETIC-

No, but there's this fantastic edit by instagram user archxvist that I listened to before I got to MAG 154, and it's that line, and I/Me/Myself and it's so coool you want to follow her and listen to it (it's pinned on her profile) don't youuuuu

(also it puts me in mind of this line)

ARCHIVIST Healthy? I am an Avatar of voyeuristic terror, who unquestioned craving for knowledge has condemned the entire world to an eternity of torment; healthy i-isn’t- i,it’s not

(MAG 161)

Which 1. HHHHH JON D: ANJSDFDHVD HHHHNHRHHNRNHNHR and 2. is a line that gets stuck in my head all the time and as you can see from point 1... it's not a great time. :( im so sad about him

"When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing, but he heard her breathing, slow and steady and focused, and he immediately knew that she was finally going to- (slight stumble) -kill him. When the garden shears plunged into his chest, he was surprised by how little actual pain there was- just the sudden feeling of moisture on his chest and the realization that his body was growing weak, fading away. He wished she would say she was sorry she was doing this, that she loved him, that she would miss him. But he knew better, and his final thought was a gentle sadness at how little he was surprised."

Lots of things! First of all, Getrude's little stumble is just like :(. She may have been less of a care about people person, and more of a care about the fate of the world person - and doesn't that ache, to know that all those deaths were for nothing - but she was still upset to know that he died. She was still upset when she read his page. And I'm upset about that in turn.

Secondly, why are their deaths so sad, Gerry and Eric's. Like, I just, was this necessary? Yes, yes it was, I'm glad it's like this, it doesn't make me any less sad at that... poor guy, poor Eric. Fuck you, Mary Keay.

GERTRUDE Yes. Well. I’m sorry. ERIC Wasn’t even hard for her, was it? Handing me over? No sign of regret. GERTRUDE (Still a bit shaky) No. ERIC No. GERTRUDE I’m sorry, Eric; I know this must be hard- I just read your death. I didn’t realize it had been quite so…

:(, poor guy.

ERIC God, I was a mess. I mean, part of me kind of suspected she’d killed before, but clearly she hadn’t done it enough to be a decent hand at chopping up and dumping bodies. She was having a real bad time of it. My legs were all over the shop. (Long inhale) Would probably have been funny, if it hadn’t been me.

I like him, he's funny, also jesus christ, mary why the fuck? Just to be evil? Fuck her.

ERIC I don’t know how to describe it. Never was great with words. Bad. It feels bad. All the time. I know that I’m not really Eric. I’m just a memory someone wrote down. It hurts, most of the time. I don’t like it.

"It feels bad."

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's sort of funny. Also interesting, I never really... paid attention to the statement/Gertrude part of this episode, and I mean it's interesting, I didn't know they weren't them. Makes sense, I suppose.

ERIC You too. (beat) You got old. GERTRUDE Better than being dead. ERIC (Short sigh of a laugh) Fair enough.

I love their little dynamic, they're friends your honour :3

ERIC S’pose that makes sense. And Gerry? Have you seen my son?

HIS DAD USED TO CALL HIM GERRY!! (starts sobbing)

ERIC Oh, just thinking. Five years as her husband, god knows how many as her possession, and she just couldn’t stand being bound in the same book as me. GERTRUDE Hm. I’m sorry. ERIC Yeah, it doesn’t feel great.

:(

^ that's going to be like half of my reactions

GERTRUDE James? He died about twelve years ago. Elias is Head of the Institute now. ERIC Elias? Elias Bouchard, seriously? GERTRUDE Hm, he’s changed a lot. ERIC Must have!

HAHAHA! THE WAY THEY TALK ABOUT HIM, IT'S SO FUNNY

also uh. huh. you know i still don't get how the people who got elias was jonah magnus before the 158 reveal did it, but this does make it obvious in hindsight.

ERIC Well, that’s it, isn’t it? I suppose that’s why she gave me to you. One final screw you to the Eye. GERTRUDE Eric. How did you quit? (Eric holds back.) GERTRUDE (warning) Eric. ERIC (short laugh) Sorry. I just- (laugh) I don’t mean to be a dick, but- well, it’s been a long time since I’ve had any sort of- leverage, I guess? Just a- little bit of power. It’s kind of nice.

Hm, both :( and I really like him. he's funny.

GERTRUDE I suppose he might be useful.

...

hhhhhhhh

ERIC I don’t want to disappear on her terms. Or yours. I want to speak my piece, have it recorded.

fuck yea dude!

but the mystery, the promise of secret knowledge, of seeing something that no one else was privy to. A secret world that gripped my imagination.

ok, eye guy. fairly eye.

So when I finished my Masters in library science and saw a vacancy at the Magnus Institute, of all places, I jumped at the chance. The chance to pursue my passion and my career at the same time seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up!

THE ONLY GUY THERE WITH A DEGREE IN LIBRARY SCIENCE IS THE ONE THAT QUIT, LOVE HIM FOR THAT, HE ACTUALLY KNEW WHAT HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DOING

(Amused, wistful hm) I knew she didn’t have an uncle. I knew the man was dead.

Good lord. That's... good lord.

She never promised anything, not even in her vows. She never betrayed me. Not like you. She never played dumb when I was stalked by bloated, blood sucking things, or told me I was imagining it when your friend Adelard dropped a screaming box into the Thames. She didn’t try to keep me in the dark just so I wouldn’t stop being useful; she never made me complicit in a thousand nightmares, and lives ruined for the sick joy of some otherworldly voyeur.

Really shitty boss. Really a shitty boss. God, poor guy, poor everyone who worked for her.

And I just... she really had the audacity to kill Emma, with all that blood on her hands?

...

And that’s when you turned nasty, isn’t it? When all your resources, they no longer want to serve your purpose. I suppose you didn’t know there was a way out, a way to escape. But if you had, would you have told me?

Hm

It was fitting, I suppose. Even after everything, she made me taste blood one last time.

headinhands :(

ERIC Then if you don’t mind? I think I’d like to go away now.

hmhnrhr that's just... the way that line is delivered

(The Archivist sighs heavily.) ARCHIVIST Fuck.

INDEED!

MARTIN Look, Peter, I- [The door is thrown open. The Archivist bursts in.] ARCHIVIST Martin! MARTIN (Overlapping) Oh- (quieter) Jon! God, don’t do that!

MAKING A SOUND LIKE A CAT COUGHING UP A HAIRBALL RN NHNHRNHNRR

MARTIN No, it’s fine! I j- you just surprised me, that’s- (surprised) Jesus, you alright? You- You look like hell.

His only description is looking like shit. I love him so much.

ARCHIVIST Oh! Uh, Ri, Right, I um, God, I get weak. Hungry, I guess, sort of. I, I’ve been trying to avoid, being, um- sticking to old statements? Thank you for your little intervention, by the way. MARTIN Look, I wouldn’t have to if you’d hadn’t been- ARCHIVIST (Overlapping) Yes no, I know, I know; I’m sorry; that didn’t come out right; honestly, thank you. It’s been hell, but- I, I did need to hear it.

He stutters so much when he's talking to Martin, dude, get a grip. But also, well, I'm glad, yay! Good for them and stuff. Maybe with the power of heartfelt gratitude and love and stuff they'll gouge their eyes out and elope together? PLEASE!

ARCHIVIST Yeah. But it’s- (heavy inhale) It’s pretty drastic. MARTIN What, you gotta gouge your eyes out, or something? (Beat.) MARTIN (CONT’D) Fuck off.

AHHAHHAAHAHAHHAHHAH THATS JUST SO FUNNY, JUST THE SILENCE LIKE "UH WELL" QAHJDFSHAJDFSHJFJJSF IM SURE IT'LL ALL TURN OUT FINE

right?

ARCHIVIST I, I, I don’t know; I suppose. I, If your vision comes back, the Beholding probably does as well- probably. But i-it’s not like it’s easy to only blind yourself temporarily anyway I-

First thing that popped into my head was that in a nuclear explosion you can go temporarily blind for a couple of hours from the light. Enjoy that factoid, I guess.

ARCHIVIST No, you’re the first. MARTIN Why? ARCHIVIST Uh, because… because, because I trust you. I, I’m trying to think about what to do, and I… (exhale) If I did try this, I- I don’t want to do it alone. But we could leave here, you and me. Escape.

ITS FINE THIS TIME ITS GOING TO TURN OUT FINE, FUCK ITS GONNA BE FINE ITS GONNA BE SO FINE

"because I trust you" "we could leave here, you and me" HHHH

MARTIN I mean, (mirthless laugh) Could you even survive at this stage? Is there anything else keeping you alive? ARCHIVIST Uh, I,I don’t know. I don’t- know. But… maybe it’s worth it? The risk- y,you and me, together, getting out of here- (Martin sniffs.) ARCHIVIST (CONT’D) -one way or another.

ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

one way or another

ARCHIVIST Cut the tether. Send them away. Maybe we both die. Probably. But maybe not. (Emotional) Maybe, maybe everything works out, and we end up somewhere else. MARTIN Together? ARCHIVIST (Emotional) One way or another. Together.

(MAG 200, but you already knew that, didn't you)

it's fine. i'm fine. it's fine

[ID: Drawing of a person sitting at a computer, crying. /End ID]

ARCHIVIST But what if you don’t? (Small exhale) We could just leave. I mean, whatever their plan is for me, I am damn sure that doing that isn’t it. I’d derail everything- we could derail everything, and then just- leave!

THEY COULD HAVE! ALEXA PLAY ROLLING IN THE DEEP!

why... why... why...

[ID: CC!GoodTimesWithScar with his head in his hands. /End ID]

MARTIN Who are you kidding, Jon? You’re not going to do any of that. ARCHIVIST I, I, I could. MARTIN (Still brimming with false laughter) But you won’t. That’s why you came to me, isn’t it? (The Archivist exhales.) MARTIN (CONT’D) You know I can’t do it, not now; you don’t want to blind yourself; you don’t want to die; what you want is a reason to not do those things, so- you come to me. Well, you’re welcome. B,Because I can’t follow you on this one.

im literally, literally, in real life, crying. podded cast. why? why?

ARCHIVIST The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it? MARTIN You know, I think it always did.

no words, just sadness.

ARCHIVIST (Quiet) Maybe. (beat) Well, I’ll be here, if you ever need me. MARTIN (Also quieter, softer) I hope so. ARCHIVIST (Faster) Just-don’t-wait-too-long, okay? [He moves towards the door, sighs.] ARCHIVIST (CONT’D) If you haven’t already.

"I hope so" wh yherrghweherfv wdaj "just dont wait too long okay" hnhrfthrjhfsdehhhh hhrhnnhhh hhh h but he just they just htey they thyfruscdafsfidvjjfhvdxnj "if you havent already" AAAA just KILL ME it would HURT LESS

Now, let's see what past me had to say, while current me is sad. very sad /ref

It's so funny how despite me thinking it had 200 episodes the magnus archives ended on episode 154 with Jon and [Martin] running away and getting married wow what a plot twist

(Instagram Story. 2 September, 2022)

Jon and Martin are so lovely together and they are together and they all left in episode 154 and they are all happy did you know that? Also no kayaking or.. freaky tables happened and everyone is ok did you know that wow it's so weird how episode 155 is just nothing for 24 minutes ahaha i love the magnus archives what a satisfying and happy ending

(Instagram Story. 2 September, 2022)

Everyone go home the magnus archives is over and martin said yes to what was essentially a weird marriage proposal and they all left. True & real

(Instagram Story. 2 September, 2022)

Obsessed with how this is the happiest ending for them /neg

(Instagram Story. 2 September, 2022)

I'm going to elaborate on this - I'm really upset that this is the happiest plausible ending. There's no escaping, no preventing Tim and Sasha's deaths, and all they had to go through. Their happiest ending is after so much has already happened. After Jon's gone through the wringer, 13 out of 14/15 (yes, 15) marks. After Martin's gone through the wringer, what with Jane Prentiss, and the lonely, and tim and jon dying, and everything. After Tim and Sasha are already dead. This is their happiest ending.

Not okay!!!

DIVERSITY WIN! LOVE WINS HHH

(Instagram Story. 2 September, 2022)

[(about the edit mentioned previously)] Love that this is from the episode where [Jon] proposed to martin (real not fake)

(Instagram Story. 2 September, 2022)

AND ALSO I FOUND THIS IN OLD MESSAGES TO MY LOVELY BOYFRIEND SLASH PLATONIC (follow !!!)

My brain is so rude fr fr I was having a lovely tiem Well no i wa thinking about season 4 jon I was having a wretched time and my brain said "we can make em worse" [...] So the au would go like this: - canon compliant until post-ep 154 - jon think "well if i gouge my eyes out, then martin will know im serious about this" - eye gouging commences - oh lawd he dying (episode 181 fades in ig?) - either becomes one of those archivist things as the eye tries to stop him [or] dies - times get even worse

Messages to @/asideofsalt (@scarandjoelenthusiast). 22 September, 2022.

Also there were some other things said:

Jon said "is anyone going to be self destuctive" and didn't wait for an answer

He had No Friends, he believed he was a monster, he repeatedly said that he can't die because "they need me". No other reason provided. He... thinks he's responsible for everything that went wrong in the world and has to fix everything and is the only one [who] can. He thinks he's the most important worst person in the world. Which is uh.

ok so jon and martin's love language is martin makes tea for jon and jon comes back from his recent kidnapping and worries about martin's well being

Uhm, well, hope you enjoyed that little ramble, god im so abnormal about this podcast. I wish they'd be okay, but actually I don't because I... I'm listening because I wanted to listen to a horror podcast, that is why i am here. so, rip to them. part of me wants them to be okay, part of me is eating popcorn as they... you know, have this whole tragic thing going on :(

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

And Eat it, Too: Chapter Fourteen: Lonely

In which Jon gets closer to monsterdom, destroys the dark sun, and is nearly poached by Peter Lukas....

>>> NOW ON AO3!

Lonely-typical content. LOADS of psychological torment in this one.

The Lonely always felt like depression to me, and Jon lands in it head-first.

(Masterpost including playlist)

*

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Of course, if no one is here at this time of year, it’s unlikely he’ll find a working phone.

There is a sort of docking area. Maybe he can find a ship. Or flag one, or… something.

“So many other avatars get some sort of flight, or... fast travel ability, but do I get some?” he grouses to Book Michael. “No. I get to talk to people.” He pats the book in his shirt. “Still think I’m powerful?”

The book does not answer.

There are no lights in the research facility, unsurprisingly; Jon doubts they even left any of the bulbs intact—

Though he can hear generators, creating power. Even the People's Church of the Divine Host need heat.

But that means they’re here.

He pauses.

And hears the cock of a gun. “Nice and easy, there, pal. Raise your hands.”

American. Jon doesn’t know this voice, but knows this is Christopher Lorne’s younger brother, Ennis.

Jon raises his hands. The Beholding thrums through him, because Ennis has a story to tell.

Ennis also has a gun. Jon isn’t eager to be shot.

His captor speaks into a walkie-talkie. “You were right. He’s here.”

Manuela’s voice comes through, all static and bitterness. “Bring him. If he tries to talk to you, knock him out.”Jon preemptively winces. He’s not sure how long he can avoid asking questions.

Especially since he’s still feeling weirdly giddy, which definitely makes him unwise.

What the hell are you doing to me? He thinks at the Eye, and gets no answer.

And then they’re marching, faster than Jon likes, through landscape he can sense more than see, while Lorne is clearly utterly comfortable in the dark, and seems relieved when they step inside, away from the aurora, and into complete and artificial night.

#

But it’s not the Dark. Jon doesn’t give a fuck, after what he’s been through today.

He knows where they are, like heat vision, in the room—four utterly miserable humans, laced through with the Dark’s power, but ragged—not as ragged as he, but not that far off, either.

He wants to ask what happened so badly.

Needs to.

Isn’t going to be able to hold it back much longer.

Manuela is the one to approach him; he feels her, knows she is in a bad, bad place—a place beyond hope, which makes her completely without boundaries or reason. “So you’re the one who replaced Gertrude.”

“How did you—” He stops himself, and it hurts, like all his insides just jammed themselves in his throat.

“I was visited,” Manuela whispers with a sort of sour desperation. “We waited here, for so long, waiting for his word that never came… and finally, he speaks to us… just because of you.” Her bitterness is terrible, as if she blames Jon for her god’s apparent silence. “Mister Pitch wants you back, Jonathan Sims, and we’re going to give you to him.”

He should be afraid of that.

For some reason, he’s not.

“Maybe it’ll be enough,” someone whispers (Arnold McKirby, Jon’s brain supplies, English, a member of the Church for seven years, father to—)

“It won’t,” says Manuela. “It’ll be three hundred years until we can pull that much power again—but it’ll make me feel better.”

Lorne handcuffs Jon’s wrists behind his back—which seems very silly; his hands don’t do much—and, patting him down, finds the book.

“Don’t touch it,” says Manuela. “There’s weird power.”

“Then shouldn’t we… take it?” says another (John Ascot, English, formerly nightwatch at the museum of—)

“No,” says Manuela. “Could be a trap.”

They know better than to mess with potential Leitners, too.

She grabs his arm, presses her gun to his side, and begins walking him down the hall.

He wonders at his own calm. It wouldn’t be the first time he thought he’d run out of fear, but that isn’t it.

The stories here. The Eye wants what they know, through Jon’s eyes.

That need, that hunger, is eclipsing (see what he did there) everything else.

He tries, he struggles, he really doesn’t want to do this, but the question slips through, pops out, no more his choice than the beating of his heart. “Where are you taking me?”

Oh.

It came out… different.

He’s never compelled like this—smooth and natural, like exhaling, easy and gentle like a stream, power but so sweet and clear that for the very first time ever, no one in the room seems to realize what he’s done.

Manuela has gone still.

No one moves.

“I’m throwing you into the pits,” she says. “Into the brackish water, blessed with Its stillness.”

And now that it’s happening, he has to keep going, like he has to keep breathing (does he?). “What happened when your ritual failed?”

And suddenly, they’re all talking at once.

“We had hundreds of sacrifices prepared and ready, plunged into darkness and terror for days on end—”

“Maxwell was here, ready for our moment of triumph, to begin our seven-day feast—”

“Plunged its claws into his chest, freeing the darkness within him—”

Jon sways and gasps, inundated, trembling, drinking their memories like wine from their minds, and their words are clear and even and almost unfeeling, and their fear is new and old and laced with pain.

He drinks it, drinks it in, the tiny part of him that is horrified at himself unable to make a fuss.

And that’s how he learns how the ritual failed, about Hither Green’s congregation blowing up, about their arrogance in believing that Darkness is the only real thing, about their heartless sacrifices of innocents they’d gathered to fuel this rite.

He grows angry as he hears what McKirby did to his children, because the ritual was failing and they didn’t know why, because they’d tasted the incarnation of their god (and all admitted to the deep, draining fear that gripped them, even as they celebrated) and then panicked as Mister Pitch pulled away.

He is riveted to learn the dark sun is definitely still here, in another room. Waiting.

He needs to see it.

That’s mad. It is dangerous. It is something that should not exist. It could do such damage to him.

He has to see it.

And then they’re done, all four of them are done, and panting, and realizing what he did to them.

Jon feels dizzy with power, buzzing, strong. “Take me to your dark sun.” That tiny, horrified part of him demands, What are you DOING?

Manuela laughs, still gasping. “It’ll destroy you. Only Maxwell and I could ever even come near it.”

“What happened?” whispers McKirby. “How did he—”

“Fuck this guy,” says Lorne, and moves.

“No! He’s for the Dark!” snaps Manuela, and there is a tussle.

Jon can’t look. He feels the dark sun. He begins walking.

McKirby gets in his way.

It is a bad idea to get in Jon’s way.

“You fuck,” says McKirby. “How dare you bring that back to me, how dare you make me feel our worst failure—”

“That wasn’t your worst failure, though, was it?” says Jon in a voice he hardly knows, smooth and low and without a single imperfection. “Your children. You heard them scream, and you threw them in anyway. Maybe you should feel what they felt instead, staring at your face, believing to the last second that you would save them, and then you… did… not.”

And McKirby is screaming, McKirby is on the floor, and Jon sways on his feet, that little voice telling him he is doing something monstrous, that he needs to stop, that there’s no going back on this path.

“Stop it!” Ascot shouts. “We have to do this! Mister Pitch will feed!”

“I’m not going through that again!” shouts Lorne, and the gun goes off.

Jon is walking.

Vaguely, he’s aware he shattered what little stability they had left, aware he dragged them through the worst night of their lives and turned them on each other, but he doesn’t know how he did it, and it doesn’t matter.

He has to see the dark sun.

It is eager for him.

He arrives at the door he knows it’s behind, and pauses, because it’s sealed with a wheel lock like something on a submarine, and his hands are cuffed.

A childlike frustration rises in him; he needs to get in there. He needs to see.

So very verbal, he whines at the door.

Another gunshot goes off behind his back, then silence, and he feels Manuela approaching.

She is gasping. Laughing softly at nothing, dragging her foot. “Destroy everything, don’t you?” she breathes, shoving him aside and turning the lock. “Gertrude, now you. You’re worse than the Desolation.”

Jon isn’t in control of his tongue right now. “How does Mister Pitch talk to you?”

“Dreams. There’s no other way now, with Maxwell gone.”

The door is opening, creaky and terrible as if not opened for years. Something… pushes through, like radiation, warping the air, ringing in his ears.

“Have fun,” she says. “I hope it hurts.” And she limps away, and Jon knows she is thinking terrible things.

He needs to care about this. He needs to stop her. He—

Needs to see the dark sun.

His steps are unsteady as he walks inside, fighting himself, twitching with a war of desires, but then he sees it, and nothing else matters.

It’s like harmonics in the wind, mournful like old metal left to rust on a hill, and static is building, a frying in the air, and it is piercing and terrible and strong.

“It’s beautiful,” Jon whispers, nearly crying with it, overwhelmed, seeing a thing that cannot be seen and would not be seen if he were not who he was.

He feels it trying to unmake him, reaching for his eyes, his power.

Yet he sees.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, and the impossible sun of darkness and void begins to flake away.

Somewhere behind him, Manuela screams. He cannot turn.

Faster, it’s dying, this connection to darkness and fear turning to ash, and still, it tries to unmake him, and still, it fails, weakening power sliding along his skin and falling away.

Too soon, it is gone. Too soon, it is not there to see any more.

And suddenly, Jon is released.

He staggers, horror filling the emptiness in his gut, and feels she’s going to—

Jon turns and runs down the hall as fast as he can, trying to find that place inside him with power, trying to find that smooth and beautiful pull. “Stop! Stop!” It won’t be enough. Frantic, he tries something else. “Tell me about your parents!”

And Manuela, her gun pointed at one who was once her friend, stops—shaking with grief and resignation, she has to start talking.

She’s still talking as Jon slams into her, trying to knock her down, to stop her doing this, to do… something of any good at all.

His hands are bound, and he doesn’t land well.

Someone tries to stomp on his head, and he rolls.

There is another gunshot.

Jon curls around himself, crying out, suddenly aware how loud it is, how painful, unsure how the hell he didn’t even notice before—

Something punches into his side so hard that it winds him, and then whoever did that gets pulled away, and he tries to roll under a table for cover.

Half of him knows what’s happening (Lorne kicked him) and the other is in confusion, half-blind and dazed with overstimulation.

There is a horrible thump, a whistling exhale, and silence.

Only one person is still alive now—Manuela herself. She pants, holding the knife, and Jon knows she is not surprised that she had to murder her former catechists, her fellow failures of the Dark. It had to be. He isn’t sure why she put it off. She isn’t, either—but she is not surprised.

Manuela sinks to the floor, hands over her face, and sobs.

Jon tries to sit up. Without one’s hands, it’s quite difficult. “Are you… right, no, of course you’re not okay.” He hesitates. “After all the lives you ruined, you shouldn’t be, either. But I… I know it’s not that simple.”

The horror of what he’s done here today is still growing, and he has nowhere to put it, no boxes large enough. He tries to pretend it is not there. “Manuela?”

“Just go. I don’t care anymore. I don’t think it’d even… matter if I fed you to him. He’s abandoned us. He’s abandoned us. He’s abandoned us.” And she sobs.

Compassion wars with disgust.

Common sense raises a point. “Please let me go, Manuela.”

And he didn’t compel her, didn’t do anything but ask—yet she does, fishing out the key and undoing his handcuffs.

He rubs his wrists. Memory of that smooth and perfect power has already faded; he has no idea how he accessed it, where it is, what it cost. The Beholding, giving him a little treat because it wanted to see the sun. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” She is small, seated, holding her legs.

“You don’t… you could turn it around. You don’t… have to stay here, to—”

“Don’t.” She’s disgusted. “Why would I want to do that? You think I have regrets about anything I’ve done?”

Well, there goes Jon’s empathy.

“No,” she says. “My only regret is we failed. Get out of here. Go. Before I change my mind and just shoot you in those stupid glowing eyes.”

Glowing eyes?

Jon blinks, looks down, tries to see if they’re lighting his cheeks, or something.

Not as far as he can tell. Maybe she’s seeing something that isn’t… literal.

Is it safe to leave her here? (He has no idea what he’d do if it isn’t.)

What he sees when he tries to know is a frightening thing: her faith in the Dark is shattered, and it doesn’t want her anymore.

He can see it, see the tendrils of lightless fear coming from nowhere and reaching in her direction but stopping just short—as if they find her distasteful.

She may cause some trouble down the road, but it won’t be through apocalypse.

Jon tries to think of something to say, anything—some wise thing, or comfort, or condemnation.

“Good luck,” is all he can think to do, and—feeling like an idiot—he makes his way back out.

#

He’s not sure where he’s going. The People's Church of the Divine Host took over this island, cut it off from communication. He’s not even sure how Manuela is going to leave.

If she leaves.

The docks make sense. There might be a way to communicate, or at least somewhere he can wait to be rescued.

Though it would be far too late to stop the Stranger.

The docks, he tells himself, trying to ignore the rising certainty that he just doomed the world to save a monster.

A monster he can’t even be sure is there.

“I’m an idiot,” he tells Book Michael.

There is no reply.

It is cold. He isn’t as protected as he was an hour ago, and he doesn’t know why.

Every step takes effort, breaking through the icy crust, into increasingly uncomfortable snow. His shoes and socks are soaked.

He swallows, fearing blackened frostbite, fearing scarred, healed feet without any toes left, because that’s how the damned Beholding would do it.

Things don’t grow back. They just scar.

He tries to hurry.

What’s the point? he thinks, and stops. There isn’t a ship there. There may not even be a way to call home.

And even if there were, what of it? Elias can’t travel instantly, like Michael. Salesa could have another toy, but he’s also in hiding.

Jon could try the book—but if he messes it up, he could destroy Michael, or doubly trap himself.

“And I don’t even know if you’d help me, do I?” he says, trying to be fair, trying to be honest with himself, because they had not parted on good terms and Michael is a monster.

The Distortion still wants revenge. Jon knows that. Well, leaving Jon here would do that, wouldn’t it?

Of course he’d leave you here. Everyone leaves.

Jon is puffing, trying to breathe around the enormous fist of pain in his chest.

Nobody NEEDS you.

No, they… they don’t, do they? They have the explosives, and…

All Jon does is show up on fire and expect everyone to put him out.

He wipes at his face, is a little frightened to discover his tears are freezing.

A very tiny, reasonable part of him points out that he just got out of the Dark, and he’s fragile, and his emotions are not trustworthy right now.

The rest of him grieves.

I bet they’d be relieved if you don’t show up again. If you just quietly went away—not even a body to dispose of.

He tries to take a step. Goes to his knees instead.

Safer without you there. All of them. Couldn’t even properly help Basira and Melanie and Daisy, and they asked.

Jon looks up. The dock is barely visible through the blinding snow, the wind having picked up—he hadn’t noticed.

He shakes his head. Something isn’t right.

The something not right is YOU.

No, he’s… not arguing that.

He thinks there might be a ship there. Possibly. There is a dark shape, and—

Mist, fog, something, is obscuring his vision. It’s wrapping the world, wrapping him in cotton, keeping him away from all the things he might break.

And what if there is a ship? You’ll go on board, make everyone there relive their worst trauma, then dream it all night long?

Oh.

That hurts.

His chest is heavy, physically heavy, despair winding its way through his fingers and into his mouth with sour realization.

Let them go.

Let them move on.

You can give them that much, can’t you?

“The Unknowing,” he breathes, and takes out the book to stare at it. “Don’t they need me for… for… something?”

The book doesn’t answer.

Why would they? They have Elias. Anything you can do, he can do far better.

That isn’t… is that right?

No one needs you.

Oh…

No one wants you.

Oh.

Let them all go and do the first unselfish thing in your whole waste of a life.

Jon curls down around himself, dropping the book, too heavy to rise.

He’s gripped. Cannot think. Ringing with this broad, empty pain.

It’s true. Even his grandmother—after his parents died, she… did her best, but… even as a child, he knew he was a burden.

It’s true.

“I should give you to Elias, but I don’t think I will,” says a familiar voice, and Jon remembers the man in Elias’ office (Peter Lukas, he’s a Lukas, that means the Lonely, that means…)

Means what? What does it matter? You can’t hurt anyone here.

That’s true.

Jon stays down.

“The way I see it,” murmurs Peter Lukas, who has not bothered to come closer because he does not hit with fists, “it doesn’t matter who you do the ritual for, if you’re marked deeply enough. You see what I mean?”

Tears, falling and freezing. Every beat of his heart hits him with pain, like some crazy gong. Alone is better for everyone.

“True enough. Don’t worry, Archivist… I’ll keep you plenty fed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some preparations to make.”

And suddenly the prospect of being truly alone and isolated shocks Jon, and he gasps, and barely manages a whisper: “Don’t go.”

Lukas is gone.

Jon makes a high, drawn-out sound—

And then a man comes stumbling out of the fog as if he’s been thrown, and he has trauma, he has a story, and Jon is reaching for him without any plan to do so, and without any way to stop.

#

He is sick, afterward.

There is a pinch of clarity, granted by this thievery of fear from this poor man, Brian, who went to the Institute to talk about spiders and ended up being swallowed by the Lonely.

Which is where Jon is now. He knows.

Peter Lukas had been tracking him, though he does not know why, nor does he understand what the man was talking about.

Preparations? What ritual? Marked deeply enough? What?

It’s hidden from him, hidden by some massive, unassailable thing, blocking him from knowing what the hell is going on.

He feels awful for eating Brian’s fear. He didn’t try to. He was wounded, and it just happened.

And now Brian will be in his dreams every night, trapped in the Lonely when awake and stared at in silence when asleep.

I’m dangerous, he thinks, not fighting it now, because it’s true and he should say it. I can’t be trusted around anyone. No one is safe near me.

If he goes back, what will he take next? Whom will he assault?

Tim?

Daisy?

Martin?

So it’s better to be alone.

Jon cries, wishing he’d never gotten close to them at all.

The cold penetrates him gently, almost tenderly; it isn’t like the Dark, isn’t cruel and punishing, but it is deeper, a weight of numb sorrow that threatens to drag him down.

If he goes down, he won’t feel things anymore.

He knows this. That’s what it wants—a dubious blessing, but maybe the only one he deserves for what he’s done and will do.

How am I any better than any of them? he thinks, and knows he’s not.

The Lonely feels like depression, comes next. And it’s related to the Dark, after that.

And that is important, because… because…

Something. Just out of reach.

His mind goes silent for a while.

Breeze picks up, cold and stone-scented; this is a place that feels like it’s never known warm blood apart from his.

Vaguely, he is aware that there is no snow beneath him now. It’s dead grass, old soil, and nothing. Nothing. This is the Lonely—its own separate reality. No one can find him now.

And that’s good.

Isn’t it?

Jon exhales, rubs his face. Tries to think.

Fog fills the world, inside and out. Everything is vague, but he understands one thing. All those… horrible, hurtful things… maybe they are true. They landed because on some level, Jon believes them. And it hurts.

But if he stays here, Lukas is going to do some sort of ritual with him.

Jon can’t imagine what; Lukas’ last one failed.

Spectacularly.

Thanks to Gertrude.

Really, who could’ve imagined a well-placed tip to a newspaper would undo Lukas’ incredible, stuffed-full apartment block of lonely, isolated people, unwillingly worshiping Lukas’s god?

And then Gertrude’s tip engendered all kinds of attention, and community outreach, and Lukas’ ritual died in newsprint and pity.

It’s funny, if Jon lets himself feel it.

So Lukas wants to do some new ritual, and Jon is part of it.

He frowns.

It is true that no one may miss him; it is true that he may have been nothing but a burden to everyone, all his life. (His grandmother’s weary face slides past, but he tries not to think about that. Tries.)

That doesn’t mean he actually wants to hurt anyone.

Jon feels alone, unworthy of love, isolated for the best, horrifyingly unhappy.

But he still cares.

“So I’m selfish,” Jon says, agreeing with the wicked little thoughts. “At least I know I am.”

It’s so odd, how just… facing these thoughts takes away some of their power. He still feels awful, numb, but no longer paralyzed.

He will not stay here and be used. If he’s going to become a weird Eye Hermit, he’s going to do it on his own damn terms.

He exhales slowly, and looks.

The Lonely is powerful; small, creepy shapes from the graves the Lukases have dug here for generations are visible, and not much else.

Jon looks harder.

And sees a way out.

Jon takes the book and walks, clinging to it like a teddy bear.

Every step costs him. Every single one is a new choice to push against the desire to just lie down, stay here, be forever alone.

“It’s funny,” Jon tells Book Michael. “If he hadn’t said something about a ritual, he’d have had me. He mostly still does, to be honest. But I… wouldn’t see any reason to fight. Funny, right?”

Book Michael does not reply.

And suddenly, Jon is in snow again, and he’s free.

It’s so anticlimactic. He’s just out.

And… exhausted.

Even with all the statements he’s taken today (literally taken and that feels so horrid), it took all his strength to walk out of the Lonely’s domain.

Jon is gasping. He falls to his knees.

Soaked.

And very, very, cold.

Breathing hurts. How much power does it take to disintegrate a fake sun and then walk out of the Lonely? he thinks, hysterical. More than I have!

He tries to rise, cannot. Falls onto his knees in the snow.

Too cold.

Too… stiff.

Weak.

He’s not going to make it to the dock or anywhere else.

Panic makes him try, scramble, stumble—

And somehow, he trips on Michael’s book.

He’d dropped it, somehow, and now he’s torn it, the cover half off, pages ripped, and he falls beside it onto his knees and sobs, because it’s for sure over now, because he’s destroyed Michael now, because he damns everything and everyone he touches, and if he had gone to Wales with a cat and some cows, they’d all be dead because of him—

“Oh, Archivist,” comes softly in his ear, and long arms lift him from the snow, fingers sharp and irritating, and long, spiraling hair falls into his face, ticklish and annoying, and Michael holds him close, real and living, and Jon cannot parse this fact in his current mental state.

The Distortion shudders, because it would, because whatever is happening in Jon’s head, true or false, it is twisted. “Delicious,” it whispers, “but I think that will do. You need a door—even if you don’t think you deserve it.”

And it carries him through, and the rush of reality and warmth and people so many people in the WORLD and the wildness of the Corridors and surreality of up and down is too much, and Jon gratefully, eagerly, passes right the fuck out.

part fifteen

[durtystars]

i agree with a lot, heavily on the fact that he was a good leader. one of the biggest arguments against him is that "he would get everyone killed" but.....he was already taking care of an entire group of people that were nearly 12 in number (if not that number in the first place) well before rick came into the picture. that reddit post could be right regarding the show, but the comic creator said that rick was asleep for an entire month (if not, i know it was said somewhere regarding the timeline of twd video games) so even if the show wanted to backtrack and say shane was a bad leader, they already showed literally in the first two episodes that start it off that he's not. in addition, if you read the official TV scripts of S1, in the scene of them in front of the lab and they don't have an answer after knocking on the door, daryl says "Everything was fine until this guy showed up." one of the weirdest and hardest things in twd to understand and accept was rick's sudden transferal of leadership, as if the group knew and trusted him better than shane the entire time. and during this time, rick is making horrible mistakes. but if you look in the deleted scenes of S1, rick heavily relies on shane for guidance on what to do, which ACTUALLY makes sense. i have no idea why these scenes were deleted. even if they were cut for time, they could have made some other scenes in S2 to show the rick/shane dynamic.

i don't agree that shane lied about rick. for one thing it doesn't make sense for him to save his life at the chance that he can come back and then lie about it, and as for why he never cleared it up is because he knew how bad it looked regardless, so he didn't bother. and of course as his character is deeply sensitive he was too ridden with guilt for loving lori so he let her believe it to make it easier to cut her out of his life.

i'm glad you brought up that shane always had rick's back. even in the scene when he had his gun pointed at him, i interpret it in the sense of him thinking of offing him because he's simply to weak for this world, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. i defend lori and give her a LOT of slack, but it must have been a special tormenting hell for him to face rick and her never supporting him when all he wanted was everyone to be safe. the rest of the group was affecting him as well, but lori and rick are something special to him, of course.

in my first watch (i think it was around covid days), i completely agreed with shane and was absolutely blown away that everyone was treating him like he was crazy. this was during the last stutter of the era of hating S2 as it was regarded as the most boring season, so when i looked around online to see if i was crazy i wasn't met with anything of the contrary. nowadays, S2 has been regarded in a much better light and has been for at least the past 2 years and while shane was always popular you definitely see more support of him in the ways of YT videos, and even if there's no support it's still in the breakdown of his character because he truly has so much to give as he is and through jon's performance.

i always say that while i believe S1 to be a masterful display of TV, S2 is the one that really brings out the discussion with the viewers. you said you couldn't watch shane's death scene, on my first time i couldn't either. i had no idea he even died because i was so outraged he was being isolated the way he was. i literally skipped up to the end of the episode because i was so adamant on his obvious road to death. so instead i turned all the way back to 2x1 and asked my mother to watch it with me, just to see how crazy i really was. that's why i say S2 is the one that actually brings out real discussion. my mother did agree with me, but we still had interesting conversations while watching it. i told her that she didn't need to watch the rest of the show with me, but she decided to stay for the rest of the journey (now she's watched the entire show and almost all the spinoffs and it's completely in love with the daryl show). but the thing is, as some of these things will go, my mother was telling what happened with me to my father, and so she convinced him to also watch S2, for which he stayed with for 6 more seasons. S1 is the one that pulls you in, but S2 is the one that makes you stay. and you are not going to convince me that it's not because of anything other than shane's character and jon's performance. we talk of shane very casually in the twd fandom, but in the outside of things he's a character that died in the second season of a 10+ season show and was barely mentioned again. and yet in this context, he's THE most talked about and relevant character in the franchise. the twd creator just talked about making a comic prequel surrounding him, lori and carl this year as well. no other character died as early as he did and have remained at such an impactful level, not a single one comes close.

now, me and my mother still rewatch S2, and find new realizations about his character. S2 is the most viewed, most rewatched and most discussed season in my house. every single time, it's brutal to see shane's degradation. and yet he became the groundwork of the show. he also still lives on in the characters. rick, daryl, carol and maggie are alive because of him. whether the writers mean it, whether the actors mean it or not, they have manifested his harsh way of living within them one way or another. and yes, carl is gone but he's still worth a mention as he voiced his mourning of him and how much he missed him. yes, i would prefer if shane stayed alive for at least one more season. but it's his leaving the show so soon that shows how much his presence stayed deep in the cracks of the show.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on why Shane is the best character in TWD 😊

Cause he's my baby and he's hot and I love him and that's good enough of a reason 😂 

But if you want something more logical, perhaps for a lot of reasons people tend to overlook… First, something that always bugs me is how little acknowledge there is of him actually stepping into the role of a leader for months before Rick showed up. As far as I know, no one in that group stepped in like he did. For the few interactions we saw, everyone would come to him for answers, and while he wasn’t always very diplomatic, he had good survival instincts and kept the group safe for months. Perhaps staying at the quarry wouldn’t have worked in the long run, but it was a plan nonetheless. 

He was right most of the time. He figured out pretty quickly how things were after the infection, and adapted a new mindset. He had to make tough decisions nobody was ready for yet, and maybe he pushed too hard instead of giving people time to get into that same headspace. And we see in later seasons that almost everyone thinks in a similar way Shane did, they just have different approaches. 

and it keeps going under the cut...

I recently saw a timeline in a subreddit or somewhere else that said the events from season 1 and 2 happened in the span of 2 or 3 weeks and that's crazy to me. So they were seemingly doing good, and they found Rick, everyone automatically herd to him, and everything until that point didn’t really matter anymore. That really pisses me off that he was just killed a few weeks later because they couldn’t sit down and talk things over. All and that, and despite him being driven for his misplaced love for Lori, he was still loyal to Rick in his own way. Did he question Rick’s leadership? Yes, countless times. Did he also follow his lead every single time? Also yes.

Which leads me to my next point. He also kept Rick safe. In the hospital flashback, he went in and saw what was happening and amidst all the chaos he still tried to get him out. When he couldn't, he did the only thing he could, he locked the door and barricade it. Did he know that would keep him safe? Probably no. He had absolutely no idea, but he was driven by getting them all out, and when he couldn’t get him out, he did the best he could to get Lori and Carl out of town. If he hadn't lied about Rick, Lori wouldn’t have agreed to leave him behind. Again, tough situations led to hard decisions.

And one of the hardest decisions he made was killing Otis to save Carl. He didn’t murder him in cold blood, he was with him until the end, killing him wasn’t something that crossed his mind until the very last second when he had no choice. If he hadn’t, Carl wouldn’t have gotten the care he needed. BUT people tend to paint him as a murderer for shooting him in the leg. It wasn’t right, but it was the only way out at that moment. I recently revisited one of my fics and wrote that Shane sacrificed his soul to saved Carl that day and I still agree with that. I don’t think he purposely hurt someone before unless he was defending himself. And from that moment on, you could see it changed him and didn’t know how to deal with that, which led him to his own demise.

Was he an asshole sometimes? Yes. Did he do or say things in a way I didn’t agree with? Yes. Did I ever want to slap him? Many times. But there was something about him, compared to other antagonists later on the show, that made him more realistic to me. He wasn’t driven by wanting to be right all the time or even being the leader. His misguided love for Carl and Lori, was at its core the things that he cared the most about and that he wanted to protect at all costs. And while I cared for neither, I think it was beautiful of him. 

I can never watch his last moments. For me, he got the right idea at the beginning of season 2 when started considering leaving the group on his own. I wish he had done that, even if that meant leaving the show. 

I’m probably forgetting something here cause I haven’t rewatched in years, but I think that’s it. Like I’ve said, I didn’t pay much attention to him the first time around, I did agree with him most of the time, it was his manners that left a lot to be desired. It wasn’t until my love for Frank got me to go back and watch some of his previous performances that I got to see Shane in a new light. 

In conclusion, he’s still the best character to me, and everyone should love him like I do. Or not. More Shane for me if you don’t. 

[lickoutyourbrains]

Oooh, that's true...

Honestly, I've been trying so hard bot to ascribe morality to these fears because fears are amoral(I think that's the word I'm looking for). Like, fear isn't good or bad, it's simply just fear. Depending on the person depends on how deep the fear is.

I think the trickiest thing about trying not to put morality to fear in this podcast, is that the characters understandably do? Like, of course it's not great for a person to relive the same nightmare over and over again with someone watching. That sounds like hell.

But it's also Jon's duty, and at this point he needs those statements?

And it really begs the questions: is it justifiable to feed into the fears? And if so, at what point does it become justifiable to do that?

Which is just really interesting to think on.

There are obviously some avatars who take joy from their tormenting of others, Jude Perry being the prime example. And some who have simply accepted it as "they way things are now" and simply feed as necessary without bucking under ethics or morals, like Oliver Banks.

Basira in particular does have some double standards. She is FAR more harsh on Jon than she is of Daisy, even though of the two of them, Daisy had murdered people to feed the Hunt.

It's all a massive mixed bag, there are no wrong or right answers. That's what makes it such an interesting story.

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 196 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: Slow Tuesday at work.

ANNABELLE: "Perhaps… that’s because you didn’t seem to like what I had to say." MARTIN: "No, it’s because you weren’t really saying anything, were you? It was all just ominous foreshadowing again." Lol, poor Martin, always surrounded by ominous people XD

MARTIN: "Hey, this is your magic bubble. You’re the one making it so that we’re, like, actually walking, walking all the way to Oxford. So sorry I’ve got to sit down occasionally, like a human." Isn't Oxford a bit far from London to simply walk there? You know what, let's find out! Okay, Google maps, starting at the Chelsea College of Art and Design and our destination is 105 Hill Top Road in Oxford... 90 km, 19 hours. That's actually not that bad, they'll reach that in two days. I hope Martin has his camper backpack with him.

ANNABELLE: "And the book breaks?" MARTIN: "It’s not like you’re entertaining company." ANNABELLE: "And it’s nothing to do with the fact that any lost souls in our area also get a break from their torment? Hmmm?" First, I imagine Martin has a camping chair and a little parasol with him and every now and then he unpacks them, gets comfortable and starts reading. Second, OMG aren’t the victims of the domains they come across super confused?? One moment they facing their worst nightmares and suddenly there's sunshine and all their bones ache and they are tired, oh actually, they all probably fell asleep immediately... Otherwise, I'd be asking where are they. Why didn’t they spot the obvious tourists and walk with them in a little parade, all following the camera. (Don't mind me rambling here, I'm just having fun with silly little scenarios.)

MARTIN: "… So what if it does? Is that a problem?" ANNABELLE: "Actually, I find it very reassuring." Cause she wants him to want to save everybody.

ANNABELLE: "No. I did it in his sleep. He’d always been accommodating, so… I wanted to honour his wishes." Was there a superior motive? In the end, if she stole the camera and left him alive and well at Upton House, he'd just be integrated in the fear ecosystem, become either a watcher or watched. And either way, he wouldn't be able to leave his domain to try to stop anything. Hm... can watchers call out to Jon? So if Salesa ended up to be a watcher and could call out to Jon, he could have warned them about Annabelle at best. And only on short notice cause he wouldn't be able to reach Jon when they were in the tunnels, it would have had to be while they were inside the Panopticon. So somehow I think it wouldn’t have mattered if Salesa lived or died, not for our story.

MARTIN: "That’s a shame." ANNABELLE: "Is it?" MARTIN: "I mean… he seemed nice. To us at least." ANNABELLE: "And what of his victims? The people whose lives he destroyed?" Hehe, thinking about Martin wanting Fairchild dead because he threatened him to throw him off a rollercoaster and was a bit of a menace to talk to XD But tbf, Fairchild actively tormented people and wanted to torment them. Salesa was more of an accomplice. Selling all those cursed items (to the rich and arrogant,.. aaaand I’m thinking about MAG 155 again here) instead of sealing them away somehow or even destroying them.

MARTIN: [Sighs] "Is it much further?" Haha, this is the third time now that we hear him asking how much further it is XD

MARTIN: "Hey, is that – ? You told me not to bring a tape recorder." ANNABELLE: "No. I said we wouldn’t need one. We have plenty of tapes." Yeaaaah, already said it in MAG 161, the change of the logo for season 5 gave away the whole "the tapes are web" thing. I mean, it looks really cool and if you listen on a podcatcher it's all the same to you, it's the web tape logo right from the start, so I think it's better and not such a dead giveaway. I listened on YT the first time so I also saw the change in the logo and based my conclusion on the change.

ANNABELLE: "Do take a seat." [MARTIN PUTS DOWN BAG, TAKES A SEAT] Is it finally a comfortable seat?

ANNABELLE: "I’ve written you a statement. I would like for you to read it." Actually I was thinking, why does Martin read it. Why not Annabelle? Is there a canon-reason for that or was it something behind the scenes?

Okay, what about the "Stop no"s, just cross it out and start again, Annabelle, it's not that hard! xD

"immolated by the Chosen of the Ravening Burn." Oh, Ravening Burn, I like that title! Totally forgot about that.

"It was not wide enough to allow true passage, not yet, save for the odd accident." MAG 114.

ANNABELLE: "Oh, it’s so much more than a crack now. It’s an aching hole, a gaping wound in the very fabric of our world." I can't believe this line made it into the podcast... xD

ANNABELLE: [Wistful] "It’s a real shame, you know. I was so looking forward to filling you with spiders." I love that the initial plot of Web!Martin still made it somehow into the podcast. The self-awareness!

Also, Annabelle telling Martin of her plan is the moment Martin realizes this little stunt of him was extremely dangerous. Before that he was always annoyed and snappy, not really grasping the severity of the situation. For him, I mean. Not just for the sake of saving Jon.

ANNABELLE: "Because you always managed to get what you wanted through smiles and shrugs and stammerings that weren’t nearly as awkward as they seemed." [SMALL SOUND OF MARTIN’S CONCESSION TO THE POINT] MARTIN: "Point taken." I’m, sure y'all know what traditional narcissism is, but have you ever heard of nontraditional narcissism? Narcissism is probably more fueled by insecurity than an inflated ego and self-centeredness. While a traditional narcissist will push others down to get validation and keep their insecurity in check, nontraditional narcissists will put others on a pedestal. They’ll put themselves down in front of others, quietly manipulating them into giving them validation ("Oh wow, the XY you made looks so amazing, I will never be as good as you" - "Nooo, your stuff is amazing too!"). Not out-rightly saying Martin is a nontraditinal narcissist, but there definitely are tendencies in these kind of manipulation... I have them as well, after this line of Annabelle I did recognize this in myself and then with the knowledge of nontraditional narcissism I try to stop it when I catch myself doing it.

MARTIN: "Okay, let’s try a different question. What was your plan?" ANNABELLE: "I was going to snatch you away. Lure you both into this web, and then take you. Drive him to despair, so that when you returned to him, bulging, and talking in a thousand tiny voices, it would drive him to a final push." Since JonMartin wasn't planned to be canon at first and Web!Martin in return actually was, this would still have been a cool revelation and a wonderful surprised Pikachu betrayal, but not quite such a knife to the heart (heh, foreshadowing...) if they were together. God, JonMartin being a thing and Web!Martin happening would have been so unbelievably cruel... proper broken heart syndrome material... I like the way it eventually came together. Web!Martin still is valid and great, but from what I know about it I think I do prefer what ended up to be canon.

MARTIN: "And now?" ANNABELLE: [Sighs] "Your bond is too complicated. I couldn’t drive that kind of rift between you now. I’ve considered every angle, examined every cause and effect, and have finally come to the conclusion that I… [sighs] I need to tell you the truth, to explain things." Ha, JonMartin is stronger than the Web! (Well, stronger than that one plan at least.) Also, lol, sounds like Annabelle wrote a meta about their ship...

[WIND CONTINUES AS THUNDEROUS RUMBLES AND BUZZING INSECTS INTRUDE AUDITORILY] Sounds of a thousand gigantic spiders!!! I never understood, why this buzz sound is used for spiders, isn't that from a cricket or cicada or something? (The one here in TMA is not that stereotypical we hear in movies, but still.) (Also, of course spiders are not insects, they're arachnids.)

ARCHIVIST ON TAPE "So just listen –" [CLICK] [CLICK] "Listen, Martin, you should know –" [CLICK] [CLICK] "Now, listen to me, Martin, li-listen –" [CLICK] MAG 160, MAG 129 and MAG 159. Elias, the mass-ritual, which was crucial to the Web’s plan and Jon’s only purpose in all of this. And then talking to Martin twice. MAG 129 being the anchor episode. And MAG 159 of course when Jon went after Martin to get him out of the Lonely.

MARTIN: "What? All this time, through all of this, it, it was just you spying on us?" ANNABELLE: "Oh Martin. You have no idea who’s listening, do you?" Forth wall break?

@a-mag-a-day

[chernayawidow]

I feel the need to start this off by saying that YOU GAVE ME A WHOLE ASS HEART ATTACK! I legit felt like a terrible person for forgetting about fathers day, but it turns out that the US fathers day is different from Australia's. Ours is in September 😭 ANYWAY ONTO THE MAIN COURSE!

“Where is she?” Ben asked, once he and Frank were loaded in the car. — We love a man who has his priorities straight!

Frank was already on his way up to you, but it would take him time with Vought security crawling all over them. — Daddy Frank is coming to save us and punish that asshat Jon WOOH!! (catch the reference?) 😏

He wanted to know for sure what lied underneath it, if it was actually the Noir he knew. Or if it was something else entirely. — AHHHH is this the moment of truth? Lmao NOPE! You just love tormenting all of us readers don’t you. DON’T YOU? 🥺 

But Noir twisted with superior reflexes and flipped Ben hard over his shoulder. In the process, he ripped off Ben’s helmet. His brown hair hung over his brows as he pushed to his feet, deliberately taking his time. — This chapter is mixing together a cocktail of anxiety and anticipation within me! Ben’s new power aside, he and, what I can only assume is a faux Noir, are feeling very evenly matched. ‘Checkerboard’ is the only thing giving me comfort, otherwise I wouldn’t put it past you to give me more heartache then I can handle and have SB not save her from Jon the Jackass in time 🥺 That’s my only comfort in this.

He heard you on the floor above. And you were fighting someone. — That’s good, it means she’s not unconscious, nor is she being shipped off to some unknown location! She’s a badass and I firmly believe she’s gonna kick the shit out of that useless father of hers!

His insides felt molten when the power collected, and finally released at his target. — That feels like such an interesting but accurate take on his powers. Because I honestly can’t imagine that it would feel anything less than this.

Noir covered himself at the last moment with a piece of fallen debris (a half-crumbled wall), but it only created a small buffer. The force of the blast itself pushed him down the hall and through the side of the building. — Damn, does that mean he would still have his powers? He’s a slinky motherfucker, that’s for sure.

You were battered, with blood dribbling down the corner of your mouth from a particularly bad hit. You were still standing though. — THAT’S OUR GIRL! YES YES YES WE LOVE TO SEE IT! When I read that last sentence my mind instantly started playing ‘I’m Still Standing”.

“You’ve gotten soft,” Jon remarked. — Excuse you Jon, but I don’t recall anyone saying that you could open your stupid ass mouth with your irrelevant and FALSE words. Why don’t you sit your bitchass down and light yourself on fire or something idk, GO WALK ON SOME LEGOS!

“I gave you time to come around, and this is what you did with it,” he said, shaking his head. “Disappointing.” — LISTEN HERE JON YOU DIPSHIT, THE ONLY DISAPPOINTING THING IS THAT MY FOOT ISN’T UP YOUR ASS! LEAVE MY POOKIE ALONE, SHE’S A BEAUTIFUL BABY GIRL WHO NEEDS TO BE LOVED!

He squeezed with enough pressure that it wouldn’t crush your windpipe, but it was sure to knock you out eventually. You slapped and clawed at his hand, but he only shushed you. — SURELY FRANK OR BEN ARE GONNA SWOOP IN RIGHT ABOUT NOW? SURELY! SOMEBODY SAVE HER OH GOD!

Tears leaked from your eyes when you looked up and found Ben. His helmet was missing, and he wore a furious, steely frown. — OH FUCK YES THAT’S FUCKING RIGHT! The amount of RELIEF I felt when the grip on her throat disappeared, and I wasn’t sure if it was Frank or Ben but I’m SO GLAD THAT IT’S BEN! Because now it’s another positive memory she get’s to keep in the bank of emotional conflict!

To your surprise, he tucked his shield on his back and bent down to scoop you up into his arms. You cringed, uttering an agonized sound when he tried to move you. Ben hesitated. Looking down at you, some of his anger drained. He made a slower ascent as he straightened to his full height. — Oh gosh he’s so gentle with her that it melts my heart. He’s probably thinking ‘this wouldn’t have happened if you were on V’ or something like that. What’s the bet he’ll bring it up sometime down the track as a point for why she should be on V 🤣

“What are you, some kind of hero?” you managed to quip, offering a small smile. Ben glanced down at you, and gradually smirked. “Something like that.” — Oh god my heart is a puddle of adoration for these two at this point 🥺 I adore their dynamic so so much!

“Hold on,” he murmured. His lips briefly pressed to the crown of your head. “We’re getting the fuck outta here.” Your eyes closed at the tender touch, and a few more tears spilled down your cheeks. — IT CAN GET BETTER! YOU SOMEHOW MADE THIS MOMENT EVEN MORE PERFECT AHHH! That little head kiss is AMAZING and it feels so beautifully placed! This little moment is surely going to plague her, how tender and attentive he can be towards her. The little things that he does to show that he cares.

“Just relax,” he said, a deep rumble. But there was a soothing note to it, you thought. Or maybe, you just liked the sound of his voice. — Honestly probably a bit of both. I wholeheartedly believe that he has a desire to soothe her, and I also believe that his voice in general is something that she’s starting to find comfort in (at least when he’s not being a dick lmao). I feel like moments like these are when she takes a certain solace in how tender he is capable of being.

“Get her out of here,” Ben ordered. With a nod, Frank carried you back the way he came, towards the staircase. You tried to peer over his shoulder. “He shouldn’t face Noir alone,” you said, even though every breath was a challenge with the sharp pain in your chest. — HOW DO YOU DO THAT? With your writing, even the smallest things make me want to tear up because everything you write feels intentional and purposeful.

It was ice cold. So frigid that it extinguished the heat that had been building in his chest, but it wasn’t diffusing his power completely…it just made it even harder to control. — wait wHAT? Holy shit YOU’VE JUST THROWN ME OFF BALANCE AGAIN! How many twists can you possibly throw at me? And even though you’ve pulled so many, I STILL NEVER SEE THEM COMING! HOLY SHIT YOU’RE AN AMAZING WRITER!

“We can up the dose, put you to sleep indefinitely,” Stan replied. — I can’t imagine what that sentence would make Ben feel. If I were him, I would probably have a panic attack because holy shit that would be terrifying. Especially because of his extended lifespan.

“Until he isn’t,” Ben snarked. If he thought about it, that was something you would say. Maybe your penchant for smart-ass remarks had gotten into his head. — Awww they’re both rubbing off on each other. I love these subtle details!

“It was a breakthrough project. Temporarily destabilizes the energy you generate when you charge up like a Power Puff Girl.” Stan thought for a moment, then inclined his head. “A reference, I realize, which may be lost on you.” — LMAOOOOO! YOU SAW THE OPPORTUNITY AND YOU TOOK IT! This is why I love you, you never fail to make me laugh! 🤣

Stan stepped back and revealed the cell right across the hall. Through the window, Ben could see you, lying unconscious on a shitty cot in similar gray pajamas. His brows crunched as he narrowed his eyes, trying to peer in closer. You looked like you’d been bandaged up, at least. — I mean… at least they’re together?

But you softened when you found Ben through the large glass window, in a cell of his own. He was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, with his back against the wall. His eyes found yours, and his lips twitched. “Hey, sweetheart.” — THE DETAIL! YOU NEVER MISS A SINGLE DETAIL! The way she softened and how his lips twitched, those are such small things but they feel like so much more then that!

“Go slow,” he warned. “Bet you’re missing that Temp. V right about now.” — There it is 🤣

You were stubborn about waiting on Ben, even considered going back for him. — My brain is malfunctioning omg we are getting FED! You are absolutely NOURISHING ME WITH THE RELATIONSHIP DEVELOPMENT! In spite of her own safety, she held out for an indestructible man. She truely does care about him and we all know it.

That was when the shot rang out, hitting Frank point blank in the chest. — NO WAIT WHAT! You had to know that this would give me emotional whiplash, you HAD to know. You killed Daddy Frank, how could you? This right here punched me in the THROAT! Even though he was her captor, he was a better father figure to her than Jon ever was. And the guilt that this is going to leave her with will kill me.

Because if he fell asleep now, there was no telling when he’d wake up. And fuck if Ben would ever admit to the panic he felt welling up into his chest. — I knew you would touch on these feelings, I can always count on you giving us a glimpse into his head and you never disappoint. I couldn’t ever begin to image the distress that he would be feeling about this. For all he knows, he could wake up after the duration of a whole average lifespan. He could wake up to a world where she’s already dead and buried.

“Tickle its balls,” Ben said. Your answering snort deepened his smile into a smirk. — We can always count on Ben to make things dirty 🤣

Ben rested a hand on his chest, but when his mirth died down, he realized just how tired he was. Still, he wasn’t ready to let go of this. His connection with you tethered him to reality, even if reality sucked dick right now. — This moment that they’re having together feels like a very important milestone in their relationship development, the way he’s acknowledging her as his tether to reality feels crucial. My heart aches for him, especially if he’s considered the possibility that if he falls asleep, then he might never see her again, even when he wakes up.

Every extended note was painful, but it was worth it to see his face relax. — This is such a beautiful moment in spite of the circumstances, and now I’m so so anxious for what’s going to happen next.

“Tell Maintenance to cut the water, and then a section of the pipes.” — Oh god, and the punches keep coming!

HELL YEAH, ANOTHER FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC UPDATE ON ONE OF MY FAVOURITE SERIES!! First of all, allow me to say that you absolutely ATE THIS UP as per usual! SO THAT WAS A LOT TO TAKE IN! So much happened, and I can’t believe you killed Frank. That one hurt! 😭 But I at least feel fed and nourished with the moments that Ben and reader shared. It really does feel like their bond has gone to the next level. Their little back and forth of bad jokes, and those moments of concern for the others wellbeing. The way she put herself at risk for him, knowing that she was on deaths door and he's pretty much indestructible? I’m so excited to see what you’ve got planned for them next! 🫶💖

Love footage of me trying to process everything:

Break Me Down - Part 11

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them… [18+ only! Rated M]

**Start from the beginning: Prologue

AN: Happy Father's Day and early Juneteenth! In honor of the holiday weekend, here's an early chapter update. 😘

Word Count: 4,000 Tags/Warnings: Violence and peril, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Part 11: The Lion’s Den

“Where is she?” Ben asked, once he and Frank were loaded in the car. 

Loco and his team had to stay behind as their distraction for escape. If they weren’t slaughtered, they’d be taken into custody. 

Ben knew he could’ve wasted all of them, Butcher, his team, the CIA, but the nuclear power in his chest had refused to cooperate…

Anyway, Black Noir hadn’t been there. So it was all the more useless to stick around. The real plan was with you, and he was very surprised that you’d stuck to it…but maybe he shouldn’t have been.

“She was brought to the Tower,” Frank informed him.

Ben smirked. “Good. But pretty fucking stupid of Stan to stick around there when he knew I’d be coming.”

He looked over and noticed Frank’s frown as he drove. 

“Unless he’s not at the Tower,” Frank said. 

Ben’s smirk fell. Why would that prick take her there if…

“We have to be open to the possibility that his Chief of Security is taking the matter of his daughter into his own hands,” Frank said. “Or she’s improvising.”

Ben frowned. 

That didn’t change when they arrived at the Tower, and attempted to use the entrance through the back garage to avoid attention. But it didn’t matter. 

The entire squad of Vought security, included what looked like some added muscle (hopped up on what smelled like V24), met them when they reached the lobby of the building. Now that the Seven had been disbanded, there was no pretense of “good guys vs. bad guys.” It was just defense and siege. 

And in front of them all was Black Noir. 

“There you are,” Ben said, but the other supe didn’t even tilt his head in greeting. He was a still statue, an attack dog given a single mission. 

When Noir surged forward, Ben ran to meet him. It was a clash of blade to shield, fist to fist, grappling and reflexes that only Compound V could endow. The match tore through the lobby, then up the large staircase as Ben continued to fight his way up to Stan’s office. 

Frank was already on his way up to you, but it would take him time with Vought security crawling all over them. He was good, and temporarily a supe, but he was still just one man. 

Meanwhile, Ben and Noir’s fight spilled into the upper floors, through walls and offices and screaming employees trying to get out of their way. 

Once they reached near the floor below Stan’s office, Ben got an arm around Black Noir’s neck, and with his free hand tried to unmask him. He wanted to know for sure what lied underneath it, if it was actually the Noir he knew. Or if it was something else entirely.

But Noir twisted with superior reflexes and flipped Ben hard over his shoulder. In the process, he ripped off Ben’s helmet. His brown hair hung over his brows as he pushed to his feet, deliberately taking his time.

When he turned, Noir was standing there with the helmet crunched in his hand. Rolling his neck, Ben prepared to jump back into the fight, but a new sound reached his ears. 

He heard you on the floor above. And you were fighting someone…

Ben pressed a finger to the comm in his ear. 

“Frank, you got eyes on her?”

V24 had endowed the man with x-ray vision. A moment later, Frank patched through while he struggled and fought.

“She needs help,” he said gravely.

Ben took his hand off the comm, gritting his teeth. Black Noir was still waiting on him, attuned to Ben’s every move as the other supe brandished one of his blades.

Shit, Ben thought. He needed to end this. 

Right fucking now. 

That resolve helped him take a deep breath, then summon the energy inside him. He focused with the aim of blasting a clean stream of power at Black Noir; not enough to take out the whole building, but enough to take out just him.

His insides felt molten when the power collected, and finally released at his target.

Noir covered himself at the last moment with a piece of fallen debris (a half-crumbled wall), but it only created a small buffer. The force of the blast itself pushed him down the hall and through the side of the building.

Meanwhile, you were holding your own…but you were also getting beat to hell. 

You were battered, with blood dribbling down the corner of your mouth from a particularly bad hit. 

You were still standing though. 

“You’ve gotten soft,” Jon remarked. He’d broken a sweat, had some bruises, and was panting for breath just like you. But he was more in control as he swatted a well-aimed, yet ultimately weak fist as your strength waned. He used his own to smack you down again. 

“I gave you time to come around, and this is what you did with it,” he said, shaking his head. “Disappointing.” 

When you tried to stand on shaking legs, he kicked you in the dead center of your chest. You felt your ribs crack as you fell back into the glass coffee table. 

You gasped for breath, turning onto your side as glass pricked at your back, your sides, your arm. You coughed, wincing at the agony of knife-like pain near your lungs. Blood flecked from your mouth onto your arm, and for a moment, you stared at it in a daze.

But then Jon was above you. You tried to swipe at his face, but he bat your hand away, his brows furrowed angrily. He turned you back onto your back and wrapped a hand around your neck. Your eyes flew wide with panic. 

He squeezed with enough pressure that it wouldn’t crush your windpipe, but it was sure to knock you out eventually. You slapped and clawed at his hand, but he only shushed you. 

“What you need now is what you’ve always needed. A firm hand,” he said. “But I’m going to help you. I promise, I will.”

The fight drained out of you as it became impossible to breathe, and harder still to block out his words from entering your brain. 

But then, the vice around your throat was gone. Oxygen poured back into your lungs as you gasped, then coughed again when your fractured ribs protested. 

Your eyelids fluttered open in time to see your father thrown hard into the far wall. You heard the sick crack and breaking of bone as he landed.

Still, you struggled to breathe. 

Tears leaked from your eyes when you looked up and found Ben. His helmet was missing, and he wore a furious, steely frown. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out except for more coughing, and more blood.

To your surprise, he tucked his shield on his back and bent down to scoop you up into his arms. 

You cringed, uttering an agonized sound when he tried to move you. 

Ben hesitated. Looking down at you, some of his anger drained. He made a slower ascent as he straightened to his full height. 

And without a word, he carried you out of the room and down the ruined hallway. All the while, you stared at the side of his face. His jaw was still clenched, his brows knitted, his eyes set dead ahead. 

You wondered why he had to wait for moments like this to show you who he truly was. 

“What are you, some kind of hero?” you managed to quip, offering a small smile. 

Ben glanced down at you, and gradually smirked. “Something like that.” 

When his foot slipped on a piece of debris, he righted himself quick. But the jerking movement jostled you, eliciting another pained whimper. Your hand gripped at his chest, digging into the grooves of his suit.

“Hold on,” he murmured. His lips briefly pressed to the crown of your head. “We’re getting the fuck outta here.”

Your eyes closed at the tender touch, and a few more tears spilled down your cheeks.

“He…knew,” you managed to say. “Knew I was lying.”

“I know,” said Ben. “I should’ve fucking known better.”

You marveled at that near apology. Your lips trembled as you rested your head against his chest. You just couldn’t help it anymore.

“Was my idea,” you admitted.

“Yeah, well, evidently not all your ideas are aces,” he said. 

You could’ve gotten angry, but you saw the way he moved with care, trying not to slip again for your sake. You tried at a smile. 

“Guess not,” you said, though you bit your lip at the pain that seemed to radiate through your entire body. Ben seemed to notice. 

“Just relax,” he said, a deep rumble. But there was a soothing note to it, you thought. Or maybe, you just liked the sound of his voice. 

Then silence fell between the two of you, both comfortable and tense as Ben focused on potential threats in his surroundings. 

All the while, you continued to rest your eyes. Instead of your pain, you tried to concentrate on his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“It’s about fucking time,” you eventually heard Ben grouse. 

You opened your eyes and were relieved to see Frank exiting the stairwell to meet you and Ben. His face and black tactical gear were splattered with blood, but he looked fine, more or less. His gaze roamed over you with his usual stoicism, but you thought you saw a glint of concern.   

“I take it Stan Edgar isn’t here,” said Frank. 

“You could fucking say that,” Ben snarked. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

“Sir.” Frank saw something ahead, behind you. Ben turned to find Black Noir silently standing in the middle of the hall, with a large, suspicious-looking gun in his hands.

Without taking his eyes off Noir, Ben gestured to Frank. He came up beside you, and Ben passed you into Frank’s arms.

“Get her out of here,” Ben ordered. With a nod, Frank carried you back the way he came, towards the staircase. You tried to peer over his shoulder.

“He shouldn’t face Noir alone,” you said, even though every breath was a challenge with the sharp pain in your chest. 

“He’ll meet us after,” Frank told you. But as soon as he started down the stairs, a fresh team of Vought security and police came to meet you.

Meanwhile, Ben stared down the hall at his opponent. Black Noir activated the strange gun, which lit up with a blue energy. 

“You can bring out any kind of fancy artillery you want, but it’s not going to stop me from killing you,” Ben taunted.

Noir remained silent, of course, but he aimed the gun and fired. It shot a potent, crystal blue beam of energy that ate through Ben’s shield, and eventually hit him in the chest before he could finish revving up his own power. The blast from the gun, it wasn’t hot. 

It was ice cold. So frigid that it extinguished the heat that had been building in his chest, but it wasn’t diffusing his power completely…it just made it even harder to control. 

And the resulting backlash was overwhelming.

Ben woke slowly, like wading through molasses. Usually his mind was sharp, even when he woke from a booze-induced coma. Now he felt groggy, and it was hard to focus or even force his body to sit up on the hard cot he was laying on.

Glancing down, he realized he’d been changed out of his suit. He was dressed in a plain gray shirt and matching pants, no shoes. He knew a prison outfit when he saw one, just as he now knew where he was: a white padded cell. 

Fuck.

At least it was better than a frigid coffin…but in his mind, not by much.

He slid his legs over and managed to push up onto his feet. 

Why’s it so fucking misty in here? he thought, waving his hand through the smokey air. And why was he so tired?

He soon got his answer when he realized who stood at the large window at the front of his cell. 

Stan Edgar. 

The man himself, dressed in a well-tailored navy suit, was watching him with crossed arms. 

“We did hope you would remain on sabbatical,” said Stan. “But I had a feeling you would return, and come directly to us.”

Stan gestured to the large cell. “This was our contingency plan.”

Ben made his way, with difficulty, closer to Stan, who pointed at the air vents above that were pumping in a gas of some kind.

“A light mist of Novichok,” Stan explained. “Enough to keep you docile.”

“And if I’m not?” Ben asked. His voice was edged with grit, and the promise of retribution. 

“We can up the dose, put you to sleep indefinitely,” Stan replied. “But you have my attention. What would you like to discuss?” 

“The conversation I planned on having was…a little different,” Ben said darkly. “But first, let’s start with what you used to clone Black Noir.”

“I suppose there’s no real harm in telling you,” Stan said. Even his voice was grating on Ben’s ears, the smug prick. 

“We kept some of Homelander’s blood as an insurance policy. But, we’ve learned from our mistakes.”

“Right,” Ben scoffed. “How’s that?”

“This Noir is not a carbon copy, but nor is he a megalomaniac. He’s under our control,” Stan said.

“Until he isn’t,” Ben snarked. If he thought about it, that was something you would say. Maybe your penchant for smart-ass remarks had gotten into his head.

“And that new gun?” he asked. “Don’t tell me your little lab rats put that together just for me.”

Stan’s lips made a wry turn. 

“It was a breakthrough project. Temporarily destabilizes the energy you generate when you charge up like a Power Puff Girl.” Stan thought for a moment, then inclined his head. “A reference, I realize, which may be lost on you.”

“So what’s the play here?” Ben said. He was getting impatient. “You know, when I break out, things aren’t gonna be pretty.” 

Stan didn’t seem bothered by the clear threat. 

“In the meantime,” he said, “you won’t be alone.” 

Stan stepped back and revealed the cell right across the hall. Through the window, Ben could see you, lying unconscious on a shitty cot in similar gray pajamas. His brows crunched as he narrowed his eyes, trying to peer in closer. You looked like you’d been bandaged up, at least.

“You also managed to put my Chief of Security in Intensive Care, but his daughter should be fine…if a bit worse for wear,” Stan informed him. 

Ben glared back, his lips curling. Sloppy of him. He should’ve made sure that bastard was dead. 

“That’s cute, considering he’s the demented fuck who beat her to hell,” Ben said. 

Stan rose a solitary brow. “And at whose behest did she enter the lion’s den?”  

Ben had nothing to say to that.

You woke with a pained groan before your eyes even opened. Your body felt like a walking welt. 

Your brain pounded like bongo drums, your chest felt tender with every infinitesimal movement, but you realized that you’d been seen to medically, at least. Your head was bandaged, and you felt that the blood had been wiped from your face and arms.

You looked up and found, with a sigh, that you were indeed in a cell. But you softened when you found Ben through the large glass window, in a cell of his own. He was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, with his back against the wall. His eyes found yours, and his lips twitched.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He sounded off. Tired, you thought. And you noticed a steady mist being piped into his room. 

Shit. Novichok, you surmised with a frown.

“You okay?” you asked. 

Ben chuckled a little. “You’re the one who looks like hell.”

“Why, thank you,” you replied wryly.

There was a pitcher and a cup of water on a tray, a small paper cup of what you assumed were painkillers, and an ice pack next to you on the cot. 

You hesitated on the pills, but in light of your incredible pain, you had no choice. You took the pills, drank the water, and grabbed the ice pack, pressing it against your sternum. You sat up all the way with a slow gait and a pained groan.

“Go slow,” he warned. “Bet you’re missing that Temp. V right about now.”

You rolled your eyes at him. 

“How’d you get caught?” he asked.

That succeeded in dimming your mood. You explained that Frank had been forced to set you on your feet when you were confronted by more security and a police squad. 

The man had been a one-man weapon; hopped up on V24 as he was, he managed to fight his way down to the garage, where you slowly, painfully crept down there.

You and Frank had almost reached his car, but you held him back. You were stubborn about waiting on Ben, even considered going back for him.

That was when the shot rang out, hitting Frank point blank in the chest. 

Before you could even bend to help him, you were taken, dragged back into the building, and knocked out before you could take your captor’s gun. 

You tried in vain to wipe away fresh tears while you retold the story. 

Bottom line: Frank’s death was your fault. Though while he frowned in disappointment, Ben didn’t seem to hold it against you.

“Good on ya, Frank,” Ben murmured. “You went down fucking swingin’.”

“What about you? What happened with Black Noir?” you asked after a moment. Sniffling, you met Ben’s eyes.

He eventually told you about the strange gun Vought had commissioned just for him. And the more you listened, the deeper your frown became. It sounded impossible.

“Makes you wonder what else they’ve been cooking up in that lab,” you muttered. 

“Other than Noir?” Ben quipped. He told you about that too. 

“We can figure this out,” you said. “If nothing else, my team, the CIA, they’re looking for both of us…if for different reasons.”

Ben scoffed at that. “A silver lining there. Make no mistake, we’re getting the fuck out of here. Just…need a minute to think.” 

But he was starting to wane. It was taking all his energy to concentrate on your voice, to even keep his eyes open. The steady stream of gas being pumped into his cell made it damn near impossible, and it was frustrating beyond belief. 

Because if he fell asleep now, there was no telling when he’d wake up. And fuck if Ben would ever admit to the panic he felt welling up into his chest.

“Aaah, fuck!” he growled, pounding a fist against the wall.

You noticed, biting your lip in concern…until an idea made you smile. It was something you used to do to distract your sister when she was little. 

“Why are colds bad criminals?” you asked. 

Ben just blinked at you. “What?”

He asked not because he understood what you were doing, but because he was genuinely confused.

“Because they’re easy to catch,” you said, making a drumming motion with your hands. “Buddum-ch.”

Your neighbor just stared back at you, unimpressed.

“Okay, not a fan of that one. Let me see…okay,” you raised a finger. “What does a baby computer call its father?”

Ben’s eyes narrowed, like he couldn’t tell if you were serious.

“Data!” you said, biting your lip at an embarrassed smile. It curved Ben’s lips, but he was stubborn.

“Why was 6 afraid of 7?” you asked. 

“Jesus Christ, enough…” he muttered. 

“Because 7’s a dick, that’s why,” you said. And your straight face lasted for all of three seconds before you ended up giggling. It hurt your bruised body, but it lightened you to see the reluctant smile tug its way onto Ben’s face. 

“All right,” he said at last. He briefly closed his eyes, trying to remember a joke he’d heard Loco tell. “How do you make a pool table laugh?”

You smiled. “How?”

“Tickle its balls,” Ben said. Your answering snort deepened his smile into a smirk. 

“Playing bridge is just like sex,” you said. Ben shook his head. His grandmother used to play fucking bridge.  

But regardless, he took the bait.

“How’s that?”

“If you don’t have a good partner, you better have a good hand,” you said with a smirk. 

Ben made a sound of amusement, though it wasn’t quite a laugh. You traded these back and forth, each trying to make the other crack with progressively dirtier jokes (though you suspected Ben was just trying to disgust you). 

You considered yourself the winner when Ben finally chortled a deep, belly laugh that showed his charming smile. 

It made you smile in return. 

Ben rested a hand on his chest, but when his mirth died down, he realized just how tired he was. Still, he wasn’t ready to let go of this. His connection with you tethered him to reality, even if reality sucked dick right now.

His gaze met yours. “Why don’t you sing something, crooner?” 

You bit your lip once again. “Like what?” 

Ben’s eyes closed.

“You know the one,” he said. A softer smile graced your lips, though he couldn’t see it. 

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age,” you teased. He chuckled. 

“Just sing, for fuck’s sake.” 

His brows were knitted, like he was trying all he could to stay awake. You took pity on him.

“If I didn’t care, more than words can say…” you began to sing softly. “If I didn’t care…would I feel this way?”

Every extended note was painful, but it was worth it to see his face relax.  

Stan Edgar’s lips pursed, and he set down his cell phone on his desk. Victoria was screening his calls.

Disappointing, he thought, but not unexpected. He surveyed the cleanup crew wiping up debris, glass, and blood from the lounge area with a dispassionate gaze. 

This was going to take a while.

So after drumming his fingers on the mahogany surface, Stan decided to push up from his desk and head downstairs via the elevator. It took him all the way down to Level 0, the home of one of Vought’s most secure R&D labs. 

There his most trusted scientist, Dr. Tonya Baker, was at the helm with her team at work on various projects. Most of which were not sanctioned by the government. 

Stan folded his hands behind his back and reached her side, and she set down a beaker filled with a green, buzzing liquid. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” she greeted. 

“Tonya, you know what I’m about to ask,” he said. She bobbed her head and turned to face him in her rolling desk chair. 

“We’re still working on solutions. Without his cooperation, safely extracting Soldier Boy’s DNA is a tricky thing,” she said. 

“You don’t say?” Stan said dryly. “What are our options?”

“Well, needles will only break, as you know,” said Dr. Baker. “The scientists in Russia found that only Soldier Boy is strong enough to break his own skin.”

“And I doubt he’ll open a vein for us,” Stan said, “even if we threaten to put him to sleep.” 

He didn’t even think leveraging with the girl would aid, more than complicate their goals. While it was something to consider, Stan would rather find the path of least resistance here. Soldier Boy was…volatile at best. 

“How much of Homelander’s blood remains?” he asked. 

“None,” the doctor replied. “We used the last of it to clone Black Noir. And a hair sample is not enough to create additional subjects…at the very least, a urine sample. Even Dr. Vogelbaum managed that.”

Stan sent her shrewd look. If only he still had Dr. Vogelbaum in his employ. If only the man were still alive.

What a waste of a talented, resourceful man.

“That will be a problem,” Stan said. 

“Not necessarily.” Dr. Baker adjusted a monitor screen at her desk. It displayed the feed from Soldier Boy’s cell. 

She pointed to the toilet in the corner of the cell. Then she called over one of her assistants.

“Tell Maintenance to cut the water, and then a section of the pipes.”

AN: Okay. 😅 I know I'm gonna get some mixed reviews on this one (Let me know what you thought!).

But despite the teaser, I think you'll enjoy where the story's headed next...

Next Time:

They wheeled in what looked like a large metal casket. You had only seen one of these in pictures, but it had to be a cryochamber.

A doctor in her mid-fifties accompanied them, giving directions on how to safely enter Ben’s cell. Your eyes widened.

“What the hell are you doing?” you shouted.

Panic trilled down your spine as the guards fitted themselves with special suits and gas masks. The doctor turned toward you as the guards led you out of your cell and into the hall.

“You’re being transported,” she informed you.

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[see-arcane]

I see there's multiple people named Jon that need protection from bad takes

My poor English Jonathans already have to put up with so much (the Horrors, my sadistic interest in their torments, agonies, et cetera). They shouldn't have to put up with nonsense beyond that, it just isn't fair :c

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Twenty: Cost

A simple twist. A startling severing. A cheater is exposed.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

------

CHAPTER TWENTY: COST

He will never be able to explain exactly what he does.

Plugging into that current, but not to spew it out like a hose; it’s focused, and his rage makes it show.

Jon strikes Jonah like a gods-damned snake.

Not to destroy. Not to create some eternal torment. To inflict with the pain he’s known since Jonah indirectly did this to him.

Jonah is marked by the Eye, of course, already very deeply. He’s marked by the End, since he’s dead. He’s marked by the Lonely already, who the hell knows how. Everyone is marked by the Web, Jon now sees, no one immune.

But Jonah’s lacking all the rest, and Jon feels better with every single mark.

Jonah’s screaming isn’t vocal. It isn’t real in the sense of air waves and sound, but it is real in the way it shakes Jon to his core, and what empathy Jon possesses still trembles.

It doesn’t matter. They both want this, and Jon won’t stop.

Strike with the fear and the feel of worms burrowing into his flesh.

Strike with the fear and the feel of the forgotten, of knowledge gone, everything unknown.

Strike with insignificance, with falling, with terminal velocity and terror of never finding ground.

Strike. Strike. Strike.

Jon’s not made for this. Hastur was right; he’s a conduit, not a captain, wasn’t meant to wield, but only to channel.

It doesn’t matter, and now that he’s begun, he cannot stop.

It’s like taking statements. 

This feels meant to be.

Strike. Strike. 

They’re both screaming, both on their knees, but Jonah is doubled over and Jon is looming.

Without planning to, he saves the Dark for last, because he knows Jonah fears it.

Strike with blindness, not just physical but of the mind, unable to see or defend from the unseen. Of creatures in the dark, of taking one’s eyes, of being left forever unsafe and eaten away.

And then it is done, and Jonah Magnus would never have survived this in life, but Jonah Magnus is ready, Jonah Magnus is marked. 

And there is suffering all around.

They’re both gasping, sweating. Shaking.

The damage Kayne did is… bad. This effort strained those injuries, somehow, like pulling the edges of wounds further apart.

He does not feel good.

“You’re pale, Jon,” gasps Jonah. “Perhaps you should stay for tea?”

Jon can feel the attention of the Fears already beginning to turn toward Jonah.

Oh, gods, he can’t stay any longer in this. He can’t let himself be trapped here, can’t lie under Jonah’s boot. 

Jon stands. Gasping. Doesn’t even say a word, but stumbles toward his way. 

How does one close a way? Will he be able to do it, still, if this works? Could Hastur figure it out? Maybe he’ll need to—

The feeling of a knife plunging into his side is somehow… not as surprising as it should be.

Even as Jon cries out, arching uselessly away from the impact, he knows he was an idiot to think it wouldn’t happen. 

“Now, we’re even,” hisses Jonah in his ear, reeking with whatever the dead have instead of sticky sweat, and shoves Jon to the ground.

Jon expects him to continue. To stab, and stab, as he did, but Jonah doesn’t.

Instead, Jonah clambers away, staggering like a drunk, and begins to climb one of the piles of junk.

Because of course he couldn’t just do the ritual where he is. He always has to take the option with more drama.

Jon puts his hand over the wound. It’s the same damn spot, he’d swear it is. Again. Somehow, again.

It’s not even physical. It wasn’t even a knife.

His body thinks it was, and the way seems so far.

A note of panic creeps in: he can’t die here. If he dies here, will it count as a sacrifice? Will Jonah become a god?

He can’t die here.

Jon tries to drag himself.

He manages inches along sharply rubbled ground, cutting himself, choking on dust.

He tries to drag himself.

Doesn’t manage any distance this time, feels like the skin of his arms and hands is being grated right off him.

He groans.

Atop his trash pile, Jonah is shouting.

Jon can’t make out the words; he’s hearing his own blood, rushing through his veins. He’s hearing a mighty wind, rushing through his heart.

He’s hearing the attention of the Fears, turning with great interest to their new favorite person.

Good. That’s what he wanted. That—

Feels awful, actually. Pretty damn bad.

If he had to compare it to something, he’d say carbon monoxide poisoning.

He has to go. Can’t die here.

Tingling weakness has filled him.

Can’t lift his arms.

The way is right there, and he can’t—

Annabelle picks him up. 

Jon makes one small sound of surprise, but that’s all he can do.

She’s gone full spider—huge, beautiful and hideous, too many eyes, too many arms, too sharp a smile. “Oh, my lovely Jon—you did everything right.”

Draining, it’s all draining, like he’s transfusing blood, and there’s no one to make it stop. “Right?” he repeats, at a loss.

Cold. It’s very cold. Very… empty, too. He didn’t realize how much presence there was with all of them.

He’s not going to miss this, he tells himself. He’s not. He… 

He’s crying.

Jonah’s shouts have turned to chanting, rhythmic and shattered sounding, his voice ragged with some emotion Jon can’t name.

This isn’t what he had made Jon read. Something has changed. “Always gets what he wants,” Jon mutters.

“Not always,” she soothes, and places a tongue depressor in his mouth.

“Hnng?” Jon queries.

Then he starts to seize.

He can feel each Fear unhook itself from deep inside him, from the places Kayne clawed, leaving gaping green wounds.

Wracking him, like individual nerves pulled right through his flesh with tongs.

It’s not long, but it is violent. Thanks to Annabelle, he does not swallow his tongue.

“It’s almost over,” she says when he’s finally still again, taking the stick out of his gasping mouth. 

Jon can’t look away from her. She’s the only real thing there is right now.

He can’t think. Feels savaged and robbed and drifting. What Kayne did hurts. It all hurts. 

“Jon,” says Anabelle. “Can you answer a question?”

He likes questions. “Yes.”

“What do you want?”

He misses the Fears. Oh gods, he misses the ones who’ve left. They’re almost all gone now, and Jonah is screaming his words, but Jon knows he doesn’t want them back. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

“Do you want it to be over?” says Annabelle. “Peace and rest. No more fighting. An end to the torment. Do you want that?”

It sounds lovely, to have that. He tries to speak around the tightness in his throat.

“Or,” she says, not waiting, “do you want him?”

Oh.

Well, that’s not even a question.

Of course he wants peace, of course he wants rest, but there’d be neither without Martin. 

It’s almost absurd, a question like that. A thing he merely wants versus the one he loves with everything he is? Please. “Him. I want him.”

He says it with no regret.

He says it with no doubt.

He says it like a wedding vow.

“That’s what I thought,” says Annabelle warmly. “Oh, the Mother is so pleased with you, Jon.”

“Why?” says Jon, because even with his soul shredded and suffering, he can’t stop asking. “Why would she be? Didn’t I just make hell worse?”

She laughs, light and free. “Jonathan Sims, what makes you think any of this was Jonah’s idea?”

Jon blinks at her.

Anabelle touches the wound in his side.

He gasps. There’s a burning, tickling sensation.

Jon touches where she did. His palm comes away webbed. 

And Anabelle smiles. “You’ve made the Mother the Queen of Hell. Eternity in machination, subjects who can never die, and more every day to play with? Jon… we are very fond of you.”

Oh.

That’s probably bad?

Jon doesn’t know. Can’t tell.

All that’s left within him is the Eye—and it is, for the first time in his life, distracted.

He’s going to miss it, when it leaves.

He can’t stop crying.

She kisses his forehead, and something in there sticks, unmoored thoughts bound still. “Be careful, now. Kayne lied to you; the Dread Powers may have released you, but you are still the god you were made to be. Good luck, Jonathan Sims.”

And she gently places him onto the way.

#

The palace Jon crawls back into is not the one he left.

His senses do not adjust quickly to the wreckage, to the reality of solid physical space, and he only doesn’t retch only because he lacks the strength to do so.

But Martin.

Martin is here.

Martin is holding him.

That’s enough.

He’s dying.

#

“Jon! Jon!” Martin knows he can’t hear him, doesn’t care, clutches him close and tries. “Jon!” 

“What’s happening?” says Arthur.

He’s come back. The Archivist. Fuck. He… they’re gone. Most of them.

“What?”

The fear gods. Most of them are gone, and they took their branches with them, just ripped them out. He’s shredded. John pauses. But he… I don’t think that’s all of why he’s shredded.

“Let me see, Mister Blackwood,” says the King, who is audibly, visibly trying not to push. 

“Save him!” Martin cries.

Kayne is whistling Camptown Races, for some insane reason.

Arthur clenches his fists. “Can we do anything?”

I don’t think we can.

“That way is still open, you know,” says Kayne. “What a pity. Wonder what’s coming through next.”

“Shit,” mutters Martin.

#

Jon is here, and he isn’t.

He’s in a dark place, and he isn’t.

He sees Martin, hears the sounds of people talking. Feels the horror of Kayne’s proximity.

But he’s also not here, and the place he finds himself is quiet.

He’s not alone in it, and it’s strange. He thought he would be.

Though he can’t remember why.

The one facing him is… not a person, exactly?

It knows him.

It loves him.

He doesn’t know if he loves or hates it back. Both, probably.

It just won’t leave.

They were all supposed to leave. Weren’t they?

Jon!

That’s Martin.

Jon could stay here, in the dark, the quiet, the peace.

He turns toward Martin, instead.

#

Jon’s gasp is painful and wracking, and he arches in Martin’s arms as he cries out.

“Jon!”

“Hold him still, please, Mister Blackwood,” says the King. “This… was not elegantly done.”

“No shit?” says Martin, who doesn’t even know what the King is seeing.

He’s fucked, says John. But I don’t… some of it is too even.

What do you mean? thinks Arthur.

Good, Arthur, that’s very good.

As hoped, Arthur warms to the praise.

It means most of the damage is about what you’d expect for pulling things up by the roots, but some of it… isn’t. Evenly spaced channels, deep, ripping through his soul. What the fuck did that to him?

“This is… a lot of damage,” says the King, sounding uncomfortable.

Martin looks so furious that it transforms his face.

The softness, the sweetness, the stammering is gone. In its place is a look that accompanies pulling the trigger without thinking twice, pushing the button without hesitation, swinging the axe without the slightest twinge of guilt. “Then it’s a good thing you’re such an expert, isn’t it?”

The King says nothing, but continues to study, waving tentacles over Jon’s form.

Jon is focused on Martin. 

Jon knows he’s dying.

He doesn’t want to die. Doesn’t want to leave Martin.

But there’s something else that’s bothering him.

“You’re covered in blood,” says Martin, smiling weakly as he dabs blood and something else away from Jon’s face. “What’d you do to yourself in there?”

“Kayne,” says Jon, simply.

Martin turns that furious look toward Kayne.

Who smiles. Threatening.

Martin makes himself drop that look.

Kayne smiles more broadly. 

John doesn’t like any of this. That way is still open, damn it.

“I don’t know how to close it!” snaps the King.

Kayne chuckles. “Wonder if I could lure anything else through there. What do you think? Taking all bets!”

“Shut up,” Arthur mutters.

“Jon, there’s… there’s web in your skin,” says Martin, deeply startled.

Jon remembers that there’s web on his side.

He remembers it’s on his hand.

He looks at the way.

Something could come through there and hurt Martin.

Jon doesn’t know how to close the way, but maybe he doesn’t have to. He raises his left hand and smears it down the crack only he can see.

For a moment, webbing appears in the air, tightly woven along some invisible seam.

Then it vanishes.

Kayne manifests a drink, sips, and does a spit-take.

“What?” says Martin.

Jon doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed. 

“What—what did he….” the King says.

“You think that’s good,” says Kayne, “wait until you see what he brought back with him.”

The King suddenly pulls back. “He’s not alone.”

“What do you mean, he’s not alone?” says Martin.

“One of them is still with him.”

“Wait,” says Martin. “One of them? Are you telling me he… he did it?” His eyes grow huge. “He did it? The Fears are gone?”

“One remains. But it is….”

Tiny, says John.

“Tiny,” says the King.

“Tiny?” says Martin.

“What, you don’t recognize what happened to you?” says Kayne, stretching with an obnoxiously loud back-crack. “I mean, I know you’re fucking dense, but come on.”

“He severed it?” whispers the King.

“What is going on?” says Martin.

#

Jon doesn’t hear any of this.

He’s in that dark, quiet place, and slowly realizing it’s him. He’s in himself, somehow, staring at the thing that loves him.

The thing he knows well, but it… it isn’t the same. 

It’s not all-encompassing, a galaxy-sized eye staring down at an ant.

It’s smaller than he is.

And it doesn’t seem to know it’s changed. It doesn’t know anything has changed. It’s watching him, which is what it likes to do.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he tells it. “You were supposed to stay back there with Jonah.”

And suddenly, Jon knows it did.

The ravening, bottomless hunger is gone.

The part of it that loves Jon is what’s here.

“You’ve torn yourself?” says Jon. “How could you be so stupid?”

It doesn’t know. That’s analysis, and it doesn’t do that.

It loves Jon, and wants to keep watching him, no matter what else is going on.

So it does.

“What do I do with this?” whispers Jon.

The piece doesn’t seem to think he needs to do anything but be Jon.

It’s busy, now, though.

Busy weaving… something. Though “weaving” is too complicated a word.

It can’t heal him the way it did when it was galaxy-sized, but it is gathering loose, web-like filaments dangling from the distant, recorded sound of Jon’s voice, and using these to sew the places ripped open when the Fears pulled away.

It’s a really bad job. Uneven, too loose and too tight, all over hell.

But it’s slowed the leaking of green, glowing self that Jon is oozing, and the more it works, the better he feels.

He’s not going to die.

“You’re saving me?” he whispers.

Jon! he hears.

Martin.

Again, Jon turns toward his voice like a sunflower toward the sky.

#

“How about that?” says the King, slowly. “I think your tapes are helping, after all.”

Martin slides a couple of the tape recorders closer. From them, Jon’s voice rises—quiet, but clear—detailing statements from a time that feels a thousand years ago.

“It’s using them to… stitch,” says the King. 

“It? Stitch?”

“The… the piece in him. It’s gathering the power from these tapes, woven into them by the Web, and it’s stitching him together.” Hastur is visibly relieved. “It may be tiny, but it’s doing finer work than I would know how to do right now. I… am glad to see it.”

Martin stares.

Jon suddenly stirs. “Hastur,” he says, and fumbles for his bag.

He’s on top of the bag, so he tugs uselessly at it.

“Hang on. I’ve got you,” says Martin, gently, and lifts him to free the satchel. “What’s this? You didn't have this going in.”

Kayne is suddenly no longer whistling.

John sees it. The intensity; the stillness, the unblinking focus, like a serpent about to strike. 

What are you doing? he says.

Kayne doesn’t answer.

#

There’s some reason Jon isn’t supposed to do this, but he can’t remember what it is.

There’s a tug when he tries, right where Annabelle kissed his head. Something… some reason why finishing this mission is bad.

He can’t remember. He fumbles at the satchel.

Martin tries to help. “Jon, where did you get this?”

“Jonah,” Jon says, which isn’t the right answer, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

If Martin had fur, it would all be on end. “What?”

“He’s miserable,” says Jon, because he suddenly knows it’s true, and laughs weakly.

“Jon, there’s… jars in here,” says Martin. “And what?”

“Jars? Jars?” It must be taking everything the King has not to snatch, not to demand.

Martin looks at the King. 

The King waits. He’s practically vibrating.

Martin realizes his scale for good and bad has changed since meeting Kayne. He sighs. “Jon was right. I don’t forgive you for what you did, but… you are actually not a complete asshole. Ugh.”

The King clearly doesn’t know what to do with that.

Kayne laughs, but it’s soft. Dark. Predatory.

“Miserable,” says Jon, hand in his satchel. “He was still afraid, and he thought this would make him be not afraid, but it didn’t. It didn’t work. Now, he’s just afraid of everything.” And he holds out a small urn.

John gasps. Arthur—he found it! He found it!

There’s some reason—

There’s something—

Jon can’t remember. “Wait,” he says.

Kayne leans forward, crouched, ready to spring.

Wait! says John.

It’s too late, and the King has taken the jar. “Arthur,” he breathes.

Kayne’s laugh starts low and rises like filthy flood, like billowing thunderclouds before a monster storm, and they all turn to look his way.

He’s just a guy. Just ordinary, standing there, in a brown suit with shirt unbuttoned and patent leather shoes.

He’s not a guy, and his shadow grows, spreads, until it sits beneath them all like a mouth waiting to open wide.

“What?” says Hastur, trying to sound annoyed, but it comes across as unnerved.

“I lose!” Kayne says, arms raised, smiling like the devil. “Better take your prize. Come on, now, chop, chop.”

“Wait,” says Jon, and winces. Feels like the tight binding in the center of his forehead is beginning to break.

“No, no, no waiting. You should do it now. Come on, don’t you want to do it? To finally subdue little old me, have me crawl at your feet, suck on your tentacles, spread myself out like a bear skin rug? Come on, you want to do it, come on.”

There is the sensation of threads going snap in Jon’s head, and suddenly, he can think. “Wait! No!”

Kayne laughs again. “Too late, my little scratching post. Far too late.”

“What?” says Hastur.

“You have to do it, darling,” says Kayne. “We made a bet. A deal. If you don’t, you forfeit, and I win—and, well, same ending for you, just a little less fun for me.”

Fuck. He’s laid some kind of trap. I don’t know what it is, but he—

“He’s going to eat you!” Jon cries.

“He… can’t,” says Hastur.

“He’s not bound by your will,” says Jon.

“No, no, go on, give the spoilers, it’s cute,” says Kayne.

“He… he’ll overrun you. You can’t bind him again. It wasn’t you in the first place. Hastur, don’t do it.”

And very clearly, Hastur sees what went wrong. He inhales.

There is heavy, bad silence. Kayne rocks up onto his toes, grinning.

“I see,” says Hastur. “Now I see.” He sounds like he’s received a death sentence.

“What?” says Martin.

“What’s happening?” says Arthur.

“Didn’t want to see before, did you?” says Kayne, low. “So focused on what you wanted. Didn’t see what really bound me. Didn’t see my little spy spell in the bones of Arthur’s wrist, either.”

“What?” cries Arthur.

“I have made a mistake,” says Hastur, low and quiet.

“More than one, my love. Several, in fact.”

“It’s the bet that did it,” says Jon. “Kayne’s former binding will be canceled the moment Hastur tries to make good on the bet. Kayne will… Kayne will….”

“Oh, no,” whispers Martin.

“I didn’t see,” says Hastur, looking at the jar he holds like it’s the only thing that matters.

“Nope. Didn’t see how binding the bet was, either—not just for me. For you, my darling. You thought you were ensuring I couldn’t back out—but oh, no. I was ensuring you couldn’t.”

“Hastur, don’t do it,” says Jon again.

“He has to, you hideous creature, you. Or, I suppose, he can refuse, but then he’ll just, you know, sort of melt away like snow being peed on.”

Hastur is cradling the jar. “I didn’t see.”

“Wait,” says Arthur.

“No, no,” says Kayne, and spins, arms out, as if he’s about to break into song. “It’s all going to go so wrong! All that suppression, lifting at once, filling them with things they’ve never, ever felt! Oh, the screams, the dreams, the creams of… you know, I had a thing going there, but I kinda lost the thread. Well, no matter. We’ve all had our fun. Time to die.”

Hastur moves slowly toward Arthur and John. “John. You can, in time, figure out how to restore this.” He presses the jar into Arthur’s hand.

Kayne laughs. “Really? You put two of them in a room, I’m pretty sure they’ll fight like betta fish.”

Hastur touches Arthur’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” says Arthur. “Wait, there has to be something.”

“That’s right, say your goodbyes, make it all sad.” Kayne laughs again.

Hastur moves to Jon and Martin. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“Don’t do it,” says Jon.

“Ugh. He has to. Why do you make me repeat things? Martin, tell him. I don’t like to repeat—“

Arthur shouts, “You owe us a favor!”

And all eyes turn to him.

What are you doing? hisses John.

“Buying time!” Arthur snaps. “A body for John! Right? It’s time! I’m calling it!”

Kayne laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Buying time? Really?” He doubles over, slapping his thigh. 

Jon starts to sit up, winces, groans.

“Jon, shh,” says Martin.

“The body,” Arthur says. “I want it now. And I fulfilled the terms of our deal before you lost the bet, so I get to go first.”

“Fuck me, you’re adorable sometimes,” says Kayne. “But are you sure about this? You’ve just seen me pull quite the fast one. Is John sure he’d like to trust me now, hmmm?”

Arthur’s panic spikes.

I… I’ll be very careful, says John. No, Arthur, it’s a good idea. I’ve spent time thinking about this. I’ll be precise.

“Oh, sure, sure, why not? It’s only delaying the inevitable. So, snippet: what do you want?” 

There’s a pause.

Kayne snorts. “Buddy… I can’t do that. What the fuck? Come on, even I have my limits.”

“He can,” says Hastur. “If you use my arm.”

Kayne gasps far longer than any reasonable lung capacity would allow. “The arm you lost when the Eye cut it off because you were being a giant twat? Wow! Wowee zowee! Only if I get a bite. A taste. An aperitif.”

“Arm?” says Arthur, startled.

“Yes,” says Hastur. “Use it for him. I grant you one bite—with the size of the mouth you currently have, right here, visible to Martin alone—and the rest, you use for John.”

“Ugh,” says Kayne. “Figures you’d get smart now, just when it’s getting fun. Well, it won’t change anything.” He rubs his hands together. “Come here, bucko. Come on. I won’t bite—you. Let’s get started.”

Jon tries to sit up again.

“Jon, stay down,” whispers Martin.

It is the hardest thing Arthur has ever had to do, walking forward.

The hardest thing, walking toward his complete abandonment. 

Toward the moment when John will leave for good.

But John wants this. For John, Arthur wants this.

And… it will give the others time.

“Time that I’m monitoring? Sure, sure. That’ll work great,” says Kayne.

“Get this fucking spell off my wrist first,” says Arthur.

“No such thing as spells, my boy, they’re invocations calling on the inherent power of hahahaha! See what I did there? The—he did the—never mind. There you go.”

Arthur cries out and holds his wrist to his chest.

Fuck, you didn’t have to reinjure him! says John.

“It’s only fair, my darling. Besides, I don’t know how much fun he’ll be anymore once you’re off and away on your greatest adventure. Gotta get my kicks in while I can.”

Arthur, don’t listen to him. I’m not going to—

Silence.

Arthur makes one, small sound. “John?”

“Shhhhh-sh-sh,” says Kayne. “Hey—I didn’t even take him yet! He’s still in there. Just thought you’d like a preview of what’s to come.”

“Okay,” says Arthur, who is not okay, who is filling with panic, who is hyperventilating—

And who is not backing down. He will not give in. “Okay. Fine. Fine! Do it! You guys better be thinking of something!”

“They won’t. Cute, though. Love the anguish. And… begin!”

And in front of him, on the ground, is Hastur’s arm. A severed tentacle, ten feet long, thicker at its end than Jon’s whole body.

“Oh, gross!” says Martin.

Kayne picks it up like it weighs nothing, though as it drags along the ground, it grinds pieces of marble into dust. He makes an incredibly indecent sound as he bites into it.

Martin gags.

Jon grips Martin’s shirt, pulling him near. “Hurt me.”

“What?” says Martin, startled.

Kayne is smacking his lips, face coated in dripping, hissing black, and finally turns toward Arthur. “Hold that image, snippet. There we go. Mm. Hold it. Oh, that’s lovely. You know what? I’m gonna give it to you, almost exactly like you asked.”

“Almost?” says Arthur.

“Details, details, fine fucking print,” says Kayne, and then the room is filled with power.

Terrible power. Power that feels like cells rattling apart, like the incoherence of atoms, like the rending of reality down to tears and memory.

And Kayne is chanting.

Whatever it is, it hurts. Hurts to hear, even though the words are unclear, even though it’s just vowels in rhythm.

Martin is gasping, wincing. He touches his ears, and discovers they are bleeding.

Jon pulls on Martin’s shirt again. “He… hurt me.”

“What?” says Martin, barely audible in the storm.

Arthur has fallen to his knees. He feels like his entire internal system is being sucked out of him, through his throat, and it is unspeakably bad.

Like vomiting, but not in surges—just one never-ending awfulness, and he can’t breathe in.

“He… hurt… me,” says Jon, trying to explain, unable to say more, pleading with Martin to understand. He drags his fingers, spread wide, down Martin’s chest.

Martin’s eyes go huge, pupils blown.

But the only thing he thinks, clearly and whole-heartedly, is what he says: “Jon, I love you so much,” he says, and bends into him with a kiss.

Jon melts into it with relief.

Something is taking shape in front of Kayne, barely visible in the distorted light and particles and reality he’s stirring like stew. The tentacle, shrinking, regrowing; reforming into a different shape, details lost in the clouded debris.

The chaos fades; particles return to unseen, the air stops being solid and boils back down to itself.

Arthur’s gasping is rough, wet. He’s on all fours, tasting bile, head down.

The hands that lift him aren’t ones he knows.

But he does.

“Arthur,” says John.

Arthur could never, ever mistake him for anyone else. “John?”

He’s pulled against a body—not clothed. Larger than his. Not freaky warm, like Kayne’s, but firm. “Arthur, I… it worked.” John takes Arthur’s hand and puts it on his chest.

Arthur is panting. Cautious, careful, he touches. Chest, arms, shoulders, face. Hair. It is a reverent exploration; everyone is silent.

John says, “It’s me.” 

So much better than tentacles, Arthur thinks a little too loudly, then ignores Hastur’s grunt and Kayne’s laugh. “What do you look like?”

“Go on, you want to tell him, tell him,” says Kayne, but he’s not saying it to John.

“He’s tall,” says Martin. “Really strong-looking. Dark skin—sort of duskier than the King’s, grayer, but it’s nice, I guess. Like ash. His irises are yellow—gold. Reflective. Ears just a little pointed. Teeth, uh. Geez. Very pointed.”

“And you’re supposed to be a poet,” tsks Kayne.

Arthur laughs. It almost sounds like a sob. “You’re hideous. I love it.”

“I am not hideous,” John puffs.

“He’s not hideous,” confirms Martin. “He’s not super human looking, but, uh. Definitely not hideous, okay?”

Arthur is still laughing. He presses his face to John’s chest.

John holds him. Whispers. “I’m sorry you can’t see. Maybe I can do something about that now.”

Arthur is shaking. As long as you don’t leave—he stops. What’s the point?

“I heard you,” says John, softly. I’m not going anywhere.

Arthur gasps.

Kayne blows a raspberry at them, wet and somehow putrid. “Show’s over, get a room, have fun. Oh—don’t worry about the present I left. I’m sure he’ll figure it out eventually.”

“What? What present?” says Arthur, going stiff.

“He has put part of himself into that form,” says Hastur, softly. 

“What?” says Kayne. “I’ll have you know it’s licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike—“

“What does that do?” Arthur’s panic rises again. “What will that do?”

“Uh, nothing?” says Kayne. “Maybe? I dunno, never did it before.”

“You’re a hybrid, John,” says the King. “I don’t know what it will do, either, but I advise… caution. Your power will not work the way it did before. You could do… damage.”

“Fuck, there’s chaos in me,” John says.

“Fuck him.” Arthur rubs his face. “Whatever. Whatever, we… we’ll figure it out.”

“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if that’s how your Arthur died, though?” says Kayne. “You tried to do something inane, like boiling an egg, and instead you exploded his eyeballs?”

“Shut up,” snarls John.

“No,” says Kayne. “And now… drum roll, please! It is time for the final act. Hastur, my dear, my darling fucking fool… where do you keep the Grey Poupon?”

Silence.

“I didn’t expect this,” says Hastur. “I… didn’t plan this. I’m sorry.”

“That sucks when no matter what you planned, someone fucks you over, doesn’t it?” says Martin, deceptively light. “It’s like claws in your soul, isn’t it?”

Hastur goes very still. He turns toward Jon. He looks.

Kayne’s smile fades. There’s a strange sound, like the leather of a whip’s handle being twisted. “Martin, Martin, Martin,” he says evenly. “Oh, my foolish little cupcake. What have you done?”

Martin shakes, but holds his gaze.  

“Why, Kayne,” the King says, softly, and in his voice is a smile. “You cheated.”

Kayne is very still, looking at Martin. “You know,” he says, softly. “I think it’ll be a while before you can go on any little missions for me. Or sit down. Or talk. Or maybe breathe. Yes. A while before you can even fucking move.” He takes one step.

Hastur moves between. “You cheated. A clear and direct violation.”

“I only cut him a little!” Kayne complains, throwing his hands in the air. “What? It’s small. Nothing. Of course, if you’re really bothered, you can call it done, and say I forfeited. There. I lost. Well, that changed the outcome, didn’t it?”

“No, no,” says Hastur. “I think you’re right. It’s a minor infraction, at best. No, I simply get an advantage.”

And Kayne looks at Martin again.

Martin looks back.

“Well-played,” Kayne says, softly. “Have to say, I didn’t expect that. Got one over on me, didn’t you?”

“No,” says Martin. “You did this to yourself, and you know why.”

“Ugh. Love.” Kayne shrugs. “What the fuck. Self-preservation right out the window.” He sighs. “Fine, fine, fine. What’s your advantage?”

Hastur produces another soul jar from the folds of his cloak.

Kayne starts laughing. It’s a terrible sound. It’s eager, hungry, sharp. “You’re kidding. You’re putting me in time out?”

“Yes,” says Hastur.

“Fuck me,” says John, sounding awed. 

“I don’t understand,” says Arthur.

“He cheated,” John murmurs against Arthur’s head. “The fucker couldn’t resist. He had to hurt the Archivist.”

“I thought they couldn’t hurt the other guy’s… guy.”

“Exactly.”

“How long, Lunchbox in Yellow?” says Kayne. “Just how long can you keep me in there until it counts as my bet finally lost?”

“We’re going to find out,” says Hastur.

“Yeah, you’re welcome. Whatever. Hastur, this doesn’t invalidate our bet. You know that.”

“I know,” says Hastur.

“Fine.” Kayne blows a kiss to Martin. “I’m coming for you. As soon as I’m out. You know.”

“I know,” says Martin, low.

From nowhere comes the sound of trumpets, playing Taps. “I'm not going home.”

“What?” says Hastur.

“I'm gonna get on my boat, and I'm going up river,” says Kayne.

“What river?” says Martin, confused.

“And I'm going to kick that son of a bitch Bison's ass so hard that the next Bison wannabe is gonna feel it!" says Kayne.

There is dead silence.

“Last word!” says Kayne, and without even the tiniest bit of fanfare, he disappears.

Poof, gone.

The quote was from a movie Martin had seen.

The quote was a reference no one in that room but Martin would get.

How something could be so ridiculously trollish and abjectly terrifying at the same time is beyond Martin, but it landed. Breathing hard, he clutches Jon, and fights hard not to regret what he did.

The urn in Hastur’s hand… groans. It shifts, shudders so hard it’s like glitching, and abruptly doubles in size. Its color changes from glazed brown to a weird, virulent green, grim, the color of things that grow in the dark.

Its single center stripe vanishes. In its place, three thin, orange stripes appear.

“Three years,” says Hastur. 

The top stripe no longer connects all the way around; just barely, it’s breached, as if it has begun to shrink.

“Three years? That’s all?” says John.

“That’s enough. I’ll find something,” says Hastur. “I will find a way.”

“You’ll need fucking help,” says John.

“Wait,” says Arthur. “We did it?”

“As much as it can be done for now,” says Hastur. Then he laughs. It is a wicked sound, deep and terrible—but that’s just how he laughs. “Three years! Give me my Arthur, damn it.”

John rises, pulling Arthur with him, carrying him, practically.

Arthur holds out the jar and winces.

“You must be more careful, Arthur,” says Hastur, and repairs his wrist.

“So that’s how long I have,” whispers Martin. “Jon. Jon, we have three years.”

Jon’s eyes stay closed, but he smiles. “I might have to sleep for half of that.”

Martin clutches him. “We may only have three. We—“

“We’ll find something,” says John. 

“How the fuck tall are you?” says Arthur suddenly, as though offended.

“About a head taller than you,” says John, sounding quite pleased. “And it’s not a human body. I can change its shape.”

“You what?” says Arthur.

“Mister Blackwood,” says Hastur. “That was… brave. And very clever.”

“I had to,” murmurs Martin. “I couldn’t let him get away with it. Not after what he did to Jon.” He swallows. “I’d have given him anything if he’d spared him. You know that? Any fucking thing he wanted. But instead… he did this.”

“He could never resist his appetites,” says Hastur. “Regardless… this damage is going to take some time to heal. It’s deep, Mister Blackwood.”

“Wait. There’s something else,” says Jon, and reaches for the bag.

Arthur suddenly remembers that Martin said jars. 

He’s afraid to hope. He can’t see what’s going on.

He’s holding two soul jars, John tells him. They’re small: only a couple of inches tall, easily fitting in the palm of his hands. 

“Jon,” whispers Hastur, sounding awed.

“Before I… before I….” Jon grits his teeth and pulls the jars to his chest.

“You don’t have to talk,” says Martin.

But Jon does. “Fix it. You fix it. This isn’t the world for… for her. For any of them.” Jon manages to glare at Hastur.

Silence.

“You are asking me for too much,” Hastur says, softly. “I can’t risk—“

“Yes you can,” says Jon. “Life is risk. Life is loss. Life is good. Life is love. Take the damn jar and fix it.”

“What’s he talking about?” says Arthur. “What’s he doing? What’s happening?”

“He’s asking him to release his hold on the world,” John whispers.

“This one’s his,” says Jon, who knows, offering one small jar in Arthur’s direction. He offers the other to Hastur. 

Hastur takes both jars, very gently. “Jon, you… thank you.” And he hands the one indicated to Arthur.

Arthur jumps as it touches his chest. 

“Yes,” says John, at the unspoken question. “It is.”

Arthur clutches the tiny jar, curls down around it, and keens. John goes down with him, one arm around his shoulders, keeping him steady. For a long moment, the only sounds are Arthur’s, impossible to slot into words like laugh or cry, and John holds him as if to keep him from flying apart.

“I… have much to consider.” Hastur’s three  jars—a man, a child, a monster—are gone, hidden in his cloak.

Martin runs his fingers over Jon’s side. He’s not sure how happy he is that there’s webbing attached to Jon’s flesh—but it seems to be holding the magical knife wound closed, so…

“We… should rest,” says Hastur. “All of us. There is… much to do.”

Arthur’s sob echoes in the broken palace. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do with this most precious thing. 

“I,” says Hastur. “I will… make bodies. For Faroe.”

Arthur’s voice is unsteady. “Both?”

“Both. I don’t have her DNA, but I have yours, and I can extrapolate from your memory of her appearance, her sound, her smell. I’ll need your memories of her, Arthur.”

Arthur shudders.

“I’ve got you,” says John, still holding him tightly, and pulls him upright.

Arthur might not actually be resting any weight on his feet. “Whatever I have to do. Anything. It’s yours. Uh. Does this mean there’s gonna be two of me and two of her?”

“Not… necessarily at the same time,” says Hastur, and it clearly costs him to do so because it means waiting. “I need to find a way to send you home. Until then, I… should avoid….”

John suddenly snorts. “Betta fish.”

He and Hastur both laugh, dark and terrible and delighted.

“He has his moments,” Hastur admits. “Betta fish.”

“What does that even mean?” Arthur says.

“He’s not going to risk either of you,” says John. “Other Arthur and his Faroe won’t make a debut until we can go home with our—with your daughter.”

The our throws Arthur. He swallows. “I don’t know about that, John.”

“She’s yours. You’re mine,” John tries to explain.

“Well, you’re mine, too, whatever that means, so what’s that make us?”

John has no idea how to reply to that.

“I think she’ll like you,” Arthur says after a moment, which isn’t acceptance or denial.

“Of course she will,” John huffs.

“Can we… do this?” says Martin. “Stop Kayne from returning, or at least… coming after us?”

“Mister Blackwood,” says Hastur. “There are enough impossible things in this room—including yourself—that I have to hope. All of us, impossible, to a one.”

“We’re like some kind of vortex,” says John, frowning. “That can’t be good.”

“It has been so far,” says Hastur.

“Has it, though?” says Martin.

“We’ll beat him,” says Jon.

“Jon, shh.”

“We will. I know we will.”

“You can’t see the future, remember?” says Martin.

But then he wonders at the web in Jon’s side.

And he wonders: if Annabelle was part of this, part of everything—

He wonders if Jon’s really free.

“For fuck’s sake, is anybody gonna get this guy some clothes?” Arthur blurts.

The fact that they can all laugh—however weakly, however brief—is good.

“We’re going—for now,” announces John. “Rest. Food. Clothes. All those things—but we’re not leaving your fucking palace because I’m not risking any damn harm to him after all that, so you better provide for our needs.”

“Hey—” says Arthur.

“No arguments,” John says. “I’m strong now, and if I have to carry you like a sack of flour over my shoulder, I fucking will.”

Arthur rubs his face. “Great. You’re an even bigger prick than before,” he says, as warmly as the word has ever been said, and John rumbles a pleased sound in the wake of it.

It’s not a purr. It’s not exactly the King’s either, but something new, and Arthur presses his hands to John’s chest, which apparently is its source. “Wow.”

“Done,” says Hastur. “You know how to reach the guest rooms.”

“Come on, Arthur,” says John, still holding him close.

Arthur is quiet. “Weird, you not in my head. I… it… it’s scary. I thought I’d love it, a while ago, but it….”

“Fucking Lonely. I’m not going anywhere, Arthur.”

“I know, but….”

I’m not going anywhere.

Arthur makes a low sound.

John holds him as they walk away, bearing more than a little of his weight. “You’re eating food next.” 

“I don’t wanna,” Arthur mutters.

“Too bad.” 

“Prick.” 

“Ass.”

“Jerk.”

“Mine,” says John as warmly as the word has ever been said, and Arthur falls silent in the wake of it. Still holding him, John navigates them both around the wreckage and toward undamaged areas.

His complaints about sharp bits of rubble under his bare feet  echo down the hallway after they’re out of sight.

“Jon, your hemorrhage has stopped. Mister Blackwood, with help, I believe he’ll heal,” says Hastur. “You are also welcome to use the guest rooms. They are for visiting dignitaries, not human priests, and they are nicer than the quarters you were in. You’ve earned at least that much.”

Martin knows he should say thanks. He also knows he’s insulted on behalf of said human priests, and Jon, and the world. But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “I’m so scared he’s coming back.”

“He intended you to be. If Kayne could rob you of your joy even in his absence, he will feel he’s won,” says Hastur. “Keep that in mind.”

“Fuck you,” says Martin. “And… thank you. Ugh. I haven’t forgiven—why does this have to be so complicated?”

“Because it’s real life. I have much to consider,” Hastur says. “Perhaps we all do. Do you require aid now?”

“Can you do anything for Jon now?”

“No.” Hastur sounds wondering. “Triage is achieved. I will need to gather tools and repair myself before I can do more for him than his passenger already has.”

Martin swallows. “Then I got him. Go do… whatever. We’re free, right?”

“From me? Yes. With… a gratitude I cannot yet express. I overlooked you, Mister Blackwood, in the beginning. I should not have.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Martin’s not sure he wants Hastur’s regard.

“I will check on you both tomorrow morning. If there is an emergency, you only need call my name.” And Hastur leaves, gracious and monstrous and complicated.

“Haven’t forgiven him for what he did to you,” says Martin. “I don’t know if he can make up for it.”

“I suppose we’ll see,” says Jon.

“You… you madman,” Martin says. “What did you do in there? What do I have to do to keep you from throwing yourself into things, eh? Chain you to my ankle?”

“Anything you want to do, Martin,” Jon smiles and promises, utters, vows. “Anything you want to do.”

“We’ve got to talk about that, too. But now’s not the time. I almost lost you, Jon.”

They hold each other.

Martin is unwilling to move, as if, by standing, he might shatter the unexpected peace they’ve found among the pieces of Hastur’s ruined home. “How are we going to keep you from starving? Devouring yourself like a star, or whatever?” 

“I have access to… everywhere,” says Jon, almost gently. “I will never starve again.”

Jon sounds so relieved.

"I thought... you'd be helpless?"

"Kayne lied. I don't know what I am, Martin, but... it's definitely not helpless."

Martin shivers and can't quite hold Jon's gaze.

He also can’t find it in himself to worry for whoever gets fed on in exchange for this. Maybe they can target bad people, or something.

Maybe it’s a problem for another day.

“I can walk,” says Jon, at last. He manages to stand with Martin’s arm around him.

“So you have the Eye, still.”

“Part of it. It’s changed so much, I… I don’t know what it’s going to do. Grow? Overwhelm me? Shrink and die? It doesn’t seem to feed on fear anymore.”

Martin inhales. “How?

“I don’t know because it doesn’t know.”

Martin sighs. “Another hurdle to get over.”

“It kept me alive. With you. I’m having trouble being ungrateful right now.” 

Martin snorts. “Just pack-bond with the damn thing, and get it over with.”

Jon laughs and leans in. “We’re okay.”

“For now.”

Jon kisses his jaw. “I think at this point, I’m willing to believe in our odds against anything.”

“You’re… you’re a mess, though.”

“Martin K. Blackwood, when have I ever not been a mess, in all the years you’ve known me?”

Martin snorts. “Gods, I love you.”

“And I love you.” Jon presses his forehead to Martin’s shoulder. “What do you think of what just happened back there? With the other John, Arthur, and all?”

Martin considers. “Sometimes a family is an eldritch god, a half-starved P.I., and his daughter’s soul in a jar, I guess.”

Jon smiles. “And sometimes, a family is a broken baby god and his sneaky, brilliant, most eligible stud in West Village.”

Martin laughs softly, but his smile fades. “Oh, the Village, I… I miss it. I guess we can’t go back, though.”

“No reason why we can’t. Maybe there won’t be any more matriculation. Maybe it’ll stop.”

“But it won’t—nothing will make what happened okay.”

“No. But punching Mason, might, a little.” 

Martin is surprised into laughing. “I’ll hold. You punch. We’ll just kill him, otherwise.” And he aches. “They’ll see me bring you back. Peter, Mark, Julia. They’ll hope for Ellie”

“Likely, yes.” Another kiss. “I’m sorry. Hopefully, they won’t resent you. Maybe they’ll be happy for you, instead.”

“So damn complicated,” Martin murmurs. “A lot of it’s going to be hard.”

“Hard, but worth it. I just… I need to be part of Hastur’s next steps forward, Martin. We can make a difference. We can help him… unfuck the world.”

“Unfuck the world. Maybe we all owe the world some unfucking.”

“I do. Hastur certainly does. We’ll make it work.”

“Hey,” says Martin. “Do you know why our cottage kept doing that? Disappearing, and all. I mean, now that you’re apocalyptic Google, again.”

“It was John Doe and Arthur’s home for a year before the King killed that Arthur,” says Jon.

“What?”

“They traded some priceless lighter to a… guy in the Dreamlands for it. It’s actually portable. We can move it.”

“The hell you say!”

“It also changes sizes according to who’s living there, so if John and Arthur need a place to stay that isn’t here, we can give them a room.”

Martin is stunned. “And we just happened to land right next to it?”

Jon’s answer to this is succinct: “Annabelle Cane can go to hell. Which she did. And now rules. So.”

“You, uh.” Martin's eyes are wide. “Want to unpack that for me? And also, Jonah?”

“Later, I promise. I almost pity that horrible man—but I don’t have the energy to get into it now.” Another kiss. “We’re going to make it, Martin.”

Martin’s voice cracks. His grip tightens. “Are we?”

Jon kisses him properly, until he’s breathless and flushed.

“Jonathan Sims,” Martin whispers. “Did you find hope in the Dark World?”

“I found the hope you’ve been offering me this whole time.” Jon cups his cheek. “I finally see it.”

Martin has to wipe his eyes.

Jon just smiles. “Let’s go home. Temporary home, anyway. I don’t want to deal with ichor right now, so those guest rooms will have to do.”

“You know how to get to them?”

“Don’t worry. I love you,” he steps over some rubble, leaning in and holding tight. “And yes. I  know the way.”

-------

NOTES

So that's what Annabelle was doing. How about that!

Yes, I DID end with the quote from MAG 159. No one can stop me!

"Atop his trash pile, Jonah is shouting" may be one of my favorite lines that I have EVER written.

I had just too much fun writing this incredibly self-indulgent thing. And yes, there is room for sequels. Will I write them? Not a clue!

Thanks so much for reading all the way to the end. You're the best. I now release you into the world. Be free!

FANART BY @pikachic THANK YOU!!

[chaoticpinetree]

Ajhgfgjh Martin's domain is... Kinda nice? I mean to him. Obviously not to the people trapped there, although you know, it's probably nicer than some other domains are to other people. Not that it matters because you know, I've been thinking.

Like the domain from the previous episode, where people are imprisoned wrongfully, I was thinking 'well compared to some others it's not so bad' and, well... I assume this means I wouldn't end up there. I would end up somewhere else. Because people don't end up in the domains that make them go 'huh I could survive that', they end up in domains that truly and constantly torment them. But that's, well, obvious, it's just something I wanted to get out of my head.

Anyway back to Martin's domain lmao the fact that he pretty much just had another version of himself there to talk to, sort out his thoughts and have some peace because even though he loves Jon, he need some quiet and he can't get that out there in the apocalypse, it's a bit funny but it does make a lot of sense honestly

And, ouf, the moment when he had to consider that no, no I don't think I could ever kill Jon, but any other price I will pay.... Bestie... Uh...

Anyway! Off I go, cleaning to be done and more episodes to listen to

[yoki-loves-stars]

okay okay it's day again now and i can be more normal

The fact that Jon says it so casually. It's not exactly an accusation, it's just what it is.

Jon being so calm, despite being bullied himself by an older kid. Perhaps, Callum reminds him of himself as an avatar. Scared, thrown into all this so suddenly, at a young age, enjoying something you know is bad. In a way Jon also only goes for the avatars beneath him (not much of a choice, there's no one actually above him, but he still does it, instead of not doing it).

There is of course the factor of age, experience and Jon knowing everything. Jon shows maturity by understanding that everything comes with the reason, even the bad things. And as an adult he can both judge Callum for his actions, yet understand him and how bad Callum has or had it.

He doesn't see just a child, who bullies smaller kids, he sees a scared child, who was dragged into this god awful confusing world of choices and fear and death and violence and then some more of that, much like himself.

Which is another point, Callum and Jon are similar. Sure, if you put that 8yo Jon and 13yo Callum in one room, Callum would shove him into a dark wardrobe or something. Callum shows a distaste for rules and regimes ("I don't have a bed time anymore"). It may not be a wholehearted hatred and just be for a show off, to cover up his fear, but he still thinks that. And while Jon was also a rebellious kid (wandering off, talking back and his joke "police violence" could also point to that) he was still just a nerdy book kid, nothing to it. They aren't quite on the same level on this.

But they do have something in common. Their loneliness and fear, and their coping mechanisms for it. As people, as avatars, they're lonely. They don't have many friends, and, because, they felt the need to hide their feelings behind snarky remarks and impoliteness/rudeness, it's now even harder for them to connect with people.

Of course, there's also him having his survivals guilt. If you listen to mag81 Jon wither views that teen as a victim (which he is) or his saviour (which he's not). Sure he says "I'm certainly not excusing his decision to torment me", but he also says stuff like "Some people deserve to be remembered" or "He saved my life" or "if I had been able to face that thing myself, maybe I could have saved him". He only views him as his "tormentor" from the view of his younger self, but not from his actual point of view as an adult. This Jon's weird sympathy can also be a reason why he likes Callum.

I am definetly reading too much into this btw <3

been thinking about this since forever

it could totally mean nothing but

but

but the parallels

been thinking about Callum a lot i love him sm i might draw Jon tutoring Callum cause they're both so grumpy and calm and smug and stuff do you get it crow tell me im not going insane

God I have to be honest I haven't thought about Callum enough..... But yeah I get you