#street creep mag

[getou2001]

c. redfield .. come on baby

You and Chris had been sent out together right after your messy breakup. 'Too into work' your ex would repeat. You're about to be really into some work.

Chris Redfield ;;

fuck away the pain — divide the day

You and Chris had been sent out together right after your messy breakup. 'Too into work' your ex would repeat. You're about to be really into some work.

You were no stranger to being alone with Chris, or frankly any other S.T.A.R.S man on missions. Though this time you were as distracted as ever. Right before you left home for Romania your long time boyfriend had pulled you aside and dropped the news on you.

"You're too into your work. This just.. this isn't working between us. I'm moving out while you're gone. Next month's rent has already been sent. Good luck."

As you stood in the forest covered in mud you were still thinking about it all. What had really prompted this? Work? But you were an important member. You had to be this 'into' work. Was there a real, underlying reason? The redhead across the street? Were you becoming boring? Did you leave the dishes out a night too long after you had come crashing onto the couch? Did you smell? Was it your new haircut? A million piling reasons popped into your head before you were nudged nearly falling over.

"Hey, come on. You've been standing there too long. See something weird?" Chris had come behind you to nudge you along. "We're almost there, don't get distracted now."

You nodded and kept on towards the torchlit village in the distance. You took another look back at Chris and saw the dedication you tried to mirror in your own work. Was he the reason you were such a hardass too? Did your boyfriend— ex—think you were in love with Chris? Or another man on your team? No. That couldn't have been. You turned forward again and jumped back at the sound of a wild dog running past you two. Thankfully not infected, or not yet.

"Chill out, (L/N) , you're freaking out. What has you so startled?" Chris didn't sound concerned, you knew this tone was code for 'cut it out and focus' so you buckled down.

"Nothing." You shot back, pushing back a bush and stepping into the opening. There was no one there at all. Where the fuck did they all go? A howl or two sounded in the distance but besides that it was your breathing and Chris' footsteps inching closer. "There's no one here."

"Clearly." He stepped up beside you and took another look around and then down at his watch, still timed for home, and then at you. "Well. I'm going to sleep before we get jumped this far past a nap."

In the moonlight his muscles glistened, shiny with sweat he got from the long trek here. His eyes also shined for the moment yours met. Kind of dreamy for a second. You snapped out of the trance and nodded, following suit silently.

When you two had finally found a place to settle that was left empty Chris didn't waste a second before checking every crevice. You opted to immediately slipping into a creaking bed. The only one, you realize when Chris stands beside you as soon as he's done with his rounds.

"Clear. Scoot over." He checked his gun's mechanics one more time before putting the safety on and lying it on the dresser nearby. "I am not sleeping on the floor."

You grumbled and moved closer to the wall and held out your own handgun. Chris repeated his checks and put the safety on before slipping in beside you. He took most of the bed up but at least he had the decency to hang halfway off the bed so it wasn't terrible.

After a few minutes you turned back over to watch Chris and noticed him staring at your weapons. "What?"

"Debating if I should take the mags out."

"Hm. Thinking I'm going to shoot you? I can put the mags back in, Chris." You snickered.

You didn't see it but you could hear him gasp a bit, turning towards you. "Was that a laugh, (L/N) ? Was it?" Slight amusement in his voice as well as a creeping smile.

You went into defenses, shaking your head and lightly shoving him which caused him to titter on falling onto the ground. "No! I didn't laugh. I was sighing! Sighing, disappointed at your stupidity. Why would I laugh on an important mission?"

You both sat there for a second smiling stupidly at each other before Chris shook his head and propped his head up with his arm, sitting up slightly. "I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before. Always so serious." He teased.

"Me? Serious? Look who's talking! Mister Alpha has some nerve to talk to me about being so serious." You followed his actions, propping yourself up on one arm. "I bet your girlfriend is ready to breakup with you too." You snickered.

"Too? You've finally gotten dumped? Lemme guess.." He tapped his chin. "You're too into work. You have no free time for me. You are always in the office." Chris bellowed a laugh. "Yeah, yeah. That shit hasn't happened for a while, but I remember it good."

You blushed a little hearing him in such a mood. "Yep!" With Chris now it didn't hurt to talk about it. It felt comforting, even. Unconsciously moving closer, you could smell Chris better from here. Deep musky tones, for sure. Or is that just the air? Either way it was mesmerizing. "Just like that.."

"Just like that." He repeated, scooting closer to you. His free hand moved, hovering around your hip before it pulled back and laid on the tiny area between you two. He looked around, whistling for a second before you spoke up.

"Oh, fuck it." Was the only warning you gave him before pulling him against your lips and tugging him onto the bed by his belt loops.

Chris pulled away from the kiss for a second to hiss an "Ah shit—" before diving back in for more.

You crawled up onto his lap without breaking the kiss. Moans being exchanged every few breaths, panting from both of you. His dick made a rock hard place to grind against. And grind you did. Pushing your hips against him while you struggled to stay on top. His rough hands grabbed your uniform pants and began tugging every direction to find which was going to bring them off. You broke the kiss to give him a hand, pulling them down and getting off just to struggle off Chris'.

A second later he got too impatient to get them entirely off so when they reached below his dick he yanked you back onto him. His face was calm as ever but his shaking hands showed restraint.

"C'mon.. c'mon.." He whimpered, puppy dog eyes beaming at you. How did Chris become the boy next door? He shoved his boxers haphazardly down and you moved your panties to the side. Chris put your hands on his shoulders and you took it as a warning. You gripped his black polo as tight as you could and he thrusted up into you. It was so perfect. Not entirely long but it was thick as ever. Perfect for you.

He groaned as soon as he felt inside of you, more of those cute whimpers escaping him. He wasted no time thrusting into you like a sex toy.

"Chris.. chris.." You whispered into his ear. You could feel the heat radiating off his cheeks even if the night didn't show it entirely. His thrusts became desperate very quickly. You sat up on his lap and almost tore the shirt as his dick hit the sweetest spot in you. Your sudden tightness set off alarms in him.

He grabbed your hips and flipped your positions. For a second he stopped, trying to remember where to abuse. "Right.. right here, yeah?" He slowly pushed against it. Your fist pounding on his chest confirmed it and he started the relentless thrusts. Each time they hit that spot. Your hand started dipping down to your forgotten clit but Chris pushed your hand aside.

"Ah.. allow me." Such a gentleman. His thumb rubbed the swollen bud so gently before he turned his hand and began to palm it. A small groan came from him and he changed positions once more so he could sit up and have you face outwards. A better position to focus on both parts. His mouth mindlessly kissed and nipped along your shoulders, thrusts getting shakier.

"Please.. please more.." He whispered against your ear, you could hear how needy he was for you. "More, more.. Ah.. Right there.." His voice melted into moans as he felt you tighten up once again.

"I'm gonna.." You whimpered, you could feel Chris nod behind you.

"Please do.. Please?" Chris whined, using his knees to spread your legs further apart. He continued palming and thrusting up into you. As soon as your pussy started to stammer and release he did as well. "So.. so good." He whimpered, placing more kisses along your shoulders as you both bottomed out. "So nice and warm.." The sleepiness was creeping into his voice.

You turned around and kissed his forehead. At least on his lap you could reach it. "That felt.. so good." You breathlessly laughed, settling down on his lap.

"Nice and warm.." he lazily repeated, drunk off your pussy. Laying back on the bed he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. You snickered, feeling his dick deep inside again and decided to just stay there. Your legs wrapped around his and the two of you fell asleep. Chris' nice chest and arms as your pillows. Chris' nose breathing deep in your hair before nuzzling it and falling into his own slumber.

[oneshotnewbie]

how are you??

i was looking at your list and saw that you write for the walking dead and was wondering if you’d be willing to do a request on it for me? thank you!!

so it’s basically maggie greene (rhee) x teen!reader where reader is like a daughter or a younger sister to her. it’s nothing special or major, but maybe just a cute little story where reader gets sick or hurt and maggie takes care of her and is all motherly/big sister-like with reader?

also reader’s carl’s age, so i think about fourteen then? again, you can change the age if you need to, i don’t mind!

- 🍄 anon

Authors note: Hey, sweet mushroom. I am doing okay so far, I hope you are doing great! At the same time, I hope you like this little story ♥

ᕚ---ᕘ

The world was a shadowy landscape of ruined buildings, deserted streets and the faint echoes of past civilization. The earth, once vibrant with life, now lay in the grip of a post-apocalyptic silence.

In the middle of this desolate scenario, between rusty walls, lived Maggie with her small "family" - a group of survivors who had come together to survive in this unnatural world. Among them you, whose real name had long been lost in the turmoil of time.

It was the icy wind of a wintry morning that intensified the already bitter cold of the Forsaken Land as an ominous cough snaked its way through the silence of the house. Maggie sensed the icy breath of sickness beginning to spread through the ranks of the community. You, who had previously been a steadfast and indestructible pillar of the group, were among those affected and woke up with a feverish chill.

The symptoms appeared quickly: fever, chills and an exhausted look that bore the marks of suffering. But Maggie, a woman with an aura of determination and keen eye for your needs, recognized the gravity of your situation. Your body heavy, limbs aching, and eyes bloodshot from the fever that burned within you like a raging fire. "Hey, how are you feeling today kiddo?"

"Mags, I feel like I've been torn apart by a pack of wild dogs," you whispered, every movement making your body tremble as the older one approached your bed. Your voice, a faint breath in the gloomy silence, betrayed the exhaustion and weakness that the illness brought with it.

She sat down in an empty spot on your bed and gently placed a hand on your forehead. "You're literally burning. I have to see what I can find to help you. Otherwise the fever will kill you," she spoke with a look that told stories of loss and will to survive as her inner turmoil filled the air. "You want to leave me?"

"Just to get you and the others medicine,“ The group had hardly any remedies left to fight the disease. Medicines were in short supply, and the improvised teas offered no protection against the creeping germs. The post-apocalyptic world was not forgiving, and illnesses often became inescapable judgments. But the woman in front of you refused to just abandon you to your fate. Her connection to you was deeper than anyone else's. You had become like a little sister to her, someone she wanted and even needed to protect and support. "Carol will stay with you for the time I'm gone and take care of you. I'll get back to you as soon as possible. I promise."

With one last goodbye kiss, she left you in bed and set off with Daryl to do everything they could to bring you relief while, without her, time blurred into an endless succession of feverish hours and cough-ragged days.

The sun had long since hidden behind the toxic clouds in the sky when the search for medicine became a fight for survival in the shattered ruins of the buildings. The footsteps on broken glass and the constant gusts of wind blowing through the dilapidated shutters seemed to underscore the urgency of the mission.

She searched for medication in numerous abandoned pharmacies and barricaded doctor's offices. Her hands, battered by the cold and the endless digging through rubble, searched for the glimmer of hope amid the devastation until she finally came across locked cupboards, the only contents of which were a few bottles, expired medication and a few blankets. Maggie wasn't discouraged and took everything she could find. With a tenacity driven by her love for you, she returned to make use of what little she had found.

"Here, take this, sweetheart," she said, handing you a handful of expired medication. "It's not much, but it should at least bring down the fever a little." You smiled weakly and accepted the pills gratefully, barely getting into a sitting position. "Thanks. I don't know how I would do this without you."

She waved it off as if it were obvious. "In these times, we need to stick together. No one should wander alone in the dark. Especially not you," she helped you take the pills and then spread an extra blanket over you. "You're like my little sister, y/n. If something happened to you- I would never be happy again."

Over the next few days, your bedroom became a kind of makeshift hospital room and she began to care for you with a mix of old survival instincts and an unwavering caring nature. Blankets and hot water bottles became weapons in her fight against the invisible threat that took over your body.

The wind howled around the corners and an icy storm raged outside as the brunette spent the next few days cooking soups that she laced with fever-reducing drugs. She woke up by your side nightly, placing wet towels on your hot forehead and whispering soothing words into the darkness while you slept. The nights were long and quiet, interrupted only by the patients' wheezing and the crackling of their movements.

The group watched as the woman, who otherwise seemed so stoic and aloof, cared for you tenderly and self-sacrificingly. The others, who otherwise only knew the harsh reality of everyday life, witnessed a love between strangers that became family and that was more precious than any resource in these times.

Time crawled by and the disease tried to tighten its ugly claws. But Maggie's care and love proved to be powerful weapons. You fought against the disease, strengthened by their tireless help and solidarity support.

You lay weak, but your eyes still sparkled with life. In the quiet moments between feverish bouts, you and Maggie found time to talk quietly. "You have to stay strong, y/n. The world may have fallen apart, but we can't let it break us," she spoke as she cooled your forehead.

You smiled weakly, your eyes glassy with tiredness. "You're like a mother to me, Mags. I really can't imagine what it would be like without you."

Maggie just sighed quietly. "You are my family. I can't imagine what it would be like without you either."

The days passed and the illness slowly faded away like the side after a storm. You struggled back to your feet, strengthened by her unwavering belief in survival. The post-apocalyptic world may have been one of destruction and loss, but in this small corner of reality, humanity shone in its purest form, igniting a flame of hope for every survivor who walked the streets of Alexandria.

[hangesophtalmologist]

Mind Games

finnick odair x original female character

tropes: rivals to lovers

synopsis: once the 75th Hunger Games are announced, Finnick only finds one solution to save his mentor and friend: barge into his long-life rival's house and find a way to convince this irritating, egoistic victor to volunteer. Only, he might be the one person she hates the most after the Capitol.

Part: 1 or a prologue of an anticipated story. Lowkey could be a stand-alone even though I have their entire love story planned out in my head. I just can't form it in words yet.

Warnings: swear words. Basically just insults. Mentions of Alzheimer.

Wordcount: 2,6k.

Finnick was practically running in the streets of District Four – more precisely, in the privileged area of the district known as the Victor’s Village. This was not the time to maintain his unbothered, cool persona. Blood was pumping in his veins, chest heaving in the effort of calming the deafening panic that was creeping up in him. This could not be happening, not again. After everything they had been through. He thought, foolishly, that he was safe. Relatively safe. That it was over since he won the Hunger Games – but they never really win. Becoming the shiny toys of the Capitol promised them wealth and comfort. But all the disgusting, overplayed luxury was only meant to hide the sad truth about victors - they remained toys, and at any time could the people of Panem realize they wanted to play with them again.

The announcement of the 75th Hunger Games came crashing down on him like a bomb, crushing his frail illusion of stability. For him, it didn’t matter. He was strong enough to survive at least for most days. No, the suffocating feeling of fear that had paralyzed each of his muscles, only letting his brain run the infinite possibilities of death, sorrow and suffering, had come from his concern for Mags and Annie. None of them would make it past the first day left alone, and even with his help the Hunger Game was a downright death sentence.

But there was a tiny, silly bit of hope that made him jump on his feet, storm out of his house with one name in mind. The one person he spent a lifetime despising, annoying and arguing with, the very person that hated his guts and made him know every day, was actually his last hope. This was the worst idea he ever had, but he had not choice. He’d go to her, do anything she could ask him for – he’d even recognize she was better than him, he’d beg her on his knees if that was what it took. But even with all that, Finnick couldn’t tame down the desperation that clawed at his heart when he pictured her violently telling him off - like he could swear she’d do.

“Naia!” he called, basically shoving the door of a rusty house open and frantically searching the rooms with his eyes. “Naia!”

His feet moved on their own accord, stomping in the home that felt completely empty. His eyes scanned the squeaky-clean floor and the few furniture there was. For a moment, he feared no one was here until he heard a faint voice coming from a closed room. Calming his breath, he approached and went to slightly open the door before he thought better and faintly knocked on the wood.

Hearing no response, his fingers glazed over the handle, but before he even twisted it, his hand was violently ripped away from the door, and he was met with a furious charcoal gaze.

“Where the fuck do you think you are, Odair?”

There stood Naia Calder in all her glory, in the middle of her living room, as tall as him, muscular arms crossed over her chest who was quickly rising and falling, sweaty skin that glistened under the yellowish light and hands wrapped around a blood-stained tissue that left no doubts on which sport she was practicing before Finnick stormed into her house. Hopefully, she would not be tempted to switch to a livelier punching-ball when he states why he came down here.

“Calder”, the man started, his eyes firmly locked on the challenging eyes of his nemesis. “I need to talk to you.”

With a snap, she undid her bands and threw them at his feet, chuckling humourlessly. Finnick clenched his jaw, refrained from rolling his eyes at the action. Instead, his gaze stayed firm on her face. Thick brows that furrowed automatically in his presence, straight nose on which fell during summer a constellation of freckles contrasting with her tan skin, big almond eyes that could set the world on fire with one glare, plump, soft lips that would form the dirtiest insults to throw in the air. It was the same face he has known all his life, and never once was it not painted with absolute disdain when they were face to face.

“Want a cup of tea? A few biscuits while we talk about the weather and tide, perhaps?” Naia mocked as she removed the tie holding her bronze-like hair, her biceps slightly flexing from the movement.

Finnick followed with his eyes the movement of her wavy hair falling graciously on her bulky shoulders. He swallowed thickly, focusing to not let his gaze linger on her bruised, muscular, sweaty body. He did not answer to her sarcasm. There could only be one subject the victor wanted to discuss right after the announcement. They both knew it.

“Please enlighten me on what’s your strategy to politely ask me to go die in their Hunger Games all-stars,” she insisted with a fake pleasant tone. “Almost destroying my front door was a dramatic first step, I’ll give you that. I can’t wait to see what you have in stock next.”

Irritation quickly grew inside Finnick, but he swallowed all the snarky answers his lips were about to let slip out of his mouth. Why was she playing dumb? She knew just like him that this was the right thing to do.

“I shouldn’t even have to ask you to volunteer, Naia. You know they can’t go through this again,” he said through gritted teeth, following her as she walked through her house, picking up clothes and objects he couldn’t care less about.

“Keep going. My life is less valuable than theirs blah blah. Maybe add in a few tears.”

“Fuck Naia! This is not funny,” he shouted angrily, desperate to knock some sense into her. “You’re young, you’re obviously stronger and for fuck’s sake you’re the goddamn golden victor of the Capitol. You know you have a thousand more chance to win than they have to survive the first few hours, so can you stop being selfish for once in your life? How can you send them off to their deaths?”

“Mmh, flattery. Not bad. Don’t like the guilt-trip that much, though. Try again. Maybe I’ll consider it if you get on your knees.”

The lack of interest in her voice made him want to rip his hair out of his head. It was like talking to a wall. It used to be her on the receiving end of his sarcasm, but now was not the time for their rivalry and she should know it. He knew Naia, he knew her bad attitude and her personality, he knew the trauma her Games brought her. But he knew her, and it seemed unbelievable that she would be so set on not volunteering. Was she doing it out of spite, just to annoy him? How could she seem so careless? How could she just fold so neatly each one of her clothes, stack them up on a shelf like she had no other problems in her life? how could she just calmly tidy up her room while he was asking her to-

Suddenly as realization hit him, the world seemed to quiet down and to reduce to the small room he had followed her in. His anger and frustration slowly melt, his frown relaxing and his mouth closing in a thin line. The curse he had thrown floated in the air, then was carried away by the wind. A veil of silence fell all over the little space they shared.

The adrenaline and stress disappeared, leaving him with the excruciating wish he could swallow back every word he just spat as he watched Naia clean her room, slowly, carefully tucking away her belongings in dusty boxes already aligned next to her bed. The man had been too blinded by his despair and frustration to take a real look at her house. It did not just feel empty – it was. She was packing away. She must have started tidying up the second she heard the announcement. God, she even started training the moment she heard it. Naia always intended to volunteer. She didn’t even consider staying back as an option.

“You know Odair, Mags was my mentor too. Annie is also my friend. You’re not the only one who’d sacrifice things to protect them,” she finally spoke after a long moment of deafening silence, dropping the sarcasm but radiating animosity. “Only you can have the audacity to assume I wouldn’t volunteer for them, but I would if you oh-so-rightfully order me to.”

When she turned around to meet his face, the vivacity of the anger and repulsion in her eyes froze him on his spot. Her fingers were tightly wrapped around the wooden frame of a picture. A family picture. Four silhouettes. Now that he could see all her personal belongings, even the torn, washed-out picture seemed to scream at him, especially the small, masculine silhouette he could almost see scolding him for coming here to ask her to leave them behind like he had any right to make that decision for her.

“I don’t know why it seems so unconceivable for you that I would be capable of a selfless act, but I’d advise you to stop thinking of yourself as the fucking hero of this district,” Naia seethed, her voice raising with each word that slipped out of her lips so quickly that it seemed her anger was forming sentences instead of her brain. “Stop getting drunk on every single praise the Capitol gives you, and maybe you will see you’re not that special. Breaking news, Finnick Odair isn’t the only goddamn man on Earth with morals! Will his ego shatter to pieces or will he be able to recover from the devastating realization that he is not thecenter of the world?”

Each sentence felt like a punch to his guts, but Finnick stayed quiet, lips sealed by shame, facing the storm his long-time rival had become. He was only starting to realize now how much the announcement affected her, because even if she had probably called him a thousand time worse names in the past, she would always hide any emotion behind a mask of cold indifference. However, now he could see it. He could see everything. The resentment and frustration dripping from her voice. He could almost see the pieces of her broken heart who had fallen in each box she had filled up. And even as she turned on her heels and slammed the door of her chamber in his face, his gaze caught the way her hands uncontrollably, yet unperceivably shook against the handle.

Guilt squeezed his guts. Finnick realized that he spent so much time seeing Naia as his competition that sometimes, he almost forgot she was human. She was not only his strong, arrogant and deceitful rival, the victor he was always compared to when it came to determining the best golden victor of District Four. She was not just the girl that challenged him, that claimed she was better than him and that showered him with mockeries on his skills and his Capitol-persona. She was not just the girl he spared with every once in a while, to settle who is better. She was not just the girl who had a witty come-back for each of this teasing remarks. She was also just a girl. His old friend's sister. The girl from his district whom he grew up with. And behind the arrogance, the indifference, the rivalry, there was the ghost of the person who went through the same horrors he did, and whose soul died a little in that cursed arena.

And if he could forget that so easily, that told him more about the influence the Capitol had on himself than what he wanted to admit.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Finnick left the room, uncoherent thoughts trying to form words that would be a good enough apology without causing her to explode, but before any sound could come out of his open mouth, his voice died down in his throat as his eyes landed on Naia. The victor felt like a wave just hit him straight in the face – and maybe it did, only it was a wave of agony, radiating from the scene in front of him.

Sadness was painted all over the tiny room he tried to enter earlier, yet Naia smiled with the tenderness she reserved to only one person. Even his presence couldn’t disturb the peaceful expression on her face.

“Mom, do you recognize me? It’s Naia, remember? I’m your daughter.”

Finnick held his breath, waiting for the old lady sat on a rocking chair to answer. He knew her, of course. Naia’s mother’s house had been a safe haven for all the kids who once needed an escape from home, a hot meal or a wonderful story to let their mind wander in the amazing worlds the creative woman shared with them, all more peaceful than the world the Capitol ruled.

But the eloquent and lifeful discourses of the woman seemed long gone as Finnick watched her babble an unintelligible, uncoherent answer while her empty eyes stared in the void. He knew she had fallen sick, but he didn’t know about her condition. Any physical sickness seemed more merciful than forgetting everything and everyone until an entire lifetime is wiped out from a memory.

Naia caressed her cheek with delicacy. She was not expecting an answer. A moment passed. Finnick knew he should leave, that this was too intimate, but somehow, the memory of the warm and friendly woman who spared him tons of slices of cake when he was young kept his feet fixated on the ground.

When he finally moved, the movement caught the mother’s attention, and a flash of recognition illuminated her eyes. He froze, while Naia’s mouth dropped open in a hopeful gasp.

“Mom? He’s Finnick Odair, the fisherman’s son. Do you remember? He fought with Dan one day,” she said as she signed him to come crouching to her level. “You used to invite him over to eat even though I always asked you not to.”

Well, now he didn’t know if he should be more shocked to be recognized by someone who is losing their memory or to be introduced by Naia in such a gentle, harmless way. He’ll be damned if he ever hears Naia talk about him in such a sweet tone again.

“Hello Mrs Calder,” he hesitated a second, before confidently putting on his most charming smile, the one he knew could win him any mom over. “You fed me well when my dad was at sea. I hope I always thanked you for it because I remember your cooking as the best in the district.”

He held her emerald gaze as the old woman tried to speak, but her lips seemed to be moving too slowly, too harshly to actually mold the sound coming out of her mouth. The expectancy, the yearning himself felt made him realize how much more devastating that feeling must be for her daughter. Suddenly, Mrs Calder clapped her hands, startling him, before bursting into a quiet laugh.

“My daughter can’t stand the Odair kid!” she shouted in a joyful tone, punctuating it with another string of unintelligible sounds.

Even though the old lady quickly fell back into a state of incoherence, when the blond man looked at her daughter, her eyes glistened – he didn’t know if it was with tears or with joy. Naia had the biggest smile plastered on her face, holding her mother’s hands and planting a firm kiss on one of them.

“Damn right I do!” Naia exclaimed, laughing a true, relieved, liberating laugh.

Finnick stared at her, drinking in the sight and the sound. It was the first time in months, if not years, that he had seen her laugh so freely. Simply the improbability of the moment ripped a chuckle out of him too. For all she was annoying and irritating, his rival didn’t deserve the cruelty of this situation. So when she asked him to take care of her mother if he ever wins the games (which she still insisted would be highly improbable), the fisherman’s son did not hesitate. And somehow, he knew that behind all their rivalry and their mutual disliking, there was enough respect between them that they’d trust each other’s word.

But he also knew she probably will make him pay for coming to her house to guilt-trip her into sacrificing herself. Which she had already decided to do despite the unthinkable price she had to pay for it.

[beauty-and-passion]

TMA - Chapters 1-10: The beginning and everything I didn’t expect to see

Hello, everyone.

As promised, here is the first post with my impressions regarding chapters 1-10.

Let’s not waste too much time here: there is a lot to say and I’ll leave my final impression for the end of this post. For now, let's start.

<< Main masterlist

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MAG 1: Angler Fish

Well, that’s not what I expected.

So this series doesn't have a continuative plot, but it’s rather a “monster-of-the-week” situation. However, I don’t think it will be just like that: I’m quite sure a plot will come in the future. But since it’s not coming for now, I think the option I chose (i.e. commenting this series 10 chapters at a time) is perfect. This way, I can easily keep track of my favorite statements!

I also appreciate the small introduction. So we have a place: the Magnus Institute. I suppose this is the “library” I vaguely remembered. And we also have a person: Jonathan Sims, our maybe-protagonist. And we have Martin too! And Sasha and Tim! I have no idea who they are, but I’m looking forward to knowing them.

All I got for now, is that Jonathan (who I will surely call Jon from now on, because his name is too long) is kind of a skeptic. Clichè, but I accept it: this is a horror/supernatural series, so he will probably change his mind when he will face the real shit.

And speaking of the genre, glad to know that this story is horror/supernatural. I’m not a huge fan of horror, but I like to be surprised/scared/creeped out in creative ways.

And this first statement… fails to do that. Sorry to say that, but the story is kinda meh. The supernatural element is just here and it’s not very scary. Fine, the mysterious figure is probably just the bait of a supernatural shit we don’t see, but it’s weak. And the association with the anglerfish isn’t enough to creep me, nor creative enough to surprise me.

I hope the next statement will be better.

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MAG 2: Do Not Open

Yep, that’s much more interesting.

I like that the wooden coffin doesn’t do anything you might expect from a coffin in a supernatural story. The scratching was still kind of clichè, but I didn’t expect the singing in the rain. Or the “dream possession” or whatever it was that weird power that tried to trick Mr. Gillespie into opening the coffin.

It was also kinda funny to follow his misadventures in dealing with it. And understandable too: my man doesn’t want to open the weird coffin, so he will do everything to not open the weird coffin.

Honestly, same: I am a wimp and if someone delivered some weird shit in my place, I wouldn’t be so stupid to go face-first into it. Curiosity might be strong, but my will to live is stronger.

_______________________________

MAG 3 - Across The Street

That’s another interesting statement.

First, you think it will be about Graham and his journals, then there’s the weird hypnotic table with the missing piece, then Not-Graham. There are a lot of things here and they’re all creepy and interesting and I want to know more about them. Could there be a follow-up to this story? Or, at least, to its mysteries? It would be very cool to read another story and find the missing piece of that table. Or one of Graham’s journals. Or to see Not-Graham again. It would be fun. I hope there are follow-ups.

About the supernatural stuff: I couldn’t really understand what the arm-y thing-y was, so it wasn’t exactly scary, but more… bizarre? And a bit meh. It was just a black arm-y thing-y after all.

What really crept me out was Not-Graham casually saying: “Hey Amy, we live so close to each other, what a weird coincidence! Maybe I’ll pay you a visit.”. THAT was creepy as fuck and I loved it.

_______________________________

MAG 4 - Page Turner

I vaguely remember the name Leitner, so I have high hopes we will see more of his books in the future. After all, this statement looks more like an introduction to him and his books, rather than a self-contained story about Random Weird Thing no. 247.

Maybe we won’t see Ex Altiora anymore, but other books… why not? Also, Jonathan knows about Leitner and asked to search more of his books, so maybe we will see more of them.

By itself, the story is good at introducing the weirdness of these books through the equally weird figure of the Keays. I feel there’s still a lot to find out about Mary Keay’s murder, her existence, her place and her connection with Sanskrit. I want to know more about her.

And I want to know more about Gerard Keay too. Will we see him again in the future? I hope so: I feel like he has still a lot to say.

I also noticed a guy named Michael. Will we see more of him too? Is he the same Michael I’ve heard about? Or is there another Michael? Can’t wait to find out.

_______________________________

MAG 5 - Thrown Away

I don’t think this statement is creepy, but rather, a great example of weird.

There is nothing truly scary here, only weird. And I love this kind of weird. Every new trash bag is a surprise and the surprises are not gore-y, bloody, or clichè with the sole purpose of shocking you. The stuff inside is harmless, just… immensely weird: a long paper strip covered with the Our Father prayer, a huge bag full of teeth that are all of the same tooth… that’s not dangerous stuff, just weird. Unexpected. And, therefore, very cool.

The metal heart was a great choice too: just like all other findings is not disgusting nor gore-y, but it serves its purpose perfectly. You look at it and you know Alan is dead. I love it when creativity is used so well.

I also noticed there is another Michael here. Is he the same Michael mentioned in the previous story? Or another Michael? How many Michaels are in this series? XD

_______________________________

MAG 6 - Squirm

Another meh statement: a mysterious girl is feeling very sick, then she basically explodes into worms. Kind of a backlash, going from the delicious, subtle weird of the previous story to the disgusting stuff of this one.

However, I can understand Mr. Hodge: if my room was packed with worms, I would’ve burned the whole house down too.

Also, it looks like Jon knows this woman in red. Will we see Jane Prentiss again? Or more of her victims? No, of course I don’t want your answers: the series will tell me ;)

_______________________________

MAG 7 - The Piper

A simple war tale, starring a supernatural element, the Piper. I don’t find it particularly scary, but rather a melancholic figure. Sure, it’s a bit eerie and mysterious, but not particularly interesting - not for me, at least.

The story isn’t particularly captivating either. It’s just here and it screams “filler”. Or maybe not? After all, Jon remembers the name Joseph Rayner, so we will see another story featuring this guy?

_______________________________

MAG 8 - Burned Out

There’s a lot of stuff here - maybe even too much. First, Mr. Lensik’s father and fractals and math and the mysterious guy with “all the bones in his hands”. Then Mr. Raymond Fielding and Agnes, the disappeared kid, the missing hand, the tree, the green apple with spiders… woah, woah, slow down! What are all these things? Should I remember all of them? Are they all important? I feel like I already forgot something while writing them down!

Honestly, this huge number of peculiar elements is very distracting, because it gets all of the reader’s attention and takes it away from the story itself. A story that, if we reduce it to basics, what’s truly about? A man meets a ghost and pulls down a tree. Not exactly the most exciting thing ever.

Now, I’m not saying that a story with multiple digressions is bad. It just needs an extremely good writer and A LOT of time and space to properly develop everything, because it would be too easy to “forget” the story and get lost into all the digressions.

So, considering these statements are all short, I would rather avoid too many elements and keep them as simple as possible, focusing more on the story itself and adding just one or two recurring elements.

_______________________________

MAG 9 - A Father’s Love

Another meh story. Some elements are interesting, like the necklace with the hand and closed eye related to the Church of the Divine Host and the mysterious something that blows out every lightbulb. But yeah, from the moment it was mentioned that the father had a shed, I knew he was doing some supernatural circle/prayer/whatever.

A simple story, but nothing truly amazing about it.

_______________________________

MAG 10 - Vampire Killer

Seriously, every time there is a meh statement, a great one follows up. And if it’s not great, it’s extremely interesting. Or, like in this case, it’s surprising.

I mean, a statement titled “Vampire Killer”? I expected the same old tale about seductive vampires burning out in the sunlight.

But nope, this story offered a new vision of vampires. Even better, it did it by putting these details into the story, in a great example of show don’t tell.

I really like that the vampires' characteristics are so… bestial. Shark-like teeth, a leech’s tongue and no ability to talk: it’s new, it’s cool, it’s interesting and I would love to see fanarts of them (once I’ll finish the whole series).

I also appreciate that they burn like crisps, because without blood (i.e. a liquid), they dry out: so, not only it justifies why they drink blood and not eat solid food, but also why they burn so easily. It’s cool, it’s logical, it’s creative: I love it.

Oh-oh, am I also noticing a small hint of doubt in Jon’s words? Is he starting to think these statements are not just silly stories made by insane people/mythomaniacs? Didn’t expect him to start so soon, but I suppose a lot of things will happen in the near future and he needs the right state of mind to face them.

_______________________________

In conclusion

My first overall impression is positive: this series looks promising and I want to read more statements. Sure, my impression is based on 10 chapters out of 200 (so basically nothing) and on all the assumptions I made while reading. I don’t know if there will be a continuative plot, I don’t know if the characters of these stories will return and I don’t know if something huge will come in the future. I am just assuming these things, based on my experience as an “art-forms-enjoyer”.

I just hope I am right and that, while being right about these things, the series itself will keep surprising me with creative ideas. I would be very sad if my assumptions were correct, but the quality of the statements gets worse and worse. Please, keep being creative! More surprising stories and less “meh” stuff!

That’s all for now. I’ll come back very soon with the next post about chapters 11-20.

>> Next post

(How about a coffee? ☕)

_______________________________

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[cyberitual]

i know i said last night that i'm done with dayz. but i just now had. the most exhilarating moment in All My 90+ Hours.

i spawn in grabin, scavenging around, when i approach the police station, someone activates the town PA system to shout racial slurs. i have a p1 pistol with 13 rounds on me, and a colt python with 3 .357 rounds. it is my mission to kill this man.

i creep around the west buildings hoping to see him, and i do spy him going down the rooftop stairs. i wait to see him thru the windows.

he exits the station on my side of the street, and doesnt see me watching him.

i slowly go round a fence to hide in the bushes closer to the station, but then he's on his way back, so i rush to fire at him with the Colt before he can get to cover. i miss my first two shots, but land one on him.

i switch to the p1, eyeing every opening for him to show.

he keeps peeking, and i fire 4 shots.

i wait for him to show his face again.

i only have 4 rounds in the mag in my gun, and 4 in my reserve mag.

i decide to quickly remove the bullets from my reserve, unload my p1, and load its magazine before pushing a move.

once im loaded, i carefully push forward, angling in thru the windows of the barricade

but he's already dead! went into shock from the .357 and a couple other bullets i sent him.

now i'm eating his food, and knowing i ruined this idiot's time on dayz.

[busyheaded]

eye of the tiger [1/?]

summary: Later, Tigris will meet Finnick Odair for the first time after he has been brought to standard by the prep team. She will smile at him like she is not already mourning his death, and will turn his innocent boyishness into a too-old-for-him charisma. She will strip him of everything he is and turn him into everything the Capitol wants him to be. And she will hate herself for doing it while, at the same time, hope that she succeeds because that might mean that he lives.

or, Tigris’ final year as a stylist in the Games.

READ NOW ON AO3

excerpt:

The year that Mags won, Tigris was still living in the family apartment. Grandma’am was still alive. The Plinth family still came over for dinner every Sunday, and Mrs. Plinth still walked her to Fabricia’s shop every weekday. 

The year that Mags won, the Hunger Games were still being refined, not yet the seamless wheel of cogs that now turns annually without hiccup. The Capitol population was half of what it is now, the University’s attendance rate a quarter. High fashion was just a niche. The gaudy makeup, colorful hair and skin, and theatrical clothing had only just begun to creep in.

The year that Mags won, the streets of the Capitol were still littered with little piles of rubble from the war. The citizens still locked their doors at night and hesitated to be out late alone. The Dark Days were not a distant, sometimes forgotten memory, but what felt to many like yesterday. 

The year that Mags won, Tigris had lunch with Coriolanus every week, sometimes more. The Games that year were sprinkled in between his exams and papers and finals, played on screens mounted in the background of her rise to greatness in Fabricia’s workshop.

The year that Mags won, Coriolanus still hugged her hello and goodbye. He still came to her for advice, taking long walks around the University under the sunrise. He still proudly held her on his arm, still introduced her to his classmates as his beautiful cousin and a future name to look for in high fashion, so don’t you forget her!, and when it was just them alone she still called him ‘Coryo’ and he still called her ‘T,’ and both of them still loved each other.

But that was the year that Mags won.

[wgc-productions]

As a certain protagonist from an award winning Tony Kushner play once said: The Great Work Continues!

You can read my reactions to the 3rd episode of the Magnus Archives under the cut.

00:00 Okay, Silly question. Is Magnus a person? If so, do we meet that person? This is a ~silly question~ cause I think it might literally be the name of the freaky little place Johnathan spends all his time and, if so, this was probably discussed in Episode 1 but I don't want to go back and listen to answer my question.

01:09 And I am gonna speed skip through these ads. You guys should listen though.

02:00- I wonder if people skip through the ads on Small Victories? No hard feelings if you do.

03:01- Dang. Sucks for Casey Shane.

04:26- You know what's across the street from my house? Another single-family house! Which, to some urban planners, probably is a horror unto itself.

05:05- My prayers have been answered. It's the Magnus Institute. (That doesn't solve the problem of if they are a real person who is significant, because why is this freaky little institute dedicated to investigating strange phenoms named after you if your'e a perfectly normal fellow?)

07:53- Okay, so yes the people these logs are about are very strange, but also, even before the people got ~supernaturally~ strange the log holders are still very judgmental of what is just a little odd behavior. I mean, when I was younger I would practice making and mimicking animal noises, be drawn to small dark warm spaces, would repeat the words people said as they said them, and would talk to myself all the time. If one of these people were around me then they'd think I was a little alien horror!

10:30 As someone who has never had a concussion, what's it like?

11:41- Buddy boy, take a Tylenol.

12:53- Honestly the square hole is the most alarming thing about this. Think about it. When's the last time you've seen a perfectly square hole on a piece of antique furniture. Just one hole with no other decoration. As a lover of old furniture, it gives me the williams.

15:06- THIS MAN IS A TERROR!

15:26- HERE YE! HERE YE! Local man obsessively watches mentally disturbed man from his window. More at 11.

16:02- If you're so concerned you need to get the man some help, brother.

17:59- April 7th? Ah, yes, Good Friday. He dropped the ham on the floor and ate it anyway. Harrowing.

18:36- I feel like video games would be great for this guy. Get to sit at home, be invested in a world outside of you, and you don't have to creep on your neighbor for all the days of your life.

20:09- Alright. I am, admittedly, alarmed.

21:02- See and this is why you should have sat there and ate your food. You wouldn't know Lovecraftian Horrors live next door if you minded your own business.

22:23- I know it's the accent, but when he says "Graham" it sounds like 'Gray ham" which amuses me greatly.

23:28- Oh, he's happy to see you.

23:37- Honestly, I do think it's way more interesting (or at least has the potential to be deeply interesting) to explore the idea that monsters and horrors exist but they don't want to hurt you. They are just living parallel to you. Yeah there may be a strange horror living across the street but he'll smile at you like anyone else would and he won't do anything to hurt you or hurt anyone else, but the internal discomfort you feel upon seeing something you were told was scary is what drives your fear. The fear and horror is internal.

25:28- See! Grayham didn't even hurt anyone. He was just chilling and trying to smile down the weirdo who was watching him for months. Honestly, Grayham was being very kind all things considered.

26:16- How do you know Graham didn't have the monster inside him all along?

26:40- Look. He was playing a fun little game with his stalker friend.

27:04- They want me to be scared, but I really do think the idea that the Graham like thing was a little strange and was toying with the watcher a lot more fun.

I think this is my favorite episode so far! I liked the story telling and the descriptions did leave me with strong mental images that I just don't think they'd be able to replicate on screen.

I will say I am scrolling through the episode list and I do not see a clear break in seasons, so could someone let me know where Season 1 ends?

[nevadas-night-time-novelist]

Some more ideas cus why not.

Underneath all that bloodlust, dissonance and makeup Triky will forever and always be a nerd, and what is a nerd's natural predator? A jock.

—----------------------------

A grunt made a deal with the neon clad vampires, the deal was that they don't get eaten and in return they entertain other grunts to stay and watch their performance past sundown. Forcing them to leave the safety of the rave and into the hungry jaws of the night. (Said grunts method of entrancing other grunts is by hula hoop dancing, there stage name is Saturn, because Saturn's got rings)

—----------------------------

Whispers on the street speak of a new anomaly stalking Nevadas streets, or more like burning rubber on them. Witnesses of the aloof biker say that they wore all black, and although it's hard to identify exactly what clothes they wear they are commonly told to be sporting a leather jacket along with a pair of fingerless gloves. But the most striking aspect, and most retold, was the empty space where their head should be. Thus they gain the name, the Headless Biker, the only thing you'll hear before their arrival is the sound of a roaring motorcycle engine.

Aw shit here we go again /ref

Auditor is 1000% done with Tricky and his shit, and he knows deep under the rot and madness is that pussy ass nerd. Introducing MAG Bully. A MAG retainer, built with incredible speed, brute strength and a healing factor that makes him near impossible to kill.

Remember, nothing is impossible, it's just incredibly improbable.

Bully has two spikes in his head, sticking out like bull horns, a giant golden ring in his nasal area, and carries barbed wire wrapped in one hand to make brass knuckles, and an electric cattle prod. Audi took the bull theme quite seriously lol.

He's got one of those american jock jacket things idk the name i aint murican with a bull and his name on the back.

He's equipped with a reverse improbability drive, so if Tricky pulls some shit, he won't be affected by it. Bully's got one goal in mind and it IS to eviscerate that clown and bring him into Stygian's cold hands. That is after shoving the nerd into a locker.

-

They're known in the Vamps circles by a few names, Saturn, Rings, Siren, Dinner bell. The beasts of the night come to each beck and call of the ring spinner, some entranced by their movements and skill with their neon performance pieces, others already pulling away unaware targets to feed on nectarous blood and rich innards.

It's a breeding ground of debauchery and feast for the undead. Some are just torn apart and devoured to nothing but bone, others are lured in and corrupted, birthing new vampires to continue the cycle of consuming and creating.

Be they alive or undead, all fall into the hypnotising rings of Saturn, for they are children of the night.

-

Beware criminals of the dark streets of Nevada, for the roaring engine of a bike may be the chimes of doom. A headless monster rides at night, cloaked in pitch black leather, silver studding and chains, one who bears the weight of justice so many can't.

A creeping man corners a young woman in an alley, brandishing a knife and demanding her purse or her life, yet seeking to steal away both, when the machine calls out, the only warning sign before chains wrap around the criminal's body.

The headless legend has arrived, but aren't they meant to be on a horse? Nevermind.

No face, no voice, but swift justice follows. Strapped to the back of the bike, body torn apart by the rough road and terrain, a fitting punishment according to the headless hero. A serial killer captured and put to death by torture.

A vicious vigilante trying to make cities safe one criminal at a time. Stygian keeps an eye on this monster, perhaps he'll have a new employee before too long.

[awitchnamedkai]

Come on, skinny love, just last the year

This was not how it was supposed to go. He got too cocky, Elijah knew he should have waited for Magnus and Corvus. But even though he still had powers, he was still new to them. Like a baby taking its first steps. And while he did have some armor, it was nowhere near as good as ceramite and the cultists had no lasguns, but the bullets still fucking hurt. Elijah coughed, blood trickling out of his nose and mouth as he leaned on the wall still gripping his rifle. “Fuck..this is bad” he mumbled. He let his back hit the wall and slid down it. Digging through his pack he tried to find his first aid kid, something to stop the bleeding until he could return to camp. No matter what Magnus and Corvus could not see him like this. These wounds required him to take his shirt off and they did know yet - couldn’t know. He wasn't going to take the risk. While banding his wounds, his vox jumped to life and a voice came over. “Elijah” It spoke, fuck it was Corvus “Elijah we are at the rendezvous, where are you?”

Elijah could hear the slight panic in his voice. “Sorry, got held up '' Elijah said, shoving gause into the bullet wounds and slowly standing up, trying not to pass out. He adjusted his large coat to cover the wound, Luckily the bullet didn't go through his coat so he could hide it, for now. “I'm almost there, less than five mikes out, '' he huffed, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and starting to walk north, limping all the way. “Where are you,” Said Corvus over the vox “We can meet you -” “No!” Elijah shouted all too quickly “No - everything is fine I'm almost there..!” Elijah quickened his pace, moving through the city streets. “Be safe” Corvus spoke one last time, The click of the vox shutting off made Elijah sigh. 

Eventually, Elijah rounded a corner and saw the large frame of Magnus and Corvus. Magnus was talking to some of his sons via vox, with Corvus nearby listening in. Elijah let out a soft sigh of relief, and Corvus must have heard him because he turned around to greet him. “Elijah... Are you alright?” He asked softly, glancing over his form. “I'm fine Cor,” Elijah said with a slight smile, he hated lying but he was too scared of them finding out. He wouldn't risk losing them. “Nothing I can't handle.” A large hand came to rest on his shoulder, its weight was comforting to him. A very small smile appeared on Corvus's face as he made eye contact with Elijah. He went to say something before Magnus appeared behind him. “Love, there you are,” He said looking at Elijah, “Corvus said you got held up, you are not hurt, are you? I can get an apothecary -” Elijah cut him off “Mag, I’m fine” he said with a huff “I may be smaller than you guys, but I’m not entirely human too, remember?” Magnus sighed, giving him a look almost like he knew something was off. But Magnus did not press any further. “We need to keep moving,” Corvus said, turning his back and starting to walk north deeper into the city “We are almost at the LZ and I’d rather not stay here longer than we must.”

Elijah fixed his bag and stifled a groan of pain, the pain of the bullet wounds starting to increase. “Yeah... It's only a few more miles right?” He said softly. He walked past Magnus, catching a look that Magnus gave Corvus. Did they know? Magnus never read his mind without asking first but what if he did? No, he wouldn't, Magnus said he wouldn’t so Elijah just had to trust that he would keep his promise. Elijah took up the back, as Magnus and Corvus walked ahead. Tiredness started to creep into Elijah's bones, but he could press forward.

The walk was getting harder and harder, and Elijah could feel his pain get worse and worse. He needed medical help soon but Emperor dammit he was gonna do it himself. Elijah was trans, and he knew how in his world most humans reacted to it. He hadn't told Magnus or Corvus yet and was somewhat scared too. He loved them dearly and would not risk losing them… what if they hated him because of it? These thoughts were running through his head, the blood loss was getting to him. Elijah was tired, very tired. He stumbled and fell into a wall muttering some curses under his breath. Corvus stopped and looked back, quickly rushing to his side “Elijah what's wrong?” He asked hand stopping just inches from his form almost like he was scared to touch him like he’d break. “Nothing, im...Fine” he huffed out, his chest tight with pain and anxiety. “Eli” Magnus noticed something “You’re…bleeding?!” He asked in shock, pointing to the blood now seeping through his leather coat “Fuck… Look im fine guys, it’s okay” Elijah tried to speak coughing slightly. He tried to walk again, but his legs gave out. Bracing himself to hit the floor a pair of arms caught him before he fell to the ground. Corvus and Magnus leaned him against the wall and sat him down, Elijah was griping his side in pain. “Guys'm okay… im-” He was cut off by Magnus “I knew something was wrong,” He said breathlessly. “We need to deal with this before it gets worse” Magnus reached towards his jacket, pushing it aside and trying to slide it down his shoulders. “WOAH - hey wait-” Elijah pressed himself further into the wall behind him trying to get away from Magnus’s hands. “Eli it's okay - “ Corvus began trying to calm him down “Wait I can-” Elijah spoke trying to bat Magnus’s hands away. “Guys please wait..!” Elijah yelled, partially in pain and in fear “Elijah what is wrong?” Magnus said trying to steady him. Elijah was panting and shaking and he was about to pass out. “Guys’m fine, Please, wait..!” Magnus and Corvus were talking to him, but it was just a ringing blur of sound. His eyelids grew heavy, and he tried to fight it as much as he could, but it was too much for him to handle, eventually, he slumped to the side, and one of them caught him and held him gently. “I don't… don’t want you to hate me too…” he mumbled letting the pain and darkness overtake him.

A soft beeping filled his ears first, then a low hum. Elijah groaned in pain, and then slowly opened his eyes. At first, it was bright and blurry, and Elijah slowly realized there were three figures. Two were massive, one red like the sun and the other black like darkness. It looked like they were talking to a smaller figure, maybe a human. But he couldn't tell, his head was pounding. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, their outlines still blurry. Elijah attempted to try to sit up, only to shout out in pain and he gripped his chest where he was shot. He hissed through gritted teeth still trying to sit up. The figures, which he now realized were Magnus and Corvus talking to an apothecary, turned around at the sound. “Elijah..!” they both said, rushing to his side. “You must sit back down,” Magnus said, putting a soft hand on his shoulder and trying to gently push him back. Corvus set a hand on his leg trying to comfort him. “Im-Im fine” Elijah spoke through gritted teeth. “Elijah… You need to rest” Corvus said gently squeezing his leg and setting a hand on his other shoulder Finally with both of them he let them push him back to the bed. But anxiety was eating him Elijah, his heart rate jumping up. He was terrified, they must know now, his secret that he was trans. They must have sensed his fears and attempted to comfort him. “Elijah…” Corvus spoke softly, but Elijah would not look at them. “Elijah..please look at us…” Elijah just closed his eyes, breaths coming out in puffs almost like he was hyperventilating, He lowered his head until a very soft hand came under his chin and lifted his head, a thumb stoked his cheek softly. Finally, Elijah opened his eyes and looked to Magnus, then slowly to Corvus. “Why…why are you so scared?” Corvus asked softly and gently, as if he spoke too loud it would shatter Elijah like glass. “Did we do something wrong? You know we would never hurt you,” Magnus spoke next squeezing his shoulder softly. “Im sorry…” Elijah spoke, “I didn’t mean to lie to you, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear!” He said looking between them. “ Then why didn’t you tell us?” he said“ You know we love you no matter what, Elijah but why did you hide this? Elijah squeezed his eyes shut again tightly. Scared to speak, he swallowed hard and then opened his mouth. “Be-Because where im from, my earth or uh, terra, It's not widely accepted..” He said sadly opening his eyes as a single tear cascaded down his cheek. “I was often outcast, bullied, and…assaulted for being… Me, I was hated and never seen as a man, a real man…” Elijah said holding back more tears. Shock crossed the features of Corvus and Magnus, surprised that there could be people like this, that this..madness had happened to someone they care and love. “Im… Im sorry Elijah, my love, Im so sorry this happened to you…” Corvus said, kneeling to be as close to eye level as he could be. “That is why you were scared, you didn’t know how we would react so therefore you hid it from us…” He said, rubbing his cheek again and raising his head to look at him. “But I love you, we, love you. For you.” He said softly smiling, Elijah softly smiled too looking between the two of his lovers. “No matter what anyone else says, you are a man. You are more of a man than most.” Elijah let out a soft huff, smiling a little stronger at the comment. “You are strong, Fearless, brave and kind. All the qualities of a good man.” Elijah sighed softly and rolled his eyes. “Thank you, my loves, I mean it… For patching me up…again… and-and for loving me, as me and I really am…” he reached up and rested one hand on Corvus’s and Magnus’s faces and softly caressed them. “Thank you” He said, with a real smile.

[kaiamongthestars]

This was not how it was supposed to go. He got too cocky, Elijah knew he should have

waited for Magnus and Corvus. But even though he still had powers, he was still new to

them. Like a baby taking its first steps. And while he did have some armor, it was

nowhere near as good as ceramite and the cultists had no lasguns, but the bullets still

fucking hurt. Elijah coughed, blood trickling out of his nose and mouth as he leaned on

the wall still gripping his rifle. “Fuck..this is bad” he mumbled. He let his back hit the wall

and slid down it. Digging through his pack he tried to find his first aid kid, something to

stop the bleeding until he could return to camp. No matter what Magnus and Corvus

could not see him like this. These wounds required him to take his shirt off and they did

know yet - couldn’t know. He wasn't going to take the risk. While banding his wounds,

his vox jumped to life and a voice came over. “Elijah” It spoke, fuck it was Corvus “Elijah

we are at the rendezvous, where are you?”

Elijah could hear the slight panic in his voice. “Sorry, got held up '' Elijah said, shoving

gause into the bullet wounds and slowly standing up, trying not to pass out. He adjusted

his large coat to cover the wound, Luckily the bullet didn't go through his coat so he

could hide it, for now. “I'm almost there, less than five mikes out, '' he huffed, slinging

the rifle over his shoulder and starting to walk north, limping all the way. “Where are

you,” Said Corvus over the vox “We can meet you -” “No!” Elijah shouted all too quickly

“No - everything is fine I'm almost there..!” Elijah quickened his pace, moving through

the city streets. “Be safe” Corvus spoke one last time, The click of the vox shutting off

made Elijah sigh.

Eventually, Elijah rounded a corner and saw the large frame of Magnus and Corvus.

Magnus was talking to some of his sons via vox, with Corvus nearby listening in. Elijah

let out a soft sigh of relief, and Corvus must have heard him because he turned around

to greet him. “Elijah... Are you alright?” He asked softly, glancing over his form. “I'm fine

Cor,” Elijah said with a slight smile, he hated lying but he was too scared of them finding

out. He wouldn't risk losing them. “Nothing I can't handle.” A large hand came to rest on

his shoulder, its weight was comforting to him. A very small smile appeared on Corvus's

face as he made eye contact with Elijah. He went to say something before Magnus

appeared behind him. “Love, there you are,” He said looking at Elijah, “Corvus said you

got held up, you are not hurt, are you? I can get an apothecary -” Elijah cut him off

“Mag, I’m fine” he said with a huff “I may be smaller than you guys, but I’m not entirely

human too, remember?” Magnus sighed, giving him a look almost like he knew

something was off. But Magnus did not press any further. “We need to keep moving,”

Corvus said, turning his back and starting to walk north deeper into the city “We are

almost at the LZ and I’d rather not stay here longer than we must.”

Elijah fixed his bag and stifled a groan of pain, the pain of the bullet wounds starting to

increase. “Yeah... It's only a few more miles right?” He said softly. He walked past

Magnus, catching a look that Magnus gave Corvus. Did they know? Magnus never read

his mind without asking first but what if he did? No, he wouldn't, Magnus said he

wouldn’t so Elijah just had to trust that he would keep his promise. Elijah took up the

back, as Magnus and Corvus walked ahead. Tiredness started to creep into Elijah's

bones, but he could press forward.

The walk was getting harder and harder, and Elijah could feel his pain get worse and

worse. He needed medical help soon but Emperor dammit he was gonna do it himself.

Elijah was trans, and he knew how in his world most humans reacted to it. He hadn't

told Magnus or Corvus yet and was somewhat scared too. He loved them dearly and

would not risk losing them… what if they hated him because of it? These thoughts were

running through his head, the blood loss was getting to him. Elijah was tired, very tired.

He stumbled and fell into a wall muttering some curses under his breath. Corvus

stopped and looked back, quickly rushing to his side “Elijah what's wrong?” He asked

hand stopping just inches from his form almost like he was scared to touch him like he’d

break. “Nothing, im...Fine” he huffed out, his chest tight with pain and anxiety. “Eli”

Magnus noticed something “You’re…bleeding?!” He asked in shock, pointing to the

blood now seeping through his leather coat “Fuck… Look im fine guys, it’s okay” Elijah

tried to speak coughing slightly. He tried to walk again, but his legs gave out. Bracing

himself to hit the floor a pair of arms caught him before he fell to the ground. Corvus and

Magnus leaned him against the wall and sat him down, Elijah was griping his side in

pain. “Guys'm okay… im-” He was cut off by Magnus “I knew something was wrong,” He

said breathlessly. “We need to deal with this before it gets worse” Magnus reached

towards his jacket, pushing it aside and trying to slide it down his shoulders. “WOAH -

hey wait-” Elijah pressed himself further into the wall behind him trying to get away from

Magnus’s hands. “Eli it's okay - “ Corvus began trying to calm him down “Wait I can-”

Elijah spoke trying to bat Magnus’s hands away. “Guys please wait..!” Elijah yelled,

partially in pain and in fear “Elijah what is wrong?” Magnus said trying to steady him.

Elijah was panting and shaking and he was about to pass out. “Guys’m fine, Please,

wait..!” Magnus and Corvus were talking to him, but it was just a ringing blur of sound.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he tried to fight it as much as he could, but it was too much

for him to handle, eventually, he slumped to the side, and one of them caught him and

held him gently. “I don't… don’t want you to hate me too…” he mumbled letting the pain

and darkness overtake him.

A soft beeping filled his ears first, then a low hum. Elijah groaned in pain, and then

slowly opened his eyes. At first, it was bright and blurry, and Elijah slowly realized there

were three figures. Two were massive, one red like the sun and the other black like

darkness. It looked like they were talking to a smaller figure, maybe a human. But he

couldn't tell, his head was pounding. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, their

outlines still blurry. Elijah attempted to try to sit up, only to shout out in pain and he

gripped his chest where he was shot. He hissed through gritted teeth still trying to sit up.

The figures, which he now realized were Magnus and Corvus talking to an apothecary,

turned around at the sound. “Elijah..!” they both said, rushing to his side. “You must sit

back down,” Magnus said, putting a soft hand on his shoulder and trying to gently push

him back. Corvus set a hand on his leg trying to comfort him. “Im-Im fine” Elijah spoke

through gritted teeth. “Elijah… You need to rest” Corvus said gently squeezing his leg

and setting a hand on his other shoulder Finally with both of them he let them push him

back to the bed. But anxiety was eating him Elijah, his heart rate jumping up. He was

terrified, they must know now, his secret that he was trans. They must have sensed his

fears and attempted to comfort him. “Elijah…” Corvus spoke softly, but Elijah would not

look at them. “Elijah..please look at us…” Elijah just closed his eyes, breaths coming out

in puffs almost like he was hyperventilating, He lowered his head until a very soft hand

came under his chin and lifted his head, a thumb stoked his cheek softly. Finally, Elijah

opened his eyes and looked to Magnus, then slowly to Corvus. “Why…why are you so

scared?” Corvus asked softly and gently, as if he spoke too loud it would shatter Elijah

like glass. “Did we do something wrong? You know we would never hurt you,” Magnus

spoke next squeezing his shoulder softly. “Im sorry…” Elijah spoke, “I didn’t mean to lie

to you, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear!” He said looking between them. “ Then why

didn’t you tell us?” he said“ You know we love you no matter what, Elijah but why did

you hide this? Elijah squeezed his eyes shut again tightly. Scared to speak, he

swallowed hard and then opened his mouth. “Be-Because where im from, my earth or

uh, terra, It's not widely accepted..” He said sadly opening his eyes as a single tear

cascaded down his cheek. “I was often outcast, bullied, and…assaulted for being… Me,

I was hated and never seen as a man, a real man…” Elijah said holding back more

tears. Shock crossed the features of Corvus and Magnus, surprised that there could be

people like this, that this..madness had happened to someone they care and love. “Im…

Im sorry Elijah, my love, Im so sorry this happened to you…” Corvus said, kneeling to

be as close to eye level as he could be. “That is why you were scared, you didn’t know

how we would react so therefore you hid it from us…” He said, rubbing his cheek again

and raising his head to look at him. “But I love you, we, love you. For you.” He said

softly smiling, Elijah softly smiled too looking between the two of his lovers. “No matter

what anyone else says, you are a man. You are more of a man than most.” Elijah let out

a soft huff, smiling a little stronger at the comment. “You are strong, Fearless, brave and

kind. All the qualities of a good man.” Elijah sighed softly and rolled his eyes. “Thank

you, my loves, I mean it… For patching me up…again… and-and for loving me, as me

and I really am…” he reached up and rested one hand on Corvus’s and Magnus’s faces

and softly caressed them. “Thank you” He said, with a real smile.

[squiidjpeg]

MAG 129 - Submerged

A poem(ish) based of tma ep.

This episode is so mental illness coded

I’m drowning.

Everything is collapsing around me

These once busy streets are an eerie ghost town, nobody here but the odd shadows

All I have is the relentless pounding of a cold rain

Creeping in and weighing me down, trying to suffocate me

I’m drowning

First was a drizzling rain on my shoulders, dancing around, just enough to go unnoticed

Then as it creeps up my worn socks, towards my pant legs, I see again the odd shadows

Reaching out from the dark water trying to pull me in

I try to run, as the flood water rushes through me

I am not fast enough, and it catches me

strange shadows and waves pull me under and I cannot breathe

Thrashing and fighting while icy water fills my lungs and I begin to go limp

I’m drowning

[d2kvirus]

Dickheads of the Month: November 2022

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of November 2022 to make sure that they are never forgotten.    

The optics of Suella Braverman arriving at a migrant centre in an army chinook helicopter was clearly planned, given her ranting about an “invasion” which definitely hasn't led to people petrol bombing migrant centres after she used that terminology - but when called out on the taxpayer forking out £50k for a photo op the best defence she could come up with was she choose an army helicopter because she wanted to get a good look at the coastline as if maps don't exist, and definitely not because she wanted the most fashy imagery to go with the fashy things which come out of her mouth

So it turns out that Gavin Williamson isn't just a snivelling little creep, but also a bullying little shit who when serving as Defence Secretary (before being sacked for leaking the minutes from a COBRA meeting to a mate at the Telegraph, yet somehow isn't in jail) once told somebody to slit their own throat and jump out the window, and on another occasion threatened to unleash his pet tarantula onto somebody.  In other words, once again Rishi Sunak has shown superb judgment in his cabinet appointments - especially when Williamson resigned, as opposed to being sacked

...only for Wes Streeting to make it impossible for Labour to make any comment about bullying after he called Jeremy Corbyn “senile” in Commons less than 24 hours after Williamson was out the door

...and then Rishi Sunak responded to reports of Dominic Raab habitually bullying Justice Department staff by doing the square root of fuck all, even after it emerged that the MoJ made sure to have a senior civil servant in the room with Raab at all times to stop him bullying his subordinates

...and then along came Lee Anderson at PMQs to whine that the Labour MPs criticising Suella Braverman was clearly them bullying her, because if anybody knows bullying it would be the Tory MP who assaulted a member of the public at the Tory conference

In which way does Twitter owner Elon Musk tweeting from the account of the current owner of Twitter that people should vote Republican in the US midterms demonstrate the sort of “impartiality” that billionaire manchild Elon Musk said that Twitter should demonstrate?

Snivelling little creep Gavin Williamson having a meltdown and threatening then-Chief Whip Wendy Morton because he couldn't get into the Queen’s funeral should have ended his aspirations of being a minister ever again - if not for the fact that Rishi Sunak decided to make him Minister Without Portfolio for reasons beyond comprehension, and once those threatening text messages came to light that meant Sunka was now having to make excuses for two people he should not have added to his cabinet in the first place

Billionaire manchild Elon Musk appears to not be taking it well that his suggestion of tiered freeze peach is getting laughed off the platform he paid $44bn for all because Hard Drive Mag dunked on him like his name was Nagasaki, tweeting one cringy meme after another about how people are big meanies to not pay $8 a month for something which they didn't have to pay for until Musk decided to monetise it - and then reduced the cost from $20 because he failed to comprehend what Stephen King’s criticism wasn’t that he didn't want to pay $20 a month for a blue tick, but he shouldn't have to

...and then very clever businessman Elon Musk had to humiliatingly roll back his mass layoffs as it dawned on him that maybe, just maybe, there was a reason why Twitter had so many people employed as moderators and factcheckers 

...and because billionaire manchild Elon Musk has the thinnest skin on record, when the inevitability of his approach to verification saw numerous Twitter users pay the $8, change their username to “Elon Musk” and tweet out some particularly harsh truths about the tax-dodging, union-avoiding, Blood Diamond-backed cretin, Musk responded by permabanning them while whining that the accounts should make it clear they were parodies...and permabanned those making it clear they were parodies

...and then billionaire manchild Elon Musk had to very quickly remove the paid verification option from Twitter after the share prices of companies including Eli Lilly and Lockheed Martin nosedived as a result of creative shitposting - although it was coincidentally removed as soon as somebody creatively shitposted masquerading as Tesla, almost as if Musk wasn't that interested in other companies’ share price tumbling, but as soon as his own started to nosedive even harder he stepped right in to stop that happening

...and then billionaire manchild Elon Musk was diagnosed with a terminal case of small man syndrome as his response to a Twitter engineer replying to one of Musk’s tweets that was full of technically incoherent gibberish that demonstrated that he doesn’t even know how the platform he paid $44bn for even works by telling him how it works and how his tweet was downright incorrect - so, of course, the God King of Twitter fired the engineer via tweet.  And then several more engineers for similar reasons.  And then posted a tweet slagging off the engineers he fired for exposing his gross ignorance

...shortly before billionaire manchild Elon Musk thought it would be a brilliant idea to pitch an ultimatum to Twitter’s engineers: agree to work significantly longer hours (in no small part due to the mass layoffs) by 5pm the following day or accept three months severance.  Soon afterwards, Twitter’s HQ was shut down for the weekend, which definitely had nothing to do with the engineers shrugging their shoulders and deciding to take the severance instead of continue having to deal with the clueless billionaire’s bullshit

...and then billionaire manchild Elon Musk had a long, drawn-out meltdown on his Twitter feed because Apple was no longer advertising Twitter on the App Store while screeching about the c-o-n-spiracy of Apple’s hidden 30% tax on all app purchases which has been front and centre of the App Store’s ToS for well over a decade, all while looking uncannily like he was whipping up his followers to attack Apple’s Tim Cook while howling that Cook wasn't replying to his tweets immediately as if CEOs are supposed to be on Twitter all day - only to suddenly do a 180 and say there was never any risk of Twitter being dropped from the App Store, which is utterly unhinged behaviour

Remember the days when Tim Pool claimed they weren't a member of the alt-right, in spite regularly being seen hanging out with the alt-right?  Well he seems to have forgotten that, based on him responding to the Club Q shooting by falsely (if that even has to be explained at this point) calling the victims paedophiles who groomed kids to amplify the alt-right dogwhistling about drag shows that's been getting increasingly nastier for months

...as demonstrated by mug salesman Steven Crowder quote tweeting Pool with what looks uncannily like the fourteen words, which goes to show just how much of a dumpster fire Twitter rapidly became under its new, clueless leadership

Unifying force Keir Starmer once again demonstrated what an alternative he is to the Tories when harrumphing on Sophie Ridge that there are too many overseas workers recruited to work in the NHS, somehow forgetting that the NHS is literally supported by overseas workers due to how prohibitively expensive studying for a medical degree is and, of course, also stopping short of suggesting existing NHS staff get a pay raise

Nobody was expecting Kari Lake to take losing the Arizona gubernatorial election well considering how badly she would take non-American journalists questioning the version of reality she lives in by saying that foreigners aren't allowed to comment about American politics (which she did to both British and Australian journalists), but bloody hell we haven’t seen a meltdown like hers since...well, the end of 2020

I’m sure that it's a coincidence that the ultra-relatable Rishi Sunak happened to be selling poppies at Westminster tube station at the exact same time that a gaggle of client journalists happened to be passing through to photograph and film him doing so out of the goodness of his heart

...and then unifying force Keir Starmer was papped a day later doing the exact same thing outside St Pancras, once again by complete coincidence when press photographers were passing by with their equipment in hand, which definitely didn't look staged either

It turns out that, when Agnes Callard isn't crossing a University of Chicago picket line and justifying it with some guff about a “philosophical emergency”, she's taking to Twitter to pretend that her children are grateful to her for throwing away their Halloween candy when they go to bed, so is either cruel to her children or somebody who types out bizarre fantasies on Twitter about how she wishes she was cruel to their children 

The ultra-relatable Rishi Sunak claimed that the reason he did not wear a World AIDS Day ribbon is because he does not believe in wearing things on his lapel.  Except for when he wore a poppy on his lapel for several days the previous month.  Or at least two different badges to show solidarity with Ukraine.  Those were on his lapel and photographed many, many times

Pure bastardtrade from Mercedes-Benz when they looked at BMW locking their top speeds behind a paywall and, instead of thinking of not doing that to steal a march on their most direct competitors by not demanding their customers pay a subscription so they could floor it, but instead copied the idea wholeheartedly 

Unifying force Keir Starmer said he could not attend the first MPs surgery for his constituency due to urgent business, only for that “urgent business” to be him attending The Spectator’s annual award ceremony - where he was awarded Politician of the Year, a real good look for a Labour leader...

Did you know that Lady Susan Hussey is 83?  Because a lot of people are bringing that up as if it's some kind of defence at her assuming that Ngozi Fulani must be a migrant because of her skin colour

In the latest bid of Matt Hancock to gain relevance outside of true crime podcasts, he joined the cast of I’m A Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here - which immediately saw him suspended as an MP for prioritising eating kangaroo testicles over knowing where his constituency might be, apparently forgetting that Nadine Dorries had the whip suspended when she appeared on the same show a decade earlier

...and then it emerged that Matt Hancock had hired a PR firm to try and help him cheat his way to victory by encouraging TikTok users to use all five of their allotted votes to keep him in the jungle and showed them how to do it, which technically isn't a breach of the voting rules - until you look at the stats of the account gaming the system and find yourself asking why it has almost twenty times the followers of any other contestant

Balan Wonderworld is no longer the worst thing Yuji Naka has done since joining Square Enix, as Naka along with fellow executives Taisuke Sazaki and Fumiaki Suzuki were arrested after it was found that they had sneakily invested heavily in Aiming shares shortly before Square Enix announced that Aiming would be making Dragon Quest Tact, seemingly unaware that they’d get found out sooner or later

Nice job by the Qatari World Cup organisers when they decided, just two days before the tournament kicks off, that fans can't drink in the stands of the stadiums after all but they can drink in the executive boxes.  Luckily we didn't hear much kvetching from The FA about this, given their archaic rule about the lower orders not being allowed to drink in view of the pitch, a rule which doesn't apply to rugby or cricket

...and then FIFA turned around and told captains they were no longer allowed to wear OneLove armbands and would be booked if they took to the pitch wearing one, which definitely doesn't open the door to the captains for the final doing so because it's not like being booked in the final would affect them much

Once again England fans went on the charm offensive during a major tournament, be it mocking USA fans about 9/11 in the stadium for England’s match with the USA, while the fans who didn't get any further than Tenerife having a mass punch-up with Wales fans.  Charming bunch as usual...

Perhaps it would be for the best if Martin Daubney went back to school, considering he went on GB News to tell all three of their viewers that a Twitter poll proved that the public still supports Jonestown - in spite the small inconvenience of 55% of the vote on GB News’ Twitter feed being against Jonestown, which Daubney couldn’t bring himself to admit.  But he called people who disagree “Remaniacs”, so that makes it better...

There is no dick energy smaller than Nick Adams having “Alpha Male” in his Twitter username before routinely tweeting about what is and isn't “Alpha male” behaviour, which is apparently eating wings and drinking beer at Hooters. Just a thought, Nick: throw in a Brazzers subscription and you’re living the fantasy of a 14-yar old boy

It’s safe to assume that Babylon Bee really didn't like Stephen King putting Elon Musk in his place, that place being on his scrawny backside, based on their “satirical” headline about King reading an awful lot like a 13-year old ranting because somebody on an internet forum exposed them as a clueless oaf.  But remember, right wing comedy is good...

...and then Babylon Bee quote tweeted the exact same “joke” to explain the “joke”, which was just them typing out the “joke” in full a second time, because comedy is definitely repeating a joke which failed to land the first time in the hope it lands a second

As promotions go, the one by KFC where they suggested their German customers celebrate the anniversary of Kristallnacht with some cheesy chicken is one that surely won't see the light of day ever again...right?

Just as Braun Strowman had somewhat rehabilitated his image after his WWE return, he only goes and takes to Twitter to mouth off about smaller wrestlers - which promptly got him dunked on by those same smaller wrestlers both within WWE and signed to other companies, which really made it look like Strowman could not control his narrative very well...

Smooth moves by Streatham Rovers FC when they posted a tweet commemorating the 21st anniversary of 9/11.  On the 9th of November.  Yeah...

[streetcreepmag]

BGONE

[ymnfilter]

i love your stories so much !!! i would love to read more about a jealous/ hurt hyde like in the context of "why did u sit on the couch when u can sit on my lap" sort of thing, like jackie not knowing how that affected him and then him telling her ya know

anonn!! that's a really freaking adorable ask aldajdaslkk. i hope this lil' ficlet is what you were hoping for:

Jackie's Real Estate (900~ words, 1/1 chapters, completed)

Hyde was a chill dude most of the time. He was the kind of the guy who went with the flow. He was aloof. Zen.

Except when it came to Jackie Burkhart apparently. That chick irritated the hell outta him. He couldn't believe she had tricked him into going ballroom dancing with her. When she had gushed about booking them a class last Friday, Hyde had been resolute. He had scoffed and told her plainly that hell would freeze over before he took part in any of her frou frou activities with her. And he’d been especially proud of himself when he’d resisted the big guns- the bambi eyes, baby talk and pout combo. That in and of itself had been a miracle.

But then she’d started playing dirty. Bringing up Fez and telling him that if he wouldn’t go with her, then she’ll just ask their foreign friend, who would no doubt jump at the opportunity to spend an afternoon dancing with his cocoa tanned goddess. And like hell Hyde was going to let that creep anywhere near his chick for that long without being there to keep an eye on him. Especially not in a couple like setting like slow dancing which perverts like him only used as an opportunity to feel chicks up. And dammit, Jackie knew it. Her face was so fucking smug as he scowled and agreed to go instead.

Her ‘thank you thank you thank you, puddin pop’s and soft ass kisses didn’t melt his anger one bit.

No sir.

And so he had been roped into spending the coming Saturday dancing in a stuffy ass room with stuffy ass people just to keep his girlfriend from getting molested by their pervert foreign friend. Didn’t mean he was going to go down easy. Hyde was pissed, and he’d made no show of hiding it. The guys were having a grand ol’ time mocking him, and Donna kept giving him disbelieving looks and teasing him about ‘being in luurve’, which, you know, he might deserve after his own numerous comments about the ‘scrawny neighbor boy’, but then again, doesn’t mean he was just going to take it.

And so, here he was, arms crossed and shades on, hiding in the basement and watching Little House on the Prairie alone while the rest of the gang played street ball on the driveway. Or well, at least, he was alone until the basement door opened and Jackie entered, throwing him a casual little ‘hey’ and calmly taking a seat on the couch.

For some reason, that pissed him off even more.

He scowled at her, no longer watching the tube, but Jackie’s attention was on the show as she was absently twirled a lock of hair around her finger.

He started tapping his foot.

Valiantly, Jackie kept her attention on the show for one more minute. She knew he was mad at her, and childishly, she was mad at him for being mad at her. Another moment passed before she sighed and turned to give him a deadpanned look, “What?”

That’s not where you usually sit.

Hyde didn’t say anything, but pointedly kept looking at her. His legs were splayed, thighs unoccupied and his back leant against the chair. He was in his prime ‘Jackie Burhart’s Personal Chair’ position. And she’d decided to sit on that lumpy stained couch instead.

The audacity.

“Seriously Steven, what?”

Hyde stood up, walked over to the tube, and shifted it. Angling it so that only he, sitting on the chair, could see it clearly. Then, walking back, he sat back down, taking his previous position.

Jackie scoffed. “Oh, that’s so mature.”

Hyde didn’t say anything. Jackie glared at him, then pointedly grabbed the abandoned Rolling Stones magazine from the coffee table and began flipping through it. Steven narrowed his eyes at it, then, lifting up a little, grabbed the magazine from her hand, sat back down, and began flipping through it himself.

“What is up with you?” she protested.

“I just want to read it.” he shrugged.

“You’re watching the TV!”

“I can do both at once.”

“No, you quite literally can’t, Steven.” Hyde didn’t answer, and Jackie crossed her arms, pouting. A moment passed. He looked at her discreetly from the top of her magazine. She looked like a riled up kitten. Fucking adorable.

“If you want to watch the tube, or read the magazine, you can just sit here and do it.” He offered nonchalantly.

“Where?” She asked bitchily.

Pointedly, he looked down at his lap. A moment passed before comprehension cleared the pissy look on her face.

“Is that what this is about?” She sounded exasperated. But she did walk over to sit on his lap. Hyde opened his arms, then brought one to circle her waist, the other holding the magazine so that the both of them could read it.

“I thought you were mad.” she said after a while, her posture languid and her voice soft, breaking the peaceful silence that had enveloped them. Hyde was good at that. Softening her. Almost just as good as he was at riling her up.

“I’m pissed.” he corrected. Then placed his chin on her shoulder, flipping another page of the Rolling Stones he’d placed on her lap. “You’re just a really comfortable chin rest.”

Jackie smiled softly, turned her head to place a kiss on his unruly curls.

“You’re so full of crap.” She told him sweetly.

“A really comfortable, really mouthy chin rest.”

[starsundsun]

midvale runawy au thing

kara and alex end up on the run from cadmus but they dont know cadmus even exists. all they know is government agents are after kara and they bounced. superman and the league are indesposed, they dont know what happened to eliza. eliza is the one who packed their bags and put some kind lf dampener/cloaker on kara so she wouldnt be found and gave alex a weapon and told them to run. so as far as alex knows her mom might be dead too even if kara insists otherwise

theyve been on the run for months, its pretty hard to do so when youre both teens on the street in the us. between dealin with cops, well meaning people callin social services, creeps or a secret government on ur trail, lifes pretty stressful. and worse, no reliable spurce of food. karas need to eat more then a human but not havin access to that.made he super weak and skinny, alex too cus whatever they can get she gives most to kara.

whatabout j'onn you say? well j'onn is doing his damnest to keep cadmus off their trail too, a lot of interception and beurocracy and underhanded dealings. he trusts no one at the deo, he's just barely changing things around aince taking hanks identity and he has to be very very careful or he'll raise suspicions. he too has the deo 'chasing' after the girls but he purposely leads his agents to dead ends, he'll use his powers to plant suggestions and 'leads' in minds of his higher ups to keep em off the girls tail.

if he can he'll find where kara n alex are,and in disguise help them escape as a some hooligan teen or spook em to a certain way as a cop or give them food as an old woman or overly generous food service worker

the only other thing i got for this idea is mayhaps these kids are headin toward gotham, either way they get picked up by kate kane or maggie. both of them bein older than the girls here(gotta get that mags/kate goin on)

i feel like if mags finds them first, she'll know exactly whats up with them. mags knows safe havens for alien refugees. thatd be the first place she'd go, the hard part is convincing these scared, hungry n suspicious teens

with kate it might be easier? they know of batwoman, so they'll prob be a bit more receptive to goin somewhere with another hero. i like more conflic tbh so id go with the maggie idea lol

cant think of anythin else. had some ideas abt the batkids interacting with the girls, same with the sirens. harley immediately 'adopts' them as baby future sirens and encourages them to life of crime of course. ivy and alex get along very well, ivy enjoys havin a lil budding scientist to teach. selena thinks theyre just absoluetly adorable kittens.

[swordsonnet]

this maze inside my heart

Jon/Martin, 6439 words, rated T. Angst with a happy ending. Spanning from S1 to MAG 159. Also on AO3!

written for day 6 of @jonmartinweek, for the prompt 'lost & found'.

content warnings: depression, self-esteem issues, child neglect/emotional abuse, isolation. references to bugs, blood, death, explosions, eye trauma

There are many ways to be lost.

Martin Blackwood has encountered so many of them over the years that he fancies himself a curator of them now, confident he could collect and catalogue them all, put neat labels on them and preserve them in his own little archive. He could create a chronicle on disorientation, alienation, that unshakeable feeling that no matter where you go, you will never find where you belong. It’s the only subject he considers himself an expert in.

There are the literal ways to be lost, of course. Those are simple, basic, beginners’ stuff. They’re easy to categorise, less ambiguous, free of the diffuse murkiness that comes with being lost inside your own head. Martin remembers racing through the labyrinthine tunnels stretching out beneath the Institute, terrified of ending up as worm food and even more terrified of being left behind forever; remembers wandering the shifting, treacherous corridors of the Distortion alongside an increasingly irritated Tim; remembers that time as a young boy when he strayed too far into the woods on his way home from school and was picked up by a police officer hours later, exhausted and dehydrated. Those memories aren’t exactly pleasant, needless to say, but at least he knows what to make of them. It’s normal to spiral into panic when you can’t identify your surroundings; it’s to be expected, even.

 It’s much harder to justify being lost within a crowd, among a sea of familiar faces. Lost within a throng of excitable schoolchildren, so obviously out of place with his second-hand uniform and his insecure smile. Lost at the most excruciating job interview of his life, stuttering through his fabricated credentials while Elias Bouchard’s steely gaze bored into him, giving him the unnerving suspicion that he could see right through all his lies. Lost on the bustling streets of London, lost at a pub night where his wavering voice was drowned out by the raucous laughter of his co-workers, lost in the waiting room of a care home in Devon as a tired-looking nurse explained to him once again that his mother didn’t wish to see him. Yes, the figurative ways to be lost are far more manifold, and far more insidious.

Martin has learned the hard way that there are much fewer ways to be found.

Well, perhaps not for everyone. Perhaps other people are found every single time they stray from the right path, perhaps some people are lucky enough to never get lost in the first place. But he has never known that luxury.

That hasn’t stopped him from dreaming about it, of course. For weeks after his father left, he waited patiently for his return, spending hours sitting by the front door and staying up long after his bedtime to listen for the sound of a key turning in the lock. He was so sure that his dad hadn’t meant to stay away for so long, that he’d just gotten a little lost and would find his way back to his family any day now. But of course he didn’t return, and in the end, even poor, delusional eight-year-old Martin was forced to admit that his dad had left of his own free will, and that he was never coming back. He’d begun to draw comfort from a different illusion then, one even more ridiculous than the first one: that one day, some perfect picture book family would show up on their doorstep and whisk Martin away to their beautiful house with its sprawling garden and their three dogs, take him far away from the shabby council flat with mould creeping up the walls, from the bitterness in his mother’s eyes and the vitriol in her voice, from his dull, pathetic life, and shower him with all the toys and affection he could wish for. He could lose himself in that fantasy for hours when his mum was knocked out by her pain medication and didn’t need his help, watching re-runs of saccharine children’s shows on their grainy TV screen while doodling crayon pictures of his daydream family, a stick figure rendition of himself placed right in the middle with a huge smile on his face. He would glance over to his mum’s bedroom every few minutes or so, just to make sure she was still asleep, feeling, even then, a vague sense of guilt for even harbouring these dreams, as if his imagination alone was a form of betrayal.

He grew out of that fantasy soon enough, as children grow out of so many things, and realised that this wasn’t a fairytale. No one was coming to save him. That simple, brutal truth stuck with him for decades to come. Sure, he would occasionally dream of being found, of having someone grab him by the hand and steer him to a safe haven. Over the course of his early adulthood, he went through a handful of unsatisfying one-night-stands and a couple of even more unsatisfying relationships, but all of those men turned out to be locked doors instead of corridors, all of them were just further meanders in the labyrinth that was his life. Eventually, he gave up on the whole pointless endeavour entirely, contenting himself with stealing furtive glances at attractive strangers on the tube or in the breakroom at the Institute, never long enough for them to return his gaze, absorbed for just a moment in a fleeting fantasy of a life he could never have. It wasn’t such a bad way to exist, truth be told. It was almost comfortable. It hardly even registered as loss anymore.

It wasn’t until he was transferred to the Archives that the real trouble started. The issue wasn’t that he was lost there, although he certainly was, more so than ever before – first badly out of his depth and constantly berated by the pompous prick who called himself his new boss, then trapped inside his own flat for two terrifying weeks with nothing but cans for company. No, the trouble began when he was hiding inside an airtight Document Storage room, faced with the very real possibility of imminent death, and his aforementioned arsehole boss confessed that he had been feigning scepticism all along, and then, out of the blue, asked Martin if he was a ghost. Despite the direness of the situation, the sheer absurdity of that question startled a laugh out of Martin, a laugh more genuine than he’d been able to produce in a long time, and in that moment, something clicked into place. Something important. Martin was well aware he’d been nursing this ridiculous crush for a good few months now, but he’d just taken it as further proof of his terrible taste in men, and preferred not to dwell on it. Now, though, amid all the chaos of a worm attack on his workplace, an unbidden thought entered his mind, loud and clear as a divine epiphany: he would rather like to be found by Jonathan Sims.

He just about stifled a frustrated sigh as he reached over to turn off the tape recorder, then slumped back against the wall. Shit, he thought to himself. Shit.

Of course, the following months only saw him, and everyone else working in the Archives, getting more lost. Jon was descending into paranoia, Tim was turning into a bitter caricature of his former self, there was something off about Sasha that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and Martin was… well, Martin was hanging in there. Or trying to, at least. He had been lucky enough to not have dozens of worms burrow into his flesh, after all, so the least he could do was keep it together for the sake of the others. Try to talk some sense into Tim, make tea for Jon and nag him to eat lunch or go home to get some much-needed rest. He’d always been a helper, could never imagine a purpose for himself outside of doing things for other people, and so helping was what he did, even if his none of his ministrations seemed to lead to any tangible change. Even if, for all his effort, he was as invisible as if he really was a ghost. At night, he tossed and turned for hours on end, trying in vain to shake the indelible images of Gertrude’s rotten corpse, the bullet holes in her chest. His ears constantly perked up for the dreaded noise of Jane Prentiss’s knuckles rapping on the wood of his front door, an echo of which haunted him even during his waking hours. He’d get up in the morning, bleary and disoriented from lack of sleep, and go to work pretending like nothing was wrong. He was fine, he told himself, clinging to that hollow denial like it was his lifeline. He was fine. And yet every step he took seemed to move him further from the fabled exit of this grand maze he was trapped in.

There was one day he remembered in more detail than anything else. He was out for lunch with Jon – Jon who maybe kind of thought Martin was a murder suspect; Jon whom Martin was still harbouring a stupid, stubborn crush on, despite the glaring warning signs – and they were eating overpriced sandwiches in a mediocre coffee shop, and Martin said something that he thought quite trivial and silly, really, and Jon… smiled. A proper smile, one that showed a hint of teeth and made his eyes gleam with mirth and a fondness Martin hoped he wasn’t only imagining. The kind of smile he hadn’t believed Jon was even capable of. It was a moment so monumental and ephemeral that Martin wanted to preserve it in resin, wanted to hold on to it for the rest of his life like a precious keepsake. It was like being found just for a fraction of a second, before losing his way again. It was so fleeting that it shouldn’t make any difference in the end, but somehow it did. Somehow, it made all the difference. For one brief, shining instant, Martin’s world was still alright.

Martin couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he had fallen in love with Jon, when his intense, but still superficial infatuation had turned into something deeper, but he wasn’t surprised to find it had happened. It was inevitable, in a way. It was always going to be like this. Jon was bright and distant as a star, and Martin was always going to be sucked into his orbit. It didn’t cause him any grief; he found he rather liked the feeling. It was no coincidence that they called it ‘falling in love’, not just a random turn of phrase. It perfectly encapsulated how dizzying it was, how disorienting, how much like being lost. But if being lost could feel like this, he would gladly be lost for the rest of his days. He didn’t hold out much hope for Jon to return his affection, or for them to be in any way a suitable couple even if he did, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to sit with his feelings, clutching them close to his chest like a secret treasure yet never letting them see the light. The point was pining from afar, the point was furtive glances across a crowded room, the point was halting, awkward conversations that Martin cherished like love songs. Sometimes he felt like he could live on those little moments alone, like they were all the nourishment he needed. Jon was gone far more often than not, out of the Archives or even out of the country, and even when he was around, he wasn’t really there, would just rattle off a list of research requests before setting off on his next doomsday mission. Martin lived for those rare times he was in the same room as Jon, even just briefly, even if they hardly spoke. It was like he spent most of his days in a deep slumber, still going through the usual motions but utterly numb inside, and the only time he was awake was when he was with Jon. That couldn’t be healthy, he knew that only too well, but when had he ever been able to form a healthy attachment?

Jon called him, once, all the way from America, just as Martin was getting ready for work. It was deep into the night over there, but Jon, as usual, couldn’t sleep. His voice sounded hoarse, almost raspy, roughened by exhaustion and things Martin could only guess at. He paused in the process of rooting around in his overflowing clothes drawer for a clean jumper and allowed himself the momentary indulgence of picturing Jon, stretched out on a hotel bed, his thin frame huddled beneath the duvet, the side of his face pressed into the pillow. His phone placed close to his head, almost as if Martin was lying there beside him. He wondered what Jon wore to bed. If he let his hair down. If he was a restless sleeper or as still as a stone, if he hogged all the blankets or threw them off because he got hot, if he talked in his sleep…

But then Jon asked him a question about Gertrude’s arrest records, and Martin had to force himself out of his embarrassing (and tragically hopeless) reverie, cursing the light tremor in his voice when he answered. The first part of their rather brief conversation was taken up by professional matters such as those (if preventing the apocalypse fell under ‘professional matters’), and Martin was sure that Jon would hang up the second he had gotten all the information he needed, but the lull that ensued when Jon had run out of questions stretched on for longer than natural, both of them breathing down the line and oddly hesitant to end the call. To his surprise, Martin found himself filling the silence by babbling on about whatever trivial topics came to mind, meaningless snippets from what little life he had outside the Institute, disconnected rambles about his poetry and the sci-fi show he was watching at the moment and the cute dog he’d seen in the park the other day. He broke off with a sheepish chuckle when he realised he’d been talking about himself for far too long, and asked Jon about his travels, receiving an equally rambling response about jetlag and roadside diners. He tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he slipped into his trousers, smiling to himself. This was all so normal, just ordinary small talk between co-workers, maybe even friends, maybe even… no, he shouldn’t go that far. Not for the first time, he was spellbound by Jon’s voice, the rich timbre and careful inflection making even his sleep-deprived musings on hash browns sound Shakespearean. Martin knew with perfect clarity then that even though he was standing inside the flat he had lived in for the past decade, his home was an ocean away stuck inside a dingy hotel, his only anchor was a voice travelling to him across the phone.

He reluctantly brought their aimless stream of conversation to a close after Jon had failed to stifle a yawn for the third time, making him promise to get at least a few hours of sleep before leaving for Washington D.C. the next morning.

“Good night, Jon,” he whispered, once more letting himself, just for a few seconds, imagine that he was right beside him on that hotel bed.

“Good ni- Ah, I mean, good morning to you, I suppose,” Jon said awkwardly, and Martin smiled again. “I- I’ll see you soon.”

Martin stared down at the phone in his hand for at least three minutes after the call disconnected, replaying Jon’s words inside his head and scrutinising them for hidden meanings. He hoped nothing would disturb Jon’s sleep. He hoped talking to Martin had granted him even a small fraction of the comfort it had given Martin. Was Jon also staring at his phone with a soft smile on his face this very moment, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean? Would he fall asleep cradling it close to his chest, would he dream of being wrapped in Martin’s arms? But no, that was absurd. Martin wasn’t in this for reciprocation, because he knew all too well how astronomical the odds of that were. If anyone was ever going to find him, rescue him from the labyrinth of his life, it was not going to be Jon, he had no illusions about that. What was the use of getting his hopes up? Of making up silly fantasies about his unattainable boss? Of course, what complicated matters slightly was that in recent times, his unattainable boss had also become the only person in the world he might truly call his friend, but that didn’t have to mean anything. He’d learned from experience it was best not to open his heart, lest it become irreversibly broken. Still, when he went to work that day, his steps felt much lighter, like an immense weight had been lifted from his shoulders, like he was walking on air.

Given that the majority of the following weeks was occupied with preparations to stop the end of the world, and given the deteriorating mental state of most of his colleagues, Martin felt a little guilty to admit that those weeks were among the happiest of his life. For once, he felt like an active participant in his own life, not just a silent bystander doomed to watch from the sidelines and never intervene. He had come up with a plan, and he had a crucial part to play in that plan, even if it was still closer to backstage work than the lead role.

He hadn’t seen all that much of Jon since the latter had returned from the States, busy as they both were with getting ready for the Unknowing, but the snatches of conversation they shared here and there made everything worth it, and made it clear that their relationship was moving towards… something. Martin wasn’t quite sure where it was heading, but he was excited to find out. On the night before Jon left with the others, Martin gave in to the impulse to hug him goodbye. Instead of immediately pulling away as Martin had feared, Jon melted into the embrace and let out a contented sigh, like he had secretly always wanted this and been too afraid to ask. Martin’s heart made a dangerous little leap in his chest. They lingered in the hug for what must have been a full minute at least, neither of them willing to let go, and when they parted at last, Jon brushed his fingers against Martin’s in a gesture too fleeting to comment on but too emphatic to be accidental. Martin felt the imprint of his touch all through his sleepless night, like a dull phantom pain where Jon’s hand should have been, where his slender fingers would fit perfectly in the gaps between Martin’s. Once Jon was back from Great Yarmouth, Martin vowed to himself, he would ask him out for… a drink, or something like that. Something wonderfully mundane, just a commonplace outing between two co-workers who might have some kind of feelings for one another. They’d go for a drink, maybe even dinner, and then they’d take it from there. One day at a time. Maybe Martin shouldn’t give up on the hope of being found just yet.

What a difference a single day could make.

How quickly everything could fall apart, shatter into a thousand jagged shards that could never again be assembled into an unbroken object.

How laughable to think he’d known loss before. He’d known a feeble imitation of the real thing at best, had only glimpsed its flickering shadow, while now he saw the true creature in the terrifying flesh. All his life, it turned out, he’d been walking with an invisible safety net beneath his feet, a thin protection that kept him from slipping through the cracks completely. Now, he knew what it was like to experience that net being ripped away from you. Every misstep might hurtle him into a vast abyss from which there was no escape.

There was no way to spin the tale that contained even a tiny grain of hope. No gentle lies to tell himself to make his situation bearable. The man he loved was comatose and would probably never wake up, his mother had always hated him, a colleague he had once called his friend had died in a brutal explosion, and the Lonely had taken over the Institute. At least that last point made sense, didn’t it? The Lonely had always been a part of him, running through his bloodstream and engrained in the marrow of his bones, even long before he had encountered any of the Fears. And right now, he was more alone than ever before.

When Martin decided to accept Peter Lukas’s offer, he didn’t do so because he wanted to be found. He wasn’t naïve, not anymore. He knew that the Lonely could never offer him a home, but at least it could give him a space where his solitude didn’t feel out of place. Where being lost was the natural state to be. Where his grief and anger and despair were dulled around the edges until they seemed almost merciful. It gave him a twisted sense of purpose, that what he’d viewed as a personal failing all his life could instead be his destiny, his true vocation. The Lonely told him no lies. Didn’t try to seduce him with beautiful, treacherous hope.

Maybe Jon waking from his coma should have changed things, but it just fuelled Martin’s determination to see this through to its bitter end. At least Jon had been safe inside that hospital room, even if it came at the cost of him being all-but-braindead. Now that he was awake and swanning around like nothing had happened, walking and talking and getting into unnecessary trouble, Martin was all too aware of everything that could hurt Jon out here, all the ways he might still lose him. But Peter had promised his protection, and while that was a doubtful assurance at best, right now it was the best chance Martin had. And if it required even more isolation of him, required him to lose himself more with every passing day, then what about it? Any sacrifice was a small price to pay if it meant keeping Jon safe. Martin could be Ariadne, handing Theseus the thread he needed to escape the labyrinth after slaying the minotaur, then being left behind on his own while his almost lover set sail for more promising waters. He was used to loneliness, after all; he excelled at it.

It would be much easier, however, if Jon could just accept that. If he took Martin’s withdrawal as proof of his devotion, not as a rejection. Instead he seemed hellbent on catching sight of Martin, with the help of his strange new powers, and roping him into a conversation, no matter how hard Martin tried to evade him. He asked about his poetry, offered his condolences for his mother’s death, told him he missed him, for Christ’s sake. All those things that Martin had dreamed of, that he had never thought possible, and now they were just sharp blades in his chest. It was like everything he had ever wanted was being dangled right in front of his nose, but he was drowning in the fear of losing it again, too weak to keep his head above the water. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down around Jon, much as he might long for it. It wasn’t safe. On each of the select few occasions that Jon had managed to hunt him down, there was an incandescent heat radiating off him, even with Martin keeping his distance as much as the narrow corridors would allow, like there was a furnace at his core. Like his whole body was made of light. Despite everything, part of Martin couldn’t help being drawn to the flame, circling around Jon like a poor, doomed moth. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt warm, and he couldn’t just blame it on the glacial outside temperatures. The heating in his office had broken months ago, in tandem with the one in the flat he rarely returned to anymore, and he hadn’t bothered to try and get it fixed. Even his thickest jumpers failed to give him a modicum of warmth. If he tried to touch Jon, he wondered, if he just lightly brushed their fingers together like Jon had done the night before the Unknowing, would it burn his skin? Would it be worth the pain?

But he resisted the temptation to reach out to Jon. To let him in. It was for the best, he reasoned with himself. Martin was already much too far into the labyrinth to ever find the exit, but there was still hope for Jon, he had to believe that. One day, Jon would come to understand that as well. One day, he would realise how pointless it was to waste his energy on someone who had always been, and would always be, a lost cause. Maybe then he would stop seeking Martin out, and maybe then all this would stop hurting so goddamn much.

Time got funny, after a while. The days still passed – the bottom right hand corner of his computer screen displayed a different date each morning – but they had become insubstantial, intangible, impossible to hold onto. He would blink his eyes and hours, days, weeks would have gone by, and he had nothing to show for it, nothing to fill the great emptiness. It was a relief, in a way. If time passed him by, at least that meant he wouldn’t have to wait so long for… whatever it was he was waiting for. For this to be over, he supposed. For better or worse. Probably for worse.

There was a mug of tea sitting on his desk. One of the collection of Sports Direct mugs that had accumulated in the breakroom over time, not one he would have ever picked if he had the choice, though it had been a long time since he’d cared about things like that. Had he made it for himself? He must have, even though he had no memory of the act, because who else would make him tea these days? Who else had ever made him tea? Peter had supplied him with a spacious office that included its own kitchenette, freeing him of the necessity to enter the breakroom and risk running into people there. Most days went by without Martin exchanging a single word with another human being, barring the occasional visit from Peter. He was grateful for that, secretly, though he’d never express it to Peter. People were… difficult. Exhausting. Unpredictable. He couldn’t understand why he had ever bothered with them. Why he had run himself ragged in his futile, ridiculous mission to gain their approval, their affection. It was better to accept that he would never get it, and that he didn’t need it anyway. He didn’t need anyone.

He took a cautious sip of the tea and found it to be ice cold, bereft of even the faintest echo of warmth. Less like it had cooled down, and more like it had never been hot in the first place. He left the rest of it untouched.

Even now that winter had given way to spring and then to summer, temperatures rising and leaves sprouting on the trees without him taking notice of any of it, warmth still eluded him. On the rare occasions where he ventured outside, the heat of the sun didn’t seem to touch him, like his entire body was encased in a thick shroud of ice, impossible to melt or break through. He’d started to make his peace with that. The cold barely even bothered him anymore. Maybe warmth was simply a luxury he couldn’t afford anymore.

He'd almost forgotten what warmth felt like when Jon came bursting into his office after months had gone by without any kind of contact, his eyes alight with desperation and something dangerously close to hope, proposing his ridiculous, harebrained scheme like it had any chance of succeeding. Gouging out their eyes and running away together. Like the premise of a macabre romance novel. The heat waves emanating from him were even more intense than they had been before, and Martin was sure that if he came any closer, they would both be set on fire. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad outcome.

He kept expecting Jon to falter, or to reveal that the whole thing was just a cruel joke, but his voice was as sincere as the unguarded expression in his eyes, and Martin realised, with a jolt of horror, that he was completely serious. He truly believed that he’d found a way to escape the labyrinth, and while it would hurt like hell, it might all be worth it in the end. His steadfast faith was enough to break what was left of Martin’s heart.

He was so close to saying yes. To saying of course I’ll do it, Jon, of course I’ll come with you, I would follow you anywhere. To throwing over everything he had worked for in the past year and risking it all on a plan too ludicrous to possibly work out. Risking everything on the sheer hope of it all. But even if, against all odds, Jon’s plan was successful, even if they managed to escape the clutches of the Institute, Martin knew, deep down, that they still wouldn’t be able to find their way out of this maze. They would both be blindfolded in a very literal sense, stumbling around in the dark without ever finding each other, without ever finding where they were meant to be. More lost than ever before. No, they just weren’t the kind of people to have a romantic elopement that didn’t end in tragedy.

But Jon – bless him and damn him – was too stubborn, too caught-up in his foolhardy idea, to accept that unless he witnessed it for himself, and Martin couldn’t do that to him. So he opted for the fastest approach, which was also the cruellest. Keeping his voice as cold and level as possible, not letting the slightest hint of emotion shine through, he told Jon that he didn’t want this, not really, that his only reason for asking Martin was to have an excuse not to go through with it. It wasn’t the truth and they both knew it, but the harsher Martin was now, the more walls he built around himself, the sooner Jon would realise it was futile trying to save him. And that would make it easier for both of them, in the end.

The crestfallen expression on Jon’s face pierced right through some part of Martin that hadn’t calcified yet, that was still soft enough to hurt, but he swallowed down the pain like he swallowed down all other feelings these days. When the door fell shut behind Jon and Martin was left alone in the lifeless void of his office, he almost wished he still knew how to cry.

There are many ways to be lost. Martin used to think that he knew them all, had recorded every single one of them in the private collection of his memory. But nothing could have prepared him for what it’s like to be truly lost. To pass the point of no return. The surprising thing about it is that it doesn’t feel like being lost at all. Like most human experiences, after all, being lost is defined by its opposite, and in the absence of a concept of being found, it simply ceases to exist. Just like everything else. There is nothing here, save for the soft lapping of waves on some distant shore and the faint scent of sea salt in the air. Here, the very idea of being found is absurd, like some fairytale notion that only children believe in. All that remains is the firm knowledge that he will never find a way out, that there is no way out to be found, an ironclad certainty that is almost comforting in its lack of ambiguity.

As Martin wanders the icy shores of the Lonely, he knows deep in his bones that no one is coming to save him. When he was a child forced to take on responsibilities that most grown adults would struggle with, no one came for him. When he was trapped inside his flat for two full weeks while Jane Prentiss and her army of worms stood guard outside his front door, no one came for him. When everything he had ever loved had been taken from him in the span of two horrible months and he had no choice but to turn to the Eldritch manifestation of loneliness, no one, nobody, not a single living soul came for him. Why would anyone come to his rescue now?

But Jon does. Of course Jon does, because for all his Knowledge, he is still the same old fool who can’t see the obvious truth right before his eyes. As usual, the fierce heat radiating off him warms the frigid air around them, and as usual, Martin recoils from his warmth. He speaks to him, though, because he can’t quite stop himself from doing so, but only to tell him to leave. To finally, finally give up on him. His voice echoes, and sounds alien even in his own ears, like it doesn’t belong to him, like he isn’t really here. And maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s just an echo himself, a fading ghost of the man he used to be.

“I really loved you, you know,” he says. The mournful past tense, grieving not what once was but what could have been. What was never meant to be.

Jon leaves in the end, but only to retreat deeper into the bowels of this unending labyrinth, not to find an escape as he should have. Maybe there isn’t an escape for him anyway. Maybe he knew full well when taking on this suicide mission that it could only end in tragedy. Once upon a time, Martin might have felt anger at that, or grief, or guilt, but all his emotions have turned dim and muted, blurred shapes glimpsed through a murky window, too distant to touch him. This place only has room for numbness, and he tries to tell himself it’s a mercy. What use have feelings ever been to him, after all? It’s best to exorcise them, to cast them out before they leave a lingering mark.

When Jon returns, he is drenched in blood and radiant with purpose. Martin can’t bring himself to mourn Peter Lukas, or to have any emotional response whatsoever to his death, which he supposes is what Peter would have wanted. He longs to disappear like he did before, to dissolve into thin air where even Jon’s all-seeing eyes cannot ferret him out, but he finds himself drawn to Jon again, and this time he’s powerless to resist the pull. Jon is the flame and Martin is the helpless moth, and he’s doomed to circle around his only source of light even as he knows it will be the death of him. Even as he knows that so much brightness will kill him.

“Look at me and tell me what you see,” Jon says, and the words sound like the very essence of Beholding, but they’re all Jon, the dread powers relegated to a distant afterthought. Jon wants Martin to look at him, to see him for what he truly is and not flinch, and Martin wants nothing more than to follow his order, but he’s so afraid. Scared that it would be like looking straight into the sun, that even one glimpse would burn his eyes forever.

Look at me and tell me what you see, echoes in Martin’s head. Isn’t it funny, how he believed his whole life that he would never be found, held on to that certainty so hard that he lost sight of himself? Perhaps there were always people willing to find him. Perhaps that was never really the issue. Perhaps he couldn’t be found until he found himself first. And the truth, as simple as it is earth-shattering, is that he is still here. Even as a mere shadow of who he once was, even as a paltry spectre of who he might have been, he is still here. And that has to count for something in the end. No matter how far he has strayed from the realm of the living, he can always find his way back to it. It’s not too late for him to find his way back to himself. And there’s nothing wrong with needing a little guidance along the way.

He looks at Jon, and Jon’s gaze finds his, and his gaze finds Jon’s, and the fog evaporates. For the first time in ages, maybe his entire life, he can see clearly.

“I see you, Jon,” he says in a voice free of echo. “I see you.”

Jon’s relieved smile melts the residual ice within Martin, and he takes his outstretched hand without fear of burning himself on Jon’s incandescent skin. It turns out to be the perfect temperature to warm his frozen fingers.

“Let’s go home,” Jon says, and Martin follows him without hesitation. It’s been so long since home was a place he could point to on a map, but now he knows it’s less about the coordinates and more about the connection. His true home, his magnetic north, is a warm hand pulling him out of his own misery towards the light.

There are many ways to be lost, and nowhere near as many ways to be found. Martin has learned that over the years, but he has also learned that other people can only find you once you have found yourself. Once your body doesn’t vanish into smoke at the slightest hint of intimacy. He has also learned that no matter how strenuous the way out of the labyrinth may be, it’s much easier to navigate alongside someone else.

There are many ways to be lost, which is to say there are many ways to be alone. But Martin Blackwood isn’t alone anymore.