Together or Not At All

Late to the Archive with lattes. A TMA sideblog lovingly maintained by @aurumdalseni Call me Aurum, they/them, 40+ Writer, multishipper, rarepair extraordinaire Grab a cup of tea and enjoy your stay.

[allmonstershere]

If I am not too late to the party, seeking other fans and creators for The Magnus Archives. Fic author here working on a monster (haha) JonMarTim AU and exploring all the fanworks that came out while I was sleeping on this pod. I originally wasn’t going to make another fandom sideblog but since this series has taken over my life, here we are.

[pigmentofimagination]

Currently relistening tma, and just,,, Had to draw this scene

[allmonstershere]

MAG005 ~ Rubbish

Martin had never interviewed someone. Often, he’d been sitting in the chair having the questions asked of him, plastering on a veneer of confidence he didn’t always have, fitting himself into a box that may or may not be how he paid rent next month. The idea of putting someone under that sort of stress didn’t seem appealing, but he had to remind himself that talking to Kieran Woodward was not that kind of interview. In some ways easier, other ways much harder. Instead of ‘tell me about a time you solved a really difficult problem,’ it was ‘tell me about that time you experienced some really creepy trash.’ He found himself just as nervous to be the one asking questions as he tended to be when answering them. 

In the end, he needn’t have been so worried. Kieran had nothing more to add, no sinister updates, and all Martin could do was a little gentle prodding about details the man didn’t want to talk about and get precious little for his efforts. He extended his gratitude, paid for their cafe coffees, and went on his way. Empty-handed. With his luck, it would somehow be his fault for not being magically able to pull additional details out of the statement-giver’s head. 

He didn’t return to the institute immediately, a choice that cost him a small amount of anxiety around the idea of slacking off. But he’d spent half the last Saturday trying yet again to track down information about that Leitner guy or his books. Going file box by file box, leafing casually through horrors big and small, had been no small undertaking, and while that had been another empty-handed search, the last thing Jon could truly fault him on was showing up to the job.

He sighed. Maybe that was why he’d been asked to do this interview after all, instead of Tim, who had this knack for charming people. Martin was a little envious of it, actually. If only…

No, he steered himself away from that and instead wondered if there was anything else he might be missing before he turned in what would be an incredibly lackluster report. Jon certainly wouldn’t care how fascinated Martin had been at the psychological impact of Kieran’s statement—the myth that throwing something away meant it disappeared forever. Nor would his boss be very impressed that he’d considered applying to be a bin worker not long before he turned eighteen. It certainly hadn’t been off the table, and he’d been working on his GCSCs between caregiving tasks. He probably could have done well and been quite content, and at the very least not starving, but just-under-eighteen Martin had wanted more.

He thought back to the late nights scouring jobs well out of his league and building CVs to match them. Some of them had been fanciful versions of himself that not only hadn’t come to pass, but would’ve demanded an entirely different set of circumstances to even be possible. Others he’d boldly submitted on a lark, like the paranormal psychology one, expecting nothing at all but to end up in a recruiter’s bin, destined to perhaps one day be collected by him with that week’s rubbish. 

It was only a handful of years later, when he’d settled in to his job at the Institute library, that the concept of fraud had crossed his mind. He’d gotten so used to odd jobs and under-table pay in his teenage years that it seemed nothing to convince a potential employer that he was maybe twenty-two and not nineteen. 

Come to think of it, he barely remembered his original interview with Elias. Rather, he remembered the lavish, dark-toned office, seated uncomfortably before a stately and well-dressed man. He recalled his fear that the attire he’d selected wasn’t good enough, his voice wouldn’t be steady enough, the hours spent in rabbit holes about paranormal psychology not educated enough. He’d been swallowing down a fear of being escorted out, doing a walk of shame down that staircase, past all the properly schooled researchers and librarians, seeing the pity on their faces as they watched him go. Just touching on it now sent such a chill through him he could scarcely believe it was London summer. 

That fear of being a fraud had ebbed over time, as he’d learned the rituals and routine of the library. Only to come crashing back in once Elias collected him for the Archives. The guilty procession would come when he walked inside to give Jon the disappointing news that his interview turned up nothing. Rubbish. He stared up at the front door to the Magnus Institute and let himself feel it all. A lingering memory whispered to him that he’d told Elias his greatest fear was losing everything. Nine years later, that hadn’t changed. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and went inside. 

[Find the AO3 series here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/6279196]

[allmonstershere]

MAG004 ~ Team Archives

The break room in the Archives resembled more of a walk-in closet than a break room. But Martin had given it a healthy dose of TLC in the first week of his employment. He’d stocked the cabinet with tea and washed the neglected electric kettle. While a cuppa brewed, he wiped down the modest counter top, the even more modest table, and the old chairs stood around it like forgotten sentries. It had more life to it now, especially when it was put to use. 

Sasha joined Martin, carting her laptop and thermos, draped in an oversized cardigan so brightly colored it immediately made the small space feel a little bigger. She fetched her sandwich from the fridge and spied the current case file next to Martin’s mug. “Find anything good?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “There isn’t a single registry that lists Ex Altiora as an actual title. Had about as much luck with the search as the guy in the statement did.”

“Jon had me double-check. No luck.”

Martin sighed into his teacup. “I could have spared you the time; I’d already done the work.” He was too late to stop the tendril of frustrated resignation at the notion it would take him much longer to earn his new boss’s trust than he would have liked. 

“It’s only because you’re new,” Sasha assured him, tapping a painted nail against her giant pink cup of juice. Her brow furrowed a bit, betraying that she didn’t think that’s all it was. 

A wordless sound was all Martin willingly contributed to the suggestion. He knew how to use the internet. He, perhaps wasn’t as good as Sasha, but he’d relied on digital resources and books for so many things before this job that the doubt he’d be able to dig for a book title rankled. Still, he kept it to himself. 

“Are we having a meeting?” Tim popped his head into the break room, grin widening at seeing his two counterparts sat together already with beverages and the guts of the Swain case spread out on the small table. He had a small pastel-colored box in one hand, and an unmarked clasp envelope in the crook of his other arm. “I brought biscuits, and I recommend you have some before you read this police report.” 

Martin slid out of his seat to fix Tim a cup of tea to go with the treats, getting a cheery salute in thanks while the other man flipped a chair around to straddle it. 

“Where’s Jon?” Tim asked.

“Upstairs talking to Elias about the case.” 

The mirth receded from Tim’s expression a bit, and he nodded knowingly. Martin placed the steeping mug and a spoon before him. 

“Because of the book.” He wasn’t asking.

Sasha nodded. “Yeah.”

“Is it because of that library?” Martin asked, glancing between them. “I listened to the tape Jon recorded. He seemed pretty insistent that this Jurgen Leitner guy is a threat, but I did some digging to try and find all I could on him, too.” He sipped thoughtfully before continuing, and he hoped the other two weren’t trying to be subtle with the glances they exchanged. “I also went on a bit of a scavenger hunt in the Institute library. I figured that if he’s seen enough information about Leitner to think it’s a high priority, then surely we had to have at least one book in our library. As far as esoteric collections go, the Institute has a reputable amount. But if we did have titles connected to Jurgen Leitner, they’re not where I could get them, and there are no paper trails. Probably more down here, but—” he waved a hand at the chaos strewn about outside the relative peace of the break room. “Who knows how long it’ll take us to find…what?”

Sasha and Tim both watched him now, and a self-conscious twinge trickled down his spine. 

Tim broke first, the grin returning. “Can’t wait til he figures it out.” 

“He’ll be quite cranky about it,” Sasha warned.

“I *kno~w.” 

Martin blinked, but he assumed—from the cheeky look on Tim’s face—that was all the answer he was going to get for now. 

[allmonstershere]

MAG003 ~ Sasha

Sasha tried to think about Artifact Storage as little as possible. 

Keep watching.

She stared at the notebook on her desk, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that clung to it like stale cigarette smoke. She’d opened it once to assess its contents, unsure what she to expect, traced her fingertips over the deep grooves the repeating words left behind. On the front of each page, ink had bled and scratched. On the back, each and every letter had been embossed in the pulp, raised like bumps on skin. ‘Keep’ and ‘watching’ spilled over here, as well, and often tripped and caught in the impressions left behind from the other side.

Only after assessing that there was nothing else of value inside it, she’d whipped it shut and debated fiercely whether it creeped her out enough to give to Artifact Storage or if she’d jam it into the protective plastic pouch with the written statement from Ms. Patel and the scant photographs. 

In the end, she decided to take it to her old department. Not that she believed there was anything truly artifact about it, but it wasn’t normal enough not to make her uncomfortable in its presence. She swallowed her nerves and got up, pulling the cuff of her hoodie sleeve over her in hand a makeshift glove, so she wouldn’t have to touch the notebook any more than she had to. 

Sasha tried to think about Artifact Storage as little as possible. 

But it hadn’t escaped her notice that it was much closer to her, working in the Archives, than it had been on the second floor, where she could distance herself from it and almost forget. As she made her way there now, she mulled the statement over in her mind. Sasha didn’t recall cataloging something so simple as a university notebook, but that wasn’t the only weird item in the young woman’s account of Graham Folger. Sasha couldn’t get the weird table out of her head. The one with the branching pattern that seemed to draw the eye and pull it in  little by little. Maybe a notebook didn’t belong in Artifact Storage, but it seemed possible that a table like that did.

A rugged looking man by the name of Steve Grace looked up when she arrived. He was an older gentleman, with eyes dark as pitch and a beard the color of dust. He wore a cap so old, whatever logo had been on the front of it had worn away, and he would have put Sasha in mind of a very worldly uncle if he didn’t have that twinge of uncanny that anyone working in Artifact Storage longer than she seemed to acquire. At the very least, he was the less talkative and cheerful of the two who oversaw the department. Sasha wasn’t in a talking mood. 

Grace accepted the notebook, brushing a calloused thumb along the edge of the pages thoughtfully before nodding his head and assuring her it would get logged. 

“Have you acquired any tables since I was last here?” she asked. She still hadn’t untucked her hands from inside her sleeves. 

Raising a brow, Grace shook his head. “Tables?” His funny accent drawled the word out, and then he shook his head. “‘Fraid not.” That was it. He didn’t ask her why, he didn’t press. 

Sasha knew an escape route when she saw it. Her back was already half-turned before a brief, “Thanks, Grace,” was out of her mouth. She didn’t want to see his expression when she retreated. Even now, it still stung that she’d all but begged Elias to transfer her anywhere else in the Institute. It felt like failure, but also like she’d dodged a bullet. In any case, she’d keep an eye out for other statements that might talk about a table, and she gathered that small goal around herself like armor as she returned to the mess that was the Archive.

[allmonstershere]

MAG002 - Tim

Jon was right: the statement had almost nothing to do with architecture. 

Well, aside from the subject…? Victim…? Tim still didn’t know what to call the people who gave their statements. Those words certainly worked, but they were uncomfortable. Sterile, distant, like the horrific accounts were somehow prioritized over the people in them. And while they weren’t necessarily in the business of solving the fear for anyone, a very human and empathetic part of Tim often felt like he ought to, though if it was in the Archives, it was probably far too late anyway. 

The curious thing about the situation with the Archives—the absolute disaster it had been left notwithstanding—was that it was theoretically the place where research cases went to die and, you know, be archived. Yet Jon had managed to find statements that, how had he put it, felt unfinished. He’d passed it off as a failing of Gertrude Robinson and it seemed he would be tasking his assistants with a bit of research. Just in case. Just to be -sure-. 

Tim had read through this particular statement twice, and the only thing about architecture was the vic—Joshua’s studies and his appreciation for Amsterdam structures. Tim had never been to Amsterdam himself, but it had sounded lovely enough to make his prospective travel list. He just hoped no one accosted him to care for a spooky item. 

He’d certainly seen enough. 

All things considered, Tim had mad respect for this one. He and Danny had stopped playing video games in their early teenage years, when sports and girls and part time jobs replaced backyard tussling and hoping the TV didn’t wake their parents in the middle of the night. But he knew many of the tropes and pitfalls, and some of his uni buddies had continued to game, even to the detriment of their studies. Joshua Gillespie had turned a game of Silent Hill into a survival tactic which, if the statement was to be believed, had saved his life. 

On the first read through, Tim had quietly chuckled at the offending juice glass, and the ice bowl key, and even the ominous ‘DO NOT OPEN’ instructions, but by the time he’d gone through it again, he’d drifted more into creeped out and curious. Jon had given it to him, saying it only mentioned architecture, but welcomed him to do what he’d become good at in the last four years: research.

Thank God, really. Not only was it a break in the monotony of file boxes and stupidly cataloged case numbers, but it had been a moment where things felt a bit more normal than they had since coming down here. Jon, who had been staying progressively later over these last couple months, had surfaced from his disgruntled stubbornness about conquering the mess and they’d had a wonderful discussion about the tattered leads that trailed off the statement, threads that Tim was sure to pull, even though lure of architecture was a paper thin veneer over everything else that was weird in the statement. 

In the end, Tim had been happy to do it, been even more glad not to come back empty-handed. Jon had smiled, looking rather pleased with what appeared to be the right amount of information to close the case properly. Looking at the folder now, with its supplemental notes written in Jon’s quick-tidy hand, his thoughts flitted through an odd haze of old memories and new curiosities—the potential for hundreds more to be sitting in some file box underfoot. He dropped it onto the stack meant for Sasha enter in her database and moved on to the next task. 

[Series has been started on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/6279196]

[allmonstershere]

MAG001 ~ Martin

There weren’t as many places to hide in the Archives as there were in the library. It was less about the size of the place, and more to do with what was expected of Martin. He’d had plenty of time to get used to the library after the years he spent working at the Magnus Institute. And it followed a logical pattern, something he was always good at. A book had its appropriate number, it went in the appropriate spot. Some days, he’d show up for his shift to an entire cart full of misplaced tomes, eager to return home, and he’d lose himself in the work of it.

He sighed at detritus of bad organization scattered before him, longing for the life he had two months ago. It wasn’t so bad, really. All just work, wasn’t it? Even if the files down here had numbers on them that didn’t make sense. Nevermind that, to file anything properly, one had to shuffle everything that had been haphazardly placed there somewhere else to make room for the proper ones.

Some days, Martin felt like those displaced files, waiting their turn to fit in.

In addition the file box he’d made his personal mission to sort through that day, he also found himself in possession of a single cassette tape, its corresponding statement number and date of recording etched in fine-tipped pen on a label in a neatly frantic hand. It was Martin’s job to find a home for that, too, and the other ones that would no doubt be joining it as the current Head Archivist recorded them.

He’d listened to it. How could he not? He’d followed along with the statement, reading along with the words on paper. It was creepy, sure, but that wasn’t what plagued him.

I don’t count Martin as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays.

“I guess he’s still mad about the dog thing,” Martin said to himself, running his finger along the edge of the cassette case, pressing a corner into the pad of his thumb. “A-and maybe also the toppled file thing.” A pause. “And maybe the mug mishap.” Another heavy exhale left him. Maybe delays -are- the only things I contribute…

Before he could lead himself down that self-deprecating line of thought, he pushed himself to his feet. These files weren’t going to…file themselves. Besides, it was just the growing pains of a new role, a new job. It wasn’t the first time he’d awkwardly fumbled his way through learning something new, and it probably wouldn’t be his last. He just wished that he could get the bitterness in his boss’s voice out of his head. Martin couldn’t bring him to be too optimistic that being really good at filing would be enough to change Jon’s opinion of him, but it wouldn’t hurt to try anyway.

[Welcome to my hopeful attempt to do a POV for each episode, starting from the very beginning. No edits, we kayak like Tim, or something.]

[allmonstershere]

Martin listened to the sounds of Tim unpacking the takeaway behind him while he flipped through one of the magazines on the coffee table. He’d tried to offer his help, but the other man stubbornly refused, so Martin occupied himself with pictures of places he’d never been and probably would never go. The cover had drawn him in, a Grecian shoreline in resplendent cerulean, white sand, and a broad sky. There were other locations inside, boasting scenic vistas, getaway packages, and one photo even showed teased a rather ancient looking castle photographed at the perfect time so that the moon sat in pleasant company with it. Martin swallowed down a pang of wanderlust, flipping a few more pages. 

Their conversation before the food arrived had drifted to the wayside, and Martin wondered if he should let it go. Still, he couldn’t resist trying, even just a little. 

“Could you maybe try again?” he asked.

“No,” came Tim’s voice with no hesitation. 

Martin sighed, the thought of lands far away much more appealing, but he wasn’t seeing the pretty photographs anymore. He’d become too preoccupied with the way Tim’s body had pressed into him like a freight train, trying to get at a very stubborn Jon, who was just as unwilling to back down on his opinion as Tim was. 

Quietly, Martin said, “Just think about it.”

A plate slipped into view, startling him into nearly dropping the magazine. He hadn’t heard Tim approach, but he looked up now to see a stone-faced sadness above him. 

“I’ve been thinking about it. Every now and then there are chunks of time where it’s all I can think about.” 

Martin believed that. He also believed it was more than just every now and then. 

“Maybe…”

“No. He won’t listen. I’m tired of asking. Let's just have dinner. Please.”

Martin picked up his plate, but he was no longer hungry.

[allmonstershere]

Back on my JonTim game, thinking about a drabble series from Tim’s POV: how you know you’re falling for your coworker (and other rule breaking activities).

[allmonstershere]

Do you ever just think that Jordan Kennedy doesn't get enough love? Here's a post-hellscape slice-of-life snippet, Avatar style. ~

The Archivist sends a text just as Jordan Kennedy is finishing up a job in Battersea. It’s one word, all caps. 

Archivist: JORDAN.

It pops up on his smart watch, and a wave of smug satisfaction follows. Humming cheerfully to himself, the unwillingly appointed Avatar of the Corruption (he prefers that over Filth or the Crawling Rot) doesn’t send a response right away, instead taking the time to gather his tools and load up his truck. He has another appointment before he can call it quits for the day, so the only hurry he’s in is to make sure he gets there on time. Lucky for him, he’s been quite efficient at this stop and he has some time to collect himself, and digest his customer’s skin-crawling fear like a working lunch and grab a coffee. 

It’s as he’s having a smoke outside the coffee shop, the smell of afternoon brew and smoke an acceptable digestif, that he finally answers. 

JK: Are you available this afternoon?

Left unsent: Will there be lemonade?

Despite the omission, he received a message immediately back. 

Archivist: Martin is already expecting you.

Pleased, Jordan tucks his phone away and climbs back into the cab of his truck. It’s late spring in London, swiftly approaching June, with temperatures pleasantly warm and gardens coming alive with greenery. With that comes the pulse and swell of life, in both gardens and a ceaseless, hungry pit inside of himself. The winter was awful, a creeping dread of dormancy threatening to turn fear back on him as his creatures fell quiet and cold. Jordan had turned every routine examination into an excuse to find a warm corner, a mouldering basement beam, a dusty attic crevice to tuck away pieces of this thing he was now. In a way, he spent that time planting a garden of his own, and is starting to reap the benefits of it. He found other way to supplement his appetite, ones that he favors far less than this, but from the Archivist and his vanguard, Jordan Kennedy has learned that being a monster is multi-faceted, and you only go hungry if you aren’t willing to put in the effort. 

But yes, late spring, and Jordan finds that with the blossoming of many-legged meal tickets, he’s looking forward to a specific treat. Certainly, he could find it elsewhere, but there’s something about having a creature who understands this particular existence also feed it. And besides, the Archivist owes him. 

So, at a time when he knows the monsters three will be tending their own garden, he sends his request on the backs of thousands of industrious ants that had been bustling beneath maple trees and meticulously mulched flower beds. Just an overturned rock or two is all it takes to knock on their door, send them pouring out in droves, delivering Jordan’s ask:

Ꭵ𝐓'丂 𝐓Ɨм𝑒

He completes his tasks for the day, hates himself for the way he thrills when he explains just how bad a termite infestation can be to a young, single mother of two. She had been lovely, the kind of woman Jordan would ask on a date if he’s in a bar or a nice restaurant (he’s quite fond of kids, actually), but he’ll never be able to forget the honey-sweet trickle of her terror down his spine, clutching the younger of the two children to her ribs, the little guy too young to understand, and the older of the two eating up “bug facts” as voraciously as Jordan fed on his mum. He feels awful. He feels fortified to meet with the equally unwilling demigod of the Dread Powers. 

As he stands on the stoop of a quaint English cottage, teeming with bright annuals and lush evergreens, Jordan once more contemplates what he’ll find on the other side of the door. He doesn’t get much time to as the Archivist anticipates his arrival before he can ring the bell (typical of the Eye), looking surly about the eyebrows. 

“You could have phoned,” Jon says by way of greeting. 

Jordan responds with a crooked smile at Jon’s lingering unease. “Where’s the fun in that? May I come in?”

The way Jon steps back and opens the door wider is enough of an acquiescence and Jordan steps inside. He’s close enough to Jon to feel the uncomfortable echo of prickling skin, and he could easily imagine the other man’s hand plunging into fresh soil, being met with legs and antennae and the warmth of the entire swarm. Not enough as one body to hold that heat, but the many? The first time Jordan had been “invited” over, the Archivist’s left hand had still been twitching slightly. Today, he looks balefully resigned. Normal. 

God, the thing that gets him sometimes is that they mostly look normal.

“How’s business?” Jon asks dryly. He probably already knows. 

“Booming,” Jordan says, his smile widening as gets a small taste of Jon’s distaste at the topic. “How’s yours?”

“Plentiful, as ever.”

They walk through the first floor of the house, a cozy enough home that is slightly less pristine than the yard outside, lived in and utterly clear of any spiders. On that, Jordan can agree. In the back is a small patio table with four chairs offering a splendid view of tidy lawn and well-loved vegetable beds. Do they have any idea how many crawling things run this yard with abandon? One look at Jon’s face says yes, as if he becomes more aware of it with Jordan there. Come to think of it, he probably does. 

He spots Martin quickly, the other man’s red-gold hair catching the early evening sun. He smells like the earth, and there’s dirt under his nails, but in spite of that, he’s holding a pitcher full nearly to the brim with lemonade. Jordan’s entire focus shifts to that singular thing as the Avatar of the One Alone pours it out. He forgets his manners in anticipation of the sweetness, and Martin looks smug. He knows this is what Jordan has come for. Not so much for social pleasantries or the business of fear, but for this. A tall glass of lemonade so sweet that Jon declines his own serving outright and Martin sips slowly so that he’s barely finished half a glass by the time Jordan takes his leave. Jordan can’t remember how he used to like it, only that he wants it like this as spring crests over into summer, making him content to sit with his fellow monsters for a spell. Later, he would lay himself down and share it, sink into the dirt and the thousands of skittering, fluttering touches that feed from him as he has fed. It’s the most he’s ever belonged anywhere, and it’s the thing he loathes the most. 

Has he forgiven the Archivist for this gift? Not quite. 

They sit for a spell and drink. Words are exchanged, cautious greetings when the third Avatar steps out into the yard to make sure all is going well. This one, Tim, he doesn’t get on as well with. The Flesh and the Corruption aren’t exactly on good terms. Something about having a body that can be broken down by rot and insects doesn’t sit well, but it can’t dispute that those things have flesh of their own, of a sort. So it’s an uneasy truce. Not to mention that, of the three, this one has a ferality under the surface. Jordan had seen it in the hellscape, and it sleeps like great beast behind Tim’s pleasant smile and bright floral shirt. 

In time, the lemonade is consumed, and Martin has so generously placed a second batch in a monstrous thermos that will live in Jordan’s truck for the next week as he savors it with the swell of summer warmth. And when the table has been cleared and Martin’s given him a tour of the garden, Jordan takes his leave. His tongue is thick with sugar, and his bones citrus-sour. There is a shallow well in the dirt back at his flat. He likes to think he’s retained most of his humanity, the one thing allowing him to tolerate the Archivist and what he’d done to Jordan. But when he lays himself down in that not-grave and starts to feel both the soil being pulled away to reach him and his body sinking into the loving embrace of what’s his now, he knows he’s not human. 

The lemonade is the *least* he’s owed.

[pankendev]

this and a blunt [remembering i don't smoke]force trauma

[allmonstershere]

Monster Fic WIP Snip 007-81

I don’t seem to recall there ever being a time when—

When what? When they were happy? When they got on better than they had before the Unknowing? Were Jon’s memories of the precious and rare good times buried under all the rest? It seemed entirely likely and also probably a safer thing for his current existence than Tim wanted to admit.

[allmonstershere]

Monster Fic WIP Snip 006-150

It seemed that the church statement had only managed to sustain him for so long, and even if Tim had been a five star monster feast (he wanted to think he had been), it was likely to have been a drop in the bucket. What does the Eye want from you? he kept himself from asking.

[allmonstershere]

Monster Fic WIP Snip 005-74

He recognized the careful dance here, the unasked question of whether or not they could trust one another. Tim knew he wouldn’t get without giving, so he took another breath and gave Jon something. 

“I also wanted to tell you that I went to the Institute, “ he added. “I took the tunnels to Artifact Storage and back. Didn’t pass go or collect two-hundred dollars. I ran into Basira, so this is probably not new information, but I still wanted you to hear it from me.”

[unstill-deactivated20260502]

nothing makes me feel more alive than being insane about a little show

[allmonstershere]

Monster Fic WIP Snip 004-77

Tim felt a tick of something go through him as Jon took back over with another question. They’d never really set the terms of the invitation, so maybe he’d unreasonably had it in his mind that it would be more of an exchange. I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours, or something like that. Though there was still far too little showing for his preferences, relegated to talking through the phone and having to accept just how many limitations came with that. Not at all unlike the church, where he’d set the playing field for the game, and they’d both had to endure the consequences.

[grey-wardens-dont-have-dental]

Send me a Ship and a Number and I will Write a Kiss

…good morning.

…goodnight.

…goodbye.

…where it hurts.

…where it doesn’t hurt.

…on a falling tear.

…to shut them up.

…in secrecy.

…in public.

…desperately.

…in joy.

…in grief.

…discreetly.

…casually.

…passionately.

…lazily.

…to distract.

…as encouragement.

…for luck.

…on a scar.

…on a place of insecurity.

…in a rush of adrenaline.

…in relief.

…in danger.

…as a ‘yes’.

…as an apology.

…as a suggestion.

…as a lie.

…as a promise.

…as comfort.

…after a small rejection.

…to wake up.

…forcefully.

…to pretend.

…to gain something.

…to give up control.

…without a motive.

…because they’re running out of time.

…because time’s run out.

…because the world is ending.

…because the world is saved.

…out of pride.

…out of greed.

…out of lust.

…out of anger.

…out of envy or jealousy.

…out of spite.

…out of habit.

…out of necessity.

…out of love.