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flywolfwriting · 7 hours

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Throw Me in the Deep End

Charlie was proud to say she was not afraid of the dark. It certainly impressed the other seven-year-olds in her class, and her parents always told her how proud they were that she had conquered that fear so young. That she was so brave for sleeping without a night light.

It was even mostly true. She could sleep in her own room, and could sneak about the manor in the middle of the night without her heart in her throat, but sometimes it still quickened, and if she looked out the windows her breath caught. She was still only seven, after all, and it was a big, scary world beyond the safety of the manor walls.

It took her time to settle into their New Orleans holiday home. She learned the creaking of the walls and the whispering of the wind, grew accustomed to the way shadows cloaked her temporary bedroom. She kept the curtains open for just that small glimmer of moonlight and buried her head under her blankets to keep from looking outside.

She didn't say anything to her parents, though, not even when her mom woke her before sunrise to take her on an early-morning walk. They drove for ages with Charlie napping in the backseat, until her mom pulled over and told her they'd arrived. Charlie hugged close to her, but put on a brave face when Lilith led her into the bayou. She protested only a little when directed to stay put for a moment, her plea cut off with a firm, "You're mommy's brave little girl, aren't you?"

Charlie wanted so badly to be so she nodded and did as asked. She watched her mother disappear into the darkness and waited.

And waited.

And kept waiting.

The song of the bayou played around Charlie and her trembling fingers clutched the hem of her shirt tightly as she tried not to imagine glowing eyes creeping closer around her, silent tears streaking her cheeks.

Finally she could take it no more and with a sob she raced back the way they'd come.

"Mommy!"

—---------------------

Alastor loved nights like this, when the shadows clung to him like cobwebs and the crescent moon offered just enough light to avoid stepping into the alligator-infested waters. He could see the glint of their eyes watching as he dumped the duffle bag and opened it. They moved closer but didn't creep onto the small finger of land he stood on. They simply waited, and when he threw the first limb into the water they struck, the still bayou turning into churning bodies fighting for meat.

Alastor threw the next piece, quietly humming as he watched them feed. This was almost the best part, second only to the moment blood welled under his fingers and his victim realized they were about to die. He kept the best cuts to himself, of course, but the gators seemed to appreciate his treats all the same.

When he finished he loaded the bag with soil before tossing it in, tucked his gloves back into his pocket, and set off with a spring in his step.

That was when he heard the sob.

Alastor froze, listening carefully. The bayou was full of strange sounds but he had learned them all, knew each creak of wood, the splash of an alligator sliding into the water, the hum of every insect. He slipped into the shadow between the trees and waited, his knife at the ready. They weren't truly deep within the bayou itself; he couldn't risk the noise of a boat. It was plausible someone had followed him.

What came next was a greater shock: a child, a little girl, stumbling into view.

No, they weren't deep, but dawn had yet to crack the sky and they weren't near any roads.

Alastor resisted a sigh and tucked his knife back into its sheath against his thigh and stepped out.

The girl let out a short scream and fled.

“Wait-” Alastor called, then took off after her. He couldn't see her anymore but he heard her footsteps, another short scream, and the expected splash as she fell into the water.

And then a more familiar kind of splash.

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flywolfwriting · 7 hours

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Throw Me in the Deep End

Charlie wanted so badly to be so she nodded and did as asked. She watched her mother disappear into the darkness and waited.

And waited.

And kept waiting.

Finally she could take it no more and with a sob she raced back the way they'd come.

"Mommy!"

—---------------------

When he finished he loaded the bag with soil before tossing it in, tucked his gloves back into his pocket, and set off with a spring in his step.

That was when he heard the sob.

What came next was a greater shock: a child, a little girl, stumbling into view.

No, they weren't deep, but dawn had yet to crack the sky and they weren't near any roads.

Alastor resisted a sigh and tucked his knife back into its sheath against his thigh and stepped out.

The girl let out a short scream and fled.

“Wait-” Alastor called, then took off after her. He couldn't see her anymore but he heard her footsteps, another short scream, and the expected splash as she fell into the water.

And then a more familiar kind of splash.

#Hazbin Hotel #Alastor #charlie morningstar #lucifer morningstar #RadioApple #Slow burn #ao3 #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #my fic #please don't repost to another site #fanfic #Human au #found family #hazbin hotel rosie #serial killer Alastor #title from Deep End by I Prevail

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flywolfwriting · 9 months

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Just Pretend - Ch. 2

It took almost half an hour standing on the sidewalk to work up the courage to walk through the door.

The door was locked and Crowley could feel the wards’ resistance, but the shop remembered him and opened the way. It surprised him how little had changed. Fifteen years was no small amount of time, especially when someone new to earth was involved. A few newer works littered the crowded bookshelves, the chairs had been replaced, and the rug covering the gateway to heave was larger, but other than that things appeared to be untouched. It almost felt like home.

But it didn’t smell of Aziraphale.

Yes, the angel’s scent had almost become that of the books themselves, but there was always that hint of fresh linen and warm summer rain as a constant undercurrent - an undercurrent that had been replaced by the sharpness of new paper.

He shouldn’t have come here. The knife might not cut as deeply but it was still sharp and he was sitting here picking at the scabs. Crowley was just turning back toward the door when someone spoke.

“Oh! It’s you!”

He glanced back to see the same small angel standing at the end of one of the aisles. They no longer wore the crisp white constable’s uniform, but it was undoubtedly Muriel. They now wore pressed trousers and a lavender button-down with their dark hair braided and draped over their shoulder. Crowley looked them over. “I was just leaving,” he said, making once again to leave.

“Wait!” the angel said, taking several steps forward and stopping only when Crowley had done so.

He raised an eyebrow at them.

“I didn’t know you were back in London,” Muriel said after a moment of floundering.

“Not for long,” Crowley said flatly. “Just passing through.”

“If you’re looking for Archangel Aziraphale I can call him-”

The moment they said his name Crowley grimaced. “Please don’t,” he said, interrupting the rest of their offer. “Goodbye.” He turned and pushed back through the door, ignoring both Muriel’s spluttered protests and the shop’s wards tugging on him as though trying to pull him back in.

He shouldn’t have come in the first place.

Crowley made his way across the street. The record shop was gone, but Give me coffee or give me death was still open. He slipped inside and took a moment to observe the place, not unlike he’d done with the bookshop.

The decade and a half since he’d last been by certainly showed here; the layout of the seating area had changed, and a small nook in the front corner sported padded benches and shelves of vinyls next to an old-fashioned jukebox, which was currently silent. A few vinyls spotted one wall, highlighting the nook. Two teenagers stood behind the counter, one bouncing about making drinks and the other standing at the register looking bored.

It was the latter that called out to him. “Oi, you! You gonna order or stand there looking dumb?”

-----------------

Ao3

#Good Omens #Good Omens 2 #Good Omens Spoilers #Crowley #Aziraphale #Nina #Give me coffee or give me death #chapter 2 #Just Pretend #ao3 #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #please don't post to another site #neil gaiman #angst

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flywolfwriting · 9 months

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GOOD OMENS S02 + TUMBLR REACTIONS

#good omens #goodomensedit #good omens spoilers

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flywolfwriting · 9 months

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Just Pretend - Prolog

“I could always rely on you and you could always rely on me.”

Crowley stared into the crowded pub, seeing nothing. He’d spent most of the day replaying the night, like running his finger over a blade just to see if it was still sharp. It cut every time, just how quickly everything had gone to shit.

The dance plan had gone so well; Nina and Maggie had realized they would work together, even if there may or may not be some delays to that development. Crowley had even felt like there might be something there with Aziraphale, like perhaps the angel was ready to move forward finally. Something Crowley hadn’t fully realized he wanted until Nina made the comment.

It wasn’t the first time someone had assumed he and Aziraphale were partners, and they’d always shut it down because they couldn’t be, not without risking total destruction. But things were different now. Now they could be them. The four years since Armageddon didn’t happen had been so promising. They didn’t have to hide. Sure, he lied to Shax about talking to Aziraphale, but that was because she was - obviously - a demon, and therefore unhinged.

As was proven last night.

Crowley wished Beelzebub had just told him why they wanted Gabriel in the first place. He probably wouldn’t have believed them, but maybe it would have made a difference. Maybe they could have avoided all of this… except for the Book of Life thing.

If only Gabriel hadn’t gotten off the elevator. He should have walked into Hell completely naked with a box, not Aziraphale’s book shop.

Satan but even thinking his name hurt.

Crowley threw back the rest of his drink. He’d chosen a cheap whiskey; he couldn’t bring himself to do what he was doing to anything worth drinking - and that was getting absolutely sloshed.

The bartender made last call, and Crowley slapped his glass back onto the table with a sour look. All day and all night he’d been here, watching the door, hoping to see Aziraphale come through it with an apology on his lips, and Crowley would have forgiven him.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to be disappointed. Aziraphale always came back, but this time felt different. It felt more permanent.

Crowley stood and made his wobbly way from the pub, dropping heavily into his car.

“Take me somewhere far away from here,” he said, and the Bentley listened.

------

AO3

Next Chapter

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flywolfwriting · 11 months

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Upon These Wings Ch. 9: Hints and Clues

I’d cried myself into exhaustion by the time night fell. My nest was so dark I could only make out the shapes of things and still I could not sleep. Dark had tried calling me down once, but he quickly gave up.

Even though I’d been up there for hours, the anger and hurt still clenched in my stomach. I thought they were my friends, finally, but they didn’t seem to want to be. It wasn’t fair. Here were the only two people who had any idea what I’d really gone through, who were just as trapped here as I was, and yet I was so incredibly isolated from them. And now Dark was trying to alienate me from my project team. My relationship with most of them was polite at least, but what about Jada? I liked her, and I thought she liked me. If Dark was right, she was ignorant at best, playing me at worst.

I hated how utterly alone I was.

The keypad’s faint beeping snapped me from my thoughts. I sat up as the door swung open. Jakes’ silhouette remained burned into my eyes as the door clicked closed behind him, loud as a gunshot in the silence.

He was three steps into the room before I fully processed what was happened and scrambled to my feet, wings scattering pillows behind me in my haste. “J-Jakes!”

He paused. “Three,” he said curtly, “or is it Dawn now?”

Fear began creeping up my spine. Something was very wrong here.

That fear quickly turned to annoyance and then anger - Dark was sitting down there somewhere messing with my emotions, tamping down my rising fury and stoking the fear. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle. Infuriatingly, it worked, and despite my attempts to control myself I began slowly backing away from the director invading my room.

“Stop,” Jakes commanded, resuming his approach.

I continued my retreat. “What do you want?” I asked, and I hated that my voice trembled.

“Stop,” he insisted, suddenly taking several large strides and reaching for me.

I stumbled backward, tripped on a pillow, and fell through the glass into open air.

----------------

#my fic #ao3 #archive of our own #youtube #jacksepticeye #markiplier #antisepticeye #darkiplier #original female character #sciene #human experimentation #upon these wings #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #human with wings #danti #darkiplier/antisepticeye

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flywolfwriting · 1 year

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I love both these men and I love that John Scalzi follows Neil Gaiman xD

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flywolfwriting · 1 year

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Love is Patient, Love is Blind Chap. 6

Jon was quiet the whole time, staring blindly at the ceiling as Martin talked. Sometimes he’d make a face, or open his mouth like he was going to say something, but in the end the most reaction Martin got was the clenching of fists in the blanket.

The silence in the room when Martin finished was the heaviest he’d experienced - and given his experience with silence, that was saying a lot.

Jon finally began asking questions, most of which led back to his skeptical paranoia and he ended up accusing Martin of neglecting his work ‘as usual’ in favor of concocting this elaborate lie and taking advantage of Jon’s injury. He tried to get up again, but Martin was able to get him back down long enough for Mayla to give him a mild sedative.

She gave Martin a little bit too.

—----------------------------

Basira arrived in the middle of the night, which Martin discovered when he blearily stumbled down the stairs to make breakfast and found her sitting at the table with Mayla and Berritte. All three looked up as he hit the bottom stair and froze. Her narrowed eyes told him that the other two had told her everything.

He didn’t have the energy to do more than blink at her before fumbling into the kitchen for tea. Mayla slipped upstairs and Berritte vanished through the glass doors into the garden. Basira leaned against the counter behind him.

“Tell me what happened.”

The kettle was still warm. Martin selected a morning tea and poured the water over it, enjoying the ritual. Part of him hoped Basira would leave, let him wallow in his misery alone, but she was patient.

“He woke up and panicked,” he said.

Basira’s silence was daunting.

He sighed. “He couldn’t see, and he thought… he thinks Michael stabbed him. That wasn’t long after you met us. You remember how paranoid he was.”

“He was right, though,” Basira pointed out.

“But he’s not now,” Martin said, dunking his tea bag. “He just… it hurts, being reminded he once thought I’d lie to him. Especially like this.”

Martin hadn’t turned around so he couldn’t see her face, but Basira’s voice softened. “I’ll talk to him. He seemed to trust me at the time.”

He nodded mournfully, remembering when he and Tim thought she and Jon were hooking up. He heard her move towards the stairs and he spun around. “Basira-”

#TMA #The Magnus Archives #Love is Patient Love is Blind #My fic #fanfic #Please do not post to another site #AO3 #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #Hurt!Jon #Jon Simms #Martin Blackwood #Hurt/Comfort #Jonmartin #Basira Hussain

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flywolfwriting · 1 year

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Love is Pateint, Love is Blind - Ch. 5

For the second time in six weeks, Basira answered her phone to incoherent, frantic babbling. She was out of her seat and heading for the car before she could get a word out. Given Martin’s recent speech-drought, whatever his reason for calling, it wasn’t good.

“Martin, calm down, I can’t understand you. Has something happened to Jon? Do you need-”

“He’s awake! He’s awake but he doesn’t remember anything and he-”

“He’s awake?” Basira interrupted, stopping with her hand on the car door. “That’s a good thing, Martin, settle down.”

“He can’t remember, Basira! Years of memory gone! The last thing he can remember is the Distortion taking Helen, and-”

There was a muffled thump, then the clattering of the phone swinging into the wall as it was dropped. “Jon?” Martin called over the pounding of his feet on the stairs.

Basira waited a moment, frozen. She could hear their faint voices but couldn’t make out any words. There was a sharp cry of pain and that was all she needed. She hung up and started driving, dialing Mayla as she went.

—------------------------

It had taken Martin several minutes to get Jon back into bed and convince him to stay put - although this last part may have been solely due to the fact that Jon was too exhausted to keep fighting. Martin promised to return with soup, received a scoff, and slipped away.

Basira had, unsurprisingly, hung up by the time Martin got back. He returned the phone to its cradle and headed to the kitchen. He started a mild broth warming, collected ice for his blooming black eye, and returned to the phone to redial Basira.

“Martin? Are you okay? I heard you shout.”

Martin sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine. He… it was an accident. I’m okay.”

“Mayla’s on her way,” she said, and he could hear the frown in her voice.

“Basira,” Martin said, feeling as though he might break apart. “He’s blind.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Basira?”

“He’s what?”

“He’s blind. He can’t remember anything past Helen being taken, and he’s blind.”

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #Jonmartin #AO3 #Fanfic #My fic #please don't post to another site #flywolf33 #love is patient love is blind #blind jon #hurt!jon #hurt/comfort #sick fic #kinda

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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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This, very much this. When I post a new fic I practically babysit the site waiting for comments and the sheer joy of GETTING ONE even if it's just like, an emoji or something? I live on that some days.

I remember you.

Just so y’all know: I can’t speak for every other fic author but I can say that I remember when people leave me kind comments. I recognize your urls and/or usernames on AO3. I remember you and sometimes in writing my fics I think to myself, “Oh, I hope this person sees this because they liked x in this other fic I did.”

Not only that—I go back and reread comments when I’m feeling low. I look at tags and reblogs and asks and wish I could hold them in my hand like a note from a friend on an old, torn piece of notebook paper.

Your comments have so much more impact than you know. So thanks to those who use the comment section to spread love and encouragement. We appreciate you.

#ao3 #fanfic writer #comments

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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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I’m Trying to be Your Hero

Morgan knew going up against an S-tier villain was a bad idea. He’d known it when he’d made the decision, and each fight only drove the point home further. He knew he was lucky Alex hadn’t simply killed him the first time – it’s not like he put up a good fight against someone who was essentially a god. Even the hero teams struggled against them, so a lowly D-tier who only had use of his power once a month was hardly going to stand a chance.

He was pretty sure this would be the final fight. He hadn’t gotten this close to Alex before, but it was clear the villain was getting annoyed by their expression as they held Morgan against the wall by his throat. “Alright D-lister, I’ve been merciful so far, but what is your game? Are you trying to be my nemesis or something?”

Morgan could barely breathe, but he managed to choke out a response. “I’m not trying to be your nemesis; I- I’m trying to be your hero.”

Whatever Alex had been expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. “Ah,” they said blankly, grip loosening and then releasing Morgan altogether.

Morgan gasped as his feet hit the ground and he could finally draw a full breath. He stared up at Alex. He really should run now, while his opponent was flustered, but he’d put so much on the line to get here, and he couldn’t guarantee he’d get this close again. Alex would probably just kill him on sight next time.

If they didn’t kill him now, that is.

The blow never came. Alex just turned golden eyes upon the hero still trying to catch his breath. “Congratulations, you get to live. For now.”

Then they were gone.

“Holy fuck,” Morgan gasped, slumping against the wall and sliding to the ground.

------------------

“Alright D-lister, I need to know. What did you mean by you want to be my hero?”

Morgan jumped and spun around with an undignified, strangled yelp. Alex, S-tier supervillain, stood in his living room. Their eyes glowed in the light from the fridge, which slowly swung closed until they were left in near perfect darkness.

“I- wh- how-”

Alex carried on without pausing. “Like is that a ‘I’m going to save you from yourself’ self-righteous bullshit thing or a ‘kiss away the pain’ kind of thing?” As they spoke, they grabbed the front of Morgan’s shirt. It almost felt absent-minded; it’s not as though Morgan could exactly go anywhere. He was already in his own apartment.

The truth was Morgan hadn’t been sure exactly why he was targeting Alex. By all accounts it was stupid and borderline suicidal, but he just couldn’t help himself. There was a sort of draw, like Morgan was a scrap of metal and Alex was an industrial-level magnet. “W-would kissing away the pain help?”

“I mean… it wouldn’t not help,” Alex said.

“Then that one, yeah,” Morgan said.

Alex’s eyes narrowed as they considered him, and then in a flash the hero found himself once again backed against a wall. This time, however, Alex’s lips were crushed against his.

Oh shit, Morgan thought.

Alex broke off but remained so close their breath blew hot against Morgan’s face. “I need your explicit consent.”

“What?”

“I need. Your consent,” Alex slowly repeated. “I’m going to hurt you.[WH2] ”

To the best of his knowledge Morgan wasn’t a masochist, so that really shouldn’t have sent a bolt of electricity through him, but it did. He swallowed. “Does- does it really count if you’re going to kill me for saying no?”

“If you say no, I’ll leave.”

“Will you kill me later?”

Alex’s shoulder twitched. “Probably, but not for saying no.”

At least they were honest.

“Well?”

“It’s going to hurt?”

Eyes glinting, Alex put their lips on Morgan’s ears and growled, “Yes.”

Morgan shivered and a soft sound escaped his throat.

Alex leaned back and met his gaze. “But I won’t maim you.”

“Yes.”

One perfect eyebrow rose.

“Goddammit, yes,” Morgan repeated, grabbing Alex’s shirt and dragging them into another violent kiss. Morgan tasted blood and whimpered as Alex bit down on his lip.

With a dizzying whirl Morgan found himself on their bed pinned under a grinning villain whose bared teeth glowed white in the light filtering through the window. The sound of ripping fabric filled the room and cool air washed over Morgan’s suddenly bared chest.

“Hey,” he protested.

Anything further was cut off by a strong hand wrapping around their throat and Alex nipping at their ear. “I’m just getting started.”

-----

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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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Love is Patient, Love is Blind - Ch. 2

Everyone else’s nightmare world ended a year ago, but Martin’s had just begun. He’d waited for Jon to either wake up or die before, but he hadn’t been the one to kill him then. He hadn’t already lost everything.

True to her word, Basira had returned with blankets, food, and water. Even a small heater. He’d woken up with a duvet thrown over him. He could hear her moving around upstairs, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Jon’s side until Dr. Midec arrived and Basira came back down.

“You have run of the house,” she said. “The back garden is secluded enough that you should be safe to pop out for a spot of fresh air; just don’t leave the property. Lay low.”

Martin only nodded mutely.

“Does he… uh… need any statements?”

Martin shrugged and glanced at Jon. Dr. Midec was changing his bandage. How long had he been asleep?

“Well… I hope not. All of them were destroyed with the Panopticon. The institute is a rehab center now, a place for people to get help with any nightmares they still have.”

Martin didn’t reply. It seemed he had used up all his words when he’d told Basira everything that had happened. What he did.

Basira seemed to understand. Offering a mobile phone, she told him to let her know if he needed anything. She had a few agents - whatever that meant - in the area that would be able to help. She promised to always text the name and a picture of anyone new stopping by and not to answer the door if he wasn’t expecting someone. Dr. Midec had the door code, so he didn’t have to worry about him.

Martin accepted all of this and went to sit next to Jon until Dr. Midec finished. He gave Martin a brief rundown on things to watch for and things he would need to do when the doctor wasn’t there.

Finally, they were left alone.

The silence was torturous. It reminded Martin too much of the Lonely. He had to get up and do something. So he did. He made up his cot with the blankets. He draped one over Jon so he didn’t freeze. He set up the heater in the one outlet in the cave-basement they’d arrived in.

When he couldn’t find an excuse to stay downstairs any long, he finally trekked to the kitchen. He went through the food Basira had brought th- him. It was mostly canned food and things that wouldn’t take long to cook. That was good, because Martin was sprinting down the stairs every two minutes to check on Jon, terrified he’d find him cold and pale and still.

He made chicken noodle soup and went down to eat beside his comatose boyfriend before bundling himself in his blankets and going to sleep.

—————————

“I can’t lose you, not like this.”

The weight of Jon collapsed against him, trembling with strain.

“Tough! Where you go, I go.”

“That’s the deal. Okay.”

“What?”

He knew, but he didn’t want to understand.

“Do it. The knife’s just there.”

A jerk of the head, toward the very thing he was trying to ignore.

“I’m not going to kill you!”

He’d thought about it, but dismissed it. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

“Maybe we both die… maybe we end up somewhere else.”

It was a lie. He knew that. Knew that he was just trying to make him feel better. Convince him.

“Together?”

The cold of the steel, heavy in his hands.

“One way or another. Together.”

His body wasn’t listening; something else seemed to have taken hold of him. He couldn’t do this.

“Are you sure about this?”

Please tell me not to please beg me to put it down please do anything you can to save your life-

“No. But I love you.”

The pained look in his eyes, begging him. For what, he didn’t know. Forgiveness? Release? Whatever it was, it wasn’t mercy.

“I love you too.”

The warmth of his lips.

Then the squelching crunch of the knife as it entered Jon’s body, pushing up under his ribs. His gasp of startled pain, then blood, blood everywhere, sticky and burning hot on Martin’s hands, the smell choking him, Jon falling heavy into him as they were dragged into darkness, the feeling of Jon’s pulsing heart against Martin’s chest and then the sudden stillness and nothing but the blood drenching him-

Martin lurched up, the soup splattering to the cold stone floor. Dr. Midec looked up from Jon, concern evident on his face, but Martin ignored him and scrambled for his boyfriend.

“Hey-“ the doctor started, but stopped when Martin rested his head against Jon’s chest.

Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

Quiet but steady, and most importantly there.

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#my fic #tma #the magnus archives #fanfic #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #jmart #jonmartin #ao3 #linked #hurt/comfort #hurt jon #emotionally hurt Martin #jon simms #martin blackwood #post mag 200 #time travel ish #please don't repost to another site

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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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Love is Patient, Love is Blind - Ch. 1

At first, they weren’t sure Jon would make it.

Martin woke up in the basement of Hilltop Road, curled around Jon’s body in the same protective embrace he’d held him in at the Panopticon what felt like only moments before.

It was Jon’s body and not Jon because his heart wasn’t beating. He’d needed to die to cut the tether, so that’s what he’d done.

Martin didn’t know how he’d gotten Jon’s heart going again. He’d learned enough from caring for his mum to know that CPR didn’t work on people who died from physical trauma. Restarting your heart didn’t matter when you’d been killed by blood loss.

But Martin panicked and tried anyway and somehow it worked.

He immediately bundled his shirt over the wound to stop further bleeding and found an old wired phone at the bottom of the stairs. Praying it worked, he dialed the one number he had memorized: Basira’s.

By some miracle, she picked up.

“Martin?” she’d said, incredulous, and then spent the next minute trying to calm Martin down enough to understand what he was saying. “I’m on my way, keep him from bleeding out.”

Five minutes later there was a knock and, surprised Basira had been so close, Martin dashed upstairs to let her in.

It wasn’t Basira.

A man with a large briefcase and long coat stood on the step. “Basira called me. Where is he?”

“I- w-what? Who are you?”

The man pushed inside impatiently. “Dr. Midec, a friend of Basira’s. Now, take me to your friend so I can keep him alive.”

“Boyfriend,” Martin muttered as he led the doctor down. He opened his case to reveal an array of medical equipment. Martin watched him work, trying to stay out of the way and help where he could. Please don’t die, Jon, you promised together, don’t go where I can’t follow, hold on Jon, hold on…

And then the doctor was asking for Martin’s hand to prick a finger and test blood type. The time it took to process was the longest five minutes of Martin’s life, even as he watched the doctor set up a field transfusion kit just in case.

O Negative. He could save Jon.

He gladly held out his arm and nearly sighed with relief watching the blood pump through the tubing. A forever and a half later, color began to creep back into Jon’s cheeks and his breathing seemed easier. Martin started to relax, just a little.

Then Basira was there exchanging rapid words with the doctor but Martin was too exhausted to bother paying attention. He held Jon’s hand and allowed himself to drift for a while. He woke when Basira shoved orange juice and a small packet of biscuits into his hands and ordered him to drink up. He obeyed without argument.

He realized the doctor was gone. When had he left?

Basira sat next to him as he nibbled his biscuits without speaking; she seemed to understand his silence.

The doctor returned, carrying a new suitcase and a long, bagged object. He gave the suitcase to Basira and opened the bag to reveal a cot. He swiftly set it up, then he and Basira gently moved Jon onto it. Then the doctor left again.

“What happened?”

Martin blinked at Basira, who was sitting next to him against the wall again. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then tried again. He numbly explained everything to her, the words spilling out of him as if on their own accord. He told her about how after he sent them to blow the gas line he ran up the stairs as fast as he could, how when he burst into the room at the top of the Panopticon he’d thought he’d made it on time. Then he’d seen Elias’s body and he felt like his life had ended too.

Basira’s horrified expression melted into pity as he told her about how he’d tried to get Jon to leave, get him out of the tower; how there was no other choice, that Jon held him and curled into him as they were swept away by the Web, how Jon died in his arms. That he woke up here and somehow… somehow Jon was still here and they had a chance.

And then Basira told him that it had been a year. A whole year since they stopped the Nightmare World. She explained that people remembered, and people knew that the Archivist started all of it; that even though the memory was fading, like a bad dream, there were still a lot of people who would know Jon and a lot that would want to hurt him.

“But… he saved them.”

“Most of them don’t care,” Basira said not unkindly. “It’s probably best the two of you stay out of sight for a while. Harv and I will take care of everything for you until it’s safe to move Jon.”

“Where can we go?” Martin asked miserably.

“We’ll figure it out. For now both of you need to rest. No-” she said, holding up her hand to stop Martin’s next question. “I’ll answer more questions when you’re a little more coherent. You look l ready to pass out any moment.”

Martin acquiesced, lacking the energy to argue. She wasn’t wrong.

Dr. Midec returned with a second cot, which Basira helped him set up next to Jon’s.

“I’ll be back in about an hour with some blankets and food,” Basira promised. “Nobody comes in here, so as long as you’re quiet, you should be reasonably safe. I own the property anyway, so it’s not like you’re squatting.”

Martin’s brow furrowed, but he knew she would only shake her head. She was right; he was tired. After Dr. Midec assured him he would check in every hour and Basira further promised to return with supplies soon, Martin crawled onto his cot and, with his hand firmly clasped around Jon’s, fell asleep.

--------------------

AO3

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #My fic #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #please do not repost to another site #chapter one #love is patient love is blind #JMart #jonmartin #jon simms #Martin blackwood #post mag 200 #full season spoilers #s5 spoilers #hurt/comfort #hurt!Jon #Basira Hussain #basira is a good friend

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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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If you tell me to give up I might throw hands actually so have caution...

Helpful suggestions. And humor.

#writers block

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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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Paranoia Sharp as a (Bread)Knife

Jon was not a brave man, but he was growing used to the idea. Not everyone could be brave - not everyone needed to be brave. It was okay to not be brave.

The point was, he didn't know what had come over him. He'd been so angry about Helen, but it's not like he could have made Michael bring her back. Of course attacking him hadn't gotten him anywhere - nowhere except stabbed. Of course that's where it got him; Michael's fingers were basically knives. Of course Jon had leapt without looking. Of course he was here.

He'd stayed still for some time, watching for more doors, but only his normal office door remained. Jon thought about waiting for someone to find him, but he disregarded that idea quickly; he couldn't let anyone see him like this. What if whoever found him was Gertrude's murderer? They could easily take advantage of his weakened state. No, best nobody saw him.

That meant he had to find a way out without crossing paths with anyone and with as few doors as possible. The canteen would likely be empty; no one should be on lunch this time of day. Getting upstairs that way had the added benefit of only one door - his office. After that it would be a straight shot outside. That would be the hardest part to do without being seen, but first thing's first: the canteen.

Jon slowly stood, using his desk to help pull himself to his feet as he ground his teeth against the pain. He gave himself a moment to let the world stop turning, then made his way to the door. He hesitated for a long time before finally reaching out and turning the knob.

Nothing beyond the ordinary; just his assistants' desks surrounded by piles of books and statements, the main staircase leading to the rest of the institute on the wall opposite. It would be a shorter path, but a more populated one. Not safe.

He turned and staggered down the hall, one hand pressed to his side and his other using the wall for support. Each step was harder than the last. Jon had to stop and rest at the bottom of the stairs, breathing hard and struggling to hold back a whimper with each exhale. He couldn't remember ever being in so much pain.

How long had it been? Would anyone notice he wasn't in his office? Had he closed the door? He needed to hurry; if anyone came looking for him…

Dragging himself up the stairs was one of the most agonizing experiences Jon had every subjected himself to. By the time he reached the top he was all but crawling, held upright only by his grip on the railing. He'd left a splattered trail of blood, but he didn't have it in him to care at the moment. Nobody but the archives team used these stairs, and all of them had already gone on break. Nobody would see the stains until tomorrow.

Jon rewarded his victory by leaning against the counter and taking deep breaths until he stopped crying. He still had so far to go just to leave the institute, and then he still had to get a block over to the A&E… he was lucky they were so close.

"Oh hey Jon, when did-"

He whirled around and finally the pain was too much; he cried out, collapsing back into the counter and sliding down its front to land hard on his butt. He curled his knees to his chest and clutched at his side. His lungs struggled to remember how to work, drawing air in ragged gasps as Jon's side screamed.

"J-Jon? Are you oka- oh my god." Martin's hand was at his elbow, trying to draw his hands away from his side.

Jon flinched. "Don't touch me!"

The movement caused his vision to darken for a terrifying moment, but he saw the flicker of hurt over Martin's face as he pulled away. "What happened?"

Jon frantically cast about for an excuse, anything but the truth - Helen was as good as dead because he'd failed to save her. His eyes caught on the handle of a knife poking out of the sink. "I, ah, cut myself with the bread knife," he said.

Martin's gaze flicked to the object in question, eyebrows twitching upwards. "The bread knife."

"...Yes."

Martin's frowned. He reached forward again and Jon cringed away. "Let me look," he said, voice somehow soft and commanding at the same time. Jon grudgingly shifted so Martin could see, refraining from stopping his assistant when he gently lifted his shirt out of the way. Martin inhaled sharply. "I'm calling an ambulance," he said, standing and reaching for his phone.

"No!" Jon scrambled to his feet, leaning heavily against the counter and choking back a scream. Why did moving hurt so much?

Martin stopped and turned back to him. "That's going to need stitches; you have to go go the hospital."

"I can get there perfectly fine on my own," Jon said through gritted teeth.

"Jon, you can barely stand-"

"I made it from my office, didn't I?" Jon snapped, and didn't realize his mistake until it was too late.

"Your office?" Martin said. "You said it was a bread knife."

"It. Was."

Martin's lips pressed into a thin line but he didn't question it further. "Fine," he said. "No ambulance, but I'm taking you to the A&E."

Jon started to protest, stepping forward, but his traitor legs wobbled and he collapsed again. Martin caught him, quickly adjusting to not put additional strain on the wound.

"You're losing a lot of blood," Martin said, face pale.

Jon got his feet under him again and tried to push Martin off, but his assistant wouldn't release his shoulders.

"I can carry you-"

"No!"

Martin made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Fine! Just let me help you!"

There was really no point in arguing now; Martin had seen, and even if he was lying about something Jon didn't think he'd go to all this trouble just to kill him somewhere else. Both of them, and the kitchen, were smeared with Jon's blood anyway. He couldn't get away with it even if he did want to murder him. Jon finally nodded. "Okay."

"Thank you." Martin carefully guided Jon's arm around his waist and wrapped his own around Jon's shoulders to support him, leaving Jon free to press his remaining hand against his wound. "I don't drive," he said apologetically, "so we're going to have to walk, unless you've changed your mind about-"

"I haven't," Jon said. He needed to focus on putting one foot in front of the other or he wouldn't make it. It would be absolutely humiliating if Martin had to carry him. He couldn't let himself be that vulnerable.

Martin sighed but didn't argue, merely adjusted his grip on his boss and steered him down the street. They got a few looks, but for the most part they managed to keep their heads down. Or maybe Jon simply stopped noticing, focused on staying conscious as he was.

Only a few people occupied the seats in the A&E waiting room, so Martin guided Jon to one in the corner before going to the desk to get the paperwork. Jon sank gratefully into the chair, swallowing great gulps of air and willing the pain to go away. He wondered, if he'd actually undertaken the journey on his own, if he would have made it. He pictured himself collapsed in a gutter, bleeding out, unnoticed until someone called the police on an apparent drunk.

"Jon."

He looked up to find Martin sat next to him, holding out a clipboard for him.

"You have to fill this out."

"I've been stabbed," Jon muttered blearily, taking the paperwork. "What else do they need?"

Martin's eyes narrowed but he merely shrugged.

When Jon started writing his hand was followed by a smear of blood across white paper. Martin gently took the clipboard and pen back. "Maybe I should write for you," he said.

Jon nodded. He should be suspicious of Martin's motives, worried about the personal information he was freely telling his assistant - his suspect, the man he knew without a doubt was lying. He had the proof tucked in his drawer. Right now, though…

He was just too damn tired.

He tried to stay awake. They were in a public place with cameras so there’s no way Martin could make a move against him, but he couldn’t let his guard down. Martin was just trying to win his trust, but he didn’t know that Jon knew he was lying. Still, try as he might, Jon found himself nodding off, slumping against Martin’s shoulder.

Jon was suddenly jostled roughly awake by Martin shaking his shoulder and repeating his name, eyes wide with worry. Before he could fully process this, he was being pulled to his feet by unknown hands. Panic rose in Jon’s throat and he flailed his arms weakly to fend off his attackers.

“Jon! Jon, it’s okay, they’re taking you back now, it’s alright,” Martin soothed, grabbing Jon’s wrists and gently but firmly holding them still.

Jon’s vision slowly cleared enough that he could see the strange hands did in fact belong to doctors - doctors who were now frowning at him. They began to guide him towards a wheelchair, but the moment Martin began to sit down instead of following Jon panicked again.

“M-Martin!”

His assistant looked up in surprise, then his gaze flicked to one of the men holding Jon up. The man shrugged. “If you can keep him calm, you can come back.”

Jon sagged with relief and allowed them to settle him in the wheelchair. He stiffened when they reached the door but before he could protest they were pushing through into the sterile hallway of the A&E. As soon as he was settled in a bed they were attaching IVs and making calls and Jon couldn’t follow along anymore. He was just so tired. Assured that Martin wasn’t going to leave him to the mercy of the doctors Jon allowed sleep to pull him under.

—--------------

Quiet cloaked the room when Jon came to, the steady beeping of machines the only sound piercing the fog. He didn’t want to wake up, but he didn’t like to sleep either; plagued as his dreams were by statements. He didn’t mind this half-existence, floating on the edge between sleep and consciousness. It was peaceful. No thoughts, no dreams… only him.

Jon slowly became aware of throbbing pain in his side, just below his ribs. It was dim, but there with each beat of his heart. He groaned.

Immediately there was motion. “Jon?”

His eyes snapped open. Martin sat to Jon’s left, watching him with wide eyes. “Martin, what-”

Moving was definitely a bad idea. Pain flared through him and Jon dropped back with a yelp. Martin jumped up. “Do you need anything? I can go get a nurse-”

“No, no,” Jon said quickly, “that’s not necessary.”

Martin hesitated, but sat back down. It was only then Jon became aware of Martin’s hand resting on his own. He looked down where they lay on the blankets and Martin snatched his hand away, face flushing and looking anywhere but Jon’s face. “You were out for a while,” he said with a cough. “You lost a lot of blood and needed a transfusion.”

Jon grimaced. “How long have you been here?”

“The whole time; they let me stand in the corner for most of it.”

“Most of what?”

Martin shrugged, still not looking at him. “Just cleaning it and stitches really. It’s not very deep.”

Jon wrinkled his nose, grateful he at least hadn’t been awake for that. He was not a fan of needles. “Why didn’t you leave?”

Now Martin met his gaze, startled. “Y-you asked me not to,” he said.

Well that didn’t sound like him; he hated Martin. Right? But… he didn’t want to be left alone. Not here.

A gentle knock came from the door and Jon jumped. Fortunately it was merely a nurse checking in, smiling when she saw Jon. “Oh good, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Like I got stabbed,” Jon said flatly. Martin made a noise in the back of his throat but was once again avoiding looking at him.

The nurse hummed. “You’re lucky; the wound is long, but shallow. As long as nothing changes, you should be able to go home in a few hours.”

Jon sighed in relief.

She checked the machines before leaving. She didn’t close the door, at Jon’s request. As long as he could see into the hallway, Michael couldn’t trick him with a false door.

They sat in awkward silence for a while, not looking at each other. Martin fidgeted with his hands. “Tim called,” he finally said.

“What did he have to say?” Jon said acidly.

“J-just… they went looking for you and found your blood all over your desk. He thought maybe…”

“I wound up like Gertrude.” It came out flat.

“Erm… yeah.”

“Bet he was disappointed to find I’m alive,” Jon muttered.

“Jon, you know none of us are trying to kill you,” Martin said reproachfully. “Why would we want that?”

“I don’t know, why would anybody want Gertrude dead? I certainly didn’t, and I ended up with her job, which makes me the next target!”

Martin growled with frustration. “I wish you would just trust us!”

“How can I?” Jon snapped, then took a sharp breath as his side twinged.

Martin’s face immediately softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t argue. It’s just… I- we’re worried about you.”

Jon looked away and they fell back into silence, the machines a metronome to time passing. Finally, Jon broke the silence. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“...Staying with me.”

A small, shy smile tugged at Martin’s mouth and Jon had to firmly remind himself that he hated him. “Of course, anytime. Oh- um, that is to say, I don’t want you to get hurt, just, um, if you need help. You can count on me.” His face burned red again.

He could be a murderer, and don’t forget he’s lying about something.

“Yes, well.” Jon sighed. “I wonder how long they need me for.”

It turns out they didn’t need him much longer. They loaded him up with pain medication and antibiotics, cleaning instructions, and informed him the stitches would dissolve on their own. Thank goodness for that - he didn’t want to have them taken out. It would be too much like… well, it would be unpleasant.

Martin insisted on taking a cab back to Jon’s flat with him and seeing him inside and settled on the sofa, a large bottle of water and a cup of tea on hand.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No, Martin, I’ll be fine,” Jon said, exasperated. He hadn’t wanted this much help anyway. He certainly didn’t want his assistant hanging around, hovering over him in his own apartment. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Martin suddenly grew stern. “Oh no, you are not going to work tomorrow. You are going to stay right here and rest, like the doctor told you to.”

“Martin-”

“Jon.”

They stared at each other for several beats before Jon relented. “Fine! Fine. I’ll take tomorrow off.”

Martin relaxed. “Do you want me to stop by?”

“No, Martin. I’m fine.”

He frowned but turned away anyway. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, then left, locking the doorknob on his way out.

Jon stared after him for a long time, sitting in the dark of his apartment. He didn’t move until hunger drove him to the kitchen. He turned on all the lights, made sure every door was open, heated up canned soup, and settled back on the sofa.

Martin’s shy smile and flushed cheeks danced through his mind. “If you need help. You can count on me.”

Jon let out a heavy breath. “Fuck.”

-------

AO3

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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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"Why didn’t you just kill him?” Crowley said.

Dean eyed the former demon suspiciously. He should have known; he was always ribbing Dean about Cas when they drank. There was no use denying it to him anymore. “I think you know why.”

“Maybe I want to hear you say it.”

Dean blanched. “Why?”

“Because you don’t want to, and you need to.”

Dean glared, and he was suddenly sober so fast he was dizzy. “Hey!”

“You should be sober. Nothing counts when you’re drunk.”

“I kinda think that’s between me and Cas.”

Crowley’s tone indicated nonchalance, but he was staring at Dean so intensely it was clear this was, for some reason, very important to him. “If you can’t say it to me, here, in the privacy of Bobby’s kitchen, what makes you think you can say it to him?”

“I will next time I see him,” Dean lied.

“Can’t lie to a former demon, remember?”

“I could make you call in your favor.”

Crowley’s face scrunched. “You could, but then it wouldn’t be genuine. I want it to come from you .”

Dean growled in exasperation. “I’ll tell him next time,” he lied again.

Crowley leaned forward. “If you can’t even say it now, I don’t think you’ll ever get the chance.”

“Why the hell should I?”

“I can reliably tell you, you have to say it at least once. From experience.”

Dean hesitated one more moment, then sighed and rubbed his forehead. He wished he was still drunk, so he could write off his next words, but that was exactly why Crowley had insisted he be sober. “I-” Dean swallowed. Why was this so hard? Sam wasn’t home and Bobby was asleep. The only person here was Crowley, who Dean was surprisingly sure wouldn’t tell anyone. Cas wasn’t even here to reject him.

He already had, really, by leaving.

He closed his eyes. “I love him, okay?” he finally said, and it felt like a dam had broken. “I love they guy. I am in love with Cas and I have been for two damn years. I love him and I can’t stand that he’s gone so I get drunk and don’t talk about it and pray so hard I can’t think.”

“Satisfied?” Crowley asked.

Dean opened his eyes, nearly slumping with relief. “Yeah, actually, that felt pretty-” he stopped and tensed. Crowley was no longer looking at him; his eyes were now fixed somewhere over Dean’s left shoulder.

He whipped around, heart stuck somewhere between stopping, hammering, jumping into his throat, and dropping out his ass.

Cas stood in the doorway, expression unreadable.

“I think we need to talk, Dean.”

----------

I'm back with my Good Omens/Supernatural crossover series, Angels, Demons, and Hunters! The continuation is over on AO3!

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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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Take My Hand, Hold On Forever - Ch. 6

Tim knew the amount of CO2 he’d inhaled was bad, but with how light he felt at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care very much. If it weren’t for the quieter, faster worms in the tunnels, he might have even hummed a merry tune while he searched for a way out.

He couldn’t see far down the side tunnels; he couldn’t see far, period. The only reason he knew where Jon and Martin were was because he could hear them talking through the wall. He stood there staring at it for a minute, trying to figure out how to get through it, before remembering he had a fire extinguisher in his hands. Excellent for killing worms and bashing through walls!

The three of them meandered through the halls, Tim primarily supporting Jon. Sometimes he wished his boss was really as small as they pretended he was when they teased him for being the shortest among them; then he could just carry the injured man out.

They heard a scream, and Tim froze in place. He knew that voice, even if he hadn’t heard it make that sound. No, no, this was all wrong, she wasn’t supposed to be here, she should be safe at home!

“Tim! Help me! Get them off!”

“Marie!” Tim bellowed, shoving Jon off onto Martin and charging off down the side tunnel the sound had come from. Jon and Martin were calling after him, but the sound of his own heartbeat drowned them out.

Marie screamed again, and Tim burst into a well-lit room in time to see her engulfed in worms.

“No!” He threw himself forward, trying to scoop them off of her, trying to save her from this death she didn’t deserve. “Marie! Hold on!”

His hand sank down to his elbow in the mass and he gasped, trying to yank it back. It was held firm. Footsteps came from a new hallway in front of him, and Jane Prentiss emerged, one hand extended towards him as she shuffled across the chamber.

Tim screamed and thrashed, trying harder to free himself and wipe the worms off Marie, but there was nothing he could do. He was stuck, slowly being sucked into the roiling ball of worms that was once his girlfriend.

Prentiss hissed as she reached him, grabbing his face and staring into his eyes as the worms wriggled up his arm and began to envelope him. “Die,” she rasped, drawing out the single syllable into one long breath.

He could feel the worms biting him, burrowing into his flesh and wriggling around under his skin, crawling into his mouth as he screamed and tried to escape the darkness falling in around him.

Tim shouted sat bolt upright as he woke, flailing his arms around the blankets and furiously patting himself down. “Marie,” he gasped, whipping around to search the other side of the bed for her.

She was already awake, sitting up and staring at him with wide eyes. He lurched forward and cupped her face in his hands, turning it this way and that as he looked for any sign of the worms. When he found none he finally calmed, panting and slumping back against the wall.

“Nightmare?”

Tim nodded and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Tim drained his glass and set it back down without saying anything.

“You shouted my name.”

Tim swallowed and closed his eyes. “The attack,” he murmured, “in the tunnels. Only, you were there.”

Something brushed against his cheek and he jumped, but it was only Marie, gently touching his face. He inhaled, then leaned into the touch. She scooted closer to him and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders as she curled into his chest. “I’m right here,” she said.

He held her tighter. “I know.”

“She’s gone.”

“I know.”

She stroked his cheek and guided him down for a kiss. “It’s going to be okay.”

Tim hummed. “Sorry for waking you.”

She shrugged.

They rested in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Tim said, “Let’s go to Japan.”

---------------

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#TMA #The Magnus Archives #Tim Deserves Better #Tim Stoker #Marie Walker #Original Female Character #AO3 #fanfic #fanfiction #my fic #flywolf33 #flywolfwriting #take my hand hold on forever #chapter 6 #nightmares #canon typical worms #Jane Prentiss #please don't post to another site

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