#jon aBsolutely walked into that archive on day one | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amazingmsme · 7 months

Text

You're The Mouse

AN: I was having a hard time wondering just what I wanted to do for the chase prompt, and then I met Distortion Michael & the rest is history! This was an absolute blast of a fic to write, definitely one of the longer ones you'll see this month. I already miss Tim a lot so he gets a nice lil spotlight too. Posting this at 2am because I'm excited & the one time I did that it blew up. Hope y'all enjoy day 6!

It had been a long, tiring day with some rather harrowing statements he had to hear and record himself. His back ached from hunching over the desk for hours without a good break, and he felt tired down to his bones. Even his eyes felt tired, burning from the strain of staring at small font and lack of blinking. He couldn't wait to get home and crash in the couch. It was only Wednesday, which for him didn't bode well for the rest of the week.

He should've noticed the static. That fuzzy ringing in his ears that started out quiet, only to grow in intensity. If his mind wasn't so frazzled, he would've noticed that's not his usual office door.

A chill ran down his spine when he stepped through the doorway and found himself deep in the tunnels.

"Oh God," he muttered to himself, backing up and turning to run, but it was too late. The door was gone, and he ran straight into Michael's arms. Though he didn't remain there for long.

He screamed and started trashing, managing to elbow him in the stomach and stomp on his foot. Temporarily hurt, he recoiled enough for his grip to slip so Jon could free himself. He whipped around to face him once he felt there was a suitable distance between them. Although with Michael, he wasn't sure there even was such a thing.

"What the hell do you want now?" he growled, hands gripping the strap of his messenger bag tightly. Michael let out an echoing, disorienting chuckle.

"Oh archivist, I simply want some fun."

That was quite possible one of the worst things he could've said, at least in Jon's opinion. Because when Michael had fun, people usually ended up dead or insane, or in a cruel twist of fate, both.

"Maybe you should pick up a hobby, like drawing or golfing, or literally anything that involves leaving all of us alone," he suggested, though it felt more like a plea once it left his tongue. Michael let out a shrill giggle.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he asked with a tilt of his head. His wide smile was unnerving. "You're my favorite little toy."

Jonathan's face scrunched up in disgust as he looked him up and down, clearly not amused by his statement.

"Oh get your mind out of the gutter archivist, I didn't mean it like that," he scolded. "It's more like... when you were a child and you'd build fantastic cities out of blocks just so you could watch their destruction at your own hands." He took a step closer. "I'm just looking for a bit of fun amidst the chaos."

His held his hand out in front of him, reaching for Jon. His eyes widened in fear, stumbling backwards. Michael's hand distorted and stretched before his very eyes, long fingers growing in the darkness of the tunnels. Jon was already halfway down the hall.

Michael loved the thrill of the chase. He loved hearing the rapid thud of a racing heart, the panicked gasps for air as they ran for an escape. They were all the same, really, if he thought about it. Just a mindless chase through endless, winding halls that always ended victoriously. (For him, at least.)

Jon was frantic. Why now, of all days? He was so ready to walk through his front door, kick off his shoes and enjoy a nice hot frozen meal on his couch. It really was the least he could ask for, and yet, he couldn't even have that. The only saving grace was the fact that he was in the archive tunnels instead of whatever weird pocket dimension the Distortion liked to trap people in. His lungs ached as his feet pounded against the hard, dirt floor, eyes searching through the dark for something, anything to register with him and give him a clue as to his whereabouts, but it all looked the same.

"Joooon, come out come out wherever you are!" the voice was shrill and empty, the words hollowed out and stuffed to the brim with static. It echoed through the tunnels, and Jon couldn't tell where it came from, but the echo made it sound so fucking close and that sent him into a panic.

He ran ahead, ducking in a small alcove to catch his breath. He felt like he'd put a sufficient distance between them to be safe enough to do so. He gulped down air until the burn in his lungs subsided. He raised two fingers to his neck, checking his racing pulse and willed himself to calm down. Every reaction was just giving Michael exactly what he wants.

He needed to conserve his energy, move slower to remain quiet and keep his wits about him. He was pretty sure he had his bearings now, which was a plus. But if he really was where he thought he was, then they were deep in the underground maze. It took the better part of 30 minutes to even get to this point in the tunnels!

At least he knew where he was, he told himself, forcing himself to focus on the bright side of things. He walked at a brisk pace, a borderline jog really. He wanted to get out of here quickly, but he didn't want to give Michael the satisfaction of causing him to panic.

"Believe it or not, I don't want to hurt you, archivist. I simply want to have some simple, haaarmless funnn together, ehehehehehe!" His voice went shrill and warbly and distorted towards the end of his unnerving giggle so much that it became almost inaudible. And fuck, if it didn't make Jon run.

Could you blame him though? There was no way that- that thing actually meant what it said. It was absolutely going to hurt him. And it was probably going to do so in the most terrible ways imaginable.

Jon hated the deep, guttural scream that ripped from his throat when he rounded a corner and came face to face with the blonde monster.

His feet scrambled on the packed dirt and he was already turning around, but arms that were too long wrapped around him from behind, dragging him back as they retracted to a more normal length. He was screaming and kicking the air, arms fighting to free themselves.

"Shh shh shhhh, would you relax? What part of I don't want to hurt you did you not understand?" he chastised, holding a single finger to Jon's lips to quiet him. He went silent out of shock more than actual compliance.

"I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. Now what do you really want?" Jon demanded, mustering enough confidence to glare him down. Michael just laughed.

"Like I said, I'm just looking for some fun. You humans aren't the only ones who get bored you know," he said condescendingly. Jon remained silent.

"I tend to- peak in, from time to time, just to see how my favorite sheeple are holding up," he mused, causing Jon to visibly cringe and roll his eyes.

"Good to know there's actual reason behind always feeling like I'm being watched," he grumbled.

"Oh no, I'm not the only one, but trust me, I'm your favorite."

"Quite the opposite."

"Well, I will be your favorite," he winked and giggled to himself. "But last week, I noticed you playing with your friends. You looked soooo happy then... I'd like to make you happy like that too, Jon."

What a nice sentiment from such a not nice entity, not to mention he had no clue what he was talking about. "Bullshit, you don't want to make me happy, you want to ruin my life!" he snapped, still continuing his struggle.

"Oh, but can't I do both? Life ruining is such a long process, and I'd really like to hear that laugh in person."

Realization dawned on him the same time terror wracked his body, body going stiff and eyes bugging out. Michael cocked his head, that unnaturally large smile forming into a curious pout.

"Why archivist, if I didn't know better I'd say you look frightened," he cooed. "There's no need for that. You didn't have that look when Martin snuck up on you in the break room," he pointed out.

"You keep his name out your fucking mouth," Jon growled, and in a moment he was pressing into the Distortion's space. He had grabbed him by the shirt collar and jerked him so hard his neck snapped at the momentum, their noses almost touching. A few flecks of spit even landed on Michael's cheek from the force of Jon's rage. It genuinely took him aback before a wicked grin took over.

"Your boy toy's off limits, lesson learned."

"He's not my-" Jon cut himself off, seeing no use in arguing with him. His eyes were closed and he pressed a free hand to his temple. "Look. You said you wanted your sick fun, but all you've done since capturing me is talk. I'm a smart man, I know I can't escape this. But I'm fucking tired, and I just wanna go home, so the sooner you shut up and get on with it, the better."

There was a beat of silence, and then a shit eating grin followed by, "If you wanted me to tickle you already, you could've just said so."

"No, I want to go home you assho-" Jon cut off his own rambling mid sentence as Michael started fluttering his fingers over his sides, prompting him to clamp his mouth shut. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm doing this so I can hear that cute, funny laugh of yours archivist! The longer you hold out the longer I have to tickle tickle tickle you!" his taunt echoed off the walls. Jon flushed and hid his face in his hands.

"Y-you're sohoho fucking weheheird!" His voice pitched higher towards the end of his sentence when Michael tweaked his sides before drilling in his thumb. He tossed his head back with a discordant cackle of his own, seemingly amused by the response.

"Is that really the best insult you can come up with? How adorably pathetic!" he cooed, reaching around with his other hand to knead his belly. Jon writhed in his grip, snickering and squealing with no way to escape.

"Shut up or Ihihi'll- nohoho wahahait!" the threat died on his tongue, melting into frantic giggles. He kicked his feet in the air and gently shoved at the offending tickly hands, but to no avail. He slumped in his hold, leaning back over his arm and covered his face with his hands.

"Oh? And what exactly am I waiting for?" Michael asked, cocking his head. The way he was so calm while picking Jon apart made it all the more maddening. Those long, spindly fingers were able to work their way into every tickle spot they could find, and it was perhaps the most horrendous thing he's ever felt in his life.

"I-Ihihi dohon't knohohow!" he whined, yelping when Michael pinched and prodded at his soft tummy. "Just shuhut up!"

"Hm, I don't think I will. Especially if it gets you all worked up like that," he taunted. Ironically, he started tracing a large spiral over his stomach, closing in on his bellybutton. Jon snorted, covering his face with one hand while trying to push Michael away with the other.

"Ohoho you've gotta behehe johoking," Jon groaned through his giddy laughter, rolling his eyes.

"What? It's my signature, I simply have to," he said casually, closing in on the center of his stomach. Jon's deep chuckles morphed until they were high pitched and bubbly. He was blushing like a fool behind his hand, shrieking and wiggling in Michael's arms all the while.

~~~

Tim had the worst luck. He had been halfway home when he realized he'd not only left his wallet, but his keys as well, at the institute. He backtracked, grumbling to himself the whole time.

He hated nothing more than being alone in the archives. It was bad enough being there during the day surrounded by people, but at night when those endless halls and rooms were empty? It might as well be straight out of a horror game.

He was trying to get to his office as fast as possible, but slowed as he neared Jon's office. The light was off, and he couldn't hear talking, sure, but the door was left open. Jon never left his door open. The sight filled Tim with dread.

"Boss? You still here?" he called out, but received no answer. He walked to the door and peeked inside, greeted only by a dark and empty room.

Maybe he just forgot to shut the door when he left, he tried to reason with himself. But none of them were that lucky, especially not Jon. Still, he went back to retrieve his things and be on his way.

Execpt that's when he heard it.

Muffled screaming. Coming from below.

Tim froze, unsure if what he was hearing was true. He bent down, putting his ear to the floor and listened.

He could just make it out.

"Please, no, have mercyyyyy!"

That was someone pleading for their life. That was Jon pleading for his life... He raced to the trapped doors.

He had the sickening feeling that he'd walk in on Elias standing over Jon's body, having killed him deep within the tunnels just as he did Gertrude. Well not today.

He descended into the tunnels, pausing when he heard frantic, hysterical screams echoing down the halls, but he could swear it sounded like... laughter. And now that he was within the tunnels, he could hear that it was undeniably Jon's.

Just what the hell was going on?

~~~

Jon knew he was going to die here, in these godforsaken tunnels. He had no way of stopping this, and Michael proved to be just as relentless now as he's ever been. And those long fucking fingers of his were absolute torture. Just one hand was big enough to vibrate over his entire stomach and still wrap around to dig into his sides and scribble at the base of his spine. Jon was effectively in hysterics, shrieking and giggling with no end in sight.

He should hate this. Should hate that it was Michael of all people doing this to him, but an overwhelming part of him was relieved that he wasn't subjected to legitimate torture. A more foolish part of him thought that maybe Michael was warming up to them: that maybe he wasn't so downright malicious after all.

And then he felt sharp nails scratching behind both his ears, and that thought was gone as soon as it had arrived. If he hadn't been cackling so loud, perhaps they would've heard Tim calling out for Jon, telling him to just hold on, he'll be right there.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

If Jon hadn't been so preoccupied, he'd have jumped and shrieked in fright, though he was shrieking for an entirely different reason at the moment. Michael on the other hand, did startle, having been caught red handed. He almost seemed embarrassed, and dropped him like a sack of potatoes. Jon landed flat on his back, the breath being knocked out of his already breathless lungs. Tim was frozen in place, taking in the scene. He was knocked out of his daze when he saw Jon hit the ground, and he immediately rushed over to help him up.

Jon was gasping and wheezing, face red and hair messy, but he still had that rare, genuine smile on his face.

"Sorry you had to see that, I had thought the archives was empty," Michael said in lieu of an explanation.

"Yeah, it was. Good thing I had to come back," Tim snapped. Michael rolled his eyes.

"Oh please, he's perfectly fine. I didn't harm a single hair on his head."

"You fucking dropped me!"

Michael let out a shrill chuckle. "And that was a complete accident! But you can't really blame me for wanting to have my own fun with you. Especially after everyone else made it look like so much fun."

"Hey, you stay away from him! Only we're allowed to torture Jon like that!" Tim scolded weakly, but it was all he could think to say. Which just made him feel stupid when Michael continued to laugh at them.

"Oh, so you're the only ones who can toy with the archivist, is that it?" he asked tauntingly, cocking his head. Tim opens his mouth to answer, but stops short. Jon is sitting curled in a ball, hiding his face in his knees.

"No, you've got it wrong. We do it because we care about him, and want him to be happy, even if it's short lived. You do it for your own sick kicks!" Tim accused. Jon's head snapped up when he admitted their reasoning for why they always seem to tickle him out of the blue. It brought a shy smile to his face as he recovered from the ordeal.

"... Well that's a rude assumption. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

Tim snorted, "My point exactly." They were all quiet, the three of them engaged in a bit of a stalemate. "Aren't you going to show yourself the door?" he boldly prompted. Jon choked on his own spit in shock.

Michael's smile widened. "You know, I wasn't quite finished yet. And I'd hate for you to feel left out," he playfully threatened, and his limbs stretched ever so slightly as he spoke. Tim took a step back, eyes wide. Jon was just now making to stand, and pointed at him sternly.

"No." He stood up and dusted himself off, glasses askew on his face. He straightened them and cleared his throat. "Haven't you had enough? You leave him, and everyone else alone." And just because he knows better than to trust Michael, added, "That includes me too."

"I'll think about it. It'd be easier if you weren't so fun to tickle. Isn't that right Tim?" Michael asked, even winking at the pair. Jon blushed and turned away, and Tim failed to fight back a smile.

"Heh. Right." He shook himself out of it, glaring at Michael as he stood by Jon protectively. "B-but you just mind your business."

"Ha! Unlikely, diet archivist."

"Hey!" Tim snapped at the insulted and Jon stifled an amused snicker. He was just about to give him a piece of his mind when Michael opened a door that hadn't been there a second ago, standing in the doorway.

"Until we meet again," he waved at them, closing the door behind him, leaving them stunned and alone.

Now that Michael was gone, Tim turned to Jon with a teasing smirk. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'll be fine. I'm honestly... more confused than anything." Tim barked out a laugh and patted his shoulder.

"You and me both."

They began their trek out of the tunnels, walking side by side quietly until Tim broke the silence.

"So, what's it like being tickled senseless by the Distortion?" he asked in a teasing tone. Jon flushed and shot a glare his way, but he had that happy, sheepish grin plastered on his fast, just like every other time they wrecked him.

"Oh, should I have let you find out for yourself?" Jon quipped to mask his own embarrassment.

Tim looked down with a faint blush. "Fair point." A beat, and then, "You know we have to tell the others, right?"

Jon choked on his own spit, and Tim stopped walking to give him a moment. He looked at him expectantly, while Jon looked at him with a floored look.

"Are you joking?" he asked.

"As much as I wish I were, no." The shit eating grin on his face said otherwise. "You heard what that thing said. We're all fair game in his eyes." Jon gave a noncommittal hum. "They deserve a bit of a warning, don't you think?" It was true, but he didn't have to be so damn smug about it.

"Yes," Jon begrudgingly agreed through a growl.

"Think it might be best if you made a statement. You know, so we have an accurate account for the record."

Jon groaned and hid behind his hair. "I would literally rather die." Tim barked out a laugh and threw an arm over his shoulders.

"Always with the dramatics! So you're saying you'd rather tell them in person? Look them in the eyes and admit how I saved you-"

"Don't-"

"From the big bad ti-"

Jon didn't think he'd ever been so embarrassed. "Stop!"

"The big bad tickle monster named Michael!" Tim rushed out in one breath, laughing at the flustered squeak he made as he marched ahead. It took him no time at all to catch up, thanks to his long legs. "Oh come on, you know it's funny!"

Jon huffed, unable to hide his lingering smile. "Only because it wasn't you, asshole."

They continued their playful banter back and forth, unaware of the tape recorder that had appeared in Jon's pocket the moment he entered the tunnels, listening in and capturing every word.

~~~

Tim was relieved when he made it back home, slipping his key in the door and stepping inside. Strange, how he didn't seem to notice the change from handle to doorknob.

His eyes flew open when he was met with the sight of an endless, shifting corridor. He felt sick. A chill ran down his spine, his ears were ringing, his head filled with static and he stumbled in an attempt to get his bearings. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, and he felt so trapped.

Michael walked out from the nothingness, grin much too wide for his face. Tim hugged his arms to his body and stepped back, fighting an involuntary smile tugging at his lips.

"Y-you stay back! I'll fuck you up!" Tim cried, bravely putting his hands up, balled into fists and ready to swing. Michael laughed, and it was a sound that unsettled Tim to his very core. He held his hands up, and Tim couldn't help but flinch at the movement.

"Believe it or not, I'm not here to torture you. I'll save that for a rainy day," he added, chuckling at his own joke. Tim lowered his arms, staring at him skeptically.

"Okaaaay. So what the hell are you doing in my home?"

"But I brought you to my home," he corrected, and that wide grin turned just a tad condescending. Tim narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

"Yeah, through my front door!" he argued before sighing in defeat, pinching the bride of his nose. "So what do you want?"

"I wanted to give you something." Tim perked up, looking at him in shock. He jumped and yelped when Michael was standing right in front of him. He held out the tape recorder.

"A little... souvenir from earlier. I doubt Sasha and Martin will believe you without proof." He placed the tape in Tim's hand, leaving him dumbstruck. "And I really have a hard time believing Jon will corroborate your story, don't you?"

Tim didn't know what to say. "Um... thank you?"

Michael winked at him. "You're welcome." And because he couldn't help himself, he skittered his fingers over his belly. Tim jerked back with a surprised laugh, a blush and a growing look of fear on his face.

"Relax. Like I said, rainy day."

He gave him a small wave and opened a door off to the side and left. Everything melted into his flat, and he was safe in the middle of his living room.

~~~

Jon walked into work the next day as if it were any other, eager to forget the events of last night. He went to the break room for a cup of coffee to start the day and walked in to see Sasha, Martin, and of course, Tim, huddled around a tape recorder. They all wore a look of concern. Well, except for Tim.

"What're you listening to?" he asked. Sasha and Martin jumped out of their skin when they heard his voice, whipping around to meet him. They looked rather guilty, but more concerning, they looked worried.

The next thing he knew, Martin was hugging him.

"I'm sorry, what's-" A voice on the tape interrupts him.

"Joooon, come out come out wherever you are!"

"I-I'm so sorry, we left you here alone, and Tim said Michael got you and-"

"Did he now?" he asked, cocking his head.

"Now Jon, is that any way to speak to your knight in shining armor?"

"Oh please, you're not my bloody knight." He spoke over the sound of his own erratic breathing and feet pounding against hard packed dirt.

"Were you even gonna tell us Michael attacked you?" Sasha asked, brows furrowed with worry. "Because I really doubt it."

Jon floundered for an answer, face going red. "Um- it- look, it really wasn't as serious as Tim undoubtedly made it seem." He glanced up at his smiling face and said, "Would he really be grinning like that if it was?"

Of course, as soon as they looked at him, he schooled his features into a serious expression, but they each caught a glimpse of a fading smirk.

"Okay what's... what's happening right now?" Martin asked, looking between the two.

"You wanna tell them yourself Jon? Or uh, let the tape do the talking for you?" he asked, holding up the tape.

"Shh shh shhhh, would you relax? What part of I don't want to hurt you did you not understand?"

"I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. Now what do you really want?"

Jon refused to meet his friends' gaze as he spoke over his previous conversation. "Look, I'm fine. He didn't hurt me, didn't psychologically scar me, the only thing damaged was my pride."

The tape played on in the background as Jon tried to explain himself. Michael's endless talk of having fun did nothing to calm Sasha and Martin's nerves for past-Jon. "I-I don't really know why he t- uuh, did what he did, but he seemed almost... friendly isn't exactly the word I'd use, maybe tame? Toned down?" That was about the time Michael mentioned the rest of them, and how they all "played" with Jon. A hesitant smile ghosted over Sasha's lips as she thought she knew what he was hinting at, and judging by Jon's reaction, she might be right, but there was just no way... Was there?

"Jon, did Michael-"

"Yes," he cut her off before she could finish the sentence. "Yeah, he uh, said you all made it look like fun, so he decided to try it out," he said, staring at the faded break room carpet.

"Wait, so it's our fault?" Martin asked, and Jon immediately felt guilty for saying it like that.

"No! God no, you guys are just trying to make me loosen up. Michael's just... morbidly curious."

"Right," Tim agreed, suddenly more serious. "He uh, told me he was waiting for a rainy day. So obviously, he has his sights set on all of us. Which is... unnerving to say the least." He locked eyes with Jon, a soft smile on his face. "So I'm not just doing this to fuck with you. But that is an excellent perk!" Jon couldn't help but chuckle. "But I thought everyone deserved a bit of a heads up. And maybe ease some worry while I'm at it." "Where'd you even get this?" Jon asked, pointing at the recorder just as his own bubbly giggles started pouring out.

"Michael gave it to me."

"Very funny." When Tim's expression didn't change, his jaw dropped, "You're serious."

"Where else would I have gotten it from?"

"Fair point."

A loud shriek followed by shrill cackling and snorts emitted from the tape. All heads snapped over to look at him with amused grins and fond expressions.

"Right. Well, I lived through this once already. No need to stick around for a second time," he said, cheeks burning from embarrassment. He paused in the door. "I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I?"

"Not likely."

"Nope!"

"Absolutely not."

He gave a curt nod, lips pursed together. "Thought so."

#tickletober #tickletober 2023 #tickletober day 6 #michael shelley #michael distortion #jonathan sims #jon sims #tim stoker #martin blackwood #sasha james #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #tma #tma fic #tma tickle fic #ticklish!jon

57 notes · View notes

grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 7 months

Text

Happy Jmart-iversary!!! Have some S1 annoyances-to-lovers (or, well, annoyances-to-mutual pining) Jmart to celebrate their day!

Martin usually has more shame than this.

Despite what certain Archivists might think, he isn’t oblivious. He knows Jon doesn’t like him, and while Jon seems to think that Martin has made it his mission in life to bother him whenever possible, Martin usually does his best to avoid Jon as much as civility and his job will allow.

But the thing is, Martin is lonely.

Worse than that, he’s 1 AM Lonely.

Martin has become something of an expert in loneliness, over the years, and he can confidently assert that 1 AM loneliness is the absolute worst. 7 AM loneliness is rough. 8 PM loneliness can be dire. But 1 AM loneliness is utterly, entirely hopeless. If he felt this way while the sun was still up, he might be able to find an excuse to call Tim and Sasha that wasn’t just, “I wanted to hear your voice.” If nothing else, he could walk to a library, or a coffee shop, and remember that there were other people in the world. But at 1 AM, he has nothing to do but sit with the yawning, aching emptiness in his chest, and feel like he is the last person left on the face of the earth.

Except for Jonathan Sims.

He’d always sort of suspected that Jon had a deeply unhealthy work schedule, but he was still surprised at how often he wandered out of Document Storage after midnight, expecting to have the Archives to himself, only to run into Jon in the breakroom. He’s always more irritable at night – which Martin wouldn’t have thought possible, a month ago – but an irritable Jon is better than nothing, which is how Martin has found himself standing outside Jon’s office in his pajamas, socked feet barely keeping out the chill of the scuffed linoleum floor.

There’s still time to change his mind. He could still turn around, go back to the cot in Document Storage, and sit in his insomnia with some semblance of dignity intact.

He knocks.

There’s no response, but Martin’s used to that, so he lets himself in. When the door opens, Jon lifts his head from his work to stare daggers at him.

“Yes?” he snaps. “What do you want?”

“Just– J-Just checking in. Do you need anything?”

“No,” Jon says with a finality that borders on rudeness.

“Right.” Martin can take a hint, so he starts backing out of the door. “I’ll, uh… I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Jon purses his lips like he wants to say, See to it that you do, but is aware that that would be rude even for him, and says nothing. Martin winces as he pulls the door shut behind him.

Well. He did achieve what he was setting out to. He no longer feels like he’s completely alone in the world – there’s at least one asshole here with him.

Somehow, that thought comforts him enough that he is finally able to sleep.

The next few days, Martin manages to sleep a bit better. The Archives are remarkably empty on the weekend – not even Jon is working Saturdays, this week – so he has to contend with 3 PM loneliness (and 4 PM loneliness, and 5 PM loneliness…) but by 1 AM he is sound asleep. When the work week starts again on Monday, Martin is feeling almost well-rested.

Jon, it seems, isn’t.

He hasn’t stayed late at the office for the past few days, but whatever he was doing away from work, Martin feels confident that it wasn’t sleeping. He’s in an even worse mood than usual, and chews Martin out for a full 5 minutes about a simple formatting error that Martin has seen Tim and Sasha make before.

(Tim used to work in publishing, he thinks but does not point out, he built his career on finding formatting problems, so if even he screws this up occasionally, I’m pretty sure it’s not a huge deal. But of course, when Tim makes a mistake, he gets a note on his report asking him to revise it, not a 10-minute lecture in which it’s implied that he doesn’t take seriously the historic institution for which he works, and that he may as well be spitting on the grave of Jonah Magnus with each misused semicolon.)

Which makes it all the more embarrassing when 1 AM rolls around and Martin once again hesitates outside the door to Jon’s office. He’s got tea this time, which is a pretty feeble excuse to barge in at 1 in the morning, but it’s a better one than he had last time. He has to shift both mugs to one hand to get the door open.

“Tea?” he asks in lieu of a hello. “I was making some for myself and figured you might want some.” (It’s a bald-faced lie, but Jon doesn’t need to know that.) When Jon doesn’t respond, Martin trips over himself to fill the silence. “It’s, uh. I-It’s herbal. I hope that’s alright. Thought caffeine was probably a bad idea, this time of night.”

“Hm,” is all Jon says in response, but he still takes a sip.

Martin settles into the seat opposite the desk. Jon eyes him suspiciously, but once again says nothing. He turns his attention back to his laptop, and they drink their tea in silence.

It’s almost pleasant, somehow. The tea is delicious, in Martin’s completely unbiased opinion, and Jon relaxes enough to become a reassuring presence. He doesn’t speak, but he’s a living, breathing human in the same room as Martin, and that’s all Martin needs right now. Jon sighs and coughs and taps his foot, and whenever he notices a mistake in whatever it is he’s reading, he gives an irritable click of his tongue and starts typing furiously. At one point he even laughs. It’s not much – a quiet little bark of a laugh, barely any louder than his sighs – but it still comes as a surprise.

“What?” Martin asks, and Jon startles as though he forgot Martin was there.

Jon looks vaguely mortified to have done something so human and unprofessional as to laugh, but he explains, “Tim’s report on the Ramao case. His methods for obtaining Ramao’s marriage license were… very Tim.”

“Ah.” Martin has a few guesses at what that could mean. “B&E, bribery, or flirting?”

“Flirting,” Jon confirms. “Honestly, I’d prefer a good B&E. At least then I wouldn’t have to explain to Elias why dinner for two at Frescobaldi counts as a business expense.”

“Always happy to do my part,” Martin grins, but his smile droops as he adds, “Though my last break-in didn’t quite go to plan.”

Jon’s face grows serious as well. “Right. How, uh, h-how are you… adjusting?”

“Fine,” Martin says, and it’s not the biggest lie he’s told in his life, but it’s close.

“Right,” Jon says again. He doesn’t ask any follow-up questions, and Martin can’t help but be relieved to let the subject drop, even if the rest of the conversation drops with it. They go back to drinking their tea in silence, and soon enough it’s time for Martin to collect their empty mugs and slink back out of the office.

This time, at least, Jon says good-bye.

“Good night, Martin.”

Martin’s lips twitch upward, just a hair. “Good night, Jon.”

He sets the mugs in the sink and heads back to Document Storage, and he’s asleep within minutes.

Tuesday night he manages to fall asleep at a shockingly reasonable hour. Which is wonderful, right up until it isn’t.

He wakes up in a cold sweat from a nightmare that is already fading from his memory. His dad was in it, which is rare. He tries to recall what his face had looked like, but it’s gone. Maybe he hadn’t even had a face – dreams are like that sometimes – but he can still feel it at the edges of his memory, slipping away with each passing second.

He does his best to remember what the dream had been about. He was back in the apartment he used to share with his mother, the tiny, dingy place that forever smelled like mildew and cigarettes even though neither of them smoked, and his father was there. Then he left, again, and his mother was furious. She didn’t need to say that she blamed Martin, he could read it in her face, but she told him anyway. And then the apartment was a hospital room, and there were nurses yelling at him, too – how could he upset his mother at a time like this? Didn’t he know how ill she was? And then the hospital was his new apartment, and the mildew smell wasn’t mildew at all but worms, worms and rot, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks, and no one had thought to check on him, and the only one in the world who cared whether he lived or died was the woman trying to break down his door and fill him with worms.

So not the best dream he’s ever had.

He checks his phone. 12:22. Great. Too late to talk to anyone, too early to just get out of bed and start the day.

He stares out at the dark room. Document Storage has no windows, and with the hallway light off, there isn’t even any light spilling in under the doorway, so his eyes have nothing to catch on. He can do nothing but sit in the dark as the afterimage of his bright phone screen gets swallowed up by the gloom.

It’s not as though the dream was real. He’s safe for now; the worms can’t get to him here. And he’s not alone in the world. He’s not. His coworkers didn’t just abandon him to die – he’s seen the texts, he knows they had every reason to think he was safe.

Still, if Tim had been out for two full weeks with a stomach bug, Martin would have been on his doorstep with soup and ginger chews and an offer to drive him to the doctor any time he needed. He would have checked up on him. So would Sasha. So would Jon, probably – as much as he likes to present himself as aloof and coldly professional, Martin knows he cares about Tim and Sasha a whole lot more than he lets on. There’s only one person in the Archives who could disappear without being missed.

It isn’t that his friends don’t care about him. He knows they do. But he also knows, with bone-deep certainty, that they don’t care about him as much as he cares about them, and that’s a very lonely feeling.

Martin pushes himself out of bed. He doesn’t know what to do, exactly, but he’s had enough nightmares in his life to know that getting out of bed and away from the room he woke up in is a good place to start.

There’s a light on in Jon’s office. This time, Martin can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed when he steps inside.

Jon is sitting behind his desk, like always, scribbling furiously in the margins of some document Martin doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t even glance up when Martin enters the room this time.

“Yes?”

“Do you–” Martin’s voice is hoarse and rough – he hadn’t thought to get anything to drink when woke up, and now his throat is painfully dry – but he clears his throat and pushes through. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Right.”

Martin takes a seat in the chair beside the desk. He doesn’t try to make conversation. He doubts Jon wants to hear it, and he isn’t feeling up for it, anyway. He just sits and listens to the scratching of Jon’s pen.

He’d be more than happy to sit in silence all night, but Jon keeps pausing his work to shoot suspicious glances Martin’s way, and Martin knows he ought to say something, so he clears his throat again and asks, “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

He sounds more than a little irritated. Martin should definitely take that as a sign to leave, but he isn’t ready to go back to sitting in the dark in Document Storage just yet.

“I could make tea?” he offers. “It’s no trouble, really.”

“I don’t need tea,” Jon snaps. “And I don’t need help, and I certainly don’t need a nosy coworker barging into my office every five minutes to try and guilt me into leaving work.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Jon insists. “And it’s none of your business how late I work–”

“I don’t care how late you work! I mean, I think you could stand to get some sleep once in a while, but that’s not–”

“Then why are you always hovering around any time I work late?”

Martin is too tired to think better of it before he snaps, “Because I’m lonely, Jon! Because it’s one in the bloody morning and I can’t sleep and everyone else I know is already in bed. Believe me, if there was a single other person I could be talking to right now, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh.”

That’s all Jon says. Martin isn’t sure what he’s going to say if he stays in this room any longer, so he stands up.

“I’m going to make tea. Do you want any?”

Jon nods.

When Martin comes back with two perfectly-brewed cups of camomile-and-vanilla, Jon has set aside his pen and his notes and is fidgeting at his desk. Anxiety and shame flicker across his face when he accepts the mug that Martin offers him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking. I thought you just wanted me out of the Archives.”

“Yeah, well. Not everything’s about you.”

And Jon laughs at that – the same soft, barking laugh he’d given to Tim’s report – and Martin feels a strange sort of affection flood through him at the sound. Pretty inconvenient, given that he was just getting used to being irritated with Jon.

“I suppose I deserve that.” Jon smiles, and it’s somehow worse than the laugh. There are a few more minutes of silence before he speaks up again. “Have you, um. Have you ever tried lavender?”

“What?”

“Whenever I tell people I have insomnia, they always recommend lavender – lavender essential oil, lavender tea, lavender eye masks…”

“Have you tried it? Does it help?”

“Not in the least,” Jon says. “Not for me. But maybe it would help you.”

“Maybe,” Martin agrees, more out of politeness than any real hope. “Never hurts to try.”

Jon nods. He looks for a moment like he’s debating with himself whether to say anything else, then he clears his throat with an awkward little grimace and says, “If– i-if you ever need to talk… I can’t promise I’ll be very good conversation, but I can promise I won’t yell at you next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Martin’s insomnia doesn’t get any better. Breathing exercises don’t help, and neither does the white noise app he downloads. A box of lavender tea mysteriously appears in the break room, and it doesn’t make him tired, but it does leave him with a warm, fuzzy feeling that can’t be entirely explained by having drunk a hot beverage.

Jon starts staying late more often. Some nights, just knowing that he’s there is comforting enough to stave off the worst of Martin’s loneliness, but some nights he finds himself once again sitting in the chair in Jon’s office while Jon sits across from him with his nose buried in a statement. Jon never asks for an explanation anymore, just nods at Martin when he comes in and then gets back to work.

They don’t talk much on nights like this, but they do talk. Mostly it’s just chatter – how was your day? Did you see what Tim was wearing today? How long until they fix the aircon in this building? – but some nights the conversation opens up to the kind of vulnerability that only 2 AM can bring.

“I wish I was as close with Tim and Sasha as you are.”

It’s not a complete non sequitur – they were just talking about their coworkers – but Martin can still feel the tone shift between them.

Jon just blinks. “What do you mean? I’m certain they like you more than they like me – The three are always going out to lunch–”

“And we always invite you!” Martin reminds him, “You just never come! And anyway, you three go way back, you all know each other so well… They don’t even know me well enough to know if it’s me texting them or some evil worm woman.” He’s gotten to know Jon well enough over the past few weeks to know that, supportive or not, Jon’s never very quick with words of comfort, so he goes on. “I can’t complain – I mean, they’re nice! They’re really nice! It’s just… it’s not fun, feeling like the odd one out.”

Jon flashes him a grimace that Martin thinks is supposed to be commiserative but mostly just looks awkward. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I also wish I was closer with Tim and Sasha. Things haven’t been the same since we transferred from Research. And it doesn’t help that they both know Sasha should have been promoted over me.”

Martin wants to reassure him, tell him that Elias must have promoted him for a reason, but he’s the last person who can argue that Elias always hires the most qualified person for the job.

“Anyway,” Jon says, “I know for a fact they like you. Have you just told them how you feel?”

“Have you?”

Jon smiles. “Alright, fair enough.”

The conversation moves on to lighter topics from there, and Martin almost forgets about it. But the next time 1 AM loneliness hits, it’s a relief to know that he isn’t the only one in the Archives who’s lonely.

Jon stays late every night the next week.

Martin knows Jon doesn’t want anyone chiding him, but he worries. He looks more and more worn out by the day, and Martin’s pretty sure he’s getting less work done for all the time he’s spending in the Archives.

When Martin wakes up from another nightmare (just a Prentiss nightmare this time, not a Prentiss-and-his-mother double feature) he doesn’t have to question if Jon’s around. When he checks his phone and sees that it’s well past 2 AM, some small, optimistic part of him thinks Jon might have gone home by now, but he isn’t at all surprised when he sees light spilling in from under the door in Jon’s office.

Jon doesn’t look up when Martin enters the room.

He looks rough. His head is resting in his hands, shoulders slumped, fingers wearily massaging his temples. When he hears the door click closed behind Martin, he finally looks up, and Martin can see that the dark circles under his eyes have gotten worse.

“Go home, Jon,” he says, and Jon shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“You need sleep.”

“I doubt I could get any sleep tonight regardless,” Jon says. “Insomnia, remember?”

“Well, try,” Martin says, patience waning. “Go home.”

“I can’t.” Jon’s voice is small and hoarse, and he sounds more vulnerable than he ever has in all their late-night chats.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“You were alone for two weeks, Martin,” he says, voice hushed as though he’s confessing something. “I can’t leave you alone like that again.”

Oh. Martin puts some pieces together. His boss has been running himself ragged, staying at work past 2 in the morning most days, because he’s convinced Martin can’t handle being alone at night. He thinks that Martin is a child in need of a security blanket, and has decided that the best course of action is to simply never leave work. It is, unfortunately, very sweet, but it’s also utterly humiliating.

“I can handle being alone!” he sputters, mortified beyond belief. “Believe me, I’ve had plenty of practice. I don’t need you to always be around. I-I know I said I get lonely sometimes, but, God, I’m not that pathetic.”

Jon frowns. “I don’t think you’re pathetic,” he whispers. “Believe me, Martin, that’s the last thing I think. I know I haven’t always been… fair to you. Or kind. Or even civil. If I had been fair to you, you wouldn’t be living in this basement.” He drops his gaze and addresses his next words to his hands. “It’s my fault you have to stay here,” he murmurs. “The very least I can do is ensure that you don’t have to stay here alone.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that. His brain cycles through several options and discards them all as insufficient. In the end, he decides to forgo words altogether. He stands up, reaches over, and pulls Jon out of his seat and into a hug.

Jon startles, and for a moment Martin thinks he’s made a horrible miscalculation, but then wraps his scrawny arms around his middle and squeezes tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I forgive you,” Martin says. “Now go home.”

That Friday, the four of them go out for drinks after work. It’s Martin’s idea, and he insists that they invite Jon. Tim and Sasha tell him it’s a lost cause – Jon’s never agreed to get lunch with them, he certainly won’t agree to drinks – but lo and behold, Jon agrees.

It’s awkward. Martin hasn’t left the Archives much since Prentiss, and he’s on high alert for worms, but he can’t deny that having his coworkers with him is a comfort. Sat around a sticky high-top table in a pub that smells like stale beer and fresh sweat, the conversation simply flows. Every now and then, the other three will laugh at some inside joke from their research days, but Jon always makes a point of bringing Martin up to speed.

Afterwards, Jon walks him back to the Archives. Martin is floating in a warm, hazy middle ground between ‘tipsy’ and ‘drunk,’ and Jon seems to be feeling much the same.

“I could stay, if you’d like,” Jon says.

“I’ll be fine,” Martin says.

When he makes it to the cot in Document Storage, he’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

It would be nice, Martin thinks, if getting closer to people were the straightforward antidote to loneliness – if making friends were enough to stop him feeling so utterly friendless. But loneliness is never a simple thing, and some nights he still finds himself lying awake at night feeling like the last man on earth.

He checks the time. 1 AM. Naturally.

For the second time in a week, Jon doesn’t look up to see Martin when he enters the room. This time, he’s slumped over the desk, dead asleep.

He looks smaller, somehow, when he’s sleeping. His face is slack, the perpetual furrow in his brow is gone, and his hair is falling across his face in a way that leaves Martin itching to reach over and tuck it behind his ear. He looks cute, if Martin’s being entirely honest, but Jon’s only started being mostly-nice to Martin in the past two weeks or so, so Martin isn’t ready to be that honest with himself quite yet.

He reaches out a hand and gently shakes Jon’s shoulder.

“Jon.”

Jon stirs but doesn’t wake, so Martin shakes harder.

“Jon,” he repeats. No luck.

He sighs. He’s still wide awake, and he doubts that’s going to change any time soon. At least one of them should get some use out of the cot.

It’s surprisingly easy to pick Jon up. Jon stirs slightly as Martin scoops him into his arms, and for one terrifying second he thinks he’s going to wake up in Martin’s arms, but he doesn’t. Opening the doors to first the office and then Document Storage is more than a little tricky with his hands full, but he manages.

He sets Jon down on the bed as gently as he can, but Jon finally rouses as Martin tucks a blanket over his shoulders.

“Martin?” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

“Go back to sleep, Jon.”

It doesn’t seem like Jon needs any encouragement. His eyes are already slipping closed again, but he manages to ask, “Will you be alright on your own?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, “I’ll be alright.”

And he means it.

(View this story on AO3)

#tma fanfic #tma fic #jonmartin fic #jmart fic #jmart fanfic #jonmartin fanfic #do not archive

48 notes · View notes

alchemistoftheend · 27 days

Text

TMA: Season 1

Anglerfish (Case #0122204)

Pre-Statement

Jonathan Sims introduces himself, as the New Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

Gertrude is dead 🪦 (apparently~)

Magnus is an organisation dedicated to academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal

Elias Bouchard is Head of the Institute

hired Jon for the position

the Institute was founded in 1818

“the Institute prefers the ivory tower of pure academia to the complicated work of dealing with statements or recent experiences and you have the recipe for an impeccably organised library and an absolute mess of an archive” (this feels important 🧐)

Jon plans to reorganize the almost 200 files scattered around the archives

He’ll have the help of Tim Stoker and Sasha James, and Martin Blackwood who’ll be doing supplementary investigation to see what details may be missing from what we have

Statement

At the time of the incident, he was out at a pub celebrating his friend’s acceptance into a Masters Program

He was violently ill around midnight, and decided to walk home via Old Fishmarket Close

About halfway down the street he drunkenly takes a tumble on one of the steeper hills

Rattled, he rolled a cigarette to calm himself, when he hears a voice asking, “Can I have a cigarette?”

Speaking was a figure in an alleyway across the street

their voice was masculine

no intonation

they seemed to sway ever do slightly

Nat offered a rolled-up but the figure was unmoving and simply asks the question again

“I stared at the stranger” 🤔

Their face appeared blank, expressionless, and their skin seemed damp and slightly sunken, like they had a bad fever

reminded him of an anglerfish

this swaying got more pronounced

They asks a 3 time “Can I have a cigarette?” and Nat realizes

Its mouth hadn’t opened once and it’s feet weren’t quite touching the ground

The stranger’s form was being lifted, ever so slightly, and moved gently from side to side

The figure disappeared, sort of folding at the waist and vanished back into the darkness, as if a string had gone taut and pulled it back

The next day, Nat returned to the scene to discover nothing, but but an unsmoked Marlboro Red cigarette

Few days later, a missing appeal goes up for another student, John Fellowes, who was at that same party.

His missing photos shows the same brand of cig sticking out of his pocket

Post-Statement/Thoughts

Sasha looked into police reports between 2005-10, and there had been 6 disappearance in the area

Before Dobson’s disappearance, she had sent a photo to her sister captioned “check out this drunk creeper lol”

The picture matched the Nate’s description of the alleyway

No one appears to be in the photograph

Sasha did some work on the photo, and by increasing the contrast, was able to make out the outline of a long, thin hand, roughly waist level on a male of average height

the stranger was mentioned multiple times and well

the imagery of long, thin hand and a blank face perhaps alluding to what stranger looks like

tbh my smart brain doesn’t have any more thoughts 😐🤷‍♀️

#the magnus archives #tma podcast #rusty quill #jonathan sims #the stranger #sasha james

15 notes · View notes

thatpodcastkid · 16 days

Text

Magnus Archives Relisten 6, MAG 6 Squirm, Spoiler Free Version

Sorry this is late, but hey, Worm Sex Guy! You hate to see it.

Spoiler-free version of my MAG 6 analysis.

Facts: Statement of Timothy Hodge, regarding his sexual encounter with Harriet Lee and her subsequent death. Statement given December 9, 2014.

Statement Notes: Really one of the most destroyed characters in the series. Man works from home, pretty isolated, gets a few days off. Decides to go to a club and hook up with a cute girl. Immediately contracts demon STD and has to burn his house down. Absolutely crushing loss for the weirdo community.

Substances are brought up again in this episode. Hodge states that he does drink and use drugs, but wasn't drunk that night. This was particularly note-worthy in this episode because, while Jon usually cites someone's substance use as a reason to dismiss their statement, he believes Hodge encountered one of Prentiss' victims even though he admits to drinking that night. He doesn't seem have a clear standard for what believes and why.

Another motif that comes up in this episode is the sense of false security. When Lee enters Hodge's apartment, she calms down. Even though she doesn't have a real reason to, she thinks she's safer there. I think this is a really realistic element that Jonny Sims uses often. Real people know they're more likely to be killed by a friend than a stranger, that you're not safer just because the light's on, washing fruit in sink water doesn't really do anything, but we let these things make us feel safe and secure anyway. It makes sense that a horror character would do the same thing.

I also think the paranoia motif Sims uses is really fear-inducing. While they're in the club, Hodge says that Harriett kept checking the doors and looking at the exits, and she kept nervously glancing around as they walked home. She knows something is coming for her, she knows she should be afraid. The knowledge of what is going to happen is what makes it all the worse. And even though the audience doesn't know what she's afraid of, they're afraid right alongside her.

#podcasts #rusty quill #jonny sims #the magnus archives relisten #tma #tma relisten #audio drama #jonathan sims #analysis #media analysis #the magnus archives #magnus archives #jane prentiss #timothy hodge #MAG 6 #Squirm #horror #horror podcasts

7 notes · View notes

swiftzeldas · 22 days

Text

tagged by @dead-ghost-walking!

How many works do you have on AO3? 58! though i've been considering orphaning some lmao

What’s your total AO3 word count? 260,542

What fandoms do you write for? i write for whatever is currently occupying my brain so currently that's the x-files and the terror but i have also written for NADDpod, dimension 20, the magnus archives, the adventure zone, and various other fandoms (inception, the exorcist, psych, succession, baseball rpf, the enchanted forest chronicles, it is truly an eclectic mix)

What are your top 5 fics by kudos? i haven't looked at this in ages so this is interesting! they are: something more than nothing (jon/tim, the magnus archives), if you need some company (hardwon/moonshine, naddpod), head above water (roy siblings, succession), a million little times (taako/magnus, the adventure zone), the greatest films of all time were never made (taako/magnus, the adventure zone)

Do you respond to comments? i try to! i never know what to say besides "thank you so much i'm so glad you liked it" but i mean that every time!!!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? i don't think i have a ton of angsty endings so i suppose it is us traitors never win, my hickey/goodsir fic. the end of that fic is very similar to the end of the show anyway tbh it just sort of slots goodsir into crozier's ending

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? i think it's "if you need some company" but in lieu of repeating myself, my morwen/telemain fic it's not the years; it's the mileage has a pretty happy ending as well!

Do you get hate on fics? i don't think i write popular (or unpopular) enough pairings to get hate honestly

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? yes, usually as part of a longer fic but occasional PWP

Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? when i was younger i did, i don't have any posted on ao3 though

Have you ever had a fic stolen? i don't think so and i doubt it would happen

Have you ever had a fic translated? yes, i had someone ask to translate my saito/eames fic something worth coming back to

Have you ever co-written a fic before? only in the sense that most of the x-files daemon au world i write in was created by @emmaswanned for a fic she's working on and she let me take the au and run amok on the krycek side of things (wouldn't last a day)

What’s your all time favorite ship? i don't think my ao3 stats reflect this very well. i also find a lot of the time i don't NEED to write multiple fics for the same ship, like i get it out of my system

What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? i have multiple WIPs rn and i definitely do not want to throw in the towel on any of them but i've wanted to write a marcus/tomas (the exorcist) fic involving them reuniting at casey rance's wedding for literal years and have never written past the first scene

What are your writing strengths? i think my characterization is good, i think i'm good at capturing tone, i think i'm pretty good at dialogue

What are your writing weaknesses? finishing fics longer that about ~7K (unfortunate because most of my ideas are longer than that), figuring out endings

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? i probably would not do this just because i'm only fluent in one language and i would not want to offend anyone due to my reliance on google translate

First fandom you wrote for? i wrote baby-sitters club and harry potter fanfic in spiral notebooks when i was a kid

Favorite fic you’ve written? "us traitors never win" my absolute beloved

tagging @jackreichel @amidalleia @ageless-aislynn

#text post #writing #fanfiction

2 notes · View notes

gerrydelano · 23 days

Text

bad end pbr is eating my brain so badly i am so sad but also it has Fascinating implications for jonah's next steps. ANNABELLE'S next steps.

like. dude, jonah SCREWED HIMSELF body hopping into faraday and losing his positioning at the institute. he staked CENTURIES of work on this decision. like it was a smart as fuck move in the world where gerry reads that final sentence (pbr canon) but if danny succeeded in killing gerry???? if it all ended right there????

pharos would have successfully wiped the chessboard completely clean by asking danny to kill him. they would save the fucking world, for the time being anyway, and it'd all be because pharos had the foresight to say "i'm not making it through this." they would have fucking won, technically, and even jonah would have no idea what his next move would be for a while. annabelle might keep him in her back pocket but even she might open up her options to somebody else who wants to pull off the same thing. it would take fucking forever to get started again. pharos would have stolen elias' privileged position, his opportunities, his entire pool of candidates, everything. he took everything from him by saying, "kill me." and he would be satisfied in knowing that, because gerry would see it as worth it, too.

the problem is that it's as pyrrhic as a victory gets for the archives team because now imagine them having to go back there without gerry. imagine tim without gerry. danny with this new sin on his scoreboard. jon completely lost, sasha consumed in TIM'S grief a la corruption style, martin still the only one on danny's "side." which danny wouldn't even want! he would literally skip town and grift his way around the globe for like, ten months solid without a word to even martin. he can't handle this, the weight of it is too much, it's just too fucking much to live with when his brother finally can't look at him. finally, a punishment from tim for any number of the things he's done all this time and yet if that's all the punishment is? a cold shoulder? danny is like That's It????? that's all anyone's gonna give me here? a slap on the wrist? he can't handle that. he can't.

and tim. tim. oh tim. he just sinks so deep into the end that there's hardly a day goes by where he's not 1) wet 2) stone-faced and cold. how do you come back from this? how do you stop the apocalypse only to see your wife dead on the floor and knowing your own brother is the one who swung a hammer at his head? it's impossible. how do you go on with that knowledge? having known in advance that pharos and danny made that deal in the first place?

in this world, tim would have dreamed of gerry in the coming days beforehand and he would have been absolutely losing his mind because that was his own worst fear. and here it is. a technical suicide that he had to witness the aftermath of, just like everything else he feeds on. he's snacking on his closest friends and the grief is so deep that it makes him stronger and he hates it. he hates it. he hates it.

his next move is that he wants to kill elias. whatever it takes, he's going to hunt him down and kill him and then he's going to try and leave the institute using the knowledge that gerry would have passed to him when he told tim about his conversation with Eric. they have the secret right there. they could all leave, if they could stomach it. tim thinks he will, once he does what he needs to do.

and jonah should be very scared. because tim is basically the walking creature from it follows and he is not going to give up anytime soon.

also isla-mae wants to kill elias, too, so there's a hunter after him as well! yay! everything is bad for jonah and we love to see it.

but by g-d is it lonely. it is so empty. it is so quiet. it's so wrong without gerry here and no one knows what to do.

divshah brings cocoa with the rest of their regular orders one too many times and sasha has to tell her to stop. gerry's not here anymore, and seeing that fucking cup of cocoa is just. too much. please, stop.

and divshah is one of the only outsiders to actually mourn him and cry openly about it and seeing that just rocks tim's world. evidence that even people who barely knew gerry still care that he died and it wasn't completely silent. even if no one will ever know that his sacrifice saved the fucking world, that doesn't matter. somebody cares that he's gone. his life was almost a secret the whole time, his suffering was a secret, he was presumed dead HOW many times? eventually you feel like the boy who cried wolf. but it's real now. it really happened this time. he's not just lurking in the shadows anymore, he's gone. and finally, somebody notices.

i'm like actually tearing up lmao this fucking au! hurts!!!! i want to go home and keep writing dammit

#bad end tag #r.txt #pbr tag #huge ramble

6 notes · View notes

a-mag-a-day · 1 year

Note

MAG 64 - part 2 of the apple pie baking session

"Statement of Donna Gwynne, regarding an unlicensed archaeological dig" - DIG

"Original statement given May 20th, 2015." - Oh! Depending on Gertrude's actual death date (15th March or 15th May), this statement could have been given while our Archive crew was already in charge. IF it was the 15th May I don't think Elias would have already put together his new team. I think it took at least one to two weeks. At least! (Even with Elias already knowing that he absolutely needed Jon in this position. HR works slowly…)

"But education funding is being squeezed across the board, and the fact is, most higher-up positions in the field tend to only open up once the previous occupant dies." - Well, talking about Gertrude's death and how to appoint the next Archivist…

"Large upon the stone was carved the closed loop of a shen ring, the symbol of infinity." - Oh wow, totally forgot about that. Nice detail.

"It was a labyrinth" / "it seemed to only assume its deceptive, maze-like form when heading back towards the entrance. When walking deeper in, it was rather straightforward." - Was this done, so the undead person inside wouldn't find its way out so easily? Then again, when you have infinite time to figure it out (or walk along one side of the wall), what good would that do?

"I did notice something in the corner, though: about a half-dozen small bones, with carvings on each face. Dice." - There we have it, the dead (heh) give-away for what kind of "creature" this is. One of those gambling with Death.

"I saw it" - This is something Jonny also uses a lot of times. Announcing the impossible thing with a "And then I saw it".

"Was this thing alive when that had happened? Was it buried in salt for seventy days, feeling the cedar oil slowly melting its insides?" - Thanks for bringing this to our attention…

"positioning the point of the blade on its chest, where the heart should be. Then it made me push the knife in. The poor creature hung there for a second, then pulled the knife out and made me stab it again. Over and over it made me do it, while its torso racked and convulsed. It almost seemed like it was crying But without tear ducts or lungs, there was no way to know." - Ok seriously, there had to be a way to end those of this kind. What about full cremation! Nothing left but ashes. Then again… Would it even burn to that point? I mean mummification seemed to have worked? What about a hydraulic press? Freezing and grinding it to dust? According to this statement you can damage the bodies of those so they are far beyond humanity. But would it be possible to actually destroy the body to a point, that there is nothing left to be alive?

"In ancient Egypt, dying was the most important thing a person would ever do. Your whole life was preparation for it" - Yep, remember learning about that in history and art history. That is an interesting topic in combination with the "And I must scream" trope. I feel like, this is something different the the generic monster mummy.

BASIRA "You can’t just come down to the station asking to –" - Jon, you fucking idiot xD

Hmmm. Later on the statement in web development (mag 123) was given on 1st August, 2015 and Jon says "It looks like this statement came in just after Gertrude disappeared. Another gap. And whoever took it didn’t do any follow-up, just… filed it away. I may be the first person to actually read it, so... Sorry, Angie. I suppose." Which might be a timing discrepancy but I think this means Jon and his team didn't start working until after August and that means this mummy statement was just another unprocessed statement?

#a mag a day #tma #the magnus archives #episode asks #mod ashes #tma spoilers #mag 64 #lycanlovingvampyre

23 notes · View notes

lnakoi · 2 years

Text

Everyone talks about how Martin and Jon are the only ones out of the og archives crew to live throughout the series that's straight up not true. MARTIN was the only one out of the og archives crew to live. Jon is hanging out by a the worlds most spooky thread. Without the powers of paranormal immunity he would be dead. Which brings me to my point...

Hello, Reader. Apologies for the deception but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself. You see the real reason behind this is for me to give My Opinion on who/how the archives og4 would survive on an island abandoned and how they might perish on that island. So content warning for their hypothetical death(s)

1. Jon. Look, my guy is so pathetic (affectionate) he would be the first to freak out and the first to die. They would either forget to find food or collapse from heat. Look I love Jon but try to tell me he can’t walk up multiple flights of stairs without being out of breathe. He might do fine with other people with him. He can think of a plan if needed but it varies from situation to situation. I also think it depends on who they are paired with that really determines if he would survive or not.

2. Tim would live for a WHILE while depending on the climate of the island he may do better or worse but Tim how experience outdoors and is a generally fit guy in my mind. Maybe not abs for days but he can handle a hike. I think that he would be resourceful enough to live for a while and if I had to choose what I think would be what gets him on this mystery island I would say he would eat something bad. Either not cooked enough or (what i think would be more likely) a wrong type of berry situation. If he was paired with Jon I think Jon would live.

3. Sasha was the kid to buy the survival books in the book fair. She is PREPARED and READY. She might not be the most athletic but she IS the type to go on walks or runs daily so she has the physical stamina. She is also stubborn enough to be more mad at the situation than sad. She would be able to keep anyone with her alive and maybe leaving them a bit more exhausted then they would be otherwise even with being stranded on an island. I think if she would die it would be because of animals in the area (if their are any) or injures from anything. If she was in a group she would be voted to be in charge.

4. Martin would panic and be so stressed the entire time. He would be able to handle himself for the most part. He would try anything for whatever outcome multiple times but he would give up on that particular strategy. So he would move on until he knew what worked best and made a routine. He also would go out of his way to avoid killing animals unless he absolutely had to. I think if he was paired with someone else he would try harder for the both of them. He would do the same in a group. If he was paired with Tim or Sasha he would go along with them (it would work out better for his mental health though he would feel guilty from time to time) but he would work as an equal with Jon and Jon would drive him just insane enough to stay mentally sound (besides the exhaustion of just being there). He would probably have the same downfalls as Jon. More likely the heat exhaustion though.

Lists on how they would be saved

- A fire/smoke they started would be spotted from the air or see whether a fire was lit for the purpose of being spotted with it (sasha) or by coincidence (Jon, Tim, Martin)

- Building a boat! (As a group)

- Message in a bottle and it is received relatively quickly (Tim)

- H-E-L-P written out largely for planes (all of them because it was in a book/movie they’ve seen)

- Peter Lukas because Elias needs them to work

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #jon sims #they/them pronouns for jonathan sims #he/they pronouns for jonathan sims #tim stoker #martin blackwood #sasha james #tw death #cw death #but like hypothetical death

26 notes · View notes

ieattaperecorders · 2 years

Text

Lost Cat, Do Not Find

Chapter 6 - My Less Piercing Gaze

Martin researches. Jon sees shadows. Time begins to run out.

Read on Ao3

By the time Jon woke again the cold had receded and dawn was leaking through the blinds. He dug himself out from the blanket and went to look at Martin, who was finally asleep in his bed, making soft, not-quite-snoring sounds into his pillow.

There was little to do then but wait. He spent a quiet morning on his own, padding around Martin's flat, pacing, nibbling on the chicken left from the night before. Eventually an alarm came from the bedroom followed by a quiet moan and the sound of shifting in bed. Jon stayed curled on the couch, leaving Martin his privacy as he went through his morning routine. When he emerged he looked at Jon for a long moment, as if confirming that yes, all of this was still real.

". . . Morning," he said awkwardly. Jon meowed.

He stretched as Martin put the kettle on and replaced the water in the cereal bowl. Martin didn't speak, and there was nothing Jon could say to him, so the flat was quiet as the morning came slowly into waking. (The most noteworthy moment of it all was seeing the look on Martin's face after he heard the toilet flush and saw Jon walk out of the bathroom. Clearly hadn't considered how he'd been handling that particular problem in the archive.) Before long Martin began readying himself to leave, and that was when he turned and addressed Jon again.

"Do you mind if we take the tube this time? I don't know if another rideshare would let you in, but if I keep you zipped in my coat no one should bother us on the train. If you're okay with that, I mean."

A number of things fought for space in Jon's mind. Embarrassment at the need to be treated like an animal in public, anxiety about being a cat in the open chaos of a city, and an absolutely humiliating pang of longing that he did his best to ignore. But he had no ability to voice any of it, and his feline face expressed little.

"Right. Okay."

He allowed himself to be picked up when Martin reached for him. It was fine, he didn't really want to repeat the uncomfortable ride from last night either.

Even the short walk to the station was dizzying. He'd thought he'd gotten a handle on his feline senses, but a crowded city during morning commute through the eyes, ears and nose of a cat was still a hell of a lot. There were no empty seats when they got on so Martin stood at the back with Jon tucked into his windbreaker, one arm supporting him, the other holding onto the pole. Out of habit, Jon listened to the first few stop announcements, then let his thoughts slide away from his surroundings. There was plenty to occupy them, after all. He tried to take stock of things, separate the facts from his fears.

The Lonely had a hold of Martin. That was well past undeniable by this point. And Martin wasn't a fool, he had to realize how deep he was in it. He'd been isolating himself since he began working with Peter Lukas, making himself unnoticed and unreachable. Calling it closer every day, fading away in private where no one else could see him.

It had a hold of Jon, too. It had formed the body he occupied, one that kept him from being recognized by other people, kept him from being heard or understood. An alley cat without home or companionship, chased from every doorway like the poor creature in that poem.

They were caught in the same tide, both drowning. But they saw each other now. Even if he couldn't speak, he was there and Martin knew he was there. Maybe they could save each other?

"Hello there."

He felt Martin go tense, and turned to see an older woman standing beside them. She was dressed for office work, leaning in and smiling.

"Your cat is cute," she said.

"Oh --" Martin blinked. "Thank you?"

"What's his name?"

He paused for perhaps a little too long, then-- "Jon. His name's Jon."

"That's adorable, I love when pets have people names. He must be such a little gentleman."

"Ah . . . well . . . I don't know about that."

Jon felt a surprising irritation at the woman's intrusion. Perhaps he just lacked a taste for hearing himself talked about like a pet. Martin was obviously uncomfortable as well, anxious at this disruption of the polite anonymity of the train car. Given where his thoughts had just been going, Jon wasn't sure if that was a good or bad sign.

"How old is the little man?" the woman continued.

"I -- I, don't know?"

There was a very, very long pause, which the woman broke with a confused ". . . Oh."

"I mean," Martin fumbled with an explanation, "he was a stray, when I found him. So. . . ."

"Oh, the poor thing. . . ."

As the woman opened her mouth to make another unsolicited comment, she turned her gaze back to Jon and her eyes met his. She froze then, mouth half-open, her friendly expression gone uncertain as she tried to process what she saw in his eyes. Something dark passed across her face and she took a step back, glancing first at him and then Martin with new unease.

"Well," she said. "I should -- yes. Goodbye."

Without further conversation, she shouldered her way through the crowd and went to stand at a far door, staring fixedly at it without looking back. Martin let out a tense breath as she went.

"Suppose people just come up to you when you have a cat in your jacket, huh?" he muttered.

The train jostled its way onward, towards the institute. Jon watched the woman's back until the doors opened and she hurried out, clearly not caring what the stop was. She didn't glance back at them once.

* * *

It was a surprise to find they'd arrived at work. Eyes closed, tucked into Martin's jacket, Jon had only recognized their approach by the heavy, looming presence that surrounded the building, pricking at the back of his neck.

He blinked dreamily as awareness returned. He hadn't been asleep, but the gentle rocking of the train and the solid warmth of Martin's chest had been lulling, and he felt like he was rising out of a daze. Not the uncomfortable haze he felt when the book confused his mind, this was something more mundane. It reminded him a little of the times when he and Georgie were together -- lying on that tatty dorm couch, her playing with his hair while watching one of her shows, him ignoring the screen all together as his thoughts faded into the background. A relaxing, pleasant mindlessness.

He shook himself out as Martin released him onto the floor. Martin hung his jacket on a hook and sat down in his desk chair, looking thoughtful. Jon couldn't help but notice the untidy pattern of cat hair that was now dusting his shirt -- a sight that was, under the circumstances, both entirely expected and indescribably strange.

"There's got to be a solution, right?" Martin said. "Like . . . how Basira got away from the Unknowing. Or that guy from the statements who escaped the Sandman by blinding himself. I mean --" he laughed uneasily, "hopefully we don't have to go that far, but you know what I mean. There's a trick of getting out."

Debatable. As far as Jon could see, there was no reason to assume there had to be a way back. Just because some traps let their prey escape by gnawing off a limb or two didn't mean every manifestation of fear had a secret escape clause. But there was no point in thinking like that. If there was even a slim chance of getting out of this situation, it was worth trying to find it. He meowed, as his contribution to the conversation.

"I'll try looking through the statements to see if something similar happened to anyone else. It's a place to start, at least." He paused, and when he continued his voice had a sardonic edge. "Who knows, maybe something will just come to me again."

Emboldened now by a plan of action, Martin started down the hallway. The archive was hauntingly empty as they traversed it, but Jon didn't have the energy to even try to Know where the others had gone to. Upon reaching document storage, Martin pulled out a box of files seemingly at random and settled at a table to sort. For his part, Jon went to pace the stacks as he'd done before, hoping his connection to the Beholding would point him towards something useful.

It was . . . difficult. He paced, pressed, and listened until his head began to ache and his vision swam. Occasionally he felt something, but it was like glimpsing a shadow in the corner of your eye only to lose it when you turn to look. It was growing harder and harder to use the Beholding. He'd been relying on it too much lately, pushing past the limits of what he'd previously tried, and actively fighting it at times. Meanwhile, he hadn't been taking statements, had only fed the Eye occasional, secondhand glimpses of terror by listening to Martin read. Having the hungers of his body satiated with chicken and rice only drew attention to the greater, deeper hunger that was pressing into him.

Feed it, or it will feed on you, Jude had told him. He hadn't forgotten. The power to which he was bound was greedy, and it didn't appreciate him taking while giving little in return. If Martin started to fade again, Jon feared he wouldn't be strong enough to pull him back a second time.

Frustrated and with nothing to show for it, he returned to Martin, who was still reading quietly -- only glancing up once as Jon leapt onto the table to join him. He watched as Martin pulled statements from the pile and skimmed them, reading just enough to determine that nothing was useful. He'd then set that one down and repeat the process, over and over. Idly, Jon eyed the statements still in the box, even sniffed at them as if that could give him any information. They smelled like old paper and stale fear, and if they held any answers the Beholding wasn't telling him.

Noticing Jon's interest in the box, Martin raised an eyebrow. He held out the statement he'd been reading, extending it towards him as if looking for notes. "Getting anything from this one?"

Out of obligation, he sniffed. Nothing. Martin shrugged and took it back.

"It's a real one. I mean, I can tell by now, right? Even if I don't read it out loud, I still feel it . . . that eyes-on-the-back-of-your-neck-times-a-hundred feeling. Never get that with the fake ones, so I know it's real. It's just . . . it's so cheesy?" he laughed softly. "I feel bad saying it, I mean, I know it was really upsetting for that poor woman. But it's about talking cats. Talking with the voices of dead people, sure, but still talking cats."

Marginally better than a story about mummies, Jon supposed. Though just from that short description, it didn't sound related to the book, more likely connected to the End than the Lonely.

"Don't think it's the same as what happened to you. I mean, her cats were already cats, and this sounds more like they were possessed or something." He paused, frowning. "Possessed . . . God, I hadn't even considered -- did you switch bodies with a cat? Is there someone who looks like you running around out there chasing mice?"

Direct communication might have been beyond him, but Jon sincerely hoped the look he gave Martin was withering enough to convey his feelings on that idea.

"Right, right. Suppose if that were the case someone would have found you -- or it -- or whatever by now. I'm just going to assume I won't have to lure a fully grown man out of the tunnels with catnip. Because that -- that would be . . ." he shook his head, visibly uncomfortable. "Yeah."

He tossed the statement into a little pile he'd made and reached for another one. Jon settled in. He suspected this would be a long search.

* * *

For what must have been hours, Martin continued going through statements as Jon rested on the table nearby. He found himself dearly wishing that Martin might read even one of them out loud. Skimming them without recording was faster, less exhausting, it just made sense, but it was maddening to see. Being in document storage was starting to feel like dying in the desert surrounded by bottles of water that he couldn't get open. And this? This was like watching helplessly as someone else opened each bottle, took the smallest sip, then threw the rest over their shoulder. After a while he gave up, closed his eyes and rested his head on the table.

It wasn't clear how much time had passed before he noticed the stillness. The sound of pages turning and occasional muttering had stopped. Jon looked up to find Martin leaning on the table, head resting on his arms, looking at him.

"I get it, I think. Why you came to me," he said. "I mean, Melanie's Melanie, and Basira isn't really patient. And Daisy . . . who even knows with her. I'm guessing they just tried to chase you out."

Well. Not untrue. Jon rose to a sitting position, wondering where he was going with this.

"I still say it'd be better if they knew, and if this is about pride or something, I don't think it's worth it. But I don't really want to try explaining this to them either, so here we are. And I'm grateful for --" he glanced off to the side,"what you did back there, in your office. But I -- I don't even know what'll happen if Peter finds out about this." Martin paused, looking thoughtful. "Actually. Maybe there's something he can do. I mean, that was supposed to be the deal if I worked with him, maybe he knows a way to--"

A loud, angry hiss cut off whatever else Martin was going to say. Jon felt his ears flatten against his head, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. That he would even still consider--

". . . Yeah, okay." Martin agreed. "That's fair. That's probably a terrible idea."

Terrible to say the least. Jon walked across the table towards him, growling his displeasure. Martin sat back and folded his arms.

"Stop, Jon, don't -- I don't trust Peter any more than you do. But all this stuff about the Extinction . . . it's the only way I can help," his frown deepened. "If I still can, anyway . . . I can't let these past months be for nothing."

Jon went silent. A part of him understood that. Another part was absolutely unmovable, hard and stubborn. For a moment, he thought that he could see himself through Georgie's eyes, back when he was chasing down peril to stop the Unknowing. He could almost understand it now, her frustration at him. How the fate of the world hadn't been enough for her to accept what he was doing to himself.

Quietly, he remembered when he'd told Basira that she'd been taking everything onto her shoulders, charging off without telling anyone. He wondered if everyone he'd ever worked with would pick up his own bad habits in the end.

Martin sighed. "I don't even know how much you're getting of this. Sometimes it seems like you understand me, and then sometimes it's like I'm talking to an actual cat. I mean . . . can you understand me? Meow once if you can."

He didn't bother trying to respond. They'd already been through this, that sort of communication was beyond him.

"I know it's you in there, I mean, I capital K Know it now, I guess." Martin rested his chin on one arm. "But are you just . . . Jon's brain in a cat's body, or are you Jon with a cat's brain?" He shook his head. "And if it's the latter, who am I even talking to?"

You're talking to me, Jon thought, straining his mind, hoping that sheer force of will might be enough to make the Eye carry his thoughts across to him. I hear you. I understand every word. I miss you Martin, so, so much.

There was no recognition in Martin's expression. He sighed with resignation.

"Guess you can't answer. Or you don't understand me. Or both," he said. "Still on my own in this, I suppose."

Jon felt profoundly useless as Martin turned his attention back to the box of statements, pulled out a new one and returned to work.

* * *

Though it was well past midday, the archive remained profoundly silent. Even when Martin left document storage to have lunch and refill his tea, every room they passed had been empty. It was, of course, possible that the others simply hadn't come in to work. Possible as well that there was no one looking to give a statement today, that the custodial staff had finally deemed the archive too creepy to enter anymore. But under the circumstances Jon was inclined to pin a supernatural cause on how naturally and seamlessly Martin avoided other people.

It took a while but eventually he began to notice the shadows. Two figures, roughly human in size and shape, projected onto the far wall of the room. They were only just visible, barely darker than the wall they fell on, and Jon might have missed them if his predator's eyes weren't attracted to movement. One was gesturing, as if in conversation with the other.

He approached to get a better look. The shadows were soft at the edges, and they faded at the floor. There was nothing in the room that could logically be casting them, but there they were all the same. And the more attention he paid to them, the more distinct the figures became - he was almost sure he recognized Basira's stout figure, her stern profile, and the smaller one had short, dense hair that resembled Melanie's.

Not taking the day off after all, he thought ruefully. He considered how Martin always made himself scarce, how he never happened to be in a room at the same time as anyone else. He wondered how many times Martin had been standing just a few feet away, invisible to him, as he'd gone obliviously about his day. Himself only a shadow on the wall, a faint reminder of a world Martin was leaving behind.

The figures were speaking animatedly now, it seemed that they were having an argument. Pressing an ear against the wall, he swore he could hear something, fading in and out. . . .

*̴̮͒͗*̶̯̅*̵̻͒̐̉*̵̻̺̬̉̔͂--not about you. It's my decision--- *̶̛̙̖̻̼͗̊̂*̶̧̛͈͓͍̯͑ ̵̛̛͓̞̮̝͆̇̑ͅ-̶̻̯̃̄̂͊͜͝*̶̨͈̯̂̃͑_̷̖͓̺̫̉*̴̨̖̦̰̉ ̴̛͎͙̦*̸̢͓̠̼͒͜*̸̨̨̤̔̏̿ -- can bet she would say the same thing if she were here--

--Stop. You've got no right--- _̷̖͓̺̫̉*̴̨̖̦̰̉*̶̯̅*̵̻͒̐̉ ̴̛͎͙̦ ---about her, no right at all. You weren't even there.

The latter was Basira's voice, Jon was certain of it. Her tone was hard and cold, whatever they were discussing, she wasn't taking it well. The conversation faded out for a moment, becoming too faint to hear, until Melanie's voice rose again.

I'm sorry. But maybe it's for the best. I mean, you know how badly she was doing. Sooner or later she was going to ---

"Jon?" Even from across the room, Martin's voice was loud enough to startle, and Jon's head snapped in his direction. He was looking at him with concern. "It's getting late. Maybe we had better call it a day."

Pausing, Jon turned back towards the shadows. Or shadow, singular now. Whatever had transpired while he'd turned away, Melanie was gone. Basira's shadow was folded into a chair now, pressed against a desk with her head in her hands. Behind him, he heard Martin cough.

"Would you rather stay here tonight?" he asked uncertainly.

Absolutely not. Jon turned to follow him up the stairs.

* * *

No one approached them on the ride back, at least as far as Jon could tell. In truth, he hadn't managed to keep awake for most of it. The strain of another day passed without satisfying the Eye had been enough to burn through him, leaving him exhausted. Martin made them both dinner, staring at his phone while he ate. The evening passed quietly, with both of them drained -- Martin from a day spent buried in secondhand terror, Jon from a lack thereof. It had weight and shape, the silence between them. Not awkward, but not a comfortable silence either, if pressed Jon might describe it as empty. It was a distance, one he didn't know how to cross.

That night, he lay on the little cushion and shivered as an unearthly cold filled the room once more. It was undoubtedly a nightly occurrence, something that had been there for weeks or months. He wondered if Martin used to shiver in it too, if it had pained him more at first, until time eroded the parts of him that wanted to be warm. Did Jon shiver because he felt the cold more keenly than Martin, or only because he felt it differently? Perhaps Martin had grown to need it now, the way Jon needed statements. Or he'd just resigned himself to whatever it was doing to him.

When Jon was very small, still unmarked by the Spider's strands, he'd seen a stray cat trembling in the snow. His grandmother had taken him along on some errands, and as it had been an unusually cold winter the ground was covered in a thin blanket of white. He'd tugged at her sleeve as he spotted the little creature in a public park. It looked very miserable, the damp bench it was curled under providing little protection from the elements. Seeing his distress, his grandmother had assured him the cat would be fine, that the outdoors was its home. That it had a nice fur coat to keep it warm, and they ought not bother it.

She may have been right. There were, after all, countless strays that survived in places colder than Bournemouth. And the animal he'd felt such childlike pity for might not, in fact, have wanted attention from humans. Looking back, he couldn't say whether his grandmother had believed her own assurances or had only wanted to avoid hours of stubborn insistence that they take a feral, possibly diseased animal home. Either way, it worked. He let the matter go, satisfied by her assurance.

. . . For a few hours, at least. Until day turned to evening turned to night, bringing a deeper chill with it. Until they were back at home, and it occurred to him that the cat had no home of its own to go to. From the warmth and brightness of his grandmother's living room, he stared out the window, troubled by the cold and dark beyond. He slowly became fixated on the phrase she had used, "a nice fur coat." He wondered if that would really be enough, to keep warm even out on a cold, snowy night.

That was how he'd ended up sneaking into the hall closet after his bedtime, and slipping on his grandmother's Sunday overcoat -- fake fur, not that he'd have known the difference. He'd come to a decision. He would sit in the snow for a while, and if he found the coat was truly enough to keep him warm, he would be able to stop worrying about the cat. Wrapping himself up, he slipped outside -- without shoes, since he reasoned that cats had to press their feet to the ground -- then sat down in the snow and waited.

In hindsight, it's unlikely that he'd been out there long before his grandmother found him. Though it was still enough time for his feet to go numb, for his small body to shiver and his teeth to begin chattering. She scolded him first for soaking the bottom of her coat, then when she realized he was barefoot, for being so foolish as to sit in the snow and let himself freeze. She sternly lectured him about hypothermia and frostbite, and his simple, childish fear became beautifully complex -- worry over the cat mingling with fear for his own flesh, layered over with loneliness as he tried and failed to explain his panic to his confused, tired caretaker.

His dreams that night were empty, as he watched himself stumble through a snowy field that was littered with severed cat's paws. His dream-self desperately tried to gather them up, calling for his grandmother, crying out unanswered pleas for help. Finally he looked behind him and saw his own feet lying in the snow, severed cleanly at the ankles -- a cartoonish, child's interpretation of his grandmother's warnings about losing toes.

Frostbite wasn't something he would have to worry about here. This wasn't the sort of cold that killed. It didn't take toes, fingers, patches of skin. Instead, it took comfort. Easy sleep. It took the things you liked about yourself, memories that brought you solace, pieces of your heart. It slipped in slowly, eating away, until you couldn't remember true warmth..

Jon made a decision. Shaking himself from the blanket, he climbed off the cushion and leapt onto the foot of the bed. As before, Martin was awake. His eyes were unfocused in the dark as he turned to look at Jon.

"You all right?" he asked softly. "I can get another blanket."

Another blanket wouldn't help against this cold. On some level, Martin surely knew that. Jon just stood for a while, waiting for him to understand. Martin looked at him sadly, shaking his head.

"You don't want -- trust me, the cold is worse up here."

He was right. As far as Jon could tell, the center of it all hovered around the bed itself, not that that deterred him for a moment. Slowly, deliberately, he walked to where Martin lay and curled against his side, tucking his paws under himself.

Martin let out a long, slow breath, and Jon felt the chill of it in his fur. The cold was deep enough here that his muscles ached, but if he kept still and curled into a tight little ball, it was just about bearable. Stubbornly, he pressed into Martin's side and rubbed his face against his arm. There was a soft noise in response, and he couldn't tell whether it was relieved or pained, but Martin didn't pull back so Jon stayed put. He'd stay there the entire night if he could bear it.

The cold wouldn't kill him, after all. It wasn't a cold that killed.

#cat!jon #cat!jon au #jonmartin #tma #tma fanfic #do you ever wonder what the janitors at the institute think of the archive #emptying burned statements out of the wastepaper baskets #noticing a new hole's been punched in the wall every week #steadfastly ignoring the nerd staring into their souls while they replace the paper towels

15 notes · View notes

whim-prone-pirate · 1 year

Text

we're almost to the part where you're smiling

^^this is where i've posted it on ao3 :)

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, Melanie King, Peter Lukas mentioned, Rosie Zampano mentioned

Maturity: Gen

Ships: Jon/Martin, pre-relationship

Setting: The Magnus Institute during season 4

Warnings: Light miscommunication (with a happy ending)

TLDR: martin has lonely powers that allow him to manipulate clouds. he tries to use them to cheer up a sad jon sims. it doesn't really work. but then it does!!!

Note: if this looks like it's formatted like shit, i'm sorry i don't know how to use tumblr yet🙁

———

Martin Blackwood has recently discovered that he is magical.

This isn't exactly true, but it is certainly what he tells himself—what would you call the ability to manipulate water?

Well. Not all water. But still a pretty big portion of it! Just... the water in the sky.

Clouds. He can manipulate clouds. And by manipulate he means make little shapes with them.

It's cooler than it sounds.

He doesn't know why or how it started happening—maybe he could always do it but never tried? But two weeks ago, after a... meeting with Peter Lukas, he was feeling bummed. So he made tea. For maybe the third time that day? Morning. The third time that morning. Maybe it's a problem, but there are bigger ones to fret over than tea intake.

Chamomile in hand, he stepped outside and looked up. It was a bit of a dreary day, but they had all been dreary recently. But, when looking at the clouds, he had never been able to part them—that is to say, he did, that morning. He looked up and where his eyes settled in the sky, the clouds split in a near perfect circle, revealing the sun in the center. A sun-ray rested upon Martin and a small mouse sitting by a lamppost. It would nearly have been poetic, if not for the way Martin went absolutely slack-jawed. The mouse must have found it quite comical.

So, in the coming days, he tried again. And again, and again, and again. It worked every time. So he tried to ramp it up, make it more complex. Instead of simply splitting the clouds, he began shaping them. But, what really set his powers in stone in his mind was when he raised his hand to the sky, squinted an eye, and drew a heart with his fingertip.

Meanwhile, during this time of experimentation, he noticed Jon in his office some days. Every day. Multiple times per day. Give him a break! Jon just looked so... down. Martin couldn't decide whether to bring him more tea than usual or leave him be. It ended up being a strange mix of both, surely confusing to both Martin and Jon.

What was Martin meant to do, honestly? Let this go on for weeks? Even longer? He wouldn't stand for it. So, naturally, when he saw Jon take a step outside in the middle of the day, clearly upset enough to not notice Martin sitting thirty feet away at a café, Martin thought to leave him a message. He tried to make it subtle, he really did, but he hasn't quite figured out the blurring and shading of the clouds yet... He wrote Jon's name with a huge smiley face and a heart. In the sky.

Maybe it wasn't his best plan ever, but he would swear he was trying to help.

Jon sat on the steps of the Institute and looked up with a calm, melancholy look in his eyes, which promptly shifted to a sharp and intense glare as his eyebrows drew together. As he wrapped his mind around it, he nearly fell back in a panic, before looking around the street frantically, back up at the sky, and so on.

Martin, certainly mortified, shielded his eyes and drew up his hoodie. By the time he looked back, he just barely caught a glimpse of Jon's foot falling inside the Institute as the door shut behind him.

Shocked and dismayed, Martin lay his head on the table.

———

After what could have been a half hour of sulking in shame, Martin tipped his waiter and edged back towards the Institute. He opened the door... walked across the foyer... down the stairs to the basement... it really was an ordeal just to put one foot in front of another.

It was just as bad as he had imagined.

Maybe worse.

"...promise you, I am being stalked by the Lonely, Melanie—where the fuck is Peter Lukas?" Jon spit Peter's name with acid and malice. Martin rounded the corner to find Jon leaning on Melanie's desk, waving his arms around animatedly.

"I don't know, Jon, Jesus fucking Christ. Have you ever considered that maybe paranormal things just happen to us? All the time? Typically without explanation or cause?"

Jon was steaming from the ears. Neither of the two had noticed Martin standing at the hallway entrance.

"Of course I have, Melanie, but it wrote my name. My name! How would you explain that? What the fuck would you assume if you found 'Melanie' on a wall in blood?"

"IT WAS ME."

Silence.

Heads turning.

Martin turned red. "...It was me. I write your name in the sky." Jon's eye was twitching. "I'm sorry," Martin squeaked.

"...What."

Martin opens his mouth for a few seconds and no sound comes out. "I... I can... move clouds? Kind of? When I'm bored, I draw things in the sky on cloudy days. I don't know why I can do it, but I— I saw you upset, outside, and I wanted to cheer you up, you know, I thought I could help... uplift you, or some shit, I didn't really think it through, and I saw you were scared and I felt so bad that I stared at the ground for thirty minutes before coming back and then you were yelling at Melanie and she doesn't deserve that and—" Jon hadn't moved. "I'm still sorry?"

"Oh. My. God." At that moment, Melanie did the unthinkable: she started laughing. "Oh, my God, Martin, what the FUCK."

"It's... not that funny," Martin said sheepishly.

"Oh, no, it is, I promise." She stands to leave, wiping her cheeks. "I'm gonna go tell Rosie." She saunters up the stairs and Martin and Jon watch her.

Slowly turning his head, Martin looks back at Jon.

Jon is smiling.

"Jon?"

Jon giggles a little and sits in Melanie's chair. "It was... a little funny. In hindsight."

Martin takes a moment. He laughs a little bit, too.

"I think I needed that, Martin. Thank you... for trying." He looks up at Martin, standing in front of him, with a small, fond smile.

Martin smiles back.

#fanfic #fic #fanfiction #jonmartin #jonathan sims #jon sims #martin blackwood #the magnus archives #tma #melanie king #guys why is tumblr so hard to format #why are all the spaces between the paragraphs different sizes they were all the same in my notes app #IM ON MOBILE SHOULD I NOT BE

4 notes · View notes

dafukdidiwatch · 1 year

Text

I adore The Magnus Archives! It was actual a pandemic podcast for me. I got into it during the beginning of spring I wanna say, a little bit after I finished Homestuck actually. I kept seeing posts on tumblr about it since I think it was hitting the final season during then, and there were 2 Specific Posts, both crossovers with TAZ, that got me interested in it. I listened to it every day after work trying to get me to take daily walks so I wouldn’t feel so cooped up, and I even got to listen to it during work (perks of working remotely). Sometimes I even just go to sleep listening to it, it was soothing in it’s own way.

The Magnus Archives is absolutely a top tier podcast. I love everything about it. I love anthology series and stories, always have, so it just spoke to me. The deep and smooth voice of Jon Sims, and his range in voice acting is just so good! I love how it builds and keeps building and the little details were all around to figure out what the specific Fear entity is, and how it relates to a much larger plot. Normally shows sort of lose my interest if they start to completely focus on a larger storyline and lose that monster-of-the-week style they had initially, but TMA just has a brilliant balance between the two. I get my statement, the statement gives hints to the larger story, and we hear the talk and discussion of the nonsense around recording the statement. Best outcome all the way around.

Jesus I literally can just go off about it there really is nothing that I won’t talk about for The Magnus Archives. I clearly remember listening to Episode 7: The Piper while working and it changing my opinion of it being a Good Podcast to being a Great Podcast. I found the episodes about Micheal Crew and the Episode 19/20 two parter to be pretty boring. I discovered I got a new fear of Cave Diving from Lost Johns Cave, and specifically the ones dealing with Space freak me the hell out 100%. I remember that listening to Episode 25: Growing Dark trying to fall to sleep actually got to me, and I had to pause it to finish in the morning. I love the Michael (the Spiral man lol) as my favorite monster. And I actually love the Jared episodes dealing with The BoneTurner’s Tale. Elias sucks ass. Love Martin and Tim. I actually didn’t catch that Sasha’s voice changed going into Season 2. The Jorgen Leitner book episodes are a hit or miss to me. Depends on the book.

I’ve actually been writing some TMA fanfiction on the side. The one TAZ/TMA crossover post of the Starblaster Crew as Avatars inspired me actually write it. HERE’s the link if you’re interested. I’ve also donated to The Magnus Protocol kickstarter as one of the higher ranking tiers, so I’m going to get an episode dedicated to me however that works. I’ve talked to my friend and I think if I was an Avatar it would be for either The Spiral or The End.

Seriously, you can just deadass give me an episode and I can go off about it. It’s just so good.

The only thing is, I do know spoilers and endgame (roughly) for the end of the series, but I’ve never actually finished listening to the series. I’ve only gone up to part way in Season 4. I have a, how you say, weird thing about finishing things sometimes. Would sort of stopped listening in the middle of things, got distracted by other things/hobbies, then just picked it back up again like a few months ago. So I have like, 3 waves of listening to it if that makes sense?

First Wave was during Pandemic where I got up to the beginning of Season 4, maybe like 10 episodes into Season 4, somewhere like that. Second Wave to intently listen was when I just listened specifically the statements and only the statements. Like the outside story is great, but sometimes I just wanna get the anthology part of the series ya know? Got up to Season 3, but I definitely skip around them to the good stuff lol. Then it’s the Third Wave which is my Journal Wave, because to keep track of all the small details I’ve been writing each episode in a journal to pick up the clues and hints of each episode and how they connect. Really it was just to focus on key words and phrases to figure out what entities were tied to each episode. I’ve actually just got well into Season 2 of my Journal Wave listen, just started listening to Ep 48 as of this morning.

I finally got my friend to listen to TMA and now she’s gonna finish the series well before me lol, oh well. Tho I think we are gonna lowkey start a Magnus Archives Book Club, so that’s going to be fun.

So yeah, I’m pretty obsessed with The Magnus Archives, I think it’s a brilliant source of stories and narration, where it can be enjoyed singularly or as a whole. I 100% recommend it to anyone I can, and absolutely one of my favorite bouts of horror. Feel free to ask me anything about it, tho keep in mind that I’m not yet finished with Season 4 as a heads up.

#dafukblog #dafuk-answers #tma #the magnus archives #the magnus archives ramble #podcast #the magnus protocol #I've got to go back to writing my fic I still need to finish Lucretia lol #tma and epithet erased #come yell at me about that

4 notes · View notes

awellboiledicicle · 1 year

Text

Just hit “A Distortion” in my relisten and i keep thinking about April listening to Sasha do her statement.

Just hands together, fingertips pressed to their mouth, trying not to scream.

Because Bingo would absolutely not have been as chill as Michael!Distortion re: most of that situation. Bingo, on top of being the distortion, is half an american with no chill/patience for people not going along with their bullshit if needed. Bingo WOULD absolutely pull the cafe thing, it would just also outright quip that Sasha kept it waiting all day and tell her that was very rude. Bingo would also just hear her ask what it was and answer with an ear shattering, spine chilling audio equivalent of technicolor flashbangs. Then, while Sasha is recovering, say “If you couldn’t understand that, you won’t understand me. I suggest not trying.” When she naturally goes ‘what the fuck’, Bingo WOULD apologize. But in a very.. “ooh i’m so sorry” sarcastic sort of way. It would also introduce itself as April, which Sasha rolls with entirely because she needs to know what the fuck is going on. Bingo, overall, looks like April yes. Overall. Like how daughters can look like their mothers, or brothers look like their fathers as much as each other. Very much in passing. But they sound like if April spoke a few registers higher and drew out their vowels a bit too hard. They also speak like they’re trying desperately to not say how stupid they think you are.

Bingo is bad at personally speaking to people. But Bingo needs the same thing as Michael!Distortion does at that point: the hive not to win. Thus, bothering with Sasha at all. Because it knows it can’t talk to April--they won’t trust it, even if they know it isn’t lying for once. The others were options, but Sasha would be more prone to investigating it. Thus.

But April is just going to hear how she just. Confronted it. Talked to it. Went where it wanted her to go.

And they’re going to calmly have to walk over and flatly request Michael hold them in place for a moment. Then, after clearing their throat, just flat shouting “HOW ARE YOU SO FUCKING STUPID? I DON’T CARE IF JON WOULDN’T HAVE BELIEVED YOU, DO YOU HAVE THE SELF PRESERVATION OF A LEMMING? THE MYTH ONE, THE ONES THAT JUST FUCK OFF CLIFFS? YOU LOOKED DIRECTLY AT A WOODCHIPPER AND SAID ‘sure i will try to fist that’ WITH NO PREAMBLE! ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE--” “I did my due diligence--” “Fuck due diligence! Fuck it! Anyone runs into that godforsaken abomination again, you come to me! You come to me and you tell me so i can deal with it!” “And you’re going to do WHAT, April? Yell at it?” “I’m going to put a foot up its ass, that’s what i’m going to do!” “How is that any saner a reaction--” “I didn’t say it was! It’s fucking lunatic! But it hasn’t killed my ass yet, and i’ll be fuck damned if it lays one creepy fucking hand on anyone else in my archive!” “Enough!” Jon didn’t like raising his voice. He also did not like the sheer weight of April’s gaze nearly knocking the wind out of him. “Firstly, you are out of line. Sasha is a grown woman, entirely capable of assessing risk. While i agree that this was not her finest hour in that regard, it was up to her to make the decision. Secondly, this is not your archive. I appreciate the concern for your coworkers, but if anyone is going to be responsible for the safety of the staff down here, it will be me. Now, you’re going to calm down and either finish your reports for the day or go home. Your choice.” A long, boiling stare over approximately a full minute. Enough to make everyone uncomfortable and to make Jon deeply concerned about the flammability of his face. Eventually they gave a jerk of a nod and patted at Michael’s arm to signal he could let go. He patted them gently on the shoulders before retreating back to his desk. Slowly, April returned their gaze to Jon’s face and tilted their head just a tick. “Then i hope you step up right quick, Jon. Because this thing doesn’t fuck around. It wants something. It needs something. That’s the only reason it would bother being stared at for so long. Not your fault, Sasha, but good god.” With a shudder they straightened up, shoulders pushed back. Their expression morphed into something he couldn’t quite read. “I’m going home. Do me a favor and don’t trust the goddamn door.”

They’ll feel bad about it in the morning, honestly, but trauma panic isn’t always reasonable. Just. scream and then calm.

#eldritch bingo au

4 notes · View notes

thewatchau · 2 years

Text

Fae Hunt Chapter 3

Jumping to the 16th, and Jon Quillian belongs to @marginmaster87

Bard's Note: Eternal Thanks to @theshapeshifter100 for getting this all written up!

___***___***___

Jon Quillian wandered through the halls of Fort Stiofán looking for Ivy, chewing on a piece of bread he brought. It took him a little while, but after he didn’t find her inside the main fort, he eventually wandered out in the direction of the forge.

Ivy was indeed still in there, and at her current rate she might need one more day on the spear. The socket was taking shape and it wouldn’t be long before she could fit it to the shaft of wood. The actual spear head needed more work though, to shape and sharpen it.

Jon leaned in through the doorway, blocking off the light, and squinting until he was certain it was Ivy.

“Look’s nice, what’cha makin’?”

Ivy looked over at the door, not immediately recognising the voice. “A spear, why…?” she squinted at the person in the doorway, before remembering the voice, and face. “Jon Quillian? Why are you here?!”

“Didn’t you get my letter? I’m coming with you.”

“Yes, and I sent a reply telling you no,” Ivy stubbornly went back to her work, trying to make it clear that she didn’t want to continue this conversation. Whether it would work was another matter.

“And then I sent a reply telling you yes,” he walked into the forge and looked over her shoulder.

“I didn’t get it,” Ivy moved so he wasn’t over her shoulder. “I’ve been here all day today and yesterday,” she added through gritted teeth.

“Well, then I’ll reiterate: I’m going. I’ll try not to go alone, but I doubt I’ll find anyone else willing to go with me. You have absolutely no obligation to worry about my safety, though, so don’t worry about it!”

“I will be worrying about it anyway,” it was just another addition to the stress and nerves building in her belly. “Since I can’t seem to convince you to leave it, fine. You can stick around. Only if you get approval from everyone else who’s coming.”

“And also-” Jon stopped, confused. “Wait, you’re agreeing? Just like that?”

“You’re not giving me much of a choice, and I’m not in the mood for a fight,” Ivy slammed the hammer down a bit harder than she meant to. “If everyone else agrees, then fine. I’m not happy about it, but fine.”

“Alright,” Jon was a little cowed by her tone. “Where can I find the others? Are they meeting here?”

“Morgana is either in her room or the Archives. Green isn’t here yet.”

“Oh, okay,” he wasn’t sure who those people were, but he made a note of their names. “Do you… want some help with that spear?”

“I’m fine. It should be done by tomorrow,” Ivy used the tongs to pick up her spear head so she could get a better look at the forming shape of the socket. “There’s more metal lying around and a free anvil if you want to make something.”

“Oh, sure. Hey, is Gus going to come? He acted like he might, but you didn’t mention him just now.”

Ivy froze. She had just been thinking that she was glad he hadn’t mentioned Gus.

“Gus isn’t coming.”

“Why not? Is he busy?”

“He’s injured,” it wasn’t a lie, just, leaving out the ‘how’.

“What?” Jon looked over. “He wasn’t when we met, what happened?”

“He broke his hand, I think.”

“Oh man, that sucks… maybe I’ll send him a card or something, do you know where he is?”

“He should be back at the Hold. I haven’t talked to him in a while,” not since they fought and… his hand broke.

“Alright. I’ll do that, then,” Jon picked out some metals from the store.

Ivy nodded and picked up her half made spear. The socket was pretty much done now, just the head to finish. She looked over at Jon, who had got some metal and gotten to work. While she was still annoyed at him, she was also curious.

“What are you going to make?” she asked.

“A short sword. I don’t have one. I have a dagger and a good knife, but I feel like I’ll need something larger,” he held up the metal he’d picked out. “Fae are weak to iron, right?”

“That’s a myth. Annoyingly,” Ivy began to heat her metal again, then hammer it flat, gripping the socket with the tongs. “You do know how long it’ll take to make a sword, right?” in her experience, they could take weeks if you didn’t use a mould.

“Of course. I’ve made one before, for a Guard guy who broke his,” he sandwiched his metal and set the alloy in the forge.

“Alright. I don’t know if we’ll have the time. Just, have to wait until Green gets here,” Ivy heated up the metal again, trying to ignore butterflies in her stomach about the upcoming quest. “That’s one of the reasons I went for a spear. It’s quick.”

“That’s true, but I don’t know much about polearms. At least I’ve worked with swords before.”

“I’m not doing anything fancy, like a halberd. It’s just a basic spearhead. All I care about is it not falling apart.”

Jon chuckled. “Yeah, that’s definitely an important spear quality.”

“I’ll be enchanting it anyway, so it should hold up,” Ivy wiped some sweat off her forehead. It felt about as hot as Tandeli’s Calorona Desert in here. “How’s Beck?” she enquired after Jon’s other sister.

“She’s dead set on finishing the harvest, but she understands why I’m leaving. She’d probably come too if it weren’t for the crops.”

Ivy was suddenly glad that she wasn’t dealing with both of them. She suspected Beck would be worse than Jon on his own, let alone together.

“Well, you have to eat and make money, so… yeah,” she commented.

“We get a bit from the government for our research, but the crops definitely help. We’re growing pumpkins and beans this year.”

“For carving?” Hallow’s Eve was only two and a half months away after all.

“For carving,” Jon agreed, “but mostly for food. We’ll roast the seeds of the small ones.”

“Sounds good. What can you make with pumpkin anyway?”

“Pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, pumpkin biscuits…” Jon listed off. “Mostly pastries, but the rest of the town has the staples covered. We’ll trade for what we need over the winter.”

“I will have to come around in winter then,” Ivy noted, provided they didn’t die. Yes, she was definitely still worried about that.

“Provided we find her by then,” Jon had different but similar thoughts. “This could take months.”

“We’ve got a plan. We know roughly where we’re going and have an idea how to get there. We’ve been planning this for months.”

“Yeah, but still… the forest is so big, and she might be in an even bigger Fae world…”

“Green has met friendly Fae before, that’s who we’re banking on. And where Jen is, we think we know. Finding her in there and getting her out will probably be the hardest part.”

It was the only part they couldn’t really prepare for. None of them had any idea what they might find.

“Yeah…” Jon stared into the fire as he heated his metal.

Ivy meanwhile hit her spearhead harder than she meant to. “We can do this,” she was mostly talking herself up. “That’s why I’m making this. I’m going to enchant this spear to disperse magic, so that should have some impact against the Fae who took her.”

“Can you enchant my sword too? I can’t… you know,” he wiggled his fingers.

“If you finish in time, then I will try to enchant it.”

“Alright, thanks,” he went back to staring at the heating metal, but his back was a little straighter. “We’re going to do this.”

“Yes. We are.”

This did not settle Ivy’s nerves much, but no one else needed to know that.

___***___***___

If you've forgotten what happened to Gus, he and Ivy got into a fight, he punched her in the face, her magic activated, which caused him to break his hand. As detailed here

#House Schneeplestein #submission #Jon Quillan #August 1614 #Fae Hunt #Tales from The Watch #Ivy Paris

3 notes · View notes