#I love cat Martin so dearly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

meat--grindr · 4 years ago

Note

another trans man fixated on Martin here!! 💕

could i request some NSFW of an ftm S/O teasing Martin while hes on the phone trying to do another interview as The Count? not a lot of talking from the S/O while hes on the phone, mostly physical stuff & feeling him up thru his clothes. the rest is up to you >:)))

(def going to use as a drawing prompt im just so so embarrassed to request off anon 😔😔😔)

Alright, so, this prompt has been living in my head rent-free ever since I first read it and I am so freaking excited to finally get to it. I’m sorry it took so long. I will admit this was a bit of a challenge for me because I am notoriously bad at writing dialogue. But I feel like it was good practice. Sorry if it sounds a little stilted in spots, I’m still learning.

Please, please, please link me to that art if you ever get around to it! You knocked it out of the park with this prompt and I’d love to give the art some love if you’re comfortable with sharing!

The Count Didn’t Count on This – Martin Mathias (Trans-Masculine Reader) – NSFW.

· It’s late, and for once, you’re exactly where you feel you should be at this late hour—not sprawled across a chair reading, or gazing out of the window, watching the cars pass and counting the neighbours’ lights as they flick on and off in lieu of stargazing. And for the first time in at least a week, you’re not trapped at your desk, frantically typing the final draft of a paper, hindered by the slow keys of a typewriter that does not care a whit about the deadline steadily hurtling toward you. No, thankfully, this night has brought with it far more comfortable circumstances—you find yourself in bed, tired bones sinking into the plush mattress, consciousness caught in the bleary space between sleep and not.

· Even better, you aren’t alone.

· Tonight, your bed is warmed by another body, long and thin, curled tightly against your own, as though it were some sort of crime to leave even an inch of space between you. A bony hip digs into your thigh and you’re sure the press of your head and shoulder against his chest must make breathing difficult for him. But he’s made no attempt to shrug you off or shift your weight to a more comfortable spot, so you likewise let it be. In all honesty, you’re simply too comfortable to bother and you feel it’s safe to assume the same is true for Martin too.

· The slow, even beat of his heart pulses against your cheek, and his long fingers stroke absently over your bare shoulder. The rough texture of burgeoning callouses catches against your skin—the sensation, though not wholly unpleasant, makes you shudder. Sometimes, you forget Martin works with his hands. When you hold them, they seem so delicate—his long fingers better suited to playing the piano than tightening screws or hammering nails. But he’s good at repairs and more importantly, he seems to find enjoyment the work. It certainly keeps him busy enough on the few afternoons that Cuda isn’t running him ragged in the shop, much to your personal dismay. But his nights—the nights like this—belong to you and you alone.

· Your eyelids flutter closed, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, maybe even longer, you feel like you can rest. Really rest. Dimly, you find yourself wondering if it had more to do with finished papers and diminished responsibilities, or the reintroduction of the physical intimacy you’ve been missing so dearly. Though you can’t say for certain, you have a sneaking suspicion it’s the latter.

· The longer you know Martin, the more you’re convinced that there is a preternatural bubble of calm that hangs around him. You can feel it in the way even the grouchiest old women in the store seem to soften toward him—hiding small smiles behind their sleeves, sometimes even calling him ‘dear,’ or in the way Cuda’s volatile temper deflates when his cruel words slide off Martin’s back as though he’s heard it all before from people who frightened him far greater. You’ve seen it at work on the feral cats that roam the neighbourhood—while they hiss and swipe at the children who chase them through the dusty streets, they sit willingly at Martin’s feet, rubbing against his legs with a familiarity that borders on friendly. And it’s in the way he looks at you—looks into you with those dark eyes that seem far too old for that handsome, youthful face—intense and all-seeing, but never judgemental. He is a point of unflappable calm in a world which never seems to slow for even a second. That calm has settled into you now, seeping into your bones as you lay there, listening to his heart thumping in the darkness.

· The low crackle of the radio hovers at the edge of your hearing, a burst of static cutting through the droning voices. You’d stopped listening properly ages ago—the third time the DJ had made an attempt to dismiss his latest caller. It was an old man who was seven shades of pissed about the ‘teen-age hooligans’ who were ‘tipping over his bins every night and eating his trash.’ Of course, everyone with half a brain, including the host himself, knows it’s an animal—probably a raccoon, or a family of raccoons, but this old geezer has somehow convinced himself it’s a gaggle of ‘Satan-worshipping teenagers who have been brainwashed by heavy metal music and Pepsi Cola.’

· Okay. Sure.

· It’s utterly ridiculous, and just the sort of thing you’ve come to expect from the people who live in Braddock. Or the ones who call in to a show like this anyhow.

· In a way, you feel bad for the poor DJ. Sure, he welcomes strange callers of all kinds, from alien abductees and bigfoot hunters to bereaved parents who teenagers are ‘just growing up too fast,’ or ‘a little too interested in the works of William Shakespeare.’ He even encourages them at times, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and in your mind, this, funny as it may be, is probably it. You’re sure whatever the station is paying the guy, it isn’t enough to suffer through being called a ‘brainless sack of human garbage’ by a crazy old man.

· “And that’s about all the time we have,” Despite his cheery tone, the poor guy sounds exhausted. “Thank you for calling!”

· Another burst of static drowns out the old man’s reply, but you’re sure that whatever he’d said, it was not ‘radio-friendly.’

· “…our next caller. You are on the air, Sir!”

· “Yeah, uh…hi, Barry.” The man sounds young—probably not much older than yourself—and very nervous. He must be a first-time caller. As he and the DJ share opening pleasantries—what’s your name, how old are you, where are you calling in from tonight, is that a cat I hear in the background? —your attention begins to drift again. You teeter for a moment on the edge of sleep, the clean scent of your linen sheets and Martin’s shampoo filling your nose.

· “I was just wondering if you’ve heard from the Count again since last time?”

· And just like that, you’re awake again, attention fully focused on your radio and the funny little show that whispers through it.

· The caller is asking about Martin. A cold shiver rumbles through your body. People ask about Martin on the show all the time—of course, they don’t know that’s who they’re asking about, but you do. It’s so strange, to hear a stranger talk about someone you know so well—even worse when they speak about him like they know him too. Sometimes, they make you laugh with their outlandish theories, but sometimes they make you sick—sick with worry: when he’s threatened with violence or exposure, sick with fear: when they make guesses that hit a little too close to home, and sick with jealousy: when they claim to have had an ‘encounter’ with him, or worse, try to set one up on air.

· You know about Martin, of course—that he is a vampire, or at least he thinks he’s a vampire. Whether or not you believe him is another question entirely. He certainly does not abide by the ‘vampire rules’ as you know them from stories and television—he doesn’t sleep in a coffin, filled with dirt from his homeland or otherwise, rather he sleeps in a bed (curled up beside you more often than not these days). He cuts a handsome figure in mirrors and the photographs that you have pinned up above your desk. He walks about in the sun most days without complaint despite his pale complexion, and though he may not be a sleek. Predatory creature that oozes confidence, grace, and sex appeal, he’s no slouch either—lithe and handsome in a boyish sort of way, all knees, elbows, and wide dark eyes.

· In fact, the only requirement he seems to meet on the proverbial ‘vampire checklist’ is his fixation with blood—and the need to consume it. Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t. You’ve come to the conclusion that what you think really doesn’t matter in the end—your opinion isn’t going to sway him on the subject one way or another. This is a truth about himself he believes perhaps more deeply than anything else. Who were you to try and change that?

· So, you do your best to take everything in stride, and when you can’t, you humour him. Still, every once in a while, something will trip you up—you still can’t quite decide if he’s joking about being over eighty years old or not. But you do your best. You had even let him feed on you once. Though only once. In the end, it was Martin who had decided the experience was not one he would like to repeat.

· He had laid you out on your bed, “I don’t want you to get hurt if you faint.” Though you’d told him nearly a hundred times that you’d be just fine, that you’d had blood taken before at the hospital, he had insisted.

· You had expected things to be different. For a start, you had expected him to climb into your lap, to press his lips against your neck, seeking your pulse the way it’s done in the movies. Instead, he’d taken out a little white kit from his bag. He had unzipped it and laid it out on the bed, revealing a little bottle of clear liquid, a row of sterile, hypodermic needles, and a pack of fresh razor blades.

· His long fingers fell upon the needles, caressing them lovingly one by one. Much to your relief, he did not pick one up. As if he could sense your apprehension, he’d said, “Don’t worry, I won’t need these.” He’d glanced up at you, measuring your reaction, “I won’t need them because you’re not going to fight me. Are you?” It wasn’t really a question. You shook your head, and the corners of his lips quirked up into a smile, “Good. It’s so much easier when they don’t fight me.” Those words had made you shudder. He really had done this before, then. Part of you hadn’t believed him—he seemed so…harmless

· He’d picked out a single blade from the package, meticulously removing the white paper wrapping, taking extra care not to tear it, or let the blade cut into it. When he was through, he folded the paper into a neat square and dropped it onto the comforter. He lay the blade flat on his palm for you to see. “I don’t have pointy teeth, you see.” He took your hand, opening his mouth and guiding your fingers along the edges of his flat, dull teeth. “They aren’t sharp, so they don’t cut deep enough. You understand?” You’d nodded and he had kissed your fingertips gently, one by one.

· “I’ll be careful, I promise,” He’d said, “I’ll only take a little. Just enough to take the edge off.” Despite the hungry glint in his eyes, you’d known he was telling the truth. He didn’t need to reassure you of that. You trusted him. Besides, you had asked for this. At least, he’d stopped asking if he still had your permission every five minutes. Of course he did.

· And yet. Your heartbeat had kicked up, jittering like a frightened bird when you’d seen the needles and the razor. It was as though actually seeing them had made the whole situation feel more real. There was no denying you were afraid, but you didn’t tell him to stop—you didn’t want to. You had made up your mind. You wanted this; wanted to help.

· He’d held your hand in his own like it was a thing made of glass. His fingers gripped the razor with a practiced grace as he held it just above your palm. Watching him, you were struck for the second time by just how rehearsed this seemed. How many times had he done this, with or without permission?

· “Take a deep breath for me, okay? There’s a good boy.” Did he talk to the others too? Even the ones who fought back? You could picture him, chattering softly against the skin of some poor soul, sprawled limp across the floor.

· Limp or lifeless?

· The thought unsettled you, but you did as you were told, filling your lungs nearly to capacity as the sharp edge of the blade bit into the meat of your palm just below your thumb. As promised, he had been quick, pressing only as hard as was necessary. Even so, the sting of it made your flinch, your hand jumping in his own. His fingers tensed around yours, the tightness of his grip reflected in the grimace that flashed across his face as he bent his head to seal his lips around the wound.

· You had expected to feel him pulling the blood from you, but he simply let it flow into his mouth, the coppery taste heavy on his tongue. He exhaled through his nose, long and low—a pleased sound. Something about that set you more at ease. He hadn’t recoiled or wrinkled his nose at the taste of your blood. You hadn’t even realized you were worried about how you tasted until that moment.

· You had started to feel dizzy beneath him—dizzy not from a loss of blood, but the wet heat of his mouth against your skin. Your heart had stuttered in your chest as his tongue probed gently around the edges of the wound, soothing your sparking nerves, even as the blood continued to drip down his throat.

· When at last, he pulled away, his face was flushed, and his breath came hard; his chest heaving as though he’d just run a great distance. Immediately, his hand shot to his front pocket, fingers searching for the roll of gauze bandages he’s swiped from Cuda’s first-aid kit.

· He’d wrapped the clean white fabric around your hand with such care it made your heart ache almost as much as the wound itself. When he was finished, he’d flipped your hand over and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. Then, he spoke. His voice was small, barely more than a ragged whisper, “Thank you.”

· “Was that…was it okay?” Your skin felt feverish, as though the heat of his mouth had seeped into your flesh and was burning you from the inside out. And the dizzy feeling had only grown worse, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut for a long moment.

· Martin was still struggling to get his breathing under control, “Yes. I-It was good…better than good, actually. But…”

· “But?” Had you done something wrong? Had you tasted bad after all? You cracked open one eye, then the other. The spinning had mostly subsided, but you still felt unsteady. “What can I do better next time?”

· He’d gone stiff all over then, and his reply had come sudden and sharp, “No!” He cringed, the force behind his words clearly surprising himself as well. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, “No ‘next time.’ I…I can’t stand hurting you like that. I won’t do it again.”

· You’d gazed up at him, blinking in confusion for a second. Then you realized what he’d meant—you had flinched when he’d cut you. Oh.

· You reached up, cupping his cheek, “Oh, Martin. You didn’t hurt me. Not really.” It wasn’t strictly true—it had hurt a little, but you had been prepared for it to. You brushed a stray droplet of blood from the corner of his mouth with a careful swipe of your thumb.

· “Yes, I did. I saw it.” You had tried to protest further, but he’d cut you off, much to your surprise. Martin almost never talked back like this, though perhaps you’d simply never given him a reason before. “I saw you flinch. I won’t put you through this again.”

· And he hadn’t. Though you’d brought the idea up more than once, he had dismissed it each time with the same stubborn shake of his head. If Martin was anything, he was true to his word.

· “…and it’s been such a long time since we heard from the guy.”

· The DJ hums in agreement, “It has indeed, my friend. Maybe we’ll hear from him later tonight. If you’re out there listening, Count, don’t be a stranger! Give us a call,” He begins rattling off the stations toll-free number. “We’re all dying to hear from you again!”

· You feel Martin stiffen up against you. You knew about the interviews he had done; you’d even heard one of them, back when Martin was little more to you than a silent, sullen face behind the counter at Cuda’s shop. And even when he’d started talking to you, he sounded different over the radio—his voice was deeper, and he sounded so confidant, so sure of himself when he talked about his ‘sickness.’ He almost never sounded like that in day-to-day life. You weren’t embarrassed to admit you found it attractive.

· Martin on the other hand, was mortified to know you had heard him. He had known that people were listened to him, obviously, but they were supposed to be strangers. You actually knew him, and he’d talked about sex. Of course, reminding him you’d done a lot more in your time together than simply listen to him talk about sex did little to lessen his horror.

· Of course, you also knew he’d been doing fewer and fewer interviews now that he had you to talk to and share his life with. But on occasion, when the pleading from the DJ gets too desperate, or he was simply that bored, Martin could be coaxed back onto the other end of the phoneline once again.

· You glance up at him, but in the darkness, his expression is unreadable, eyes cast down toward the end of the bed, long lashes throwing feathered shadows across his pale cheeks. From the very beginning, he’s been hard to read. As you’ve come to know him better, you’ve needed to get comfortable with the idea of asking when you want to know something you could easily intuit if speaking to anyone else. He’s very good at hiding his thoughts and feelings behind a neutral expression and placid silence, but he would tell you almost anything if you asked him directly; so long as he had the words to explain it to you.

· Do you want to make a call, Martin?”

· For a long moment, he’s silent, turning the idea over in his mind a few times. You had never actually been with him when he’d done an interview in the past. He’d usually wait until you were three days deep in an assignment with no quick end in sight, or out of town with family. Maybe he would be too embarrassed to do it with you here or maybe he’s just not in the mood tonight. But, after a minute, he tilts his head down toward you and says, “Why not?”

· The radio crackles out a jaunty tune—a commercial for some small business or another. “I’ll call in a few minutes. He doesn’t seem busy tonight.” Martin sits up, bracing his back against the headboard of your bed, and dislodging you from your perch. You grumble a little, irritated by the loss of your comfy spot, but you crawl into his lap anyway.

· You press soft kisses into his skin, beginning at his hairline, and trailing down over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks—the right then the left—the very tip of his nose, and finally his lips. He smiles against your mouth, leaning into the kiss with his whole body.

· When you pull away only a moment later, you can practically hear the pouty turn of his mouth. He whines softly, but you pay him no mind, trailing kisses down his chin. “Are you nervous, Martin?” The question comes out muffled by the soft curve of his jaw.

· “Not really, no…” He trails off, eyes cast to the ceiling, “I like the attention, I s’pose.”

· You pull back to look at him, barely stifling a snort of amusement, “Don’t I give you enough?”

· His eyes slide from the ceiling, falling upon you dark and wide. For a moment, you think he’s taken you seriously, but the pouty turn of his mouth breaks into a blinding grin, “You give me lots, sure, but I’m a creature of the night, remember? We always want more.”

· The two of you sit there for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, the silence stretching on into the night. Then, you collapse into each other in a fit of giggles. Martin buries his head into the crook of your neck, shaking with quiet laughter. Sure, when he’d said wasn’t untrue, but when he put it like that, it was hard not to laugh.

· “Welcome back, everybody. It’s almost the top of the hour at 01:57! I’m your host Barry…”

· You hadn’t even heard the ads end! Martin scrambles for the chunky landline phone that rests on the beside table, nimble fingers punching in the numbers at speed. Though his calls had become less and less frequent, he evidently kept the number somewhere in his memory.

· Martin’s voice is hushed as he speaks to whoever manned the phones down at the radio station, muttering something about ‘the Count.’ As he speaks, he winds the coiled phone cord around a delicate finger. It’s a simple, distracted habit of Martin’s but it makes your heart flutter whenever you catch him doing it.

· You stretch your arm as far as you can, reaching for the radio, unwilling to give up your perch in Martin’s lap for even a second. Your fingertips brush the cool metal—once, twice—then you manage to curl your fingers around it. Pulling it into your lap you turn the volume down low so only you can hear it.

· “I’m just getting word that we have a special guest on the line,” the DJ sounds positively elated, “Folks, it looks like the Count is back in town. Hello, Count! Where have ya’ been?”

· Martin hesitates for a moment, his jaw working as he searches for the words, “Around.”

· There is a definite lag between the words in his mouth, and those same words coming through the radio. The dissonance confounds your ears and makes your head ache in a dizzy sort of way, but you want to hear both halves of this conversation, not just Martin’s.

· “So, what trouble have you been getting into since we last spoke, Count? Murdered any pretty ladies recently?”

· There’s a smile in Martin’s voice, “Not ladies, no.”

· “Oh really? Any men then?”

Martin glances down at you, though he makes a non-committal noise. The DJ takes a breath, as though he’s going to say something, but Martin cuts him off, “I wouldn’t call what I do murder, anyhow.”

· “No? But you still need to drink blood, right?”

· “Oh, yes.”

· “How have you been getting your food, then? Don’t vampires uh…kill with every strike?”

· Martin laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shudder through you. “I’ve been managing.” His tone is damn near conversational. You gaze down at him, marvelling at how easy this seems to be for him. The Martin you’ve come to know and love rarely (if ever) speaks to strangers, and when he has no other choice, he’s never this talkative. It’s strange, but by no means an unwelcome change. You nuzzle against him, letting his voice thrum through your skull as it vibrates around in his chest.

· “Enough talk of blood and guts, Count. What about your other problems, huh? Tell me, are the streets of Braddock safe at last from the real terror stalking them? Have you…” He pauses conspiratorially, “Found yourself a girl yet?”

· Those words drive an icy spike of hurt deep into your guts. No, he had not found himself a girl. Martin must have felt your jaw clenching, as his free hand begins to card through your hair—soothing and soft.

· “I’ve found…someone.” The implications of that word settles you almost as much as his touch. ‘Someone.’ Not a woman, but someone of significance, nonetheless. He bends down to press a quick kiss into the crown of your head. “Someone special.”

· The DJ gasps, sounding scandalized. “Someone special! Well, I never. Good for you, Count.” You can’t say you’re a fan of the man’s tone—pleasant enough, but with a sharp edge that borders on condescending. But there’s little you can do but grit your teeth and bear it. “How long until you suck this one dry and move on?”

· Wow. Fuck this guy. On some level, you’d known he was an asshole—sure you felt bad for him when people were rude, but he could dish it out just as well as he could take it. Every once in a while, he’d push a caller too hard or make a snide comment the conversation could have done without. You didn’t like hearing it when strangers were involved, and now that you were the subject of such a comment, you like it even less. He makes it sound like you’re some random conquest, or worse, little more than a meal to Martin. How wrong he was.

· Suck this one dry and move on? Fat chance, Buddy. Though, his wording did give you an idea…maybe you could make this night just a little more interesting for the both of you.

You sit back, uncurling your legs and dropping your knees to either side of Martin’s hips, straddling his lap properly. Settling your weight back into his lap, you pull a face, pointing to the radio in your lap and mouthing, ‘What a jaggoff!’

· Martin’s lips press into a thin line as he tries to stifle his laughter. He nods sympathetically but doesn’t say anything about it to the DJ. He’s slow to anger, preferring to divert the conversation rather than cause a scene. You can’t help but admire him for that. You lean forward, stamping a kiss against his collarbone.

· “I…uh…try not to eat the things I love.”

· “Ooooh, so it’s love, huh?”

· You roll your eyes at the DJ, though you can’t deny hearing Martin say he loves you sends a little thrill through you—it was the same thrill you’d felt the first time he had said it to you, and the same thrill you hoped to feel for years to come. You trail little, open-mouthed kisses up the column of Martin’s throat, your mouth feverishly warm against his skin. A shudder jolts through him like an electric shock as your teeth scape across his Adam’s apple. You grin against his flesh, sliding up to nip along the underside of his jaw. There is a sensitive spot at the very corner that you love to exploit, and now seems like the perfect opportunity to do so.

· Your teeth graze over the spot and his body jitters beneath you. His voice catches in his throat, though if the DJ notices, he doesn’t comment. You nip gently at the spot, reddening the pale skin as you worry it with your teeth. You long to suck a bruise there—the purple-blue hue would doubtless look stunning against the pallor of his skin, but you knew Cuda would have a conniption if he saw it, and you didn’t want to put Martin through that again. Not after last time. The pair of you had agreed that perhaps in future, it would be better if any hickeys you left remained under your clothes.

· Pressing one final kiss against that spot, you pull back to look at him. You can tell he’s getting flustered—there’s a flush beginning to creep up his neck from beneath the collar of his t-shirt, deep pink and blotchy. You know, given time, it will reach his cheeks, the colour blooming high on his cheekbones. When you get him worked up enough, you could make Martin blush to the very tips of his ears. It was adorable.

· Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt as you drag your nails down his chest. His teeth catch his lower lip. You can almost hear the whine trapped behind those pearly teeth.

· “Why don’t you tell us a little about this special someone, Count?”

· Martin hesitates, “I don’t know about that.”

· “Nonsense! You can tell your good ol’ pal Barry. Who am I gonna tell?”

· Martin isn’t that stupid. He knows Barry doesn’t need to tell anyone anything—he’s live on air, he’d be telling them himself. His eyes flick down to yours, searching for something, be it permission or resistance. He pulls the phone away from his ear, resting it against his shoulder as he waits for you to make up your mind. You know he’d hang up in an instant if you asked him to—he’d likely do you one better and never call in again if the DJ was just going to ask questions about you all night long. But you trusted Martin not to give too much information away—he’d managed to stay hidden all this time, after all.

· You nodded at him, smiling and thumbing gently over a nipple. Though your touch is light, and the sensation is dampened by the fabric of his shirt, Martin makes a sound as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He shifts beneath you, tucking the phone underneath his chin as he moves.

· You grip the striped fabric of his shirt, working it in your hands. You lift it a little, fingers slipping just beneath it to splay against the flat plane of his stomach. His skin is warm and soft beneath your hands. You look down at him, arching a brow and asking for permission with only your eyes.

· “Fine.” He says, and though the word is an answer for the DJ’s pleading, he’s talking to you, looking directly into your eyes—granting the permission you were so hoping for.

· “Great! So, how long have you been together?”

· You fall into him, hands pushing the soft cotton of his shirt up over his chest. Your lips are on his skin in a matter of seconds, trailing kisses across every inch of exposed skin—stomach, ribs, hips, and everything in between.

· “It’s been ahh—” His words are cut short by a tight little moan as you bite down hard just below his left nipple. However, he manages a solid recovery as your tongue laves over the spot soothing the sting, playing the whole thing off as though he had needed time to stop and think about it, “—bout a year, maybe a little longer.”

· Clever boy.

· You drag your tongue a little higher, flicking over the sensitive skin of his nipple. He arches into your touch, hips canting up against yours, threatening to buck you from your perch. He tilts his head, trapping the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, reaching for you with both hands.

· He takes your cheeks into his hands, pulling your head away from his chest. You grin up at him, taking in his expression—his pupils blown so wide with want they swallow all but the slimmest ring of brown iris, his lips parted and shining in the semi-darkness, flushed to the tips of his ears.

· You surge up to kiss him, remembering only at the last moment, he needs to keep his mouth free to carry on the conversation. With a huff, you divert your course, and fix your lips back against the skin of Martin’s neck.

· He swallows hard as you press your lips back against his pulse, pushing his hips back up into yours. You can’t keep the grin form your face as you feel him pressing up against you—the outline in his pants far more noticeable now.

· His hands tremble slightly as they search for yours, dragging them down to the front of his jeans. You grin widens as you press down. Even through the thick denim, you can feel his cock throb under your palm. Someone’s excited.

· You look down at him and he turns his head away, flushing a shade darker. He was so easy to wind up like this, it was almost unbelievable. A few kisses here, and gentle touch there, and he was a blushing, whining mess spread out on your sheets for you to enjoy however your pleased. You had chalked the over-sensitivity up to a lack of experience, and had expected it to fade after a few months, but it hadn’t. He was just that reactive, not that you were complaining.

· With deft fingers, you pop the button of his jeans, quietly dragging the zipper down. He lifts his hips, wriggling helpfully as you drag his pants and underwear down over his thighs.

· His cock bobs free, flushed and leaking already. You ghost the pads of your fingers over the soft skin of his shaft, and he shudders, his whole body tensing. His knuckles are white where he grips the phone, and his jaw is tight with the struggle of keeping quiet.

· You wrap your hand around him, stroking gently from base to tip. His back arches off from the headboard, and he falls forward, burying his head in the crook of your neck. The phone receiver bumps against your collarbone, hard and hollow. The plastic is pleasantly cool against your feverish skin.

· “Is it different being with a…uh…forgive the expression, normal person?”

· “They’re a…” His laugh is breathy, almost a moan as he glances down at you, “a real handful.”

· You barely stifle a laugh. You glare down at him in mock disapproval, and he sticks his tongue out at you. Cheeky little bastard. Though the colour still sits high on his cheeks, and his breathing comes through parted lips in short puffs, he seems to have adjusted well to your pace.

· “Nothing you can’t handle though, I’m sure. Do they know about your…condition, shall we say?”

· “They are aware, yes.”

· The DJ laughs, “And how did that go? Can’t be an easy thing to hear—that your boyfriend might vamp out and eat you whole!”

· Martin sighs, “I already told you, I don’t eat people…” His voice is much steadier now, even as your fingers brush along the sensitive spots on the underside of his cock. That means its time to switch things up. You can’t have him getting too comfortable. Where would the fun be in that? You tighten your grip—something that usually makes Martin thrash against the sheets and sob into your pillows—and begin to swipe your thumb gently over the tip of his cock with every upward stroke. He almost drops the phone as he yanks it away from his mouth. He covers the receiver with a shaking hand just in time, as a soft whine slips through his teeth, “Oh, fuck…”

· You press a finger up against your lips, reminding him to be quiet. He presses up into your fist, his hips stuttering as your thumb traces a lazy circle around his head. His free hand flutters nervously about his mouth, as he tries desperately to keep quiet. His breath comes sharp and quick though his nose as he struggles to keep control. You shift your weight, pinning his hips back down with your thighs, and though he tries to buck back up against you, you hold him firmly in place. He whines high in his throat, shooting a pleading look up at you, but you just shake your head and point at the phone, ‘Keep going.’

· Slowly, Martin brings the receiver back up to his ear. His tongue flickers out over his lips and he lets out a shaky breath, “S-Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

· “I said, ‘let’s circle back to what you said before,’ about not eating what you love. Why not? If you don’t need to kill to feed, why not feed on this special someone? Surely if they love you back, they’d be willing.”

· You slow your hand, wanting to give Martin a fighting chance at answering. You were momentarily intrigued by the DJ’s line of questioning. You knew why Martin didn’t want to feed on you, but you were curious as to what sort of excuse he would give.

· “W-Well…it’s come up mo-ore than once but…” Martin goes silent as you squeeze down on him, his posture going rigid, his head thrown back against the headboard.

· The DJ lets the silence hang for a moment, but when Martin doesn’t finish his thought, he cuts in, “But…? You still there, Count?”

· You let up, and Martin takes a big gulp of air, as though he had only just remembered he needed to breathe. “Y-Yeah, I’m here. It’s…it’s complicated.”

· “Oh yeah? How?”

· “Well, it’s not about whether they’ll let me or not…” He takes a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he steadies himself. When he speaks again, his voice is low, barely more than a whisper, “It’s that I want more.”

· He tries in vain to buck up into your fist, his hips rolling in shallow, abortive little thrusts. His teeth are sunk into his lower lip, his eyes boring deep into your own.

· ‘I want more.’ Those words were meant for you.

· You blink down at him, momentarily dumb founded. Then a grin spreads across your face, sharp and hungry. If he wants more, you’ll give it to him—you’d give it to him until he was begging you to stop.

· Sliding down his body, you know this is risky. Martin has never been good at keeping quiet, especially not when you’ve got your mouth on him. But the idea is simply too enticing to pass up on. When were you ever going to get the change to suck his cock live on air again? Besides, this might be good practice for him in the art of keeping his voice down—not that you didn’t love to hear him, it just might be nice to keep your…activities a secret from the whole neighbourhood for once.

· You wriggle down onto your stomach, bringing your face level with Martin’s cock. Settling yourself into a comfortable position between his knees, you bend your head, pressing a gentle kiss against the tip of his cock.

· He makes an involuntary choking sound in the back of his throat. You look up at him, resting your chin on the tops of his thighs. You want to give him the time he needs to make up his mind. If he tells you ‘no,’ or pushes you away, you’d gladly go back to stroking his cock and kissing his neck. You would get just as much pleasure from the shivers and whimpers you could wring out of him that way.

· But he doesn’t tell you no, rather he pushes his hips up against you, pressing the tip hard against your lips. You flick your tongue out, ghosting for only a moment over his sensitive flesh, but it’s enough to make his eyes roll back, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You do it again, and his mouth falls open. Though no sound escapes the look on his face is just as glorious.

· This is going to be fun.

· You crane your neck, opening your mouth and gently taking the head inside. Martin’s free hand shoots to his mouth, and he bites down hard on the meat of his palm to stop himself from sobbing out loud. You press your tongue flat against him, dragging it slowly against his hot flesh. He thrashes beneath you, jostling the phone against his cheek.

· Carefully, you sink further down on him, taking him in inch by inch. He lets out a long sigh around a mouthful of palm.

· “What was that, Count?”

· “Oohh…nothing,” Martin grinds out, “Just…closing a window.”

· The lie was flimsy, but the DJ, despite his skeptical tone, didn’t seem interested in pressed him on it further, “…Right…so how is your control around this person, huh? Do you ever get the urge to just go to town on them?”

· Martin’s laugh comes out as a low purr, and he bucks into your mouth once, “Mmm, sometimes.” Ever so slowly, as you’ve sunk down onto his cock, he’s been curling in on himself. His head now rests atop your own, and you can feel the heat of his cheek radiating against your scalp. If that heat is anything to go by, he must be positively scarlet.

· “And what does that entail for you exactly?”

· With a little jolt, his cock brushes up against the back of your throat. You swallow down a little choking noise, breathing steadily through your nose in an attempt to calm your gag reflex.

· The warmth of Martin’s cheeks is suddenly gone as he straightens up again. His head hits the headboard with a thump. “I-I just wanna…” He swallows thickly, his breath coming hard, “Push into…p-push my teeth into their throat and just,” He bucks up into your throat, either unable, or simply unwilling to stay still any longer, “just take what I want.”

· “Their…blood?”

· You swallow around Martin and his back arches so far he practically lifts off the bed “Yes! Yes, everything they have to give!”

· “Right…for a moment there it sounded a bit more, uh, sexually motivated than that.”

· Again, your throat contracts around him, and a hiss of air escapes through his teeth, “No difference really…”

· The DJ is silent for a moment, “Now that’s an interesting tidbit about you, Count. I’m sure all the ladies out there would love to hear more about that.”

· Marin fucks up into your throat again with a soft groan, “I’m…I’m sure they would but,” His breath is coming harder now, “unfortunately, I’m taken.”

· The DJ laughs, “Hear that, Count? That’s the sound of hundreds of hearts all over Braddock breaking. Sorry, folks but it looks like you’re out of luck.”

· Oh. He’s taken alright. You can just imagine the anguished looks on their faces when you learn he gets taken almost every other night by another man.

· Though you’d love to keep him in this position, you’re struck by the sudden, possessive urge to have him on his back. You tap his thigh thrice in quick succession and Martin withdraws almost immediately. He’s always so respectful of your wishes, even if he whines a little when his cock slips from the wet heat of your mouth. The sudden chill of the air on his wet cock sends a shiver through him.

· You scoot back, grabbing Martin by the calves, and pulling him down into a more horizontal position. He fumbles with the phone, as it slips from his grasp, landing on the bed near his shoulder.

· “What’s going on, Count?”

· “S-Sorry, I just…I just dropped the phone is all. I’m…I’m feeling awful shaky these days.”

· “Oh, yeah? How long has it been?”

· Martin’s tone is distracted, “Ages.” He is far more focused on you, his dark eyes trained on yours as you loom over him.

· The DJ asks another question, but you’re not listening as you slip Martin’s slick cock into your mouth, wasting no time in taking him back into your throat where he belongs.

· Though you can’t make out his words so well over the rushing in your ears, Martin’s voice sounds strained, slightly higher than usual. He’s fighting the pleasure hard.

· His free hand fists itself in your hair, pushing you down tighter against his cock. You swallow hard, trying desperately not to gag as he rolls is hips into your mouth. He’s come such a long way since the first time you asked him to fuck your mouth. He’d been so nervous that you did most of the work, bobbing your head faster and faster until he’d spilled deep into your mouth. He had apologized for almost an hour after, thinking the rasp in your voice was all his fault. Now? He’s practically asphyxiating you, and you hadn’t needed to say a word.

· Martin is shaking—his thighs tremble on either side of your head, and the phone in his hands nearly slips from his grasp again with the force of the tremors passing through him.

· You hollow your cheeks and he’s forced to cover the receiver again as a series of whimpers tear free from his lips. You press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, and he sobs, his hips canting up off the bed.

· “I-I’m close,” His frantic whisper comes tight through his teeth, an edge bordering on panic creeping into his voice. You grip his thigh and redouble your efforts, gaining a high whine in return.

· “Hey, Count? Count there’s a lot of interference on your end…I can’t really hear you. I think this is where this conversation has to end, but call back another night, huh?” Martin doesn’t even respond, he simply slams the receiver back into the cradle, ending the call.

· Almost as soon as the call has disconnected, he’s a whimpering mess. “Oh, fuck! Your mouth…I-I can’t! Is it okay? Is it okay if I…?”

· He can’t bring himself to say it, but you know what he means and hum a soft affirmation around his cock. He cries out as the sound vibrates around his over-sensitive flesh.

· With a whimper, he fucks up into your mouth, once, twice, then he shudders, his whole body going rigid as he cums. His knees clamp around your ears, squeezing your head as he shakes with the pleasure. His fingers pull at your hair, any tighter and you’re sure he’ll pull some out. But you press on, hollowing your cheeks, letting him ride the high for as long as he can.

· The sound he makes as you swallow around him is nothing short of wrecked. His fingers claw the sheets as though he’s trying to drag himself away from you, from your mouth, but his body remains locked in place beneath you.

· His cock twitches against your tongue as you slowly pull back, the wet drag of your tongue digging raw little whimpers from his throat, and a shudder passed through him when you pull of and his cock is again exposed to the chilly air of the room. His hips press forward, seeking the tight heat of your throat again. It would seem almost desperate if the motion wasn’t so sluggish, almost sleepy.

· He reaches for you then in the dark. His hands, hot and sweaty from exertion and gripping both the phone and the sheets for so long, grasp either side of your face as he pulls you up for a kiss.

· The salty taste of his cum still coats your tongue, but he doesn’t seem to care as he presses his lips against yours with a desperation you rarely see in him.

· Pulling back, you whisper against his lips, “Was that enough attention?”

· He smiles, “For me? Yes.” He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “But now it’s your turn.”

#martin x reader #slasher x reader #martin 1977 #slasher imagines #ripper fics #sorry for how late this is #enjoy!

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banashee · 4 years ago

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Hi Folks, welcome to my first fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :) @archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week one (June 1-7) Prompts: friendship, pre-canon, self-expression, affirmation and sharing clothes.

The key words I've used here are mostly sharing clothes, self-expression, affirmation and friendship

Also, I'm late for week one! My Fucking WIFI broke so you'll get two fics for this week...

Content warnings: this is mostly tooth rotting fluff but just to be safe: - mentions of Top Surgery - hints at dead and/or unaccepting families but nothing explicit

"You mean, OUR closet"

It happens like clockwork. Ever since the four of them moved in together, as soon as the weather gets cold and the leaves outside start to turn golden-red, the usually sizable stack of woolen jumpers in Martin's closet seems to magically shrink. One day, they’re there and the next day, there are suddenly only a few left. Every year – it’s gotten to be a routine, and it makes Martin smile and shake his head fondly each and every time again.

Over the warmer months, the jumpers just sit there in the closet, carefully tucked away. Only a few of them are store bought at this point - Martin tends to knit them himself, and he’s spent weeks and months of his life making them. This is probably one of the many reasons why Jon, Tim and Sasha tend to steal them so much - they’re part of him, for one, and apparently they miss each other as soon as someone leaves the room or something. (Codependency issues? Them? Nah) the jumpers are also warm and big and they “feel like a permanent hug”, so what else is there to say? It’s adorable, really.

And Martin will say this as often as he can, if only so he can watch Tim go scarlet red (as smooth as he usually is, cute compliments like this get to him more than he cares to admit), watch Jon splutter and claim “I am not, nor have they ever been adorable!” – Unlucky for them, no one else agrees, and so they’re stuck with three partners who will tell them as much at any given opportunity. Sasha, on the other hand, is having way too much fun with this and will go “Aww, shucks.” Every time, just to see her favourite people blush even more.

The thing is, Martin owns plenty of woolen jumpers; he likes them because they’re warm and comfy, which is always a plus. To a certain degree, they’re pure self-preservation as well. The heating in the Archives breaks constantly, and oftentimes, it stays that way for days. They need to bundle up then, and drink more tea and coffee than any human should. Those days leave all of them freezing their butts off, and having something warm and cozy to wrap around themselves helps a lot. But their own woolen jumpers or even outdoor jackets aren’t nearly as warm and comfortable as Martin’s. His clothes are just the softest, and so, he knows to expect them to migrate to his partners when a certain time of year hits.

On a more personal note for him, the loose fit of the knitted jumpers helps him a lot on days when the body dysmorphia gets bad. Those days have gotten less now – especially since he’s had top surgery – but it’s still nice to have something comforting around. Just in case.

And then, of course there is the simple fact that he likes the aesthetic. “Retro-Aesthetic” as his partners tend to call it, and really, it is kind of accurate.

Right now, Martin is standing in front of the open closet in his underwear and is absolutely not surprised to find some of his jumpers already gone. There is no doubt that, as soon as he gets back downstairs he’ll find everyone else wrapped up in at least one of his jumpers. Sneaky, the whole lot of them.

The weather has turned quite rapidly in the last few days. That morning, they wake up and the cold wind has creeped in through the open window, leaving the entire bedroom freezing. If it wasn’t for the many, many blankets, they would wake up with their limbs frozen off, but by now, there are at least three or four blankets available at any given time. That is, because certain people tend to steal the covers in their sleep, but no one would look at Tim or Jon, oh no, of course not.

These two are frequently playing tug of war at night, which is why they often end up in the middle of their sleeping arrangements. That way, there are at least some chances to steal the blankets back for everyone else.

Martin has started to wrap one of the edges around himself in an attempt to keep the blanket there, while Sasha has threatened to staple the bloody thing to the floor on either side of the bed. There is no doubt that she is dead serious about the threat, even when it’s mostly mumbled at 2 in the morning, disgruntled as her face is smushed into whoever is currently closest to her.

But lucky for them, body heat is the best source of warmth, and there is plenty of it available in their family. Especially Tim and Martin run hot as it is, which is why Sasha and Jon lovingly call the two of them their Human Heaters on a regular basis.

Sasha is always happy for more warmth - she’s not cold very often, but she loves being close to the other three.

There are no romantic or sexual feelings from her side - it’s just not how she works. But her feelings towards those three people in her life are different from Just Friendship, and she loves them all dearly. Just… Not in a romantic kind way, but it is nice to share a life with people who know, understand and love her back just as much and just as she is.

It’s only when she wakes up in the middle of the night with no blanket anywhere to be found that she wants to strangle someone. Temporarily.

Jon, on the other hand, is pretty much always cold. They’re “made of nothing but bones and sharp edges” as Tim so eloquently put it, earning himself a jab from one of said sharp elbows into his ribs. It only makes him laugh, loud and carefree as he is, as he pulls Jon into his arms and smothers them in kisses until they laugh and complain half-heartedly. They don’t mind it at all.

So if they’re not currently stealing blankets, Jon clings. Like an octopus, to whomever they can reach easiest.

So this is how they wake up that morning:

There is a fresh, icy wind coming in through the window while under the small mountain of blankets, the four of them are wrapped up around one another, noses pressed into the warmth of each other's necks or into the chest of soft shirts. Hands that cling or seek warmth on bare skin under ancient T-shirts or pyjamas.

Sasha wakes up first, entirely uninterested in getting out of bed as soon as she realizes how cold the room has gotten over night. Only half awake, she moves closer to Tim and wraps her arms and legs around him. Her warm breath is tickling his neck, but he is long used to being surrounded by warmth and people - he loves it. Loves them, most of all.

Tim can’t move much. He’s got Sasha clinging to his back and he can tell that she is already dozing off again. While he wakes up to that realization, he does so with a face full of long, curly salt and pepper hair and a pair of arms wrapped around his middle.

Jon is still dead to the world, happily wedged in between Tim and Martin. Even if they were awake, it’s highly unlikely they would be able to move a limb at this point. Lucky for everyone else, due to the circumstances, they leave the blankets alone for once. They’re warm and dead asleep and Tim’s hands are busy holding both them and Sasha’s forearm around him. One of Martin's arms is stretched out in his sleep, resting near him as he provides another comfortable weight and source of heat.

Between their shared breaths and heartbeats, flailing limbs and two cats curled up by their feet, waking up is a comfortably lazy thing today. Neither of them needs to be anywhere - it’s a long weekend, and so they’re taking the opportunity to start their day out as slowly as possible.

And this is how Martin finds himself in front of his side of the closet, finding a small stack of his jumpers missing. The one on top is a jumper he knitted early in the year, after receiving several balls of really good wool for Christmas from Tim. Light blue, white and pink - more than enough for a jumper and maybe a scarf or gloves. Martin still has some of it left over, but the majority of this gift is now in his hands, in the form of a thick, woolen jumper in his pride colours. Needless to say, he loves the thing.

On his way down the stairs, Martin is joined by Crumpet. The tiny black void had been dozing in the mess of their unmade bed until recently, but as soon as Martin is on the way down, she magically wakes up with a small “mrrp?”, jumps off of the bed with light feline feet and is glued to his heels just a split second later. Maybe there is hope for some treats - as if there wasn’t a blackboard in the kitchen for this very reason.

“The sneaky bastards have been fed, DO NOT fall for their foul play.” is written on it in big bold letters next to shopping lists and lopsidedly drawn hearts, checked off with a bright green checkmark twice a day. To outsiders, it might seem excessive, but they have developed this system for very good reason. Especially at first, the pitiful meows and empty food bowls had been enough to convince whichever human was closest that it was time for food, the mistake only being discovered after a few days of rapidly shrinking cat food supplies and two fat and lazy cats rolling about in a cozy corner. Hence, the blackboard.

Now, Crumpet is making zig-zag-lines down the stairs, conveniently getting in the way wherever Martin is stepping until he scoops her up into his arms with a small sigh.

“Crumpet, my Love. You’ll make us both fall down the stairs. That is illegal in this household.” He tells her seriously and Crumpet meows, as if in protest.

“Yes, yes, I know. Cat crimes are what you do. The answer is still no.” Crumpet meows at him again, but then she proceeds to bump her tiny head against Martins, purring loudly as he scratches her soft chin.

Halfway down the stairs, Martin can make out the familiar sound of singing from the kitchen. Even after so many years, it makes him smile and wanting to stop in his tracks, just to listen for a bit. Jon has a beautiful voice. It’s one of the, if not the first thing that made Martin fall in love with them, and getting to hear them not only talk but sing on a daily basis is… Truly wonderful.

Martin may or may not be completely besotted, and he knows for a fact that he isn’t alone in that. And really, when he rounds the corner, he finds Tim and Sasha sprawled on the couch, Sasha on her back and with a book in one hand, Tim half-dozing with his head on her chest, but he is still awake enough to listen, judging from the small, content smile on his face.

Of course, two of Martin’s missing jumpers are to be found right here with them. Sasha has claimed one of the plain ones, dark green and with a neat Haskell stitch. It suits her really well, even though it dwarves her – which is one more reason she loves it. Sasha is not short at all - but there is still plenty of space for her to wrap up in, which she happily does whenever she can.

Meanwhile, Tim has put on what Martin calls his “scrap collection”. Frankly, he refuses to even call it a jumper, because what it is, technically, is a bunch of scrap wool in all different colours, shapes and bulk sizes, anything that was a leftover and too little to finish anything with, knitted together into… Something with sleeves. The main reason Martin hasn’t thrown it out years ago is that he spent a long time working on it, and besides, even the scraps were expensive once – wool is about the only thing he likes to splurge on for himself sometimes.

But then, Tim discovered this atrocity in the back of Martin’s closet one winter morning. Of course, he promptly fell in love with the garish colours and it’s kind of charming overall ugliness. Which leads Martin to put it into Tim’s closet after the next wash, but the Scrap Collection Jumper always finds its way back to where it came from, despite the fact that no one else ever wears it.

“Stealing it is half the fun!” Tim had shrugged when asked, and shot him one of his blinding grins.

Now, Sasha and Tim look up when Martin enters the living room, and he sets Crumpet down to the floor. Tiny Void that she is, she scrambles right off to jump onto the couch – or rather, on top of Tim, who has already been claimed by their other cat, Gandalf.

Gandalf is, just like his name suggests, a large, grey Norwegian Forest Cat, sprawled out over the length of Tim’s back. He looks like an old, wise wizard, with a huge beard and knowing eyes and everything. Gandalf is of gentle nature, and despite being impressively large, he is a big old softie. This is one of the reasons for his second, mostly-unofficial name, Professor Floof.

Crumpet wriggles herself into the tiny space between Gandalf’s front paws, turns on the spot until she happily settles down.

“I see you have been claimed.” Martin smiles, and he means both Sasha and Tim.

“Yep! I’m not moving today.” Tim tells him, and pulls on Martin as soon as he is close enough to do so and he bends down for a quick kiss. It is warm and gentle, still tasting a bit of tea.

“We’ve also got another private kitchen concert to listen to.” He points out then, and Sasha adds,

“It’s been Disney songs this whole time. I am so glad that you managed to talk Jon into watching those with us.” She smiles, and it only grows wider when the first lines of “I’ll make a man out of you” travel over from the kitchen. Not that anyone would blame Jon for having this particular song stuck in their head – it’s a great song from a great movie, for one, and besides, it’s not like it’s easy to get rid of once it is stuck in someone’s brain.

Martin settles down on the couch near Sasha and just listens for a bit. A small, happy smile is tugging at his lips. He is happy and content, knowing all of his family near and safe and happy – there really isn’t much more to ask for. Eventually, Sasha’s head finds its way onto his lap, and her book remains forgotten and face down on top of Tim’s head – it doesn’t bother him at all and he doesn’t even comment on it. .

“It was about time, too. Can’t leave someone in this household having such glaring holes in their cultural knowledge.” She continues from where she left off earlier, leaning back into Martin as she puts the book to the side, properly this time, so that her own hands can find their way to Tim’s messy mop of bright purple. In an instant, it is met with a happy, satisfied hum.

“Oh, of course not. Speaking of, any idea what they’re doing in there?” Martin asks eventually, nodding over to the half closed kitchen door. It happens sometimes, that Jon disappears in there for hours, doing their thing and refusing help when it’s offered. It’s nothing negative, the others have learned by now; it’s just something relaxing, some “me-time” so to say.

“Cooking. But they very lovingly kicked us out and didn’t want any help, so here we are.” Tim explains cheerfully, although he is getting slightly groggy from the head scritches and the warmth of two cats dozing on him.

“I’m sure you’re absolutely heartbroken, having to be all lazy and comfy on a day off.”

“Oh, how shall we survive this horrible fate?” he laments ironically, face pressed into Sasha as she just laughs at him.

“Drama Queen.”

Another song starts, and Martin makes his way into the kitchen. As much as he loves listening and hanging out with Tim and Sasha, he is curious as to what Jon is up to, and besides, he wants to spend time with them as well.

When he enters the kitchen, he is met with a mess that is very familiar to him by now. As particular as Jon is about most other things in life, cooking isn’t one of them. Or more precisely, they’re particular about the results – not how the kitchen looks after they’re finished being a whirlwind of chaos. Today, there are small mountains of chopped vegetables on several wooden cutting boards, about half the contents of their spice rack strewn about the counter, right next to bundles of fresh herbs and the giant pot on the stove. There is another, smaller pan on the stove, and this is where the heavenly scent comes from. It already smells like roasted spices, and there is no doubt that the mouthwatering smell will creep out the door as Martin opens it further.

Jon turns around when they notice movement out of the corner of their eye, without missing a beat or stopping their song, but there is a happy sparkle in their eyes that seems to get even brighter when they spot Martin.

Surprising absolutely no one, they are currently wearing a stolen jumper as well. It’s one of the older ones, one of the first jumpers that Martin ever made – it’s far from perfect and nearly falls apart at this point, but it is still warm and comfortable. Well worn – which is the reason Jon loves this one so much. They have to fold over the sleeves to be able to use their hands, and the whole thing – dark purple wool with black, white and grey flecks throughout – hangs off of Jon’s small frame and makes them look even smaller than they actually are. But they love it, and much like when Martin attempted to give the other jumper to Tim, he put this one into Jon’s closet. But much like their other partner, they’d put it back into Martins space with identical reasoning:

“Stealing it is half the fun, Love.”

Martin doesn’t even question it anymore – and really, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind it at all. And if he notices his partners buying sleep shirts and such in sizes they wouldn’t usually wear, well. He recognizes it as his invitation to join in on the fun, and he does.

There really is something exciting about squirreling away something that’s usually worn by a loved one, even when it’s something they’d lend out with no questions asked. Especially then, because as the others have truthfully informed him, stealing the clothes from your partners is half the fun.

Right now, Martin is standing in the kitchen, surrounded by a hot mess that includes one of his favorite people in the world, and they only stop singing for a moment, wrapping themselves around Martin like the affectionate octopus they can be when the mood strikes them. Not like he is about to complain.

He happily hugs back, nose buried in the messy bun that Jon haphazardly piled up on top of their head earlier that day. The long familiar scent of shampoo and conditioner is still lingering, and Martin can’t help but kiss Jon right at this moment. They happily let him, and Martin rubs small, gentle circles on their back, aware of the soft, warm material of the jumper under his hands.

Another reason Jon loves this particular jumper so much, Martin knows, is because its colours resemble the Ace Pride flag. This isn’t even on purpose – it’s just how the wool looks. But there is no one in this household who isn’t happy about the smallest bit of affirmation of their identities, and as soon as Jon gets their hands on the jumper, well, you know how it goes.

Almost as predicted, Jon kicks Martin out of the room just as lovingly as they did Tim and Sasha, but only after more kisses and a brief but passionate duet as Martin makes tea for everyone, now that he’s here.

Back in the living room, Tim and Sasha thoroughly enjoy their private concert, snuggled up on the couch together and with their two fuzzy companions. Happiness can’t even begin to describe the feelings that bloom in both of their chests, as well as their partners back in the kitchen.

Later that day, the four of them are sprawled out on the couch, plates full with the Vegetarian Kadai that Jon prepared earlier. As secretive as they can be about their cooking sometimes, the one guarantee about it is that it’s always good. Today is no different.

Everyone tucks in, knowing that there will be plenty left still. More often than not, they end up freezing the leftovers, so they can have fresh, wonderful food whenever they want without the hassle – some days just are like that, and the energy can be low then. Everyone has bad days every now and then, but the knowledge that they are not alone, that they are loved and have a functioning support system, both at home and at work, helps a lot. Together, they always manage somehow.

They are family, the four of them, in any sense of the word. Neither of them has much of a family left that is related in blood – there are several reasons for this, and it hurts sometimes. Some days more than others, but by now, they have found one another and built their own family. They love and support one another, in so many different ways, but what it boils down to is just this. Family.

One Bisexual Man, one Pansexual Trans Man, one Biromantic Asexual Nonbinary Person and one Aromantic Asexual Woman – they’re a colorful rainbow mix, and they wouldn’t want it any other way.

#Archival Pride 2021 #tma fanfic #banashee writes #the magnus archives #fluffy and very very queer #season 1 polycule

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bluejayblueskies · 4 years ago

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Written for @lesbianbirds for the @tma-valentines-exchange 2021!

Words: 8.5k Relationships: Melanie King/Georgie Barker, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood Tags: AU - Cat Café, Fluff, No Fear Entities, Established Jmart, Getting Together WTGFs, First Kiss, First Date, Mutual Pining, He/They Pronouns for Jon

Summary:

From the first moment Melanie King from Ghost Hunt UK walks into Georgie’s café, Georgie is utterly smitten.

|| Ao3 ||

The coffee pot is empty. Again.

With a long, drawn-out groan, Melanie opens the cabinet above the kitchenette sink and pulls out the container of unbearably cheap coffee that Martin had picked out last month when he’d restocked the cabinets.

(“Melanie, I don’t drink coffee, how am I supposed to know what is and isn’t ‘a good brand’?” Martin had said, sounding affronted and snappish in that way he always gets when his beverage-purchasing decisions are questioned—though that typically only applies to tea.

“Martin,” Melanie said, trying to keep her voice calm and neutral despite forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “If it’s less than five pounds, it’s not good coffee.”)

Soon, she’s got a pot brewing. The smell of it is almost enough to drag her out of the mid-morning fog that’s got her eyes unfocusing on the screen, making her see things in the footage that aren’t there. Some people would say that none of the things they point to in their videos as proof of the supernatural are real, and while it’s true that artistic license is a good portion of the job, their footage is not tampered with. Ever. She just sometimes has to look at it for hours to find what she’s searching for.

Thus, coffee.

It warms her from the inside out as she sits back at her desk and begins to click through the footage, despite the acrid, sooty film it leaves on her tongue that has her grimacing. She almost doesn’t notice that she’s emptied her mug until she picks it up to take a sip and finds it absent of liquid.

She’s debating the pros and cons of having another cup less than an hour after the first when Martin’s voice drifts over from the doorway, sounding amused. “I thought you said you didn’t like that coffee?”

Melanie sets the mug down on the corner of her desk with a clink and says, “Yes, well, we do what we have to to survive around here, Martin. Even if it is suffering through some terrible coffee.”

When she turns to look at Martin, there’s a small smile on his face that one might call a smirk if they knew him well. “Think you could put that suffering on hold?” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “Jon’s café opened today, and I was planning on stopping by for lunch. They’ve got an espresso machine?”

Melanie’s nose wrinkles before she can help herself. “Ugh, sorry,” she says, waving a hand at Martin as if that can alleviate the small furrow that’s appeared in his brow. “It’s just—the first and only time I’ve ever seen your partner, they spent most of their time lecturing me on the inaccuracies of my show! Our show, Martin! While we were out recording something! On tape!” To herself, she mutters, “Part of me wants to release them as bloopers just to see what happens. ‘Ghost Hunt UK: Selfish Prick Edition.’”

“They did say they were sorry,” Martin says, sounding apologetic. “And- well, I mean, to be fair, a lot of the things they pointed out actually were facts we’d gotten wrong in the research, so…”

Melanie gives him a look that could cut through bone. “It still shouldn’t give them the right to just say whatever they—”

She cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. She’s already had this discussion with Martin at length; it doesn’t bear repeating. Her therapist, at least, has been trying to get her to stop dwelling on past angers. “Fine,” she says, hoping that her words don’t sound too forced. “Can you just- can you promise me this won’t turn into another attack on our legitimacy? Please?”

Martin’s smile is relief and delight in equal measure. “I promise,” he says in a way that from anyone else would seem empty but coming from Martin is binding and true. “They’ll behave.” He laughs lightly and continues, “Though they did just do this deep dive on London subterranean tunnels—checked out nearly every book in the library and everything. Maybe you could talk about the Millbank Prison tunnels we’re planning on exploring next week? Might be fun, to debate facts off-camera.”

“Sure,” Melanie says, entirely unconvinced. “That won’t go poorly at all.” Before Martin can respond, she pushes back from her desk with a small sigh and says, “All right, then. For you, Martin, I will visit Jon’s- what was it, a cat café?”

“And a bookstore!” Martin says cheerily, his cheeks flushing a light pink.

“Right,” Melanie says, suppressing another sigh. She does like cats, after all. And espresso. She could certainly use some right now. “I suppose we’re taking our lunch break now, then?”

“If you’re free.”

“Well, given that I’m my own boss, I can safely say that I am.”

Melanie slips on her coat and follows Martin out of her office and out of the building, leaving her empty coffee-stained mug balanced on the edge of her desk.

In retrospect, not setting up a gate to keep the cats out of the food preparation area was probably a bad idea. Georgie sighs and swipes the three muffins with bite marks in the sides of them into the bin, resolving to stop by the shop that night to pick up the requisite supplies to keep the fluffy, bread-loving felines she’d so dearly and painstakingly selected from the shelter from ravishing the food they were meant to be serving to the customers.

“That would be the Chairman,” Jon says, reaching around Georgie to slide the glass cover over the remaining muffins. “He can be quite clever when he puts his mind to it.”

“Hm, but not when he’s meant to be keeping out the pests, I suppose,” Georgie says with lips curled into a smile almost against her will. The cat in question is sat on the windowsill, carefully grooming his rich black fur in full view of passersby and the few customers sitting at the tables. It’s still early, Georgie tells herself, and they’re new—not a lot of built-up rapport yet. Give it time.

She’s never been known for her patience.

Jon’s just handed off a steaming mug of tea to a customer—oolong, she thinks—when he turns to her with eyes alight, like he’s just recalled something, and says, “I’m not sure if I told you, but Martin’s stopping by today. Have- have you met him yet?”

With careful neutrality, Georgie says, “I have.”

Jon seems to take that at face value, his face relaxing into a light smile as he busies himself with another cup of tea and says, “Well, he told me he’d stop by around lunch today, just to say hello and to see how the café is coming along. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you again.”

Georgie’s… not quite so sure about that. The first and only time she’s ever seen Martin was when she, he, and Jon had gone out for drinks one night, about two weeks after Jon had started dating him. Martin had sipped his tonic, pressed himself closely against Jon’s side, and spent the entire night not-quite-so-subtly staring daggers at her every time she laughed at something Jon said or reached out to lightly squeeze his hand. She’s never found jealousy a particularly good look on a person. (Particularly when it’s completely unwarranted; she and Jon broke up years ago, before he’d even left uni, and the thought of her being some sort of romantic competition is honestly a bit laughable.)

And so maybe she’d never made an effort to reach out again, deciding that one awkward night of drinks was enough for her. Martin had certainly never made such an effort in return.

“Sure,” is all Georgie says before turning back to the muffins.

They take a few more orders, make a few more drinks, and chase the Chairman away from the muffins more than a few times. Jon tries to tell Georgie that they’re supposed to be putting three pumps of vanilla in their lattes, which is ridiculous—it’s always been two pumps, it’s not Georgie’s fault that Jon has a secret sweet tooth. The disagreement is teetering just on the line between bickering and fighting when the little bell above the door clangs. Georgie’s eyes automatically follow the sound.

The first person she sees is Martin, black-and-white scarf wrapped up to his chin and cheeks flushed a rosy red from the cold. His face splits into a wide, cheery grin as he spots Jon, and out of the corner of her eye, Georgie sees Jon soften. She recognizes the expression on his face from when they dated in uni; it’s the same as the one that would surface when the Admiral would jump on his lap or when Georgie would bring him tea or when he would spot her across the quad in between classes.

Being in love is a good look on Jonathan Sims, Georgie thinks absently, and not without fondness.

Then, Georgie’s eyes alight on a second figure, following Martin in through the doorway. Her coat is zipped all the way up to her chin, long black hair twisted up into two tight topknots messy enough that they appear to be born more out of convenience than out of fashion. She’s almost as tall as Martin, nearly as skinny as Jon, and Georgie thinks she sees a glint of metal on the side of her nose, on the shell of her ear. Her mouth is tilted into a frown but her eyes are curious as they wander about the café, landing first on the cats, then on the bookshelves lining the walls, and then on the coffee grinders and stainless steel water heaters behind the counter.

Her eyes find Georgie. And Georgie realizes with a start that she recognizes her.

“Jon,” Georgie says, but Jon’s already gone, stepping around the counter with a mug in their hand and an infatuated grin on their face directed entirely toward Martin—and maybe a bit toward the cat that’s decided to make its home in Martin’s arms. So Georgie follows him, brushing past the orange-furred Minister as she does so and trying not to sneak too many surreptitious glances at the woman she’s seen hundreds of times on her laptop screen, framed in neon greens and black-and-whites and sepia tones.

She clearly doesn’t succeed, from the way that Martin follows her gaze to the woman before saying abruptly, “Oh! Right, sorry—forgot. Er, Melanie, this- this is Georgie. Jon’s friend!”

Melanie—Melanie King of Ghost Hunt UK, standing here in the middle of her cat-café-slash-bookstore—regards Georgie with a look she can’t quite place. Then, Melanie holds out a hand. Her fingernails are painted a glittering green, Georgie thinks, then realizes she’s been staring at the hand altogether too long and reaches out to shake it.

“Right, Georgie. Georgie Barker. It’s… it’s nice to meet you.”

Huh. Her hand is softer than it looks on camera.

Before Georgie has time to unpack that thought, Melanie gives her that look again, and Georgie realizes that it’s scrutiny, with a bit of curiosity behind it. “Huh,” Melanie says, like Georgie’s just given her a puzzle to solve, a mystery to unravel. “You sound familiar.”

“Maybe I’ve just got one of those voices,” Georgie says with a disarming smile. She’s still holding onto Melanie’s hand. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?

She lets go, though that doesn’t help the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. The butterflies climb up her throat, loosening her tongue, and she says without thinking, “Or maybe you’ve heard my podcast? What The Ghost? It- it runs every other Saturday.”

Melanie’s eyes grow just a bit wider then. “No,” she says disbelievingly. “Georgie? Martin, your partner’s best friend is What the Ghost? Georgie?”

Martin’s eyebrows dip into a frown. “Er… yes? Sorry, I- I suppose I never really mentioned it, did I? Sort of… assumed you already knew. Small ghost hunting world and all.”

Melanie looks at Georgie with a sharp, delighted glitter in her eyes. “Huh. Jonathan Sims’ ex is Georgie Barker from What the Ghost?. Who also owns a cat café. Stranger things, I suppose.”

“Slash bookstore,” Georgie says with a smile. “And besides, Jonathan never told me that Martin’s Melanie was Melanie King!”

“Oh, they talk about me?” Melanie says with a smirk.

“Only when absolutely necessary,” Jon says sullenly. Their grimace contrasts quite starkly with the trio of grey kittens they have cradled in their arms. One is valiantly trying to climb up into their hair. “Besides, I thought it was obvious. Martin does sound for Ghost Hunt UK, he has a coworker named Melanie, therefore Melanie is Melanie King of Ghost Hunt UK. It’s really not that much of a leap, Georgina.”

Georgie swats at Jon’s arm. “You never said she was a coworker! Jonathan Sims, this entire time you had a connection to Melanie King and you never said anything?”

Jon directs their sullen look at Melanie. “I wouldn’t say… connection, per se.”

“We’ve only met once, and they spent the entire time criticizing my setup and my story,” Melanie says, arms crossed and chin jutting out defensively, not dissimilar to a cat with its hackles raised.

“If that’s what you call fixing your facts, then fine,” Jon says with equal posturing, their mouth set into a firm line. “I admit that I should have waited until after we had left the shoot, but I will not apologize for correcting obvious mistakes!”

Melanie’s mouth opens, retort ready on her lips, when Martin says quickly, “Jon, why don’t you show me that book you were talking about? The, er, the one about the overlap between sea monster myths and geographical phenomena? I think you told me about the Scylla and Charybdis one last night, but I can’t quite remember what event you said it correlated with? A tsunami, maybe?”

Jon’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. They rub an absentminded thumb over the head of one of the kittens, chew on their bottom lip, and then say, “A hurricane, actually, which caused tsunami-like effects when it—here, I’ll just find the book for you. I think it’s in the back room.”

“That would be lovely,” Martin says, giving Georgie a wide—and not-too-subtly apologetic—grin before following Jon past the counter and into the smaller secondary part of the café meant only for books, the Minister trailing closely behind.

Melanie’s forehead is still set in a frown, but it softens a bit as she looks at Georgie and says, “Er. Sorry about that. Not my best first impression, arguing with someone else’s best friend in front of them.” Her lips curl into a smile, sharp and teasing yet warming Georgie to her core. “Maybe I can buy you a coffee to make it up to you?”

Georgie doesn’t really drink coffee, much preferring a strong green tea; the caffeine gives her headaches, and she’s always found it too bitter for her liking.

“That sounds lovely,” Georgie says. Then, with a teasing smile of her own, she slips back behind the counter and adopts her most put-upon customer service voice. “What can I get started for you?”

The next two months are… well, they’re really quite lovely. The café picks up after the first few days (which may or may not result from Georgie shameless plugging it on that week’s episode of What the Ghost?), all future muffins are saved from devastation by the cheap plastic gate Georgie picks up from the shop, and every day Jon talks her ear off about whatever book he’s last consumed.

When he’s not talking Martin’s ear off about it, that is. Because Martin stops by the café nearly every day, to the point where Georgie’s sure his bank account must be suffering from how many pounds he’s shelled out on coffee and sandwiches (which, as they’re set at Chelsea prices, are not cheap). He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He sits at the corner table, the one that lights up wonderfully in the noonday sun, with the Baroness sat upon his lap—a slim calico with a notch in one ear who’s taken a liking to Martin. Jon sits at the table across from him, both of them wearing those silly little infatuated smiles on their faces as they talk that Georgie is surprised haven’t faded even after nearly six months.

Maybe she should make more of an effort to get to know Martin. She doesn’t remember the last time she saw Jon quite so… peaceful.

And then, of course, there’s Melanie. Who accompanies Martin to the café sometimes, more and more as the weeks stretch on until it’s almost every day that Georgie gets to admire the sharp slant of her nose and the way that she smiles, like she’s just heard a joke and finds it very funny indeed. Georgie ends up hiring extra staff—Tim and Sasha, who interviewed together (which was strange) but who connected so well with Jon that she thought it a shame not to hire them both—and so she can take a few minutes off when Melanie stops by to talk. They talk about what places they’re planning on investigating and their most ridiculous episodes and the kinds of messages they’ve gotten from fans (ranging from flattery to outright hate mail). They talk about their favorite kinds of pastries and where they prefer to spend their Friday nights and their records for the number of drinks consumed in a single sitting (which Melanie wins by a large margin). They talk about their university years and their friends (because Jon’s really quite lovely once you get to know him, Georgie says, and What do you mean you don’t like Martin? What’s not to like? Melanie says) and their favorite childhood memories.

“My dad’s allergic to cats,” Melanie says one day, her fingers buried deep in the Chairman’s fur as she talks. “I always wanted one when I was growing up, got proper annoying about it for a while before he finally told me that it just wasn’t going to happen. We got a dog instead—Dandelion, she- she was wonderful, really, an old dog from a shelter—and then I moved away for uni, and the flat I’m in now isn’t pet-friendly, so…”

She makes a helpless gesture with her free hand. “This is nice, though,” she says and scratches the Chairman behind the ears. He makes a small, contented noise. “Shelter cats?”

“Yeah,” Georgie says, a hint of fondness slipping into her voice. “They’re all up for adoption, technically. We’ve only found homes for a few of them though, which if I’m being totally honest, I’m not too disappointed about.”

“They do grow on you,” Melanie says. The Chairman meows again, as if in assent.

“Mm,” Georgie says. Then, after a moment: “I’ve already got a cat at home, though, and he doesn’t take well to other cats. Tried once and it didn’t go well; had to have a friend take the new cat, felt right awful about it too.”

Melanie makes a sympathetic noise. Then, with a small smile on her face, she says, “What’s his name?”

“The Admiral.” At the look on Melanie’s face, Georgie laughs lightly and says, “Yes, yes, I know—I have a naming type. Jon’s already teased me more than enough for it—though I honestly think it’s rubbed off on him.” Her eyes light up, and she digs her phone out of her pocket. “Here, do you want to see a picture of him?”

She flips through the approximately two hundred photos of the Admiral on her phone before saying, nerves making her voice a bit too high, “I, er. I get off at five today. Do you… do you want to meet him? In person, that is.”

Melanie’s smile is like caffeine, sending her heart stuttering in her chest. “Do you even have to ask?”

So then Melanie’s in her flat, and she’s petting her cat, and she’s taking tea—black, just a bit of sugar—in the large yellow mug that Georgie likes, and she’s just so achingly beautiful that Georgie thinks she might die. Most of the time Melanie wears her hair up, in high ponytails or coiling braids or twin topknots, like the first time Georgie had seen her, stuck through with pencils or chopsticks or, on one memorable occasion, plastic forks.

(“Look,” Melanie had said, cheeks heating with embarrassment, “one of my chopsticks broke as soon as I got to work, and all we had were the forks. No, stop laughing at me—Georgina Barker, this is not funny!”)

But sometimes Melanie wears her hair down and Georgie realizes how long it is, brushing just above mid-back. It looks soft. Georgie finds herself wanting to run her fingers through it so badly that her hands twitch by her sides, but she doesn’t ask. She’s not that far gone yet.

It’s one night at Georgie’s flat, when Melanie’s got the Admiral on her lap and there’s a film going in the background that neither of them is paying any attention to, when Georgie realizes exactly how ‘far gone’ she really is. When Melanie says, haltingly, “So, you- you said you’d done a piece on the Black Lady of Bradley Woods, right?”

Georgie’s brow furrows as she thinks back. “A few seasons ago, I think.” She thinks she remembers Jon dragging up a history book for that one and lecturing her for a good hour and a half on the War of the Roses until she finally relented and changed the script to include a large section on it. “Why?”

“Oh, just- just wondering.” Melanie looks down at the Admiral; he gives a particularly contented purr and nuzzles into her hand, drawing a small smile to her face that Georgie immediately memorizes and files away for later. “I… I was thinking of doing a Ghost Hunt UK episode about it, actually?” she says, her cheeks coloring a light red. “And I thought—well, since you have some experience with the subject, maybe… maybe you would consider. Er. Guest-starring on the episode?”

Georgie’s mouth is suddenly very dry, her pulse quick as a hummingbird’s in her throat. Honestly, Georgina. It’s not like she’s asked you out on a date.

(Though Georgie would like that. She would like that very much.)

“Only if you’ll guest-star on What the Ghost?,” Georgie’s mouth says, entirely without her permission. But once it’s out there, Georgie finds that she really, really likes the idea of it. Them, tucked away in Georgie’s guest room that she’s converted into a studio, talking about ghosts and laughing and reading the horrible adverts she’s forced to incorporate—well. It sounds very lovely indeed.

“Oh, an ultimatum?” Melanie says, humored. Her smile is like wildfire, sending Georgie’s cheeks alight with flames that threaten to consume her utterly. “Well, then. I accept your terms, Georgie Barker. Perhaps you would like it in writing?”

“Oh, over a cup of tea would suffice,” Georgie says, and she knows that her face is nearly split in two by a grin and that she probably looks utterly ridiculous. But she can’t find it within herself to mind.

“I need your help.”

Jon nearly drops the stack of books they’re holding. The yelp they let out is quite undignified, and if asked, they will maintain that it never happened. (And since they’re in the back room of the café, there’s nobody around to hear it but the two of them.) “Jesus,” they say, shooting Melanie an irritated look softened by the shock still making their heart beat at a rapid-fire pace. Then, a bit petulantly: “Help with what? If I recall correctly, the last time I tried to help you, you decided you never wanted to speak to me again.”

“That wasn’t helping,” Melanie says through gritted teeth. “That was being condescending and rude in front of my coworkers.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and says, “But this isn’t about that. Believe me, I would much rather not be talking to you about this—”

“Great,” Jon says flatly. “I’m charmed.”

“—but,” Melanie continues, the look on her face dreadfully pained, “you’re Georgie’s best friend, so I really don’t have any other options.”

With no small amount of apprehension, Jon says, “Help with what, Melanie?”

Melanie’s expression is not unlike that of someone who’s just sat down in the dentist’s chair to get a tooth pulled. “What’s Georgie’s favorite food?”

Jon just stares. “What?” they say after a long moment of silence.

Melanie makes a frustrated noise. “Fuck, Jon, do you want me to spell it out for you? Should have known this was a waste of my time—”

“I don’t think Georgie has a favorite food,” Jon says quickly when the bite to Melanie’s voice grows sharp at the edges. “Maybe- maybe lángos?” At Melanie’s blank stare, they continue, “It’s, er. It’s deep-fried flatbread? She always orders it from the takeaway Hungarian place she likes—er, Miko’s Kitchen, I think?”

“Takeaway,” Melanie echoes. “Yeah, that’ll do.” After a beat, she says, begrudgingly, “Thanks.”

“Right,” Jon says, equally as begrudgingly. They’re not really sure they want to know, but—

“Why do you ask?”

The tips of Melanie’s cheeks go pink, and she says brusquely, “No reason.” She spins on her heel and makes to leave; then with her back to Jon, she pauses and says, “Do not say anything to Georgie.”

“What?” Jon says, confused. “Why?”

But Melanie’s already gone.

Jon stares at the books in their hands, then at the door that leads to the rest of the café. They see Melanie disappear through the front door, the bell jingling behind her.

“What?”

Georgie’s always liked routines. They provide structure to life that she finds comforting, and there’s enough room for variation within them that she doesn’t get bored. Wake up, get dressed, go to the café, come home, do some work on the next What the Ghost? episode, and go to bed, with room in between for other things, like watching that newest documentary on seals with Jon or waking early for a run.

Her new routine goes like this:

Around noon on most days, Martin and Melanie come into the café, sending the bell over the door jingling and approximately ten cats meowling insistently at their feet until Martin scratches beneath each of their chins in turn and Melanie collects some of the treats that Georgie keeps behind the counter in her hand and tries to pretend like she doesn’t like the way that the cats rub against her arms and hands when she kneels down to feed them. Martin orders a cup of tea—usually black with milk and a sugar, but sometimes it’s Earl Grey or gunpowder green—and Melanie gets an espresso drink that makes Georgie’s head ache just looking at it.

And as she hands the mug of tea to Martin, she’ll say, conversationally, “So, Martin, what kind of tea does Melanie like?”

Or: “Is Melanie more of a savory or a sweet kind of person?”

Or: “What’s Melanie’s favorite movie? Does she enjoy movies? What kinds of movies?”

Today, Georgie hands Martin his tea—black with milk and a sugar, the usual, nothing noteworthy or special about it—and says, casually, “What’s Melanie’s type?”

Martin nearly drops his mug. “Sorry, what?”

Georgie’s face begins to heat, but she barrels on. “You know—her type. Men, women, blonde, brunette—who she likes.”

Martin’s staring at Georgie like she’s got three heads. “Uh. I have no idea?” His cheeks are tinged with pink, and Georgie does feel a bit bad for making him uncomfortable, but the curiosity burning up inside her is a powerful thing. It keeps her mouth closed and her expression encouraging as Martin stutters out, “I- er, I think she- well, that is to say, I’m fairly certain that she- er, that she doesn’t… date men? At- at least that’s what it seems like!” He rubs at the back of his neck. “Last year, this chap—Greg, maybe? I don’t know—asked her out for dinner after one of our shoots. He was nice enough, you know—strong jawline, that kind of ‘swooshy’ hair, nice teeth—”

Martin’s face flushes a deeper red, and he cuts himself off. “Right, anyway. She said no, like it was obvious—not in, like, a mean way! Just like she was surprised by the offer. And when I asked her about it—” Martin shrugs. “She said he ‘wasn’t her type.’”

“I see,” Georgie says, keeping her tone carefully neutral and trying very hard to pretend like butterflies haven’t taken residence in her stomach. “Thank you, Martin, that’s very helpful. Enjoy your tea!”

“Wait,” Martin says, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. “Why did you want to—?”

“Ah, sorry, I- I’ve got another customer to deal with,” Georgie says quickly, deliberately ignoring the fact that the till is being sufficiently managed by Tim at the moment. “Great seeing you, Martin!”

Georgie thinks Martin might have said her name again, maybe even asked her a question. But she turns and retreats to the other end of the counter before she can hear it, brushing a curious Chairman away from the gate as she does so. And if her cheeks are as red as the heat in her face leads her to believe, at least Tim doesn’t mention it.

It’s after the seventh time that Melanie corners Jon in the back room of the café and grills him for details about Georgie that Jon finally gets it.

“Oh,” Jon says, apropos of nothing, sitting tucked into Martin’s side on the couch in his flat, the drama that Martin had wanted to watch playing softly in the background. “Melanie likes Georgie.”

Martin makes a sputtering, choking noise at that, something in between surprise and disbelief. “Okay?” he says, in that confused-yet-intrigued voice he gets when Jon changes the topic in a way that makes perfect, logical sense to him but that Martin can’t quite follow.

“It’s just—” Jon makes a frustrated noise, waving his hands in the air absently. “All of a sudden, Melanie wants to talk to me, but only about Georgie, and only when Georgie’s not around. And it’s all what’s Georgie’s favorite food? and does Georgie like parks or museums better? and what kinds of flowers does Georgie like?”

Martin sighs. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

“And when I tried to tell her that just because Georgie and I dated, it doesn’t mean I know what kind of flowers she likes, she got this weird look on her face and just- just left.” Jon pinches the bridge of their nose between their fingers. “And then today, she asked me if Georgie likes women.”

Martin lets out a stifled laugh. “Just like that?”

Jon nods mutely. “I suppose it’s rather ridiculous it took that for me to figure it out.”

Martin laughs again. “Maybe. I didn’t realize that Georgie liked Melanie until she asked me what Melanie’s type is. Nearly dropped my tea.”

Wait. What?

Jon shifts so that they can get a good look at Martin’s face. “Georgie likes Melanie?”

Martin’s expression folds into confusion, then realization, then something softer. “Oh. Yeah, she- she does. Huh.”

Jon considers, very briefly, making a joke about terrible taste. The amount of restraint they exercise to keep it in is truly monumental. They’re sure that Martin can see it written all over their face, though, given the chastising look Martin gives them.

“Sorry,” Jon says, though technically they’ve done nothing that warrants an apology. Then: “So I suppose we ought to tell them, then?”

“What?” Martin’s looking at Jon like they’ve just suggested they microwave the water for their tea. “No, no, we should definitely not tell them.”

Jon frowns, shifting in place so that they can more fully face Martin. “Why not? If there’s mutual attraction, I don’t see any problem with helping to- to push it along a bit. Lord knows we could have used the help.”

“Jon,” Martin says, not unkindly. “If Georgie would have suggested that you ask me out, or even told you that I liked you, what would you have done?”

“I—” Jon stops, sucks in a breath. “All right, fine, I probably would have reacted poorly, or more likely just wouldn’t have believed her. But, as Georgie keeps telling me, our experiences are not universal.” They cross their arms over their chest with a sigh. “I just hate that trope, where the entire plot revolves around some- some misunderstanding or intentional obfuscation of information that keeps the love interests apart.”

“I know,” Martin says gently. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe they’d take it well. But I honestly don’t think it’ll come to that. Melanie and Georgie aren’t nearly as emotionally repressed as we were—”

“Hey!”

“—and besides, even if we don’t tell them outright, it doesn’t mean we can’t nudge a bit here and there.”

“Nudge,” Jon echoes.

Martin gives them a conspiratorial grin.

“Martin,” Jon says, trying to keep their smile under wraps and failing miserably. “You know how bad I am at subtly.”

Martin takes Jon’s hand in his and squeezes before pressing a soft kiss across their knuckles. He doesn’t say a word.

Jon loses the fight with his lips, and they curl upward against his will. “Fine, fine. No promises, though.”

Martin hums, giving Jon’s hand another squeeze. “You know we’re going to have to rewind the movie, right?”

The groan Jon lets out is more than a little overdramatic. “Why you like this- this drivel, I’ll never understand.”

“Hey, this drivel won two BAFTAs.”

“Ugh. No accounting for taste, I suppose.”

The end of the movie is, predictably, bad. But when Martin presses a soft kiss to Jon’s forehead before standing to go wash their mugs, Jon can’t bring himself to mind.

It’s two and a half weeks later that Jon finally, inevitably, slips up. Which, in his defense, is twice the amount of time he thought it would take for either Georgie or Melanie to finally ask the other out. So really, it’s not his fault at all.

It goes like this:

On Saturday nights at eight, Jon goes to Georgie’s flat, they order pizza or Chinese or Indian, and they put on paranormal investigation videos. Technically, it’s research—coming up with new places or events to make a What the Ghost? about, seeing what the rest of the community is doing, familiarizing themselves with other people’s work in case they ever need to network. In reality, it usually devolves into Jon picking apart their research as sloppy, unsubstantiated, complete falsification of facts, an utter embarrassment to the field of paranormal research and Georgie complaining that that’s not even how ghosts work, you can’t use an EMF there because of the power lines, that’s not even an orb that’s a dust particle on your camera lens.

In short, it’s the highlight of their week. Jon had to cancel once, and Georgie never let him hear the end of it.

Tonight, they’re watching an investigation of the Cambridge Military Hospital, and Georgie’s nearly reached a fever pitch, her increasingly frustrated hand-waves having narrowly avoided knocking over their half-full wine glasses twice now.

“—and that’s just a few reasons why they’re doing it all completely wrong!” Georgie says, ending the sentence with a long, drawn-out groan. “I swear, one of the only respectable shows in this business is Ghost Hunt UK.”

Jon eyes Georgie with no small amount of skepticism. “Well. Respectable is pushing it a bit.”

Georgie spins and points a stern, accusing finger at Jon. “Do not start. Nit-picking aside, Melanie’s tactics are solid, and at least she doesn’t blatantly fabricate her results!”

“Just plays it up for the camera, then,” Jon says under their breath.

“Jonathan.”

Jon bites back a groan. “Fine.” Then, like pulling teeth: “I… suppose that, historical inaccuracies aside, if… if I had to choose a show that I believed to be the- the least fraudulent, I might—might—be inclined to pick Ghost Hunt UK. But I cannot excuse sloppy research, Georgina.”

Georgie’s sigh is labored. “I suppose that’ll have to do.” She turns back to the television, and as she does so, she says, “You know, I thought that since you two were spending more time together, you might have warmed up to her.”

Jon just stares at her. “What?”

Georgie shrugs, reaching for her wine glass. “She comes into the café all the time now. I assume you’re not meeting up in the back room to discuss your mutual love for weird, esoteric books, right?”

Jon’s face heats up, and they press their lips very firmly together. “I… no. I suppose not.”

Georgie hums, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m just glad you two are friends now. God knows it’ll make it less awkward when she comes over to record for the next episode of What the Ghost?.”

“The next episode of—?” Jon cuts off with a sigh. “Georgie, you didn’t tell me that you were bringing Melanie on as a guest star.”

Georgie looks at Jon then, a strange expression on her face. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Jon reaches for their own wine glass, guilt coiling in their stomach. “No, I- I’m sorry. You just never mentioned it.”

Georgie gives Jon an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I- I suppose I thought maybe she’d mentioned it to you?” A small laugh. “Unless you were actually talking about weird books.”

“No,” Jon says sullenly. “That would have been nice. That would have involved actually talking and not just being grilled for information about you, and what you like, and whether or not you would like her.”

Two and a half weeks of carefully maintained restraint crumbles in an instant, and Jon’s wince is full-body. Georgie’s eyes are burning into the side of Jon’s face, and they say quickly, “Er. Forget I said anything, please.” They gesture to the screen helplessly. “I- I think they’re analyzing their footage now.”

“Jon,” Georgie says, setting her wine glass down on the table with a clink. “What did you just say?”

“Georgie,” Jon says, “I am begging you.”

“Jonathan Sims.”

Well. So maybe it’s entirely their fault. In for a penny, in for a pound, they suppose.

So they send a silent apology to Martin, set their wine glass down again, and open their mouth to speak.

Martin’s got Jon’s head resting on his chest and his arm curled around Jon’s back, the linens soft beneath them and his mind half-drifted off to sleep, when Jon says, quietly, “Georgie knows.”

“Mm?” Martin says, not quite awake. Then, after an extended pause, the words register, and Martin says, “Oh. Did you—?”

He leaves the sentence unfinished, but Jon’s already nodding, the motion sending his hair tickling against Martin’s chin. “It was an accident,” he says, his voice small. “It- it just came up, I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts off with a wordless noise of displeasure. Martin’s arm tightens around Jon, his thumb rubbing small circles against Jon’s arm. “Hey, hey. It’s fine. You know I would never be mad at you for something like this, right?”

Jon makes a sound remarkably similar to a scoff. “Yes, I know. It’s not- I’m not guilty, just- just frustrated.” There’s a small pause. Then, Jon says, quieter, “I suppose I’m worried that Melanie’ll hate me for it. We- we’re not friends, per se, but she trusted me not to say anything to Georgie. She asked me not to say anything, and I- I did it anyway!”

“You didn’t mean to,” Martin says, pressing a kiss to Jon’s temple.

“I don’t think that matters much.”

Martin just hums. “What did Georgie say?”

Jon pauses for a moment. Then, with a small chuckle, he says, “Uh. I’m pretty sure it was something like, ‘Thank fuck, I’m asking her out tomorrow then’?”

Martin can’t help it; he laughs, more audibly than Jon, and soon they’re both giggling on the bed, Jon’s laughter a warm, rumbling feeling against Martin’s chest. “Well,” Martin says finally, once he’s gotten his breathing under control a bit. “I suppose that’s good, then.”

“Quite,” Jon says, an audible smile in his voice.

There’s quiet for a moment. Then, because Martin can’t resist: “So it really is that easy, then? One person can just ask the other out? Goodness, why didn’t we think of that?”

Jon makes a noise Martin could only describe as grumpy. “Go to sleep, Martin.”

“All right, all right,” Martin says, humored. Then, after a moment: “I love you.”

Martin can feel Jon smile against his chest. “I love you too.”

It’s not utterly freezing outside the next day, which Georgie is infinitely thankful for as she leaves the café in the hands of Jon and Sasha at quarter to five and makes the short commute to Melanie’s studio. She’d considered, briefly, just asking Melanie out at the café—pulling her aside to ask her a question, or possibly spelling it out in the windows if she was feeling bold—but it felt a bit too stale. And besides, Fridays were always busy days at the café, and between taking orders, restocking the pastries and sandwiches, and taking care of a mishap with a certain grey-haired, muffin-loving cat, Georgie had barely had time to flash Melanie a smile, much less ask her out on a date.

God, Georgie hasn’t been this nervous since uni.

Georgie’s been standing outside the studio for only a few minutes, debating whether or not to go inside or to just wait on the sidewalk for Melanie to come out, when a familiar voice says, “Georgie?”

The butterflies in Georgie’s stomach flutter, trying to climb up her throat and out of her mouth. She turns to see Melanie standing just a few feet away, her cheeks and nose dusted red from the chill and a hat pulled firmly down over her forehead and ears, a little logo of a ghost emblazoned upon the front of it.

The What the Ghost? logo.

Georgie honestly thinks that, in this moment, she might actually kiss Melanie King right here and now.

Instead, she says, “Are you off work?”

Melanie’s forehead creases, and it’s so cute. Georgie wants to reach over and smooth it flat again. She keeps her hands firmly in her pockets. “I have a few more things to do with the footage, but it shouldn’t take me more than half an hour, so- yeah, soon, I guess? Er, why?”

“Um.” Georgie shifts in place, the nerves in her stomach overtaking her quite suddenly. The words stick in her throat like honey, and she clears her throat once, like it’ll free them. “I’ve been, er. I’ve been wanting to try this new Indian place, over in Clapham? Martin, uh--he says you like Indian food?”

Melanie’s just staring at her. Georgie steels herself, tries to ignore the stutter of her heart in her chest, and says, “Also, there’s a new Paranormal Activity in cinemas, if you’d like to go with me. After dinner, that is.”

Georgie waits approximately a second and a half before saying, all in a rush, “A date, Melanie. Will you go on a date with me? Tonight, if you’re free.”

Then, Georgie clamps her mouth shut and waits. No matter how badly she wants to talk to fill the silence.

The silence that only lasts a few seconds before Melanie laughs, her face breaking into a smile of disbelief, and says, “Oh. Yes, I- that sounds lovely.” Then, enthusiastically. “Yes, absolutely.”

The butterflies flutter once more, excitation and elation filling her in equal measure. “Great. Do, uh. Do you want to meet there, or…?”

Melanie blushes, which is a sight that Georgie thinks she’ll treasure forever. “Why don’t you just come inside?” she says, opening the door to the studio. “We’ve got central heat and shitty coffee.”

“Ah,” Georgie says as she steps inside. “That explains the daily visits to the café, then.”

Melanie’s cheeks grow a more vibrant red, and she looks away quickly. “That’s not the only reason,” she mumbles. Then, louder, and a bit hesitantly: “Do- do you want to help me with the footage? It’ll, er. It’ll go faster with two sets of eyes, and Martin’s left already.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says, her throat so swollen with affection she can hardly breathe. “I- I can do that.”

Never, in a million years, would Georgie have said that her ideal date began sitting behind a desk in a too-cramped office, staring at a screen and pointing out little glitches in the editing to be smoothed out. But her hand brushes against Melanie’s every so often when she moves and her knee is pressed up against Melanie’s where she’s sitting next to her in a chair they’d dragged over from Martin’s office, so it’s really no wonder that Georgie’s cheeks are flaming and her heart is stuttering in her chest by the time they finally get to the actual date part of the night.

And it just feels so… easy. Georgie takes Melanie to the Indian place, and they sit and eat chicken vindaloo and paratha under the red-yellow glow of the lights, just low enough to feel romantic but not so much so that Georgie can’t see the way that Melanie’s eyes light up when she talks about her latest hiking trip at Beinn a’Chrulaiste in Scotland.

“I’ve always wanted to hike St. Kilda,” Melanie says, twisting her fork in her chicken absently, “but, y’know… it’s got the Lover’s Stone, which is super popular with couples, and it always just felt weird, I guess.”

“Maybe we could go someday,” Georgie says, because she’s always been a bit too bold for her own good.

Melanie looks surprised for a moment before a small, coy smile comes across her lips. “I dunno—hiking through the wilderness is quite a bit different than sitting in your bedroom talking into a microphone. D’you think you’d be up for it?”

“I’ll have you know,” Georgie says, stabbing her fork at Melanie for emphasis, “that I do field research too! Jon’s the one who does most of the ‘history’ bits of it.”

Melanie lets out a small, bitten-off groan. “Right. Yeah, that tracks.”

Georgie considers telling her that she’s very much like Jon, in a way. But she decides that bringing up exes is not exactly the best first-date conversation material. So she picks up on a story about her last field research trip out to Minsden Chapel and brushes the topic away for another day.

For another date.

Georgie can’t stop smiling.

The film is fine, if a bit trite. Melanie’s hand in hers, coming to rest there thirty minutes in, is much, much more than fine. And when Georgie can’t stop herself from flipping her hand over and twining their fingers together, she’s rewarded with a small squeeze and the faintest of smiles, caught out of the corner of her eye.

They live on completely opposite sides of London, it turns out—Georgie in Acton and Melanie in Dulwich—and so the grand gesture of walking Melanie to her doorstep and then leaning in for a kiss like some couple out of a rom-com is out of the question. Still, Georgie is nothing if not persistent. So when Melanie stops in a secluded spot just outside the cinema, makes a small, aborted gesture that’s almost a shrug and says, “Well, I- I suppose this is it, then. I, er. I had a nice time,” Georgie decides that she’s something of a hopeless romantic after all, and her hand squeezes tighter around Melanie’s when she goes to pull away.

“Yeah,” Georgie says, certain that she sounds utterly infatuated but unable to convince herself to care. “Yeah, me too.” A pause. “I’d love to do it again sometime.”

Melanie lets out a short, clipped laugh. “Yeah, that- that sounds lovely.”

Georgie can’t help herself. “Are you free tomorrow?”

Melanie’s look of surprise quickly morphs into an amused grin. “Tomorrow? God, am I that good of company?”

“Mm, just a bit,” Georgie says with a fond grin to match. Her other hand comes up to brush gently against the side of Melanie’s cheek, the pads of her fingers catching against a few stray strands of black hair that have fallen around the shell of her ear. She hears Melanie’s breath catch as she takes a small step closer, enough so that the space between them is filled with the tension of too close not close enough. Then, teasingly: ”How do you feel about coffee?”

Melanie’s laugh is closer to a snicker. “Oh, I think I’ll manage.” A pause. Then: “Won’t be as good as yours, though.”

Georgie’s heart does something funny at that, a twisting, swirling sensation in her chest. “Flatterer,” she says, but it comes out barely more than a whisper.

Were they always so close together?

Melanie looks at Georgie then, something hot and burning in her eyes that Georgie feels reflected in her own mind, body, and soul. Her hand squeezes around Georgie’s, just once, and she says, “I’d very much like it if you would kiss me now, Georgie Barker.”

And so Georgie threads her fingers gently in Melanie’s hair, leans in, and kisses her. And everything—the softness of her lips, the little sigh she gives into Georgie’s mouth, the feeling of her hair between Georgie’s fingers—is so, so much better than she’d ever imagined it to be.

She kisses Melanie, memorizing the feel of her lips beneath hers, and begins to chart her way forward to all the kisses to come. She envisions the little kisses, like this one, and the passionate kisses, and the chaste kisses to a forehead or temple or back of the hand, and the sleepy kisses in the morning when neither of them would be awake enough to do much else than smile against the other’s mouth and trade quiet hellos. And with each passing image, the ember in her chest grows more and more until it’s fully ablaze, heating her from the inside out with a burning desire for what’s to come.

Melanie squeezes her hand once more before departing, leaving Georgie with a quiet I’ll call you and a smile so soft Georgie fears she might break it if she holds it too close. Georgie stands outside the cinema for a moment more, watching until Melanie disappears into the shadows, with lips and palms burning with a quiet, comforting heat that she can feel despite the nip of winter air against her skin. Then, she turns and begins to make her way back to her flat, a nervous energy curling in her stomach as she walks that finally, when she opens the door to her flat to reveal a very insistent Admiral rubbing against her ankles and purring at the approximate volume of a chainsaw, resolves itself into a bubbling excitement.

She can’t wait to fall in love with Melanie King.

Georgie feeds the Admiral, flicks the lights off, and goes to bed. And if her dreams are full of inky-black hair and thin-fingered hands and soft lips, pressing warmly against hers, then she finds she really doesn’t mind much at all.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma valentines exchange #wtgfs #jonmartin #melanie king #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #georgie barker #a plethora of cats!#my fic #my writing #happy valentine's day!! have some tooth-rotting fluff

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brave-clarice · 4 years ago

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“Clarice” Liveblog: Episode 1

Here are my extremely unfashionably late takes! They’re long, so strap in if you want.

okay, I genuinely thought the scenes in Gumb’s basement were ripped from the film for a second. extremely well done.

I both appreciate that they’re acknowledging the Bureau-mandated psych eval Clarice would have to go through (not sure she’d have to have another one a year later?)...

...but I sure wish they hadn’t chosen to open this show in a therapy-like session. it’s going to be subject to enough NBC comparisons as it is.

gosh, Rebecca Breeds is so pretty, and in the same almost, idk, elfin kind of way Jodie Foster is.

“Bride of Frankenstein”! a novel reference! and a Hannibal Lecter reference even though they can’t use his name! I’m excited

I was afraid of this part, though--everyone’s going to call her “Clarice” aren’t they?

it’s very significant that in the books, Hannibal is virtually alone in using her first name to address her; even Ardelia calls her “Starling.” but of course this series chose “Clarice” as its title, so...

“the checkout lady at the Safeway asked me to autograph a melon” omg

so Clarice has supposedly been “mandated” to see an FBI therapist for an entire year? hmm.

tbh, this feels kind of like a proxy for Hannibal’s scenes in the movie, especially with the therapist calling her “Clarice.” not sure if I dig it.

“...given that your last therapist was an inmate” Hannibal reference #2!

they’re explicitly talking about Hannibal without being able to name him and it’s hilarious, frustrating, and immensely satisfying all at once.

there’s no way to avoid talking about him altogether without being disingenuous to Clarice’s eventual character arc, so I’m glad they’re ripping off the band-aid early

“you let that relationship be intimate” Yeah, Clarice and Hannibal’s relationship IS intimate and YOU! SHOULD! SAY IT!!!

it’s kind of ridiculous for this guy/the show not to acknowledge that little trainee Clarice was sent to see Hannibal by someone who should’ve known better. That Crawford was doing it with the intention to save lives doesn’t mean he didn’t use the shit out of Clarice.

that’s not to take away her agency or minimize the choices she made after she met Hannibal. She wouldn’t have been in a position to make those choices if Crawford hadn’t arranged it, though.

even if they don’t have the rights to Crawford’s name, either (I have to assume that’s the case) couldn’t they at least mention this??

“hasn’t seen her own family in years” Are they actually going to address Clarice’s maybe-dead-maybe-not mother (depending on the canon they adopt, book or film) and possible siblings??? Please tell me they are!

Clarice’s “egregious” PTSD doesn’t have much to do with Buffalo Bill ofc, and this therapist seems to be making excuses to be the first in a long line of men getting in the way of Clarice’s career goals...

...which she recognizes and confronts him about. Call him out!!!

*Anthony Hopkins voice* That’s my girl.

the way she’s been written in this scene gives me a lot of hope going forward! she’s funny, she doesn’t take any sexist bullshit, she’s calm and polite but you get a glimpse of the rage underneath.

wow, they promoted Senator Martin to Attorney General!

the opening credits (if you can even call them that) are a let-down, though

she has her beads!

can anyone who’s not Hannibal please stop calling her Clarice

wonder if they’re going to touch on any of the extreme tension that existed between Senator Martin and Clarice in the novel? they didn’t interact in the movie, but in the book, Martin is under intense stress, and it doesn’t go smoothly.

of course in “Hannibal,” Martin invites her to “ride horses,” so they obviously reconciled after Catherine’s rescue and kept in some kind of touch.

and speak of the devil: horses! (and Catherine)

“I can’t have a reputation, I’ve only done it once” Thank you for being the voice of reason, Clarice.

“Paul Krendler” *ugly screaming commences*

“you don’t have any people, Clarice” Aaand that’s the plot of the Hannibal novel!

looks like they even gave her the ring Jodie’s Clarice wears!

oh yeah, this Krendler looks like a sumbitch if I ever saw one. No one will ever be as perfectly cast as the dude in Silence imo, but a much better fit than Ray Liotta.

“small carat, but it’s a sweet ring” A very in-character observation probably directly informed by her comments about nail polish in Silence.

she mentions this victim’s nail polish (!) being “tasteful,” and I shrieked a little again.

I understand it’s necessary for Krendler to be a douche, but there’s not even going to be any payoff for the audience (or Clarice) when Hannibal eats him, so boo.

wait...wait, why aren’t Clarice and Ardelia in their Alexandria duplex? They’re not just best friends, they’re roommates! For the entire seven-year story! GIVE ME THE DUPLEX!!!

BUT points for Ardelia bringing Clarice a treat, since she was always leaving her candy bars in the Silence book!

Clarice interacting with the washer/dryer is a nice nod to the books, too.

speaking of... “What did we learn in the laundry room back at Quantico?” For some reason this line made me actually cry, I guess because this whole episode has been such a love letter to something I love so dearly, and it’s making me emotional.

FIRST PRINCIPLES!

DESPERATELY RANDOM!!!

wow, the men in Clarice’s new office giving her lotion as a hazing “welcome” gift is awful, and now I’m just mad (which is the point of the scene ofc).

so this ex-military OC is the John Brigham stand-in, I take it?

if that means John Brigham won’t be here, No Thanks.

Clarice telling him she’ll drive...a tribute to Dana “Why Do You Always Have to Drive?” Scully, perhaps (who was herself inspired by Clarice) as well as a nod to Clarice’s love of cars?

“Why do they call you the bride of Frankenstein?” Sorry, I don’t have the legal rights to tell you about my last intimate relationship.

“Already on my way to West Virginia Granny Witch” Look, this show could crash and burn from this scene on, and it would still have been worth it just for these first 25 minutes.

I like that Clarice is shown wanting to help people, and the scene of her with the baby is a nice call-back to the eventual shoot-out at the beginning of “Hannibal”...but I hope they don’t try to domesticate her too much. Clarice needs her hard edges. To be tough (reasonably so)--a cub growing into its big cat’s claws.

also, somehow I doubt that Miss Valedictorian spent her six years in the Lutheran home “changing a lot of diapers,” but sure, okay. If her siblings are alive in this, she might have changed their diapers!

even though Krendler’s a real dickwad so far, he’s not slimy enough for me. Needs more grease.

“I got a call from your therapist who’s concerned that you might genuinely flip out” I really do not like this subplot Sam-I-Am. Aren’t the huge glass ceiling/Boys’ Club obstacles enough?

seriously, though, I know Hannibal tells her that the metaphorical lambs will come back--at the end of Silence, though, she’s at some kind of temporary peace, not in danger of “flipping out” any time soon.

if Esquivel really is our Brigham stand-in, I’ve got...problems with that. He was Clarice’s teacher and became her friend, not some Krendler double-agent. (Also worried they’re setting him up as a love interest for her which...eesh, no thanks.)

and sorry, I actually hate that Catherine kept Precious the dog in this.

I have no problem with Catherine being a character, or with her interacting with Clarice...that said, I don’t know if her being shown as severely traumatized and reaching out to Clarice as a form of emotional lifeline is...a good idea?

I understand the symbolism of Catherine’s smashed mirror, but...smashed mirrors are already a Thing in this series (albeit not Clarice’s chapter in it), and that’s all I can think of here.

Catherine’s a victim of unthinkable trauma. Nevertheless...she’s talking to the woman who saved her life. Who risked death to do it. I just don’t like the way this scene is written. Apparently, in this show’s canon, Catherine hasn’t gotten the help she needs. But Clarice isn’t her therapist, and it’s upsetting to have Catherine being all “I’ll never be safe and neither will you.”

how does Catherine remember “the mannequins, the autopsy table”?? And why is she throwing them in Clarice’s face?

I’m going to stop talking about this scene now because it’s making me angry and a little upset, which is maybe the point? I just don’t think it’s written well. If Catherine’s going to be a recurring character, I hope she’s shown getting professional, medical help.

Clarice finding the victim’s papers in the box of pads is a direct callback to her finding the photos in the jewelry box in Silence. Nice.

let’s agree that Hannibal and Crawford are both in Ardelia’s (too-cutesy-for-me) book

another nice little X-Files homage?

I have some qualms about that big climax, but...meh. It was capital-F Fine.

Yikes, this is a full week late. Thanks for reading this entirely-too-long post through to the end, if you’re still here!

To sum up my thoughts...

The Good:

the visual connections to the Silence film (that green coat/blue knit scarf combo in particular)

Rebecca Breeds’ performance overall so far

Clarice’s strong writing/characterization

her sense of humor and her inclination to call out bullshit

maybe it was just me, but I also got a sense of Hannibal’s influence on her in some of her dialogue--her blunt observations--and I love it

Ardelia Mapp

the repeated in-your-face references to Hannibal Lecter

the respectful, non-exploitative way the victims were treated by the narrative.

let’s just say, not all Harris-inspired shows managed to do this. :)

the many, many allusions to the novel

“you let that relationship be INTIMATE” !!!

The Bad:

the near-constant implication that all Clarice’s trauma stems from her experiences in Gumb’s basement

I just don’t understand this one...it’s not supported by the text imo

the “Clarice-is-a-psychological-loose-canon” subplot

almost everyone calling her “Clarice”

NO DUPLEX IN ALEXANDRIA! Boo!

Esquivel maybe replacing Brigham

the narrative choices they’ve made surrounding Catherine so far.

Seriously: please let Catherine seek/get help instead of screaming “HELP ME” at Clarice, who after all risked her own life to save Catherine’s, over the phone.

The Ugly: Paul Krendler, lol. Confession time: I also don’t care for the way they’ve styled her hair. Not sure why it bugs me, it just...does.

Overall, I’m thrilled to death with this. I was so afraid it would be disappointing, so even if it’s not a five-star episode (and pilots rarely are), it’s a great beginning! It’s beyond amazing to see our girl on the screen again. Just this hour-long episode did her character way more justice than the entire Hannibal film. Despite its shortcomings, it’s such a loving homage to characters and a story that mean a lot to me, and I love it just for that.

Going forward, I’d like to see more of Clarice as a person. Her hobbies and interests--cars, sharpshooting, running, fashion magazines stuffed under her bed, horseback riding, her total inability to cook...anything would do. I of course want to see more of her with Ardelia. I want to hear more about her backstory and find out which version of it (truly orphaned when her father dies or sent away by her mother) they’ll choose to explore. And while we all agree that this show is about Clarice and she don’t need no man, I won’t lie: I’d gobble up more sly references to Hannibal. He’s her endgame, after all.

I’d also like to really see the warrior underneath. There are flashes of her in the last twenty minutes of this episode. But Clarice Starling is a big cat, she’s a warrior, she’s between iron and silver. I’d hate for her to spend most of this show doe-eyed and traumatized. I want her to be ferocious, to see the woman who’s a match for the monster.

Krendler needs to get nastier. He should make us feel like we need to shower. In the novels, he wants to use Clarice--only for her body. And when she won’t allow him to, he takes his revenge. That’s what makes him so particularly awful. Let’s amp him up here.

And finally...maybe I’ll appreciate Catherine’s scene more on a second watch. Maybe I’m not being sensitive enough to her trauma, her struggles. But I didn’t like the way that scene was staged or scripted, and I didn’t like the suggestion that she just hasn’t gotten help after a year and is subsequently taking her pain out on Clarice on some level. I hope future episodes handle this subplot, and her character, a bit better.

Please let me know if you guys would like me to do another of these monstrosities for the next episode. (I promise it won’t take me an entire week this time!) And thank you again for reading!!!

#Clarice Starling #clarice #cbs clarice #rebecca breeds #media [cbs show]#char [clarice starling]#I'm sorry again about how amazingly late this is heh #you've probably all watched and processed by now and have moved on to Episode 2 but I am slow

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