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amber-laughs · 6 months ago

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Thank you so much for your answer! I'd love to hear your thoughts on their relationship before the series begins. We know that the scene they shared in agot was not reflective of their actual dynamic even if most people loooove to forget that part. How did they interact? Did they ever? How was their relationship especially when Jon was a toddler or around 7-8? Thank you for your time!

oh fun question! well let's start from the beginning, we know that Catelyn was upset to find Jon in Winterfell before her

When the wars were over at last, and Catelyn rode to Winterfell, Jon and his wet nurse had already taken up residence. That cut deep. A Game of Throne- Catelyn II

but keep in mind Catelyn didn't know Ned yet. they'd obviously met and married but she doesn't really know anything about his temperament yet and even with that she's just arrived in a new place that will be her home forever, there's no way out, so the idea of her immediately showing her displeasure with Jon or Ned feels unlikely to me because in Family, Duty, Honor fashion she would first and foremost try to make her new family work to fulfill her father's alliance and be forced to put her wounded honor to the side. we know she did eventually work up the courage to ask Ned about Ashara Dayne

The Lady Ashara Dayne, tall and fair, with haunting violet eyes. It had taken her a fortnight to marshal her courage, but finally, in bed one night, Catelyn had asked her husband the truth of it, asked him to his face. That was the only time in all their years that Ned had ever frightened her. "Never ask me about Jon," he said, cold as ice. A Game of Thrones- Catelyn II

Ned scared her so bad she never asked again and neither did the servants. Now the fandom has a pretty simplistic, whitewashed view of Ned that isn't supported in canon but I would still call this out of character for him and Catelyn does too but remember, she barely knew him at this point, so it makes sense why she completely dropped the topic of not just Ashara but probably Jon as whole for a few years. but of course we know it does come up again.

Now I personally think the real trouble would start to come in as Jon was weened and was still in Winterfell. If he no longer needed a wet-nurse there's no reason not to foster him off in classic bastard fashion and Catelyn clearly thinks so too

Whoever Jon's mother had been, Ned must have loved her fiercely, for nothing Catelyn said would persuade him to send the boy away. It was the one thing she could never forgive him. A Game of Thrones- Catelyn II

Catelyn, of her own admission, was often trying to get Ned to kick Jon out of Winterfell. now this is where I need to remind people that I LOVE Catelyn Tully Stark. I'm on her team, I'm on her side, I'd buy her Mother's Day gifts if I could. most people in this fandom are actually pretty chill about the Catelyn Jon dynamic but there are two sides that think catelyn was an evil abusive wicked witch of the west specifically out to get an infant because she just feels like being evil and another side that thinks she never did anything to him and he's a spoiled brat who should be grateful she didn't make him sleep outside and eat only dog food. both are extremely annoying.

the truth is Catelyn was cruel to Jon and yes by George RR Martin's own words she never laid hands on him and she wasn't directly berating him throughout the years because like I said Catelyn isn't evil and she doesn't enjoy cruelty but when a child says he feels guilty eating in front of you there's a problem.

Jon wondered how Lady Catelyn's sister would feel about feeding Ned Stark's bastard. As a boy, he often felt as if the lady grudged him every bite. A Dance With Dragons- Jon IV

now it's possible Jon is projecting his own insecurities on to Catelyn here except:

Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned's bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply. A Game of Thrones- Catelyn VI

Catelyn does feel guilty for the way she's treated Jon. yes making Jon feel uncomfortable in Winterfell served a purpose, making sure he knows its not his. he has no right to it. Robb does. Robb will inherit. If not Robb then Bran, if not Bran then Rickon and so on and so forth. but none the less it was fucking mean. but here's the thing, Catelyn can't change society, she's navigating the rules she's given and Ned isn't, I imagine that would send her up a wall sometimes. because as she said Ned can have all the bastards he wants and she wouldn't care but Jon has no business being there and no business being treated like a true born next to her actual true born sons

"This is Valyrian steel, my lord," he said wonderingly. His father had let him handle Ice often enough; he knew the look, the feel. A Game of Thrones- Jon VIII

why the hell is Jon being allowed to handle the Stark ancestral sword? this is so widely out of the norm for Westeros it almost feels illegal. I can completely understand why Catelyn started trying to drill into Robb's head that Jon was different from him

That morning he called it first. "I'm Lord of Winterfell!" he cried, as he had a hundred times before. Only this time, this time, Robb had answered, "You can't be Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born. My lady mother says you can't ever be the Lord of Winterfell." A Storm of Swords- Jon XII

and it's also known throughout the Winterfell that there are hostilities between Jon and Catelyn. when Robb see's Jon is upset he immediately wonders if his mother is the reason

His voice was flat and tired. The visit had taken all the strength from him. Robb knew something was wrong. "My mother …" "She was … very kind," Jon told him. A Game of Thrones- Jon II

Jon also famously has the line where he admits Catelyn has never so much as called him by his name before so on Catelyn's side the relationship is somewhere on a spectrum from non existent to hostile. on Jon's side? well we know that Jon very consciously craved a mother

He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. A Game of Thrones- Jon III

often felt like he had to prove himself to his father

Bastard children were born from lust and lies, men said; their nature was wanton and treacherous. Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father that he could be as good and true a son as Robb. I made a botch of that. A Storm of Swords- Jon X

and I want to be clear, I know it wasn't Catelyn's job to make Jon feel welcome in his home, Ned really dropped the ball. It's Ned's fault that Jon just assumed he'd be destitute with no prospects by the time he turned 16 and it shows in the way Jon craves father figures in his life after he leaves Winterfell. Jeor Mormont, Benjen Stark, Mance Rayder, Maester Aemon, Stannis Baratheon I mean the list goes on. The thing is though there are no older women in Jon's life. Not at the Wall and not really in Winterfell either. He and Robb don't seem to take lessons from Septa Mordane and while Old Nan certainly taught him some important stories she doesn't seem to have set a maternal presence in his life.

I'm not saying Catelyn was or should have been Jon's mother because she wasn't and it surely wasn't her job but I do think she subconsciously fills that second parental placeholder in his head next to Ned because he clearly craves one but has no other woman to fill it.

Lord of Winterfell. I could be the Lord of Winterfell. My father's heir. It was not Lord Eddard's face he saw floating before him, though; it was Lady Catelyn's. A Storm of Swords- Jon XII

while this isn't Jon's deciding factor the idea of upsetting her or once again being rejected by her really bothers him, so much so that he can't even go on training with his friends, he has to leave and take a walk all alone. She's also one of the deciding factors when he's deciding whether to take his lifelong vows for the Night's Watch.

By the time the moon was full again, he would be back in Winterfell with his brothers. Your half brothers, a voice inside reminded him. And Lady Stark, who will not welcome you. A Game of Thrones- Jon V

but let's be clear Jon isn't just sitting around waiting for her to hug him. he doesn't like her either.

"Lady Stark is not my mother," Jon reminded him sharply. Tyrion Lannister had been a friend to him. If Lord Eddard was killed, she would be as much to blame as the queen. A Game of Thrones- Jon VII

he blames her for Ned's death just as much as he blames Cersei which is unfair and a bit delusional but childhood resentment will do that to a 15 year old.

So what was Jon and Catelyn's relationship like? Bad. Catelyn and Jon never had a chance. they were failed by the system. women and bastards seem to have a lot in common in Westeros in the sense that their agency is greatly limited. their safety rests on the graces of whatever man has placed their claim on them and this woman and this bastard were vying for the graces of the same man and felt one couldn't have it if the other did too. which is a shame in and of itself because I think they're both better at this game than Ned was.

***Less about their pre-series relationship but Jon and Catelyn have so much in common thematically and politically speaking. I did a parallel of them if you'd like to check it out

#asks #that one girl who really doesn't play about jon and catelyn #Catelyn Tully #Jon Snow #AsoiafMeta #valyrian scrolls #valyrianscrolls

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fruitybashir · 7 months ago

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Did Bojan talk to Martin about the whole... everything? Like I am assuming that he did because it seems like they have quite regular contact when Martin isn't busy (I interpreted it as him having only pretty recently been so busy that he doesn't pick up but maybe he hasn't really talked to Bojan on the phone since he moved so since the beginning of the fic?) so does Martin know anything? Does he know about Bojan's situation with his parents? What does he know about Kris? Did Bojan have anyone to talk about any of this like Kris had Jan?

Basically my question is just what about Martin?

OOF. coming in with the hard questions haha actually not too hard, just long so. under the cut

im gonna do my best to answer all the questions but im going in chronological order like how things happen in the holidate universe:

so from the start, martin has pretty much just left, started the fall semester in the uk or smthn idk i never went to university

and since then hes also been pretty busy. he does try his best to keep in contact with bojan, but it just often doesnt work out bc hes very ambitious with his studies and also meets new people hes being social with, so unfortunately keeping in contact with bojan and the rest falls behind a little bit at first, and then some more

of course thats not the end of their friendship or anything, but for bojan, whos been living with martin up until then and had him around at all times, thats already a pretty hard blow and that loss does contribute to his overall state of mind and struggles in this fic

martin was actually supposed to make an appearance around ch14/15 but i couldnt make the scene fit in like i wanted to so. that didnt happen :/

its not like they never talk though, just not as often as they would like. bojan does tell martin about kris, or at least he tells martin about sleeping with kris and spending lots of time with him and sleeping over, though he frames it as just them having fun etc, similar to how kris pretended in front of jan

theres also a lot of. martin having to give bojan a raincheck or cutting calls short and bojan just saying "oh yeah haha its fine, dont worry about it!" when it actually really stings and makes him feel more alone.

when bojan came out to his parents martin definitely dropped everything he had going on to be on a ten hour video call with bojan to make sure he was okay and also involved jan and jure in it, had them look after bojan etc, basically did everything he could while being half a continent away

bojan does ofc also talk to the others about things, after martin they are his best friends after all, but he never really talked to anyone about his feelings for kris bc he convinced himself that it wasnt a big deal and if he had talked to anyone about it, saying it out loud would have made it too real. as long as its just a fantasy in his head, hes safe from consequences. does that make sense? fears like that often dont, thats the thing.

and anxiety is rarely rational either. so in the week it all went down (him leaving, being distant, going home with the girl) he was just in a constant downward spiral. he knew martin would be able to help so in his mind martin was the only one that could help + he knew from the start that he was hurting kris. jan, nace and jure were also kris' friends so he was probably also scared to bring it up with them bc he was afraid they would "take kris' side" or smthn, idk, again: fear and anxiety clouds your rational thinking like you wouldnt believe

he also has his whole thing of not wanting to be a burden to anyone so when he tries calling martin over and over again and martin maybe texted back "sorry, i was busy, whats up?" bojan didnt want to make martin feel guilty for not picking up and probably just said "dont worry, nothing important" or smthn. and then when jan blew up on him and he broke down at practice and told the others what was going on etc etc etc it was most certainly jan who texted martin and told him like "its really fucking bad, can you please call him? even just a few minutes, but he needs you"

uhhhhhh i forgot where i was going with all of this. i hope its still at least somewhat coherent hskfnd if i forgot smthn just lmk

#inbox #apfel07 #lore #<- ok im making a lore tag

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ollieofthebeholder · 11 months ago

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My website

Chapter 82: June 2017

Gerry can’t sleep. Or maybe more accurately won’t sleep. The flashbacks don’t happen when he’s actually, truly sleeping, but they tend to come on just before he falls asleep—at least he’s never stayed awake after one—and he doesn’t want to risk one, not now. Partly it’s that he doesn’t want to see which memory, his own or someone else’s, Terminus will dredge up for him today. Partly it’s that he doesn’t want to be in the middle of one if—when—someone calls.

He doesn’t know what it’s like from the outside when he goes into one, but the look on Tim’s face when he woke him up that morning tells him it’s probably not a picnic for his boyfriend (bedmate, partner, boytoy, whatever) to witness any more than it is for him to experience them. And this last one was a real whopper, one that left him sick and shaking and feeling like Lady Macbeth—Out, damned spot, out! He doesn’t really want to sleep after that anyway, and Tim not being there makes it worse. He and Melanie—and Sasha, which Gerry can’t decide if that makes it better or worse—are up in Great Yarmouth again, staking out the place they’re sure will be the site of the Unknowing. They haven’t been able to confirm it one way or another, but they’re still trying. Gerry is nervous and anxious about them; it’s not that he doesn’t trust them, although Martin is ninety percent of Melanie’s impulse control, it’s just that he knows the Stranger can be insidious and he worries that it will sneak in where they’re least expecting.

He’s also worried about Martin. Nobody’s heard from him in three days, since he called to ask about Gertrude’s arrest records—and that was news to Gerry, that she’d been caught adding him to the Book—and he would have expected him to at least text and tell Jon what his plans are. Strung out, nervous, and more than a little worried that the Hunters who had the Book last might have heard Martin mention his name and decided to take steps, he finally tried calling shortly after Tim let him know they’d reached Great Yarmouth, only for the phone to ring a few times and then abruptly drop the call. He tried again a few minutes ago and only got the automated intercept message, and texts are going through as undeliverable. Either the international plan provided by the Institute has reached its limit…or something has happened.

Gerry isn’t betting on the plan not being an unlimited one.

So here it is, inching ever closer towards the wee small hours, and he is running out of ways to keep himself awake. He’s tried reading, but the point he’s at in Dracula isn’t helping; he’s tried drawing, but what appears on his canvas is scaring him almost as bad as the flashbacks, and the music he usually listens to makes things worse. About the only things he’s been able to do are smoke and fret, and he’s down to his last cigarette.

He’s starting to get shaky. It’s been a while since he’s…fed, for lack of a better word, and without Tim, Martin, or Melanie there to redirect his attention or hold him accountable, the temptation to go prowl the streets and find something more substantial than the stopgap measures he’s been using is almost too strong. Woodbines are a poor substitute for a human soul—and Gerry is not sure at what point in time that became a normal fucking thing for him to think, but here he is—and he’s already asking himself if Martin would really condemn him if he knew, which is not a good sign for either of them. God, it’s a good thing Melanie isn’t becoming a full-blown avatar of something, because the three of them would be an absolute disaster, regardless of what Fear she found herself bound to.

He paces, and smokes, and frets, and tries calling Martin again, only to get the fucking automatic intercept message. It’s not that late over there, Martin should be able to answer, but he isn’t, which means something is wrong, but there’s nothing he can really do. He still hasn’t got a new passport because he keeps getting the runaround about whether he needs to renew or reapply and it’s honestly not that high on his list of priorities right now, so he can’t exactly go over to America to help. And it’s a big fucking country; even knowing the last place Martin was, there are so many places he could have gone since and so many places he could be. It’s the main reason he’s reluctant to express his worries to anyone else, particularly Jon. He doesn’t doubt for a minute that Jon will go over there and tear the entire country apart with his bare hands if he thinks Martin is in trouble, but Martin will kick Gerry’s ass if he lets him get hurt.

Damn Gertrude. Did she have to be so bloody mysterious all the time? Why couldn’t she have left them a clear, concise folder with all of her plans and provisions laid out in color-coded bullet points, rather than traipsing around the world with her cards so close to her chest they’re practically down her bra and her trust no one attitude that obviously hadn’t served her well at all? Or even left it in a file—or several files—on her laptop? But the team had already scoured her office…

Gerry freezes mid-puff. The Archivist’s office. A conversation he had with Gertrude once pops into his head. He stares off into the distance for a moment, running through his thoughts, then picks up his phone and dials a number.

“I’m breaking into your office,” he says without preamble as soon as the call is picked up.

“Wh…Gerry?” Jon sounds confused and fogged with sleep.

“Yeah.” Gerry backtracks and tries to remember the appropriate social script for calling someone in the middle of the night to get permission to do something that would otherwise be illegal. “Sorry. Hi. It’s Gerry. Didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m going to break into your office.”

There’s a long pause, and a bit of rustling from the other end. “Okay? N-no, wait…there’s security. I think. You—I’ll let you in.”

Gerry decides it’s not worth the argument. “Fine. I’ll meet you there.”

The Underground runs late now, so he’s able to get to the Institute fairly quickly. He doesn’t know if he’s going to beat Jon there or not—he’s still a bit hazy on where exactly he and Martin live these days, so he doesn’t know which train he has to take—but he’s not prepared for Jon to pull into a parking spot right as he walks up.

“I didn’t know you drove,” he says, gesturing at the car.

Jon shrugs. He still doesn’t look like he’s completely awake, but he’s at least functioning. “It’s Tim’s. He didn’t want to be up there in something that could be traced back to him and loaned it to me while they were gone in exchange for—” He stifled a yawn. “—taking them to the train station.”

Which makes sense, at least. Gerry sighs. “Fine. So how do we get in without alerting security?”

Jon leads him around to the side door, unlocks it, and lets him in. The Archives are pitch black and—quite frankly—spooky this late at night, but before Gerry even has time to really get nervous or start wondering if the Dark itself somehow got in, Jon clicks on a torch with a familiarity that tells Gerry he’s done this more than once.

“Come here often, then?” he asks dryly, and then instantly regrets it. Even if Jon wasn’t asexual, he’s dating Martin—although dating is a bit of a mild term to put on the level of commitment, depth of feeling, and amount of pining that goes on between the two of them.

Jon, however, doesn’t seem to notice. “We didn’t always want Elias to know how often we’d been in the tunnels,” he says, a bit distractedly. “It’s this way.”

Gerry trails after Jon to his office, then takes the torch so he can unlock the door. He’s about to start scanning when Jon flips a switch and lights up the room.

It’s…unsettlingly familiar, and yet odd at the same time. Gerry hasn’t been here since coming back to life—he never made it down to the Archives during the attack and hasn’t been back to the Institute since, to keep Elias from knowing he’s alive—and he hasn’t adequately prepared for seeing it. Gertrude was never one for the personal touch, but he remembers the very specific tea mug, the fountain pens, the smart jacket that always hung on the coat rack even though he never saw her wear it, the calendar she claimed she left up despite it being a quarter century out of date because the cat in the picture looked like hers. Now the coat rack is gone, replaced with a flimsy set of shelves bristling with files and a cardigan Gerry recognizes as one Martin made to use up his scrap yarn and gave Melanie as a gag gift tossed casually over some of them. There are no pens or tea mugs to be seen; Jon is seemingly obsessive about keeping his desktop clear. The calendar has been replaced with a more up-to-date one, the dates methodically and precisely crossed off, although the picture is still one of cats. Even the desk is different, a heavy dark walnut that could easily be used as a barricade in a siege.

For a moment, Gerry stares at the office in dismay. Then he shakes it off and turns to Jon. “Since you’re here, I can look through your office, right?”

Jon gestures vaguely at the room. “Knock yourself out.”

Gerry begins going through the desk, even though it’s new; he presumes whatever was in the previous desk would be transferred over, so it’s a chance. In the top drawer he finds the pens—not fountain pens, but not cheap biros either—plus a stamp pad, a bottle of ink, and a pack of what look like statement forms. The next one contains several blank tapes and a jar filled with what appears to be dirt, or possibly ashes. The bottom drawer contains nothing but a spare set of clothing. With a regretful sigh, he shuts the drawer and starts looking through the shelves.

Jon watches him for several minutes, then finally asks, “What are you looking for?”

“Oh.” Gerry sighs, half buried in a stack of files. “I finally remembered…not long before I ended up in the hospital, Gertrude told me that if something got her first…there’s a storage unit on an industrial estate up near Hainault. It’s where she was storing what she had that she reckoned might disrupt the Unknowing, once she pinpointed where it was. She said she rented it under the name Jan Kelly, and hid a key for it somewhere in the Archives.”

Jon blinks. “Oh. Why didn’t you say so? I found that already.”

Gerry straightens too fast and bangs his head on the underside of the shelf. He lets out a string of Italian profanity he learned from Tim and carefully extracts himself, then turns to face Jon. “You what?”

Jon shakes his head and looks embarrassed. “I’m—I’m sorry, I should have asked you sooner, but…”

Gerry takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. “Sorry, my fault, I did kind of wake you up and throw questions at you. Uh, thanks for just helping me without demanding to know what I was doing, though.” That elicits a tiny laugh out of Jon. “You found the storage unit?”

“N-no, no, I found the key,” Jon replies. His eyes go vacant for a second. “It was—early December sometime? Martin and I listened to one of Gertrude’s tapes together…it, your mother was on it, she was telling Gertrude about…the Book.”

Gerry shivers. “I can’t imagine Martin took that well.”

“He didn’t. But at the end of it…your mother gave Gertrude a page out of the Book. She didn’t say who was in it, just that it was in English. And I heard Gertrude…open a floorboard after.” Jon crosses over to a corner of his office, kneels down, and levers up a board; it does in fact give a rather distinctive creak. “This is where her laptop was. And…I also found this.” He holds up a plain, ordinary-looking key.

“That’s it.” Gerry moves closer and takes the key from him, examining it.

Jon puts the board back and gets to his feet. “Near Hainault, you said?”

“Yeah, an industrial site. Not sure which one.”

“Well, there can’t be but so many up there. Come on, then.” Jon turns for the door.

Gerry blinks at him. “What, now?”

Jon turns and looks back at him. “Now that I know it’s there, I don’t think my curiosity will let me wait much longer. And…I’m not sure I can go back to sleep.”

Gerry feels a bit guilty. “I shouldn’t have woken you.”

“Well, regardless, you did. Anyway, if we go now, Elias is less likely to know where we’ve gone. Personally, I’d like to keep him in the dark as much as possible.”

“Fair point,” Gerry admits. “All right. Let’s go.”

Jon gives him his phone to look up storage units in the area while he drives them up to Hainault. Gerry finds two and calls both, without any particularly high hopes. One goes to a voicemail that informs him the office hours are nine AM to five PM, but that access to the units is available year round, which is not helpful. The other, surprisingly, gets an actual human being who seems delighted to have something to disrupt their boring night and happily assures “Mr. Kelly” that his unit is still fully paid up, although only through the end of the month. The kid on the other end even “confirms” the unit number and gives him the access code to the gate, as apparently they’re not actually on site, which is a boon Gerry hasn’t been expecting.

When they reach the unit, Gerry has Jon key in the number—65317—and the gate slowly swings open. Jon finds an unobtrusive spot to park the car, and they begin wandering the rather eerie rows of units. Finally, Gerry stops. “This is it. 1034.”

Jon hands Gerry the key. He fumbles with the lock for a moment, then pops it open and rolls up the metal door. The light from the outside doesn’t provide a lot of illumination, but it enables him to spy a cord dangling from the ceiling, which he pulls. A light clicks on overhead.

Jon almost drops the torch. “Good Lord.”

It’s…cluttered isn’t the word. Everything is neatly stacked and, if not organized, at least put in relatively orderly rows. But it’s crowded, and Gerry is suddenly thankful they didn’t bring Martin, who would likely be feeling more than a little claustrophobic, especially after Gerry shepherds Jon in and rolls the door down behind them—not, however, before pocketing the lock, just in case.

“That’s Gertrude.” Gerry sighs. “If something’s worth doing, it’s worth…searching through a couple dozen unmarked cardboard boxes for.”

“Did she give you any hint of what it might be we’re looking for?” Jon asks. “Other than ‘something to disrupt the Unknowing’?”

Gerry shakes his head. “She said she’d show me when we got back to London. Mind you, she had this weird look in her eyes, like it was some kind of joke.”

“Was it?”

“Probably not. She didn’t make jokes.”

Jon goes quiet for a moment, looking around the storage unit. Gerry figures he’s trying to figure out where to start until he asks, very softly, “Do you think she knew? That, that you weren’t likely to make it back to London alive?”

Gerry…honestly hasn’t considered that question before. “I-I mean…not exactly? She couldn’t have Known. Not like that. The future, it’s—anyone who tells you they can see the future, for certain anyway, is lying. There are…probabilities, sure, but everything we’ve ever found that has to do with fortune-telling or, or predictions or whatever, it’s been Web-aligned. Someone once said the only two things the Eye can’t See are what might have been and what might be.”

“Who told you that?”

“Genuinely, can’t remember. I was a little kid and they weren’t talking to me.” Gerry doesn’t even remember who the person was talking to, either, but he’s not going to say that. “Anyway, Gertrude might’ve known I was sick. I kept having headaches, real bad ones, but she always said I’d be fine. I just…assumed she Knew it wasn’t all that bad, but looking back on it, she probably didn’t want to waste energy on something like that, not when she was focused on clowns and skin-stealing monsters and saving the world. She was never one to treat one life as more important than that.”

Jon exhales heavily. “She sounds like a delightful person.”

Gerry shrugs. “She had her moments. Most of the time, though, yeah, she frustrated me. Anyway, let’s…see what’s here.”

They begin searching through the stacks and boxes. Jon finds a few paintings with the eyes cut out; Gerry finds a box full of dolls that have also had their eyes removed. Something about that tickles at the back of his mind, but he—perhaps unwisely—ignores it and keeps searching. There are a number of shredded newspapers, too, but Gerry can’t tell if they are—or were—important, or if they’re just there for packing.

An exclamation from Jon draws his attention, and he whips around. “What? You found something?”

“I—I don’t know. It’s…” Jon gestures helplessly. “I found a book.”

Instantly, Gerry is at Jon’s side, staring down at it. It’s a notebook, or appears to be one from the outside, which…isn’t necessarily comforting. One of the nastiest books he’s ever picked up for his mother was ostensibly a mimeographed recipe book bound with a plastic comb, the kind put together and sold by Ladies’ Auxiliaries to raise money for a new sanctuary roof or something. He pokes at it gently, but the book, thankfully, doesn’t respond.

“I…Gertrude wouldn’t have kept it here if it was dangerous,” he says, a little uncertainly.

“Unless she thought it would stop the Unknowing,” Jon points out.

“Tell you what.” Gerry hands Jon his lighter. “Stand back. And be ready with that if I start screaming.”

He waits until Jon backs away, then gingerly lifts the book out of the box, where it’s nestled between several empty glass frames and a moth-eaten scarf. Holding his breath, he slowly opens the cover, then sighs in relief when he sees what’s inside. “It’s okay. It’s Gertrude’s handwriting.”

Jon relaxes and comes closer again. “What does she have to say?”

“Absobloodylutely nothing useful,” Gerry grumbles, angling the notebook so Jon can see as he flicks through the pages. Names, locations, dates, none of them with any meaning as far as he can see. “We can take it with us, but I doubt it’s going to give us anything helpful.”

“You never know. I-it might have something.” Jon takes the book from Gerry and sets it somewhere obvious they won’t lose it, hopefully. “There were dates. Maybe we can match them with statements.”

“That’s a thought,” Gerry admits. “But it’s likely not what she meant.”

“No,” Jon agrees. “We should keep looking.”

Gerry resumes his search. Frankly, it looks like an old woman’s storage unit, filled with things she doesn’t want or need anymore. He’s frowning down at a box of what appears to be dusty old lace, about to reach into it and pull something out, when Jon asks in a voice that sounds very much like he doesn’t want to ask it, “Have you…heard from Martin?”

Gerry straightens and turns to look at Jon, who is studiously avoiding him, but also not really looking all that hard—more scuffling through the boxes pretending to look busy. He doesn’t want to answer him, but does, reluctantly. “No. Not since you said he’d called. I—I tried to call him earlier, and it didn’t go through.”

“So did I. I was hoping…” Jon shakes his head. “He’s, he’ll be fine. He promised.”

Gerry doesn’t point out that he made a promise, too, and that it took a deal with the devil to even partially fulfill it. “Martin’s tough. I’m sure he’ll be all right. Probably he’s just in a dead zone or something.”

Jon’s head comes up in alarm, and then he suddenly relaxes. “Oh, you mean…l-like a cell phone dead zone.”

“Yeah. Martin’s alive. I’d know if he wasn’t.” Gerry taps his left temple. Jon probably can’t see the streak of white there—Gerry’s careful to arrange his hair to keep it hidden—but he can never seem to cover it up with dye, no matter how he tries.

“That’s…oddly comforting.” Jon sighs and goes back to furricking through the boxes, but at least this time he seems less upset.

Gerry turns to look in another box and frowns. “Now why in the hell would she have a box of…mangy fur scraps?”

Instantly, Jon is at his side, snatching the scrap from beneath his fingers. He turns it over, a look of mingled disgust and upset on his face. “It’s a gorilla skin.”

“Are those even legal?”

“It was from the fourth century.” Jon stares at the scrap of skin, then lets it fall back into the pile. “Orsinov was looking for it. She…she wanted to ‘wear it to dance the world new.’”

A chill runs down Gerry’s spine. “Fuck. It was her costume for the Unknowing.”

Jon gives a single nod. “And in its absence…she needs something powerful.”

“Like the skin of an Archivist. Well, that does it, you’re not allowed to spend a minute alone until Martin gets back.” Gerry scowls at the box, then folds the top closed. “Maybe not even then, but that’s up to him.”

“What if they try for him again?” Jon holds up his hands, backs towards Gerry, showing him the raised scars and chapped edges. “I’m…not in good condition, but…”

“I can’t do anything for him,” Gerry says. “Except protect you.”

Jon slumps and turns away. Something seems to catch his eye, and he moves towards it. Curious, Gerry follows him over to a hard case, dull black with brushed nickel clasps. It could be something simple, like a typewriter or a record player, something left over from Gertrude’s childhood…but he doesn’t say anything, just watches as Jon undoes the buckles and lifts the lid slowly. Both of them stare at the contents for a long time, then look up at each other.

Gerry’s the one to finally break the silence in the end. “Yep. That’ll do it.”

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#gerard keay #jonathan sims #worry #smoking #references to addiction #mention of hospitals #mention of illness

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i-will-change-this-someday · 2 years ago

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Okay, so this has been bothering me for a while now, and I haven’t seen anyone else say it; so I’m going to put an opinion out there and say that Martin and Melanie annoyed me in MAG 199.

(This is also a bit of an analysis of the episode.)

(just so you know, this is very long.)

So first of I should say that I 100% agree with Jon, that they should have trapped The Fears in their world; so just know I’m probably being, at least a bit, biased about it. (not saying killing the world is good)

I think the best way to do this is to start from the beginning of the episode and work my way through it, giving criticism as I go.

It starts with them avoiding the question until Georgie decides they need to talk about it; this is just a minor nitpick, and maybe I misunderstood what he was saying, but Martin says this:

Then later he goes on to say this:

So which is it, Martin? Is it up to Jon or not?

Anyway, then there’s this little exchange:

I know why Martin is so against it, but this just seems a bit obstinate; like I get it, he’s scared of Jon losing himself to The Eye, but you really want to go with The Web’s plan? You know, The Web, the manifestation of manipulation, the malevolent Fear entity, that Web? You want to go with that plan? Really?

And at least Martin has the excuse of caring about Jon, but Melanie? Why is she so against Jon’s plan? Is it really just because she hates him that much? The only possible reason I can think could be that she thinks that Jon will be selfish and prolong others suffering because she knew that he once hid the fact that he took Statements from random people, but even then, I don’t think even Melanie hates him that much.(Considering the fact that she didn’t actually think he murdered anyone, I don’t think she hates him as much as she says)

Next up, Georgie’s trying to talk out all their options and asks Jon about how The Fears will get out:

Martin is, once again, being obstinate here; he is out right refusing to even consider Jon’s plan, making any excuse to go with The Web’s plan.

Georgie reiterates their options so far:

Martin, you just said thousands of worlds don’t matter “cosmically speaking” by your own logic they should keep The Fears contained; because if thousands of worlds aren’t “even a drop in the bucket” then their world is hardly even a molecule.

Melanie’s in denial or something, because any reality with The Fears, even if it never gets to full blown apocalypse, is doomed; did she forget all the horrible things happening in their world before the apocalypse?

They have the little blame conversation, then Georgie gets to the third option:

Martin’s just agreeing to any option that Jon doesn’t take over the panopticon; he doesn’t care if their world dies or a thousand others do, he just doesn’t want Jon to go to the panopticon.

Then they consider the morality of five people deciding the fate of the world, leading to this conversation:

Despite what Martin says, yes, he is okay with thousands more suffering where he can’t hear; the excuse of saying it’ll be like before the apocalypse makes it sound like their world was good before. Their world was full of horrors before, where people could get eaten by monsters just for having bad luck, and Martin’s okay with giving that to thousands of other worlds.

I’ll put the rest of this conversation in before I continue:

I put (mostly) the whole thing because I wanted the full context, this is the main thing I wanted to talk about; so they're debating if their world is The Fears original world or not. Would killing them here kill them for good? yes, and if they thought it over longer they would have realized it; Melanie and Martin are arguing that The Fears were in their world for centuries before they managed a ritual, but now it knows how to make a successful ritual and escape it. what's to stop it from preforming a ritual, waiting for it to start running dry, then leaving to a new reality? (I say "it" because The Fears are one entity [kinda] with The Web as it's brain)

Melanie is victim-blaming thousands of other people to justify sending The fears to them; "if a apocalypse happens to them it's their fault they couldn't outsmart the embodiment of manipulation, so lets follow said embodiment of manipulation's plan, yeah?

(As a side note, one thing that confuses me is why they think The Fears can go to so many worlds, do they mean at once? Will The Fears multiply? Because how would they get to multiple worlds at once, they need to be together, that's why the rituals never worked, it had to be all of them. I always assumed it meant it could hop from one world and then the next when that one got dry. [like a spider on a web, it can travel between each point, but it can't be everywhere at once])

Jon puts the idea of killing the world faster out there:

No, they'll actually have less of a chance, cause now The Web knows what to do. Basira doesn't want to hear Jon justify killing their world but will justify sending the same circumstances to thousands of other worlds.

That's basically the end of the discussion, next is Georgie talking to Jon:

At the very least, Georgie knew that Jon wasn't going to follow the plan. I don't think it's a coincidence that she takes the lighter and immediately follows with an apology; Also she admits Jon couldn't outsmart The Web and it led to the apocalypse, but still goes along with it's plan. (Maybe she just accepts they shouldn't bother trying to outsmart it.)

and now to Martin and Jon's conversation

I kinda do Martin.

(Others have talked about Martin crushing Jon's flowershop/barista fantasy, so I'm not going to talk about it.)

Martin just annoys me in this scene to be honest "well, Jon, you promised not to do anything stupid; oh, and look, here's a plan given to us on silver platter by, none other than, The Web, you know, the one who caused this and traumatized you since you were 8, yeah lets do that. Don't worry Jon, we'll fix this...pass it on? Don't be silly Jon, I'm sure The Web gave us this plan out of the goodness of it's nonexistent heart."

Anyways I'll wrap this up in a minute, but first, one last thing:

I've seen others say this, but why would Martin killing Jonah stop Jon from taking his place? Especially if Jon's standing 10 feet away; if the idea is that whoever kills Jonah will take his place then Martin would just become the very thing he thinks Jon will turn into. And if you think it's because Martin's not tied to The Eye, you'd be wrong, Martin being tied to The Eye is the whole reason Peter wanted Martin to kill Jonah in season 4. If anyone should kill Jonah, it'd be Georgie because she's the only one not tied to The Eye.

Now, just to be clear, I'm not saying that any of this is bad; I just haven't seen anyone talk about it. I'm not saying that the others were wrong for choosing The Web's plan, (ok, maybe I am a little) it's not like I have to decide the fate of my, and many other's, world(s).

I just feel like I've seen a lot of people hold the other characters up on a pedestal while Jon's idea is regarded as the worse possible thing out there (again, not saying his idea was good, just the best out of bad options.)

And just so you know, I'm not saying Martin is selfish for wanting Jon to be safe, I'm mostly just annoyed that he hides it under the guise of caring about humanity (No, I'm not saying he doesn't care about humanity, just that he'd rather "save" Jon than consider the consequences of releasing The Fears) and most people take it at face value.

I have a lot more I could say about the morality of all the characters, but that's another post, if you actually read this whole thing, then congratulations, for sitting through my very long, hopefully intelligible, post. (I'd love to hear what your thoughts are on the episode [or this post])

#Again this is just MY opinion #feel free to disagree #if anything I said was unclear just ask me and I'll try to clarify what I meant #the magnus archives #Jonathan Sims #Martin Blackwood #Basira Hussain #Georgie Barker #Melanie King #MAG 199 #Jonah Magnus #I spent way too long on this #but I love thinking about all the moral questions in this show #there's also a lot I could say about this (and many other) fandom(s) that annoys me #but that would probably be painting a target on my back #might do it anyway though #My Post

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year ago

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Jonah - a Magnus Archives fic

An AU Somewhere Else - part of the Magnus Monsterverse series.

Spoilers for the whole podcast.

He’d spent decades floating, chanting the terrors of the terrorized in iambic meter, a repeated buh-DAH pulsing like a literal beating heart, and somehow I knew that the Eye didn’t do that on purpose, but that was Jonah’s wish.

Because he was a dramatic, overclocked asshole who had to make everything a show.

The desire to just… fall upon this floating, ruined, filthy man and tear him to pieces, to bite into him and rip into him and leave him in bloodied screaming shreds, scared me very badly.

AO3

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The Alps was about as vague a location as it was possible to get.

The mountains stretched over eight countries and nearly 1,200 kilometers. A massive orobiome covering 200 habitats, nearly 5,000 combined species of plants, birds, flowers, and animals, it had rivers and valleys, glaciers and peaks, and the only reason I knew we were in Austria was because I… knew.

We were deep in the mountains themselves, hidden in stone, gently swathed in bedrock. She’d made the place somehow… cozy? No plants or anything, but there were beanbag chairs and colorful throws. I caught scents of baked cookies, and vintage jazz piped from somewhere down the hall.

She walked at speed, having opened the portal right at the start of this bizarre, white structure in the middle of a mountain, and I guessed she might want to show it off.

I had to jog to follow her.

“Sorry to rush you,” Manuela said, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of a fifty-year-old poster with an animated, misshapen horse and human girl galloping along a rainbow. “But these things swing into position rarely enough as it is.”

“I’d love a little more explanation.”

She sighed, taking a right—and suddenly we were away from any pretense of cozy. Here were the blinding whites, the sterile smells, various doors with stenciled numbers on them and tiny windows, all manner of little keypads with glowing buttons. “So… think of it like a… a baby’s cot mobile? Sort of?”

“Worlds dangling on strings to entertain the still-developing?” I drawled.

“Right, lousy example,” she said, and took a left.

At last, we encountered security. She used a palm print, an eye-scan, and a keycard for each successive door, and I couldn’t help but notice that she tapped something on a keypad after each one, as well (telling the system I was friendly, at least for this individual trip, the Eye informed me).

This hall felt… weird. Hot? Not hot. Radiation? I knew. “Why are we being bombarded with actual galactic cosmic rays?”

“We’re both immune to them,” says Manuela.

“Are you sure?” I say, my voice cracking.

“Completely. And it’s happening because… well, come and see.”

The weight of the mountain atop us was beginning to frighten me. I could feel it, approximately 21,4285,714.2857 stone above and around us, and—

Approximately? Very funny, Eye. “Do… do you bring everyone through here?” I said.

“No, most of them couldn’t handle the radiation very well,” she said. “But it’s nice to be able to show someone.”

“I will need to do something with my clothes before returning to Martin,” I said firmly.

“Oh, he’d be fine.”

“He… he would?” Why didn’t I know that?

“He’s immune to this, too, so yes.”

“How?”

“Later, all right? We’re in a rush.” She turned one last time, led me through one last door, and we were basically on the bridge of the Enterprise. (I was proud of myself for making that connection.)

Three levels, sort of stadium style. Chairs, bolted to the floor, each before a currently unoccupied control panel, lights blinking. The front wall was one enormous metal panel, which I knew slid down to reveal… “What is that?” I whispered.

Manuela smiled. “Welcome to reality.” And with all due grandeur, the metal panel moved.

The air sucked out of the room. I didn’t need to breathe; and right now, neither did she—she’d manifested some kind of other atmosphere around herself and around me in a bubble, a weird cut-out glimpse of blue sky and butterflies and green grass, and I stared at her before gawking at the reality she dared to show me.

It was like an orrery, but this was no model. No wires. No strings. Only worlds.

Worlds within worlds, overlapping each other. Doubled, tripled, sometimes halved, smoothly sweeping by in an orbit so huge I struggled to comprehend it, if “orbit” was even the word. Each world was not alone; each one mimicked itself, mirrored, twisting that reflection into variations until it was impossible to tell which was original and which was not.

(The Eye knew. The Eye could delineate them for me, and I suddenly saw which worlds were ended, which worlds were not, which worlds had been ruined by one of the Fears, which worlds had—)

“There’s your Martin’s,” said Maneula, and I looked.

Indeed. A quiet, mist-wreathed world, gray; supernaturally so, because even as it was, it should have reflected blue. It was empty. Looking at it made my stomach ache, as if I hadn’t eaten in days. Then it swept past and was gone.

“How many are there?” I blurted.

“Hundreds,” said Manuela. “But more to the point, they’re either not all ready for rescue, or the avatar in question died, or their cycle—as I call it—doesn’t come into range of my abilities very often.”

“And… this Jonah…” My stomach ached for another reason.

“He’s ready.”

I shook. I couldn’t seem to stop shaking. “I’m… not sure I…”

Manuela sighed. “Look. I’ll be square with you, okay? We have ninety seconds until his world swings into my reach, and yes, I’m going to grab him.”

My teeth chattered. I didn’t give them permission to do that. (How the hell do eyeballs chatter, anyway?)

“This was originally Leitner’s idea,” she said, which was not surprising. “He wants us all to get along, and from what Martin told us of your particular tale, this one… is a hurdle.”

“You don’t say.” I couldn’t help how I sounded, so dry, so dismissive, so mean.

She didn’t take it personally. “This isn’t your Jonah. This Jonah is practically a child. He was twenty-three years old when he became a full avatar of the Eye, and twenty-nine when he ended the world.”

Younger than I’d been.

I can’t… process that. “How did it happen? How did all of these happen? They’re supposed to be able to bring in all the Fears, have all the marks. So how did it happen?”

She looked so surprised. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? You heard me! How, statistically, could all of them have the same—”

“Here he comes,” she interrupted. “I need you, Jon. We have to do this together.”

I did not have words for how little I wanted this. “Manuela!”

A world swung into view. So much closer than the others, filling the screen and filling my—

Everything

The whole world, WATCHED

Oh… oh, the Eye liked this one, yes It did (though not as much as me), and was so disappointed it had ended so soon.

It fed on him there. Fed through him, forcing him to know all the terrible things that ever were and to re-live them for Its happiness, because It loved his screams and his tears and his torment and

I…

This was not what had happened to me.

“Steady,” said Manuela. “Steady.”

I didn’t want to see.

I had to see.

She opened.

Herself, her entire being like a mouth, split down the middle.

Inside her were stars, eternal and unending.

I gasped, saw to the end of everything, knew what she contained inside herself even though she did not, and she

reached

Through.

The man who floated from his dead world was and was not the one I had known, and the eagerness of the Eye for us to get along almost hurt my heart, or whatever giant eyeball stood in for it.

He was… in rags, in clothes that barely looked like anything now, but I caught a memory of what it had been—a high waist and puffed chest, an almost feminine silhouette by modern standards, fluttery fullness at the sleeve caps that guaranteed eye-catching movement with every gesticulation. The tailcoat, waistcoat, and long trousers had cut him a fine figure, classy and contemporary for his time.

And then he’d ended the world, and clothes ceased to matter.

Because he was a dramatic, overclocked asshole who had to make everything a show.

The desire to just… fall upon this floating, ruined, filthy man and tear him to pieces, to bite into him and rip into him and leave him in bloodied screaming shreds, scared me very badly.

I hated him. I hated him. I would have killed him in my world if we’d made it to the Panopticon together. I would have done what I did in Martin’s timeline. I would have stabbed him until he died.

(And that was… frightening, because now it made me question how many other versions of me really were me, just with different opportunities given.)

“Easy,” said Manuela, her voice coming from far away and right here at the same time.

Before of all the control panels (and whom were those for, what did they do, why were they here, if necessary why unstaffed, why—) was a simple rectangle I now realize was a table. I saw no restraints.

It turned out she needed no restraints.

She lay him down without touching him, exhaled heavily as though she’d been carrying a great burden (with which we can all agree), and then came back together into one, seamless Manuela, whole and panting.

The world we’d taken him from slid away and was gone. Empty, now; it was empty. Anything of the Fears left there would starve.

(Or find Hill Top Road and go elsewhere, I presumed, but I had no time to analyze that now.)

Jonah Magnus lay on the table, looking nothing at all like Elias Bouchard.

Elias had been a pleasant-looking, well-kept middle-aged man. Dignified; he’d looked like someone who’d come from money, whose family had bred for it, who’d lived his whole damn life with spa days, or whatever the hell the rich did with themselves.

This man was pretty, and I wanted to tear off his face for it.

Of course, he wasn’t pretty now. If this was anything like the way I’d looked when I’d been rescued, I could see why Martin had not known who I was for certain.

He was encrusted. Tangles of hair like rope hung heavily from his head. His nails had curlicued, his beard had matted, his clothes had disintegrated; every inch of exposed skin was blackened, covered in muck, and half of what remained of his outfit was covered in mold.

But I knew what he had been.

Pale. Like someone who spent all his time indoors, reading. Surprisingly blond hair (I could not picture Elias as anything but authoritarian salt-and-pepper), all of which was kept just long enough to curl playfully. A tease. A mouth that smiled easily, clever blue eyes that focused, made one feel heard, properly listened to, and now stared wide without comprehension. Pink lips. Why did he have pink lips?

He had not looked dangerous. That was the key, wasn’t it, to all of this? He’d even dressed to ensure he had not; no one could guess he was secretly shitty, reading their minds, spying on their most private thoughts, leveraging their hidden shame and hidden terror to drive them to madness or violence or death.

Wickedness could only hide for so long under a false flesh elegance, and I could see it all.

He was gasping now, gaze darting everywhere.

“Jonah,” said Manuela. “Jonah, do you hear me?”

Behind us, the door opened, and Sasha came in at a jog. “Sorry I’m late! Oh, you’ve already got him, good! Hi, Jon.”

I swallowed, staring at Jonah. Resisting. If I popped off now, I knew I’d endanger my own life here. My time with Martin. I couldn’t do that.

“You sure this was a good idea?” Manuela muttered to Sasha.

“Yes. He’s going to be just fine. It’s important for them both, anyway.”

“Both?”

“That one never knew Jonathan Sims, but… well. From what you said, he thinks he’s the bee’s knees, right?”

Manuela snorted. “From what I can tell, he thinks he’s the Ceaseless Watcher’s best beloved.”

Well. I could definitely fix that.

(Was I really going to leverage my unwanted favored status with a god made of fear to hurt this horrible man’s feelings? Yes. Yes, I was.)

Sasha and Manuela both leaned over him now. “Jonah? Do you hear me, Jonah?” said Sasha.

His rolling eyes, mad-cow-wide, fixed on her.

Then he started screaming.

This didn’t seem to be unexpected. Whatever Manuela had in place here kept him down, and he couldn’t flail, get up, run, anything; the odor of him had reached me by now—the sour, rotten smell of a body unwashed in decades—and I knew that he smelled himself, too, and didn’t know what it was any more than he knew where he was, and that lack of knowledge frightened.

Good. I wanted him frightened.

But the Eye wasn’t done, and I’d let too much of It in to get all the information I had today, and so I knew the Eye liked him (Why? I whined at It), and I knew, too, his ruined regret.

Knew that after he’d found a way to tear the Veil (the what?) and create the world he thought would be so grand, that after the people he so loved to watch all began to die, that after it all went as wrong as he fully deserved it to, he finally experienced through brute force a thing he’d never known all his life: agony belonging to other people.

He had no empathy. Had never known it. Like Mike Crew, simply did not have the ability to feel what others went through, and so it only made sense to look out for himself and nobody else, and so that’s what he’d done—studying, reading, worshiping (for whatever value of that word), giving his fear and other people’s to the Eye he’d chosen to follow, and when he’d torn the Veil (there was that word again) and made a new world, he thought he’d finally be happy forever.

He wasn’t.

His world survived for twenty-two years before everyone died.

The first fifteen years alone, being eaten, he couldn’t understand why. He’d done it all right; why did he have to feel badly? As though, unlike him, the people he’d sacrificed had somehow deserved it—which he’d thought because they were less smart than he, less talented than he, just less.

The next five years alone, being eaten, he knew he’d fucked up. Miscalculated. Hadn’t considered what could happen if everyone finally died and only he remained.

The next thirty-eight years were spent in a cycle of terror, completely absorbed by the lives It pushed through him, forcing him into a conduit he was never meant to be, utterly overwhelming himself.

He’d suffered.

He didn’t fully understand why he’d suffered—he blamed miscalculation, not his own horrible decisions.

I hated him. I wanted him hurting. I…

Damn. Stop it, I said, because I did not want to feel this. Don’t… SHOW me this! I said, because seeing him sob and writhe for year after year wasn’t pleasing, not to me, because I bloody well did have empathy, and it was horrible to watch.

I wanted him punished, yes, but this was not that. This was torture. It wasn’t the same.

He’d screamed himself out, straining so hard that he’d sweated through some of the grime on his skin (and how the hell he still even had moisture in his body was wild to consider—I could clearly see he wasn’t made of eyes), and he was weeping now, like a stupid little boy.

“We’ve got you. You’re safe,” Sasha kept saying.

“Calm down. You’re all right,” said Manuela.

And he wept (good), and he shuddered (better), and he did not understand which was his biggest fear of all (best), and then he glanced beyond them and laid eyes on me.

He froze with a gasp.

My teeth chattered. I clenched my jaw to stop it. There were no emotions for this. For all of this. None. Satisfaction, guilt over that, hatred, a sadism I disliked to find in myself, a tiny bit of horror because I know this kindness had been done for me and I deserved it no more than he did, confusion that Martin would love me when this monster and I were so much the same, terrified anticipation as to what would happen next—

“God?” he said to me, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out, drooling.

Oh, for the love of hell.

“Finally,” said Sasha. “That first nap took a while.”

“The first one always does. Jon was what, a week plus?”

“Yes, but we expected weirdness with him,” said Sasha. “A thousand years? Pfft.”

“Ahem,” I said. “I am right here.”

“Did you just say, ‘ahem?’”

Men made of eyes could redden, and I did. “Shut up.”

“Sorry,” said Sasha, who was not.

“So what do you think?” said Manuela to me.

Sasha gave her a dry look.

“Think,” I repeated.

“Salvageable?” said Manuela cheerfully, because she was a little bit of a sociopath herself, wasn’t she, because this was all really great fun to make work right, wasn’t it, and she did not share my horror.

Sasha at least had a look of understanding and pity. “You don’t have to pronounce anything right now, of course.”

“Why are you asking me?” I said, evenly, my tone so hard it hurt my throat.

“Because next to you, he’s been in it the longest, and… well, you have a history,” said Manuela. “We want this to work. We need you to work together, at least by choice. He’ll be important as we fight the hunters, as we figure out how to prevent the Fears from taking this world.”

“Stopping rituals, all of that?” I said too casually.

“Not exactly,” said Sasha. “We—”

“What’s the Veil?” I said.

They stared at me. Looked at each other.

Sasha laughed. “Oh, Jon, I missed you.”

“How… who did you…” Manuela started.

“He’s Eye.”

“That doesn’t matter. He can’t know that. An eye can’t see itself.”

“What?” I said.

“Later,” said Manuela.

“Look,” I said. “I’m getting such a huge pile of things to talk about later that it’s threatening to tumble forward off the folding table and all over the gods-damned floor.”

They stared at me again, and then both of them laughed.

I wish I knew why. I wish I could see this as unserious as they seemed to. I wish I could share the freedom to laugh in the middle of this horror, their confidence it would all be all right.

Sasha came to me while Manuela fussed over Jonah, using some kind of tool to begin removing his clothes. “Hey,” said Sasha. “I’m sorry. You know so much, and you’re so familiar to me, it… well. It’s hard to keep track sometimes what you don’t already know.”

“Or what I’m not supposed to know?” I snapped.

“How about, ‘What we don’t want to overwhelm you with?’ Nobody’s hiding it all, Jon. You could just know everything, anyway.”

“Not without a cost,” I murmured.

“Right. But that’s part of the reason why you’re running around a free man. We know you won’t do that. Won’t sacrifice the world again.”

“No,” I agreed. “I will not.”

“So, trust me. We’re going at a pace that’s been proven workable through countless people in your exact circumstance. If we just poured it all onto you, you’d miss things, or be unable to properly grapple with them, or jump to the wrong conclusions, or just… shut down.”

“You’ve seen all those, have you?”

“Me.” She shrugged. “I was the first they rescued. They dumped it all on me. Jon, you don’t want that. I lost my mind for a full year.”

I stared at her. “What?”

“They… they still took care of me. Even though I was shrieking and… look. You’ll get it all, I promise. We just… your body may be really weird, but you are still you—your mind is very much human. Your emotions. Your heart. We’re trying not to hurt you.”

I dearly wanted to believe her.

I almost did. It seemed to me the reasons to believe and disbelieve were… somewhat balanced.

Emotionally, I wanted to just go off, demand information, learn it all. But that particular choice had never worked out very well for me, had it? People died because of that choice. People were sacrificed, blown up, eaten.

Maybe I had to exercise some patience to avoid doing that again.

“I don’t like this,” I said.

“I know. Right, well. Are you willing to be there when he wakes up?”

I snorted. “He thinks I’m God, or something. No.”

“I really think it’ll help his adjustment if you’re around.”

Martin hadn’t given up on me, and I had not deserved that grace.

Damn it. I sighed. “When he’s awake and in his right mind, we’ll talk. I can’t… I won’t be there the way Martin was for me when I was out of my mind. I can’t, Sasha. I can’t. I’ll throttle him, or something.”

She snorted. “‘Throttle?’ Really?”

“What?”

“All right, Mister Nineteen-Forty-Two,” she said. “Go on home. Steel yourself. This is just being part of a community, Jon—people aren’t perfect, but they still need help.”

“Some people are monsters who should be put down,” slipped out.

She just looked at me.

I looked away. “I know I’m being a hypocrite. Just let me have this right now.”

“I trust you. You’ll work through it.” She patted my shoulder and returned to Manuela. “Let’s get him transported.”

“Right,” said Manuela, who’d put his sliced-off clothing in small, floating containers and shipped them off somewhere. (Why? The mold? To study some kind of spore we didn’t have here? Was that safe?)

“Behind you,” said Manuela.

I turned. Lo, there was a portal for me, and through it, I could see Martin’s front door.

I leaped through without a word, unable to avoid the rudeness. I needed to be with Martin, press my face against him, maybe pull him on top of me like a quilt, and hide from everything for a while.

#tma #tma fic #tma au #tma spoilers #magnus monsterverse #jonah magnus #jonathan sims #sasha james #manuela dominguez #magpod #magnuspod

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voraciousvore · 1 year ago

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Big Corp Inc. (13/43)

Chapter 13: Pit of Vipers

Candy hummed happily as she danced back and forth in front of her keyboard and typed. She was in a great mood, and oblivious to the stares she got from the vipers slithering past her desk, back in the hazardous pit that comprised her corner of the office. Ronny was immensely disappointed to see her so carefree. He thought being trapped in the refrigerator would’ve broken her. He figured he’d have to get more creative with his tortures next time. Perhaps someone had rescued her too quickly for her confinement to have affected her. He retreated to his cubicle to sulk and plot his next move. In his twisted quest for revenge, he wanted this human to be as miserable as his ex-wife made him when she left to be with a human.

Mr. Hardon was also disappointed. Candy was dressed immaculately in her proper work attire, right down to her shoes. He didn’t have an excuse to “punish” her or exchange services for favors. He wasn’t in the mood for such things anyways, since he was cranky and sleepy and it was Monday. Mr. Hardon hated Mondays because the CEO had a tendency to schedule tons of meetings on Monday, so he’d be stuck upstairs for most of the day, rubbing shoulders with the other big wigs in the company.

He wondered if he could get away with sneaking Candy with him into one of those meetings. He could slip her into his pocket... or his pants. He liked that idea a lot. Normally those meetings were boring enough to put him to sleep, but they’d be a lot more interesting with a cute tiny woman bouncing on his hard dick under the table and fondling his testicles. However, he’d need her to be quiet and obedient so she wouldn’t be noticed. The way she was now, she’d probably be yowling and screaming through the whole meeting. He couldn’t brute force her cooperation for something like that. He needed a threat to hold over her or bribe her with, something strong enough to make her do what he wanted. He’d find her weakness eventually, and exploit it. He was determined.

Candy knew nothing of the vile thoughts of the Giant men around her, like vipers poised to strike on a hapless mouse, and so continued to work in blissful ignorance. She hoped secretly that maybe Martin would pay her a visit at her desk. Martin, in the meantime, was tucked away in his own cubicle, typing as usual. Unbeknownst to Candy, he was thinking about her too, but mostly about how mortified he was about eating her alive in his sandwich. He believed he should rectify his error and make it up to her somehow, but he doubted she would want anything to do with him after being inside his stomach. She had probably seen far more of him than she ever wanted to.

He considered, with a twisting feeling in his gut, she might even be afraid of him. She had acted sweet and sociable after he threw her up, but that was hardly a natural reaction to her ordeal, was it? Maybe she was, in reality, terrified of him, and at the time was trying to pacify him by pretending to be nice so he wouldn’t eat her again. He hated that thought. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her or harm her. The more he contemplated this possibility, though, the more it made sense to him, and the concept began to calcify in his mind as fact. He had never once seen her use the human elevator, even though his desk was right across from it. He reasoned, consequently, she must be going out of her way to avoid him.

He still wondered how in the world she ended up in his sandwich to begin with. He hadn’t given the matter much thought at the time, with how frantic he had been to save her life, but he couldn’t see how it was possible. She couldn’t open the fridge door on her own or climb up that high onto the shelf. He realized, with dread, that one of the Giants in the office probably forced her into the sandwich as an act of cruelty. How long had she been trapped in the fridge? She had likely been too cold to move. Poor little human. He felt a pang of sadness at the brutality she had suffered. And then he had come along and made everything so much worse for her by ingesting her whole. How could she not resent him after what he had done to her? On top of everything, she still had to work here, with Giants who could easily grab her and chomp her up like a delicious snack. He hunched over in his chair with shame and guilt, holding his head in his hands, feeling like a big beast of a man. He should just leave her alone; that would be best for her.

The lunch hour rolled around, and Martin got up from his chair to grab his food. This time, he was extra careful and checked every bite of his meal, making sure there were no humans hiding inside. He felt silly, and maybe a bit paranoid, but he figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Candy tasted great and all, but that didn’t mean he wanted to inadvertently eat her again.

At around the same time, Candy decided it was time for her to visit the break room, despite the risks involved. She was determined to see Martin again, and hopefully develop their relationship further. She assumed, as long as she didn’t get caught by Ronny or crawl into any Giant food, she’d be reasonably safe. She rode the capsule launcher down to the floor from her desk and surreptitiously scurried from cubicle to cubicle on the long way there. She gave Ronny a wide berth; fortunately, he didn’t catch sight of her as he drank his coffee at his desk and munched on a bag of chips.

When Candy finally reached Martin’s gargantuan cubicle, she was disheartened to find his chair empty. She had traveled all this way just to catch a glimpse of him, or maybe even talk to him, and he wasn’t there. She ventured onward to the break room. At the very least, she could heat up her lunch she brought. As she neared, she saw a pair of Giant shiny black shoes that she recognized clomping towards her. Her eyes drifted skyward to behold her handsome crush, Martin, looming above her. Due to her position far below on the ground, he hadn’t spotted her yet. She seized the opportunity.

“Hi, Martin!” she called up to him, flashing him a gregarious smile and waving her hand enthusiastically to grab his attention. He glanced down and stopped in his tracks, the toe of his massive shoe hovering over the ground just in front of Candy, above her head. His stormy eyes widened as he recognized her. His heart jumped up into his throat. His face, all the way up to the roots of his dark hair, turned beet red. He realized, if she hadn’t said anything, he might have stepped on her by accident. Just by existing, being his huge, stupid, clumsy Giant self, he was a hazard to her. Another wave of guilt and humiliation washed over him.

He didn’t know what to do. Candy’s face fell a bit and her hand lowered to her side as the time dragged out and he stared at her dumbly, overcome with his own emotions and social awkwardness. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He opened his mouth and stuttered something incoherent, then sidestepped Candy and rushed off. She looked after him with confusion as he hurried away. Instead of returning to his desk, he left to go hide in the bathroom, his heart pumping intensely. He ran his hands through his hair, splashed some cold water on his face, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. What was wrong with him?

He had feelings inside him he wasn’t sure were proper. Realistically, after consuming the human and nearly squashing her underfoot, he should stay away from Candy. He was a danger to her. And yet... goodness was she cute. Absolutely precious, with her effervescent personality, pearlescent smile, long luscious hair, and lovely figure, like a perfect little doll. And so tiny... so helpless... he wanted to just scoop her up in his big hands and hold her and protect her from the evils in the office.

He had to remind himself that she was likely terrified of him. He was a big monstrous Giant and she was a teeny human. He had devoured her alive, for crying out loud. She was so delicious too. His mouth watered as the recollection of her divine caramel sweetness surfaced in his mind. He knew his thoughts were so wrong, and lustful, and gluttonous, but he wanted to press her up to his lips, slide her through them, play with her body on his tongue, and perhaps even swallow her. The thought filled him with horror. He truly was a monster. He needed to stay away from her, at all costs.

Once he regained his composure, he exited out of the bathroom and slunk over to his cubicle in shame. He watched the area around his feet very carefully with each step. He recognized the irony with morbid amusement that he was almost as scared at running into her as she probably was of him. He made it to his cubicle without intersecting anyone’s path and sighed as he settled into his chair. He needed to let it go, forget about her. He let out another heavy breath and got back to work.

Candy was upset, watching Martin run off like that. She didn’t understand his reaction at all. He acted almost as if he were afraid of her, but that made no sense, with him being a Giant and her a human. Was he disgusted by her, after eating her? She hoped not. He claimed that she tasted good, but maybe he was just being polite. Candy felt very sad, all of a sudden. She had imagined there might be a spark there, but maybe she was wrong. After eating her lunch, she trudged the long distance back to her cubicle morosely. Martin had returned to his own desk, typing away, but this time she passed without saying anything, looking up longingly at his huge back, as tall as a mountain, as she walked by.

She made it to her cubicle and used the capsule launcher to get back onto her desk. She blocked out her surroundings and threw herself into her work to distract herself from her sad disappointment. She was grateful, at least, that Mr. Hardon had been gone most of the day. However, there was one factor she didn’t take into consideration. While the boss was himself a significant threat to her person, his surveillance from his office kept Ronny in check.

Ronny, stewing in his cubicle all day, had come up with a great, nasty idea, one he couldn’t wait to implement. He bided his time, waiting for the end of the day to near, but not so far along that the boss would be back. He crept out of his cubicle and slithered over to Candy’s, trying to be as quiet as possible. Despite his massive size, he was able to pad over silently, without shaking the ground under his weight too much. Candy, focused on her work, failed to notice his approach until it was too late.

She turned around and let out a gasp of alarm before Ronny flicked her in the forehead with his finger. He made sure not to use too much force, since he just wanted to knock her out, not crack her skull. She stumbled back and fell onto her keyboard, out cold. Ronny smirked and coiled his fingers around her limp body, lifting her up to his face to examine her briefly. A fat, livid welt was starting to form on her forehead, but she was otherwise unharmed.

He furtively glanced around, to make sure nobody was observing him, before slinking into the boss’s office. Mr. Hardon’s laptop bag was propped up against the side of his desk. Ronny opened the bag and stashed Candy’s unconscious form in one of the inner pockets, where she wouldn’t get smashed by his laptop. He zipped the bag up so she wouldn’t be able to climb out. He snickered to himself under his breath for his devious, brilliant plan. He was banking on the boss not finding her in his bag until he was back at his domicile. He wouldn’t be able to resist doing something to her, in the privacy of his own home, when he had her there all night with him, with her powerless to resist his advances. Ronny couldn’t imagine a worse torment for her than that!

Chapter 14

First Chapter

#g/t writing #g/t #giant/tiny #giant #tiny #size difference #g/t fluff #giant tiny #big corp inc

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adamwatchesmovies · 6 months ago

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Sleeping with the Enemy (1991)

Say what you will about a film like Friday the 13th Part III, but at least it has no delusions of grandeur. Sleeping with the Enemy has this veneer of class with Julia Roberts as its lead actress but the abusive husband might as well be Jason Voorhees. At the end of the day, this movie has nothing to say about domestic abuse. It’s just a thinly written thriller that takes forever to get to the point.

Laura Burney (Roberts) lives in a beautiful home by the beach with her rich and handsome husband, Martin (Patrick Bergin). You’d never guess it from a first look, but she lives in perpetual fear. Martin is abusive, manipulative, cruel, and paranoid. After faking her death and escaping from the prison that is her marriage, Laura starts a new life. She even befriends a sexy drama teacher named Ben (Kevin Anderson) but wherever she goes, she cannot escape the feeling that Martin is not far behind…

The problem with this film isn’t the subject matter. Yes, it’s about a topic that makes you feel icky but anyone who says that art or movies needs to be “nice” is wrong. The important thing is for a movie like this to generate emotions like nervousness, hope and fear. That’s what it aims to do and unfortunately, it fails. As soon as you figure out that Martin is abusive - which takes no time at all - and that Laura fears him - which only takes a few moments longer - you know she’s going to run away from him. Now, all you can do is sit and wait. When is she going to enact her plan? How much longer until she gets away?

Think you’re out of the trenches once Laura fakes her death? You’re wrong - but you knew that already. Martin is presented as so evil, so obsessive, so resourceful you realize it’s only a matter of time before he shows up again, at which point the question you constantly ask is “When is Martin showing up again?”

In another movie, those questions might transform into white-knuckle nervousness and thrills. To achieve this, the movie would only need to offer you something else, a sort of emotional break to let your nerves recover so the stakes can be raised once more. Director Joseph Ruben attempts this by giving us a romance between Laura and Ben. Too bad every scene with the handsome replacement husband are nothings compared to Bergin’s ridiculous performance. Well, no. Maybe it’s not his performance. It’s the screenplay. Martin isn’t able to track down Laura because he’s good at what he does; he begins closing in on her because the planet is populated entirely by idiots. The man is 80% evil, 20% charming, which makes him more handsome than Freddy Krueger, but less likable. I don’t know what kind of old folk’s home leaves a blind woman alone with someone she’s never met, particularly when this someone has been asking a lot of suspicious, very angry questions to the staff - maybe Laura didn’t like her mom that much after all if she picked that place. In the name of "tension", Martin is free to go around doing whatever he wants. Hiding in the back of cars for hours so he can threaten people at gunpoint, gaining people's trust even from those who notice the unusual bruises all over Laura’s body, and getting information about anyone - as if it’s as easy as getting a chocolate bar from a dispenser in the lobby. He’s such a one-dimensional creep it might distract you from the fact that Ben is sort of a creep too! The dude sneaks into Laura’s house unannounced even after she’s told him how scared she was of the previous man she was involved with. What a moron!

Don’t get me wrong. Even if this picture starred nobodies, Sleeping with the Enemy still wouldn’t be any good. Because it stars the ever-charming Roberts (who I say does an ok job here but recovers from her traumas way, way too quickly), I have to dock extra points. This movie has the power to convince you that it IS good, classy, etc. It isn't. Don't get fooled. (June 10, 2022)

#Sleeping with the Enemy #Movies #films #movie reviews #film reviews #Joseph Ruben #Ronald Bass #Julia Roberts #Patrick Bergin #Kevin Anderson #1991 movies #1991 films

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rajanilefreak · 1 year ago

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Dark!Jon could just be a Jon that found out about how impossible it is to leave the institute along with the way to successfully do it very early on and decided to go through with it, only for the typical kidnapping Jon stuff to happen but with the Dark and him already being blind, being more susceptible to it.

On another note, Dark!Jon and Spiral!Martin plot sort of aligns a bit. If Martin never was in the Archives, by the time S3 hits Jon doesn't really have much to hold onto in the institute. Sasha is dead and Tim hates him and I don't think he is too friendly with the other people there and if he knew of a way to leave for good he probably would have so long as he felt like he would have time to adapt to the blindness.

And now I'm imagining Spiral!Martin and Dark!Jon meeting. Dark!Jon is too blind to be deceived by any visual illusions and probably to experienced at sifting truth from lies by voice tone alone for the same reason But the fact that he isn't an Eye also means that he isn't a direct threat to the Spiral. In fact, the Dark can also lie a bit, thinking about it. it does conceal monsters in it's shadows and pretends it doesn't or it pretends that there's something hidden there and it might not actually be.

I'm now going full creative mode imagining Spiral!Martin noticing this dude all in black and wanting to mess with him and bring some color to him because black is too dull (no, of course it's not because he's cute!) and Dark!Jon being unphased by those shenanigans which only makes Martin try harder because it's not like he has much else going on and Jon's deadpan retorts are funny and after a lot of shenanigans they begin to mellow out to each other.

Maybe if the Dark becomes too demanding Jon might ask martin to stay in his corridors (if he has some) for a while because of the whole time dilation thing it has going on and maybe if Martin gets chased around by an Eye he could ask Jon to conceal him in darkness.

On a side note, it would be interesting what sort of things that could come out of joining spiral powers with dark powers to scare people.

Do you have any designs for a stranger!Tim?

I didn't at first but this made me start thinking about alternate fears and design!!!

So I imagined that since they found pieces of Tim after the unknowing I thought, "what if the Stranger put him back together again like a broken doll?" So I went with some dynamic porcelain doll/ball joint doll designs!

I also thought a Spiral Martin would be really cool. Cause in canon Martin is really good at lying which is a big thing for the Distortion, but in the podcast its more Spider aligned since he doesn't exactly enjoy lying and just uses it for manipulation. However I thought what if he never got the job at the institute and had to continue lying before eventually becoming numb/nihilistic to it and eventually just starts enjoying the lies. I get big Jobu Tupaki and Cheshire Cat vibes from him.

And as for Dark Jon, I don't really have any thoughts on him, @the-lantern-lights just wanted to see my take on a design for him.

These don't have any aus for them but I do enjoy them quite a bit!!!

#tma #tma fanart

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imthebadguyyy · 3 years ago

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Hi. This is mine request

Y/n is a teammate of max verstappen, they are in a relationship, y/n crashes and max is worried about her, and he is gonna visit her in the hospital, and when she is released he takes care of her, with a lott of fluff thanks

You Scared Me To Death !

Pairing - Max Verstappen x Reader

Fandom - F1

Summary - When you get hurt, Max realizes just how much you mean to him.

Warnings - mentions of injury, fire, explosion, violence, angst, crash details.

75 laps. That's all that you had to do. Drive for 75 laps. The Bahrain Grand Prix had always been one of your favourite races of the year, and you were so excited. But that excitement had soon ebbed away, after you had missed qualifying because your car wasn't ready for the quali session. The RedBull mechanics had apologised and you had brushed them off, buy you would be lying if you said you weren't angry. It hadn't helped when your teammate and boyfriend Max qualified P1, beating the Mercedes by mere tenths of a second. You had swallowed your hurt and congratulated Max, forcing yourself to feel happy for him.

All it had done was made you determined to win the race tomorrow, even if you had to fight 19 other drivers to do so. Starting P20 on the grid sucked big time, but as Martin Brundle said, "If anyone can fight back from the back of the grid to the podium places, its Y/N L/N" and you had done it before, at the German GP the previous year, fighting back from P19 to P3, winning Driver of The Day as well.

But this race was different. There was a building intensity in the air, you felt it in the air around you. You felt tense and nervous, and you were never nervous. It scared you, but you were going to be damned if you let it show on your face. In your drivers room, you paced back and forth, trying desperately to stop your hands from shaking. Was this what anxiety felt like? you wondered, shaking your head as your heart started hammering against your chest. Far to consumed in your own panicked thoughts, you didn't see your boyfriend walk up to your door, and open it to walk inside.

Max walked into your room, expecting to see you vibing to some R&B music, or something by Rihanna. But you weren't. You were pacing, your brow furrowed and he could see the irregular rise and fall of your chest. He walked up behind you silently, before wrapping his arms around your waist, like he normally did. What he wasn't expecting was your reaction. Usually, you would giggle and let your head fall onto his shoulder, and he would kiss your neck and you two would share a moment. But not this time. This time, you jumped, and nearly fell over onto your bed. "Woah schtaje ! It's just me' he said, eyes softening in concern. "I'm sorry I didn't see you and I shouldn't have jumped, I'm sorry I'm just so klutzy today and I'm also so nervous I-" your nervous rambling was cut off by a pair of warm lip pressing onto your own, as Max's hands cupped your face, instantly calming down your nerves.

You stayed like that for a moment, before pulling away softly, and letting him press his forehead down to yours, fingers gently tracing patterns on your hip. "Why are you nervous mijn geliefde ?" he asked, as he moved his lips to your neck, pressing little kisses along the sensitive skin. "I don't know" you confessed, tilting your head back to give him more access to the expanse of skin, while he stopped at a pulse point to suck at the soft skin, earning. soft moan from you. "Then stop stressing" he mumbled against your neck, word muffling against your skin. "I can't" you replied, struggling to keep the lump in your throat fro growing. "Well," Max said, biting down onto your neck and licking the spot to soothe it, 'Let me help you calm down"

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

20 seconds to lights out.

Your heart was thumping so hard against your chest. God, were your hands always so clammy? Was the car always so stuffy ? Was the space always so confined? Was your helmet always that tight?

Your thoughts were muddled. You knew your goal. It was simple. Get to the podium. Except, right now, that goal seemed somewhat impossible. Before you knew, the first red light was flashing, and then the second, and the third and the fourth and the fifth, and then it was 'lights out and away we go!' you sped off, immediately overtaking Magnussen in the car ahead of you. Then, you overtook one of the Williams, but you could feel your breath wavering, and your heart threatening just burst out of your chest. And before you knew it, you were overtaking Giovinazzi in his Alfa Romeo, and the sight of Grosjean's Haas came into view, "And it looks like L/N has already taken over 4 places, making her P16, and we are on lap 2 of 75! It looks like we're going to see her on the podium after, all, but all we can do is wait and see- and oh! that's a terrible, terrible crash!"

It happened so fast. One moment, you were going round the outside of the Haas, and the next the back of the Haas was hitting your front, sending you crashing into one of the barriers, your car spinning a full 360 in the process. The impact as you crashed into the barriers was so intense, you felt yourself blackout for a few seconds.

"That was a horrible crash, between, the RedBull of Y/N L/N and the Haas, I believe of Romain Grosjean. This race has been red flagged and -oh no!' The cry summed it up. Your car had just burst into flames.

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

In P1, Max was unaware of the chaos at the back, until he looked in his rear mirrors to see something enveloping into a ball of fire. "Holy shit, whose car is that?" he asked, watching as the flames grew higher. "Um.. Max, I need you to stay calm, but its Y/N" "Are you fucking serious?!" his angry voice burst through his race engineer's headphones, making him flinch. "Is she okay?! Tell me she's okay, damn it!' "Max, I need you to come into the pit lane. We have no information on her yet. Come into the pit lane"

As the 18 other cars came into the pitman, everyone knew better than to park in the way of an anxious Max Verstappen. He jumped out of the car, running to the garage upto Christian, who was watching the screen with his eyebrow furrowed. "Is she alright? Tell me she got out?! Did she get out?!" he was practically spitting the words out, and his engineer and his trainer had to physically restrain him from going to shake Christian. "She hasn't got out yet Max, but the fire Marshalls and the medical guys are there-" "What do you mean she hasn't got out? verdomme, blijf hier niet zitten! doe iets!!"

As his race engineer manoeuvred him to his chair, he yelled at whoever was around, eyes desperately searching to screen for some sign that you were still alive. Outside the RedBull garage, the other drivers were pooling around the garage for some sign that Y/N was okay. The panic had been evident in all their radios.

Charles - "Fuck, fuck, fuck, who was that? Y/N?! Tell me she's okay!"

Carlos - "Joder, ¿quién era ese?" I just saw the car go into flames, tell me they got out okay.

Lewis - oh shit, that was a big crash, fucking hell, is she okay?

Checo- oh no, that was a big one, I hope everyone is okay!

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

Back in the car, you felt dazed. Since when was the track this hot, and since when when was your car red ? Were you driving for Ferrari ? No, you drove for RedBull, alongside Max. Your boyfriend Max. Why wasn't he here?

And why did you feel like you were sitting in a sauna? As you begain to regain your consciousness, you felt a searing pain on your hands, and finally clearing the fogginess of your mind, you became fully aware of what was happening. This was your RedBull car. But it was on fire. Almost instantly, your body went into survival mode, ripping the half burnt straps holding your body down, and forcing your limbs to stand up. Looking down you could see your racing gloves glow before they seemed to disintegrate into black dust before your eyes, the flames licking your hands. A scream started in your chest, only to be jammed in your throat, as you opened your mouth to gasp. Big mistake.

The smoke filled your mouth and lungs, and you choked, clawing at your race suit, begging some higher power to help you. Finally, using some courage and adrenaline you didn't know you had, you pulled your body up, bare hands coming in contact with searing hot metal, as your eyes filled with tears of pain. As you jumped out of the car, you became vaguely aware of 3 or 4 people signaling and screaming at you. Too exhausted to even think, you used whatever remaining adrenaline you had to stumble to the barrier and collapse into the first pair of arms.

"Can you hear me? Are you okay? Can you tell me if you're hurt?" The questions were hurled at you from all directions, but you couldn't speak. The head marshall walked up, bracing your body, and checking for injuries. In a hurried voice he asked for the stretcher, but you shook your head. The exhaustion was setting in but you knew you had to let the others know you were okay. But he insisted, and you found yourself sitting on the stretcher instead of lying down, as a medic gently removed your helmet and peeled off the remaining burnt glove, and pressed some ice gently against your burn. Mustering up your remaining strength, you turned to one of the broadcasting cameras and flashed them a tight smile and a thumbs up.

"And as you can see, she has managed to get out of the wreckage, by God's miracle. Thank God she's walked away from that, but how, I cannot comprehend! She went barelling into the barrier and burst into flames and she walked out alive! And I can hear the cheers of the RedBull team, and I think her race engineer is in tears. I can't begin to imagine how Max Verstappen must be feeling"

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

Max Verstappen wasn't sure how he was feeling either. He had felt fear, anger, anxiety, more fear, devastation and dread in the longest 15 minutes of his life. But you were alive. And he felt like breaking down, but he had to be strong for you. He watched your tired form on the screen, feeling giddy with relief, and ignoring the others around him, he ran to the medical hospitality center. No one stopped him.

As the white building came into sight, he heaved a sigh of relief as Michael Masi appeared in front of the cameras to give the anxious fans an update. "Y/N is alright. She's currently in recovery, and I can inform you that she is okay. She has minor burns on her hands, and is exhausted, but she will be okay. 2 weeks healing time for the burns, and some proper rest should be fine for her. That's all I know, and I would ask the media, press, social media fans, and others to give her the time she needs to cope and recover. What she has been through is traumatizing and I hope you will respect her privacy at this time. Thank you"

Seeing his hesitation, the nurse turned to the driver, "It's okay. She's fine now. She's on some painkillers and I've cleaned her burns and dressed them. She will be fine, and you can hug her or whatever you want, she won't be hurt. I've kept some painkillers on the table, she should take some again in 2 hours or so" All Max could do was nod, suddenly feeling a lump grow in his throat. With a smile in your direction, the nurse walked out of the room, leaving you alone with Max.

Max turned to nod at the race director, before hurrying through the brown door that led to the medical room you were in. When he walked in, his entire body relaxed. You were alive and safe. Seeing you sitting up in bed, a bottle of water by your side as a nurse wrapped your burnt hand in a white bandage. Looking, your tired eyes met his blue ones, as a tired smile made his way to your face. "Y/N",he said breathily, "Thank God you're alive" he said, practically running over to you, but he stopped himself from hugging, unsure of if it would hurt you.

"Hey baby". All it took was two words for him to rush towards you, gently wrapping his arms around your form, burying his head in the crook of your neck, as a gasping sob left his mouth, and you could have sworn you felt your heart shatter. "I'm okay baby, I'm okay. I'm not going anywhere, and I'm okay" your mantra of "I'm okay" was soothing, as he sobbed into your shoulder. "I thought I'd lost you, you scared me to death!" "I know my love but I'm here and I'm okay" "I thought you were gone. When I saw the flames behind me I didn't even know it was you in the car. When they told me it was you I swear my fucking heart stopped, and all I could do was pray to whatever higher power exists to save you, because I'm nothing without you. If you hadn't made it, I wouldn't survive. You make me better, you help me love, and you let me heal. I love you, and I never, ever want to see you in a situation like that again"

"I love you too" you said, your eyes filling with tears as you listened to him speak. "I love you too" you repeated, gently lifting his chin so his eyes could meet yours, his tear stained cheeks and red eyes breaking your heart, as you tilted your lips to meet his. He returned the kiss with desperation, he needed even more proof that you were alive, and feeling your lips on his were a reminder that you were alive and weren't going anywhere. He kissed you with fervour, hands moving to your hair, one cupping your cheek as his thumb traced your cheekbone, your hands clutching his broad chest.

"Ouch" the soft cry made you two break apart, as you rubbed your stinging hands. "Did I hurt you?" He said, his eyes filling with worry. "No its just the burn. It'll be fine" you replied, shifting in your bed and patting the spot next to you. After a moments hesitation, he climbed in, raising the sterile white sheet and tucking the both of you in. You snuggled up to him, arms wrapping around him as you rested your head on his chest. He rested his chin on your head, one hand running through your hair, the other keeping you stable on his chest. Within seconds, you were asleep.

Looking down at your sleeping form, his eyes lingered on the white bandage covering your burn, his eyes filling again as it stood out against your skin. He hated it. It was a reminder that you had nearly died. He had nearly lost you. His train of thought was cut off by his phone ringing, his mum's caller ID flashing across the screen.

"Hi mum" "Is she okay?" His greeting was pushed aside, his mom far too concerned about Y/N. "Yes she's alright now. She's sleeping now, Yeah I'm with her now" "Y/N's mom is with me too, I'll let her know she's okay" "Thanks mum" "Don't forget to rest as well Max" his mum said, knowing full well that her son would forget about taking care of himself when it came to his love. "I will"

And he cut the line. He looked down at you one more time, pressing his lips to your forehead, and swearing to himself that he would protect you for all his life. He let his eyes close, the exhaustion finally getting to him, all his adrenaline and energy draining out his body, and finally content that you were going to be okay, he let his eyes close.

You were going to be okay.

#f1 #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #f1 imagines #f1 imagine #f1 drivers x reader #f1 x you #f1 x reader #max verstappen x y/n

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iceeckos12 · 3 years ago

Text

A time travel au. angst and h/c. inspired by this post

Warnings: jon’s very low self-esteem

“What do you think of him?” Jon suddenly asks, staring blankly at the wall of the breakroom.

Tim pauses in the middle of chewing his sandwich to give him a long, considering look.

He’s mostly decided to suspend his disbelief until further notice, simply to keep from losing his mind. What else is one supposed to do when future versions of Jon and Martin, who are also apparently dating, tell you that your workplace is currently involved in a plot to end the world? Ideally he would’ve processed one big revelation at a time, but apparently they don’t have time for that, so goodbye grip on reality, it was nice knowing you. I’ll hit the restart button as soon as things start making sense again.

Tim wipes his hand across his mouth, swallows, and asks, “You mean Jon II?”

Jon rolls his eyes, like Tim’s being obtuse on purpose just to annoy him. “Yes, I mean...him. Me. Jon II.” Then his nose wrinkles amusingly, the same way it always does whenever he says the moniker. He’s hated it since the beginning, but it was a battle he quickly lost, what with all three of his assistants opposing him.

Normally, Tim wouldn’t have thought twice about shrugging and answering, but...Jon’s been uncharacteristically quiet lately. Oh sure, he’d blushed up a storm upon learning that his future self and Martin were dating, and he’d expressed his own misgivings at the beginning, but...since then he’s been eerily, silently watchful. In Tim’s experience, when presented with this sort of puzzle Jon generally buries himself in research, and doesn’t emerge until he’s good and ready to do so.

There’s something else on his mind.

So Tim puts down his sandwich and gives himself a moment to think carefully through his response. “I mean...he’s a lot like you, obviously. But he seems…” What’s a polite way to say, the trauma and the boyfriend seems to have made him a little more easygoing? He certainly smiles more freely than he ever has, which...honestly, makes Tim want to cry sometimes. How horrible, that so much abject cruelty had just made him more kind. “...tired. A little less high-strung?”

“I see,” Jon says, turning his mulish gaze to his curry, dragging his spoon through the thick sauce.

Tim waits a beat longer, but when nothing else seems forthcoming he prompts, “Why do you ask?”

Jon’s reaction is only to press his lips into a thin, tight line. Tim knows this mood; he’s weighing how insecure he’ll look if he says whatever’s actually bothering him out loud, versus how much he wants someone else to hear it. Pushing him now will only make him clam up, so Tim just waits.

Tim’s patience is rewarded when Jon blurts, “But you like him. You...you all do.”

“Yes,” Tim says slowly, because it’s true. Martin’s so enamoured with a Jon that actually likes him that he keeps bringing him tea just to get another glimpse of that gentle, thankful smile, just to strike up another conversation about nothing. Sasha has decided that he’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to her, and insists on consulting him whenever she reads a new true statement.

Tim’s personally a little unnerved by the awful, sad way future Jon looks at him sometimes, or the way he flinches back whenever someone tries to touch him without warning. But he’d taken Tim aside and quietly explained everything he knew about what happened to Danny, so.

Oh, Tim thinks, feeling like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. Jon may be an old hand at fooling others with his grumpy persona, but Tim knows that he’s just using it to hide his massive inferiority complex. “Wait, are you jealous?”

Jon ducks his head, and his ears darken. Gotcha, Tim thinks.

“Jon, you know that that’s still you, right?” he explains gently, quietly relieved that it’s not something more complicated. “We like him just as much as we like you, because you’re the same person.”

“But he’s not the same, is he?” Jon protests. “Look at the scars on his neck, on his hand. And he has panic attacks, and he flinches at loud noises, and, and—”

He breaks off, biting down hard on his lip, threading a hand through his hair.

Tim stares at him, feeling off-kilter, like he missed a step coming down the stairs. That doesn’t sound like jealousy. “...Jon?”

Jon shakes his head, his breath escaping him in thready, devastated gasps.

He can’t tell what’s going on in Jon’s head, and it’s starting to scare him. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Jon just sits there for a moment long, tugging at his hair, staring sightlessly at the middle distance. Tim gently untangles his fingers, giving him something a little more solid to hold onto.

“You all like him,” he says at last. “You all...he’s so kind, and he’s funny, and you like him, because someone hurt him first. He’s different—we’re different—because someone cut our throat and burned our hand, and you like him better.”

Tim’s horrified. “Jon—”

“Should I accept that?” he continues, the words flooding from him like a dam finally exploding in a shower of groaning wood and weathered stone. “Do I—how do I carry on knowing that I could be the person I want to become, if only I give myself to monstrosity, if only I let myself be hurt like that?”

“Of course we’re not going to let that happen to you!” Tim interrupts, voice higher and more frightened than he meant it to be. He’s applying duct tape to a raging river. He has no fucking idea how to fix this. “You don’t deserve—”

“Don’t I?” Jon demands, whirling on him, eyes flashing. “Don’t I deserve to be happy? Or am I unworthy of even this kind of improvement? Am I doomed to be like this forever?” Tears well in his eyes, spill over. “Don’t I deserve it?”

And then he slowly, inevitably, dissolves into tears, his slim shoulders shaking as he curls over and buries his face in his elbow. Tim drapes an arm across his back, angling his body so he can gently tuck Jon’s head against his shoulder. He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. Even if Jon were in any shape to hear it, he has no idea how to fix this.

Tim could tell him that he and Martin and Sasha all think that he’s fine the way he is, and it’s the stress of an apparently eldritch job that’s causing him to push people away, but he doubts Jon would believe it. Words mean nothing when actions have been screaming something entirely different all this time, and Jon’s always been more observant than they give him credit for.

“Oh, Jon,” he whispers when the tears finally start to slow, dropping a kiss onto silver and black hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you felt that way.”

Jon pulls away and shrugs, averting his reddened eyes. Tim squeezes his elbow to prevent him from retreating entirely. They sit like that for a moment, Jon going very still and very tense under Tim’s hand, settling into the vulnerability like an open wound.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says finally, sniffing heavily. He’s aiming for his usual brusque, dry tone, but his voice is shaking, and he’s not fooling anyone. “That was unprofessional of me.”

Before Tim can stop himself, an incredulous laugh rips out of him. “Jon,” he says quickly, “We’re well beyond professional. You know that, right? You don’t have to hide from me.”

Jon flushes. “Yes, well—it was unfair for me to put this on you, as your fr—as…” His expression goes all fragile and uncertain, and Tim’s heart aches.

“It’s not unfair,” Tim corrects gently. “As your friend,” and here he pauses for emphasis, “I want to know when you’re feeling like this.”

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, then straightens and scrubs the teartracks from his cheeks. “Oh.”

Tim nods reassuringly, takes a deep breath, and makes an educated guess. “I know you’re scared, Jon. We all are. This place is...horrible, and seeing what you went through is...terrifying. I can’t imagine how that must be for you.” He lets his eyes flicker up. Jon’s still watching him, rapt, and good, good. I haven’t lost him. “I won’t deny that he’s getting along with Sasha and Martin quite well, but...but that’s not because of what he—you—went through. It’s because….right now, you’re pushing people away because you’re scared, but he’s already done that. He knows that pushing people away just means you end up alone. It doesn’t mean he’s a better person, just that he’s a little wiser.”

“But how can you be sure?” Jon asks, leaning forward, eyes big and desperate.

“I mean, I wouldn’t have become your friend if I didn’t like you,” Tim admits unashamedly.

His bold honesty is rewarded by Jon flushing and ducking his head.

“But even so,” he continues, sobering, “Even if you were the worst person on the planet—and you’re not—you wouldn’t deserve to be hurt like that, no matter what the outcome. Does that make sense?”

Jon looks thoughtful as he says, “I—yes. Yes, that makes sense.”

He can tell though, that Jon doesn’t quite believe him. That’s okay—honestly, it’s what he was expecting. Tim’s been running headfirst into the wall that is Jon’s terrible self-esteem for as long as they’ve been friends. This problem is going to take more than one half-assed pep talk.

That’s okay, though. Jon’s worth the effort.

#tma #my writing #iceeckos12 writes

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ghostbustermelanieking · 3 years ago

Note

For the AU-Jon wakes up from his coma before Martin accepts Peter's offer?

1. Oliver Banks comes sooner. No one knows why it happens this way, but this is the way it happens, and it mostly goes the same. Georgie shows up, Oliver leaves, and Jon starts to breathe again. It all just happens earlier.

Basira doesn’t tell Martin right away, when Georgie shows up. He’s taken this whole thing so hard, and it might be nothing, it might be nothing at all. She resolves to call him as soon as they have more details—when she has a hold on the whole situation.

2. This happens only two days after Peter has made his offer. He gave Martin a few days to “think it over,” and Martin still hasn’t come to a clear decision. (He thinks that the decision should be obvious—should be—but he isn’t that brave, and he’s never been the hero, and the decision seems impossibly stupid at times, and what if—what if Jon wakes up?)

Peter’s offer is still sitting like a stone in his mind, and he’s halfway considering visiting Jon, for some grasp at clarity—or maybe an attempt to say goodbye—when Basira texts, tells him to come to the hospital. She doesn’t offer many more details besides that, and Martin is out of the Institute and in a cab before there is even time to consider what this might mean. He halfway wants to call Basira up and press for information. The thing that sticks in his mind—the thing he thinks it must be—is that Jon is dead. Jon has finally died, and Basira’s called him there to say goodbye—and that just makes him want to press Basira even more, to demand answers, because what if he’s heading to the hospital with even a glimmer of hope and it turns out to be the exact opposite…

(Or what if—what if he’s awake? What if he’s alive?)

Martin doesn’t let himself hope. Doesn’t know how to. He keeps going over the possibilities—He’s probably dead, or worse—keeps reapproaching Peter’s plan—If Jon’s dead, I’ll have to take it, it’s the least I can do for the others, what will I have keeping me here then… He goes straight to the hospital, and up to Jon’s floor—the nurses know him, and wave him on through—down the halls to Jon’s familiar room, to Jon’s door, all the while bracing himself for bad news.

3. Basira is waiting by the door, and she looks up when Martin comes down the hall. “What’s happened?” Martin snaps, immediately. “What’s going on? Is he—” His throat closes at the prospect of finishing that sentence; he can’t do it, can’t say it…

Basira’s expression is closed off enough that Martin can’t read it, can’t tell if it’s bad news. But then she says, “He’s awake,” and the force of it is like a gut punch, nearly bending Martin in half. His hand immediately shoots for the door, and Basira puts an arm out as if to stop him. “Martin. It isn’t what you think.”

“What is it, then?” Martin snaps, and he yanks the door open, the word pushing out of his mouth entirely of his own accord—”Jon…”

Jon is awake. Jon is sitting up in bed, with a crumpled statement in his lap, and a tape recorder running on the side table, and Martin can’t breathe. Jon looks almost exactly the same as he has for months now, except that he’s awake and alive and looking at Martin. “Martin?” he says—a lot of emotions crammed into this one word—and Martin doesn’t know what to say, can’t get past the reality of Jon actually saying his name.

“Martin, you’re… here,” Jon says, quietly, the statement crumpling in his hand. “I-I didn’t know if… you’re all right?”

Martin starts to cross the room slowly, to the chair he’s more or less grown accustomed to sitting in when he’s visited. He hasn’t said anything yet—hasn’t found the words—and Jon is still talking. “I wasn’t sure if… y-your plan, Elias, Basira hasn’t… hasn’t filled me in, and I… you’re all right? You aren’t hurt, are you? Martin?”

Martin shakes his head numbly as he sits. Looks down at the bed and almost reaches for Jon’s hand—a long running habit, this isn’t his first visit, they’ve become as routine as anything—but he stops himself. He doesn’t know if Jon would want that. Maybe Jon never would have wanted that.

“You, er,” Jon begins, stops. He takes a slow breath, and his voice sounds remarkably well put-together, even after months of disuse. “It’s, uh. It’s good to see you here, Martin.”

Martin chokes a little. “Jon?” he says—he isn’t sure he has the words for anything else—and he looks up, and Jon is looking back at him—something unreadable in his eyes, something almost like affection, maybe—and one of them, or maybe both of them, move before Martin even knows what is happening. Martin jerks forward, and so does Jon, and then they’re embracing, leaning over the bed, Jon’s fingers digging into Martin’s shoulders, Jon’s heart thudding in his chest—Martin can feel it now. And he doesn’t bother to stop himself from crying anymore. He just holds onto Jon—Jon, awake, Jon, alive, Jon's head on his shoulder—and keeps telling himself, over and over again, that it’s all okay, it can all be okay now.

4. Jon ends up staying with Martin. It makes sense—Jon doesn’t have a flat, and neither do the others—Basira and Melanie have been living in the Archives, and Georgie hasn’t said anything to either of them since the hospital (Martin has still never met her). But Martin still has a flat. And Jon deserves better than a cot, after months of hospital beds, so Martin offers to let him stay, and Jon agrees.

The marvel of it is too much—after months of quiet in the Archives, months of growing apart from Melanie and Basira, months of isolation and feeling lost, months of Jon being asleep… the reality of Jon standing in his kitchen, Jon drinking tea at his dining room table, is genuinely overwhelming. There’s a dozen things Martin wants to say without knowing if he should, a dozen things he wants to explain. Basira filled him in on most of the important things, but they haven’t gotten a chance to talk about any of them, and there’s even more things Martin wants to say, if he knew how to say them. He wants to talk to Jon about how much he’s missed Tim—how much of his mind has been stuck in the reality of that first year, when Tim was alive and Sasha was alive, and aside from Jon sort of hating him, everything mostly being all right. He wants to tell Jon about how much he’s missed him, when he was asleep—wants to say all the things he’s been able to say to Elias and a goddamn tape recorder, but not to Jon himself. He wants to tell Jon about his mum. He wants to tell Jon he visited every single week, sometimes two or three times. He wants to talk about how horrible this all has been, and what they do next, how they move on from this, because he genuinely does not know. He wants to talk about all of it.

He wants to tell Jon about Peter’s offer, and he wants Jon to tell him not to take it. Because a part of him still thinks he needs to take it. He thinks about Peter’s warnings, and his promises to keep them all safe. And yes, Jon is awake now, but shouldn’t that be even more reason to take it? To keep Jon safe, too, now that he’s awake and can be put in danger? And there’s still the others, in the same danger they would’ve been before, and they deserve to be safe, too—and Martin isn’t the hero by a long shot, but he wants to be, wants to do something more to make a difference besides lighting some fires while Tim and Jon went off to die. He wants to make the noble decision, even if it will be a thousand times harder with Jon here in front of him. But he also wants Jon to talk him out of it.

Martin doesn’t say any of this to Jon, because he can’t. Not with everything Jon’s been through—in a coma for months, how selfish can Martin be? He makes tea, and he sits at the kitchen table with Jon, and he answers Jon’s questions about what he’s missed, and he tries not to think about Peter’s offer. The urgency in his voice that was probably a lie. He keeps getting paranoid that Peter will see him sitting here with Jon (Peter is not Elias), and that Peter will insist that he can’t be doing this, that he’s breaking their agreement (except Martin never agreed), and then try to tell Martin that the deal is forfeit now, and it’s too late. And it’s absurd, because Martin doesn’t want to take the deal—except he’s scared about what not taking it might mean. Scared about how this will all end, scared that if he doesn’t take the deal that something will happen—and what if Jon (or Melanie, or Basira) die and it’s because of him, because he turned down this chance? Except that he was only going to take it because Jon wasn’t ever going to wake up, and now he’s here, and how can Martin leave now, after everything?

There is simultaneously too much and not enough to talk about, and Jon doesn’t seem to know how to initiate it either, so they talk about nothing. They end up on the couch, flipping through the television channels, and Jon asks some lighthearted questions about what he’s missed on TV shows Martin didn’t even know he watched. It’s easy enough to make that kind of small talk, over other kinds, and it’s enough to get them both laughing a little. They stay on the couch for a long time. (Martin halfway expects Jon to be tired, to need to get more sleep—and halfway decides to leave a couple of times, an attempt to give Jon space, before deciding in the other direction—but Jon never mentions needing sleep, and Martin guesses if he was sleeping for months on end, he probably wouldn’t be tired, either. So he stays on the couch with Jon.)

At some point, they do start talking: about Tim, about the missing months, about how hard everything has been. Martin doesn’t bring up the thing with Peter, not yet, but he talks about all the rest. (The tremor in Jon’s voice when he tells Martin he’s sorry about his mother is almost too much to take. There’s still a lot Martin hasn’t talked about yet.) Martin tries to find the balance—he doesn’t want to put too much onto Jon, with everything Jon’s been through, he can’t do that—but he’s honest, too. He says, I… I missed you, Jon. We all did—but I… He says, It’s been… bad. Hard. While you’ve been gone, and he tries not to think about how often Jon was gone, before the Unknowing; how far Jon pulled away after Prentiss. They had time—limited time—between America and the Unknowing, but then Jon was asleep, and now—if Martin takes Peter’s deal; if Jon has to leave again…

Jon takes a sharp breath. The room is dark, and Martin isn’t looking at him, but he feels it when Jon, tentatively, takes his hand. (Like a dozen nights in his hospital room except Jon’s awake and his hand is warm, his pulse beating against Martin’s thumb, and Jon initiated it, and it’s all okay now.) “Well,” says Jon, uncertain and reassuring all at once, somehow. “I’m… I’m here now. And I don’t know how much help I’ll really be, with… everything. But Martin, I promise… I-I’m not going anywhere. Not anytime soon.”

5. And Martin decides, in that moment, and in the moments after, and in the email he writes out the next morning, in frank, firm language. He decides then. Jon is back, and there has to be another way out, a way that they can figure it out together. So Martin doesn’t take Peter’s deal.

(send me an au and i'll give you 5+ headcanons)

#i sort of hate this but!! here it is #tma au #tma fic #i wrote this

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beepboop358 · 3 years ago

Text

Victor Creel Theories

(also includes ST movie DNA series: Star Wars)

Victor Creel is described as "a disturbed and intimidating man who is imprisoned in a psychiatric hospital for a gruesome murder in the 1950s." We know he will be institutionalized at Penthurst mental hospital, where Peter Ballard works, based on leaked on set pics.

There a few possibilities regarding his character:

He could be a former test subject with some kind of powers and a connection to the upside down (which would also follow the even/odd season pattern of a main character being directly involved with the upside down creatures) I think it's highly likely that Victor Creel will be involved with the mystery/danger in Hawkins in some way, and have a connection to the upside down. He could also be disturbed on top of this, and he could be involved in Eleven's storyline this season.

That he is not a test subject and is ONLY mentally disturbed.

He may be related to one of the already established characters. Most likely Joyce, and maybe Terry but it's a stretch.

Before I go any further into that last possibility, I just want to preface that this idea of an "evil father/grandfather with powers" could be a purposeful Star Wars parallel. The Duffer brothers have already paralleled and used Star Wars references a few times in the show:

In Star Wars, Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's father, and Palpatine is Rey's grandfather (aka the literal worst guy in the universe). A common theme in ST is abusive/bad fathers - that post here. Interesting...

Palpatine is also Anakin Skywalker's father, so Luke and Leia are both the grandkids of Palpatine as well as Rey is, but it's unclear if they are just force midichlorian related or actually dna related as well but I won't get into that here!

Luke and Rey are both force sensitive (have powers), so are Darth Vader and Palpatine; their descendants (kid/grandkid) have powers, and so do they (father/grandfather) The descendants use their powers for good, while the ancestors use their power for evil. Who has powers in ST? Eleven and Will - and they both already have this idea of abusive/bad/evil fathers: Will has an abusive father Lonnie, and Eleven has an abusive father figure Dr. Brenner "Papa".

So... Victor Creel being the evil/bad grandfather to either Eleven or Will and the evil/bad father to Joyce or Terry, would make a FULL Star Wars parallel to people who are morally good and have powers (Will and El - Luke and Rey), discovering they are the descendant of an evil male figure who also has powers (Victor Creel - Darth Vader and Palpatine)

If Victor Creel turns out to be the father of anyone in the show my bets are it's either Joyce Byers or maybeee Terry Ives.

If he was a test subject, its likely he went "crazy" with some of his powers and the government couldn't cover it up so they declare him mentally insane to get him committed, and he probably goes insane being locked away as well. Personally, I think he may be 001 or an early test subject, when they were still working out the kinks of the program, and I think he does have a big connection to the upside down.

The Duffer Brother's on s4: "In Hawkins a new horror is beginning to surface, something long buried, something that connects everything"....

Now let's get into the possibilities for Creel's storyline/who he could be related to (split into 3 parts).

Part 1: Creel could be Joyce's father

Based on Victor Creel's description as "disturbed" and that he is "in a psychiatric hospital", it could connect him to Joyce's bloodline.

There are several comments in the show hinting to this idea of mental instability in Joyce's family:

s1 ep.5: When Lonnie comes to visit in s1 after Will goes missing, Joyce says to Lonnie "No, don't look at me like that, like how everyone is looking at me, like I'm out of my damn mind" He responds saying "I think you need to consider the possibility that this is all in your head. Remember your Aunt Darlene?" Joyce quickly replies, "No, this is not that."

That conversation, although quick, is very telling. Lonnie is implying that Joyce had an aunt who was mentally unstable - and Joyce clearly knows about her aunt being unstable because she responds to his comment by saying what's she's experiencing is not that (the mental instability of her aunt)

s2 ep.2: Joyce says to Bob, "this is not a normal family", when he suggest moving out of Hawkins.

I used to think Joyce was always was referring to the whole 'my son got stuck in an alternate dimension with supernatural monsters and is now traumatized, and we were sworn to secrecy by the government' thing but maybe she is also referring to her biological family.

s1 ep.2: When they are searching for Will, one of the other police officers, says "Joyce is one step from the edge" and the other officer responds "She has been several steps for quite a while now".

If Joyce is related to Victor Creel biologically, and he did also happen to be a test subject, has powers, or has some other relation to the upside down, this could possibly have contributed to whatever kind of abilities Will has, because he would be a descendant of Creel. But Joyce does not seem to have any powers and neither does Jonathan. If they were related to Creel, it's odd that they both didn't get powers, but Will did. I've always thought Will was born with his powers, like El.

We know almost nothing about Joyce's past, it's never discussed in the slightest in the show, which I feel like is purposeful. We don't know Joyce's maiden name; she doesn't change it back after she and Lonnie divorce. Maybe the Duffers are saving Joyce's backstory for s4 (and possibly s5), like I think they are doing with Will and El's connection. Will, El, Hopper, and Joyce were pictured in a series of 4 tweets posted by the stranger writers, hinting to the main 4 storylines for season 4. My analyzation of this tweet here.

I think it's possible that Joyce's storyline this season could also have to do with her past- not just her searching for Hopper- but also more personal information about her. Perhaps we will see flashbacks of younger Joyce and maybe learn about her biological relatives.

Noah also said this would be the darkest season for Will, so this idea of being the grandkid of someone evil or disturbed could fit into that.

Part 2: Creel could be Terry's father/Eleven's grandfather

The only other person I could see potentially having a biological; relation to Victor Creel could be Terry Ives and Eleven, (because it would complete the Star Wars parallel mentioned earlier) but it's a stretch for several reasons, the main one being that Terry and Becky's father Bill Ives, died in a car crash (year unknown).

So for Victor Creel to be Terry's father that either has to be:

Her adoptive father OR

Her mother cheated and led Mr. Ives to believe Terry was his kid but her father is really Victor Creel, and Becky is actually Bill Ives son (which would explain why Becky has no powers)

Right of the bat it's interesting Terry's father's name is Bill. Bill is a nickname for William (Will Byers full name is William), and Billy's a nickname also for William... Hmmm....

Immediately after El is born, Terry is adamant that Brenner stole her child to use as a weapon to fight the commies BECAUSE SHE HAD SPECIAL ABILITIES - and she's completely right about everything. How does Terry know El had powers immediately after she was born? Because she knows she has developed some kind of special abilities from the experiments as well. When El goes to visit her mother in s2, THE LIGHTS FLICKER, just like they do when the upside down is near, but it's not Eleven controlling it. Her Aunt Becky says it's just the wiring, and Eleven responds: "IT'S MAMA. She wants to talk." And then we see Terry's NOSE BLEED, just like El's does when she uses her powers.

Quick side note about El's biological father is Andrew Rich: (It's revealed in the canon novel Suspicious Minds that Andrew Rich is El's father) He was a college student who got expelled from school due to protesting the Nixon address, making him eligible to be drafted in the Vietnam war, and he died in battle. Terry was involved in the Project MKUltra experiments at Hawkins National Laboratory in College, under the direction of Dr. Martin Brenner, but didn't know she was pregnant at the time. Andrew never even knew Terry was pregnant, meaning she was extremely early on in her pregancy at the time he was sent away, not even Terry was aware yet. It's also stated in this book that BRENNER HAD A HAND IN GETTING ANDREW EXPELLED SO HE COULD SEND ANDREW AWAY. The novel states that Brenner has Andrew drafted because he wants to SCARE Terry, to show her how much power he has over her life. There's definitely some history between Terry and Brenner that we don't know about yet.

If Victor Creel is in fact Joyce's father it's interesting that the powers seem to have skipped a generation with Joyce, and also one kid with the Byers, but if Victor Creel is Terry's father, no generations were skipped in passing down powers. ANYWAYS, this is all just theories and speculation since we have no actual concrete reasons to believe he will be related to Joyce or Terry.

Part 3: The possibility that Creel could be involved in Eleven's storyline this season does not rely on them being biologically related.

**One of the filming locations for this season is the Claremont House, which is RUMORED to be Creel's house and also "Vecna's lair" the new monster for s4 (unconfirmed) This is the house the Hawkins group goes into in the ST4 sneak peek, where they see the grandfather clock striking midnight. If that's true, there's a connection between Creel and the upside down and having powers, which could connect Creel to Eleven. The Duffers: "In Hawkins a new horror is beginning to surface, something long buried, something that connects everything". This thing "that connects everything", could be Creel's storyline (his possible connection to the lab/upside down/person in the show), because Creel's storyline also spans all the way back to the 1950's and before that, so there's our "long buried" part most likely.

Robert Englund recently revealed in *an interview* that his character Victor Creel gouges his eyes out, making him unable to see. Englund also mentions what it's like working with Millie Bobby Brown and talks about the first time her met her, he doesn't mention any other cast members in detail like he does Millie.

He's clearly working closely with Millie's character Eleven.

But why? I think Creel could be involved with Eleven getting her powers back, and her reliving her past. Once the government baddies realize El has no powers, they're gonna want them back. If Creel was in fact a test subject, maybe there is some kind of connection between them, Such as Eleven revisiting what happened to her in her past and how that could relate to her getting her powers back.

Another thought I had was that perhaps the gruesome murder he committed is somehow related to something that ends up impacting in Eleven's life.

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Whatever Victor Creel's storyline is, it will be an important one, and it will carry somewhat into s5, since he will be a returning character. He is not signed as a series regular, but as a recurring character, which means we don't really know to what capacity he will be in s5. It could be flashbacks mostly, or he could have just as big or small of a role.

Source: indie wire

That detail about eyes being gouged out reminds me of fear street 1666 when the townsmen who was sacrificed to the devil becomes possessed and gouges the kids eyes out. Leigh Janick, director of fear street, is married to Ross Duffer. They both direct and make horror/sci-fi themed series about kids in a small town set in the 80's, who fight supernatural evil with a heavy undertone of queer themes, that are even filmed in a lot of the same locations (the mall, the town streets, etc.) I'm not saying it's the same thing, it definitely won't be. But there's so many similarities between ST and Fear Street, I thought I would mention this as another.

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janekfan · 4 years ago

Text

Duress

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30665933

As ever, Jon’s timing was impeccable.

Impeccably awful.

Barely a month into his new “promotion” and already he could feel a toll. If he was completely honest with himself he hadn’t expected quite this level of work despite not being a stranger to long hours. To put it bluntly, the archives were a mess. Gertrude hadn’t left any clues as to how filing was done and it all seemed so haphazard he had to wonder if it wasn’t on purpose. He was up to his elbows in files he’d found in a water stained cardboard box when Tim sauntered up, looking down his nose at the papers in disgust. Jon wished he would help and didn’t know how to ask for it with their relationship as strained as it currently was. Tim had silently allied with Sasha when Elias made the announcement and they were all navigating the current situation gingerly. Jon didn’t blame him. She needed support. The statements and recordings and organization could wait until they were ready.

“Hey there, boss. Was wondering if you wanted to come out with us tonight.”

Oh, of course. It was Friday, wasn’t it.

Jon looked around his office, strewn with papers and post-its and worse off than it was this morning. Guilt welled up in him like blood from a wound. Tim was losing his already limited patience with him.

“Uh, yes, that would be nice. It has been a while.” He leaned back and wiped his dusty hands off on his trousers adding to the light streaks already there.

“Yeah, I’ll say. Too important to hang out with us now, ey Jon? Now that you’re a corporate bigwig?”

“I am not!” Tim held his hands up in supplication.

“Just kidding, yeah?” It didn’t sound like it was just anything; certainly not the jokes Tim used to tell. This just felt cruel, probably because Tim thought it was the truth. Jon could admit he was prickly and difficult and knew he never won over many. If he lost Tim and Sasha over this he didn’t know what he would do. “Usual place.”

That exchange happened hours ago and Jon didn’t feel well. He couldn’t go out like this, pulse pounding, head throbbing, vision swimming. He’d have to cancel. But he’d canceled at the last minute on them so many times before and he could tell their patience was wearing thin. How was he supposed to choose between his new job and his old friends? Why couldn’t he just be normal for once?

Why did Tim choose now to forget this sometimes happened?

Any moment they’d be by to collect him and Jon was so dizzy he wasn’t altogether sure if he could stand. He hadn’t felt like this since Uni when he and Georgie spent many a late night studying for exams. He’d crashed shortly after, struck down with some illness or another, and barely remembered more than a glimpse of her face staring down at him with concern. Surely they would understand?

“Ready, boss?” Casual with his jacket over one shoulder, Tim leaned into the office, scowling when he laid eyes on him, exasperated. “Really, Jon?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Tim scoffed. “S’sorry. I know it’s rude, I’m just. Tired.” That was a part of it anyway.

“You know, Jon, you say you still want to be friends and then never hang out with us.”

“I know, I’m--”

“You’ve cancelled so many times at this point I don’t know if it’s even worth inviting you.” Jon’s heart nearly stopped, a painful lurch that all but choked him.

“...Please.” Bare more than a whisper, Tim raised an eyebrow in question.

“What?”

“P’please keep inviting me.” If Jon wasn’t so sure he’d pass out upon standing he’d be springing to his feet. “I, I, I’m there. Next Friday, bells on, I swear.”

“And tonight?” Cold sweat slipped down his spine. But if he rested this weekend, took it easy next week, maybe asked them for a bit more help-- “Sure, boss.”

The weekend came and went and Jon tried every trick in the small volume of self-care tips he actually paid attention to. He wanted to show them what they meant to him, even Martin, new and bungling as he was. If they were to be a team, he needed to get to know him. And besides, Sash and Tim enjoyed his company. Had been inviting him out the whole while. Unfortunately, Jon was still exhausted from not sleeping well for bad dreams and restlessness, not eating enough because anxiety turned his stomach. But he’d made a promise and he vowed to make good on it.

Monday saw a fresh pile of work stacked neatly in the center of his desk blotter, old assignments shoved off to the side and a note in Elias’ neat scrawl informing him that this was the priority. Jon spent the next hour putting together the things he’d been in the process of collating and jotting down a list of instructions that even Martin could follow before dragging it out to where his assistants were working.

��Hullo, Jon.” Bright and cheery, Martin chirped a greeting and Jon forced a small smile.

“Morning.” Tim and Sasha nodded back, expectant looks on their faces. “I, um. Well, Elias brought in some more documents for me to take a look at.”

“Promotion came with some extra obligations, did it?” Tim laughed, elbowing Sasha good naturedly.

“Yes, I suppose it, it did.” Jon shifted nervously, anticipating the answer even before he’d asked. “I was hoping you would be able to help me with these ones?” He lifted the stack and Tim made a show of whistling.

“Wow, I mean. I would, boss, but I’m in the middle of this other thing you gave me last week.”

“Oh. I was. Well I was rather hoping you’d have wrapped that up by now.” The room began to tunnel and Jon staggered just a step even though he was standing still. He hadn’t been able to use his cane and handle this veritable mountain.

“You and me both.”

“Jon?” Martin’s worry was more embarrassing than anything else and he forced himself to focus despite the trembling in his hands. “I can take some of them.” But the messy heap on the corner of his desk in danger of toppling hardly seemed smaller than it had the week before. It wouldn’t do to add even more to what the other man couldn’t seem to handle but...

“Th’thank you for the offer.” He selected a few slim folders and handed them off and somehow the work in his arms became heavier.

“No problem!” Martin was beaming so he must have done something right and it sparked a bit of warmth in him. “I’ll make an exchange for another, soon as I finish this up.”

Tuesday went much the same, though Jon’s insomnia and sore joints forced him out of bed and he decided to use the gift of time to come in early to get a bigger start on the old mess so he had more time for the new mess and while Martin was slow it helped to have someone else tackling it with him. He suspected that Tim and Sasha were making a statement in their being shiftless and Jon couldn’t find it in himself to address it instead hoping that once he proved himself they could move past it. Using the stairs proved foolish as Jon nearly took a header from vertigo and he thanked the stars he was early and alone so he could sit down and wait for the episode to pass. Lord, he hurt. Joints on fire, white-hot fire pokers of pressure needling his hips. He hung his head when tears of frustration began to fall.

Wednesday found Jon buried alive and struggling. He had to stay late in order to finish out the day and by the time he made it home he could barely stand, falling into bed and waking the next morning still dressed in his wingtips and work clothes. Marginally better for the rest, Jon used the boon to plow through the rest of Elias’ assignment, skipping lunch he knew he wouldn’t eat anyway to finish.

“Oh, Tim!” He called out his door as he passed, relieved that he wasn’t ignored. “When you have a moment could you take these up to Rosie?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Jon pushed away the disappointment when the end of day came, his assistants left, and the box still sat on the corner of his desk.

No bother, Tim probably forgot and Jon searched the stacks for the department’s hand truck with its one sticky wheel and found it loaded up with more of Gertrude’s chaos. He didn’t have much choice than to shove at it unceremoniously until it toppled over, papers fluttering out of their folders and under shelves. He’d just have to deal with it later. What’s one more thing? When he tugged, his shoulder very nearly came loose and his yelp of pain was swallowed up in the dark and the dust. Noone around to hear him anyway.

More tears.

He was a mess.

He went along more carefully, cursing the squeak of the blasted wheel, cursing Tim for his forgetfulness, cursing Elias for letting him even steal the job from Sasha to begin with. Cursing time itself because he wanted to go home and it was already an hour past.

“Rosie, I’m so glad I caught you.” She was just starting to collect her bag. “Can I leave this for Elias to collect when he gets in?”

“Of course, Jon!” She helped him lift it to her desk and disguised his taking a rest with interest in her writing a note of explanation.

“Thank you, you really are a lifesaver.” Jon chuffed a weak and humourless laugh. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Of course, dear. Just take that along with you so I don’t have to hear about it from the night staff.” The dolly. Yes. It would have to go back down with him wouldn’t it?

Thursday Jon could barely lift his arms. The debacle from the day before had taken whatever they had left and he was scared that at any moment, his arm would drop from its socket. That happened sometimes. So far, no doctor had figured out why.

“Ready for tomorrow?” Tim jolted him out of staring at his pen cup and the surprise set his heart to racing. Jon didn’t know how many minutes he’d lost.

“Ah, uh.” Absently, he rubbed at his chest, willing the battering tempo to slow before it shook him apart.

“Boss.” It sounded too much like a warning and felt too much like his last chance to prove he had what it took to be their friend.

“I’m not backing out!” Quick to cover up his fumble. “Don’t forget to collect me.”

“Never!” Jon couldn’t help but hope he did.

It was a short walk to their usual pub and Jon pushed himself to keep up, breaking out in cold sweat as the nausea from his laboring heart rocked his stomach. He couldn’t wait to sit down. They were regulars enough that the first round appeared before them as if by magic. Jon sank into the conversation around him, sipping from his pint, wishing it was water, and interjecting when he felt up to it. Martin kept staring at him. Jon didn’t have the energy to pretend.

“Oh come on, boss! Our company can’t be that boring!” Tim was three drinks in and clapped Jon hard enough on the shoulder to rattle his bones. Jon bit his tongue so hard he tasted iron.

“Ah, no, just a long week.” His voice was papery as a wasp nest, thin and drawn. “Looking forward to a lie in.”

“Aren’t we all?” Tim drained his glass and Jon looked down at the worn scratched surface of the table to hide his irrational irritability with the statement. He didn’t corner the market on sleeping in. The others deserved a restful weekend just as much as he did.

“I’m surprised you managed to make it through Elias’ busy work.” Sasha murmured, selecting a chip and using it as a means for sauce delivery.

“Martin helped a great deal.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Jon, but we know who worked his way through the majority.” They exchanged a warm smile.

“Yes, well. Any you did, I didn’t have to. It was very much appreciated.” Martin was bright red and Jon’s cheeks were warm, from alcohol or otherwise, and Tim’s cawing laughter rang bright as a bell over the cacophony around them.

“You’ve broken him, Jon!” They caroused well into the evening until Martin mercifully faked a yawn and explained he had an early morning. Jon almost hugged him and if it weren’t for the state of his shoddy joints he may well have. Holding up a very drunk and very affectionate Tim, Sasha nodded to him.

“This was lovely.” Her grin beamed. “We’ll have to do this again.”

Jon dreaded it.

That month they dragged Jon out to the shops for lunch a few times each week. Catching dinner after work became a regular occurance. Sasha hosted a movie night one weekend. Friday nights at the pub continued.

Jon wasn’t sure which was worse; the exhaustion or the steadily increasing pain, but it felt worth it when the frosty attitude began to thaw. They were still friends. That’s what counted even though the littlest tasks had become huge when faced with choosing which ones to do at the cost of himself. He knew better and still he was overspending, going into the red just to collect more and more debt with no way to catch up other than lose his friends. Something was going to break. Jon hoped it wouldn’t be him.

Groggy, slow, Jon came to with his cheek mashed into the statement he’d been skimming. Something was...wrong. His heart. Racing, pounding against his breastbone, trying to hammer its way to freedom or jump straight out his throat. He blinked hard, trying to bring anything into focus and failing. The first attempt to stand had him face down on the desk again, the next he took in steps.

Sit up. Let the room stop moving.

Breathe. In. Out. Count them.

Ignore the agonized beating. Ignore the fear that came with it.

Stand. Slow. Wait. Patient.

Let the world fall still.

Jon didn’t bother picking up his bag. His phone, wallet, keys, all in his trouser pockets.

“Sorry all. I. I think.” He paused, gulping for air, swallowing none. “Need to go, go home.” If what made it out of him were even close to words he’d consider himself lucky. His tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth, tripping up the syllables fighting their way past the rabbit-quick hammering,

hammering,

hammering.

“What’s wrong?” Sasha was at his elbow, Tim halfway out of his seat.

“Not feeling well.”

“You sure you can get home, boss?” Nodding absently Jon made his way carefully to the lift before Martin could offer to call him a cab or something equally ridiculous.

Muscle memory got him back to his flat and it wasn’t until he collapsed into bed that he remembered it was Friday and he’d again ducked out on drinks again. Tears collected on his lashes, slipping down his temples when his trembling got the better of them. They. This. All his hard work and he’d undone it. Before the encroaching black overtook him he fumbled with his phone, tapping out an apology to the group chat and barely managing to hit send.

He slipped in and out. Lucid one moment, hallucinating the next, burning away to nothing and ending up on the floor more than once after passing out attempting to, to…didn’t matter. There wasn’t enough in him to attempt it again, opting to lay flat on his back in the sweat soaked sheets trying not to move for the pain. For a wild, hysterical moment Jon was sure he would die here, alone, phone just out of reach, melting in wretched heat and so uncomfortably hot it was difficult to remember a time when he wasn’t.

Jon hurt.

Everything was darkness and agony. Each tremor an earthquake threatening to tear him apart. He was trapped in treacle, done up in bits of twine, strung together with razor wire and unable to move. It was a familiar voice that clawed its way down to him. Lifted him up, low and soft, a stone tumbling down a mountain and catching Jon up in the landslide. He thought he answered, made some attempt at a response, drawn out of him like water from a well. Hurting and disoriented Jon drifted. Consciousness slipping in and out through his fingers like the surf, breath like coals banked beneath his ribs. Jon’s body wouldn’t cooperate as it should and time seemed to skip from one moment to the next between long bouts of nothing.

A heavy palm, cool and comforting, came to rest over his forehead and Tim materialized out of nowhere, startling Jon enough that he keened when each joint shrieked and protested at his moving.

“Sh, sh, shh.” Tim. That’s right...he wasn’t sure it was true, but he was wiping down his over sensitive skin with a damp flannel to quell the coals for a handful of moments.

“Wha’s..?”

“When you didn’t come in yesterday or this morning, we figured we should check on you.” So many words. Too many to parse more than a few but the flood came anyway, streaking into his greasy hair because he’d been sure no one would come and Tim kept applying the cold compress; wrung, applied, repeated, and Jon sobbed with the simple relief of it, tears cool against the incandescence of his skin.

“Are you...l’leaving?” He winced at the raw scrape of his voice against his vocal cords. “Been. You’been s’so angry with m’me.” Tim’s face fell and Jon wanted to apologize. It was the illness, that’s all, lowering his defenses and simmering his many insecurities just below a fractured awareness that refused to keep them in where they belonged. Instead his breath hitched and he choked on a whimper of defeat. “Tri’tried so hard ‘nd still. M’sorry.”

“It’s alright.” So unbelievably soft. Jon thought he’d ruined this long ago and the tears came somehow faster. “I think we need to call an ambulance, bud.”

“No...nonono…” Jon didn’t want to be poked and prodded by strangers and stuck full of needles alone in a cold sterile room. Even in his ragged state Jon could see Tim was torn. “Pl’please.”

“Okay, okay,” he soothed, gentling him with a touch. “But if you can’t keep this down we have to go.” Medicine. Lucozade. Fed to him mouthful by mouthful in the intervals he was awake.

Quiet sounds he recognized, Martin. Sasha. Hushed. Martin tipped the next sip into him and Jon wasn’t aware of much, but he was aware enough to know he was disgusting after having slept and sweated in the same bedclothes for days. Martin wouldn’t hear of it and Jon didn’t know where to put all the feelings and he was so tired of crying and couldn’t seem to stop.

Sasha, they told him, has gone out for supplies and they asked if he’d like help getting out of his uncomfortable trousers and button down, now missing several buttons no doubt from his restlessness. Jon didn’t trust his voice, only nodded, trying and failing to sit up, losing consciousness entirely when one of them levered him up with an arm behind his shoulders. Tim was explaining it to Martin when he came around, peering up at them through fluttering lashes.

“S’al’...” Clumsy, the words wouldn’t come to him.

Together, they shift his limbs, passing him back and forth between, one moment resting against Martin’s chest, another tucked into the hollow where Tim’s shoulder and neck meet. He should be helping but he can barely stay with them, just concentrating on the pulse currently beneath his ear to ground him. Carefully, as though he is some precious thing, they rid him of the awful, disagreeable stickiness and their low murmuring seems such an intimate thing. He isn’t worth it. This. And then soft, clean clothes, well worn and familiar and when Jon surfaces again he’s with Tim on the sofa, bundled up and more comfortable than he’d been in months.

Martin is changing his sheets.

“I’m sorry, Jon.” He didn’t know what for and shook his head, or tried anyway. “Made you think you had to push yourself like that. Ignored how exhausted you were and guilt tripped you into not telling us ‘no’.” Lord, so many words, Jon dizzied himself trying to catch them, hold them, decipher them. “You should be able to trust us, and I.” A suspicious sniff. “I’m sorry.” Jon relaxed into him with a hum he hoped conveyed something.

“I think I remembered which meds he tolerated best.” Sasha elbowed her way into the flat, face lighting up when she saw he was awake. Kind of. “Jon! Thank god. You were in such a bad way.” Whispery and rushed, the same feeling in it as with Tim. “Let's get you dosed up and back to bed, okay?”

It was late evening judging by the window. The reading lamp was on. Martin sat beside him with a book he couldn’t recognize by cover alone.

“Mah’in..?” So it hadn’t all been a hallucination after all.

“There you are.”

“Miss’d work.” He nodded, uncapping a bottle of sports drink and holding it to his chapped lips. Jon drank what he could.

“Not important right now, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Gave us a scare.” Easy, like it was nothing in the world to do it, Martin laid the back of his fingers against his neck, against his throat. “That’s a relief. Tim called us in a panic.” By way of explanation. “But I think you’re past the worst of it now.”

“Don’, don’ remember.”

“Probably for the best. We’ve decided, if you’re alright with the arrangement, that one of us should stay with you.” That sounded okay even if normally Jon would fight it tooth and nail. He did remember being alone and scared. “Tim and Sash are talking. I get the feeling we missed something very important.”

“Mm.” Jon tried to sit up and swooned, came around with a pillow behind his back.

“Dunno if I’ll get used to that any time soon though, I’ll be honest.”

“Happens sometimes. Th’that’s why…” Martin picked up the thread.

“You cancelled on us. I understand. And I hope, I hope you know you can always tell me, us, I hope, when you need to. There’s no shame in it. I’ll admit, I’m upset with Tim.” He fussed with the quilts, smoothing out imaginary creases. “He knew this was something to look out for and he didn’t tell me.”

“No, it’s--”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” Martin spoke with conviction. “Ever. I don’t want you to, to push yourself like this for a blasted game night. We can do other things as a department. Things that don’t jeopardize your health like this again.”

“Martin’s right.” Sasha sat at his feet, draping a hand over his ankle, and Tim stood at the foot of the bed. He looked proper chastised, eyes rimmed in red and swollen from crying.

“I’m so sorry, Jon. So sorry. I should never--I was angry and frustrated and used it to. To hurt you. Make you think we’d stop being friends over a stupid night out. Not like I lifted a hand to help you! When I knew you wouldn’t ask a second time!”

“S’okay.”

“It’s not!” Tim was a staunch friend. The type who got to know you so well and sometimes aimed too precisely at your soft parts. He didn’t need another telling off. Exhaustion lapping at his limbs, Jon curled his fingers in poor imitation of a come hither gesture. Willingly, Tim allowed himself to be pulled along by it, slotting himself beside Jon on the mattress to hide his own tears in his chest. Graceless, Jon managed to tug a hand over the back of his head, tangling fingers in Tim's hair, surrounded by friends and not alone.

“Will be, then.”

#TMA #the magnus archives #season one #jon sims #martin blackwood #sasha james #tim stoker #insecurity #lack of communication #sickfic #sick jon #fever #chronic illness #ehlers danlos syndrome #postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome #EDS #Pots #undiagnosed chronic illness

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ofpineapplesanddawns · 3 years ago

Text

Here’s a little thing for you guys for the Clare Montgomery au because I don’t write enough for it.

Here’s a little Martin angst for you guys, with some comfort from Hardy.

Summery: Even those as twisted and warped as Martin can still suffer from nightmares.

Warning: ptsd-based nightmare, spoilers for season two of Prodigal Son if you haven’t seen it, mentions of needles and medical equipment, Hardy still doesn’t know he’s dating the Surgeon

Yes, this has established Martin/Hardy.

On with the fic!

Martin could smell butterscotch in the air as he cleaned medical tools, he could practically taste the burnt sugar on his tongue.

He didn’t turn around when he heard the clicking of heels on linoleum, didn’t dare see the person he knew what standing behind him. There was a touch to his back, his grip on the sponge and the surgical scissors tightened.

“Can I help you, Capshaw?” He asked, he couldn’t look at her, something in his gut told him that it would be bad to do so. But he liked looking at her, he had been fantazing about her for weeks now, since he got the job here.

Why was his body in high alert right now?

“I need you for a moment, Dr. Whitly.” Came her voice, a purr to it that made his body shudder. Not in pleasure, but fear.

Fear?

When was Martin ever scared? Why would the infamous Surgeon ever be afraid? Well, when his children were in trouble, that made him panic, Malcolm probably knocked ten years off his life with all the trouble he’s gotten into in the past two or so.

“I suppose I can be of s-” Martin started, before feeling a sharp pain in his back, small, yet still painful, a burn.

He could see in her hand a syringe, with a liquid he didn’t recognize off the top of his head. The world started to feel dizzy, everything was spinning, and he collapsed, only to find himself seated in a wheelchair, his body unmoving, but he was fully aware.

Capshaw was there, she was talking to him, but her words sounded as if she were underwater. She was talking still as he struggled, but could barely move a muscle.

No, no! He wasn’t in control, Martin always had to be in control! Malcolm always said that everything played to his wants in his world, that Martin was the puppet master, but not now, no, this smiling woman in front of him was in charge.

He could hear her, her muffled words, clearing up just a bit. There was a threat in her tone, and Capshaw brought up his family, brought up his boy.

Martin blinked, there was Malcolm, strapped down, dying, and Martin was trapped in the wheelchair. He was trying to free himself, he had to save Malcolm, he couldn’t lose his son, no!

He watched in horror as Malcolm looked at him, the life in his eyes fading, and his said something, just above a whisper.

“You were always a terrible father.”

There was a sharp gasp, and Martin nearly fell over. His heart was pounding so hard, he could feel it easily in his chest, could hear it in his head. He wasn’t aware of his surroundings, but gentle hands were on him, one gripped his shoulder, the other making him look at someone.

He was scared, so very scared he’s see Capshaw, or he’d see Malcolm, but no. No, there was a tired man in front of him, with brown eyes that made him look older than he was, and a beard in need of a trim.

Martin looked around, realizing he was outside, he could hear sea birds, he could smell the ocean, the scent of traffic somewhere in the distance, and the faint sent of whatever cologne Alec Hardy was wearing.

“A-Alec?” He swallowed, trying to keep himself in check.

“Wait a moment.” Alec said, his voice soft, surprisingly gentle. “Take a deep breath, count to ten, then let it out slowly. Do this a few times until you’ve got your head on straight.”

The hand on his shoulder dropped to Martin’s lap, taking one of his own hands, giving it a gentle squeeze. Hardy never once took his eyes off Martin’s own, talking to him quietly as he did as he was told, before he felt his heart begin to calm down.

“I... what happened?” Martin asked, his mouth felt so dry. As if knowing this, Alec handed him a to-go cup, it smelled like coffee. He took a few sips, not caring if Alec had already drank from it or not.

Alec stood up, moving to sit down next to him. They were on a bench, one they both visited often, near the cliffs, just off from the town. It was a quiet place, to just ignore the world. Martin forgot that he had come out here today, guess Alec found him.

“You were sleeping on the bench.” Alec started. “Found you that way, decided to take a seat with you to make sure you didn’t get robbed. You have all of your wallet’s contents and your phone, by the way.”

Martin patted his pockets, yep, still there. “You started talking in your sleep, then you were a twitching mess. Nightmare?” Alec asked, tilting his head in his direction.

A look of pain must have crossed Martin’s face, because Alec’s own expression softened, there was a hint of worry there. “You don’t have to tell me about it, but it was serious, wasn’t it?”

“Very, just... a very bad experience in my life, mixed with a mess of things that could have happened, didn’t happen, that still plague me.” It’s been months, he should be over it, right?

But Malcolm still suffered from what happened years ago, makes sense that it wouldn’t be easy to just brush a whole kidnapping and attempted murder like that.

“Things like that will haunt you for a long time, Clare.” Alec frowned, looking at him still. “If you... do want to talk about it, when you’re ready, I’ll listen. You’ve already know my problems.”

Martin nodded, swallowing. He couldn’t do that, no, he couldn’t tell Alec, that’d be revealing too much too soon, he didn’t want things to end quickly.

“I’ll hold you to it.” He finally said, taking Alec’s hand.

#alec hardy x martin whitly #john's drabbles #good omens extended universe

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