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thekisforkeats · 4 years ago

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Love Languages

Info: The Magnus Archives, JonMartin, rated T probably for swears. Canon-Compliant. Set post-MAG 22, with a coda post-MAG 159. Everyone is ND and everyone is trans because that’s just how my personal S1 Archives gang rolls.

CWs: Mentions of ableism and Martin’s mother. I’d say canon-typical worms but the worms don’t really come up except in passing.

I do not know anything about BSL, so I did not try to describe the signs.

Summary: A love language is not just about how you best show love and affection; it is also about the ways you best receive love and affection. And so, for someone like Martin, who shows love by going out of his way to help others, someone going out of their way to help him, well. What better way for him to realize just how loved he is?

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The first time Martin went completely non-verbal after starting work in the Archives, it was the morning after giving Jon the statement about Jane Prentiss.

It wasn’t a surprising development, really. Martin didn’t go fully non-verbal that often, but when he did it was almost always a thing that started in the morning and lasted most of the day. Sometimes it wore off by the time he went to bed, sometimes it lasted until the next morning.

After his mother’s diagnosis, he’d been unable to speak for an entire week. That hadn’t gone over well--as much as his mother wanted him to be quiet, she didn’t like the “silent treatment,” as she called it.

Martin hated that she’d called it that, as though his non-verbal episodes were anything he did on purpose. Some days talking just felt like a chore; those days he could get by only forcing words out when he had to. But some days, the worst days, he just couldn’t talk. He could understand other people just fine, he could make noises, sometimes he could even hum. And he could definitely read and write. But speaking words, aloud? No. He could not speak, on these days, however much he may have wanted to.

As Martin grew older and learned more about himself, he learned words and reasons and coping mechanisms. He realized that some of the problem came from dysphoria and the longer he was on hormones the less often it happened. He realized that he was autistic (even if he never got diagnosed), and learned how to handle the episodes that still occurred. He took sign languages classes because it was a good and useful thing to know regardless, to be able to communicate with more people.

As many Deaf people had learned before Martin, he’d found himself in plenty of situations when nobody around him knew BSL, so he’d found a phone app that let him type out things he wanted to say and repeated them in a tinny, mechanical voice. Feminine, but he found it didn’t cause dysphoria; it wasn’t his voice. It was the app speaking for him, a robot lady translating his words.

Martin was fairly certain he was going to need the robot lady to speak for him today, and he was dreading the whole idea. The app got him a range of reactions from scorn to derision to faux sympathy. The last time he’d done so at work, the Institute library staff had regarded him with such pity that he’d called in sick the two other times it had happened since.

He’d woken early, because he was always awake fairly early, to ensure he looked presentable and got to work on time. He did not want Jonathan “Crisply Professional At All Times” Sims giving him that look again. The particular look that was “I highly disapprove of your sartorial choices but I’m not going to get into it right now because I have so very much else to do. Nonetheless, if I could fire you for what you’re wearing I would.”

Jon had a lot of looks. Martin fervently wished he could stop categorizing them; he very much disliked his boss, and very much wanted to stop thinking about Jon quite as much as he did.

Jon was attractive, that much Martin had noticed the first day he’d come in, with a jawline Martin would’ve loved to trace with his fingers, eyes sharp and deep and intelligent, salt-and-pepper hair that Martin would have tangled his fingers in gladly.

Except, of course, that Jon was also a prick who didn’t like Martin one bit and made that very clear. He’d put down on record that he thought Martin would “contribute nothing but delays.” Martin was not such a sucker for punishment that he would put up with someone who hated him just for a pretty face. The tiny potential blossom of a crush had been, well, crushed five seconds after it had poked its head above ground, by Jon’s declaration that he could dismiss Martin if he didn’t resolve the “dog situation” immediately.

Martin counted his lucky stars every day that Jon had not, in fact, dismissed him, despite having had to deal with a doggy mess. The luck was really in having Tim around, Martin figured; Jon actually seemed fond of Tim, and the other man had managed to smooth the entire situation over.

Martin had fallen asleep last night thinking about the new look Jon had given him yesterday: concerned. Truly, genuinely concerned, which had rather taken Martin aback. He’d been certain Jon wouldn’t believe him, would scoff and roll his eyes at the entire statement, and instead he’d just looked… concerned.

And then Jon had offered Martin the cot that he’d woken up in this morning.

It wasn’t the look of concern that had Martin non-verbal, though; of that he was certain. It was the stress of the last two weeks, and dumping out the statement yesterday, and all the whirl of figuring out how to live in the Archives. Jon’s insistence on going with him to pick up basics with a toothbrush at the convenience store, and then coming back to be sure he was okay. Jon finding clean sheets and discussing how he’d do his laundry. Jon had expensed clothing bought online to the Institute, including next-day shipping, because he’d “lost access to his flat and thus his wardrobe in the line of duty.” It had all been bewildering and overwhelming and it was no real surprise that Martin was in the state he found himself when he woke.

Martin had known as soon as he’d opened his eyes. It was just there, the feeling of nope can’t talk today. He’d pulled on his binder and the same clothing he’d worn the day before and then fumbled around for his phone. Which… he didn’t have. The damn worm-hive-lady had stolen it from him. Well, shit.

He managed to avoid having to figure out how to talk while he went out to get breakfast, just pointing at a scone in the display and smiling at the guy behind the counter as if he wasn’t secretly irritated by the price of everything in Chelsea. By the time Martin got back, Jon was already in his office, so thank God he’d avoided that awkward interaction. He went to make himself tea, and had his breakfast in the breakroom, and brushed his teeth, and then went to get started on…

Wait. He didn’t even know what they were working on right now.

Well, he wasn’t going to bother Jon about it; however nice he’d been last night it surely must have worn off by now, and Martin had no interest in summoning one of his boss’ looks this early in the morning. Normally he’d still be on his commute at this hour.

After a moment’s thought, he went to go see what they’d recorded in his absence, and soon had a stack of statements on his desk. They’d gotten through five statements in the two weeks he’d been gone. Maybe Jon was right. Maybe Martin did contribute “nothing but delays.”

Pushing the thought aside, Martin focused on listening to the tapes, and was just finishing up listening to the second half of Father Edwin Burroughs’ statement when Tim came into the shared office the assistants used.

“Hey, you’re in early. You get the email?”

Martin raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

Tim snorted. “Jon claims he’s got something to warn us about, something that ‘won’t parse properly through digital means.’” He rolled his eyes. “Which is Jon-speak for ‘it’s a weird thing and I don’t want to admit it’s a weird thing because I have to keep my skeptic hat on to preserve my self-image.”

Martin chuckled in solidarity, then gestured toward the door to Jon’s office, to indicate that’s where their boss was.

“Not coming?” Tim asked, his own eyebrow raised. When Martin shrugged, he said, “Well, I guess if you didn’t get the email…” Tim also shrugged, then said, “Guess I’d better get it over with. Wish me luck!”

Martin gave him a thumbs up.

When Sasha came in, Martin silently directed her to Jon’s office as well, then heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t had to explain being non-verbal at all yet, and it was already nine o’clock. Maybe if he was lucky, Jon would warn them off talking to him and he’d manage to make it the entire day without having to explain the whole “non-verbal” business to anyone he saw on a regular basis.

Alas, it was barely thirty minutes later that Tim and Sasha returned to talk to him, both wearing expressions of mingled concern and guilt. When they spoke it was a flood of the usual, expected platitudes:

“We’re so sorry!”

“We didn’t know!”

“Are you okay??”

And such like.

Martin shrugged and nodded and shook his head in all the right places, and evidently Jon had played them the tape of his statement so he didn’t have to explain it all again (thank God), and he thought maybe, maybe he could even figure out what statement they were working on right now if he just listened to their chatter after they were done with the niceties, but then…

Well. Then Timothy Stoker happened.

Which is to say, Tim actually looked at Martin, and said, “You’re being awfully quiet. You sure you’re okay?”

And then he and Sasha just… sat there, looking at him expectantly.

Martin sighed and reached for a piece of scrap paper and wrote, I’m autistic and sometimes I go non-verbal. Today’s one of those days, but I don’t have my phone anymore, so no communication app.

As he held up the paper so the others could read the words, Martin braced himself for the ensuing reactions. Pity, probably, like those in the Institute library, and he couldn’t even call in sick to avoid it; he’d rather have scorn and derision. At least those reactions were honest.

What he got from them was not pity, however, nor even scorn.

Sasha hummed. “Autism explains a lot, actually. Don’t worry, it’s not a problem.”

Tim grinned and clapped Martin on the shoulder. “Yeah, why didn’t you just say so? It’s fine, you’ve been through an ordeal. And so you know--you’re hardly the only neurodivergent in the Archives.”

Martin blinked at Tim, then wrote: Wait, what? Who…?

“Would you believe me if I said all of us?” Tim said with a grin. “I have ADD, Jon’s… well… he’s Jon, and as for Sasha…”

Sasha sighed in fond exasperation and cut in, “Tim…”

“I contend that you cannot be neurotypical, Ms. James. You fit in too well around here.”

“I am not admitting to anything on Institute property,” Sasha said with aplomb. “And you shouldn't have either, but here we are.” She looked at Martin. “If HR finds out and they give you any trouble, let us know and we’ll figure out what to do.”

Tim, in the meanwhile, pulled out his phone. “Here, go ahead and use mine for now, until your replacement gets here or whatever. What’s the app so I can install it for you?”

Martin’s jaw had dropped open. Tim having ADD made sense; what did he mean about Jon, though? And Sasha? And what did Sasha mean about HR? And… and why were they being so… nice? So… understanding? It wasn’t an act, or at least he didn’t think it was. They seemed… genuinely fine with it. Accepting, even.

It was the strangest thing Martin had experienced in a while, and that was including the worm-riddled woman who’d stood outside his door for two straight weeks.

From there the day just… went on as normal. Tim installed the app on the phone, Martin’s robot phone lady spoke for him, the three of them did their work, and everything was fine.

Until, of course, the nature of their work reared its ugly head. They were discussing the statement of Leanne Denikin, case #0051701, which they had yet to attach a pithy name to; hence the discussion. It had long since become standard practice to attach a name to the “weirder” statements, to make them easier to discuss. (Jon insisted on using the case numbers on tape still, which was annoying, given that was the only place he did that.)

Martin was reading through the statement, and he typed into Tim’s phone: What do you think of this bit? “Be still, for there is strange music.”

What came out of the phone’s speakers, however, was garbled static followed by high-pitched screeching that startled Martin so much he actually dropped the phone.

Jon was walking in just as this happened; he stopped in the doorway, blinking. “What on Earth was that?”

“Martin’s robot lady gave Tim’s phone an aneurysm, I think,” Sasha said, eyeing Martin as well.

Martin scrabbled on the floor for the phone, pulled up the app (which had crashed), and typed, I don’t know what happened!! I was just typing in something from one of the statements!

Jon frowned at him sharply. “What are you doing with Tim’s phone? Are you quite well?”

“No, Martin is not ‘quite well,’” Tim said. “Non-verbal for the day.”

Then Jon did something that stunned Martin: Jon signed at him, specifically, “Do you know sign language?” He spoke aloud as he said this, too, but also raised his eyebrows and gave a quizzical tilt to his head to convey that he was asking a question.

Martin blinked rapidly, then signed back: “Yes, actually. But Tim and Sasha don’t.”

Jon nodded, then said aloud, along with signing, “Why are you non-verbal, exactly?”

“I have autism,” Martin signed. “Sometimes talking is overwhelming and sometimes, especially in stressful situations, I can’t talk at all. Woke up that way today. It should be gone by tomorrow morning.” Why was he explaining so much more to Jon than he had to the others? Maybe just because Jon knew sign, and thus could communicate in a language Martin found much easier than even the typing.

Jon frowned thoughtfully, then nodded again. Then, still speaking and signing both, “What were you typing into your phone?”

“Be still, for there is strange music. From the statement.” Martin gestured to the statement on his desk.

Jon’s frown deepened and he repeated the words. “‘Be still, for there is strange music….’” His expression went slack for a moment, and then he shook himself. “Right. Well. Just… just… I’ll be right back.” Then he abruptly turned and left the room.

Tim and Sasha exchanged bewildered looks. Then Sasha asked, “Do you know what that was all about?”

“I forgot Jon knows BSL,” Tim replied thoughtfully. “Hard of hearing on one side. Not that he’d have agreed to interpret all day or anything.”

Martin shrugged. It’s alright, he typed. This works just fine.

“Well, no, obviously not for some things.” Jon had reappeared as suddenly as he’d disappeared, holding a small brown notebook the size of Martin’s hand. “Here,” he said, thrusting the notebook at Martin. “This will work better, for communicating about the statements. You needn’t use it with me, of course, unless signing is also taxing.”

Martin stared up at Jon. There was an entirely new look on his boss’ face. Not any level of scorn or sneer, nor even concern. He was… nervous. Fidgety. Like he was offering a gift that he was afraid might be rejected.

Something went flip in Martin’s stomach and it was like the entire world turned upside down. Suddenly, in light of Jon’s actions in the last 24 hours, he saw the way his boss had acted toward him the last six months for what it was: a defense mechanism. Armor pulled up around someone fragile and soft and sweet, someone so terrified of rejection that he went about making sure it happened preemptively so he wouldn’t be hurt.

Martin had a sudden, fierce desire to hug Jon and tell him everything would be okay. It was so bewildering a sensation--he didn’t even like the man! At all!--that he just took the notebook with a nod and a signed “Thank you,” eyes still very wide.

Jon nodded in return. “You’re welcome.” He let out a breath, and seemed to relax a little. “Well. Then. I think we’ve found the name for this one, given the way Tim’s phone reacted to those words. ‘Strange Music’ it is.” He straightened himself. “Tim, you said something about the organ reminding you of articles you’ve read…?”

Tim nodded, expression suddenly serious. “Yeah. I’ll see if I can find them for you.”

“Right. Well, then, Sasha, if I could ask you to look through the Archive like we talked about? I’m certain we’ve had a statement from Jane Prentiss.” Jon then turned to Martin. “And if you wouldn’t mind helping me with ‘Schwarzwald?’ You used to work in the library, right?”

Martin was still staring at Jon in confusion, but nodded.

Jon actually smiled at him. Faintly. “Well, then, I’m certain you must know where to find the German history reference books, if you could go grab whatever they’ll let you bring down?”

The strangest thing about it was, Jon seemed sincere. Like he actually believed Martin did, indeed, know the library well enough to just… go up there and find the German history reference books. The faint, confident-in-his-assistant smile was a new look, at least directed at Martin; he’d seen Jon look at Tim and Sasha that way many times before.

Martin’s stomach was doing cartwheels. There were butterflies taking up residence in his intestines. His heart was pounding. How had he never noticed how nice Jon’s smile was? Soft and small, like he was afraid to let it actually take up residence on his face for too long.

Oh, God, oh, no. Martin could not fancy his boss. Jon hated him. Or, well, no, evidence suggested that perhaps Jon did not hate him, but Jon most certainly did not fancy him. This crush had to disappear, just as fast as it had come. This would not do.

He was going to be writing poetry again tonight, wasn’t he? Crap.

“Martin?” Jon’s tone was concerned rather than sharp, and the way Jon said his name made Martin want to sink into the floor.

Instead, he scribbled furiously in the notebook and held it up so all three of the others could see: Yeah, sorry, was just thinking about where that’d be. I’ll bring them down as soon as I find them.

Jon practically beamed at Martin’s use of the notebook and he nodded briskly. “Right! I’ll be in my office when you have the books, then.” He started to turn away.

Martin’s heart went pound pound pound because oh wow Jon was really cute when he let that smile take up more of his face. Throwing caution to the wind, he made a noise to get the other man’s attention.

Jon turned around, quirking a brow. “Yes, Martin?”

Martin signed, “Tea?” He, too, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to indicate the question.

Jon nodded. “Tea would be lovely, yes.” He smiled at Martin for a brief moment, and then suddenly looked flustered. He glared at them all. “Anyway,” he snapped in his ‘boss’ voice, the impact of which was ruined by the flush rising in his cheeks, “there’s still work to be done. So let’s… do it.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left the office.

Had Jon blushed because Martin had offered him tea? Did Jon like his tea that much? Was Martin imagining things? He had to be imagining things. He put his head down on the desk and wrapped his arms over it so he could grab at handfuls of hair. What was happening to him?

Sasha tried to make her voice serious, but couldn't quite manage it past quite clearly holding back giggles. “Mourn for poor Martin, working alone with Jon.” She looked at Tim. “We should call HR preemptively, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Nah, I think Jon’s softening on our boy,” Tim said with a laugh. He reached over to ruffle Martin’s hair with one hand while he took his phone back with the other. “Don’t worry, Marto. I told you he’d come around one day.”

Martin looked up at Tim with a stricken, betrayed expression. In the notebook: Is this how you comfort me in my hour of need??

Sasha shook her head. “For once, Tim’s being serious. You weren’t in the room when Jon explained things to us. He’s worried about you, he doesn’t want you to have to leave the Institute alone, he doesn’t want you to have to look for the Prentiss statement in case it’s ‘too traumatic’ for you to run across on your own. He actually asked us if we thought we should avoid any mention of Prentiss altogether in your presence.”

“I told him no,” Tim said. “I hope that was okay. You seem like you’d rather deal with trauma by facing it and figuring it out, rather than avoiding it entirely.”

Matin gaped at them. Really? he wrote. Jon’s… worried about me? Really? As if he hadn’t seen the evidence just now that Jon was, indeed… softening.

Tim gave Martin a very serious look. “I’ve told you before… I’ve known Jon, well, not as long as I’ve known Sasha, but for a long while now. He’s prickly and thorny, even to people he cares about, but that’s a front and I’ve said so. You just didn’t believe me.”

“In Martin’s defense,” Sasha put in, “Jon’s been awfully ‘prickly and thorny’ to him specifically.”

Tim put up a hand. “Oh, I agree. I have had words with our dear boss about the way he treats Martin, largely because I’m one of the few people he might actually listen to.” He looked at Martin. “I don’t want to take the credit, because it’s really been a remarkably fast turnaround, but I’d like to think I helped, a little.”

Martin frowned thoughtfully. Thank you, he wrote. If Jon’s at ‘I can stand Martin’ instead of ‘Martin is the source of all bad that happens in the Archives’ work might be… better than tolerable, for once.

“That’s the spirit!” Tim said with a grin. “Now, then, Jon did say to get back to work…”

Jon gave Martin another of those soft smiles when Martin brought in the tea, a smile which widened on seeing the stack of books he carried in right after. That afternoon, spent sitting and going through books and discussing the Schwarzwald statement, was the first of many they’d spend together, reading and talking and comparing notes.

Martin was feeling verbal again the next morning, but he kept the notebook. If nothing else, it was a good place to jot down poetry. And it came in handy when he found himself unable to speak the morning after Jane Prentiss’ attack on the Archives.

And the morning after Jon confronted him about his CV.

And the morning after Jon disappeared, leaving Jurgen Leitner’s body at his desk. (Martin blamed that on the corridors more than the body, really.)

Funnily enough, he didn’t need it the morning after the Unknowing. But he kept it with him that day all the same, the first gift Jon had ever given him, and one of the few things he had left of him with Jon in a coma.

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When they reached Daisy’s safehouse in Scotland, Martin had hoped he’d somehow manage to dodge the threat of going non-verbal. He’d been the one to drive the car, over Jon’s protests; it was something to focus on, to keep him remembering he was alive and real. He’d clutched the wheel and driven north north north with Jon giving directions in the passenger seat.

Martin had finally figured out that it was the chance to stop and think about trauma that led to his being non-verbal, which was why it was almost always a thing that hit in the morning. Adrenaline would keep him running after a stressful event, and then he’d carry himself through the rest of the day trying to clean up whatever mess had been caused. But sleep was enough for his body and brain to both tell him to stop, to process, to deal with whatever he’d run into.

It was possible, in hindsight, that he’d gone non-verbal more than once since the Unknowing and just hadn’t noticed because he’d been barely interacting with anyone. He’d certainly had a bad bout the morning after his mother’s funeral, dealing with so much misgendering and fake smiles. And there had been more than enough trauma to try to process in the past year, so it must have happened before.

He’d just really, really hoped it wouldn’t now, because he didn’t want to put Jon through that. (Why he thought he was putting Jon through anything he didn’t really want to examine. It made him feel Lonely, and that was bad.)

At any rate, the realization of why he went non-verbal had led to him keeping busy in order to hold it off, in order to hold himself together. So he drove, and he puttered about the cabin poking into cupboards, and he talked to Jon, and he talked to the shop lady in the village, and he brought back food and made dinner with Jon, and everything was good and fine.

And then he woke up the next morning, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and he could not speak.

There was the smell of bacon and eggs and pancakes cooking, and Martin made his bleary way out into the main room of the cabin and peered at Jon, already up and dressed and cooking.

His boyfriend turned to look at him and smiled, one of those soft smiles Martin had come to love so much. “Sleep well?”

"Not really,” Martin signed. “I mean…” He gestured at his throat.

Jon nodded. “I figured you might feel that way this morning. I, uhh… hold on a moment, I need to….” He grabbed the pan of bacon and moved it off the heat, pulled a pancake off the griddle and deposited it on a plate, then turned off the stove and went to poke around in one of the bags.

Martin chuckled fondly. “What’re you looking for?”

Jon was still digging through his bag. “When I was grabbing essentials at the store, back in London, I was thinking, you’ve been through a lot, and the notebook I gave you before must be full if you even have it anymore. I know you were writing poetry in it, and… oh, here we go.”

Jon came up with another small notebook. This one was not plain and brown, the way the first one he’d gifted Martin all those years ago had been. This one was black, and had silvery stars on its cover that, as Jon held out the book and thus tilted it through the light, shimmered into rainbows.

“Just in case, you know, the shop lady doesn’t know BSL.”

Martin blinked at the notebook.

“It, uhh… I know it’s not your usual style,” Jon said, his voice suddenly nervous. He was looking down at the notebook as he spoke, instead of at Martin. “Not… retro. But… I saw it and I thought of you.” He paused. “That tape, where you were talking to Simon Fairchild. He talked about the ‘cosmic scale,’ and how we’ve never even been alive on that time frame, and you said… what was it? You said, ‘I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.’ And I just… that was… maybe the most… it was very… you. And there were other options, flowers or cursive writing, o-or… I don’t know, they all seemed so obvious, but this…”

Jon swallowed, and finally looked up at Martin. “I thought, after the Lonely, you might like a reminder that, you have value. That… that to me, you shine as bright as any star.” And then he flushed, and Martin knew it was for him, just as he now knew the flushes about tea all those years ago had also been for him.

Martin was gaping. Oh. Oh. Jon… loved him. Which he’d known, intellectually, but the emotional knowledge of it hit him suddenly, took his breath away. He knew it, all at once, in that “oh we could spend the rest of our lives together” way he’d never really thought he’d ever feel.

Jon had clearly misinterpreted the expression; he started stammering, “I-if… it it’s bad, I can… well, no, I can’t take it back, stupid, I should’ve just grabbed the one that had--”

Martin cut him off by reaching out to take the notebook from Jon and reached out with his other hand to cup the shorter man’s cheek. He smiled, and because he’d realized long ago how well Jon responded to physical touch, he leaned in to plant a soft kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead.

Then he pulled back to put the notebook aside on the counter and signed, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” A pause, and then, “I love you.”

Jon smiled, both speaking and signing, “I love you, too.”

And for once in his life, Martin knew that to be true, and trusted that knowledge. He was loved. He had been loved, and he would be loved for the rest of his life, whatever state his voice was in.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jon sims #jonathan sims #jon the archivist #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #archives gang #otp: one way or another together #fanfic #my fanfic #ableism tw #jmart #canon tma fic

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nonbinaryeye · 3 years ago

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Disappointing Your Own Family and Other Lonely Things

Written for @lonelyeyesweek

Day 2 - Proposal

Peter Lukas thinks there is nothing more Lonely than to ignore all the members of his family and just mind his own business. Unfortunately some of his relatives seem to not fully share his view and simply must share their opinion on Peter's life.

Read on AO3

…

Peter is really starting to dislike family funerals lately. He still enjoys the silence and peace found in mourning someone you never knew. He likes feeling no sense of loss about them disappearing from this world. It is nice to be looking at an empty casket not being able to recall any memories with them – not even their face. Yes, all those things are still as wonderful as ever.

The problem are those relatives who are unfortunately still very much alive. Last few years, instead of simply parting ways without even looking at each other, members of his family have been trying to start a conversation with him. Just two years ago someone asked him how their ritual was going. Four years before that someone else told him to take over the family affair of dealing with the Magnus institute. And three years before that he was informed about getting the position of the captain of Tundra. All those things could have been solved through much less personal ways such as correspondence. Or even better not to be discussed at all!

Unfortunately even this funeral of a cousin, whose name Peter already forgot, is not very different. Just as he is almost out of the door his uncle stands in his way.

“What is this?” Nathaniel Lukas waves a golden piece of paper in front of his face. It seems familiar… He takes it out of his hand. He does not need to read it to recognize that way too curly and pretentious handwriting.

“Invitation to my and Elias’ wedding. You’ve missed it by a year.”

“You are married to that man?” Nathaniel spits out a curse. Peter is happy to correct him.

"No, I’m not. We’ve got divorced last month.” If they were not he would start planning divorce now though. He was quite clear about not wanting his family to be included in any way. Yet Elias appears to send invitations to them against his wishes anyway – it could not be any less surprising.

“Why?”

“I don’t know why Elias felt the need to send you the invitation. I told him that-…”

“Why did you marry him?”

Peter shrugs. “I was not putting many thoughts into it.”

“Letting yourself being used by that voyeuristic bastard? Have you lost your mind? He married you just for money.”

“I know. And it sounded like quite a Lonely thing to do. I would not marry him if I suspected he cares about me; no need to worry,” Peter notes cheerfully even though he really wishes for this conversation to be over already.

“This is unacceptable, Peter. We tolerated you childish behaviour for long enough. You need to stop acting like a little brat and start doing more for this family.” Peter wonders who the 'we' exactly is since all the other members of his family left at sign of their confrontation and overall do not seem to be interested in Peter’s personal life at all. Sooner than he manages to ask, his uncle continues. “You should start serving the Forsaken in a more traditional way. Let's start with getting you married.”

“Okay.”

“Someone else than that man again. Obviously.”

“What is more lonely that loveless and childless marriage? The pointlessness of it sounds like something worthy of the Forsaken. Not to mention the loneliness of being freshly divorced." Of course there is also the mild enjoyment of being freshly married but that's only natural. Where would the sweet pain of split up come from if there was not a sparkle of bliss first?

“Learn your place and do your job,” Nathaniel threatens, quite aggravated but so is Peter. This conversation is focused way too much on his life and goes on for way too long. He is tired of it. He is tired of his family telling him what to do with his life. He is tired of his family telling him how to serve Lonely. He is tired of his family telling him what he can and cannot do!

“No. I know my place and I am doing my job just fine. The Forsaken does not seem to have any problem with the way I serve it nor any of my personal relationships. That is all that matters is it not?”

Nathaniel is taken back. He is not used to anyone undermining his authority. Everyone rather agrees than to argue and prolong their talking and Peter would love to do the same. Unfortunately, actions suggested by Nathaniel sound like more trouble than talking to him some more. Because no. He does not want to settle down with a wife he despises and kids he does not care about.

“Now leave me alone.”

He has been planning to return back on Tundra right after the funeral. After this exhausting interaction he could really use some time in the Lonely. With such a lovely time awaiting it would be very silly of him to head to London instead, making a short stop by Magnus institute, would it not? On the other hand what is more deliciously lonely then disappointing your family…

He should probably make one more stop at the jewellery store. Does Forsaken demand miserable marriage from him? Very well he can just choose evil he already knows and just marry James Elias Jonah again! He hopes Nathaniel will not mind too much receiving a new wedding invitation so soon after the last one.

#why not to write a fanfic for lonelyeyes week without Elias' presence in it?#tma #tma fanfic #magnus archives #lonelyeyesweek #lonelyeyesweek2021 #peter lukas #nathaniel lukas #lonelyeyes #lonely eyes #peterelias #mEye fanfic #mEye post

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fbfh · 4 years ago

Text

thankful for my (found) family - demisquad + reader thanksgiving special

2.4k

platonic everyone + reader, implied future/potential leo x reader if you look real close, thalia has a girlfriend that I had to make up bc they never mention hunters of artemis but go off rick, calypso is not included bc she acts more like an antagonist imo, gif doesn’t have anything to do with it besides nostalgia lmao

happy thanksgiving <33

You and Leo are cooking in the kitchen

You have been all day

The doorbell rings, and Annabeth goes to answer, binder full of travel plans in hand

“That should be-”

Clarisse enters with a loud greeting and a hug to everyone in arms reach

Percy’s loud cheers echo from the living room as he calls out the new score of the football game he’s keeping everyone updated on

She drops her bag, hopping over the back of the couch to watch with Percy

“Woah woah, catch me up Jackson! What'd I miss?”

Hazel is helping Rachel make cute diy table settings and party favors

Rachel, as with most art projects she takes on, is very focused on making it Martha Stewart levels of cute and amazing

Frank and Piper are keeping everyone updated on the parade

Frank pops down the stairs, calling out, “The last performance just ended, the dog show starts in 5!”

Hazel drops what she's doing and exclaims, “THERE’S A DOG SHOW?!”

She runs upstairs to watch with Frank, her yellow dress swishing behind her

You chuckle, calling over to Annabeth as you mix batter in a bowl, " Hey Annabeth, how are the travel plans looking?"

She shuffles through some papers in her binder

"Magnus and Alex had another layover, but they should still be able to make it in time. Thalia and her hunter friend will be here in 10, and Travis's flight got delayed because of a sudden snow storm."

"Really?" You reply, "This time of year? That's pretty ironic for a son of Hermes..."

"I know, I'm looking at some shuttle services to see if that would be faster…" Annabeth replies

Nico enters, stealing a couple appetizers, "This is so stupid, I could just go get him."

Will, right behind him, eats the appetizer Nico hands him and replies, "No you can't. Doctors orders."

Nico starts to protest

Will shoots him a look

"Boyfriend's orders."

Nico tries in vain to stare him down, "… Va’ a farti fottere." he says, cracking a smile

"Love you too," Will counters

You and Leo shoo them out of the kitchen before they steal more of your recipes

Jason and Grover walk by with a bunch of pillows and blankets, setting up guest rooms.

Grover calls through the pile of fluff he's carrying, "Hey, we're gonna need a few more pillows-"

Jason, over his pile of bedding, corrects, "A lot more!" And Annabeth runs over to help carry some of the blankets he's about to drop

"-A lot more pillows…"

You grab your keys

"okay uh… Grover, do you want to head to the store to get some more pillows-"

Leo, vigorously sautéing something adds over his shoulder, "And basil! And, uh… red wine vinegar, olive oil, and potatoes."

You rip a piece of paper off the notepad on the fridge and scribble a quick list

You're probably going to need some more ice, too

Tyson, very distressed, holds up an empty container of mellowcream pumpkins, declaring, "THERE'S NO MORE BABY PUMPKINS!" :(

you loudly add candy pumpkins to the list

Rachel approaches.

"Are you going to the store?"

"Yeah," you reply, "how's crafting going? You need anything? "

"We're almost out of glitter and mod podge. It's not looking good. We could use some more fake leaves, warm toned glitter, and rhinestones - the nice ones."

Grover looks slightly lost

You narrate as you add to the list, "Fancy rhinestones, mod podge, fake leaves, red, yellow, orange, and brown glitter…"

Tyson, still distressed, yells, "AND BABY PUMPKINS!"

You hold up the paper, "Already on the list, bud, Grover's gonna get them!"

"What if he gets the wrong kind?" Tyson asks

You, turn to Grover quietly, "Grover, can you take Tyson?"

Grover nods

"Hey Tyson, Grover has a lot of stuff to get, could you go be his shopping buddy? That way you can pick out the right baby pumpkins."

He doesn't look convinced

He wants to keep working on a secret project he’s been doing out by the garage

"And…" you add, sweetening the deal, "you can get two candies for the way home."

He agrees

You turn to Grover; "I'll call you guys an uber-"

"I'll drive."

You all turn around, shocked to see Reyna awake.

You thought she was still passed out

She showed up at 9am and immediately fell asleep from traveling all night

"Reyna, hi! Are you sure-"

"We'll be fine, I need to stretch my legs a little." She proves by rolling her shoulders

"Okay, as long as you're sure," you hand her the paper, re-entering the kitchen

She takes the paper from your hand as you shut off the beeping timer and grab a pair of oven mitts from the drawer

Reyna examines the paper, "...This is a weird list. Where are we supposed to get all this?"

Leo moves to the side as you pull out the rolls from the oven, using tongs to set them on a wire cooling rack, "Maybe target?"

Leo, still very focused on cooking, announces, "If you get me generic brand spices I will burn this place to the ground."

"O-kay," you turn back to Reyna, laughing, "there's a Wegmans and a Joanne's right next to the TJ Maxx, you can probably find everything there."

"We'll be back within the hour." She states, taking your keys.

Rachel meets her at the door. "Here, use my card. Also, make sure you get the flat backed swarovski crystals. And please pick some glitter with a nice color shift!"

You remind them to call or text with any questions and be safe

Heading back into the kitchen, you fill up a big bowl with carrots, celery, cucumbers, and mushrooms

You grab two cutting boards, knives, peelers, and a plastic bag for the peels, tips, and tails

You set it all down on the coffee table in front Percy and Clarisse

“Can you guys get the relish tray started?”

They agree, and immediately return to yelling at the referee

You shake your head laughing, and head back to the kitchen

“How we looking, Sparky?”

“Stuffing cups just went up in the oven, pie crust dough is chilling, and the green beans are almost done sauteeing. Rolls are cooling - could you stir the cranberry sauce? - and… the turkey is going up as soon as the stuffing is out.”

You stir the sauce as you continue talking

“Great! We’re making good time so far. Oh, I found a recipe for brown sugar pie, which Frank requested - apparently it’s a Canadian Thanksgiving thing - so I figured if you’re doing turkey I can handle the pies.”

He pours some cooking wine into the pan, and shakes it as the alcohol burns off

“Sounds like a plan, babycakes.”

You laugh at the nickname, and grab butter, salt, some herbs, and a stick blender to finish the potatoes

A few minutes later, you hear the door open

Reyna and the boys are back already? That was quick

You wonder if they need help bringing groceries in

“Eeeey get over here you knucklehead!”

Bags drop, and you hear Jason laughing in protest

You poke your head out of the kitchen, and see Thalia with Jason in a headlock

In spite of the fact that he’s about half a foot taller than her, she’s still noogie-ing him, pretending she can’t hear him objecting through his laughs

She finally lets him go, greeting everyone as he adjusts his glasses

She bear hugs Annabeth, punches Percy in the arm, and high fives and hugs pretty much everyone else

You run up the stairs to the guest room Grover was setting up before he left

You finish making the bed head back down, meeting Frank and Hazel on the way

"Oh, Hazel, what did you think of the dog show?"

"It blew my wig!" She says giddily

A confused smile settles on your face

"It was awesome and she loved it," Frank translates smoothly

He and Will are understandably best at deciphering 40s slang

Thalia is introducing everyone to Amber, a girl she’d met on the hunt and become really close with

You greet her, and turn to Thalia

“Your room is all set up if you wanna get settled in,” you turn to Amber, “and yours will be ready soon,”

They share a look

“Oh,” Thalia starts grabbing their bags, “that’s fine, we can share a room. We share a tent on the hunt all the time, right Ambie?”

"Oh,”

And then it clicks

“yeah, however you’re comfortable.”

You grab one of the bags, and help them upstairs

“Why don’t you guys take a while to settle in, I’ll tell the others you’re resting.”

They thank you, and you start to leave

“By the way,” you poke your head back in, “you two seem really cute together. Welcome to the family, Amber.”

She blushes and Thalia gives you an appreciative look

You nod and head back down

You let the others know they’re going to nap for a little while, and not to wake them up

“Hey, any travel updates?” You ask Annabeth, on your way back into the kitchen

“Alex just texted, she and Magnus are finally on their way, should be here in the next few hours. As for Travis…”

She holds out her phone, showing you Travis’s tiktok

He’s filming the mirror in the airport bathroom

“So uh, my flight’s delayed, I’m bored, I’m gonna fuck with some people,” he holds out a hand full of stickers that look like outlets

He records himself putting them around the airport, then gets people’s reactions when they try to use them

He ends the video asking for more prank ideas

You look back up at Annabeth, holding back a laugh, “Seems like he’s doing okay,”

“Oh,” she replies, “that’s not all.”

She scrolls up, showing the next prank video where Travis goes around the airport having fake phone conversations to get people’s reactions

Conversation topics including ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but slept with your grandma’, ‘hey bro I can’t come to the party, also turns out I’m going to be your stepdad’, ‘hey dude remember that old lady we used to cat sit for? Well, I found out I got chlamydia from her, so…’, and ‘yeah man, I’m so excited for the poetry slam. Also, it turns out my jazz fever is actually syphilis.’.

Your hand flies over your mouth, trying not to laugh loudly enough to wake Thalia and Amber

“Yeah,” Annabeth says, fighting her own laughter, “he’s doing okay.”

You start putting together ingredients for pie filling

“That is the most in character thing I could have imagined,” you laugh, and Annabeth shows Leo the videos

“There’s a bunch more, too,” she adds, “Around making tiktoks, he found a bus heading this way. He’ll be here in a few hours.”

“Cutting it close,” you muse, filling pies, “I’m glad he’s not stuck at the airport though. How about Connor?”

“Haven’t heard much from him, but he said he'll be here in time for dinner."

A little while later, Thalia and Amber re enter, joining Percy and Clarisse in the living room

The door opens shortly after, and Tyson enters, arms full of containers of candy pumpkins

Reyna and Grover are right behind him

You take Grover's bags, announcing that Thalia got here a little while ago

He bleats excitedly and runs to hug her, Reyna right on his heels

Piper and Tyson bring in the rest of the groceries

Tyson sets down the last bags in the kitchen, looks out the window, yells, "IT'S ALMOST SUNSET!", and runs back out into the back yard, presumably to finish his mystery project

Everyone eventually makes their way to the living room, nibbling on appetizers and watching classic Thanksgiving specials

The food is almost done, all that's left is decorating the pies and a little tidying up

You walk over to Leo, placing your hand on his shoulder

He looks up at you

"Why don't you go take a quick shower and change before dinner," you muse, knowing the hoodie and jeans he's been cooking in all day isn't the outfit he'd picked out, "I'll wrap things up in here,"

He thanks you, dramatically presses a kiss to your forehead, and exits the kitchen

You decorate the pies distractedly, catching the doorbell right before the second ring

You smile at the people about to enter

"Annabeth," you call, "Magnus and Alex are here!"

She drops what she's doing, and runs over to greet them

Leo is back down stairs a short while later

His brick red hoodie replaced with a burgundy one - his fancy hoodie as he calls it - a heavy flannel layered on top, and a beanie pulled over his almost dry hair

His pyrokinesis makes you forget how cold he gets sometimes

You're about to go upstairs to change out of your cooking clothes when Tyson enters dramatically

"The surprise is done!"

Everyone files outside to see what Tyson made as he leads you all out to the garage

Perfectly attached to the side, is a very small horse stable

"Wow!" Percy starts, "Great job, dude!"

Tyson is beaming as he's showered with confused praise

"So uh," Percy ventures, "what did you build it for?"

"Maybe something like this?!" Descending voices declare in unicen

Travis and Connor land in front of you on no other than Blackjack

Everyone erupts into cheers

“I thought you were stuck at the airport! What about those tiktoks?”

“Saved in my drafts, baby!” Travis laughs

Percy greets Blackjack and everyone else heads back inside with Travis and Connor

You run upstairs to shower quickly and change, and are back downstairs just in time for appetizers and drinks

You're about to take a sip of coffee when the door opens

An irregular set of footsteps echoes into the room, along with a familiar voice

"Ah, children, I hope there's room for one more,"

Everyone turns in surprise as Chiron enters the room

After lots of warm excited greetings and making sure he has a warm cup of tea, he settles in to chat for a while

"I was on my way to meet with my more, ah, rambunctious cousins, but I couldn't let a day like today pass without stopping by."

After two cups of tea and lovely conversations, Chiron heads out to meet up with the other party ponies

Thalia, Percy, and Will get all the food on the dining room table while Rachel makes the finishing touches to the centerpieces

Everyone finds their seat, and you make the first toast

"I think I can speak for everyone when I say I'm thankful for you guys - my found family."

Every glass is raised

You can all drink to that.

#Heroes of Olympus #heroes of olympus headcanons #heroes of olympus x reader #Leo Valdez #pjo imagine #also the thing nico says to will means go fuck yourself in italian #bc he is a warm gushy affectionate boyfriend #:)#I was gonna put a translation but i think it's funnier if you google translate it yourself #especially if it says fuck you or some shit like that #never fails to make me laugh #also this was the first thanksgiving i can remember not being debilitatingly dissappointed on #so uh #i'm rlly happy abt that thanks mom ily #yeah when you cut a narcissist out of your life your debilitating dissappointment rates plummet #it's a nice feeling #lmfao oversharing hours are coming to a close #I hope you all had a good day today #if you don't celebrate american thanksgiving i hope your thursday was nice #ily all and I'm so grateful for all of you #I'm gonna try to answer all your nice asks soon i have had zero social juice or i would have done it already #cause i really wanna <333 #I love you babes #you're all the best xoxo #fr how did I manage to attract such nice people to my blog #not gonna look this gift horse in the mouth #anyway good night I hoep you enjou six or so pages of domestic hoo holiday fluff #bc I sure did uwu

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queenxxxsupreme · 4 years ago

Text

Beneath the Heat of the Sun

A/N: There isn’t really a plot to this. Just some protective!Eskel and soooo much fluff. Here is my masterlist. Here is the link to go to if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists. And thank you to my baby @writingawaymylife thank you so so much for reading over this and helping me out with it!! I love you babe<3

Warnings: implied smut, name calling, use of the word whore in a not sexy/dirty talk way

Word Count: 2.8k

The soft breeze blowing by offered little comfort to the sun that beat down on your skin relentlessly. There wasn’t a single cloud in sight. Birds sung in the treetops, and once in a while, you’d see a rabbit or two run by.

The day had been quiet but busy. Eskel was up before dawn fixing and tidying up things around the house. He always did this before he left home for the Path. You were up shortly after him, having felt the bed move slightly as he got up.

You rested on your knees in the middle of your strawberry garden, pulling weeds and picking the ripened fruit from the vines. Every now and then, you’d have to shoo one of your animals away. All they want to do is eat the plants and destroy the strawberries.

You swiped the back of your hand over your forehead, wiping the thin layer of sweat from your skin. You were just in a white chemise tucked into a thin skirt but it felt like you were going to die from the heat.

Magnus, your one month old lamb, tried to sneak into the garden for the third time. He watched you carefully, taking slow steps. He was a sneaky little thing, but he wasn’t nearly as sneaky as he thought.

You spotted him and pointed your finger at him.

“Magnus, don’t you dare.”

He bleated loudly and jolted forward, snatching a mouthful of strawberries and greens. He dashed off, white tail flicking happily behind him.

“You are so rude, Magnus.” You shook your head.

The sound of a quiet chuckle came from across the garden. Eskel was down on one knee fixing a part of the fence that the chickens could get through. His side was to you, giving you the perfect view of his profile.

Sweat covered his sun kissed skin. His dark hair was mostly pulled back into a low ponytail but some unruly strands fell out around his face. His lips were parted just slightly, golden eyes focused on the wire fencing. The muscles in his arm flex as he bent the wire how he needed and that vein in his forearm was popping out.

“Are you laughing at me scolding our son?”

“I would never.” He shook his head, looking at you out of the corner of his eyes. He met your gaze, a little smile tugging at the corner of his scarred lips.

“You’re the reason he’s such a spoiled little thing.” You shook your head, mocking disapproval.

You had stumbled upon Magnus’s mother, who you named Nissa, a week before she had Magnus. She was pregnant and her owner was selling her at the market in town. You didn’t think about getting her at first. Your cozy cottage tucked into a hill in Toussaint was crowded enough with the chickens, goose, two horses, and foal that already called the property home. But then you thought of how Eskel had been different ever since Lil Bleater passed away three months earlier. You thought that perhaps this little lamb would lift his spirits.

And Magnus did just that. The witcher clung to him like his first born. The first few days of his life, Eskel never left Magnus’s side. Magnus was a sickly lamb but as soon as he was healthy and able to walk, he was getting himself into trouble. He had a personality similar to Lil Bleater, one that made Eskel smile whenever he thought of it.

You pushed yourself to your feet and padded over to the bucket of water you had retrieved from the creek just a few minutes earlier. Some of the chickens were drinking from the bucket. The cool water was refreshing, a stark contrast to the dry, hot air.

You waited patiently for them to finish before dipping a rag into the water. You glanced over to Eskel. His back was now to you.

You carried the sopping wet rag at your side, carefully watching him as you moved towards him. The grass beneath your feet was soft and effectively silenced your steps.

“I’m thinking that next year, I’ll have to put a second fence around my strawberries. The chickens love them.”

“I think Magnus likes to help them out too.” Eskel sighed. He was oblivious to what you were doing. He was too focused on the fence, on fixing it for you. “He’s the one who broke into the fence for the chickens.”

“Troublemaker.” You hummed softly.

Once you were behind the witcher, you rung the rag out. The water fell onto his shoulders and down his back. He flinched at the coldness and gasped.

“And you say Magnus gets his bad habits from me.” Eskel looked over his shoulder to you. “I’m trying to work here, doll.”

You offered him an innocent smile, kneeling down behind him. Your fingertips traced the lines of water over the divots in his back caused by his muscles and by scars.

“We should take a little break.” You thought out loud.

“What did you have in mind?” He turned his head straight to look down at the fence.

You kissed his shoulder blade, your lips ghosting over a jagged and thick scar. He looked over his shoulder once more, knowing you were up to something. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. His brows drew together slightly. Your eyes met his but he couldn’t read you. The little smile on your lips showed you were passive and content. You leaned up to kiss his temple, swiping a few pieces of dark hair from his brow.

You stood up straight and hummed, moving away from him without offering an answer.

His gaze followed you, watching you move to the creek that rested just beyond your strawberries.

On the other side of the creek was a dirt road that led to town. The creek was wide but it was shallow. Most of the creek right in front of your house came up to your ankles but sometimes it got a little deeper.

Every now and then, the hem of your skirt would get snagged on the grass or a fallen limb but it never changed how elegantly you walked, how gracefully you appeared.

Curious, Eskel followed you.

Magnus bleated loudly and trotted across the yard to join you too. He always had to be included in everything the two of you did.

You looked over your shoulder to see if your witcher was following you. A smile crossed your lips when you saw that he wasn’t too far away.

You pulled your skirt up just a little and stepped into the edge of the creek. The water was cold and made you shiver, but it felt so nice after being in the heat all day long.

The rocks beneath your feet were flat and smooth.

A hand slipped around your waist as Eskel moved around you to stand in front of you. You let your skirt go, your hands coming up to his arms. Your fingertips brushed over the slopes of his broad shoulders until you could tangle your fingers in his hair.

“You mentioned yesterday that you’d have to leave soon.” You murmured quietly, eyes flickering down to a scar that crossed over his throat. It was thick and clean. Someone had tried-and nearly succeeded-in decapitating the witcher.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” He dipped his head down to kiss your clavicle. “Just want to enjoy this.”

You nodded, unwrapping your arms from his neck. Your fingers trailed up and down his bicep. He took your hand to stop you, bringing your fingers to his lips so he could kiss your knuckles. You turned your hand in his grip so you could cup his jaw. You smiled lightly at the feeling of his scruffy jaw scratching your palm. His facial hair had grown out more than what he usually allowed it to, and you admired it. It was a good look on him.

“I like this.” You complimented, your words hushed even though there was no one around to hear.

He grunted softly, rubbing his scarred cheek.

“Need to shave.”

“Then I shall mourn your scruff until it returns to me.” You leaned up to brush your lips across his jaw, enjoying the way his prickly scruff felt.

He smiled shyly, dipping his head down to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

“I do love the way it feels against my lips when I kiss you.”

Magnus bleated loudly to announce his arrival and jumped into the creek, splashing water on the both of you. Eskel lifted his head and sighed, looking down at the lamb.

“Well, that didn’t last long.”

Your arms released him so you could pet Magnus.

“He’s just so spoiled.” You knelt down in front of the lamb and rubbed his neck. “You spoil him.”

“Yeah. I can’t help it.” Eskel rubbed the back of his neck. “Love him too much.”

“I know you do.” You stood up and kissed his cheek, then looked at the creek.

You grinned a little as you knelt down close to the water. You scooped up a handful and threw it on to Eskel. It hit him in the lower stomach.

“Oh, now you’re in for it.” Eskel moved towards you quickly. You didn’t have time to get away. He swept you off of your feet, holding underneath your knees and your back.

You giggled, kicking your feet lightly.

“Eskel! Put me down!”

“If you say so.” He moved to a deeper part of the creek. It wasn’t very deep but it came up to his knees. He carefully placed you down in the cold water. You gasped and jolted, clinging to his shoulders.

“Eskel!” You squealed his name. “It’s freezing cold!”

“Oops.” He grinned.

You put your hand into the water and splashed him, catching him in the chest.

This sparked a fight between the two of you. He moved away from you, wanting to escape the splashing. You continued to splash him but once he was at the edge of the water, he casted aard down into the water just in front of you. This caused the water to practically blow up on you, soaking you from head to toe.

You fell into a fit of laughter while he grinned.

“Need some help up, doll?” He offered, moving towards you with his hand stretched out.

You placed your hand in his and allowed him to pull you to your feet.

His eyes flickered down very briefly to your chest. Your chemise was soaked through and had become completely see-through.

“I saw that.” You playfully swatted at his chest.

You could’ve sworn a soft pink rose to his cheeks.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized shyly, eyes falling from your face.

“I’m just messing with you, love.” You put your hand on his arm to stop him from walking away. “Just teasing you. It’s okay.”

You brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes and kissed his jaw.

“Remember that I am yours.” You murmured, one hand coming up to rest on his stomach. Beneath scarred, tanned skin was firm muscle.

His breath caught in his throat for a second. It always did whenever you told him that, and his heart would beat a little faster.

He nodded his head and leaned down to kiss your lips briefly.

“Why don’t we go finish the garden and then we can settle down for the day?” You suggested.

He nodded once more, smiling when you stood up on your tiptoes to kiss him again.

Magnus bleated and used one of his front hooves to dig at your ankle.

“You better get your son before he dies from lack of attention.” You giggled, looking down at the lamb. He peered up at you, blinked, and bleated again.

“He’s your son too.” Eskel sighed. He scooped Magnus up in one arm. The lamb bleated loudly. “You get into too much trouble.”

Eskel left the creek first but stayed on the bank to wait for you.

You lifted your skirt up a little so you wouldn’t trip over the material as you carefully navigated the rocks beneath the water. You lost your bearings for a moment, your foot sliding on a slippery rock.

Eskel looked back when he heard you suck in a breath from your lips. You managed to balance yourself once more, eyes flickering up to look at Eskel.

“You okay, doll?”

You nodded, giving him a smile, and continued across the rocks.

“Would you look at that, boys?” A voice came from the dirt road to your right. There was a group of men, six of them, and they had stopped to watch you.

You brought your arm up to cover your chest. Being that your shirt was now see-through, you didn’t want any unwanted eyes looking where they shouldn’t.

“Why don’t you just take that top off, love?” One suggested. His friends bursted out into laughter.

Your skin crawled from them gazing at you like some piece of meat.

Eskel was stepping in front of you before you had time to say his name. He set Magnus down so he could have his hands free. The lamb trotted over to your horse, Ghost, who was resting beneath the shade of an oak tree.

“Come on, doll.” Eskel turned his back to the group of men, his arm slipping around you.

“Hey! What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Why don’t you come over here and keep us company?”

“Forget about that mutant freak.”

You stopped in your tracks and tried to turn around to confront them but Eskel wouldn’t let you.

“Just keep walking, Y/N.” He said.

You gritted your teeth together. You hated that the nosey people in your village had found out about Eskel. You weren’t ashamed of your witcher, but you knew how they would treat him, how they would react knowing a witcher was living among them. They always spoke down on him and treated him like dirt. You couldn’t stand to see the way they were with, acting as if he was any less human than they were.

“Show us your tits, love!”

“Have some decency, would you?” Eskel finally snapped, looking back at the unsavory characters. This made the men tense up and their smirks disappear.

“What are you going to do about it, freak?”

“Eskel.” You said his name, fingers digging into his bicep when he turned as if to confront them. “Come on, my love.”

Eskel breathed out through his nose, lips pressed together in a tight line. Still, he refused to move.

“Eskel.” You said his name once more, this time a little more sternly.

Silently, he turned and started to guide you towards your home.

The group of men shouted a few more lewd remarks at you, but you ignored them.

“Take Magnus into the house.” Eskel spoke softly to you.

“What are you going to do?” You drew your brows together.

“Finish the fence. I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

“Eskel, please don’t provoke them. They aren’t worth it.”

“I know.” He dipped his head down to kiss your lips. “I just want to make sure the chickens don’t get into your garden while we are inside.”

“Magnus!” You called the lamb’s name, patting your thigh. He came trotting over to you, bleating and kicking his back legs. You picked him up as Eskel moved away from the house.

You closed the door behind yourself, placing the lamb down on his feet. Then you went to the window that overlooked your garden. From there, you could watch your witcher finish up the fence that bordered the garden.

The men were still on the road. Their mouths moved but you couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Eskel ignored them, but you could see how tense he was, how rigid with frustration he was.

When he finished with the fence and started to move towards the house, you left the window to find dry clothes for you both.

Eskel found you rummaging through your wardrobe.

“I-I’m sorry that happened, Y/N. That they said those things to you.”

“What they did isn’t something you should apologize for, Eskel.” You glanced over to him, giving him a little smile.

“But I just hate that they-they looked at you like some toy. Just something to use to-,”

“Hey.” You cut him off softly, finding a thin dress, and stood up. “It’s fine. It’s over. It’s done with. No need to linger on it.”

He nodded, fingers still curled into tight fists at his sides.

You tossed the clean chemise on to the edge of your bed and then moved to him. Your hands started on his shoulders, trailing down his arms to rest on the backs of his hands.

“I love you.” You whispered, eyes twinkling as you gazed up at him.

A little smile tugged at the scarred corner of his lips.

“I love you too.” He leaned down to kiss you but you stopped him.

“Not until we are out of these soaking wet clothes.”

“Then let me help you.” His smile turned into a grin as his hands found the hem of your chemise.

Taglist: @pressedinthepages @mishafaye @whitewolfandthefox @wolfyland07 @belalugosisdead @persephonehemingway @keira-hulmaster @dinonuggs69 @greatestauthorofmygeneration @shadow-hunters-lover @dancingwith-thesunflowers @tedi-fach-las @thecomfortofoldstorries @raspberrydreamclouds @natkowaa @disasteren @weathervanes-my-oneandlonely @onlyhenrys @wackylurker @criminaly-supernatural @magpie343 @permanently-exhausted-witcher @hina-chans-stuff @the-space-between-heartbeats @havenoffandoms @carriebee1 @ger-bearofrivia @naominami @writingawaymylife @reaganjenelle @badassspaceprincess @theawkwardpedestrian @scarlettwitcher @just-a-sad-donut @summersong69 @an--actual--human--disaster @rubyqueen819 @omgkatinka @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @vonxcon @she-wolfoftheinquisition @titaniafire @mazakeen @bravelittlesunflower

If your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

#eskel x reader #eskel fluff #eskel x reader fluff #protective!eskel #the witcher eskel #the witcher #oneshot #queenxxxsupreme

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malecsecretsanta · 4 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, antisocial-af!

For @antisocial-af: (HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!)

*****

Why did I even agree to this in the first place?

Alec wondered to himself as he checked his watch again for the tenth time in the last five minutes.

His date was late, exceedingly late in fact, and he was beginning to feel pathetic; the waitress had been giving him a look of pity for the last half an hour.

Alec had begrudgingly agreed to be set up on a blind date by his sister. It had become the general consensus among his siblings that he needed to get out and finally meet somebody.

“You need to get laid big brother.” Isabelle had said with a smirk as Jace had laughed.

“She’s right man.” Jace had agreed wholeheartedly. “At the very least it’d lighten you up a bit.”

Alec had been incredulous. “This is really none of your business and I don’t think—”

“I know someone!” Isabelle piped in suddenly with a grin.

“See! Problem solved Alec. We’ll get you laid soon enough.” Jace had said clapping Alec on his back.

Why he had eventually agreed to the blind date was anyone’s guess, even Alec himself was questioning it, especially since the guy had apparently decided not to show.

“That’s it. I’m—”

“I am so sorry I’m late!”

Alec looked up startled. In front of him was what had to be the most uniquely beautiful man he’d ever laid eyes on. His hair was swept up in an elegantly wavy coif with blue highlights, his eyes were traced in black eyeliner with some kind of shimmery eyeshadow that helped bring out the beautiful bronze of the man’s eyes. His lips were plump with a slight pink gloss to them, which Alec wanted nothing more than to kiss.

Wait…what?

Alec shook his head and closed his eyes.

Get a hold of yourself Alec.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, finding his blind date looking at him with wide eyes.

“Look, you’re probably angry with me, which I totally get, but I have a very good excuse I swear—"

The man stopped rambling as Alec held up both his hands indicating that the other man should stop.

“You’re here now, which is all that matters, right?” Alec said straightening up and focusing his attention on his date.

The other man smiled softly at Alec and gently nodded his head.

“Right. Let me formally introduce myself, I’m Magnus, Magnus Bane.”

“Alec.”

The two men shook hands and neither one could keep the smiles off their faces.

“Wow, Isabelle really hit the nail on the head with you.” Alec couldn’t help but say, feeling himself blush as his own words hit his ears.

The other man, Magnus, was quiet for a moment, looked unsure before a Cheshire grin spread over his face.

“Can’t say I heard as much about you, but I don’t think words could do you justice Alexander.”

Alec paused a moment, his full name coming from the man in front of him causing a shiver to radiate up his spine.

I like that.

Alec chuckled and smiled back at the man who seemed like such a force of nature, all he wanted was to try and contain it just for himself.

So, the two men chatted and laughed and drank together for the next couple of hours. The waitress who had previously been looking at Alec with pity was now looking on at him with envy. It felt really good he had to admit to himself.

Magnus was an impressive man. He owned his own night club (he’d been helped out with a loan by his grandmother), but he’d been the one to turn it into a successful venture. He was also an artist; painting was his main forte, but he also enjoyed writing poetry every now and again.

“Maybe one day you could show me a piece of your work.” Alec had said nonchalantly.

Smirking Magnus had replied with, “Maybe one day I’ll let you see my piece. I’ve been told it’s quite impressive.”

Alec had nearly choked on his food at that.

“I didn’t—That’s not—”

“Alexander, relax,” Magnus had said reaching forward and clasping his hand over Alec’s. “I’m just flirting with you, no need to get flustered, though I must admit you’re even more adorable now than you were ten minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry gentleman, but we’re closing in five minutes.” It was their waitress who did have guilty look on her face.

Magnus swiped the check from her before Alec even had a chance.

“It’s on me my dear Alexander. I was late after all.”

Alec couldn’t stop the stutter that made its way out of his mouth as he tried to protest, but it was a losing battle. The man before him had bewitched him. Everything about Magnus Bane left him feeling hungry for more. His sister sure knew how to pick guys.

They ended up exchanging numbers, promising each other to text when they made it home safely.

Magnus took Alec’s hand in his and placed a gentle kiss to the top of it. Alec’s eyebrows were up to his hairline as Magnus looked up meeting his gaze.

“Goodnight, sweet prince.”

And in a flourish Magnus Bane was gone.

Alec was in a daze most of the way home. He also had the biggest smile on his face. Izzy definitely had outdone herself.

His phone rang suddenly, and he answered without thinking.

“Hello?”

“Alec?”

“Hey Isabelle, what are you—”

“Did Jason show up?”

Alec looked at his phone in confusion.

“Um, who’s Jason?”

“Shit, what an asshole, I should have known.”

“Iz you really need to figure out what you’re saying because I just had the best date I’ve had in years, and you’re kind of freaking me out here.” Alec said stopping.

“Well, I don’t know how that would have been possible Alec, because the guy I fixed you up with turned out to be a total prick and decided not to show. I had been so scared you’d just sat there all night alone…"

“Ok Izzy wait a second. So, if the guy who you set me up with didn’t show then who the hell did I have dinner and desert with for the last two and a half hours?”

“Oh, Alec I—I’m not sure. Two and a half hours, really? That’s Amazing!”

“Not the point Iz.” Alec said impatiently trying not to freak out.

“What was the guy’s name?”

“I don’t think that matters—”

“Alec just tell me the guy’s damn name.”

Sighing Alec shook his head. “Magnus Bane. That’s his name.”

There was a moment of silence before Isabelle started to scream on the other line. Alec had to hold the phone out from his ear.

“Iz? Isabelle? Can you stop screaming I kind of need my hearing.”

Laughing Isabelle stopped her yells and took in a few deep breaths.

“Alec, Magnus Bane? He’s only one of New York’s most prominent eligible bachelors. He frequents bars, restaurants, and night clubs sometimes. And he, Oh! He must have seen you were a damsel in need of rescuing and decided—”

“Isabelle, I am not a damsel.” Alec interrupted, feeling all the hope and excitement from the date drain from him.

There was another moment of silence before she answered.

“Alec listen, I didn’t mean anything by that. Magnus Bane has very high standards when it comes to those he takes interest it, he might have a reputation of sorts but he really is a good guy, at least from what I understand.”

“Iz if you think that’s suppose to make me feel better—”

His phone buzzed and he noticed a text message from Magnus.

“Not home yet, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Tonight, was fantastic, but I have a confession to make. I wasn’t your blind date. I saw you sitting there looking absolutely stunning and the idea of leaving you alone seemed cruel to me. So, I took a chance and I am glad I did. If you forgive me, I’d like to see you again. What do you say?”

Alec felt the wind knock itself out of him, and he actually smiled.

“Isabelle, I’ll call you later I have a text to respond to.”

And without letting her respond he hung up.

#antisocial-af #malecsanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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themostawesomehuman · 4 years ago

Text

Matthew babysitting Owen Herondale

This is my first ever fluff lmao! If there’s any thing so can improve on tell me!

Tagging: @lily-chen-deserves-better @liam-h-205 @raccoon-dog-from-mercury @fieryfantasybooklover @daisyherxndale @thanatosangels @magnus-the-fabulous-entp-bane @magnus-the-maqnificent @d3monp0xx @simon-lewis-is-a-skinny-legend @brotherlipsmackariahs @mitsuhamiyamizi @immyownghostwriter @cecilyfightwood @morgnstern @bridgestocksariadne @matthewfaichild @foreverfallentoast @friendlyneighbourhoodreader @idontgetit-whydoihavetosaymyname @herondale-anxiety @insane---chaos @ginacsonka @banesbitch @fairchild-squad @zafirafox4636 @alyssaswords @banesbitch @fairchild-squad @fairchild-blackthorn @fair-but-wilde-child

“I cannot! For your father will cut my head off and shove it on a pole in front of the institute” Matthew explained, his hand resting on his forehead dramatically. It might not strictly have been the case for his dear parabatai but he was quite sure that Cordelia Herondale would not hesitate to use Cortana to slice him in half with a single blow.

“Pleases, Uncle Matthew? Please?” Owen begged, embracing Matthew from behind. Pressing his adorable little face on Matthew’s shoulder. It was hard to say no to Owen Herondale; his eyes glittering with wonder; his genuine warm smile; his face structure exactly the same as James’. Who could really say no to tiny Herondales? Someone must certainly be heartless to say no to Spawns of Perfection. James has told Matthew many times not to call his son a spawn but it is the truth and the truth shall be told. Just a ride from the Institute to his house won’t hurt, right? Matthew thought quietly to himself. He was never the one good with obeying the rules anyway. James and Cordelia often left Owen in the care of Lucie or Thomas but now that they had all made their escape, Matthew had no choice.

After a few minutes of very little persuasion Matthew sighed, “Alright, alright! Let’s go see Oscar”. Matthew stood up and grabbed his coat from a hanger as he spun around dramatically facing his nephew, “Not a word single about this to your parents, understood? Or they shall publicly execute me.” Owen nodded in silent agreement, his eyes lit up like a lightbulb.

On their way to his place, Owen only grew in excitement to see Mr. Oscar Wilde, who Matthew feared would be equally as excited. Matthew himself was extremely tired and was ready to pass out on any given opportunity. Given that if Owen was his parabatai’s son and his godson, he would have left him in a room somewhere and never looked back. During what seemed to be an unusually long ride, he kept drifting off but jerked back and hands on his blade when Owen yelped each time they hit a dump on the road.

After a fifteen ride from the Institute, they finally arrived at Matthew's flat. As the servant opened the door for them, the little boy immediately yelled for Oscar who answered his call with an enthusiastic bark. Owen’s smile brightened even more at the sound; it has been a few weeks since he met Oscar, since Oscar was an old chap with a bit of joint problems.

As soon as they entered the sitting room, Oscar greeted both Owen and Matthew with what seemed to be very wet kisses. Owen giggled as Oscar lay down next to him on the carpet so he could pat his head and give him tummy rubs. As Owen seemed to be entirely focusing on cuddling and teasing the dog, this left Matthew some room to take a bath and asked his servants for hot chocolate and some Turkish delight. He noticed earlier that Owen had barely any of Briget’s wonderful cooking as he was too busy focusing on the book he hid under the table, he was so much like his father, Matthew found it quite endearing. Cordelia had told him that Owen wasn’t allowed sugar at night but at this point, he just wanted his nephew to eat something. She could try to murder and throw his body into the Thames later when she returns.

When Matthew returned downstairs, he found Owen sitting on the floor of the sitting room gobbling down the hot chocolate and a few remaining pieces of Turkish delight. His face was covered in icing, above his mouth a hot chocolate mustache but the biggest cheerful smile on his face. He seemed content and that’s all Matthew really wanted for his dearest nephew.

“These are amazing!” Owen gestured at the plate with his little finger.

“Aren’t they?” Matthew examined a small piece before popping it in his mouth. It tasted very sweet but children seemed to like them. He wiped Owen’s face to make sure that there wasn't any remaining evidence of treats left.

As the servant cleared the room. Owen turned to Matthew and asked “do you live here by yourself?”

“Well, if you don’t count the two servants and Mr. Oscar Wilde then yes”, Matthew answered ruffling Owen’s hair playfully as Owen tried to get away.

“What about a partner? Papa has mam and aunt Lucie has uncle Jess. What about you?” Owen looked directly at Matthew, “ don’t you feel lonely?”

“Do I feel lonely?” shocked Matthew repeated the question. Loneliness was something he never really thought about. Was he lonely? Years before he remembered feeling that way, he would admit. He hated himself and there was this empty void in him that he wanted to fill. He filled it with people, spirits and other things that looking back he wasn’t proud of but as time went by, things changed. “I supposed not”, he finally answered.

“Is that why you’re not married?” Owen questioned him with a bright smile on his face. It’ll be a long time until this little boy has to answer similar questions, there’s so much more he needed to know about the world. It was shocking to think that one day Matthew or James or Cordelia will no longer have to answer every question, for there would be a time Owen would have to figure them out himself.

Matthew’s gaze softened. “Have you ever been to a Shadowhunter wedding ceremony?” he sat down opposite his nephew in front of the fireplace.

“I don’t really remember” the little boy answered, his forehead furrowed thoughtfully.

“Well, they normally asked the soon-to-be-wedded couple, ‘hast thy soul found the one you doth love?’, normally they would both say yes and the ceremony will officially begin” Matthew explained. In the past few years he has been to countless weddings. Everyone seemed to be getting married these days. Everyone except from him. “I haven’t found that person yet. My soul hasn’t and I will wait until I find them”, Matthew answered honestly and shrugged. Owen stared at him, his eyebrows rose and nodded slowly. Matthew knew that Owen didn’t really understand but it didn’t matter. Owen Herondale had so much more time to learn, he had his whole life ahead of him and tonight was only a fragment of it.

As the clock struck nine they were back again at the London Institute with Owen fast asleep in Matthew’s arms. As Matthew lay his nephew down and covered him with the duvet, he quietly wondered what it would feel like to do the same simple gesture for his own son. Maybe someday.

#matthew fairchild #chain of gold #the shadowhunter chronicles #herondale #owen herondale #fluff #heronchild chainofgold #the last hours #shadowhunters #cassandra clare #m’s writing

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bidnezz · 4 years ago

Text

Love Yourself

Magnus Bane / Alec Lightwood

Explicit

No Archive Warnings Apply

Summary:

A bath is next on his list, and as the water fills the tub, he takes the moment to check his messages. There are the expected ones from his parents and siblings that say happy birthday, and each and every one of them receives a thank you’d response before he reaches for the new bottle on the countertop with a bright blue bow on it and an inscription that reads “Love yourself!” in Magnus’ scrawl.

Alec Lightwood-Bane appreciates himself on his birthday.

Read on ao3, or down below!

Alec’s birthday has never meant much to him.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the time spent with his family, or the amazing food Magnus procures for him, it’s just that… he isn’t interested in gifts, or celebrations. Being in the spotlight for so long is, frankly, a little embarrassing. He much prefers the attention to be quick and done with, than dragged on and stilted as it always ends up.

That’s not to say there aren’t things about his birthday he does like.

Because at midnight, on the dot, Magnus always makes it a point of showing him exactly how grateful he is that Alec was born. Adamant is he to always be the first to wish Alec a happy birthday, and graciously the last in the evening.

Not that Alec’s complaining. He’ll gladly spend the whole day hidden away in the confines of their room, being brought to the edge and back as a reward that he’s done absolutely nothing to deserve but exist. But to Magnus, that’s enough, and he’ll blissfully reap all the benefits that his husband is willing to shower him with.

So it’s with this expectation that he wakes up in the morning, a little sore but heavily satisfied from the night before. He pushes down the weight of obligation to reply to all the birthday wishes that are likely spamming his phone, because in only a few moments Magnus will realize he’s awake and bring him fully alert.

Only the seconds tick by, and nothing ever comes, because the bed is empty when he swipes his arm across it. Well, almost empty, save for the piece of paper the bends against the motion of his arm, a paper that he plucks from the sheets with his fingers.

Happy birthday, my love!

Breakfast is in the kitchen whenever you’re hungry.

I’ve left your gift in the bathroom,

enjoy some rest & relaxation.

Rest and relaxation?

Quickly, he fumbles with his phone, sitting up and snagging it from it’s spot on the nightstand before he shoots a text to Magnus. Where are you?

The reply is almost immediate, as if Magnus was waiting for his message.

I’m gathering some ingredients in Morocco. Don’t worry, you have the whole day to yourself, I made sure to let everyone know not to bother you today. You can do whatever you like without pesky missions or siblings forcing you to celebrate your birthday at Pandemonium.

There’s an exciting twist in his stomach at Magnus’ words, before suspicion and doubt starts to creep in. A whole day just to himself? He hasn’t had one of those in years, and any opportunity for one nowadays usually involves Magnus as well, not that he’s ever minded.

But this… being alone, not having to worry about forcing a smile for all the birthday wishes from Shadowhunters at The Institute that are barely acquaintances to him, or the uncomfortable feeling of a cold sweat on his forehead that comes from the belief that he’s completely undeserving of all of his family’s gifts and ecstatic smiles. It’s relieving. He loves his family, as chaotic and stressful as they can be, he loves the thought they put into picking something out just for him, and most of the time the practical gifts they hand over to him are perfect. But even after all these years, he still doesn’t feel like he deserves any of it, like there are more important things for them to spend their resources on.

This doesn’t feel like that. This feels… freeing.

It’s with a slight pep in his step that he slips on a pair of boxer briefs and a shirt and heads to the kitchen, stomach already rumbling with the possibilities of what Magnus could have surprised him with today.

---

As the bath continues to rise, he turns the bottle sideways and pours in a hefty amount, letting any residual anxiety or nerves for the day travel out of him before he toes the water and sinks into its warmth.

Baths are a luxury, in Alec’s mind. Showers are efficient, but a bath can be decadent and spoiled, filled with bubbles and oils and flower petals. That’s how he feels now, though the water is clear of bubbles, it feels good and the only thing that he can smell is the calming scents of Magnus’ magic that he can sense is fused into the mixture. Now that he’s thoroughly calmed and unbothered, though…

… he’s not really sure what to do next. Lightly, he pats the top of the water a few times, watches the ripples as they spread across the surface, and does it again. Maybe he should have put on music, or brought a book.

Maybe he should have just taken a shower.

No, no. Magnus made sure to leave the day obligation-free for him, he’s going to enjoy it!

How would Magnus enjoy his bath? Well, he knows how he and Magnus would enjoy his bath. As well-intended as the baths Magnus always draws for him after tense missions always are, they all end the same way. With a sigh, Alec closes his eyes and tries to push those thoughts away.

Only, closing his eyes with thoughts of Magnus in his head brings forth images of the countless other baths they’ve shared. Images of Magnus between his legs, lathering up a loofah and swiping it slow across his taut muscles, working the soap into his skin with the flat of his palm. Magnus, with his gorgeous bronze skin wet with water as he bends down to work his hands around Alec’s cock while it hardens in his grasp.

He peeks an eye open and glances around the room, despite knowing nobody else is there, before smoothing a hand across his chest.

He imagines it’s Magnus, lets himself get lost in the fantasy of reminiscing. Slowly, he brings his fingers across the hairs of his chest, scraping his blunt nails against them the same way Magnus does, although the feel of it is innately different. It’s only a second until he’s coming into contact with a nipple, already peaking and sensitive as he brushes his fingers along it, taking the nub between his fingertips and twisting.

The moan he releases is low, quiet even in the emptiness of the room. It’s a precursor to what he knows is coming as he feels his hips shift up into the friction of nothing, an involuntary reaction to the pleasure that sparks from within. But he doesn’t stop. He continues to tweak and pinch as his other hand slides down his stomach, dips into the valleys of his abdomen, and with his eyes closed and visions of Magnus in his head, he remembers the appreciation that’s often lavished upon this part of his body.

Normally, he doesn’t pay it any mind. He doesn’t think about his body and what it looks like to others. He doesn’t train and exercise and stay fit for the benefit of anyone but himself and his duties. His self-worth isn’t developed from others, and he knows that’s not going to change.

But it’s his birthday, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t feel a swell of pride for the way his hand glides over the toned muscles of his body. He likes the instinctive press of his fingertips into each valley, the way they rise and fall with every breath he sucks in when he thinks of Magnus ghosting kisses and tracing his tongue along each and every rune diligently. The feel of his own fingers just as appreciative and worshiping in this moment, the way his muscles ripple with the pleasure that courses through him as he focuses on his other nipple, all of it makes his cock bob against his lower belly with the need for attention.

So he gives in with as slow a motion as he can manage, running his fingers along the sharp edge of his hips and following them downwards to the tip of his cock. His bottom lip finds its way between teeth that bite gently, and he teases himself with light touches along the underside of his cock that’s already swollen and throbbing under the warm water. He knows he has all day, and he doesn’t want to take this too fast. He wants to relish in the feel of himself surrounded in the smell and feel of the mixture that swirls around each of his senses, wants to rut against his hand and play with himself while encased in the warmth of Magnus’ magic. But it’s becoming too much, too soon, and everything feels enhanced in the water of this bath.

There’s a fleeting wonder if Magnus laced this mixture with an aphrodisiac, but getting answers is the last thing he wants to do right now.

With a shuddered breath, he trails his hand lower, grasping gently at his balls and giving them a gentle squeeze, rolling them between his palms the way Magnus always does so expertly. His hands are clumsier where Magnus’ are purposeful, but in the heat of the water and the building pleasure, it all feels good - amazing.

More thoughts of Magnus flood in, memories of his own cock twitching against Alec’s thigh as he fondles Alec and bites lightly at his nipple, every receptor in his body attuned perfectly to his husband. Even just imagining it now pulls from him another moan as he pinches his nipple harder, squeezes it between the rough edges of his nail to imitate Magnus’ teeth. It works, a little too much because the moan comes out of him louder than expected, though he doesn’t try to stifle it because nobody else is here, nobody else is listening.

When he finally grips his fingers around his cock, it’s with a deep grunt and the thrust of his hips that sloshes water up and over the sides of the tub.

He could come now, could push himself over the edge already with a few quick pumps.

But the Magnus in his mind from the night before shakes his head and grins up at him, and Alec finds himself indulging in the idea of holding off a little longer.

He loves balancing on the edge, loves the exhilaration of almost tipping over, only to be brought back and dragged down further. It’s different now than when Magnus does it, but effective in the tremor of desire that pulses through him.

Tentative is his thumb as he finally loosens his hold and swipes it over the tip of his cock, wet and shiny with the mixture of water and precome. Alec opens his eyes to see it, to stare down at the pad of his thumb swirling around the head, and his middle finger working small motions just under the ridge of it where the sensations seem to increase.

If he tries to picture it, he can almost see and feel Magnus’ tongue in that same spot, flicking over the junction and wracking Alec’s body with shivers that make his toes curl. It feels almost too good, it brings him too close.

One by one, his fingers curl around his length again, taking a slow stroke up and down in an even breath. He has to calm himself now, a different calm than the one Magnus’ concoction brings, because he’s wound himself up so tightly and despite his efforts to make this last, he’s not sure how much longer he can hold on.

But Magnus in his head is encouraging. He whispers all the dirty sort of things Alec loves to hear, things that took him a long time to work up the courage to ask for, the sort of things that would make him blush if he wasn’t already steeped in a warm bath of pleasure.

Touch yourself for me, Alexander. I want you to watch the way your cock slides in and out of your fist, so fucking hot for me, my darling.

Alec does just that, keeps his gaze firmly on the shape of his cock as it slides in and out of view with each shift of his hips that thrusts up into his loose fist. Heat twists low in his belly, the budding orgasm making itself known in the back of his mind as he remains transfixed on his cock. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience, like he’s watching someone else, like the body in front of him is not his own.

It only makes him appreciate it more, every curve and angle of his cock, the way it twitches when he admires it’s length, the way he sighs when he tightens his fist around it’s girth. He loves the way it looks against Magnus’ lips, inside of Magnus and against his skin. He loves the way it looks now a darkened pink against the white of his hands and shaky under the water.

More, Alexander.

“Magnus,” he hears himself whispering. It spurs him on, and the fingers that were playing with his nipples hastily leave their spot to descend lower, past his cock and down against the smooth ridges of his hole.

Just like that…

His legs spread of their own accord, and he feels himself sinking just a bit further into the water as he rubs his finger along his rim, toying with the idea of going further. He’s so close still, he can feel the muscles in his thighs tightening, burning, and can feel the way the flame flickers low inside with the need for release.

The sounds of his ragged breathing fills the space of the room, echoing back to him like a ghost of a lover, and he finds his eyes roaming his body with a heightened admiration. It makes him wish Magnus were here, that Magnus could see him and join in, that Magnus could see how good he looks right now.

Come, Alexander.

With a loud groan, he slips his finger past the rim and deep inside of himself until he’s finally pushed over the edge. Magnus’ name falls from his lips, a cry for the man he loves, the man who brings him this far gone without even being here, and with the spasm of his muscles he feels the short spurts of come that finally release him from their hold.

It takes everything left in him to not submerge himself into the still warm water. With limbs shaky from residual pleasure and exhaustion, he rinses himself off with a new stream of water and steps out of the bath to collapse on the bed, a wet, naked mess.

He knows Magnus would tut and magic him dry, he knows that Magnus doesn’t like Alec to sleep with wet hair, but Magnus isn’t here and it’s his birthday anyways so if there were any day to get away with it, it’s now.

With a final sigh, he let’s the slumber take him.

---

When Alec wakes up for the second time that day, it’s to a 2pm sun that sits high in the sky and warms the bed where the sunlight filters in. Temptation to go back to sleep seeps in, but Alec pushes it back and sits up with a sleepy moan. The pillow is soaked, and the blankets are still damp, so he makes slow work of setting them out to dry, refusing to rush since he’s still allowed the day to relax.

A book sounds good, Alec thinks, as he searches the tomes that fill up the bookcases and settles on something that has caught his eye a few times before. The couch sinks when he sprawls across it, and it’s after a few minutes of reading that he notices Chairman Meow hasn’t settled on top of him like he normally does.

It seems even the Chairman was no exception to Magnus’ birthday rules.

---

The hours pass quickly as Alec loses himself to tall tales of adventure, and it’s nearing 6pm when his stomach finally grumbles in anger.

A long stretch cracks the stiffness in his body from prolonged couch usage, and as he pulls out his phone to see what he can order for dinner, he opens up his messages.

True to his word, Magnus really did make sure nobody bothered him today.

And yet…

Alec sighs, running a finger through his messy hair. If he’s being honest with himself, he kind of misses the chaos that his birthday always brings him. Being alone was great, the perfect gift actually. But as much as he appreciated it - and himself - he kind of wants to spend the rest of the evening with those that he loves. Magnus, especially.

What are you doing?

His knee refuses to cease it’s bouncing from where he sits on the edge of the couch, but he doesn’t have to wait long for Magnus’ reply.

I was having a debate with a cat I just met about the benefits of leaving his mundane owner and joining the ranks of an all-powerful warlock.

Alec snorts and grins affectionately down at his phone when he texts back.

We have enough cats, leave the poor thing alone and come home. Dinner?

Your R&R birthday isn’t over! You’ve still technically got 5 hours.

I’ve had enough, I’d rather spend the rest of it with you.

Only with Magnus can he be so honest, and he feels his heart thud as he waits for the no-doubt sappy message in return.

Actually… The response comes in, and Alec raises a brow. I was sort of hoping you’d say that, because I had a backup dinner plan on reserve just in case. Make your way over to the East Village in thirty?

I’ll be there.

---

When Alec takes that final step onto 1st Avenue and East 9th street, he’s met with a beaming Magnus who’s swaying on the balls of his feet, dressed as casually as he can be with dark liner and flecks of glitter that sparkle light from the setting sun. “Alexander,” he hums as Alec shuffles in to steal a kiss. “How was your birthday?”

“Better now,” Alec sighs against Magnus’ lips.

They’re pressed close in the middle of the sidewalk, and Alec doesn’t even care as he folds closer to Magnus’ heat. He’s normally not one for public displays that last more than a quick peck or hand-holding, but after all the effort Magnus must have gone through to ensure an absolutely uninterrupted birthday, he feels a bit sentimental.

“C’mon, let’s go inside.”

Alec groans a protest, but Magnus smiles a quick kiss to his lip and tugs him into the small restaurant. Before he can even ask if they can take the food to go, a hand from the booth at the end waves him over. It’s Izzy, excited with a wide grin, stuffed into the booth with the rest of his family.

When he turns to Magnus, there’s a shy smile and hopeful eyes. “Who is Alexander Lightwood-Bane without an immense love for his family, even when they drive him crazy sometimes?”

“Magnus,” he begins, but is cut off with the shake of Magnus’ head.

“They promised no gifts, just company. We were all hoping you’d be okay with this?”

Chest tight and eyes threatening to water, Alec leans down to press a light, meaningful kiss to Magnus’ forehead. “Yes, absolutely,” he responds, and Magnus claps his hands together and takes a step towards the table. “Wait!”

At that, Magnus turns with a perked brow. “Wait?”

“I— thank you, Magnus,” Alec says after a pause. “I love you, and I appreciate everything you did today.”

Magnus’ smile warms and alights inside of him the desire to properly convey the love he feels right now. “You’re very welcome, Alexander. Anything for you,” he murmurs and sneaks another kiss before pulling him towards the booth. “I’m glad you enjoyed your bath,” he tosses back with a wink.

Of course Magnus would choose the moment right before they slide into the booth packed with his family to clear Alec’s suspicions from earlier. There’s a question thrown out, something from his mother that he didn’t catch that only exacerbates the pink on his cheeks and the audible gulp he swallows.

“Oh, Alexander was just telling me he had a wonderful time by himself,” Magnus answers for him, resting a hand on his thigh under the table in secret.

Alec coughs. “Ah, yeah. It was… relaxing.” There’s silence as they wait for more, but Alec doesn’t know what more they’re expecting from him, so he finishes with a sincere, “Thank you guys. Truly.”

It seems it’s not only Magnus that brings forth the warmth in his chest, because as he takes in the smiles of all of his loved ones sitting here in the booth of his favorite burger place, he feels his heart swell.

He’s thankful to each and every one of them for respecting his solitude, through Magnus or not, and his gratitude is immense that they were able to show up last minute when he was finally ready to celebrate. Magnus’ hand on his leg is hot against his skin through the pants he wears, and the mischief in his eyes twinkling a promise for tonight, and all Alec thinks to himself is that he couldn’t have asked for a more perfect birthday.

#Malec #Malec fanfiction #Alec Lightwood #Magnus Bane #alec x magnus #self-love #shadowhunters fanfiction #meant to write fluff #but whoops smut #alec lightwood in the bathroom with the aphrodisiac #bidness #bidnezz #read on ao3 #happy birthday alec

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 15 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 15: mentions of Buried-related trauma (claustrophobia, etc.); a somewhat lengthy discussion of recurrent suicidal ideation (including some informal safety planning); panic/anxiety symptoms; mild self-harm (as a stim to distract from anxiety/intrusive thoughts); swears; mentions of starvation & restrictive behaviors re: Jon’s statement dependence (also some internalized ableism re: the substance dependence/addiction parallels); internalized victim blaming; post-traumatic stress reactions/flashbacks re: Jonah-typical awfulness. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Also, apologies in advance, but ADHD!Jon Went Off for several paragraphs at one point in this chapter and I (and by extension Martin) just let him run with it. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Chapter 15: What Comes After

Jon sits on the floor with his back to the wall, waiting as Basira helps Daisy wash away nearly eight months of grime. Through the closed door and underneath the rapid drumbeat of water, he can make out a steady stream of murmured conversation, punctuated by the occasional sob or bitten-back groan of pain. The words are indistinct, but Jon doesn’t need to Know what is being said to guess the gist of it.

Eventually, the shower turns off. It takes several more minutes before the door opens. Even though Jon knows what to expect, he has to suppress a sympathetic grimace when he lays eyes on Daisy.

She sits hunched forward on the closed toilet lid, damp hair hanging limp around her face and dripping onto the tile floor. There is a sickly pallor to her skin, mottled with bruising and scrubbed-raw patches of pink. The clothes she’s wearing are her own – Basira never could bring herself to discard her things – but they no longer fit. Her shirt practically drowns her emaciated frame now, hanging loose off of one shoulder and exposing the hollows of her collarbone. The dark shadows under her puffy, bloodshot eyes might just rival Jon’s.

“Better?” Jon gives her a weak half-smile.

“Cleaner,” Daisy says hoarsely, staring listlessly at the floor.

“Your turn,” Basira says, meeting Jon’s eyes and jerking her head back towards the shower. “Left the shower stool in there for you. Clean clothes are on the counter.”

“Thanks,” Jon says, but he doesn't move. Part of his brain is telling him to stand; another, more reasonable part is just now realizing that sitting on the floor in the first place was probably a bad idea.

“Do you, uh – need help?”

“No,” Jon says hurriedly, “that – won’t be necessary.”

“No, I wasn’t suggesting –” Basira sighs, flustered. “I just meant that maybe you want to wait until Georgie gets here?”

Now that the adrenaline is fading, Jon’s skin is crawling with every moment the Buried still clings to him. Every slight movement sends loose dirt raining down onto the floor. He needs a shower.

“If you could just help me stand up, I should be able to handle the rest.”

Basira gives a curt nod, quickly recovering from the awkward moment, and hauls him to his feet. Steadying himself against the wall with one hand, he tests putting weight on his bad leg.

“Daisy still needs to see a doctor, and –” Basira frowns, watching Jon wince as he takes a step forward. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? You’re not going to – pass out and drown in two inches of water, are you?”

It wouldn’t kill me, Jon tries to say, wry and only half-joking.

“Not enough to kill me outright,” he says instead. When he feels that familiar static-laden filter slide into place in his mind, he freezes. Before the fear can properly move in, though, Basira’s voice cuts through his stirring panic.

“You’re alright, Jon,” she says, authoritative but without heat. “Just breathe through it, remember?”

Jon nods distractedly, shutting his eyes and focusing on his own breathing. It takes a minute, but the pressure eventually eases enough for him to hear himself think again.

“Are you okay?” Daisy asks, brow furrowed.

“Yes. Sorry.” Just those two simple words are a struggle to vocalize, but once he manages, the rest of the weight lifts from his thoughts. He glances at Basira. “I’m sorry, it just – slipped out, and –”

“It’s fine.” Basira looks him up and down. “I think maybe you should wait for Georgie, though.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just my leg, and I’m used to dealing with that on my own.”

“I thought you injured your ribs.”

“Archivist,” he says with a shrug – a mistake, he realizes a moment too late, as it disturbs his injuries. He just barely manages to avoid flinching. “I heal quickly.”

The truth is, his ribs are unlikely to fully heal until he gets a statement in him. In fact, the last time, his weakness only started to fade after he’d taken a live statement. He’d rather not dwell on that right now, though.

“Hm.” Basira fixes him with a skeptical look.

“I’ll be alright, I promise. You should see to Daisy.”

“No,” Daisy says. Both Basira and Jon glance over at her. A noticeable full-body shiver sweeps over her, and Basira grabs a dry towel from the small stack on the counter.

“You need professional medical attention,” Basira says firmly, wrapping the towel around Daisy and adjusting it to cover her bare arms. “I’m taking you to A&E.”

Daisy ignores her, raising her head to look at Jon instead.

“I was thinking I could – stay, if you want?” She casts her eyes down again and her voice drops to a low murmur. “It’s just – the shower, it’s – a tight space, and – and it might…”

Jon bites the inside of his cheek. It’s true: the shower stall is tiny. Claustrophobic. The room itself is small and poorly ventilated; steam builds up within a minute of the shower being turned on, turning the air thick and stifling with humidity. The single dim light in the ceiling has a tendency to flicker; the bulb has been known to come loose from time to time, plunging the area into near-darkness.

It isn’t the Buried, but there’s enough here to bring the Coffin to mind on a bad day – and especially right now, less than two hours out of the place.

The last time, Daisy never could manage to use the shower without someone else in the room to keep her company. When Basira was unavailable, she would turn to Jon. Eventually, he got comfortable with her returning the favor. It became a routine, but…

“I’ll be okay,” he says again. Unconvincingly, judging from the way Daisy’s eyes narrow at him.

“Do you really want to be alone right now?”

“I…”

No, I don’t. I really, really don’t.

“Look, I’m not trying to make it – weird,” Daisy continues, fiddling with one corner of her towel. “It’s not like I’ll see you through the curtain. I just thought – maybe you could use some company? Don’t say ‘I’m fine,’” she says as he opens his mouth to respond. “Just because you can deal with it alone doesn’t mean you should have to.”

“Well, yes, but –”

“Do you not want me here? Because if you really want me to leave, I will, but –”

“No, I wouldn’t mind the company, honestly, but –”

“Then I’ll stay.” She looks at Basira, as if daring her to object.

Last time, she did object, Jon remembers. Now, though… Basira simply sighs.

“Fine. But,” she adds emphatically, giving Daisy a severe look, “I’m taking you to A&E as soon as Georgie gets here, and you don’t get to argue.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Daisy says with a tired grin.

“Liar,” Basira says, shaking her head with a fond, amused sort of resignation. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

As Basira leaves, Jon catches Daisy’s eye.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” Daisy says at the exact same time. “For not leaving me.”

Their tentative, exhausted smiles are mirror images of one another as understanding passes between them.

Someone upstairs has a statement.

The Archivist Knew the moment she mounted the steps to the Institute. She was marked by the Spiral, the Hunt, and the Lonely in quick succession, but the Archivist can only barely make out the edges of the story: how she was pursued through a nonsensical, constantly-shifting maze of alleyways by a hulking thing that always stayed one step behind, never letting her escape but never deigning to actually catch her.

There was no one in that place to hear her screams. Now, all she wants is to be heard.

The Archivist can give that to her. It would be so easy, so right. She came to the Magnus Institute of her own volition, didn’t she? She’s here to give her statement. The Archivist can take it from her and preserve her voice and relive her story for the rest of –

Jon twists his fingers in his hair and pulls until it hurts.

“You need to sit down,” Georgie says for the third time in as many minutes.

“Just keeping warm.”

It’s not necessarily a lie. The perpetual damp chill of the tunnels seeps into Jon’s bones in spite of his three layers of clothing and Georgie’s scarf wrapped twice around his neck. Beyond that, though, fevered movement is the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces. If he stops or slows, it will become all the more obvious how badly he’s trembling and all the more difficult to ignore the hunger gnawing away at him.

“You’re not even pacing, you’re just – limping.” When he doesn’t reply, Georgie reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Sit. We have some time before Martin gets here.”

With a sigh, Jon finally capitulates, sinking into the nearest chair. Immediately, he starts to jiggle one leg, fingers tapping restlessly on his knees.

“Talk to me, Jon,” Georgie says, taking a seat opposite him. “What’s on your mind?”

“I… I don’t know. It’s – a lot, and…”

He trails off, unsettled at the sound of his own voice, shaking almost as badly as the rest of him. His mouth has gone too dry to comfortably swallow, and every passing thought feels blurry around the edges, too ephemeral to translate into the spoken word. The only thing coming through loud and clear is the need and the knowledge that he has the means to sate it, if he would only embrace it.

There are no words to describe the experience, nor does he wish to verbalize it in the first place. As for the rest of it…

“Of course now I can talk,” he says with a weak laugh, “I suddenly don’t know what to say.”

“Take your time.”

Jon hunches forward, allowing himself to rock back and forth in slight movements as he tries to gather his thoughts.

“I’m –” Hungry. Terrified. Exhausted. Weak. Hungry, craving, needing, wanting – “At a loss.”

“About why you can talk again?”

Yes. Sure. He can go with that. It isn’t a lie, and it feels like a safer topic than all the rest.

“In part. I don’t understand why I have my voice back, or what that means, and of course my mind is immediately going to the worst-case explanations, and” – now he’s started, he rapidly gains momentum, his speech growing pressured and frantic – “I should just be grateful that I can use my own words again, but I can’t just let it go, because when have I ever been able to just let something go, and –” He tugs on a lock of hair again, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Unsurprisingly, I hate not knowing.”

“Well… how about starting with that? Give me some theories. Might help to get them out of your head for a minute.”

“Most of it comes down to… I don’t know – why now, I suppose? I don’t have an answer to that, which just makes me think – did I have a choice all along?” It’s a question that has been plaguing him for hours, sitting poised and ready to spring in the back of his mind, but as he finally speaks it aloud, a chill comes over him. His voice fractures like a crack spreading weblike through thin ice. “This whole time, was I just… not trying hard enough?”

“I don’t think –”

“It was the same with taking statements,” he blurts out, wide-eyed and wound taut. “When the others discovered what I was doing, I stopped, which means I – I could have done all along, and just – didn’t.”

“You implied before that you were sort of – influenced?” Georgie’s voice is thoughtful, not accusatory; her expression searching, but not judgmental. Jon can feel his shoulders relax just slightly.

“‘Influenced’ is one way to put it, yes. But not controlled, exactly – not quite. It was – instinctual, almost? And once a story starts, it’s sort of like – being in a trance, I suppose.”

“I remember you having a kind of… faraway look to you, when I was telling you my story.”

“It wasn’t like that in the very beginning,” he says, watching his fingers curl on his bouncing knees. “I don’t know when they started having that effect on me. I… didn’t even notice the change. Didn’t notice that I was physically dependent on them until I was traveling. Started to get sick the longer I went without them. And when I woke up… just reading statements wasn’t enough anymore.” He draws in a measured breath. Gathers his thoughts. Exhales slowly. “The first time, I was just shopping. I felt – unwell, hazy. Then he was there, and I just – Asked, before I even realized what was happening. The next time was just after Melanie stabbed me –”

“She what?”

“It was – sort of deserved,” Jon says, waving it off. He continues before Georgie can get another word in. “I felt – drained, after. Thought I just needed some air, so I went for a walk. Wasn’t long before I crossed paths with my next – victim. Didn’t realize until much later that I must have been… hunting, subconsciously. Like a fugue, almost. But just before I Asked, I had this moment where I – I knew what I was about to do, and I just – did it anyway. And then the third time was –”

“After the Coffin,” Georgie guesses. The look on her face is that mixture of sadness and pity that haunted Jon in their shared nightmares for so long.

“Yes.” Jon keeps his eyes downcast. “And the fourth time was after I – well, I tried too hard to Know something, and it sort of – took it out of me.”

“So the trigger is being injured, or weakened?”

“Maybe in the beginning. The last time, though… I was feeling weak, yes, but there was no specific incident that precipitated it. Basira needed me at full strength for a mission. So I Knew where I could find a statement, and I made sure to be in the right place at the right time.” He wrings his hands in his lap. “But the mission was just the way I rationalized it to myself. I was just hungry. I would’ve fed regardless, and reached for whatever excuse was closest to hand, and felt guilty later, and – well, rinse and repeat.”

“You didn’t quite answer when I asked before, but… is it an addiction, or is it sustenance?”

“It’s a… need.” Jon bites his lip in thought. “Feels like addiction sometimes, but the compulsion is worse than nicotine cravings ever were. And when I tried to stop, it – it wasn’t only withdrawal. I actually was starving. Still don’t know if it would have actually killed me, but…” He shrugs. “Suppose we’ll find out.”

“Jon –”

“But I – I need you to understand,” Jon says, jolting up straight in his seat. “I’m not making excuses. I’m done making excuses, there are no excuses, just – explanations. I was influenced, yes, and it often felt like being – enthralled, but I still… I knew that I was dangerous, that what I was doing was wrong. If I thought I couldn’t help myself, I should’ve told the others from the start and they would’ve done what was necessary. I always felt ashamed after, but I still – kept doing it, until I was forced to stop.”

He’s ranting at full-tilt now, breath quickening and heart stuttering in his throat.

“I didn’t just need it, Georgie, I wanted it. I – I liked it. It felt good. And I know for a fact that it still would, if I let myself do it again. I’ve seen the consequences of becoming – that, and I still…” His shoulders sag. “I miss it. I’m afraid I’ll never stop wanting it, I hate myself for that, and it changes nothing.”

“You’re hungry now, aren’t you?” Georgie asks gently.

Jon tsks and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That obvious, is it?”

“Mm.” She gives him a sympathetic smile. “You seem more jittery than usual. And you’re shaking.”

“Ravenous,” he says with a bitter laugh. “Worst I’ve been in – a long while, and it’s only going to get worse.”

He lets his gaze drift to the floor as he briefly debates whether to share the details. She should probably know what manner of monster she’s dealing with.

“Actually, ah – someone upstairs has a statement,” he says before he can lose his nerve. “She was writing it out just before we came down here, and I could See the shape of it, but not the whole story, and now I can’t See her anymore, and I – I need –” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, scraping ragged fingernails against his scalp. “Christ, Georgie, it’s all I can do not to rush up there and rip it out of her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Not yours, either. Don’t,” Georgie says, cutting him off when he opens his mouth to launch into another tirade. “I’m not saying that you were justified in hurting people. But you didn’t choose to be… this.”

“I may not have wanted it,” he says flatly, “but I did choose it.”

“How so?”

She sounds genuinely curious, not confrontational, which keeps him from going on the defensive. Instead, the question gives Jon pause.

“I… I don’t know how to explain it,” he says slowly, frowning. “Just – something Jonah said to me, and it – feels right.”

“He said that to you?” Georgie’s eyes narrow as she watches him. “Those words?”

“Yes?” Jon squirms in his seat; sometimes, Georgie’s scrutiny is on par with that of the Beholding. “A long time ago. Before the Unknowing, even. When I realized that I was becoming something – not human, and confronted him about it.”

Georgie taps a knuckle against her lips, looking down at the floor in thought.

“Jon, I’m going to say something, and I want you to think about it – really think about it, don’t just discard it offhand. Alright?”

“Okay?” Jon says, apprehension flooding him.

Georgie takes a breath and looks him in the eye.

“Supernatural flavor aside, that’s just how abusers talk in order to groom their victims.”

Jon recoils as if struck and shoves the information away from him almost as soon as the words leave her mouth.

“Does it really matter?” It comes out far more harshly than he had intended, closer to a shout than a comment, and he cringes. “Sorry. It’s just – he had a point.”

“Jon –”

“No, I chose to keep looking for answers at every turn,” Jon says, gesticulating wildly. “I’ve never known when to just stop, no matter how many times people get hurt from it. I was a perfect fit for the Beholding, the perfect candidate for Jonah to do with what he will, and I – I still am. Doesn’t matter if I wanted this outcome. I still sought it out. Moth to a fucking flame.”

“Doesn’t mean you chose it, and it doesn’t mean you deserved what happened to you,” Georgie says. For some reason that Jon can’t quite pinpoint, the quiet confidence with which she speaks grates on his nerves. “And anyway, it seems to me you’re doing a decent job at controlling yourself now.”

“Yeah.” He huffs. “Only it took Basira threatening to kill me.”

“She what?”

“Not recently. In my future. It was warranted,” he says with a dismissive gesture. Then he sighs, slouching in his seat. “And I don’t know if even that threat would have stopped me forever. Didn’t have to find out. I managed to end the world first, and then I had all the fear I could ever want.”

The moment he stops speaking, his mind once again drifts to the statement ripe for the taking just upstairs. His bitter expression turns anguished and he buries his face in his hands.

“I want to kill the part of me that misses it. That might just kill all of me, but honestly, Georgie, I don’t – I don’t know if that would be such a bad thing –” He chokes on his words and looks up at her with wide, frantic eyes. “I – I’m sorry, I didn’t – I shouldn’t have said –” He takes a deep breath and forces assurance into his voice when he says, “I’m not suicidal.”

“I won’t be angry if you are,” Georgie says evenly, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not suicidal,” he says again, but he looks away as he does, unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t – want to die. I just feel like as long as I’m around, everyone – everything is in danger, and – what right to I have to make that decision for the world? It’s – selfish, and – I really don’t deserve a second chance, especially when part of me still…”

Jon swallows hard. Once again, he wonders if the woman with the statement is still here. He pinches the skin of his arm and twists. Noticing the tic, Georgie frowns and opens her mouth to redirect him, but he carries on speaking, undeterred.

“I think the only reason I chose to wake up again is because I needed to help Daisy and Martin. I think the only reason I’m still alive now is because I don’t want to leave Martin alone. Or – no, that makes it sound out of obligation or – or guilt. It's not that. It's – I – I want to be with him, I do. I actively want to – to have a life with him, just – live, be. If not for that, though, I… I’m tired, Georgie.”

Tired of hurting and being hurt, of watching and being watched. Tired of hunger and want and an existence that hinges upon the misery of others. Tired loss and scars and nightmares. Tired of having to settle for not wanting to die instead of wanting to live. Tired of just surviving instead of actually living.

“I’m just tired,” he says, putting his head in his hands again. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear this.”

“I would rather you talk about it than keep it bottled up.”

“I just don’t want you to think that I’m not trying to get better.”

“Recovery isn’t linear. I’m not going to leave just because you have bad days. It would be different if you were closed off, denying you have a problem, but… you’re not.” When he doesn’t answer, her frown deepens. Her next words sound almost affronted. “I’ve been suicidal, Jon, you know that. Why do you think I’d hold it against you? I know you can’t just flip a switch to make it go away. Why are you so afraid –” Realization dawns on her face. “I left last time, didn’t I?”

“I never regained autonomy in the nightmares, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to you before I woke up.” Jon shrugs halfheartedly. “You didn’t expect me to wake up. Then I did, and I didn’t have any of the complications to be expected from a six-months coma. Not even a coma, really, just – everything but brain dead. A corpse coming back to life – I think it was too much for you. You told me I needed people to keep me human, and by the time I took that advice there was no one left to turn to, and now I wasn’t human anymore. It kept me from dying, but you didn’t think it was a second chance.”

“I said that to you?”

“The, uh, last bit,” he says reluctantly. He doesn’t blame Georgie for leaving, but he can’t deny that her parting words to him on that day still sting, even now – a resounding condemnation that he can’t quite shake. “But you weren’t wrong,” he says, rushing to reassure her when he sees the horrified look on her face. “It wasn’t a second chance, it was just… the next phase of the Archivist’s development. Anyway, you were tired of watching me self-destruct, you knew there was nothing you could to do change my trajectory, and you didn’t want me to drag you down with me. Or Melanie. Her life had – has, I suppose – been nothing but misery since the day she met me. She was trying to get out, to get better.”

“And you?”

“I wanted to, but I just… couldn’t see a way out. I couldn’t leave, but I…” He bites down hard on his lower lip, struggling with his next words. “I don’t think I was choosing to stay involved, either.”

“And I thought you were.”

“You weren’t the only one. And it wasn’t an unfair assumption. I was” – am, his brain corrects – “in too deep. I didn’t” – don’t, he reminds himself –“belong in normal life anymore. I couldn’t” – can’t, he does not say aloud – “reverse the change. Even when I found out how to quit… I couldn’t just leave Martin here alone. Also, I know now that it wouldn’t have worked for me anyway.”

“It would’ve killed you,” she guesses.

“No such luck,” he says with a short laugh, then feels his blood drain from his face. He looks up and fixes her with a panicked, apologetic look. “Sorry, I – that was in poor taste, it’s just – that was what went through my mind when I first realized it.”

“It’s alright.”

Jon clears his throat, still somewhat shamefaced.

“What I mean is that I, ah, tried to blind myself during the Ritual. Turns out I heal too quickly for it to have any effect on my connection with the Beholding. Otherwise I’d have tried it again the moment I woke up in the hospital.”

Georgie says nothing. When he chances a glimpse of her, he sees no judgment or anger, just more of that familiar, gentle sadness. He has to look away again.

“I don’t blame you for walking away back then. You didn’t have the whole picture. Neither did I, but even if I did, I probably wouldn’t have given you all the details, and you knew that. I can’t fault you for not wanting to stay involved when you didn’t know what being involved would actually entail.” He looks up and meets her eyes. “Honestly, Georgie, even if you’d stayed, I probably would have made all the same mistakes. I would have continued putting myself in danger and downplaying it. I would still have gone into the Coffin, and I wouldn’t have told you where I was going beforehand. I would likely have distanced myself from you on my own, because I’d have convinced myself it was in your best interests without asking you how you felt about it. I’ve… changed since then, but at the time, I probably would have continued retracing the same patterns. You would have only gotten hurt, even if it wasn’t my intention.”

“Maybe.” She frowns, chin propped on her fist as she considers. “I can’t speak for a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were alone.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much I didn’t want to be alone until it was too late.”

“It’s not too late now, though,” she says with a cautious smile.

“No, I suppose not.” Jon’s answering smile fades as he gives her a serious look. “None of this obligates you to stick around, by the way.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious. I’m glad you’re here, but…” It’s more than I deserve, he almost says, but stops himself when he imagines Georgie’s reaction to that. “I don't want things to become – toxic, between us. If it gets to be too much, I’ll understand.”

“If it does, it won’t be just because you had a setback. Just – try not to wallow too much when you do, alright? You’re not good company for yourself when you’re like that.”

“Yeah,” Jon concedes on a long exhale.

Georgie sighs, a pensive look on her face.

“I think I may have given you the wrong impression before. When I made you promise that you didn’t have a death wish, it wasn’t because I was going to leave if you’re suicidal. It was because I don’t want to be lied to about it if you are. I don’t want to be blindsided by your self-destruction, or made complicit in it. It isn’t fair to me.”

“I don’t want that either,” he says softly. “And I – I wasn’t lying before, when I promised you that the Coffin wasn’t a death wish. I just… I thought…”

“You thought you could make the decision to live once and be done with it.”

“Sounds foolish when you put it like that, but… yes, I suppose so.”

“Would be nice if it worked like that,” Georgie says with a rueful smile. Then she sighs. “I’m not expecting you to get better overnight, and neither should you – especially when you’re still in the thick of it. I’m just expecting you to communicate when things get bad, rather than throwing yourself onto the nearest grenade as – atonement, or punishment, or some misguided belief that you have to earn the right to live. I won’t be a party to that. I can’t. I don’t… hold it against you personally, I get it, I’ve been there – but that’s why I can’t be around it. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“To be clear,” she says emphatically, waiting until he meets her eye before continuing, “I don’t mind hearing about those thoughts. I take issue with you acting on them with no regard for yourself or the people around you, and then minimizing the consequences. And that – that isn’t a value judgment. It’s just… watching you get trapped in that cycle, it takes me to a bad place.” Georgie chews on her lip for a moment, and then nods, as if coming to a conclusion. “If you were looking for a boundary, there it is. I know you can’t avoid danger entirely, but when you’re feeling like this, can you at least promise to talk to someone before making any drastic decisions? You have to let us know if you’re in a bad way, because it will affect your judgment.”

Jon lets out a long exhale. “I will.”

“Okay. I can live with that.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, self-conscious.

“About your voice, though.” Jon gives her a quizzical look. “I thought it was wholly a supernatural thing, but…” She looks up at the ceiling, gathering her thoughts, and then adopts a delicate tone. “Have you considered that it might also be a – a trauma response?”

“I didn’t before.”

“And now?”

“I… I don’t know. It first started partway through the apocalypse. The more I experienced, the more the Archive asserted itself. I was still me, most of the time, but I was also – more, I suppose? It’s… complicated.” Jon rakes his fingers through his hair as he works on his phrasing. “The human mind was never meant to contain that… much. The Archive’s purpose is to – well, to archive. Every instance of fear and suffering in that place was a statement. Billions of them, every moment recorded live – and when I read or take a statement, I live it vicariously. My own experience of it is… an essential part of the recording process.” He blows out a puff of air. “So I had a lot going through my head at any given moment. The human in me couldn’t be conscious of all of it at the same time.”

“That’s… horrible.”

“Yes. And it felt right.” He rubs one arm absently, looking off to the side. “I don’t think I was meant to survive – the human part of me, that is. I was just one mind; I should have gotten lost in the multitude. And I did, sometimes, but… I always found my way back. Martin always called me back. If not for him…”

If not for him, Jon would have lost his sense of self in the Archive, given up and accepted the role assigned to him, much like he suspects Gertrude would have. When he lost Martin, Jon almost did lose himself as well.

“Either way, I was – above all else, I was still an Archive. I learned to compartmentalize, to an extent, but I was never meant to have my own voice. At some point, it got lost in all the noise. If I wanted to communicate, I could only use the stories hoarded away in the Archive.”

Jon frowns in consideration, actively weighing the most likely theories as he talks himself through the evidence.

“I… don’t think it was purely a psychological response,” he says slowly, gaining in confidence as he speaks the words. “I think it was a consequence of what I was in that place. The Archive was part of that world’s fabric, so to speak. But this reality operates differently than the one I came from. Its natural laws aren’t dictated by the Beholding. It has… less prominence here. Case in point, I’m significantly less powerful now than I was in my future.”

Georgie raises an eyebrow. “How powerful are we talking?”

“I was an apex predator among monsters. A direct conduit of the Ceaseless Watcher. Oh,” he adds offhandedly, “and I Knew everything.”

“What.”

“Well – almost everything. And not all at once. It was more that I – I was able to Know almost anything if I looked for the answer.” He allows himself a small grin. “Post-apocalyptic Google, so to speak.”

“Sounds… useful?”

“In some ways. It’s awful to say, but I miss it sometimes. Having control over it, mostly. I could stop myself from Knowing things about a person, give them more privacy. But I also couldn’t opt out of Knowing entirely. I just… had more control over what I Knew and when. And there were still things I couldn’t Know. The Beholding will hoard almost any scrap of information, but it has a clear preference for the horrific. It was utterly silent on anything related to an after – an afterlife, a reversal of the apocalypse, any sort of escape or release from the nightmare.”

“God,” Georgie murmurs, almost to herself.

“Jury’s out on that one, too.”

“No, I just meant –” Georgie pauses when she sees Jon smirk. “Oh, I see. You’re just being a smartass.” She shoots him a grin and nudges him with her foot. “What about now? Do you still –”

“I don’t have near as much control over it as I used to, no. I can remember the things that I consciously chose to Know then, but… that sea of knowledge, all those potential answers to any hypothetical questions – my access to it is limited now. And I’m Knowing things unintentionally again.”

“What about the Archive – the statements?”

“When I first woke up, it felt – the same as it did in the future. A sort of – wall of static that lowered whenever I tried to use my own words. It lifted in the Buried, because I was cut off from the Eye – from the Archive. I thought it would reassert itself when I came back – and it did for a minute – but now it’s…” Jon stares down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. “I still have recall of all the statements I already had archived. Not all at once, more like a – like a database, I suppose, but – they’re there if I look for them. The Archive is still there, and sometimes it slips through, but… it’s not as dominant as it was before. And seeing as I can speak at all, apparently state of mind is more of a factor than I thought. At least right now. Not sure about before.”

“Well,” Georgie says, “even if you have more control over it now, it doesn’t mean you always did. Sometimes circumstances change.”

“Maybe,” Jon says, his thoughts already beginning to stray.

Georgie sighs in exasperation.

“Just because there’s a future where things are better doesn’t mean you’re a failure for things being bad in the present. Jon, look at me.” He does, albeit reluctantly. “What you’ve gone through isn’t something that you just get over. It’s always going to be there. That doesn’t mean things will never get better. It just means that you need to make peace with the fact that you’ll have ups and downs. If you turn on yourself every time you’re struggling, you’ll never notice the moments of progress. And if you see every instance of progress as an opportunity to berate yourself for not achieving it sooner, then, well – I’m sorry, but things aren’t going to get better.”

“I – I know. It’s just…”

“Difficult. I know. I’ve been there.” Her expression softens. “I’m not trying to be harsh. I don’t expect one conversation to change the way you think. It takes years of practice to break that sort of pattern. But when you need reminders – and you will, and I won’t be disappointed when you do – I’m going to keep giving them to you. I’ll ask you to at least consider them each time before dismissing them outright. Does that sound fair?”

“More than,” Jon says, giving her a weak smile.

“Good, because I seem to recall you making the same request of me once upon a time.”

Did I? Jon thinks back and draws a blank. Not for the first time, he curses how unreliable his memory can be.

“Still,” he says, “I’m sorry to be such a –”

“If you say ‘burden’ or anything to that effect, I actually will be cross with you.”

“Noted,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “But – sincerely, I – I know that right now I’m –” Dead weight, he almost says. Volatile. Fragile. Tiresome. Untrustworthy. A walking doomsday button. Georgie gives him a warning look, silently urging him to consider his next words carefully. “Struggling,” he opts for. “But I do want to be there for you if you need me, in whatever way I can, so… open invitation to confide in me, or ask for help, or – or anything you need.”

“That was eloquent,” she replies with a teasing smirk. Jon rolls his eyes.

“Ironically, I think I was more eloquent when I was the Archive.”

“Eloquent in a poetic sense, maybe,” Georgie says with mock thoughtfulness, “but it didn’t lend itself to clarity.”

Another hunger pang rips through Jon's mind and he clenches his jaw, curling his shaking hands into fists.

“Hey.” Georgie prods his foot with hers again. “You ready to see Martin?”

“I, ah…” Jon gives a nervous laugh. “I want to see him more than anything, but I’m also – terrified? I know things won’t be how I remember them, I know I have to adjust my expectations, but I don’t know what to adjust them to, and I don’t know what to expect from myself, either, and…”

And the hunger is eating away at him from the inside out, an incessant undercurrent of need-want-feed running parallel with every other thought vying for his attention. He brings his hands to his face, puts pressure on his eyes, grounds himself in the ache. Almost immediately, his brain latches onto the words pressure and ground and suddenly he’s comparing the cravings to being buried alive, to drowning in noise, to being suffocated by the crush of stories that was – is – destined to comprise the entirety of his being. He’s being drawn over the threshold of that ubiquitous, baleful door in his mind: hated and feared, yes, but completing him all the same.

Guess that’s the thing about being the chosen one, Arthur Nolan’s words echo in the Archive’s halls. At the end of it, you’re always just the point of someone else’s story, everyone clamoring to say what you were, what you meant, and your thoughts on it all don’t mean nothing.

Jon tries to dislodge the statement, but there is no stop button to corral the Archive, and the story continues on: It seeds us with this… aching, impossible desire to change the world, to bring it to us.

There are hundreds of thousands of words pounding on the door now, none of them his own, an endless stream of them queuing up in his throat, cramming into his lungs – and with a painful lurch, he’s falling down, down, down –

Breathe, comes the familiar mantra.

On the one hand, he’s glad for how quickly and mindlessly that coping mechanism kicks in by now. On the other hand, he wishes he didn’t have so many opportunities to practice that it’s become so ingrained in the first place. There is something different about it this time, though. Usually, he imagines the command in his own voice, or occasionally Martin’s. Just now, he could pick out multiple tones, all overlapping: Martin. Georgie. Basira. Daisy. Himself.

The effect is potent. It allows him to walk himself back from the edge in record time. The hunger still scratches impatiently at the door, but he manages to tear his attention away from it long enough to remember where and when and who he is. When he glances back up, he realizes that only a few seconds have transpired – a storm so brief that apparently even Georgie didn’t register its passing. Instead, she’s staring over his shoulder. She catches his eye, raises her eyebrows, and nods, indicating something behind him.

“Well,” she says with a smile both amused and reassuring, “I think you’re about to find out.”

Another stab of panic shoots through him, shattering his momentary calm. Time stands still. When lightheadedness overtakes him and his vision starts to pixelate, he realizes that he’s been holding his breath. He lets out a juddering exhale, and turns around.

When he lays eyes on Martin, Jon is speechless all over again.

Martin startles when Jon’s eyes lock onto his, still unaccustomed to and unsettled by such direct eye contact. He immediately regrets that reaction when he watches Jon recoil and avert his eyes. The reflexive urge to vanish overtakes Martin then – and he feels himself begin to panic a little more when it yields no results. He had been accessing that power up until moments ago, when he dropped the veil; why is it out of reach now?

“Hi, Martin,” Georgie says, apparently unperturbed by the awkward atmosphere. “I was just keeping Jon company until you got here, but I’ll give you two some privacy now.” She stands, stretches, and brings one arm down to touch Jon’s shoulder. “I’ll be here for a while yet. If you need me, I’ll probably be in Melanie’s usual spot.”

Martin can see Jon incline his head slightly. If Jon sees her reassuring smile, he gives no indication. Georgie gives his shoulder another pat and starts to walk towards the ladder. Martin steps aside, giving her a wide berth – force of habit – and watches until the trapdoor closes behind her.

For what feels like an interminable moment, the stale air hangs heavy with silence. Martin stands rigid, mind drawing a blank. Could cut the tension in here with a bread knife, he thinks to himself, somewhat hysterically.

Jon, for his part, is staring steadfastly at the ground, utterly unmoving – and Martin’s heart wrenches painfully in his chest at the sight.

Of all the adjectives that could be used to describe Jonathan Sims, unmoving has never been one of them. When he’s not running his hands through his hair or scratching at his skin, he’s bouncing his legs, tapping his fingers, biting the insides of his cheeks, pacing, rocking in place – an endless rotation of fidgets and stims, flowing one into the next. When he’s excited, his eyes light up, intense and intelligent and impossible to break away from; he interrupts himself in his rush to translate his thoughts into speech before he loses them entirely; he’s a flurry of animated gestures and borderline manic pacing. Even at rest, his eyes are bright with questions and his hands flutter when he talks; even exhausted and lethargic, his mind is a hummingbird flitting from thought to thought with frantic abandon, eager to catalog every detail and cover every angle.

Sometimes, it’s vicariously exhausting to witness; most of the time, Martin is hopelessly endeared. In all the time that Martin has known him, the coma was the first time he ever saw Jon entirely still. Martin used to wish on occasion that he had more chances to just look at him. Up until that point, he’d had to make do with furtive glances and stolen moments when Jon was too engrossed in a task to notice Martin staring. In the hospital, Martin finally had a chance to really study him freely.

Stillness doesn’t suit him, Martin remembers thinking – and another piece of his heart chipped away.

Unconsciously, Martin finds himself studying Jon again now. He sits hunched forward with his arms folded tightly in front of him, a white-knuckled grip on each elbow, his narrow shoulders pulled in and forward. Judging from the predictably mussed state of his hair, he must have been combing his fingers through it nonstop recently. His lips are chapped and torn from chewing; the dark circles under his eyes seem to have shadows of their own. His multiple layers of clothing do nothing to hide the gauntness of his frame or the frailness of his wrists.

Jon is awake now, yes, but still he looks… distant. Listless. Too close to lifeless for comfort; too reminiscent of deathbeds and silent monitors and grey hospital linens. So Martin breaks the silence.

“Jon.”

He doesn’t raise his head, but his eyes flick upwards to gaze at Martin through his lashes. Sharp eyes, haunted eyes, more and more so with every passing day – and now, they’re downright bleak. Still, though, they’re beautiful: a rich brown, dark and deep enough to fall into, and Martin could lose himself in them gladly. Then, Jon breaks eye contact again, curling in on himself even further.

How is it that he manages to look more run down every time I see him? Martin thinks, and then he notices Jon’s hands, trembling in his lap now.

“You’re shaking.”

“Yes.” The word cracks on its way out, coming out as little more than a croak, and Jon clears his throat before trying again. “Just, ah – just hungry.”

“You’ve been back a few hours now, haven’t you eaten yet?” Martin replies automatically, the caretaker in him taking charge. “Jon, you were in there for over a week, you need to –”

“Not – not that kind of hunger.” Jon finally raises his head, but his eyes still dart away from Martin’s every few moments.

“Oh,” Martin says quietly. “Statements.”

“Yeah.” Jon scuffs one foot against the floor.

“W-well, I can wait, if you want to go record one?”

“No, I –” Jon clears his throat again, sitting up straighter in his seat. “I’d prefer to talk. If that’s alright with you. I’m – I’m sure you have questions for me.”

Martin considers. On the one hand, his instinct is to insist that Jon take care of himself first. On the other hand, he knows how stubborn Jon can be. Arguing about it wouldn’t change his mind, only waste time and ultimately leave him waiting longer for a meal.

“Yeah,” Martin says with a reluctant sigh, “I guess.”

“R-right. Well…” One end of Jon’s scarf trails in his lap, and he runs his fingertips over the weave, in the same way that one might pet a cat. “I – I’ll answer them as best I can.”

“Right,” Martin echoes.

“Would you like to sit?”

Martin nods wordlessly and takes a seat opposite Jon, but his mind goes blank again.

“Georgie said she explained things?” Jon tries tentatively.

“Sort of. She said she was working on an incomplete explanation herself.”

“Yes, that was – that was my fault. I was having some –”

“Speech difficulties, yeah. She said.”

“Which is also why my message to you was so…” Jon sighs. “I would have preferred to use my own words.”

“But did you mean it?” Martin blurts out. He feels his face heat in an instant and he has to look away.

“Yes,” Jon says quietly. Confidently, Martin notes privately, and blushes more deeply. “The sentiment was all mine. I know it may seem – out of the blue, from your perspective, but I – I meant it, all of it.” Jon ducks his head, but doesn’t look away. “I, uh – I still do.”

It’s Martin’s turn to break eye contact, keen to look anywhere other than into Jon’s eyes and the open, sincere warmth living there.

“I’m not the person you remember,” Martin says stiffly.

“Neither am I,” Jon replies, his voice softer than Martin has ever heard it.

Martin’s throat works as he swallows hard.

“I’m not the person you fell in love with.”

Jon’s expression softens and he gives Martin a beseeching look.

“I disagree,” he says, with more of his earlier assurance.

“I’m not,” Martin insists. “I don’t know what the me of the future was like, but I’m not – I’m not him. Whatever he did to make you fall for him, it’s – it’s not me.”

“Martin, I fell in love with this version of you,” Jon replies, his voice tremulous. “With every version of you.”

Martin just stares. Jon smiles at him: soft, sad, sorry, sincere.

“I – I know it’s difficult to believe. I treated you – horribly, and for so long. Took you for granted. Never gave you the respect or care you deserved. I… I don’t think I’ll ever stop being sorry for that.” He maintains eye contact, and Martin once again finds that he cannot look away. “I’ve never been… good at this sort of thing – putting words to how I feel. In retrospect, I was falling for you even before the Unknowing. I just – didn’t realize how much until I woke up and you weren’t there. There was a – an empty space where you used to be, and I couldn’t… I was almost too late. I almost lost you –”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Martin is startled to see the sheen to his eyes.

“I… I did lose you, eventually, and it nearly…” His voice is rough with held back tears. He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, there’s an intensity to his voice that Martin just now realizes he’s missed. “But not – not until much later. Not here. Not now. Not to Peter fucking Lukas.”

Martin lets out an amused huff at the venom with which Jon says the name. Jon looks up, tilting his head slightly – and Martin can feel one corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly at the familiar mannerism.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just – don’t hear you swear much.”

“Well, he deserves it,” Jon replies, half-scathing, half-embarrassed.

“Can’t say I disagree with you there,” Martin says with a tired chuckle.

“About – about Peter.” Once again, the name sounds poisonous on Jon’s tongue. “He’s lying to you –”

A bolt of annoyance shoots through Martin at that.

“I’m not an idiot, Jon.”

“No,” Jon says hurriedly, his hands fluttering in agitation, “I didn’t mean to imply –” He breathes a heavy sigh, flustered. “I know that I – I underestimated you for far too long. But you’re clever, and capable, and you understand people in a way that I find endlessly impressive.” To his chagrin, Martin can feel himself redden at the unexpected praise. “You’re not gullible enough to trust Peter for a moment. I know that. And” – Jon grins at him with such open affection that Martin wants to flee – “last time, you outmaneuvered him so seamlessly that I – after seeing the look on Peter’s face, I think I fell a little more in love with you, impossible as it seemed.”

Martin’s face is on fire now, must be.

“I trusted you then, wholeheartedly, and I still do,” Jon continues. “I… I’ll respect whatever decision you make going forward. Even if it means you continue working with Peter. But,” he adds, licking his lips nervously, “I have information now that we didn’t have the first time around, and I – I’d like you to know the whole story. It could have implications for whatever strategy you decide on.”

“You’re talking about the Extinction.”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Is it a real thing?”

Jon lets out a long exhale, looking off to the side with a pensive scowl. Martin can feel himself smile at the sight of that oh-so-familiar crease between his eyebrows, a telltale harbinger of a Jonathan Sims dissertation. Resting his chin in his hands and leaning forward, Martin settles in for an earful.

“Yes,” Jon says after a moment’s hesitation, “but – it’s more complicated than Peter assumes. It’s real insofar as it’s a pervasive terror for large swathes of the human population. Justifiably so, I think it’s fair to say. And it’s possible that, given existential threats like global climate change, nuclear weaponry proliferation, pandemics, war, artificial scarcity, structural oppression and inequality embedded in society worldwide…”

He counts off on his fingers, the line between his eyebrows deepening as he builds momentum.

“And of course we have a twenty-four-hour news cycle inundating us all with that reality, and – entire genres of literature and film utilizing those apocalyptic themes… well, suffice it to say, the fear of a world without us might eventually reach a point where it could be considered on par with Smirke’s Fourteen.

“But Smirke’s taxonomy is also an oversimplification. The human experience is far too varied and complex to be split into neat categories. The animal experience, rather. It’s likely that the Fears have existed since before the advent of modern Homo sapiens, and if we consider the origins of the Flesh – it would be anthropocentric to assume that only the human mind is subject to them, and” – Jon shakes his head – “I'm veering off topic. Point is, the Fears bleed into one another. It’s why a Ritual for a single power was never going to work, why Jonah – Elias’ Ritual was predicated on bringing through all Fourteen at once. Or, case in point, perhaps Fifteen. The Extinction did have a domain of its own after the change, it was just… less sprawling than the others, and there were fewer instances of it. And no Avatars dedicated to it, as far as I could tell.”

Jon taps two fingers against his lips, leg bouncing restlessly as he ponders his next words.

“As for an Emergence, though… I really don’t think there is such a thing as a grand birthing event. The Extinction is already here, in a way. Many of the statements feature more than one Fear at a time, precisely because the boundaries between them are so indistinct. Some of the statements that Adelard Dekker collected – I do think that they contain genuine examples of the Extinction as a coherent Fear of its own, just… mixed in with other Fears. I imagine the Extinction’s trajectory might be similar to that of the Flesh – arising as times change, as more and more minds collectively experience that flavor of fear.

“It might be a quick evolution – similar to how anthropogenic climate change has followed an exponential growth curve, aptly enough – but I don’t think that the Extinction is or – or will be somehow more formidable than the other Fourteen.” His speech turns rapid-fire as he bounces from one thought to the next. “It can’t exist independently of the other Fourteen any more than the others can, so a Ritual on its behalf would collapse under its own weight. If there is a grand extinction event – well, when, I suppose; nothing lasts forever, the End claims everything eventually, time continues its slow crawl towards the inevitable heat death of the universe, et cetera –”

Jon is counting off on his fingers again. Martin shakes his head fondly.

“But it won't occur because of an Extinction Ritual,” Jon goes on. “There was an apocalypse where I came from, and it had nothing to do with the Extinction. Just… a very human flavor of monstrosity: the pursuit of power and personal gain, even at the cost of unimaginable suffering for everyone else.” He gives a humorless laugh. “Fittingly enough, though, it all started from a place of fear – of mortality, of subjugation, of the unknown.” Jon’s expression falls, and his voice drops to a near whisper. “And – and my own fear led me to the eye of that storm, so to speak. All of it can be traced back to that foundational fear of the unknown, can't it? The roots just… branch outward from there.”

Jon’s already trembling hands twitch abruptly, as if snapping something in two. He doesn’t appear to notice the gesture, too lost in his own thoughts. Before Martin can voice his concern at the shift in demeanor, Jon shakes his head and forges onward. He reverts to his previous hyperfocused, almost academic manner, but an undercurrent of anxious energy lingers.

“Anyway, I actually suspect that, much like the End, the Extinction wouldn’t benefit from a Ritual even if one could work. It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one. The Fears will cease to exist when there are no longer minds to fear them. Of course, it doesn’t have to be humans, or any creature currently living. If something does come after us, the Fears will likely survive and adapt, but otherwise –”

Jon finally makes eye contact with Martin for the first time in minutes and stops short.

“Oh,” he says, sounding mortified, “I’ve been… rambling, haven’t I.”

“I don’t mind,” Martin replies, unable to fight back a smile.

“W-well, anyway…” Jon rubs the back of his neck, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “I don’t believe that the Extinction is the world-ending threat that Peter claims, so if you were planning on continuing to work with him because of that…” He shrugs. “Also, his plan for you was never about the Extinction. Not really. He was – is – genuinely worried about the Extinction, but his plan to stop it is to have the Forsaken destroy the world first. But it hasn’t been long since his last Ritual failed; he knows it will be some time before he can try again. His immediate plan is all about one-upping Elias, taking control of the Panopticon, and accruing power in order to increase the chances of success for his next Ritual attempt.”

Jon exhales another humorless laugh, and his voice takes on an odd, breathless quality as he continues.

“Not all that different from Jonah Magnus, really. His allegiance to the Eye began when he realized that his peers would continue attempting their own Rituals. His solution was to destroy the world before they could. So afraid of his own mortality that he was willing to subjugate the entire human population for his own benefit.” Jon folds his arms again, tucking them against his middle and leaning forward, as if trying to make himself smaller. When he speaks again, there’s a noticeable waver in his voice. “Somewhere along the line, he went beyond justifying his actions – jumped right to taking pleasure in them.”

Jon’s sharp eyes go unfocused. The rise and fall of his chest quickens.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says gently. He doesn’t know what else he can say.

“For what?” Jon asks, coming back to himself after an overlong pause.

“Georgie told me what he did to you. I mean, she didn’t go into detail, but she mentioned that he possessed you and used you to –”

“It wasn’t possession,” Jon interrupts, a desperate edge to his tone. “Not in the conventional horror movie sense. It was the same compulsion that takes me when I start reading any statement, just – more intense. I couldn’t – couldn’t control my body, but he wasn’t actually in my head, it just – felt like it, like he’d crawled into my skin along with his words. Then again, I –” Jon laughs, gripping one wrist with his other hand, fingernails digging grooves into scarred skin. “I suppose I was possessed in a way, in the sense of being someone else’s possession. Have been for a long time – haven’t belonged to myself since the moment he chose me, still don’t –”

Jon’s gaze goes distant yet again, and Martin watches with burgeoning worry as his pupils dilate and constrict with the fluctuation of his voice.

“…he posited a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted –”

“– marked me as a part of that, without my understanding. Or consent –”

“Jon?” Martin says, apprehensive.

“– keep me in the dark just so I wouldn’t stop being useful – made me complicit in a thousand different nightmares, and lives ruined for the sick joy of some otherworldly voyeur –”

“– any future I might have had, sacrificed to his –”

“Jon, what’s –?”

There’s a singsong tenor to his voice and an intensity to his eyes now, reminiscent of the look he gets when he records –

Oh, Martin realizes. Statements.

“– I swear I could still feel those – eyes follow me – a grin of victory playing upon his lips –”

“Jon,” Martin says again, more insistently, reaching out on impulse to place a hand on Jon’s knee.

Cognizance flares to life in Jon’s eyes and his hands fly up to cover his mouth. He seems to struggle with himself for a minute, stolen words muffled beneath the hands pressed tight to his lips. He makes a noise that sounds almost like choking, or sobbing; he looks at Martin with wide, watery eyes, then takes a deep breath in. A quiet whimper chases the air out on his exhale, and Martin’s own breath catches in his throat. He’s seen Jon scared, but he’s never heard him make a sound quite like that – not while bleeding out from a fresh stab wound, not with a gash in his neck, not fumbling to apply ointment to a burned and peeling hand, not even with worms burrowing through his flesh and a corkscrew tearing through the tunnels they left behind.

“You’re okay,” Martin says, willing it to be true.

“I don’t – I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” Jon says abruptly, sharply. He winces and shoots Martin an apologetic look. “Sorry, that was – I didn’t mean to sound cross, I just –” He flaps his hands, lips moving wordlessly.

“It’s okay, I understand.”

Jon nods, but his breaths are still coming fast and shallow. One hand seeks out Martin’s, still resting on his knee; he grips it tight, fingers slotting between Martin’s like they belong there. The direct skin-to-skin contact sends pins and needles radiating up Martin’s arm, but he fights the impulse to draw back.

“We can talk about something else,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice.

Jon inclines his head again, gulping down air. Even as his breathing begins to even out, the shivers coursing through him only grow more violent, the tremor in his hands becoming more and more pronounced.

“You need to eat something,” Martin says.

“N-no, I –”

“Yes, you do –”

“No!” The exclamation cracks like a whip and ricochets off the walls, echoing down the tunnel. Jon’s face crumples and he shrinks in on himself again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout, I –”

“It’s fine –”

“It’s not.”

“We can argue about it when you’re not literally starving. I’ll go fetch a statement, and –”

“It won’t help.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon brings his free hand to his mouth and bites down on his knuckles.

“Jon?” Martin says again, more sternly. “What did you mean?”

“I’m – not just the Archivist, Martin, I’m the Archive. All of the statements stored upstairs, I already have them, every single one of them catalogued in my head, and – re-experiencing them takes the edge off while I’m reading, but as soon as the recording stops, the hunger comes back even stronger, and I want…” Jon gives him a pained look. “Did Georgie tell you about…?”

“She mentioned something about you putting yourself under house arrest because you’re afraid of hurting people.”

“It’s necessary,” Jon says, almost defensively.

“What will happen if you don’t take in new statements?” Jon says nothing, and Martin sighs. “Jon.”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you starve?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t know,” Jon says, pulling his hand away from Martin’s and rubbing his eyes furiously. “It feels like starving, but I don’t know if it will actually kill me. But I don’t want to hurt people just to keep myself from hurting. I don’t want to be like –” He cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath. “I’ve caused untold suffering as it is. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

“There was a woman giving a statement upstairs earlier –”

“I’m not taking her statement.” Jon’s reply is automatic, almost like a practiced line. It sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself more than Martin.

“I wasn’t suggesting –”

“Her name is Tricia Mallory,” Jon interjects. “It’s her birthday next week; she’ll be twenty-eight. She has two cats, and a parakeet, and a girlfriend named Shona, who has an engagement ring hidden in the bottom left drawer of her desk –”

“Why are you –”

“Because I’m so far removed from humanity at this point that I need to actively, continuously persuade myself not to see other people as cuts of meat.” Martin would have preferred snappish to the resigned, matter-of-fact, tired tone in which Jon gives that confession. “Her name is Tricia Mallory,” he recites again, in that same rehearsed manner. “She lost her voice in a minotaur’s labyrinth. She’s finding it again, slowly, but it will never be the same. Her nightmares are horrific enough without adding another monster to the mix. I’m not taking her statement.”

“What about just reading her written statement?” Martin asks. Jon blinks, slow and catlike, and Martin can see the uncanny glint of hunger in his eyes. “Have you already heard her story?”

“No,” Jon says after a sluggish pause. “I don’t think her statement ever made it down to the Archives the last time. And the knowledge of its content didn’t consciously come to me after the change. There were – so many other statements in progress by then. So much to See.”

“So it would be something new for you.” Jon is silent, staring off into the middle distance, unblinking, glassy eyes riveted on something only he can see. “Would that be enough to hold you over for now? It – it won’t be live and in person, but at least it won’t be… I don’t know, stale?”

“I…” Jon’s pupils dilate. Constrict. Dilate.

“She’s probably left by now,” Martin continues insistently. “I can go track down the statement and bring it back here.” Jon looks as if he’s warring with himself. “Please, Jon. It’s just a reading. You won’t hurt anyone.”

Blood wells up on Jon’s lip where he’s been biting it. Eventually, he gives a tiny nod, his shoulders going limp as if in defeat. Jon needs to eat, but Martin wishes it didn’t feel so much like pressuring someone to break sobriety.

“Okay,” Martin says, fighting back the surge of guilt, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Please don’t go anywhere, alright?”

“Alright,” Jon replies in a nearly inaudible whisper.

Martin tosses a glance over his shoulder as he leaves. Jon is eerily still again but for the persistent shaking. He looks small, and haunted, and lost; fragile, precarious, with a posture that brings to mind something broken and taped back together in slapdash fashion.

First things first, Martin tells himself, and tries to focus on the task at hand.

Once the trapdoor closes behind Martin, Jon buries his face in his hands.

That wasn’t how he wanted this conversation to go. Just judging from his demeanor, Martin has shaken off the Lonely more than Jon had expected, but still, Jon should be the one comforting him. It took the Martin of the future ages to acclimate to the idea that he deserved to be cared for, too; to unlearn the reflex to reverse any attempt Jon made to take care of him for once. Right now, Martin needs to be shown that care, and yet Jon can’t manage to redirect his one-track mind away from his hunger for more than five minutes at a time. Selfish, selfish, selfish –

The slow creak of a door cuts through the silence, and Jon’s blood runs cold when Helen’s playful lilt rings out behind him.

“Archivist,” she says with unrestrained glee. “Long time no see.”

Jon had been dreading the Distortion’s inevitable reappearance. He should have known that she would make her entrance when he’s at his most vulnerable. Like a shark to blood, he thinks to himself, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Brooding, are we?”

“Hi, Helen,” he manages, struggling to stay impassive.

It doesn’t matter; he jumps anyway, when several long fingers – too many angles; too many joints – curl around his shoulder. As if her touch was an unpaid toll, she removes her hand once he provides payment in the form of that momentary burst of alarm. Her headache-inducing laugh is made all the worse by the acoustics of the tunnel.

“Now, then” – Jon doesn’t look around at her, but he can practically hear her lips curl in a grin – “pleasantries aside, I believe we’re due for a chat.”

End Notes:

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak: MAG 010; 134/111; 154/144; 098. And Arthur Nolan’s statement is from MAG 145.

I’m hoping Jon’s ramble wasn’t Too Much lmao,,, it is admittedly part self-indulgence (read: shameless projection) on my part, but also: ADHD is just Like That sometimes. I’m still navigating how to strike a balance between having something like that flow well and be, well, readable from an audience perspective, while also trying to capture the reality of how an ADHD ramble often does lack coherence from an external POV, because so much of the associative reasoning never gets verbalized (Thought Train Goes Brrr from Point A to Point Q and Does Not Show Its Work). All this is to say: I know that whole section is meta-heavy NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL TANGENTS. I don’t know if I achieved what I was aiming for, but it was fun practice. Hopefully the end result wasn’t too disjointed or too much of a slog. (I actually edited a lot out, believe it or not, lol.)

Also, in Jon's defense, he Really Needs A Snickers. And he hasn't been able to SPEAK FOR HIMSELF for months. He deserves a little infodumping, as a treat.

Thanks for sticking with me through the slower update schedule. We're back to full shifts at work now, so chapters are taking me longer to write. And apparently I've just decided all the chapters are gonna be 10k+ words now, whoops.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic

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antisocial-af · 4 years ago

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Title: The Dangers of Petting a Cat

Chapter: 3/3

Square Filled: Cursed Item (For @shadowhunterbingo)

Raiting: T

Wordcount: 1615

No Major Archive Warnings

SFW, Attempt at Humor, Annoyed Raphael, Demon Simon, No Chairman Meows were harmed or even put in harms way to begin with in this fic, Protective Magnus.

Summary:

Magnus tries to sort out what is going, Simon attempts to stay in one piece, and Raphael is done.

Read on Ao3

Story:

Simon stared at the warlock that just passed through the portal.

Shit! I didn’t see him call for backup! Especially from a greater demon’s kid!

Simon hoped that the vampire was too distracted to notice him as he tried to stop the possession. The demon needed out of here now. A banishment would mean an automatic failure on his mission.

When Simon tried to stop his magic and separate from the cat, he found he couldn’t. Something was trapping him inside the host.

The demon started to panic and focused harder. Simon was sure it was just a hiccup and would work this time. Still, once again, his spell stayed in place and seemed to rebound him back into the cat.

“What is going on?!” Simon panicked aloud in an almost yowl. Even that was out of the ordinary, but Simon had let it go, thinking it was just because it was his first time. But, he had never seen one of his friends bound to the voice of their host. He kept cursing at himself for not taking up Kirk on his offer to shadow him for his first possession.

“Raphael, you better tell me someone found a spell that makes cats capable of speech, or I am revoking your babysitting privileges,” Magnus glared at Raphael as he flicked, capturing Chairman Meow in his cat carrier.

“We both know you would be the first to know if someone made a spell like that,” Raphael bit back, glaring at the possessed cat.

“I am supposed to be enjoying a nice drink and relaxing at the beach right now, Raphael,” Magnus complained, allowing his magic to deliver the cat carrier safely to him.

“If you two are having a moment, I could just leave,” Simon chimed in from his less than favorable position.

“I’m sure you figured out that isn’t a possibility,” Magnus replied with a smirk. “Now, do tell what made you dumb enough to possess my lovely Chairman today?”

“You leave your cat with a vampire?” Simon asked before he could think of his words.

“When I must, but that wasn’t the question, little demon.”

“Hey! Just because I’m in a cat doesn’t mean I’m little! I’m over 200 Earth Years!”

“Isn’t that like 20 ish in your realm?”

“Yeah, but I’m on Earth right now, so I can use my Earth age!” Simon hissed and startled himself in the process. He didn’t know he was capable of that.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Raphael complained and ran his hand through his hair for the hundredth time that evening. “Magnus, can’t you just yank him out already?”

“I would if you would stop feeding him,” Magnus grumbled as he started to read the wards he had placed on Chairman’s collar. “The demon is a Trickster demon, meaning he feeds off your frustration. You have been an all-you-can-eat buffet for him.”

“I don’t deserve this,” Raphael groaned and took a deep breath, trying to compartmentalize his anger and annoyance.

“Does that work for vampires?” Simon asked as he sat up in the carrier. “I mean, vampires don’t breathe, so does it work?”

“It does when there isn’t a squeaky nagging voice in the room,” Raphael continued.

“Not helping, Raphael,” Magnus intervened before it could go on. “Still, my question stands. I have known my fair share of Trickster demons, hell I’ve contracted some myself for the usual joke or prank on a friend, but in all my years, I’ve never known one to possess an animal, much less a cat.”

“I might’ve missed,” Simon confessed. “I was supposed to be the grumpy vampire.”

“So it’s because you missed that I am here instead of with my husband,” Magnus attempted to glare at Simon, but when Chairman’s wide eyes and pulled back ears looked up at him, Magnus couldn’t do it.

“If you let your wards go, I could just be out of your hair,” Simon quickly reasoned. He needed a way out of this quickly. Currently, the Downworlders were distracted by the situation, but Simon had no plans of sticking around when that passed.

“Getting you out is a start,” Magnus agreed as he pulled at the wards around the collar, adjusting the locking mechanism to allow the demon out. “What way you return to your realm once you are out is another question.”

“Wait!” Simon panicked. “You have to promise you won’t banish me once I let the cat go, or else I won’t release the possession!”

“Oh, you are young if you think I can’t safely force you out of my precious Chairman,” Magnus smirked and pushed a bit of his magic through to nudge the demon out.

“Woa-” Simon’s words were cut off when he felt a push of foreign magic push him out. Simon started to get sick when he began to phase through, and his body pulled itself back together. “What part of that was safe!?”

“Oh, I meant for Chairman,” Magnus smiled as he petted a now purring Chairman. Magnus let his magic run through his cat to verify the demon had done no damage. Since the collar activated, he wasn’t too worried about Chairman being scared or traumatized by this incident; it should’ve sent Chairman’s mind into a dream. Still, he needed to make sure. “I don’t usually keep unwanted guests around. By now, I would’ve banished you, so I never know the side effects for you.”

“So I’m free to go then?” Simon asked as he stretched, trying to get used to standing on two legs again.

“No.” Magnus and Raphael both answered.

“Since you missed, I am assuming Raphael was your target,” Magnus reasoned as he glared at the demon. “What did you plan to do once you did possess him?”

“Oh, you know the usual stuff,” Simon answered, looking away. There is no way he could let them know his actual plans; it was already bad enough that he got caught.

“So you planned to cause chaos and play pranks on the vampires of Hotel Dumort?” Raphael growled. “Did someone send you?”

“Well, not exactly,” Simon started to back up and look for an escape route. He had knocked over many of the books and furniture throughout, dodging Raphael in cat form, and his only escape was the window he came from.

“What do you mean not exactly?” Magnus flicked his fingers at the demon and watched a prison form around the demon. “Who sent you?”

“Well, they didn’t exactly send me to the hotel,” Simon gulped and stood still. He didn’t want to find out what would happen if he touched the blue bars around him.

“They send you to New York to cause trouble?” Magnus asked.

Simon looked at the bars and back at the glaring warlock. He was sure his mission was already a failure, so there wasn’t a point anymore.

“I wanted to pet the cat,” Simon sighed and mumbled.

“What?” Raphael questioned, shocked.

“I wanted to pet the cat!” Simon stated clearly. “I was going to possess Raphael and pet your cat.”

“So all this,” Magnus emphasized by pointing to the broken vase and torn drapes. “was because you wanted to pet Chairman Meow?”

“Yes.”

“I’m never pet sitting for you after you get back from vacation,” Raphael declared.

“It’s fine, Chairman prefers Cat,” Magnus snapped his fingers, causing the jail around Simon to dissipate. He pulled Chairman up from the couch chair and into his arms before walking towards the demon. “Go on then.”

Simon looked between the cat and warlock briefly in shock. He didn’t know if this was a trick, and as soon as he touched the cat, he would be hurt. But Simon couldn’t pass up this chance. If not the mission, then at least he was going to pet a cat today. Simon carefully brushed his fingers between both of Chairman’s ears and watched as they twitched from the pets.

“He’s adorable,” Simon whispered.

“Agreed,” Magnus smiled as he kept a close eye on a demon just in case. Chairman’s collar would still activate again if anything happened, but he didn’t want to take a chance. “If this is all you can go back, right?”

“You’re just going to let him go?” Raphael questioned. “He did all this, and you are just going to send him back with a slap on the hand?”

“Trickster demons are harmless; you know that,” Magnus shrugged. “The little demon just got a bit sidetracked.”

“I’m not a little demon!” Simon huffed and immediately regretted it when his new cat friend jumped away. “My name is Simon, and yeah, I will portal straight back to my realm. No need to worry.”

“See, he’s going to be a good little demon and go back home before it even gets dark,” Magnus waved his hands, already making plans to summon his own portal back to his Alexander.

Raphael groaned and sat back down on his couch, glaring at the two people in his room.

“Don’t worry, at least now you will have something new to complain to Chairman about other than your Clan,” Simon teased as he opened a portal to his realm, quickly jumping through as he watched the vampire leader pick up a chair to throw at him. “See you!”

Simon sighed in relief as he stepped through the portal and smiling as he made his way up the Academy steps. He didn’t know if he still had a chance at passing, but he hoped that Prof. Modo would give still approve his first mission. Even if he didn’t, though, at least Simon had petted a cat, and that was worth all the trouble from the mission pass or fail.

#antisocialaf #shadowhunterbingo #shbingo #Simon Lewis #Raphael Santiago #Magnus Bane #fanfic

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earthstellar · 4 years ago

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It’s Deaf Awareness Week, so I’m posting my hearing disabled Drift fan fiction in full below the cut!

I am still fundraising for my hearing aids, so if you like the story and would like to donate, you can do so at my Ko-Fi or via PayPal.

You can also see my post on Chirolinguistics and Sign Language in Transformers media here!

Auditory Error by Capricorn_Stellium - Word Count: 2733

Summary:

The Lost Light visits a marketplace on a newly identified planet in the hopes of restocking on a few crucial supplies.

Unfortunately, things go less than well, and Drift is hit with some sort of energy disruptor-- Which results in processor damage.

Once everyone is back on board and clear of the fight, Ratchet and First Aid get to work attempting to assess Drift post-injury in a MedBay that is suddenly far, far too noisy.

"Stay where you are. Don't move! First Aid, get over here, get on his left side."

It was Ratchet's voice, or at least, he thought it was.

Drift was in the MedBay, so evidently they'd made it back to the Lost Light.

He quickly tried to assess himself: No missing limbs, so that's nice. Doesn't seem to be much frame damage, no evidence of blaster shots or blade damage anywhere across his armour that he could see.

Not that he could see much, as Ratchet was aggressively trying to get him to lay his helm back down flat against the medical berth.

"He's awake. Aid, titrate the sedative, I don't want him dizzy but keep it level so he's not running around." Ratchet moved to the side of the berth from where he had been standing so far, somewhere behind his helm, but it was odd. His voice seemed to come from all directions at once, and it was disorienting.

"Drift, can you focus on me? You were hit in the helm by one of the marketplace traders; Turns out Rodimus was wrong about the locals being friendly, because of course he was. Nobody else is hurt, so don't even try getting up! I don't know what they hit you with, some kind of focused disruptor of some kind. We're running additional scans to try to figure it out, but stay down for now. You aren't restrained, no painkillers. Just a mild physical sedative in the event you woke up swinging. I'm too old to keep having to fight my patients, you know."

It was bizarre; He felt totally fine. He could hear that Ratchet was speaking, but the words were... Missing, here and there. All of the sounds in the room were equally as loud, completely drowning each other out. It was overwhelming and disorienting.

He'd been in the MedBay enough times both as a patient and just waiting for Ratchet to get off shift that he was well aware it shouldn't sound like this. It was as if every piece of machinery was at maximum volume and surely Ratchet was whispering, but why would he be whispering? Was there something else going on? Was Ratchet's vocaliser damaged somehow? Why would Ratchet lie about the situation, unless it was serious?

Ratchet noticed Drift's increasingly heavy frown; He looked fairly alert, but confused. Running another quick diagnostic scan, nothing new was coming up. Drift had been concussed, he'd already known about that. The more extensive diagnostic panel wouldn't be complete for another minute or two.

"Aid, I told you to moderate--" First Aid interrupted by holding up what was the needle end of a clearly disconnected fuel line drip.

"He's not being sedated actively at all anymore, Ratchet. It should work it's way out of his systems soon, low level dose should remain for the next three to five hours but not significantly enough to produce a frame relaxing effect. Intensive scan is just about ready, give it a moment. We'll figure it out."

Ratchet huffed. He was proud of his star apprentice, but it was irritating to get blatant reassurance from a junior doctor.

Not that First Aid was wrong to comment; It was hard to administer emergency care to your own conjunx. In other circumstances, it would never be allowed at all, but the Lost Light was a perpetual mess. A good mess, most of the time. But still not quite as organised as some might prefer-- A fact that Ultra Magnus never let anyone forget.

Speaking of Magnus, the paperwork for this would be a nightmare, but Ratchet had other concerns on his mind.

Drift raised a servo to his faceplate, careful not to lift his helm lest Ratchet come after him again. "I... feel okay, I think. But I never had a concussion that made everything sound so... I don't know. Things sound wrong all of a sudden."

Ratchet and First Aid looked at each other from across their respective sides of the medical berth. Aid pulled out a data pad and began taking notes once Ratchet nodded in the affirmative to proceed.

"What do you mean? Can you describe what you're feeling?"

Drift ex-vented. "Physically, totally fine. Not even a headache, really. Everything else seems okay, but it's like... Everything is at the same volume, and is coming from everywhere all the time. I can hardly make out what you and Aid are saying, every other word is gone, it's easier for me to focus on the vague sort of rhythm of the noises you're making rather than what you're actually talking about. Like the words are messed up and lost in the sounds of everything else. But, I don't know. It's like everything is a flood of noise, except for speech, I guess? Keep talking to me, I'll figure it out."

It was Ratchet's turn to frown. "Hmm." He backed up a little from the side of the berth. "Drift, can you shutter your optics for a second? I won't touch you, but I want you to listen as best you can, okay?" Drift nodded, wondering what Ratchet was up to.

Closing his optics felt awful; It made the noises seem even louder and more all-encompassing, somehow. Hopefully this wouldn't take long. He was glad Ratchet had kept him on the berth; It was a dizzying sensation. Like the noise was giving him vertigo.

"I'm going to snap my digits in different areas and at different distances from your helm. I want you to tell me where you hear the sound in relation to yourself, so for example, upper left from your point of view, or lower right, or straight ahead. Okay?"

Drift nodded, hoping he'd heard the instructions correctly. It was suddenly much harder to fill the gaps in Ratchet's speech when he couldn't watch his faceplate while he was speaking.

The exam went on for a while until finally Ratchet snapped his digits for the last time to Drift's righthand side, but Drift stated the sound was coming from straight ahead and slightly above his helm.

"Maybe a little to the right?" He could hear Ratchet ex-vent, but from where, he couldn't tell. "Nope. Open your optics, Drift. Sorry to say you didn't exactly pass that test." He turned to face First Aid, who had apparently been following along and taking quite a few notes.

Turns out both of them were stood exactly where they were when the exam had started. Weird. To Drift, it had seemed like their intermittent words were floating around him while his optics had been shuttered. Had they moved at all, the entire time?

The noise of all the medical machinery was getting awful. How were Ratchet and Aid okay with it?

Then he realised they probably couldn't hear it. Somehow...

Ratchet's voice knocked him out of the state of distress he was rapidly falling into the more he tried to think about all the noise. "Aid, note a general lack of directional hearing. No loss of hearing overall, his audials are registering sound as usual, but..."

First Aid looked up from the data pad. "But the way his processor is interpreting the sounds he's hearing is wrong."

"Correct. It's processor damage. Damn."

Drift had missed what was probably a very important word, there. "Sorry, what kind of damage?"

Ratchet, to his credit, only looked upset for a very brief moment. But Drift could tell; He could always tell with his Ratty. And that look was never good.

"Sorry, Drift. We shouldn't talk about you like you aren't here, anyway; It's a bad habit medics can develop."

That got a small smile out of Drift. "Since when are you worried about bad medic habits? You routinely throw wrenches at your patients."

"Hey, that's usually only Whirl. And Rodimus. And..." Ratchet took one of Drift's servos into his own. "Fine, you have a point, but this is serious. We need to run more tests. And by more, I mean you're going to be in here for a while."

Drift nodded, not wanting to speak himself lest it break his intense concentration on Ratchet's intake. It definitely seemed like trying to follow Ratchet's faceplate movements made it easier to guess what words he was missing.

The words he could no longer hear. For some reason.

It was only years of experience performing various mindfulness meditations that prevented Drift's anxiety from escalating.

First Aid walked towards the foot of the medical berth to be more fully in Drift's line of sight before addressing him.

And he proceeded to say something that Drift totally missed, because First Aid's battle mask made it impossible to read his faceplates in the way that he could with Ratchet.

"Uh... I don't want to interrupt? But two things: Aid, can you retract your mask?" Both First Aid and Ratchet stiffened immediately.

"I'm so sorry--" "Drift, if you can't understand us, just say so and we can--"

And it was too much noise.

Instinctively, his servos flew up to cover his audials, which hadn't helped as much as he had hoped it might.

"Stop! Stop, I'm sorry, it's okay. Don't worry about it. But the second thing, is that it's way, way too much in here. The noise, I mean. It's a lot."

Ratchet gently grabbed Drift's wrists, getting closer in the process.

"The scan we were running has finished by now. Aid, turn off everything we're not currently using, let's see if it makes a difference in the ambient noise level. Go ahead and start interpreting the results, construct a summary, you know what to do."

As First Aid got started as directed, looking somewhat upset that he hadn't thought to retract his battle mask earlier, Ratchet moved in even closer to speak directly into Drift's audial.

On the other side of Drift's helm, he cupped a servo over the opposite audial to help block out the surrounding noise and force Drift's processor to focus on the most immediate input: His voice. "I'm sorry. I'll try to make this as easy on you as I possibly can, okay? We're not hearing things the way you are, so we'll have to figure this out as we go. But that's fine; You're okay... You will be okay."

Vision obscured by Ratchet's shoulder armour while intensely trying to focus on his voice, suddenly, it hit Drift.

He could hear, but he couldn't hear. Not really.

A thousand scenarios flooded him at once, each one more terrifying than the last.

Being in a battle, unable to tell where bullets were coming from. Hearing a ship-wide alarm go off, and being incapacitated by the noise, unable to react otherwise. Unable to help. Unable to protect Ratchet. Never being able to parse anyone's speech, always missing words, never having all the information.

Going to a racetrack and being disoriented by the hum of all the wheels and engines at high speed, causing an accident. Anywhere noisy, anyone talking. Anywhere sound exists, it would be too much or not enough and never in-between.

He couldn't fight effectively. He wouldn't able to communicate effectively, not if he constantly misheard every single thing. The stress just from the MedBay noise was horrendous; What about in the middle of a conflict, or the command deck, or even someplace like Swerve's? Totally unbearable.

He would go right back to being isolated. He would be a problem for others. A burden, an annoyance.

What if this wasn't fixable?

He gasped like he had been choking, causing Ratchet to startle and pull back. "Ratchet! Ratchet, Ratty, what if-- What if you can't fix me?"

And he knew that look.

He felt Ratchet's arm move slightly somewhere behind him, and First Aid swiftly and silently left; He would finish looking over the results in his own office space. Ratchet had probably flashed some kind of medic secret code hand signal or something.

Or maybe it was just awkward to watch your mentor's partner start crying in your shared workplace. It was probably that, and the thought would have made Drift laugh if he didn't suddenly have a terrible headache.

Ratchet made the most of his wide set medical frame type, and completely wrapped Drift in a hug.

It helped. Everything seemed like too much right now, but this, he could never possibly get enough of.

Fluid had pooled behind his optics; Some started to trickle down in small streams. Ratchet wiped some of it away gently.

"Drift, I'm not going to lie. I already know what those scan results are going to say; There's nothing wrong with you, aside from whatever is going wrong with your processor. And I'm going to be honest, because you know I don't lie when it comes to my diagnostics... If I'm right about the nature of your processor damage, it's most likely not something that can be repaired."

Even though on some level he figured that might be the case, it felt like Ratchet had jammed the Great Sword through his spark.

Before he had the chance to completely break down, Ratchet carefully grabbed the sides of Drift's helm, gently rubbing soft swirls in his faceplate and ensuring Drift didn't just fold in on himself and completely collapse.

He wanted Drift to be able to understand; Keeping his helm up like this would help Drift read his faceplate, too.

"I know. It's not good news. But we can work with it. You can work with it. We'll figure it out. If we don't have the supplies we need to make whatever assistive device we might have to come up with, we'll find a way to get them, or make them. You have me, Perceptor, Brainstorm, a whole ship full of people who can and will help you. Okay?"

Drift wanted to nod, he really did, but the tears welling up in his optics had blurred his vision, and the thought of being unable to see clearly while being unable to hear clearly was so completely distressing to him that he simply threw his arms around Ratchet's neck strut and let himself cry it out.

Not for long, and not very hard; He found that the sound of his own crying was odd and grating to his audials, both muted and sharper than it should have been.

While he could stifle his tears, he couldn't stop his upset and frustration from seeping out through his EM field.

Ratchet's armour plating shivered a bit, before he met Drift's EM field with his own and wrapped him in another hug, spark to spark.

A surge of love, care, devotion- Ratchet's EM field helped soothe Drift's headache, and slowly, he calmed down. His vents evened out, the sound of the fans rattling no longer another sound adding to his distress.

"Sorry, Ratty. I just, this is... really bad."

"Yeah, it is. But we'll figure it out."

Drift's voice fell to almost a whisper. He couldn't fully hear himself speak, although he felt his vocaliser warm up. "There's this weird dissonance, like everything is too loud and too quiet all at once. Like all the small noises are massive and I can't hear anything I actually want to listen to. It reminds me of coming down from a syk hit, when my sensory data would get a little messed up."

Ratchet stilled, then tightened his hold on Drift. He was careful to speak directly into Drift's audial. "Rung is here too, you know. We're all here for you. I'm here for you."

He pulled back just enough to kiss Drift's faceplate, where the tears had left stains. Drift stared at his intake; He wasn't sure if it was to return the kiss, or if it was an attempt to try to follow along with his words.

"How about this: While Aid finishes up the report on your scan results, we can lay down in our hab suite and hopefully it'll be quiet enough there for you to get some real rest. I can give you a painkiller before we head out; Nothing heavy-duty, but sensory sensitivity can be unpleasant and I want you to actually recharge if you think you can. I can call Velocity in to handle my other patients for the evening."

He hadn't been this tired earlier, but he definitely was now. Drift nodded, leaning his helm up a bit to return Ratchet's kiss.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

#my fic #my writing #dratchet #mtmte #maccadam #lost light #tf drift #tf ratchet #ratchet #drift #transformers #idw transformers #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #chirolinguistics #disability in media #maccadams

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