#hot martin k blackwood rights

[madootles]

the two seater couch from mag 175 has seen better days

[offbrandhand]

Something something hot Martin rights

[thebookofthefaeries]

GUYS SOMEBODY HELP I READ THIS TMA CHATFIC THAT FEATURED THE ARCHIVES GANG DOING A COMPANY FUNDRAISER THING OR SOMETHING AND ELIAS WENT INNA DUNK TANK AND THE FERRIS WHEEL WAS FOOD FOR THE VAST AND I CANT FIND IT AGAIN IT WAS SO GOOD LIKE LEFE CHANGING AMAZING HAS ANYBODY ELSE READ THIS PLEASE

Edit: I did find it and have been happily reunited with the fic THANK YAL L SO MUCH FOR HELPING!!!

Edit: it's called "we all go to camelot" by plagg if you wanted to read it

[lamaery]

Simply wanted to draw a Jon. It's been a while. And it felt wrong not to add a Martin. Cow-mug or cat-mug? ----------------------------- image description: Two digital potraits of Jonathan Sims ex-archivist and his Martin K. Blackwood painted in a dynamic mixture of rough, broad and thin, squiggly brush strokes. The first images shows Jon's head and upper body, sitting and reading a paperback book. His long black, salt and pepper hair is gathered in a loose knot at the back of his neck. The black beard on his jawline, pointy chin and upper lip is not very dense. Small round scars pepper the brown skin of his face, neckand the back of his visible hand. Additional there is a thick pink-white-ish line stretching across his pronounced Adam's apple. He wears a thick woolen cardigan in a deep green and rectangular glasses through which he gazed with his large, heavy lidded eyes not directly at the book in his hand, but just over the pages at something else to the left. His expression is not fully open and happy, but certainly unguarded and soft. In the shadow of the book cover which has the symbol of a green eye on his, one can make out a black ring on the middle of his left hand. Martin is depicted as a light-skinned, big, broad man with a round face and tousled, ash-blond hair. He too wears glasses, although their frames a big and much rounder than Jon's. He wears a green-blue pullover and holds two mugs in his hands, both steaming with hot tea. One mug features the cartoony face of a cat, half hidden behind the tea string and paper bit on those. The other mug has a shaggy Scottish highland cow on it and the painful pun "Cow are you?" There are soft dimples in Martin's round cheeks as he smirks mirthfully down to his right.

[hauntedliz]

For the blorbo bingo:

Sam, Harvey, and hmmm Pierre.

ALSO tma distortion michael and Martin Blackwood

Thank you Toad!!!!!!! All my favorite little guys... and Pierre's here too I guess. As discussed, I'm adding Mr. Qi.

Okay this is going to be a long post, but let's get into it.

❤️ Samson Stardew Valley ❤️

Bingo!!! First try lol This is just one of the best guys. He has trauma, he is a golden retriever, he is a punk, and he has a band. Amazing, incredible, love him so much.

Dr. Harvey

No bingo but so close! I almost gave it to him because I am generally not normal about anything, but it's a scale and compared to a few others here I am pretty normal about our beloved doctor. He's hot tho

Pierre

Here I am minding my own business when I all of a sudden I hear this agitating, grating voice... I hate this guy. Would not kiss.

Mr. Qi

I honestly don't think about Mr. Qi a lot. He's a weird messed up little dude, but he's just kind of a wacky guy. No bingo, but I am sure I could be convinced that he is kissable.

OK NOW IT'S TMA TIME

MARTIN K. BLACKWOOD

My legally kin assigned blorbo. I am projecting on him right now we are the same. I was so close to bingo but my man DOES NOT NEED MORE BULLYING. Maybe should have marked beast unleashed bc Martin is messy and will fuck shit up, but I am lazy. Martin K Blackwood is kissable, but we are too similar so I will not.

MICHAEL DISTORTION

That monster of shapes and colors is my beloved. I wish I could just be static and colors too. Michael Shelley I think about you every single day. HE CAME BACK WRONG IN THE COOLEST AND SADDEST WAY. I love this entity so much. I re-read the same fics about him all the time. Bingo for you. Almost multiple but oh well.

Thanks again Toad I love to talk about my silly little beloveds. You are the best <3

[elinekeit-artstuff]

Oh Jonmartin we’re really in it now 

[theterriblethingabouttulio]

i know short rat jon has the rights on tumblr but i just gotta say my hc jon is not small, he’s tall with wide shoulders, not thin or fat, he just takes up more space than he’s comfortable with. he has no idea how to use his body effectively and barely takes care of it. he’s the kind of person you notice right away because of his size even though he’s constantly hunching over to make himself smaller and walks with a long, clipped stride that’s difficult to keep up with and makes for quick escapes. he throws himself into his work so he can focus on Watching others instead of being Watched. he’s not traditionally handsome with a cut jaw and symmetrical face, in fact his features are rather plain, but he’s the kind of person who, when he manages to forget himself for a little while and the scowl smooths out, is actually so beautiful.

after he becomes an avatar he starts to pay less attention to his body and therefore learns how to use it. he stands straighter, squares up when Compelling someone. he learns how to stand over someone to get the information that he wants. he learns intimidation, but he still isn’t quite capable of strength. he doesn’t really need it. and by the time s5 rolls around, he’s finally wearing his skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he’s big, he’s broad, and he takes the new world in stride with his head high with purpose.

martin is the brawn of the two of them. he’s fat and strong, not as tall as jon but bigger, with solid muscles hiding under the fat. he lifts weights when he’s stressed or angry or anxious, it makes him feel just a little powerful before he has the inner strength to stand up to people that treat him poorly. he wasn’t fat when he was a young adult but he prefers his body now because it’s strong and it’s soft. he wants people to underestimate him because of it, only to discover that he’s faster than you, he’s stronger than you, and he’s more determined than you.

these two big tall men herald the new age as they block out the sun

[spooksier]

the head archivist themselves 🙏🙏 (4 the ask thing)

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang give kiss

hogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

best quality: jon has never done anything wrong

worst quality:  slow down on the martyr complex beloved

ship them with:  MARTIN K BLACKWOOD

brotp them with: daisy <33

needs to stay away from: every single avatar

misc. thoughts: this post is sponsored by jmart lived truthers, llc

also 1) jonbinary rights and 2) you can fit so much autism/adhd in this boy

[captaincravatthecapricious]

If That’s What it is

A difficult reunion.  cw for strained friendships.

Tim doesn’t remember how to be friends.  

The was never the one…  He could fake it… once.  Or maybe he really was like that.  Was he ever as friendly as people seemed to think?  Was he just filling a roll?  Covering for his hurt?  Where does the facade end?

It doesn’t help matters that this is Jon.  Jon.  How can he rebuild bridges long set on fire then torn down then had both sides bricked over and a cemetery developed between the halves.  

Sat on opposite ends of the couch in the quiet of a London flat.  

The distance of a few handspans may as well be a journey of a thousand steps.  

It may as well be made of pages of misdeeds, or the longest novels written stacked end to end and must be read to cross.  

Why is he even here?  

It was fine when he… what did he even think?  

That Jon had gone full monster?  That he intentionally ended the world?  That he died trying to prevent whatever the fuck that was?  That he simply died years before, maybe when Tim supposedly had.  He doesn’t know what he thought but he had deniability, for whatever that was worth.  

Jon keeps opening his mouth, as if to speak, but shuts it tightly every time.  

This isn’t the first attempt.  Nor is it the second.  

Just… the most awkward, as hard as it was to beat the previous encounters.  

Encounter one:

Scene: the grocery store.  

Enter Tim, minding his own damn business with his headphones in.  Loud enough that he can actually hear it, even if it means just about everyone else in the store can hear it too.  Probably should be paying more attention to his surroundings as he runs into someone when he’s trying to buy peanut butter.  The someone probably says ‘oof,’ but Tim can’t hear it.  

“Sorry, mate.”  He offers a bit of an apologetic smile.  (Smiling has gotten easier, but… But not as easy as it was.)

He doesn’t plan to meet the eyes of whoever he ran into, but even he can hear the squeak when the someone, Martin, catches sight of him properly.  

“TIM?”  

Oh shit.  It’s Martin.  Martin Blackwood.  Martin K. Blackwood.  Archival assistant.  (Does he count as a one night stand if the “one night” was over two weeks on in the nightmarish magical mystery ride of the Distortion’s hallways?)  Friend?  Abomination apologist.  Friend.  …Yes, a friend who thinks Tim is very very dead.  

Martin’s shopping is on the ground, and without thinking, Tim has helped Martin to the ground and is pushing his head between his knees to stave off what is shaping up to be a panic attack.  

Tim hasn’t even paused his music.  

It’s still blaring something irritatingly of the wrong mood into his ears.  

Once Martin has his breath back, he starts signing furiously.  

And Tim has to stand back stunned at the barrage affection and anger and resentment and relief, and off balance that Martin still remembers the sign he learned for Tim. 

He leaves without his peanut butter, and with a coil of guilt deep in his gut, with nothing to curb the ringing in his ears because he can’t tolerate music right now, and an address and a number ‘only if he is ready to step on his anger and listen to Jon, for once.’  He hadn’t even gotten a word in.  He hadn’t even told him that Sasha was alive.  

Just been yelled at in a grocery store.  

Encounter two:

Scene: A Living Room, night.  

“Jon isn’t here.”  Martin tells him this before even letting him in.  “He knows you are, but he isn’t here.  He’s having dinner with some other teachers in his department.  It’s just us.”  Martin’s signing this.  

Tim is wearing his hearing aids, but Martin is signing anyhow.  Maybe it’s easier for him to get it out through that halfway-to-icy expression on his face.  Maybe it’s out of coldness, but Tim can’t help but feel a warmth deep in his chest that Martin remembered the BSL he labored over when he was assigned to the archives.  

Tim swallows hard around the hope and bitterness and anger and regret and longing.  He nods.  “Thanks for having me.”  He signs quietly.  

Martin ushers him in, and hands him a cup of tea.  It’s still hot.  It’s just how Tim takes it.  And he’s sat on a squashy couch, staring at a squashy cat who is glaring at him.  

Well.  That seems fitting.  

Cat glaring.  Martin… almost glaring.  No, not glaring.  He’s got his own tea.  And he is sipping it, giving a very chilly look to the poor wall.  

Tim takes in the photos on the wall, while avoiding Martin’s eyes.  All Polaroids.  There’s Jon and Martin in Martin’s ratty looking jumpers (ones that were significantly more new when they first met) standing in the countryside squashed together and laughing their assess off.  Jon in oversized wellies, covered in mud, facing off against a cow.  Jon standing in the shallows of a pond, looking peacefully into the distance.  Martin asleep, in a rustic bedroom, golden morning light spilling across his lax and happy face.  There is a frame containing the Litany Against Fear from Dune.  A frame with a page from Slaughterhouse Five.  …A frame with a picture of a young and unsecured Jon looking grumpy, a young and happy and probably drunk Tim with an arm slung around him, and an arm around Sasha who is giving a blushing Martin bunny ears.  That one has a place of honor.  It’s a little worn looking, but in a way that makes it clear it survived a lot… the end of the world, in fact.  

Seeing it hits Tim square in the chest.  It hurts.  

Martin finishes his tea and turns towards Tim.  

“So.”  

Tim puts his nearly cool tea down on the coffee table.  The squashy cat keeps glaring at him from an equally squashy arm chair.  He faces Martin, but can’t quite meet his eye.  Martin is waiting for him to talk.  

“Didn’t die.  Thought I would.  Thought I had.  Didn’t.  Walked away.  Got a job.  I… I uh.  Found Sasha.  Stranger had fucked her up pretty badly, so don’t be mad at her for not calling, she had a lot of trouble remembering and being remembered.  Survived the apocalypse.  Got on with life, or tried to.  Got some therapy.”

He braces himself for the impact.  He’s mentioned Sasha over text, but still.  Not to mention, it’s all a lot.  

Martin’s jaw tightens.  

“Thought you could just, let me think you died?  Tim, the only person who came back from the Unknowing was Basira.  The only one.  Call me selfish, but you died, Jon essentially died, we thought Daisy had died.  Then my mother died too.  I know you had your head up your ass, but do you know what that did to me?  Yeah, sure, great, you got out.  Whoop-de-fucking-do.  You could have called.  Or texted.  Or sent a letter.  Anything!  And you know what?  Partly it was a relief, because at least I thought you were happy.  Or at peace.  Or at the very least you wouldn’t be there to harass Jon anymore.  But you all died.  It was just me.  Everyone I cared about was dead.  Six month Jon was dead.  And no, don’t you dare get on Jon’s case about that.  He mourned you.  He still is mourning you.  He’s been walking on air since you and Sasha…  Tim, I swear, if you hurt him… If you hurt him again, you will regret it.  You will only see him if you are ready to listen.  You don’t have to forgive, but you are not allowed to be cruel.”  

Tim doesn’t have a single doubt.  “I…  I’ve missed him.  I’m sorry.”  

“No yelling, no grabbing, no sudden movements, nothing passive aggressive.  And I will be in the next room and so help me, if you scare him…”

Martin lets the threat hang.  

It hurts.  It isn’t anything he’s ever gotten from Martin.  Didn’t think Martin had enough of a spine for it.  …But.  But he guesses when everyone dies(? he has a lot of questions, but it doesn’t look like Martin is in the right headspace to answer them, and Tim might not be either.  His breathing is uneven and his face is hot and he isn’t sure if he wants to break something or cry or scream or maybe just repaint his and Sasha’s home all in one go.)…  Well… he doesn’t have to guess.  He knows exactly what that can do to a person.  And it isn’t pretty.  He feels the guilt coiling again.  He wants to tear it out and stomp on it.  But… but he guesses, the guilt can guide him.  He needs to do right by the people that used to be his friends.  The people he’s missed every day since he got his head on straight with extensive therapy and a variety of coping mechanisms.  

The scene: The same squashy couch, in the same quiet flat.  

The squashy cat is in Jon’s lap.  The cat is glaring, and Jon is staring at him with those giant, hopeful, tired, guilty eyes.  Haunted and rimmed in shadow, as ever.  

He knows Martin is in the next room, ready to step in if he needs to.  

All Tim needs to do… is reach out.  

[eldritchqueerture]

this is not randomised because i love cheating <3 anyway 79? 👀

you're getting a live commentary because i don't have a lot of hot takes, i'm just an enjoyer of things

oh fuck that is the end of season 2

MARTIN K BLACKWOOD :DDD!!!

tim,,,,,,, i miss you

i still love how much tim knows about courts

thats the ranting about the greeks episode!! also hah "this isnt office politics" hah agree to disagree

im sad about tim :<

:((

why would you do this to me, vanessa.

joooooooon :((( you made a decision it wasnt a good decision but thats alright i love you still

ok but it must be so weird for them cause they dont know about sasha but that thing looks like sasha and martin keeps talking about it and just. dont think about how tim is feeling at that moment, just denying very very hard what he saw because It Just Couldn't Be Sasha but he knows what he saw and Martin saw it too ;_;

IF WE WERE ALL HAPPY THAT WOULDNT ACTUALLY BE THE END OF THE WORLD MARTIN YOU ARE RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD SAY IT EVERYBODY CLAP

i love that Michael entrance so much

I THINK ITS CALLED A SPORT. MICHAEL LOVE

i appreciate he didnt actually kill them even though he absolutely could, just took them on a corridor road trip

THE INFAMOUS PIPE

:((((((((((( sashaaaaaaaaa

Not Them getting some exercise in

i am kinda curious what would happen if not them became the archivist

hello jurgen leitner stupid idiot motherfucking jurgen leitner goddamn fool book collecting dust eating rat old bastard shithead idiot avatar of the whore biggest clown in the magnus archives is a podcast distributed by rusty quill dot com and licensed under a creative commons attribution non-commercial share alike four point o international license

thank you for sending me this!! the pain was enjoyed <3

[ashes-in-a-jar]

Honestly same with policing Martin's look. I see artists put their souls into creating a Martin they love and they get non Canon criticism about hight, body type (including artistic accuracy) and all around looks. Let Marto be who he is in the eyes of the artists, honestly... Every rendition I've seen is beautiful in its own right!

Personally the reason why I’m part of the Hot Jon Backlash is I hate hearing a canon ace character talked about like it’s impossible anyone could be interested in him, see him written like it would be doing him a favor to date him, and the whole struggle I’ve personally had with the “You just say you’re ace because you’re ugly and no one’s interested in you” bullshit.  After coming across a fic where Melanie was all “man he must be good in bed if you dated HIM” just clubbed me with how much I hated that framing.  It wasn’t some positive “you don’t have to be conventionally attractive to be loved” thing, but “you’re gay? and for THAT??” and I got sick of it so so fast.

I always headcanoned Jon as “plain, but once he grows on you, you find more things beautiful about him,” but after seeing how much people policed the designs and harassed artists I just was THROUGH.  

[thekisforkeats]

The Joys of Fandom, or, how TMA helped me rediscover my love of tea

So among the many (many) good things The Magnus Archives podcast has brought to my life, none has been quite so profound as remembering how much I love making a good cup of tea. I’ve got a whole post about how it’s helped me categorize the anxiety cloud I live with on a constant basis, how it’s gotten me writing again, and writing poetry which I haven’t done in forever, how identifying with so many openly queer boys going through so much crap has helped me figure out that I want to transition.

But.

Tea is the reason we’re here today, because making a pot of tea has become a daily ritual since I started listening to TMA, and it’s been one of those tiny things that’s changed my life profoundly, and I have TMA to thank for this almost entirely.

I did not grow up drinking tea. I am from the Seattle, Washington area, and I’m just old enough Starbucks was a popular local coffee shop when I was a kid. My parents both drank a TON of coffee, my mother basically runs on the stuff, and by the time I was 6 I was drinking coffee too. Tea, growing up, was Lipton, sometimes iced or sometimes not. I didn’t even realize herbal tea was tea. Green tea was a thing one drank at Chinese restaurants. I was not at all informed.

When I got my first job, I would stop at Starbucks during the bus layover (as once does in the Seattle area) and one day in a fit of teenaged desire to be “cool” and “writerly” because I’d seen a tin of “Writer’s Chai” in the store I bought a chai latte. I loved it, and that became my go-to Starbucks drink.

I still didn’t really get tea, but I at least started learning how to boil water in the kettle and waiting for it to actually boil, pouring it over the tea bag, etc. I didn’t put in milk or sugar because I drank coffee black unless it was a latte or a mocha. I would just sort of... boil the water and pour it over and wait a few minutes and drink the tea with the bag still in the mug.

It wasn’t until I moved to Toronto that I sat down and had a good cup of tea. The woman who hosted the social group I was part of had her particular tea-making rituals, and she encouraged me to try it with milk and sugar, and it was... amazing. Life-changing, even. My perseveration drive kicked into full swing and I had to know everything about tea and its history and how to make a proper cup and so on and so forth. I learned all I could from our hostess, and then turned to the internet.

I bought a kettle to make tea at home but my ex wasn’t really supportive of my desire to brew tea on the regular, so loose leaf and teapots and “does the milk go in in cup before or after the tea” had to wait until I moved out and got a place of my own.

Then I moved to Tallahassee.

In Tallahassee, the coffee was atrocious unless it was from a couple of specific places, mostly serving cafe con leche. But I had my own place and my own dishes and I could have a teapot and make tea and nobody could stop me. So I did. Mostly for myself, while I was contemplating things, and it was really nice to sit and stare out at the ridiculously heavy Florida rain--which hit, in Tallahassee, right about 4:15 in the afternoon all summer so perfect for tea time.

I moved back to Seattle with my spouse, and we moved into my mother’s house. For a long while we didn’t have a kitchen of our own and we had small children, so tea wasn’t a thing I did any more. I had leftover coffee (or canned/bottled coffee) for the caffeine fix, but rarely tea. When my grandmother died and we moved into her old apartment we didn’t have a stove, and I despise heating water for tea in the microwave.

So for the better part of a decade, I barely drank any tea at all. I did discover Oi Ocha in this time, which is bottled green tea from Japan, which is amazing and I love it, but again--it was in a bottle. Not a thing I was personally making.

Then I started listening to The Magnus Archives, and I really identified with Martin Blackwood, because of reasons too complicated to get into here. But it inspired me to want to make tea again, and so I started getting K-cup pods, but it just... wasn’t... right. It wasn’t the same. I mean, it was tea, but it wasn’t... tea.

So I went and bought an electric kettle, and a teapot, and a strainer, and ordered regular deliveries of loose leaf tea, and started making tea for myself and my spouse. I developed my own ritual: cold water in the kettle, put hot water into the teapot (so it doesn’t crack), put three scoops of loose leaf in the strainer. Pour out the water in the teapot when the kettle boils, put in the strainer, pour the boiling water over the strainer. Wait four minutes or so, and while you’re waiting put a splash of half-and-half in the tea mugs (milk goes first so it doesn’t scald and we like the taste of half-and-half best). Then pour the tea into the mugs. The mugs are big enough that I take three spoons of sugar and my spouse four, so put all the sugar into the mugs and then increase the entropy (aka stir) until the sugar’s dissolved. Bring the tea out into the living room, enjoy.

The first time I got it all right, and made a good cup of tea, I literally cried, I was so happy. It was like seeing the sun after it had been dark for so long I’d forgotten what the sun looked like.

The thing I have come to realize about what tea means to me is something that Jon says in the trailer for Season 5 of TMA. Martin brings him a cup of “tea” and Jon goes “that’s not tea” and, indeed, it turns out to be some weird skittering thing. The following exchange really crystallized things for me:

Jon: This is no longer a world where you can trust-- Martin: Tea?! Jon: Comfort.

And that was it, right there. Coffee is fuel, for me. Coffee is “Wake Up, Get Up, Get Out There.” (Quite literally; part of playing Persona 5 was remembering how much I love trying out new coffee blends.)

Tea, however, is comfort. Tea is slowing down. Tea is caffeine, yes, and therefore focus for my poor ADD/autistic brain, but it’s afternoon focus. It’s contemplation. It’s sitting and breathing in the aroma and thinking about things in a way that isn’t spiraling or catastrophizing. Whether it’s breakfast tea or Earl Grey or green tea, or an herbal like peppermint or chamomile, tea for me is self-care.

Taking those few minutes to get up and go make a pot of tea in the afternoon, to stop the business of the day and just stand there waiting for the kettle to boil, is something I’ve desperately needed. Coffee is easy to sort of make as “fire and forget,” to the point that I’ve gulped down cold or lukewarm coffee I’d forgotten about just because I need the caffeine. Tea, though, if you’re doing it right you have to stand there and wait for the water to boil and wait for the tea to steep. If you walk away to do something else you’ll ruin the whole thing. I completely understand why Martin is running around making tea for everyone in Season 2 all the time, because everything is falling apart in slow motion and it’s a chance to stop, to focus on making the tea, and then to take the time enjoying the tea itself.

Making tea for others also means love to me. I make tea for my spouse alongside myself. I included one of my teenaged children in tea-making for the first time yesterday and my youngest keeps getting the last bit of tea in the pot, and it’s such a joy to see their faces light up. Bringing someone tea means bringing them a mug of love and care. Another reason I identify with Martin--I often don’t know what to say to help someone, so I try to be sure they’re fed and hydrated and cared for. And I, too, had to learn to stop setting myself on fire to keep those people warm. I had to learn to be sure I was fed and hydrated and cared for, so I could care for them. But even now as I get older and wiser and grumpier I still run around making sure everyone’s fed and has had their mug of tea, I just don’t do it at my own expense anymore.

One of my next crochet projects is a tea cozy in the shape of a green owl, in honor of the Magnus Institute owl, because my little tea-making ritual is always going to be connected to TMA in my head. Also I have a “Fifteen Fears” mug and my spouse has a “Magnus Archives” owl symbol mug, so it’s literally just this really intense connection between TMA and tea, for me.

It’s funny how much comfort a horror podcast has given me since I’ve started listening. There are a few fandoms that have profoundly changed me--Star Trek was the first big one, Babylon 5 was the first that directly inspired me, Mass Effect helped me get out of suicidal depression, Persona (specifically Persona 5) inspired me to take responsibility for myself in a way therapy never quite managed.

And here I am with TMA, figuring out how to navigate anxiety and pain and grief in a world that feels like it’s falling apart around my ears. The concept that what we do matters; that right or wrong you should be making a decision instead of just reacting from fear or surprise; that sometimes you screw up and there’s nothing to be done, that “sorry” doesn’t fix everything, that sometimes nothing you do will fix anything and you can’t let that paralyze you... it’s all been necessary, and helpful, and I’ve been terribly grateful.

Thanks to TMA I’m writing again after years of terrible writer’s block. I’m facing my own fears and accepting that despite (because of?) my terrible arachnophobia I’d probably serve the Web if I served anything (although Eye and Lonely would also get a look in--I did say I identified with Martin pretty strongly). I’m recognizing dysphoria and dealing with it after years of trying to deny the elephant in the room.

I’m also making tea again. And for that, I am eternally, profoundly grateful.

[arce-elliot]

Magnus Archives - First Impressions (76-100)

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAH WE’RE HALF-WAY THERE

EP 76 (The Smell of Blood): - MELANIEEEEE I'm being spoiled, so many Basira eps and now Melanie - hmm. what the fuck. - "yes i know what a meme is" YESSSS THE LINE - Jon and Melanie are getting along we love to see it - wait how does Melanie know why can she remember real Sasha EP 77 (The Kind Mother): - Ah yes more Not Them - THANK YOU JON YOU'VE FINALLY GOT IT EP 78 (Distant Cousin): - oh dear Jon what's your deal - More Not Them Wheeeeee - WEB TABLE WEB TABLE - Breekon and Hoooooope, the boooooys - AYYYY MICHAEL EP 79 (Hide and Seek): - these poor boys are in WAY over there heads lmao - whoops you got that Michael Distortion GPS chip dumbass - oh mr. leitner? EP 80 (The Librarian): - jurgen is so exasperated lmao - "that'll be our gerard" oh so he's OUR gerard now - jurgen really said "can you speed up this panic attack lmao" - damn Jon how you gonna talk your way out of this mess EP 81 (A Guest for Mr. Spider): - jon stop being mean to little jon :C - GEOOOOORGIE!!!! EP 82 (The Eyewitnesses): - AYYY DAISY - oh this is a fun episode, "Martin K. Blackwood Learns About Police Corruption" - Daisy is fed up w/ these archivist men lmao - Lord I HATE Elias but listening to him play Daisy like a fiddle is entertaining - g o d this is fun - "i'm gonna kill you someday" get in line Daisy - Martin get his ass EP 83 (Drawing a Blank): - Of COURSE Georgie's right Jon - reiterating: circus bad EP 84 (Possessive): - AWWW MARTIN BEIN A LIL ARCHIVIST - Melanie said "ew who's this nerd give me MY nerd" - w o o f damn Melanie how's your will looking EP 85 (Upon the Stair): - OoOoOh spooky - Statement of Spiral, regarding the Spiral of the Spiral. Audio recording by Spiral, Head Spiral of the Spiral Institute, Spiral. - AYYYYY DELANO!!!!! - Jon complimenting Georgie is p r e c i o u s EP 86 (Tucked In): - Tim is not suited for this mess lmao - ARCHIVAL PRISONER LMAO - g o d the hatred between Tim and Melanie holy shit - I hate angry Tim but now I have sad Tim and now it's WORSE - YESSSS MELANIE AND JON REUNITED AT LAST, MY DARLINGS EP 87 (The Uncanny Valley): - Explain this shit to Georgie gdi - GERTRUDEEEEEE i missed ya you old hag - Circus music? oh hell no EP 88 (Dig): - wow wonder what entity this one's about - BASIRA BASIRA BASIRA - phewwww Martin is mad it's okay little man - dig lil man EP 89 (Twice as Bright): - where the fuck are they Starbucks - Jude Perry is...how you say...hot - JON LMAO YOU MORON EP 90 (Body Builder): - uh oh Dad's fighting with big brother tim - "lmao i left, what're gonna do? FIRE me? i'd love to see it" EP 91 (The Coming Storm): - Mike Crew is just trying to mind his own business - D a i s y please he's just a tiny scared little man EP 92 (Nothing Beside Remains): - E l i a s you cheeky bastard - g a h NOT THE FUCKIN ELIAS COMPULSION SIGH GET THAT SHIT OUT OF HERE - Tim over here like "what have I been TELLING y'all" EP 93 (Contaminant): - A D M I R A L - wtf is this mold - GDI BREEKON AND HOPE  A G A I N? - Georgie is BIG critical of Elias' hiring decisions lmao - Jon and Georgie's interactions are precious I love them - "Jonathan Sims, are you trying to save the world?" I LOVE GEORGIE SO MUCH EP 94 (Dead Woman Walking): - GEORGIE STATEMENT GEORGIE STATEMENT - O H she's deaD? - zoMBIE??? - georgie is immortal in this fear infested world EP 95 (Absent Without Leave): - yaAaAay war statement - lmao Basira is incredible she is simply vibing EP 96 (Return to Sender): - BREEKON AND HOPE BREEKON AND HOPE - Daisy and Sarah: lmao Jon ur dumb EP 97 (We All Ignore the Pit): - who is this sad child w/ Gertrude - YO WTF NIKOLA????? EP 98 (Lights Out): - Tim u are also protective u little hypocrit - mr. sandman, man me a sand - "positively ghoulish book" well golly gee wonder what that is - thank you elias for the murder tips EP 99 (Dust to Dust): - GERTRUDE AYYYYYYYY - Jon's finally puttin some damn pieces together - accept Georgie's help u dumbass - BREEKOOOOOON AND HOOOOOOOPE - Jon is left unattended for five whole seconds and is immediately kidnapped lmao EP 100 (I Guess You Had To Be There): - AWWW MARTIN TAKING LIVE STATEMENTS - Tim ain't cut out for this either lmao - Mr. Smith was strangled to death by Tim after giving that statement that's canon now - i have adhd jonny i can't handle this disjointed episode - PETER LUKAS PETER LUKAS

[summerofspock]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: additional ships and character tags to be added, Ficlets, Hurt/Comfort, Tags On Individual Chapters Summary:

a collection of TMA ficlets for TMA hurt/comfort week on Tumblr!

**

this is how I learned to kiss, from studying this scene, and I remember quoting the hands, the eyes, the lips – Broken Testimony by Daniel Borzutsky

**

Jon is fine. As fine as he can be given the hunger pangs that don’t so much radiate from his belly but from his eyes. An ache like a migraine burrowing down his throat, taking root in his heart.

But he is here. He is alive. He is with Martin who fusses over him with tea and blankets and they haven’t kissed but Jon Knows Martin wants to. The same way he Knows that Martin looks at him with a different hunger. A hunger Jon will never understand. A hunger Jon is beginning to accept he will submit himself to if Martin ever asks.

Because this is it for Jon. He knows it. Lowercase k. The sort of knowing that curls inside him like a contented cat, like the steam from a perfectly brewed cup of tea, like the smoke from the fireplace as it swirls up and out the chimney. Jon loves Martin. He loves Martin in a way he has never loved anything before. In a desperate, hold it in your hands so delicately for fear of breaking it, heart racing, earth shifting way. And Jon won’t ruin it. There is the barest equilibrium between them in this small cottage surrounded by overgrown grass. This tiny corner of the world atop a hill.

Jon will not say no to Martin. He will not risk Martin leaving the only place Jon has ever felt at home.

They kiss for the first time for no reason in particular. Jon has set aside the book he was reading aloud for evening entertainment— I like the sound of your voice, Jon —and has stood to say goodnight, to take himself off to his bedroom, His very separate bedroom, when Martin catches his hand and pulls him close.

The kiss itself is awkward at first. Their glasses bump but Martin, clearly more experienced, readjusts and then it’s good, soft in a way Jon hasn’t felt anything be soft in a long time. And they are just kissing in the living room, the fire long burnt down, his hands fisted in Martin’s jumper.

And then Martin slips his tongue into Jon’s mouth and Jon has to push down a wave of discomfort, pretending everything is just as good as it was moments ago. Martin makes a sharp sound against his mouth that goes a long way to helping Jon forget how absolutely disgusting this is, how his stomach is turning, the barely-there thrum of arousal entirely washed away.

Martin somehow maneuvers them onto the couch, pulling Jon into his lap. Jon follows because that’s the done thing. Martin is hard in his trousers and it sends another crashing sense of harsh reality into Jon. He doesn’t do this. Not with anyone. Sometimes when he’s alone he thinks he might like it if he were in the right mood with a person he trusts, who he loves. But that mood is not now. Even if he trusts Martin more than anything.

Martin’s hands are warm and soft and guiding on his hips and Jon desperately wants to like it but they are kissing again and there are tongues. He tries. He does. He doesn’t want to be broken in this other way. This human way. He’s already a monster and somehow Martin is with him regardless. But this?

Jon is terrified this will be the thing that drives him away.

With shaking hands, Jon reaches between them and rucks up Martin’s jumper, only.to find he’s wearing a white t-shirt beneath. Jon can feel the heat of his skin through it, grounding. It’s nice and under other circumstances (holding each other in bed, a slow morning, trading lazy shallow kisses) Jon thinks the feel of Martin’s soft belly would bring on the low fizzle of heat he’d felt before when Martin had started to kiss him more deeply.

The shake in his hands grows worse and he tries to still them as he tugs at the undershirt as well. Wide hands grasp his wrists and he realizes his whole body is shaking.

Martin pulls away and a new fear threads its way through Jon’s heart.

“Jon?” His voice is soft and Jon realizes he has squeezed his own eyes shut as tight as they will go. He opens them.

Martin’s gaze is as soft as that single word. Concerned. In love. Jon sees it. Knows it. And knows it. Both cases. Both ways.

“You don’t like this, do you?” Martin says more than asks, blunt nose scrunching up adorably. Everything he does is adorable because Jon adores him.

“It’s fine,” Jon says hurriedly, not answering the question. “Let’s keep going.”

He runs his hand up under Martin’s shirt, feels the growing heat of the skin of his stomach, his chest. “I Know you want this.”

Martin’s hands tighten on his hips. His fingers have just dipped under the hem of his shirt and they are distractingly hot on Jon’s bare skin. Then his hands move away, sliding up his back, one to cup the back of his head and the other wide between his scapulae as he pulls Jon against his chest, tucking him close.

“Jon, I love you.”

His breath hitches in his throat, caught in the web of fear that makes him want to pull away, to push Martin down on the couch and give him what he wants.

“Whatever way that looks. Separate bedrooms. Kissing. No kissing. Shagging like maniacs or whatever.” Martin’s breath tickles the hair on the top of Jon’s head as he brushes his fingers through the fuzz at the nape of his neck. “I love you and I don’t want you to pretend you like something you don’t.”

Jon takes a deep breath. It’s filled with the scent of detergent and earl grey and tinged with the subtle-Martin smell than Jon can’t get enough of now that Martin is always near. “I want you to be happy,” he confesses.

“I am happy. You’re here.”

Jon rests his head on Martin’s shoulder and that night, they share a bedroom for the first time, feet tangled together, waking up to the cool sunshine just to hold each other because they can. Because they love each other. Because they are safe.

[nyctolovian]

Summary: What if Jon was a Witch and Martin was a Runaway Royalty? Funnily enough, it doesn't make their first meeting any less unfortunate and terrible.

Warning: Since this might be something people are sensitive about, Martin is described as "fat" and "plump" in this fic. But not in a derogatory way? (Please tell me if it comes off as such oh dear.)

"Who the hell gave you the right to eat all my cookies?" Jon hissed, brandishing his broom at the intruder. 

The man gulped visibly as his round chocolate eyes wobbled. The crumbs still dusted between the freckles of his pale cheeks irked Jon to no end.

He had been saving those butter cookies, savoring only a couple every few days. So you can imagine the shock and fury that coursed through Jon's veins when he returned to his cottage after a frankly needless travel, and found a large man sitting in his living room with an empty tin on his lap. Before the man could even react, Jon had shoved him to the floor and whipped his broom forward threateningly, demanding an explanation for the cookie thievery. If Jon had given the situation more thought, he might have realised his priorities were slightly out of order, but it was the only tin he had procured from when he last set foot amongst human civilization. And he abhorred the thought of going into a town after just three months for a mere tin of cookies.

"I-I-I'm really sorry… I…" the intruder stammered out. "I, um, stumbled upon this cottage… and no one came back for the past two days so… I thought it was abandoned and, well, stayed…" 

"Abandoned?!" Jon shouted. "What part of this–" he gestured towards his numerous possessions with his broom "–looks abandoned to you?"

Sure, the cottage didn't have much furniture, but there was plenty of belongings that served to prove its occupancy. Most obvious was how it was filled wall-to-wall with towering mahogany shelves of well-kept books. No one in their right mind would simply desert such an extensive collection of ancient knowledge. This house was admittedly more library than home, but Jon's point still stood. 

"Well," muttered the man, "it is quite messy and dirty to be honest."

Jon narrowed his eyes at the intruder, who hastily  muttered an apology. It wasn't as though he was wrong though. If one were to believe Sasha James (whom, in Jon's experience, had never been categorically wrong), his living conditions were dreadful. It was as though a hurricane had swept through the house, throwing his belongings about, but deliberately left the dust and dirt alone. Books were scattered across all surfaces, couch and floor included, as several layers of dirt settled on the floor, shelves and table. Even some articles of clothing strewn on the floor and chairs have gotten jealous, and begun their own collection of dust as well. And maybe the air in this house was… a fair bit mustier than it should be.

Jon had never been much of a cleaner.

"I'm sorry. I really am," the man began again. "You're… not going to kill me, are you?"

"What? No!" Jon scrunched his nose in horror. "Of course not."

"Oh, uh, good." He let out a nervous chuckle. "To be honest, when I first came in and saw all the books and crockery, I thought the owner of the house might be some kind of witch. I'm glad you aren't one. They can be quite creepy, and I frankly don't like the idea of being cursed by one."

Thunk! Jon hit the butt of his broom against the wooden floor, eyes narrowed. Drily, he corrected, "I am a witch."

"Oh." The fat man pursed his lips as he shrunk into himself. "That would explain some stuff."

With a huff, Jon rolled his eyes. It was tiring to constantly have people doubt or assume he wasn't a witch just because of the way he looked. Admittedly, most people in the witchery profession were women. He had only known three men who were witches, only one of whom he had actually met, and maybe one other non-binary witch. At least this time he hadn't been accused of lying. "Don't worry. I won't put a curse on you or anything absurd," he told the now deathly pale intruder.

The man let out a sigh. "Right. Thank you. Sorry," he said nervously as he stood up, hunching into himself apologetically. “ I'll… let myself out now.”

Jon wielded his broom once more and the man yelped pathetically. "Now, hold on. I'm not letting you go after you've treated my house like a hostel for two days and eaten all my cookies."

"I'm really sorry," he muttered. "I don't have a single coin on me…" He pointed at an unfamiliar bag beside the table. "I… I do have some parchment and quill though."

"Parchment and quill?"

"It… has a certain vintage feel to it."

"No need. I can subsist on pen and paper just fine." He jerked his head towards the overflowing mess of a study table.

The man winced. "I'm sorry… I really don't have much else with me."

"Right," Jon said, narrowing his eyes. He couldn't help but doubt those words. The fabric of the man's clothes looked rather expensive, and the garment was skilfully crafted to fit his stocky build. It was unusual to see a man this well-dressed without a single coin in his possession. But an actually well-to-do man wouldn't be stumbling into cottages in a forest and polishing opened cookie tins off, Jon would presume. "What's your name?" he asked.

The man's already big eyes widened further. "Uh, what?"

Impatiently, Jon groaned. "Your name. Do you have one?" he asked, acid practically dripping from his voice.

"Ah, um, yes," the man stammered out. "I'm Martin K- Blackwood."

"Martin K. Blackwood?"

"Uh, yeah?" 

"Are you answering or asking a question?" Jon snapped.

"Answering! Answering."

He huffed in annoyance, his eyes sliding across his kitchen. When he had left, unwashed crockery and cutlery were piled up into haphazard towers in the sink and on his tables. However, they were now properly washed, dried, and placed into his cabinets. So this home intrusion hadn't been an entirely unprofitable one.

With a glint in his eyes, Jon said, "I have a proposition." 

***

Stupid Martin, he cursed himself. Why are you constantly making things worse for yourself?

First, it was the whole running away from home thing. He didn't regret that in particular, but he probably should have brought along more than 10 silver pieces. It was no wonder how after a mere week, all his money was spent or given to a group of famished scrawny children. Then, he had decided to cut through the woods in hopes that he could sustain himself on wild berries, none of which, he later found, looked convincingly edible. Then, he had stumbled upon a curious cottage in the middle of a dense forest and, upon finding it abandoned, let himself settle in. As was typical of his luck, it wasn't actually abandoned, and its owner was none other than a witch. Thinking back, he should have taken note of the tinge of change in the air when he first stepped foot, evidence of its steady pool of magic, and its otherworldly still-resident.

Most mortifyingly, however, Martin had flushed to a ridiculous shade of pink when the witch smirked and said he had a "proposition" because, holy crap, did Martin have an imagination. The puzzlement on the witch's face at his reaction before clarifying what aforementioned proposition actually was might have been the finishing blow to his dignity. 

"You're not in some romantic comedy," he muttered angrily to himself as he scrubbed the study table with all his might.

"Did you say something?"

Martin looked up at the witch, who had retreated to the floor while Martin cleaned his study table. He had built a fortress of books around himself and had to straighten himself to look over its walls. There was genuine confusion on his features as he asked the question. 

"Uh, no," Martin said, shooting him a smile and adjusting his spectacles nervously. "Just a rather nasty stain here."

The witch–"Jon, Jonathan Sims," he had been told–shrugged and returned to burying his nose in some spell book, his tousled hair cascading gently with the movement to frame his handsome face with a wavy shoulder-length curtain. His slender fingers flipped the page gently before curling thoughtfully over his stubbly chin.

With a sigh of resignation, Martin got back to removing the stubborn stain on the dining table.

It always were the prickly men that had the prettiest faces, weren't they? So Martin really couldn't be faulted for consistently developing unwise infatuations for them. 

The image was still imprinted in his mind's eye, like an afterimage of too-bright light. Falling to the floor had kicked up a cloud of dust and the poet in Martin felt the air tremble with ethereality. And the sight before him was nothing short of divine.

Jon's lustrous greying locks tangled gently with the sunset glow from the ajar front door, and his silhouette was outlined with light. It highlighted how well the black pinstripe suit fit his slender figure and gave him a sort of cool sharpness. His thick eyebrows were tightly knitted in a rather adorable frown on confusion. His eyes were beautiful obsidian that reflected every shimmer of emotions upon its surface. Martin found his gaze slowly trickle down from those eyes to his thin parted lips as though guided by the sureness of gravity. Then, Jon brandished his broomstick and–bloody hell–Martin would be lying if he said that didn't spark an embarrassing warmth in his gut.

Being in close proximity with someone this hot was going to be detrimental to his health. Martin was pretty sure if he spent a second longer around this man, he would have fainted like an anaemic lady in a poorly fitted corset. That or lock himself in the washroom, preferably with the shower on, for a suspiciously long period of time.

Thank god, however, Jon had the fashion sense of a grandmother. When he emerged from his bedroom, he had changed out of his suit, into a dark green cardigan, overstretched beige shirt, and grey tartan trousers. (Tartan? Really?) Every single article of clothing was baggy and oversized beyond what was sensible for someone as small and angular as Jon. Martin had never seen anyone more swallowed up by clothing than Jon was. That was saying a lot since Martin had seen more jesters than the average person in their entire lifetime. 

At least, he supposed, the colours of his apparel complemented his dark earthy skin, bringing out the richness in its tone. Martin might go as far as to say that what Jon was wearing now made sense. When Jon first appeared, he was posh and brooding dark colours, oozing with cruelty–a foreboding shadow that obtruded the autumn palette of forest and cottage. However, in his indoor clothes, he was an easy fit in the puzzle that was this house, with its quaint exterior and cosy interior.

There might also be something endearing about seeing such a slight person swaddled in soft fabric. And the smallness of the man as he sat criss-crossed on the floor did no favours for Martin’s sensibilities either.

Martin shook his head, physically objecting to his own train of thought. He couldn't afford to let his imagination run wild like letting loose a golden retriever with cabin fever. After all, if he actually had to clean up the house to compensate for his intrusion, he was going to be staying in this cottage for a long while. Because, despite his unquestionable familiarity with his broom, Jon had clearly not used it (or any cleaning tool for that matter) in the house for at least 4 months, and Martin was now left to deal with the aftermath of such a decision.

With a soft sigh, he went to change the water in the pail before moving on to cleaning the kitchen table, which was honestly worse off than the study table. That was a major understatement given the amounts of stains and bits left on the kitchen table. Martin rolled up his sleeves and began to scrub the stubborn stains.

As he got rid of the last grime on the table, he stood upright and stretched his back, hearing it crack softly. His eyes settled upon the clock above the bookshelves. It was 8.45pm already. Concernedly, he asked Jon, "What time do you usually have dinner?"

The witch looked up from his volume, his dark hooded eyes blinking owlishly. As though just realising what Martin had said, he let out a quiet noise and glanced towards the clock. "Oh," he muttered. "I forgot."

Like a disappointed parent, Martin pursed his lips.

"Now." Jon nodded to himself as he rose from the floor. "Now would be good."

"I could cook."

Jon jerked to a halt, midway to standing upright. "Ah, yes." He plopped to the wooden floor like a stuffed doll before crossing his legs once more. "I should have some potatoes…"

Sheepishly, Martin said, "Actually, um, I ate them. But, uh, I can cook rice."

Jon jutted his chin out. Exasperatedly, he waved his hand and grumbled, "Fine. Do whatever." Grumpily, he returned to reading again. 

After clearing the dining table as best as he could, Martin went to work with cooking. After examining the contents of the fridge, he decided on a simple meal with baked beans and some veggies and sausages since there wasn't enough time to defrost any meat.

While Martin was scooping out the uncooked rice, Jon suddenly spoke, "Do you really know how to cook rice? None of that white-people rice-boiling nonsense. I have a rice cooker." Then, in the most condescending voice, he asked, "You do know how to use a rice cooker, right?"

"If it assures you, I've worked in the kitchen of a Mexican restaurant before."

 Jon, whom Martin was fairly certain by now had quite the dramatic streak, visibly relaxed with a loud sigh of relief. "That's good." Then, he burrowed into his books again.

Turning around, Martin rolled his eyes and flipped on the tap to wash the rice. After filling the rice cooker with rice and water, he plugged the cooker to a socket and hummed with curiosity. "I wonder where the electricity comes from?"

"Magic."

Martin startled.

Jon's head was peeking out from behind his ever-growing book fort, which now reached just below his chin. There was a proud quirk in his eyebrow as he continued, "I decided living this deep in the forest doesn't mean I have to give up the conveniences of technology. So I've imbued this cottage with magic to keep the electricity running."

"Well, that would explain the lone WiFi network my phone detected."

"It's password protected," Jon said, as he wriggled a smartphone out of his pocket. "Do you need it?"

"No thanks," Martin responded immediately. Then, realising how strange he must sound, he added, "Uh. I have unlimited data."

Despite how ridiculous this must have sounded, Jon didn't seem to pay the blatant lie much attention. Instead, his attention had shifted to his own mobile phone. He typed furiously into the device for a few minutes before his phone began to ring. His expression soured and he muttered under his breath, "God damn it, Tim."

"What?" Martin blurted even though he had heard Jon loud and clear. 

"Just a… troublesome friend. It's none of your business." Jon picked up the phone and began the call with the most peeved "Yes, Tim?"

"Right. Yes… Of course." Still, Martin couldn't help but perk his ears.

"Before you begin, the answer is a resounding no," Jon said. "No, I don't. ... It doesn't matter to me what the rewards are. … You can't– Ugh…" He squeezed his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I really couldn't care less. … I'm not your personal sniffer dog. Or the state's for that matter.” The perpetual small frown on his face deepened with bewilderment. “What do you mean you’re not…?” Then, with a huff, he muttered, “Shocking.” His lips however quirked up by an almost indiscernible centimetre.

Martin felt a pang of curiosity. This might have been the first trace of a smile that he had seen on the crotchety man. Noticing that he was staring, Martin ducked his head and busied himself with cooking the sausages.

Suddenly, Jon shot to his feet. "Don't you dare!" he hissed. "Tim, I'm warning you. … Fine." His tense shoulders relaxed as he folded his arms in front of his chest. "I'll… I'll see what I can do." To Martin's disappointment, Jon stepped over his fort of books and headed into his bedroom, where the conversation continued without eavesdropping ears. Pursing his lips, 

Worry was a hungry hound nestled under Martin’s sternum. Perhaps his ribs were particularly sweet in its canine teeth because it frequently gnawed and chewed at his chest. But this might be the biggest and hungriest hound yet, though this time it spared him and merely nibbled. 

Stop overthinking things, he told himself. Not every Tim in the world is going to be Tim Stoker.

***

Tim Stoker was unrelenting when he wanted something.

Jon had realised this long before when he had helped search for his brother but this was ridiculous. Threatening to reveal a hermit’s address, much more one that practiced the occult, was to strip a hermit crab of its shell. And revealing it to the Royal Guards of all people was to smash the shell with a massive hammer while the crab was still in it—needlessly cruel and most probably going to get him killed.

But Jon supposed simply helping Tim out would be much less inconvenient than moving house and cutting ties with the man. Besides, he wasn’t entirely a nuisance.

With a grunt, he knelt beside his bag, still unpacked from his previous trip, and grabbed his journal and a pen. "Alright," he said, setting the book on his lap and pinning his phone between his head and shoulder. "Tell me about this prince. Age? Birthday? Height? Weight? Something?"

"Um… 28, I believe? Not sure about his birthday… Height is between 180 and 190, I think? Uh… He's on the fat side… He's got curly brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, wears glasses, dimples handsomely when he smiles…"

A long-suppressed groan finally escaped Jon. After his draining trip to the Witch's Conference, he really didn't have the energy to listen to Tim describe what was clearly a small crush of sorts. "This is going nowhere. Just send me a photo."

There was a brief sheepish silence. "Haven't got one, actually."

"Alright, hold up," Jon cut him off. "How on earth do you have nothing on this man? He's a prince for god's sake. In fact, I've only been hearing about this whole missing prince debacle from you. How is this not on the news yet? It's as if you people don't even want him back."

"Well," Tim mumbled over the phone, "it's… a tad bit complicated. You know, how I said I'm not doing this for the state?"

"Mm." 

"It's 'cause he ran away to avoid getting married off to another kingdom," Tim said. "Specifically the Nebula Kingdom."

Jon raised an eyebrow. The political ties of the Nebula Kingdom and the Kinsley Royal Family would put even the most volatile stock markets to shame. That was to say, they were mercurial at best. Having a marriage between the two nations would likely stabilise their relations, but if the groom scampered off, it wouldn't just look bad. There would have to be either war (fortunately, a non-militaristic one since neither country was physically confrontational), or massive compensations of the monetary sort. And the Kinsley Royal Family was not quite as wealthy as Nebula, so their best bet at the moment would be keep this runaway business on the down-low for now.

From the other end of the phone, Tim sucked in a hiss of breath through his teeth. "Yeah… So, honestly, only the most high ranking officials are aware of his disappearance. To everyone else, he's just caught a bad case of flu."

Curious, Jon pressed, "And how is a mere royal alchemist such as yourself privy to such confidential information?"

"Actually, he's a friend of mine," Tim said. "So you can imagine how worried I am for him right now."

"I take it you're not carting him off to the palace the moment I find him?"

"Of course not," Tim said with an affronted tone. 

Jon let out a hum. "And why the lack of photographs?"

"Well," Tim said. "There's the fact that he's pretty camera-shy. But, also, he's sort of… an illegitimate child of the prince. So things were kept on the very down-low when it came to him."

"Good lord." Jon squeezed his nose bridge with a loud sigh. He could imagine it already: keeping the illegitimate child a secret, ensuring no one could recognise him, and then using him as a marriage pawn when the time was ripe. With how notoriously prolific the prince was, no one could ever tell the difference between an illegitimate child and a regular concubine's offspring. 

How a man could sustain such a virile lifestyle perplexed Jon, to be honest. But there were a great many things of the sexual nature that had that effect on the witch so he'd much rather think about actually decipherable things such as spells and potions. 

Mentally shoving his distaste aside, Jon continued, "So how do you suppose I find this man without any useful information?"

Jon could practically hear the sunshine in Tim's voice. "Not sure to be honest! I was kind of hoping you'd have an idea."

"I'm a witch. Not a… private detective or sniffer dog or whatever you're taking me to be!" Jon grumbled. "Tim, it's not that I don't want to help you, but you have to give me something better than just a general description of the man."

"Right…" Tim sounded genuinely disappointed. "What about his stuff? I'm not sure about witchcraft but you guys use possessions and stuff for curses and such, right? If I manage to find something he left behind… would that work?"

Jon hummed in thought. "Wait a moment."

He scavenged through the books in his bedroom and found a leather-bound journal that was practically falling apart. Gently, he flipped through the pages and finally came across the section he was looking for. 

"Well, if we are to use an object, I'd cast a searching spell on the seeker, which I suppose would likely be yourself," he explained, running his forefinger over the squiggles of the page. "There are then several criteria that the object has to fulfill. First, we need it to be of emotional importance. Then, it has to have a connection between the target and the seeker, meaning you should try to find a gift from this man. Not something you took without his permission or something that is borrowed. And even then, there is a chance of it being a dud."

"That's… not ideal," Tim winced out. "I'll see what I can find." His voice was warm and sincere. "Hey, thanks a bunch, dude. You helped me find Danny, and now Martin as well… I was lying about exposing your house address by the way. I'd never do that. "

"Yes, Tim, I know."

Tim bounced back into his cheeky disposition. "Love you too, Jon! Bye!" 

Jon rolled his eyes and ended the call. 

Martin… The prince had the same name as his unexpected intruder… 

A frown settled upon his brow. What if…

There was a quick rap against his bedroom door. Jon got to his feet and opened it.

"Oh!" Martin–the intruder–gasped. "I thought you were… still on your phone… or something. Um, I was just… Dinner's ready?"

"Ah," Jon said with a nod. The two of them sat at the dining table. The food looked good actually, much to Jon's relief. Still, with some frankly warranted skepticism, he fluffed the rice with a scoop, and when he saw that it was nice and soft. He placed it in his bowl and began to eat. 

Sitting opposite, the cook took a sigh of relief at the silent approval and dug in as well. Then, his phone began to ring and he swiped the screen absently. "I saw some tea in the cabinets so…" he muttered as he got up and carried two mugs from the kitchen counter to the table. 

Jon took a sniff from the cup. Chamomile. Carefully, he took a sip, and his eyebrows yanked upwards with delight. 

Martin's plump cheeks dimpled deeply with pride as he hummed and drank from his own mug as well.

Jon supposed he earned that. When he brought the rim of the mug to his lips again, his eyes fluttered half-closed as the fragrance of the tea surrounded his senses like an old but well-kept blanket, warm and soothing. 

Wouldn't it be great to keep him around? His mind sponsored. Jon had to beat the thought down with a stick. He was a hermit and he planned to stay as such. Besides, Jon had a niggling feeling about this man's identity... 

But this Martin couldn't possibly be a Prince Martin, Jon convinced himself Imagine such excellent tea-brewing skills squandered on royalty.

[schmokschmok]

omnia mutantur, nihil interit

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Georgie x Melanie

Characters: Georgie Barker, Melanie King, Jonathan Sims, Martin K. Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Wordcount: 10.000

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - College/University

Romantic & Platonic Soulmates

Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Brief Jon/Georgie & Melanie/Sasha

Amicable Breakups

Trans Melanie King & Martin Blackwood

He/Him & They/Them Pronouns For Asexual, Nonbinary Royalty Jon Sims

Summary

Melanie is lucky, that's what everyone says. She's blessed because she's got the name of her soulmate etched into her skin. For her, the name is many things: a blessing, a curse, her Damocles' sword.

A "the first words your soulmate says to you are written on your skin"-au but with a twist, i guess. 

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056415

Complimentary Jon/Martin Fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395876

CN: Mild Internalised Homo- and Transmisia in #6 and #7, Food (mentioned in #9 and #10); Alcohol (mentioned in #10)

#1

It’s rare for a person to have the name of their soulmate as their mark – or at least that’s what everyone says.

They congratulate her when they see the loopy script on her ankle, cooing at the roundness of the O and the little bow of the H and the wrongly weighed Ss. They see the tilt of the script and tell her, it must be an optimistic soul writing with the future in mind, looking forward to all the things the future could hold.

They tell . her she’s lucky, oh so lucky to know the name of the one she’s waiting for, that she doesn’t have to strain her ears every time she meets someone new for faint, trivial words like “hey, what’s your name” or “look out!”

They tell her she’s blessed for the simplicity of her soulmark – words written by her soulmate themselves instead of little marks she has to find on the body of her loved one, or a string tugging on her finger and connecting her to a heartbeat she may never see the face belonging to, or a countdown leaving her to grasp for straws in the middle of Trafalgar Square staring at thousands of faces and possibilities rushing away. She’s blessed for having two clues to find out the identity of the person who’ll love her the most. That she could be one of the forsaken that see everything their soulmate writes on their skin. That she could have been in pain when she’s away from her soulmate – bound to them by fate and chance.

No, she’s got a name, loopy and bubbly and inked into the skin underneath her left ankle.

“Jonathan Sims,” she whispers sometimes while brushing over the name with her thumb or the tips of her fingers, wondering what kind of person he will be. And she doesn’t know who he is, but she’s so young and the only thing she truly knows is that she will love him dearly.

She wears his name in pride, presents it like a trophy, wants everyone to know: She’s not afraid of bearing her soul right on her skin for everyone to see.

 #2

She shoves her feet into black, clunky boots and she begs her mother to buy them, because she needs them so much. Never, she thinks, blinking away the hotness and the burning behind her eyes, never again will she look at those cursed letters, at his name that she wanted to hear so desperately for the longest of times.

Until she found herself lying in bed next to Sasha like the thousands of times she did in the past. Until darkness ascended upon them, their faces illuminated only by the glow of the full moon. Until Sasha reached out, intertwining their fingers and whispering softly that she loves her; that she always has, that she always will. Until Sasha comes closer and closer and almost closes the gap between them – if it weren’t for Melanie closing it first.

 #3

“Jonathan Sims,” he says absentmindedly as if it weren’t the most important name for Melanie, a curse and blessing at the same time. He doesn’t even look her way, just scans the page for their assignment, underlining a few words in preparation.

She stares at him, takes in the sharp line of his mouth and the prominent cupid bow that should soften the hard look but really doesn’t. Her eyes roam his face, the long bridge of his nose that’s interrupted by a crook indicating he broke it in the past. She stares at his wide forehead and his thick eyebrows, at his long eyelashes and the brown half circle of his irises. His profile is composed of sharp angles and straight lines, his skin of a deep, dark brown, scattered with circular scars, his face framed with rich, brown wavy hair that came free at some point from the messy bun nestled on top of his head.

He’s not attractive, by any means, but she can easily see he’s got a presence and a certain kind of charm. He looks like a college professor on the wrong side of the classroom.

And it is his name on her ankle, hidden beneath layers of tights and soft socks and the thick material of her boots. And it is his name that sends a shiver down her spine and makes the hairs on her neck and arms stand up.

She stares and she stares and she stares and she stares – until he’s looking at her, too, brows furrowed and a look of annoyance on his face. And the only thing she can do is releasing a shaky breath and softly saying: “Oh no.”

His eyes widen a fraction and his hand shoots up to his clavicle on instinct. Then the expression on his face shifts into a scowl and a heavy coldness sinks into her stomach.

“The feeling is mutual,” he spits through gritted teeth, quickly scanning her face, finding something she can’t even name. Subsequently, he averts his eyes and shuffles through the papers in front of him. “I’d prefer to split the work evenly and propose a meeting a few weeks in to compare notes and draft a first outline for the presentation.” He clears his throat. “If you’re interested, we can exchange numbers for research related questions.” He eyes her. “And research related questions only.”

Her jaw’s locked and cracks worryingly when she opens her mouth violently to retort: “I’m not interested in anything other than our presentation, jerk.”

Maybe she’s imagining it, but her insult seems to loosen his shoulders just an inch and the scowl softens into a less sullen look.

This man, this crabby looking man, is her Damocles’ sword.

 #4

They’re sitting in the institute’s library, knees knocking into each other every once in a while, their table littered with notes and papers and books. The pen behind Melanie’s ear slips further down when she shakes her head vigorously.

“Did you spend even a minute thinking about that take?” She barks out an incredulous laugh. “Ovid was not ‘too self-absorbed’ and ‘incapable of eradicating his failures.’ Who are you? Seneca’s sycophant?”

“It’s a well-known fact that Ovid never surpassed his early stages. His texts had potential and even though they received the criticism needed to fix them, he was never capable of revising them and tapping the full potential,” Jon shoots right back, pulling multiple notes out of the mess on the table. “It isn’t only Seneca, you know that full well, Quintilian provides anecdotal evidence as well. His writing is shallow and superficial, and I should say it.” Melanie huffs agitated.

“What you should do is shut your cakehole and read some fucking books.” Melanie wrings her hands in frustration, before reaching over the myriads of notes and papers for a book that’s half-buried underneath two other books. “Is the only book you ever read about Ovid by Fränkel? Because that is some seriously prejudiced fuckwart and he should never have been allowed to write about Ovid in the first place. Otis’ work was published in the same fucking year, you could have read that instead.”

He bristles, reminding her of a peacock fanning out its tail feathers. Swallowing a triumphant laugh, she readies herself for the next round to come.

“I’ll have you informed that I read every single thing you forwarded to me, but I know they’re wrong.” He stares into her eyes, unwavering.

“That you’re wrong,” he clarifies. “You will never convince me that Ovid knew what he was doing.”

“We can’t do this presentation if you can’t admit that you’re wrong!” Her voice is probably too loud for the library, but Oliver doesn’t mind them as long as they’re alone and Professor Lukas is out of the building.

“Is there anything you’re ever right about? We don’t have to agree about the history of research to present it,” he argues because of course he does. They’re project partners for five weeks now and despite the fact that this is their first meeting vis a vis, he disagreed with practically every single thing she sent him over the past weeks. If she says Ovid’s Metamorphoses are a composite epos, he tells her it’s a collection of loosely connected stories. If she says Ovid’s been exiled for political reasons, he tells her Ovid’s probably never been exiled and it’s all a nice story he drafted to write his Tristia and that’s it.

“I know we don’t have to agree on anything,” she says and she’s about to raise her voice again to continue arguing, when a voice startles her, and she freezes up: “Jonathan Sims!”

Jon rolls with his eyes and says, without turning around: “I’m in the middle of something, Georgie, can you get back to me later?”

“Can you get back to me at all?” She plops down next to them on a chair and Melanie’s breath gets caught in her throat. She’s beautiful, but in a preppy hipster kind of way. Her hair falls in tight, natural curls over her shoulders almost onto her back and frames her round face. Underneath her wide nose glistens a golden, sun-shaped septum, accentuated by the deep red of her full lips. Both complimenting the warm undertone of her black skin. Despite the cold outside she’s only wearing a thick knitted cardigan over a white top with a floral pattern and a mustard yellow skirt. “I messaged you three times today and yet you refuse to answer me.” The colour of her nails and outfit are geared to each other and she lays her hand on his elbow to finally catch his full attention.

Jon looks up to her at last, ignoring her hand on the sleeve of his light brown button-down. In spite of his deadpan voice, the corners of his mouth curl upward into the smallest of smiles.

“If I would have wanted to answer you, Georgie, I would have done it. As you can see, I’m working on a project with Melanie right now.” Two pairs of brown eyes land on Melanie and she feels scrutinised all of a sudden. Georgie smiles at her, dimply and revealing the golden shine of a labial frenulum piercing resting against the top of her bunny like front teeth.

“Oh, you’re Melanie!” The way she says it is equally anxiety inducing and thrilling, like she wanted to meet Melanie, like they could be friends. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

And the only proper response that comes to her mind is: “Oh god, I am so sorry.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Georgie rushes to say, then she’s backpaddling again, correcting herself: “Well, maybe Jon wanted it to sound all bad, but I think you sound like a lovely person.” Jon scoffs but he doesn’t interject. They share a look Melanie can’t decipher.

And suddenly, Melanie grows aware of the way she looks today. She is a wall of black clothes and silver accessories and white skin contrasting the warmness of Georgie and Jon. Like an old-timey photograph next to a polished fall edition of the vogue.

Georgie and Jon make a beautiful couple. She’s chubby and soft where Jon is lean and sharp, she’s lively and welcoming where Jon is still and reserved. They balance each other and share these little smiles and glances of contentment. And Melanie is a washed-out copy of a copy of a newspaper picture of welcome to the black parade with the name of this man engraved into her very bones.

“I think, I need to go,” she forces the words to tumble over her lips. As she’s trying to gather her notes without stealing Jon’s or knocking something off the table, Georgie as much as sprawls herself over Jon’s lap and snatches her wrist mid-air and forces her to a halt.

“No, no, please,” Georgie pleads. Lowering her voice as if she didn’t want Jon to hear, she adds: “Don’t leave me alone with this guy, I have to listen to him go on about fungi for way too long. And I cannot take it anymore.”

“I feel kind of attacked,” Jon interjects and Georgie waves him off, right in front of his face, almost hitting his nose, and says: “Good.”

“You should go and get a coffee or tea with us,” Georgie turns to Melanie again and smiles, dimples violently digging into her cheeks. “You both seem tense, maybe we should go right now.”

“We don’t have the t–“ Jon doesn’t get much farther in his rejection, before Georgie interrupts him: “You don’t have a say in this, you owe me for ignoring me, Jon.” His mumbling could be interpreted as a fine and Georgie obviously decides to do so.

Melanie only stares at them, at Georgie mostly, clutching her paperwork to her chest and thinking that life’s unfair. That she’s condemned to have his name on her forever, while he has the most gorgeous woman as his girlfriend and no interest in her at all.

She shouldn’t agree and she knows that, it’s a simple fact of life that Georgie is a beautiful goddess and Melanie is a tiny lesbian who has no control over her lizard brain. She will crush on Georgie and it’s only a matter of time. If the past few minutes are any indication, she will crush so hard, the only pieces left of her will be scattered by the storm that’s already starting to brew.

“Yes,” she says in spite of everything she knows to be true, “That sounds lovely.”

The look Jon sends her expresses almost comically her previous thoughts. Ignoring his pained face, she shoots Georgie a loop-sided grin, the dreadful realisation of her fuck-up finally sinking in. Unbothered by both Jon and Melanie, Georgie sits back in her chair and clasps her hands in front of her chest, while saying: “Perfect, gather your stuff and off we go.”

Full of vim and vigour, she pushes herself out of her chair and stands up.

For a moment, Melanie can’t look away from her. She starts comparing herself to Georgie and if it weren’t for Sasha and that faithful night, she’d still think she only ever wants to be the beautiful women she sees when in reality she wants to be with them, with the picture she painted in her mind, so badly everything inside her aches.

 #5

melesbian: things i should have told you long ago – a complete list by melanie king

melesbian: i met my soulmate and he has the most beautiful girlfriend of all time

melesbian: that’s it. that’s the list.

 sashaway: ghgfhlsd

sashaway: you made me keysmash, I hope you’re proud of yourself

sashaway: is that list really complete?

 melesbian: no

 sashaway: thought so

sashaway: what are you going to do about it?

 melesbian: continue not talking to that pompous twat and silently pine after his girlfriend

 sashaway: as much as I love your dramatics, I need more information to really get a grasp on that situation

 melesbian: it’s not a good story. it’s not even a story

melesbian: i’m taking this class on greek and roman epic (for the credits tbh) and one jonathan sims is my project partner

melesbian: we worked in the library on our first draft today

melesbian: and suddenly

melesbian: a goddess ascended from mount olympus (to keep the theme) and plopped up right next to the guy that said in no uncertain terms that he’s not interested in talking to me at all

 sashaway: oof harsh

sashaway: are you interested in talking to him?

 melesbian: lol no

melesbian: i know it’s late but i’m in front of your door and … you could open up?

 #6

“We broke up,” she says matter-of-factly, she doesn’t sound too stressed about it, however. Georgie’s head lies in Melanie’s lap and she’s painting her long, almond shaped nails in a soft baby blue. Almost constantly, her hair moves due to the light breeze and tickles Melanie’s bare arm. But she doesn’t want to move because she’s quite comfortable and Georgie would probably move too, if she thought she’d inconvenience Melanie in any way.

Normally, she wouldn’t pry for more information because the only person she feels close enough to know how to deal with the aftermath is Sasha. But she’s curious and she thinks that there’s no reason in the world to dump Georgie Barker, so she probably left him and – even though Melanie doesn’t want to acknowledge it – Jon and her, they are somewhat friends and she doesn’t want him to feel too bad. (Only ever a little, as a treat.)

So, she shoots for nonchalant and distant interest, but misses the mark by far: “Why did you break up?” Georgie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We mutually agreed he’s an insufferable twat and I’m the burden of his very existence,” she replies, stretching her arm as far away and then pulling it as close as possible to inspect her painted nails. “We not so mutually agreed that he’s got a big, fat, massive crush on someone else.”

“Who could he have a crush on if you literally exist??”

Melanie didn’t mean to say that out loud, oh fucking hell, this is bad. This is real bad. She can’t have Georgie knowing about Melanie’s big, fat, massive crush on Georgie.

Georgie laughs.

“Oh, Melanie, you’re lovely. I always feel special talking to you,” she says as if it wouldn’t set Melanie on edge; as if it wouldn’t make her heart race in her chest, loudly pounding and pumping blood through her veins. She suddenly feels light-headed and dizzy. Georgie continues, nevertheless. “You know, he says it’s not a crush, it’s ‘active disdain’ but he didn’t listen to me at all when I tried to explain to him what ‘active’ in this context means.” She sighs. “It’s a bit pathetic, but that’s Jon for you. And I don’t think I’m one to talk because,” she makes a show of looking inconspicuously to the left and right, “maybe I’m projecting my own crush onto him.” She looks up at Melanie, tentatively. “But you can’t tell him that.”

“I would never,” Melanie rushes to say, not quite processing the fact that Georgie’s already infatuated with someone new. Someone who’s probably not Melanie, because Melanie is never that lucky. She inhales shakily. “So, you’re still amicable?”

For a moment, Georgie seems contemplating, a bit unsure almost. Then she says slowly: “I think so, yes. Jon’s my best friend, I would never forgive myself if I lost him over something as trivial as a breakup.” She shrugs dismissively. “How about you? Anyone caught your attention?” A heartbeat passes, Melanie freezing up like a deer in headlights. “Or are you aro? We’ve never talked about this, when I think about it now.”

“Not aro,” Melanie forces the words out through her teeth, trying to sound like she’s got still air in her lungs to speak. “I’m a lesbian, actually.”

She readies herself for Georgie to get weird and regret lying on Melanie like Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus on a divan. But instead, Georgie’s face lights up and she coos: “We could have talked about girls for months, Melanie, we could have truly lived that LGBT+ solidarity!” As if it’s an afterthought, she adds: “I’m bi. It’s pretty obvious because every time I leave a room, I announce that very fact to the whole room but somehow people think I’m just really enthusiastic about getting away.” She laughs, and that, paired with her trashy joke, lets Melanie lose a bit of the tension that coiled in her stomach.

She doesn’t say We’ve got three letters present then, because even though she’s got the most impressive crush of all times on Georgie and Georgie labelled herself bi just a few seconds ago, she’s not quite ready to open up that much. (Pride’s approaching fast and maybe in a few weeks she’ll be ready to brandish the trans flag, but for now she wants to feel proud of herself for saying I’m a lesbian out loud for the first time since she came out to her parents. She doesn’t get much opportunity to tell people she’s gay and the only ones outside of her family that know are Sasha and Tim – because they were the only ones important enough to tell.)

“Biii~ the way,” Georgie continues, showing off a smirk that would look like a smile on any other person, “you didn’t answer my question. Anyone caught your attention?”

Well, there’s this girl I really like but she’s been in a relationship with my soulmate until very recently. And I also thought she was straight as an arrow, so I didn’t really entertain the thought she could be interested in me in any kind of way, is what Melanie wants to say. (Well, not really wants to but perhaps should and definitely feels the need to.)

“There’s this girl I fancy,” is what she says instead. “Stunningly beautiful, breathtakingly kind.”

“Do I know her?” Georgie’s voice doesn’t change, not really, but it feels like there’s an edge to it that wasn’t previously present. Maybe it’s because of the softness of Melanie’s voice or the distant, unfocused look on her face that she always gets when she’s trying to not give in to the urge of fucking everything up – both unknown to Georgie until now, because, even if Melanie likes to think otherwise, they’re not that close.

“I don’t think, I know her, really,” she settles on. Because it’s true. And it stings. It stings to think that the gorgeous woman in her lap is just the ex-girlfriend of the guy she did a project with for one of her classes and whose name is part of her life for longer than she can remember – and that they hang out from time to time but that it’s more on a superficial level. Hell, she can’t even name the most basic things of Georgie’s life: Is she an only child? What’s her favourite colour? Is the skin of her hands as soft as it looks?

“That’s unfortunate,” Georgie replies softly, “maybe you should get to know her.” The tip of her finger suddenly boops Melanie’s nose, and she smiles encouragingly. The smell of nail polish lingers in the air. “And when you know her and still think she’s that nice, you should introduce her to me so I can make sure you’re not wasting your time.”

And Melanie thinks that maybe she should introduce Georgie to Sasha so Sasha can tell her that she should stop wasting her time.

However, for now she’s going to be a little selfish, so she holds up her hand in front of Georgie’s face and says: “Do you think blue would suit me?” Enthusiastically, Georgie sits up, sunshine reflecting on her septum, and her labial frenulum piercing exposed in a wide grin.

“This blue would suit you very well!” She reaches for Melanie’s hands and her nail polish bottle. “We’d match!! And it would distract me from the fact that my nail polish doesn’t match my outfit.”

“Why’d you paint them, then? The pink was nice,” Melanie asks and watches Georgie uncapping the bottle and getting to work on Melanie’s nails.

“Jon asked me to accompany him to an outing tonight and I wanted to wear a blue dress, so the pink had to go,” Georgie explains while finishing Melanie’s third finger. It looks so easy when Georgie paints nails – when Melanie does it, she always paints over the borders of her nails and on her cuticles, the polish ends up a bit uneven and streaky in places. But it suits her overall aesthetic, so she’s not too stressed about it. But this is different, isn’t it? It’s Georgie holding her hand like a precious object, like a restaurateur may hold a vase or plate while trying to glue the smallest of bits back together. It’s Georgie applying her own nail polish that’s the softest of blues instead of Melanie’s usual blackest of blacks. It’s Georgie being a considerate friend for Jon despite their recent breakup. It’s the domesticity of sitting on the grass in the middle of the Magnus’ University’s campus, ready to be seen by anyone that passes by. It’s Melanie not being disgusted by and anxious because of affection and touching and overall close proximity. – All in all, everything is too much. So, she stills.

“If you wanted, you could join us.” Georgie’s voice is timid, as if she’s testing the waters. And Melanie wants to say yes, because Georgie asked her and she wants to spend time with her, get to know her, but she also promised Sasha to meet up with her because they have to start planning Tim’s birthday. So, she says as much and adds: “I’m sorry. But next time I will come, I promise.”

“You can bring Sasha and Tim. I would love to get to know them,” Georgie says with a hint of disappointment and a spoonful excitement.

“Yeah,” Melanie says, “I think that would be nice.”

They fall silent after that and Melanie thinks she could get used to this. To learning all the little things about Georgie. And she begins now with the dry softness of her hands against her own rough palm.

 #7

Melanie inhales shakily, counts to ten, and exhales slowly. A hesitating hand reaches for her own, startling her and making her eyes snap up to land on Sasha’s smiling face.

“You okay?” Sasha’s voice is soft and only meant to be heard by Melanie. “It’s not too late to go, if you want to.” Just as Melanie opens her mouth to retort that she doesn’t actually want to go, because she wants to be here and enjoy this, a familiar voice calls her name. Before turning around to face Georgie, she gives Sasha a quick nod and forces something akin to a smile on her face.

“Finally! I was afraid we wouldn’t find you,” Georgie says, a little out of breath and through half a laugh. “It took a bit longer, but the boys are to blame, I reject all accusations that my make-up is at fault.” She looks gorgeous as ever; it’s the first time, Melanie has ever seen her with braids instead of her natural curls. She’s wearing a pink top and the mustard yellow high-waist skirt she wore the first time Melanie had met her. Her legs are clad in light blue overknee socks. Despite the pressing heat, she’s wearing a thin white cardigan.

Looped through her arm is Jon’s bare one. He looks highly stressed in his black button-up and his light grey skinny jeans which she – Melanie is sure of it – has seen on Georgie on the seldom occasion she wears trousers. White socks stick out of his lilac chucks.

“I thought you were bi.” The words escape her mouth like an accusation a second before her eyes fall on Martin who should be the first one to spot due to his height but tends to merge with the background because of the way he slumps into himself, shrinking a few inches to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. He’s in his usual floral-patterned button-up and khakis but someone has painted the rainbow flag on his freckled cheeks.

“I am,” Georgie answers light-heartedly, “but the colours of the pan flag are much nicer, don’t you think?” She lets go of Jon’s arm, at least doubling the anxiety apparent on his face in the process. She twirls and fans out her skirt, curtsying ironically, before looping her arm through Jon’s again.

A moment of silence falls over them, broken only by the chattering and cheering voices around them.

“This is Sasha,” Melanie almost yells, attempting to brush over the fact how uncomfortable she feels and with the thought in mind that introductions are long overdue. She holds up their intertwined hands and Sasha smiles into the round. Tim, whose existence Melanie has straight up forgotten until now, clears his throat behind her. Hastily, she points over her shoulder at the tall guy. “And this is Tim.”

He drops his elbows on her shoulders, leaning half-way over her and stage-whispering: “I want to be offended because you didn’t introduce us earlier, but I can see why you tried to keep your model friends all to yourself.”

A scowl on her face that could rival Jon’s best ones, she retorts: “If you don’t retreat in a peaceful manner, I will not shy away from shanking you.” Tim doesn’t take her seriously, which was to be suspected, and rests his chin on her head, laughing quietly.

“I love your subtle use of the flags,” Sasha says, gesturing widely at all three of them. She’s wearing shorts and an oversized shirt – that could also be one of Tim’s, Melanie’s not sure –, around her waist she’s tied a bi flag like a loop-sided dip hem skirt. “You definitely put more thought into it than Tim.” Her free hand points over her shoulder to Tim, who dramatically rips his arms away from Melanie’s shoulders and stands tall to his full height. Almost knocking his hand into a stranger, he spreads his arms out like wings and showcases the pan flag he made Sasha paint across his whole torso.

“I was never one for subtlety,” Tim admits like it’s a character trait he’s allowed to be proud of. As if he’s waiting for applause, his arms stay extended and he grins at Jon, Martin and Georgie.

“I tried to coax Jon into going shirtless with a giant ace of hearts painted on his chest, but due to unknown reasons he refused,” Georgie intersects, once again causing Jon’s scowl to deepen. He hisses at her: “There are no ‘unknown reasons’, Georgie!”

She ignores him and bulldozes on: “I think it has everything to do with his stunning good looks. If he’d show too much skin too many people would start swooning on the streets. We can’t have that.” She winks conspiringly at Melanie.

Petulantly, Jon interjects: “If I didn’t wear a shirt, where would I have put my pin?”

Only now Melanie notices a tiny pin shaped like two banners above each other on his breast pocket. A teal coloured pin reading he/him.

Georgie waves her hand dismissively at Jon, but it’s obvious that she’s doing it in a fond, loving way.

“It’s cute and you should really buy Martin a drink later as a thank you. However, you didn’t know Martin would gift nice pins to you, so it wasn’t an excuse when I proposed the idea to you back home,” she says with a shit-eating grin on her lips. “And you still have the bracelet, don’t you?” She points to the wrist of the arm she holds onto that pokes out of his pocket. A simple bracelet braided from teal coloured yarn. Then she cups her free hand around half of her mouth and she stage-whispers to Melanie, Sasha and Tim: “Martin made that as well. It’s really nice.”

They all coo appropriately, Martin’s blushing under the sudden attention.

“I wear one, too,” he pipes up unexpectantly and holds up his left arm, presenting a braided bracelet on his wrist. “It matches your socks.” And it’s true. Both his bracelet and Melanie’s overknee socks show the unmistakable colours of the trans flag. She smiles at him, genuinely and thankful. He didn’t have to do that and yet he did. Since their first-time meeting, they haven’t talked much to each other, but this little act of reassuring kindness makes her want to be better friends with him. He always looked like a nice bloke, but this … he didn’t have to do that. “If you want one, too, I– I could do that.”

“That would be really lovely,” she replies, while Sasha squeezes her hand reassuringly. And because Melanie can’t take all those eyes resting on them both, she turns to Jon: “Does that mean you got more than one?”

“Bracelets or pronouns?” He asks, irritation clear on his face. “Either way, the answer is yes.” He’s pulling his hand free from his pocket, showcasing a second pin shaped like the first one – only that this one reads they/them – and a differently braided bracelet. Both in salmon pink.

She makes a mental note to keep an eye on his wrist from now on

 #8

Being alone with Jon always feels weird, she thinks, fiddling with the strap of her bag. They’re proper friends now, she thinks, but they both now what’s written on their bodies, and it looms over them every time they talk.

This is the first time she’s in their room. Their roommate Gerry is out, and she sits on the open floor, propped up against Gerry’s bedframe. She’s met Gerry a total of two times and she digs his style, matching her all black aesthetic. But he’s a musician, never too far away from a guitar, and she never had the opportunity to hold a conversation with him. So, they greet each other, awkwardly aware of the other one’s presence and nothing more.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but why are you here?”

Jon’s voice is gruff and clearly irritated, but they’re not hostile which is more than Melanie could have hoped for. Even though they know each other for almost ten months now, she still can’t take the measure of them. If they think they’re friends. (The realisation that they could somehow not be on the same page makes her anxious, nausea washing over her.)

“Did Georgie tell you to add that to sound more approachable?” She’s deflecting and she knows it.

“Maybe, yeah.”

She didn’t think they would admit it. And that calms her a bit, because if they’d still hate her guts, they wouldn’t show the least bit of vulnerability.

“I came here,” she starts saying, pausing nervously. Then she shakes her head, lets go of her anxiety as much as she actively can. “I wanted to talk about Georgie.”

Sometimes it’s easy and people just know what’s going on because they just sense the vibe of the room or whatever, but Jon’s not one of those people. They try to pay mind to the people around them, or at least their friends, but social cues slip past them all of the time. She should have seen their questioning look coming, the way the little crease between their brows appears and their lips curl into half a pout. Slowly, they ask: “What about Georgie?”

“I want to ask her out,” she replies with as much bravado as she can muster. To be honest, she’s quite proud of herself. No quiver in her voice. No hesitation whatsoever.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” she clarifies hastily. “I only want to know if – you know, there are any– lingering feelings. For her.” She clears her throat. “We’re friends and– well, at least I think we’re friends, and I wouldn’t want to hurt you with my feelings.”

The thing is, she thought she’d get a straight and honest no, or a defensive no which really means yes. She didn’t think they’d look that … caught off guard. Like it’s complete fucking news to them that she could be interested in Georgie, or like it’s absolutely ridiculous that anyone could think Jonathan Sims could be hung up on a goddess. Or maybe, just maybe, they really are crushing on someone that’s not Georgie. Like they didn’t expect the conversation to go that way and they didn’t prepare an answer that would satisfy them in the long run.

“I–,” they stop talking, obviously restraining their hands from wringing the hem of their button-up. She catches once again the salmon-pink bracelet on their wrist. “I don’t harbour any romantic feelings for Georgie.”

It would feel more natural, if Jon averted their eyes, but they’re staring at Melanie. Trying to assess Melanie and her reaction, categorising every movement and word into the messy drawers of their mind.

“Okay,” Melanie says. “That’s good.” Her eyes flicker away from Jon’s face. Only for a moment. “For you. Because you’re not together anymore.” The sound that comes out of her throat is akin to a laugh or maybe a scoff. “And, well, for me? You know, with the whole date thing I’m trying to do.”

They look at each other for a moment. Outside of the room a door closes noisily and startles them out of their silence. Jon clears their throat and asks: “Am I obliged to share a personal information about my romantic life as well?”

“I mean, if you want to?”

“Georgie says it’s customary to,” their face scrunches up in something resembling disdain, “’trade’ that kind of information. So, if you’d like to know about my romantic endeavours, I would provide you the appropriate amount of ‘gen’.”

And this is the last straw. Hearing Jonathan Sims saying ‘gen’ like they’re chewing on the stickiest of caramel candies, is so unbelievably funny. So, she laughs. Between bursts of laughter, she tries to explain herself, but every time she stifles it enough to get half a word out, she gets a blurry look of their face and starts over again.

“I don’t get what’s so funny to you,” they state, piqued.

“What comes next?” Despite trying to slow her breath, she’s more gasping than asking. “You’re gonna dish on Georgie and Martin, all fax, no printer? You’re gonna spill the tea and throw some shade?”

Melanie wipes a stray tear from her cheek and the wetness from the corners of her eyes. She inhales and exhales deeply, multiple times. Then she draws another breath for good measure and says: “You don’t have to share anything with me, if you’re not comfortable. I didn’t come here to dig up some dirt on you. If you want to share, I’ll listen, or whatever, but I won’t, like, actively ask you about this sort of stuff.”

“I think, it would be,” they pause briefly, “good.” And yet, they don’t continue. She makes a prompting gesture with her hand. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that I take a fancy in someone. However, I find myself in the predicament of slowly acquiring a liking for … someone.”

“You want to share the name of that someone?” She’s not sure if they need to. When she thinks of it, she isn’t even sure if they know anybody else than herself, Georgie and – Martin.  (To an extent they know Sasha, Tim, Basira and Daisy. And that’s it. She doesn’t take them for one who develops feelings for someone they barely know.)

“I don’t think I have to do that,” they reply, sourly. Apparently, they did the same equation as her.

“No, maybe not.” She shrugs. “But if you ever feel the need to say it out loud – you know, not just in front of your mirror but rather a real-life person – I’m here.”

They smile. They definitely smile, even if it’s just the slightest of upward movements of the corner of their lips. And it makes her smile, too.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” they say, softly.

 #9

In the end, Melanie doesn’t get around to ask Georgie for a date. She wants to, really, she plans on doing it on this very day. But then she chickens out. Embarrassingly, so.

They went out for ice cream, Georgie in her cute summer sandals, Melanie in the clunky, black boots she’s wearing since she’s sixteen. They must make a weird couple, Georgie all cosmopolitan extravaganza and Melanie every MCR album cover incarnated.

Now, they’re sitting on the couch in Melanie’s shared flat. Georgie’s legs dangle off the armrest and her head lays in Melanie’s lap, once again.

“It must be nice to live in a whole flat,” Georgie says, her eyes closed and sighing contently. “You can throw a party, if your flat mates are up to it.”

“I’m not up for parties,” Melanie replies. “Annabelle and Jude aren’t either, thank god.”

Georgie cracks open one of her eyes and scans Melanie’s face. She catches Melanie’s gaze and brings every thought in Melanie’s mind to a halt. The only thing she can now concentrate on is Georgie’s soft looking cupid’s bow, and the desire to kiss her right there, and on the corners of her mouth, and the place on her cheek where Melanie knows appears a dimple whenever she smiles, and the line of her jaw. Melanie wants to kiss her forehead, along the edges of her brows, down her temples, and right next to her ears.

Sometimes it’s hard to sit next to Georgie and keep her distance. Everything about Georgie draws her near, pulls her in, makes her want to scream from the top of her lungs and remain silent at the same time. There’s a bowl filled with a burning hot liquid inside her, and every moment with Georgie is about balancing it out, preventing it from spilling.

“Would you go to a party with me?” While asking, Georgie opens her other eye and her gaze on Melanie grows even more intense.

“Is there a party?” Buying time seems reasonable, Melanie thinks.

“It’s a hypothetical party. And I hereby hypothetically invite you.” Georgie grins, lifting her chin a little. “Will you go with me to this hypothetical get together?”

“Well, if you ask me so nicely, I will hypothetically agree,” Melanie replies, smiling herself now. She can do this. She can totally ask Georgie for a date. (Her heart disagrees. But if her mind tells it Yes You Can Do It often enough, maybe it will become true.) “Maybe we should do that.” Close. “Go out.” Closer. “Together.” Yes, perfect. Nicely done, Melanie! “To a party.” Overshot.

“I would like that.” Her voice is oh so gentle and it’s as if Melanie had said go on a date with me, as if she hadn’t blown it completely. Georgie’s hand comes up, nude coloured nails brushing Melanie’s cheek. The tips of her fingers sink into Melanie’s hairline. “Your hair feels really nice.”

“Than– Thank you.” She can’t keep the stutter from the two words and it’s a bit embarrassing. She’s stuttering quite often, if she’s completely honest with herself. When she gets excited about her studies or about a paper on intersectional feminism or when she stumbles upon a really, really cute cat video. But never with her friends. It’s been ages since the last time she got so flustered she had to stammer and stumble over the words on her lips. “But it never looks as nice as yours.”

She can do this whole flirting thing, okay, she’s the fucking master of smooth comebacks. Once Georgie had said that Melanie’s coffee looked really nice and Melanie had answered ‘No, you’ like the absolute fucking court jester that she is. (She spends too much time with Martin, is the morale of the story.)

“If you ever decide to grow it out, I can braid it for you,” Georgie suggests, gently playing with the tips of Melanie’s hair. “I think you’d look nice with a small braid right here.” She traces a path above Melanie’s ear. “But I like your short hair, too. It suits you very well.”

Melanie doesn’t answer for a long, long moment. Then her hand finds its way towards Georgie’s face, hovering a good centimetre next to it, silently asking for permission. And Georgie’s grants it, comes even closer, letting her face be cupped by Melanie’s hand.

And with a sudden intensity, she feels the need to tell Georgie just how much she likes her. It’s gnawing at her, making her dizzy and uneasy. Her hand’s cradling the face of the woman she’s growing so fond of that sometimes the first thing she thinks of in the morning is shooting Georgie a little text wishing her a good morning.

Not being able to hold it back, the words spill from her mouth: “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Georgie’s mouth opens into a little surprised o, revealing just the tip of her labial frenulum piercing, shimmering in the warm shine of the coffee table light.

“I won’t do it if you don’t want me to,” Melanie rushes to say. “But if you’d like to, I would really, really like to kiss you right now.”

A heartbeat or two, then Georgie’s other hand shoots up, landing on the other side of Melanie’s face. She’s nodding vigorously now and grinning, eyes crinkling and full of zeal. She says: “Yes, okay, yeah, please do that. I would like that. Very much so. Right now would be good. Perfect actually.”

Before Georgie can spiral any further down the rambling vortex of her words, Melanie leans down and pulls her face up in the same movement. And she shuts Georgie up with the hard press of her lips. Her eyes flutter closed, and she can’t believe she’s really doing this. Kissing Georgie Barker on a humid night in July, sprawled on her couch, butterflies trying to escape from her torso.

This is good, this is nice, this is actually rather perfect.

Their mouths don’t fit right together with Georgie still lying on Melanie’s lap. She must be straining her neck somewhat awful to reach up to Melanie’s lips, and Melanie has to bend down awkwardly, and to be quite honest also a little bit dolorously, to actually keep the kiss going.

Melanie can taste the lipstick on Georgie’s mouth, feels it colouring her cupid’s bow. But she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t mind their uncomfortable position, the state of dishevelment they’ll both be in just a few minutes from now, and the fact that she wasn’t even smooth, asking Georgie for a kiss.

When they part, Georgie’s opening her eyes a tick after Melanie, and she uses it to really look at Georgie’s face. The perfectly shaped eyeliner, the warm colour of her subtle eyeshadow, the faintest traces of rouge on her cheeks, and the smudged lipstick.

“This is,” Georgie starts, finally sitting up without leaving Melanie’s lap. “I didn’t expect this when I came here.” She laughs softly, cupping Melanie’s face now with both of her hands; both resting just underneath Melanie’s jawline. “I’m not complaining, really, I thought about this for long enough. I’m just surprised, I guess.”

“What do you have to be surprised about?” Melanie tilts her head in confusion. “I am still in shock that you agreed to kiss me. I mean, I didn’t pressure you into doing that, did I?”

Georgie laughs.

“No,” she says. “No, you didn’t. I very much wanted to kiss you, thank you.”

“Are you thanking me for kissing you?”

Georgie tilts her head as well, contemplating Melanie’s words as if she hadn’t even realised, she had said them at all. Then she says: “I must have, yes. It was a rather nice kiss, so I think you deserve my gratitude.” She grins. “So, thank you, Melanie King, for the extreme pleasure of kissing you. And hopefully, I can extend this thank you indefinitely, because I very much intend on kissing you more.”

Melanie places a gentle kiss on Georgie’s nose and retorts: “You’re very welcome. And you can kiss me any time you want.” Their foreheads touch and Melanie lets out a shaky breath.

 #10

It's rare for Melanie to get roped into things she doesn’t enjoy at all. That includes family functions, student mixers and getting dragged to the nearby lake for a swim.

Swimming, much like jogging, was invented by the devil and exists solely for the purpose of torturing Melanie.

Usually, she tells Sasha and Tim or Georgie to go without her. On seldom occasions, she packs a book and a beach towel and sprawls herself out in a safe, reasonable distance to the water.

Today, she thought she could make Georgie happy and actually wear a swimsuit. – She still wouldn’t go near the water, but she could at least pretend that there’s a chance she won’t stay dry. She didn’t, however, think about the fact that it’s scorching hot today even though they’re in the shadows, and that Georgie isn’t as gullible as necessary to believe her lie about going for a swim.

“Why don’t you put those away?” Georgie asks; this time, Melanie’s head lies in Georgie’s lap, so Georgie has to look down at her girlfriend while gesturing towards Melanie’s clunky boots. “It’s a thousand degrees and you’re wearing two pairs of socks in black boots.”

“I’m also wearing only a swimsuit and shorts and there’s a light breeze,” Melanie counters, tugging at the strap of her black swimsuit. “Regular people sweat. Goths, we simmer.”

Chuckling, Georgie interjects: “You’re not a goth, love.”

It’s been two whole weeks since their first kiss, but Melanie’s still not used to the little jolts of excitement and endearment she feels, every time Georgie calls her a term of affection. She’s just like that, calling Jon honey and Martin our kid and Melanie love or dear or bird. At times Melanie thinks about all the possible names Georgie could call her, and about all the petnames she could think about calling Georgie.

“Well, sweating is gross, so I don’t do it,” Melanie says, shaking off the warm feeling in her chest. It’s warm enough as it is. “If you’re so hot, maybe you should take off your cardigan.”

The hesitation in Georgie’s answer translates to the uncertainty Melanie feels herself: “We could do it together.” Melanie doesn’t say anything at first, contemplating. “Putting it all out there, you know.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Georgie adds hastily, brushing a stray wisp of hair out of her face. It’s the first time Melanie sees her in a bun and therefore the first time she can see Georgie’s ears, the lobes stretched and decorated with little plugs engraved and gilded with a sun very much like the one she’s wearing as a septum. “I just want you to know that you’re safe with us and that I don’t care.” Her gaze is unwavering. “About, like, your mark.”

For all intents and purpose Melanie doesn’t want to look away but she still does it. Takes a look at Sasha and Tim, kicking water at each other and laughing. They are, as far as Melanie’s concerned, a one in a million pair. Sasha’s shoulder adorns the same spiral pattern as Tim’s biceps, and they knew each other since Sasha’s father worked one of the shifts when Tim was born in the hospital. – It’s not romantic, they’re platonic soulmates and they always knew that about each other.

Then she’s looking over at Jon and Martin, sitting on the small landing stage, feet dangling into the water. She doesn’t have to see their marks to know what they are. Beneath Jon’s clavicle OH NO is written in neat small caps. It’s not a nice mark but Jon’s not a nice man, so it’s not far-fetched to imagine that she’s not the only one proclaiming these words upon talking to him for the first time. Martin, on the other hand, has a full sentence on his upper thigh: Just got drunk and walked in. Written in a sharp script, the L reaching as far down as the G and the capital J. Something’s rather familiar about the handwriting, but she seems to be the only one paying attention to the marks at all and she doesn’t want to attract notice to something with so much potential of going wrong.

Georgie and her, they are the only one still hiding their soulmarks. And in this moment, Melanie thinks that there is no reason anymore to keep it secret. If anyone would be okay with Jon’s name on Melanie’s body, it would be Georgie. He’s her best friend and maybe they’re as platonic as Sasha and Tim. Maybe he’ll be her best friend, too. In, like, a distant future.

“Okay,” she hears herself say. Maybe even more surprised than Georgie. “I think I can do that.”

She sits up, blinking against the dizziness and the black dots dancing in front of her eyes. After that she reaches forward, tugging at the laces of her boots. One by one gets pulled free of their confinement and it takes not nearly as much time as Melanie would like it to.

A shaky breath (she should stop doing that, it fucks with her whole bad girl attitude) and she’s pulling off one boot at a time. Out of the corner of her eyes she can see Georgie taking off her cardigan, so she undresses her feet completely, setting aside both pairs of socks.

“My feet are the whitest of white,” Melanie jokes to cover up her nerves. “I don’t remember the last time they have seen the sun. I’m going to get a sunburn.”

“I’ve got sunscreen,” Georgie answers gently, cupping Melanie’s upper arm with her hand. Her nails are painted in the blackest of blacks, Melanie’s one and only nail polish. (Well, that’s not quite true. She’s got two bottles of the same colour, one for her hands, one for her feet.)

Georgie’s gaze falls onto Melanie’s feet. Amazed, she coos: “You painted your nails!”

“I always paint my toenails,” Melanie admits. “I’m usually the only one who sees it, but I like knowing that they’re painted.”

She turns around and for a moment she thinks about sitting tailor-fashion, hiding her left ankle. She doesn’t do it, however. Pulling her legs close, she sits sideways on her hip, showcasing Jon’s name in all its loopy glory.

“May I–,“ Georgie cuts herself off, fiddling with the cardigan in her lap. “May I take a look?”

Melanie shrugs, thinks better of it and says: “Yeah, sure.”

Carefully, Melanie extends her left leg, stretching it out in front of Georgie, so that her ankle is next to Georgie’s knee. Georgie’s hand reaches out tentatively, the tip of her index finger stopping just shy of Melanie’s skin. And suddenly, she’s touching Melanie’s skin, brushing over the swirls and bows and the name that is not hers.

“This is unbelievably funny,” she says, but she doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s funny. Melanie doesn’t think it’s funny. Her brows furrow and she’s this close to pulling her ankle away from Georgie’s touch. But it’s nice, is the thing. This is the first time in forever someone has touched her soulmark. Not even Melanie has consciously laid a finger on it in years.

Melanie’s silence following her statement must have tipped Georgie off that her choice of words maybe wasn’t the best because she startles and tries it again: “Sorry, that was rude. I mean.” This time she has the nerve to chuckle. “That’s not Jon’s handwriting.”

Surprise is not necessarily the best word to describe the thing that hits Melanie square in the stomach, sucker-punching the air from her lungs. Through gritted teeth and a tense jaw, she asks: “It’s not?” She needs the confirmation, needs Georgie to say it again.

But she doesn’t.

Instead she turns around, reaches for her purse and rifles through it until she finds what she’s looking for. A felt tip marker. She stops, however, hovering over Melanie’s ankle in a silent question. Melanie waves her hand dismissively, and Georgie apparently interprets it as affirmative. Then she proceeds, writing for a few seconds, maybe even half a minute. When she’s done, she lifts her head and caps the marker again, accidentally nudging Melanie’s foot with the back of her hand.

“You should take a look,” Georgie says, her voice with a nervous edge to it.

Melanie pulls her legs towards herself and scans her ankle that’s now covered in names in the same loopy script of her soulmark. The Ss of Sasha are as wrongly weighed as the ones in Sims, the bottom half much smaller than the top half. The Os in Stoker and Georgie have the same perfect roundness of the one in Jonathan. The Ks in Blackwood and Barker are written with the same bows as the H in Jonathan.

This is bizarre.

“Can– could you–,” Melanie huffs out a frustrated noise. “May I see yours, too?”

Slowly as if she’s trying not to scare Melanie away, she extends her right arm and Melanie can see the tiny handwriting in the crook of her arm. The tiny, tiny handwriting hat is unmistakably Melanie’s.

“You told me, you heard so much about me,” Melanie breathes. “You came into the library and went all soccer mom on Jon and then you said you heard so much about me.” She stares at the Oh god, I am so sorry engraved on Georgie’s skin. “And I thought: Oh shit, that guy is my soulmate and his girlfriend is the most beautiful being on this planet and he probably told her how much he hates me.”

“I didn’t think anything about it,” Georgie confesses with the softest of smiles. “I met so many people whose first words to me were an apology. Eventually, you start to, well, stop thinking about it.” She casts the marker away and leans forward, cupping Melanie’s hands with both of hers. “And Jon told me about your first encounter, so I didn’t think about it, like, twice.”

Melanie returns the slight pressure of Georgie’s hands and a smile blossoms on her face. She would have been okay with a platonic soul bond with Jon, really, she would have been. (Not at first because he’s a pompous twat and a squabbler, a know-it-all that rubs Melanie in all the wrong ways. But he grew on her like yeast on wet flour, and now she can easily picture herself sitting with him on the floor of her flat, eating ice cream drowned in scotch straight from the tub while decidedly not talking about their feelings or anything important at all.) But she doesn’t know if she would have been alright with Georgie falling out of love with her because of her soulmate. (It’s selfish, that’s what it is. Hoping against all hope that Georgie doesn’t meet her soulmate as long as they’re romantically involved.)

Now there is another bond between them, not necessarily romantic, but they were supposed to meet. Melanie’s allowed to fall as hard as she possibly can, because Georgie is the human the universe hand-picked just for her. The human that loves her the most. The human that she’s allowed to love back, unconditionally if she chooses so.

“I think, I’d like to get this tattooed,” Melanie croaks, averting her eyes.

“Don’t want to have Jon’s name on your ankle anymore?” There’s a chuckle in Georgie’s voice and a loving gentleness.

“I don’t think I mind it as much anymore,” Melanie answers. “But this is nice. Having the names of the people I love on me. Not just the clueless prat that led me to you.” She laughs. “And if they ask, I can still tell them it’s a list of my future enemies.”

They’re both chuckling now, and Melanie lifts their hands up, pressing soft kisses on the knuckles of Georgie’s hand. Warmth floods Melanie’s insides and she thinks that even if they ever were to break up, they can still remain friends. Jon and Sasha are a few feet away and they are living, breathing evidence that Georgie and Melanie can do this.

Something tender sits on the top of Melanie’s tongue and at first, she’s trying to swallow it back down, to not be that vulnerable so soon into their relationship, but then she shakes off the thought. Georgie seems to be honest with her feelings at all times, unafraid of showing her deepest inside, and Melanie doesn’t want to be a chicken about the only thing that truly matters. (Even though the weightiness of it is probably the reason why it’s so hard for her.)

“I really like you,” she ends up saying. The words like camomile on her tongue. What’s even better is Georgie smiling lovingly at her and replying; “I really like you, too.”